Questions buzzed like bees in Glenn’s mind as he returned to the bedroom at the top of the stairs . . . the room he’d shared with Dorcas. The beautiful maple bed, dresser, and chest had surely come from the Flauds’ furniture factory—and as he fell facedown on its fresh blue and green quilt, he suspected that Martha Maude and Anne Hartzler had made it.
Glenn began to weep uncontrollably. His friends from church had sprung the biggest surprise of his life on him—and they’d known by his expression, at the school program, that he hadn’t yet discovered it. Molly and Marietta had surely been a part of orchestrating this household refurbishing, yet they hadn’t dropped a single hint . . . until Marietta had suggested that he should check the thermostat. Even then, she’d kept a straight face.
And what a dear face it was—still too thin and hollowed out, framed by short brown waves that were just long enough to lie flat under her kapp. She was flat-chested, and he’d heard she would never bear children. But wasn’t Marietta the most beautiful woman in the world, from the inside out?
“Get your act together, Detweiler,” he muttered as he sat up. He mopped his face with his shirtsleeve as he looked around the simple, beautiful room. “You’ve got no excuses now.”
Never in his life had he owned such fine, matching furniture that wasn’t handed down or salvaged from somebody’s attic. As he went back down the hallway, stopping briefly in each of the bedrooms again, Glenn was still agog with the wonder of what he saw. To his way of thinking, the house looked as fine as a catalog advertising the kind of top-dollar furniture that usually graced the homes of English folks. It wasn’t as fancy as Saul Hartzler’s place, but it was a far cry from what his parents and his wife had lived with.
Glenn knew he had a whopping bill at Martin and Gabe’s shop—and it might take him years to pay it off—yet the money didn’t matter. His friends knew he’d needed help, and they’d come through for him. They’d made his echoing, empty house look like a home.
Well, almost. This place still needs a woman’s touch—and so do I. And now I can provide everything Marietta could possibly want . . . if I can convince her to want me, too.
Glenn headed downstairs to check the thermostat. Sixty, just as he’d left it. He bumped it up a few degrees so it wouldn’t be quite so chilly when he brought Marietta, Dat, and the boys over to see the place—although she knew exactly how wonderful everything looked, because she’d had a hand in making it that way.
In the kitchen, Glenn checked the soil in the poinsettia’s pot to see if it needed watering. It was undoubtedly one of the Wengerds’ plants, large and full of beautiful red blooms—because despite his misgivings about his life, his friends seemed to believe he deserved the very best.
He spotted an envelope propped against the pot then. After all he’d seen while touring the rooms, he suspected it might contain the bills for the furniture, rugs, and quilts.
Glenn would pay every dime, too. It was one thing to accept a new house funded by the church district’s aid fund, because every family paid into it—and every family received help when they needed it. But the furnishings and linens and accessories had been provided by Amish crafters like himself—folks who depended upon the income from their wares to support their families. It was just wrong to assume he didn’t owe them the full price they would charge for these items in their stores.
And it would be a small price to pay for the overwhelming joy they’d given him. Glenn couldn’t possibly put a dollar amount on how loved and accepted his friends had made him feel with their surprise.
His fingers shook a little as he eased a Christmas card out of the envelope. The front featured the usual Merry Christmas, with a picture of a red cardinal perched on a greenery wreath. As he opened it, his eyes skipped over the printed message to read the handwriting he thought was Molly’s:
Glenn, as you and your family begin life in your new home, we in your church family hope you’ll accept these gifts, along with the love that comes with them. May our Lord bless you this Christmas and always!
His mouth dropped open. He couldn’t believe what he’d read, so he read it again.
“I need to have a talk with you people,” Glenn murmured, shaking his head. Then he noticed a little arrow pointing to the back of the card.
He turned it over and read, P.S. Don’t give up on my sister!
“Hah! This is your handwriting, Molly!” Glenn crowed. He laughed until tears streamed into his beard again—but this time he felt full of joy rather than overwhelmed by the weight of the losses he’d suffered. It was as though Billy Jay’s Scripture passage had foretold Glenn’s recovery: Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, goodwill toward all men.
Bishop Jeremiah sometimes talked about a peace that passed all understanding, and Glenn understood that concept now. The goodwill of his friends had blessed him beyond anything he’d known before. The joy and serenity in his heart convinced him that someday soon, his life would be back on track—happy again. He’d heard the term “Christmas miracle” often enough, usually referring to Christ’s birth, but he felt that a miraculous power had filled his spirit and granted him the chance to re-create himself and his life.
And for that, Glenn was extremely grateful to God and his friends.
He left the house whistling “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” hearing the carol in his mind as it sounded when the men harmonized during their Friday night singing sessions. Within minutes he was rolling down the road in his loaded rig, with Ned following behind it. The trip back to the Helfing place didn’t take very long, because car traffic was light. In the twins’ barn he unloaded the horse feed and tended his geldings. As he approached the house, a lamp was burning in the kitchen, and he hoped it meant Marietta was still up . . . maybe waiting for him.
When Glenn stepped inside, however, the house was quiet. He sensed that once Billy Jay had finally wound down, Dat and Marietta had gone to bed, as well. They’d had a long, busy day.
His mind was buzzing, however, and it would be a while before he got to sleep. Marietta had left him a note about warming the cocoa she’d left on the stove if he wanted it. Glenn turned the burner on and got a mug from the cupboard. Across the kitchen, he found the twins’ box of Christmas cards and a pen. He selected a card with a picture of a red candle burning in a window.
After a moment’s thought, he began to write inside it.
Thank you for helping with the wonderful surprise I found at the house. Thank you for all you do for me—and please don’t give up on me, okay? I love you with all my heart, Marietta, and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that. Merry Christmas!
Love, Glenn
He put the card in the envelope, wrote Marietta’s name on it, and propped it against the lidded pan of coffee cake she’d baked for their Christmas breakfast.
Warmed by the cocoa and his hopes for the future, Glenn went to bed a happy man.
Chapter 27
When Pete jerked awake, his arm and leg were throbbing with intense pain. As he maneuvered himself into a sitting position with his legs over the side of his bed, his head swam, and he had to take a deep breath to make it stop spinning. He felt disoriented until he remembered that Mammi had moved out of her main-level dawdi haus, which was down the hall from the front room, so he could sleep there instead of climbing the stairs to his bedroom.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Shetler,” he muttered hoarsely. “Now tell me again why you just had to replace that shingle on Detweiler’s—”
He’d hoped his chatter would alert Mammi or his uncle that he needed his meds, but the woman in the doorway was not his grandmother.
“It is a merry Christmas, Mr. Shetler,” she repeated way too cheerfully. “Your uncle, your mammi, and your dog are out shoveling a path to the barn to tend the horses, so you’re stuck with me. What can I do for you?”
“Seriously?” he snapped. His guest sprouted a second head and then went back to having just one. “Go home. Your smart remarks are the last thi
ng I need right now.”
Molly—or he thought she was Molly—shrugged. “Sorry, Pete. We got a foot of snow last night, so I’m going nowhere,” she replied breezily. “I made you a surprise, but you’ll have to talk a whole lot nicer to me before I let you have any of it.”
“Get my uncle. I have to use the bathroom.”
As he’d hoped, her eyes widened with alarm—but she hurried off. Pete took a few deep breaths, reconciling himself to what Molly had said about a foot of snow and the fact that she was here for the duration. Why didn’t he recall that she’d come to see him last night?
Pete heard her calling outside for his uncle. He waited for an eternity until heavier footsteps approached his temporary quarters. Riley reached him first, however, leaping onto the bed to lick Pete’s face. The sudden shifting of the mattress made the dog fall against his bad arm, and Pete cried out.
“Riley, get off the bed. Sit,” Uncle Jeremiah said softly. He pointed toward the floor.
As always, the golden obeyed his uncle immediately. Jeremiah’s technique had never worked for Pete, and his lack of control over his big, excitable dog only added to his list of complaints.
Uncle Jeremiah stopped beside the bed, one eyebrow raised. “Molly tells me Prince Charming greeted her a little while ago,” he said as he carefully put a hand beneath Pete’s sling to steady him. “Are you not happy to see her, or—”
“Everything hurts,” Pete muttered. “And I’m not in the mood for her mouth.”
His uncle laughed. “Last I knew, your mouth could keep right up with Molly’s, and you two rather enjoyed seeing who could have the last word,” he said as he helped Pete into his wheelchair. “For your mammi’s sake, I hope you’ll be polite to our guest rather than ruining everyone’s Christmas, Pete. Yes, you’re in pain, but you don’t have to be a pain.”
Pete bit back a retort, scowling when his uncle tried to push him toward the bathroom. There were things a man just had to do for himself. But Uncle Jeremiah was right: he’d been awfully testy since his return home from the hospital.
“Fine,” he muttered. When he reached the bathroom doorway, he was already worn out from the effort of wheeling himself with one hand. “I’ll be nicer after I’ve had some coffee and my pain meds have kicked in.”
“Holler when you’re done in here. I’ll get your pills ready.”
It made Pete feel old and decrepit, depending upon a toilet contraption that gave him metal arms to steady himself as he sat down—and helped him boost himself up one-handed when he’d finished. Over the top of his flannel pajamas, the sling was rubbing him the wrong way. It was a chore to pull up his baggy pajama pants with just one hand, too, but he refused to call for help.
“Pajamas—me, wearing old fogy pajamas,” he muttered as he finally got the pants positioned correctly. He preferred to sleep in worn-out sweat pants and a ratty T-shirt, but Mammi had told him it was time for an upgrade.
When he steadied himself against the vanity to brush his teeth, Pete got another unpleasant surprise. The pale man in the mirror looked like he’d seen a ghost or stuck his finger in an electrical socket. His blond hair stuck out in several directions, and he needed a shower—but that wasn’t going to happen this morning.
Molly might decide to go home pretty quick. And maybe that’ll keep me from biting her head off.
As he finished in the bathroom, it occurred to Pete that not so long ago, he couldn’t get enough of Molly’s company—but that was before he’d gotten hurt. As Dr. Douthit had outlined a plan for physical therapy after the holidays, Pete saw himself being laid up for way too long. If he couldn’t take larger doses of the pain relievers Douthit had prescribed, Pete wouldn’t be able to endure his therapy or function at even half capacity anytime soon.
And that ticked him off. He was already sick of being an invalid.
Uncle Jeremiah returned to get him into some clean clothes, but it was a slow, painful process. “I’ll be back in for breakfast after I shovel some more snow,” his uncle said when Pete was sitting on the side of the bed. “I hope you feel better by then—”
“Make sure Molly can get out and go home,” Pete interrupted. “She won’t want to stay long.”
His uncle shot him a warning look. As he was leaving, Mammi came in with some buttered toast, coffee, and his pills. She was wearing a deep red dress, and the plate she carried was from the hand-painted holly-and-ivy set she only used at Christmastime. She set a big mug of coffee on the bedside table.
“Eat this toast before you torture your empty stomach with your medications. You can have the rest of your breakfast when you’ve made your way to the couch,” she said gently. She studied him, cocking her head. “Did you purposely not comb your hair, Pete, or is this your new look? Molly will be impressed.”
“That’s the whole point,” he retorted. “She might as well see what a mess I’ve become, ain’t so?”
“So you’re inviting her to your pity party?” Mammi shot back. “You seemed fine when Glenn was here working on the kitchen Monday—perfectly able to advise him on his love life, too.”
“That was then, this is Wednesday.” He shrugged and sent a new shock wave of pain through his left arm. “Detweiler’s a man with a plan—and a brand-new house full of brand-new stuff. I’m glad somebody’s happy.”
With a shake of her head, Mammi placed his comb on the nightstand and left.
Pete jammed the first piece of toast into his mouth before washing his pills down with coffee. Riley whimpered, but Pete devoured the second piece of toast without offering him even a scrap.
He wouldn’t sleep, but he was tempted to lie down again. Pete wanted nothing more than to hibernate in his cave for the rest of the day rather than deal with people . . . especially Molly.
What had possessed her to drive through the snow last night? She usually had more sense than to risk bad weather and getting stuck someplace other than home. Surely she wasn’t descending to the level of females who didn’t pay attention to such things—or who depended upon men to do their thinking for them.
But if she is, that’s all the more reason for her to go home, ain’t so? Why would I give up my happy bachelorhood to deal with her dependency for the rest of my life?
Then again, she’d mentioned a surprise. Something edible . . .
Pete propped his pillow against the headboard and stretched out, settling into a semicomfortable position. Riley curled up on the floor beside the bed, his joints thumping against the hardwood floor. As Pete slurped his coffee, resting the mug against his chest, he waited for the caffeine to clear his fogged head. He was just feeling the first hint of the medication’s relief—just allowing his eyelids to flutter shut—when a voice very close to his head startled him awake.
“Shetler! You look like something the cat dragged in. Here.”
Coffee sloshed onto his shirt. With a groan, Pete opened one eye. Molly relieved him of his mug and held out the comb with a determined expression on her face.
“I’m blind,” he muttered. “Can’t see combing my hair just because it’s Christmas.”
“So I’ll comb it for you. Sit up,” she insisted. “If you think for one minute I’m going to let you sleep through my visit, you’ve got another think coming.”
He let out a sigh and complied. It was easier than arguing with her.
Once he’d struggled to sit up again, Molly placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “I’m sorry you don’t feel gut, Pete,” she said, managing to sound sincere about it. “From what your mammi tells me, you’ve got a long row to hoe, what with therapy and a lengthy recovery time. I bet you hate it that you’re so weak you can’t even swat the comb out of my hand.”
He almost took her bait—but as Molly gently ran the comb through his hair, he felt better. “You don’t have to stay,” he said. “I’m an invalid with a bad attitude. Not very gut company today, Christmas or not.”
“Puh! You always have a bad attitude, Shetler. Why should Christmas be a
ny different?”
When she cupped the side of his face with her warm hand to put his head in a better position, Pete didn’t fight her. Her attention—or maybe it was the pain pills—seemed to be mellowing his sharp edges.
“I see you shaved for me, too,” she remarked softly. “Or are you getting a head start for when you’re married, growing your beard because you’re so eager to—”
“Don’t push it, Moll,” Pete retorted, but he was chuckling. “By the time you’ve spent the morning with me and my attitude, you’ll forget any thoughts you might’ve had about me marrying you and living at your place after your remodeling’s done. Because—as you can see—it’ll be years before I can work again. If ever.”
Molly stepped back to look at his hair, seemingly satisfied with it. “Okay, let’s get you into your wheelchair,” she said, oblivious to what he’d just said. “You’ll feel better once you get out of this sickroom and onto the sofa.”
His eyes widened. “If you think you can boss me around and make me go—”
“Shetler,” she cut in, “I can whip your sorry butt any day of the week. We’re going out to the couch so I can sit someplace besides your bed—because that’s improper on Christmas, you know,” she added with a winsome smile. “There’ll be none of that hanky-panky stuff like you pulled when we went driving in your truck.”
The memory of kissing Molly shot through Pete’s system like a triple dose of his meds. She was gently guiding him toward the wheelchair, so he eased himself onto its seat. Before she could start pushing him out of the room, Pete felt he should tell her the obvious truth.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Molly,” he stated. “I might never fully recover from that fall—might not be the man you want anymore, when I’m unable to climb a ladder or build stuff or—”
Christmas Comes to Morning Star Page 24