Amish Christmas Twins

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “You will make a wonderful mother. . . .”

  Abigail stiffened. The things she’d told Jubal at Ira’s ER bedside felt like a shadow, following her every step, darkening every dream she’d had. She’d give anything to step away from it, to stand in the light of love. Jubal’s love.

  “If it is God’s will,” she said.

  “I would be miserable, living alone for . . . how long has it been now?”

  “Three years.”

  “Are you not lonely?”

  “I have my job. The house and yard to care for. My gardens. And I have started a quilt.” Abigail laughed. “It is my first, so it is taking longer than I had expected.”

  “I cannot imagine life without Noah and the boys.”

  As if he’d heard his name, Leora’s husband called out to her, then waved her closer.

  “We hope you will arrive early to service next week,” Priscilla said, “so you can sit beside us again, instead of in the back row.”

  Abigail wasn’t about to admit that tardiness had nothing to do with her seat selection.

  When they walked away, Abigail folded her tablecloth and packed it among pie tins and serving utensils in her basket. Their words, spoken in friendship, had unearthed feelings she’d tried hard to bury. And now, despite their good intentions, she knew it would take hours of prayer to lay those feelings to rest again.

  Abigail slipped into her jacket, hung the basket’s handles over her forearm, and hurried to the truck. Yes, the door still squealed, but at least the engine had never failed her. She wasn’t exactly living her dream, but she had much to be thankful for. Good health. A good job. A good house. Good food. What right did she have to feel sorry for herself?

  Chapter 9

  It was wedding season in Pleasant Valley, but since no ceremonies were planned this fall, seamstress Judith Quinn had outdone herself preparing for Thanksgiving. The turkey looked good enough to earn the November page in a wall calendar. She’d spent two days cooking and making her sons’ favorites. Stuffing. Sweet potato casserole. Broccoli-cauliflower salad. Dutch green beans. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Homemade biscuits. Applesauce cake. Banana bread. And of course, her Pleasant Valley–famous pumpkin pie.

  Yesterday, Jube had helped her extend the dining table to its full twelve-foot length and dragged chairs from all around the house to seat the in-laws and cousins she’d invited. Her mother’s linen tablecloth and napkins were out, and so were the “for special occasions only” brown stoneware plates.

  She opened the oven door. “I sort of hoped you would invite Abigail Fletcher.”

  Good thing she was busy, basting the turkey, Jube thought, because it kept her from reading his expression. “Now why would I do that, when I have never invited her to family functions?”

  Using a potholder to fan her face, she said, “You have been together nearly every day for weeks and weeks.” Judith shrugged. “Naturally, I thought this year was different.”

  Jethro strolled into the room, smiling as always, and announced, “Jube and Abby had a fight. I think he hurt her feelings.”

  Judith looked from her younger son to the elder. “Jubal.” Clucking her tongue, she shook her head. “What did you do to that sweet girl?”

  This was a day to give thanks, for family and friends, good health, provisions, a well-built home, and money enough to get by, all by the grace of God. Jube didn’t want to tarnish it by rehashing the harsh words that had started new troubles between him and Abigail.

  “Who will join us today?”

  Jethro snickered and gave him a playful shove. “Aw, Jube is changing the subject, Maem.”

  “What a surprise,” she said, and rolled her eyes.

  Slanted blue eyes grew serious. “I think,” Jethro lisped, “it is because he wishes they did not fight. He likes her. And she likes him. You can say it, Jube. You miss her.”

  If he hadn’t been so efficient before leaving the house, he could duck out now, with the excuse of completing an undone chore.

  “Have you made your bed, Jethro?”

  Both hands flew to his mouth. “Oops! No, I forgot.” He shuffled from the room, muttering, “I will do it. I will hang up my clothes, and make sure there is toilet paper in the bathroom.”

  Judith stared after him, and sighed. “He is such a joy.”

  “That he is,” Jube agreed.

  Years ago, when friends and family heard that Jethro had Down’s, they’d offered help and sympathy. In typical Judith fashion, she took it all in stride. “He is a gift from God, and I will enjoy him, as the Almighty intended.” Jethro’s big heart and loving spirit more than made up for any extra work he’d caused her. And without him to care for, Jube didn’t know what might have become of his mother after the massive stroke took Jeremiah.

  “You are just like your father,” she was saying.

  She hadn’t meant it as a compliment. He braced himself for the explanation that would follow.

  “Jeremiah was bullheaded, too. Why, if I had not taken the initiative, he never would have asked me to marry him.” Her forefinger wagged, like a flesh-and-bone metronome. “You had better make some hard decisions, Son, because Abigail does not strike me as a take-charge girl, like I was.”

  If his mother had heard what had happened in the ER that night, she wouldn’t say that!

  “She has all the makings of a good wife and mother. I would love a few grandchildren while I am still young enough to bounce them on my knee.”

  Implied: Jethro would not marry, would not make her a grandmother, so it was up to him. Jube didn’t much appreciate the added layer of guilt.

  “God knows best. He took Bess and Lemuel so they would not have to see what that boy of theirs became.” She went on, listing Ira’s sins: Drink. Cards. Women. Adding, as usual, the times he’d led Jube into temptation, too.

  “Any trouble I got into,” he said, “was my doing. Ira did not hold a gun to my head, you know.”

  “When you say things like that,” she said, giving his cheek an affectionate pinch, “you make me happy. You are a good man, and you will be a good husband and father.” One brow rose high on her forehead. “If you stop behaving like your father, that is.”

  Dinner was lively and festive, and he would have enjoyed it even more if Abigail hadn’t come to mind so many times. Everyone loved her, so it wasn’t likely she’d spent the day alone. At least, he hoped not. Still, the image of her, wandering through the empty rooms of her house, tidying doilies and repositioning candlesticks, perhaps stopping now and then to pet her cat, caused an ache in his heart, because if he hadn’t been—as the bishop and his mother pointed out—a stubborn fool, she could have been here.

  Once the others left, Jube hung back to help his mother and brother clean up. While Jethro washed dishes, Jube dried and put away and their mother filled containers with leftovers.

  “The whole time we ate,” she said, stretching plastic wrap over sliced turkey, “I thought of poor Abigail, all alone over there in that big house.”

  Please, Lord, show me a sign that those containers are not for Abigail.

  A smart man, he told himself, wouldn’t wait for a message from heaven. He’d find a way to leave, before his mother turned him into a delivery boy.

  “Dry those hands, little brother,” he said, “and help me shorten the table.”

  Together, the brothers stacked and stored the leaves in the hall closet, then joined their mother in the kitchen.

  “On your way home,” his mother began, “I want you to drop this off for Abigail.”

  How would she react to blunt honesty?

  “I would rather not.”

  “Funny,” she said, “but I do not recall asking what you wanted. I am not young and spry anymore. If I have to do it myself, tomorrow, who knows what might slip from my lips?”

  Had she and Micah talked? How else could he explain that their threats were nearly identical?

  “All right. Fine. I will go.” He shoved an arm into his
jacket sleeve, then kissed her cheek. “But you owe me a chocolate cake.”

  “Choc-o-lit cake is my fay-voh-rit,” Jethro said. “Can I go with you? To Abigail’s house?”

  Saying yes meant a return trip to bring him home, but Jube had never said no to his brother. A positive thought popped into his head. With Jethro there, Jube wouldn’t have to work so hard, looking for safe topics . . . and avoiding risky ones.

  “Sure, buddy. Grab your coat.”

  “You are a good man,” his mother said as Jethro slipped into it. “A good brother, too.” She handed him the basket.

  “And a good friend?”

  “If it is God’s will, she will be more than that. Soon.” She gave him a gentle shove. “Now go. Jethro is waiting out there in the cold.”

  * * *

  With Emily’s mother-in-law running the show, dinner at the Bakers’ promised to be a fun, festive event that would keep Abigail’s mind off Jubal.

  “Your pies look perfect,” Sarah said, placing them on the sideboard. “The children will love the sugar cookies, and I cannot wait to dig into that noodle casserole.”

  Emily fed the baby another spoonful of oatmeal. “You really didn’t need to do all that. Marybeth told me you’re putting in a lot of overtime hours at the inn, so I know you’re busy.”

  Abigail stopped peeling potatoes long enough to say, “Listen to the pot, calling the kettle black! This big house, a husband and two children, beautiful flower gardens, long hours at the clinic, and you still have the energy for get-togethers like this? Tell me your secret!”

  The baby stuck his finger into the bowl, and laughing, Emily blew a kiss into his chubby palm.

  “I remember a song from my Englisher days. ‘All You Need Is Love.’ When everyday life threatens to overwhelm me, I sing a few lines. Sometimes it takes the whole song to put my head right again, but it works.”

  Abigail had loved Ira, or thought she had, anyway. But it seemed to her that it took more than that to achieve Emily’s level of happiness. The pretty young doctor had traded city life for the Plain life, walked away from the praise of peers, and didn’t seem to miss stylish clothes or other Englisher trappings. Instead of praying for a similar life, Abigail thought, maybe you should ask God for the wisdom to choose a similar husband.

  Someone like Jubal?

  * * *

  The meal was everything she’d expected, and like everyone else, Abigail had enjoyed the food and good-natured jokes, so much that returning home felt anticlimactic. Concentrating on her quilt ought to get her mind off what a life with Jubal might be like. She spread the batting across the kitchen table, and placed her scissors, thread, and the shoe box she’d filled with colorful scraps of material on a chair seat.

  “Only a raw beginner, an absolute ninny,” she complained to Patch, “would believe she could fashion a proper quilt from triangles, squares, and rectangles. Why didn’t I start with just squares?”

  Patch meowed and rubbed against her mistress’s legs.

  Someone rapped on the back door, startling the cat and causing Abigail to prick her forefinger. Popping it into her mouth, she saw Jethro Quinn’s friendly face staring through the window. Just behind him, Jubal was looking west, toward the mountains. Oh, but he was handsome, even in profile!

  Abigail glanced at the wall clock. Why would anyone come calling at six thirty on Thanksgiving night?

  “Well, hello,” she said, opening the door.

  Jubal turned, removed his black hat. “What are we interrupting?”

  “Nothing. Come inside where it is warm. I stoked the fire not ten minutes ago.”

  “Why are you sad?” Jethro asked, sliding a box onto the table.

  “Frustrated is more like it. That quilt . . .” She frowned at it. “. . . is testing my patience.” Abigail rolled her eyes. “Who am I fooling? I bit off more than I can chew. I have never made one before, and . . . and . . . and only stubbornness keeps me from throwing it into the fire!”

  “No!” Jethro said. “You should never quit. No matter how hard things get.” He looked up, into his older brother’s face. “Right, Jube?”

  Jubal shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Shrugged. “Yes, I have said that on occasion.”

  Jethro said into his palm, “Not on occasion. You say it all the time!”

  Jethro’s simple statement intensified his brother’s tense expression.

  “Maem sent you turkey,” Jethro said. “Stuffing. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Baked beans. Pumpkin pie. Her famous apple butter, too. She said since you live alone, you probably did not roast a turkey.” He grinned, jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “There is another box of food in the truck. But that one is for Jube.”

  “Why, I will not have to cook for a week!” For two weeks, thanks to the leftovers you brought home from the Bakers’. “Be sure to thank her for me. Thank you, too, for delivering it.”

  Jubal met her eyes, but only briefly. “Well,” he said, donning the hat, “I should get Jethro home, let you get back to work.”

  “I thought Maem said Abigail would not have any pie. I guess she was right. Abigail does not have a pie; she has three of them!”

  “I made a few things to bring to the Bakers’, a thank-you for including me in their Thanksgiving feast. I had bought a peck of apples and worried they might rot before I had a chance to eat them all. And since pies last longer . . .”

  “They look good,” Jethro said, licking his lips.

  “Please, sit, and we will have a slice together.” And if an opening presents itself, you will tell Jubal you are sorry.

  “I really ought to get Jethro home.”

  “Oh,” he whined, “can we stay for one slice? Please, Jube?”

  She watched the stern expression soften as he met his brother’s eyes. “You ate enough to satisfy a horse,” he teased. “If we stay, where will you put it?”

  Jethro patted his round belly. “Right here!” he said, and took a seat.

  Abigail gathered up the quilt and draped it over a parlor chair, placed the shoe box there, too, then slid plates from the cupboard.

  “Coffee?” she asked, grabbing forks and a knife from the drainboard.

  “I love coffee!” Jethro said as Patch sauntered into the room. Bending at the waist, he held out a hand and made kissing noises. “Are your feet cold?”

  “She has built-in fur slippers,” Abigail said. “I doubt her paws are cold.”

  “Not the cat,” Jethro said, pointing at her socks. “You!”

  It seemed Jubal hadn’t noticed her white-socked feet, and now that he did, he smiled. It was good to see, and she smiled, too. “The wood stove keeps me warm and toasty from head to toe,” she said, delivering coffee and pie.

  Patch leaped onto Jethro’s lap. “She is happy,” he said. “I know because cats purr when they are happy.”

  “Yes, they do,” Jubal said. Directing his attention to Abigail, he added, “You are working double shifts at the inn?”

  “Only until Stella heals up. Office work is challenging but makes time pass quickly.”

  “We should have a cat,” Jethro announced.

  “You know how Maem feels about animals in the house.”

  “But cats, they kill mice. I saw one in the basement, next to her washer. In the barn, too. If we had a cat, we would not need traps.” Grimacing, he shuddered. “I hate seeing them in a trap.”

  “And I hate emptying them,” Jubal agreed. “Tell you what, buddy. First chance I get, I will talk to her about getting a cat. She might say yes quicker if you promise to take full responsibility for it, so you should start practicing your speech.”

  Still more proof, Abigail thought, watching and listening, that Jubal would make a wonderful father someday.

  “Good idea, Jube! I practice!” In his excitement, Jethro startled Patch, who jumped down and disappeared around the corner.

  “Aw, I scared her.”

  “She is easily startled,” Abigail soothed. “I scare her
, too, all the time, by laughing!”

  His brows drew together as he gave that a moment’s thought. “But you live alone. What do you laugh at?”

  “My own clumsiness, mostly. I sometimes take corners too fast and bump into doorways. Once, I stumbled over my shoelaces. And have you noticed that when it is dark outside and the lights are on inside, the windows look like mirrors?”

  Jethro nodded.

  “Well, just this morning, I saw my reflection, and scared myself!”

  Laughing now, Jethro got onto his hands and knees. “You are funny, Abigail.” A moment later, he sat cross-legged, stroking Patch’s cheeks.

  “He is right,” Jubal said. “You have a good sense of humor.”

  His expression had warmed. Did it mean that his anger had thawed, too?

  “How are the boys’ buggies coming along?” Coward! she scolded. “Will they finish before the deadline?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Once they sand and paint, they can attach the buggies to the chassis. All that will remain after that are the headlights and rear reflector.”

  “They? You are not helping anymore?”

  “I try, believe me.” A slow smile softened his features. “They like to have me nearby to answer any questions that come up, but all four of them seem determined to do the work themselves.”

  “They are good kids. And you are largely responsible for the positive changes in them.”

  “Goodness was in them all along.”

  “But who knows how long it might have taken to come to the surface without your example, without the patient lessons you taught?”

  “Nice of you to say.”

  “It is the truth. And so is this.” Abigail leaned forward to add, “I am sorry, Jubal. For what I said in the ER, and for not apologizing right away, once I figured things out. It was unkind and unfair to let you think I blamed you for things Ira did, before and after the accident. It is a lot to ask, I know, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  He held her gaze for what seemed a full minute, and when the words she longed to hear didn’t come, she added, “Someday.”

  “We have both made mistakes. You are sorry; I am sorry. We can call it even.”