Did she really have casseroles in the freezer or was she simply telling him that so he’d leave? The one thing he knew already about Abigail Yutzy was that she was an independent kind of person. Well, he could relate to that.
So instead of stopping at his apartment, he clicked his tongue to Duchess, who happily passed the mercantile and continued down the road. By the time they arrived at Lily’s home, the sun was beginning to set.
His schweschder had six children, ranging in age from six years to eight weeks. She was round and short and happy. She reminded him of the quintessential Amish woman—one you might find on the front of a tourist brochure, her back discreetly turned away from the camera.
Lily had married Josiah when she was eighteen. Those rare moments when Thomas felt unsure about his life, he visited Lily. She had a way of helping him see things from a different perspective.
The first thing she did when Thomas walked through the door was try to drop Fremont into his arms.
Thomas held up his hands in an I-surrender gesture.
“Oh, come on.”
“You know I don’t hold them until they’re a little more...stable.” The last thing he needed to do was break a baby.
Josiah laughed and accepted his eight-week-old son from his wife. “Ya, ya. You’re afraid of babies. We remember.”
Josiah Beachy was a gut brother-in-law. He was slightly shorter than Thomas and seemed to be gaining weight with each boppli that was added to the family. He was also a hard worker, a gut provider, and he had an easygoing personality. More importantly, Thomas knew that he adored Lily.
“Why are you afraid, Onkel Thomas?” Abner was sitting on the couch holding a library book. “For sure, Fremont won’t break, but he might poop while you’re holding him.”
The oldest of his nephews rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated grimace that caused his younger bruders to burst into giggles.
Lily tickled his stomach, then turned back to Thomas. “Josiah was about to sit down with the boys for their reading time. You can stay with them or help me in the kitchen.”
“I’m up for kitchen duty.” When he walked into the other room, he almost took those words back. “Did someone have a food fight in here?”
“I have six boys, in case you forgot. I’m lucky there isn’t food on the ceiling.” She handed him a dish towel as he peered up at the ceiling. “You start with the countertops and table. I’ll get to work on the dishes.”
At first, he was too busy to have a meaningful conversation. Scrubbing spaghetti sauce from every conceivably flat surface took his full attention. But by the time he’d joined her at the sink to dry and put up dishes, they’d made it through the weather, the pups in the barn and Bryant’s new teeth.
“I know you didn’t come for a Beachy family update.” She nudged her shoulder against his. “So why are you here?”
“I like Beachy updates.”
“Uh-huh, but you were just here for dinner on Sunday, so there isn’t that much to update you on.”
Thomas shrugged his shoulders, feeling fourteen and tongue-tied.
“Must be serious. Let’s change places.”
“Huh?”
“Scrub on this pan. It will help release your pent-up emotions.”
“Who said I had pent-up emotions?”
Lily smiled and handed him the scrubber. It was surprisingly soothing to scrub the bits of spaghetti sauce from the pan. So much so, that he scrubbed the top of the stove as well. Lily didn’t comment on that, only raised her eyebrows and said, “Danki.”
“Gem Gschehne.”
She finished drying and putting dishes in the cupboard, then stepped into the sitting room. “Everything okay in here?”
“Gut. Everyone has read their book, and I was just resuming our story.” Josiah’s voice sounded sleepy. “We’re on chapter three of Shiloh.”
“Wunderbaar. Try and stay awake. Thomas and I are going to have coffee on the porch if that’s okay.”
“If that’s what you want to do, but you’re going to have to catch up on the adventures of Shiloh on your own.”
Thomas didn’t have to peek into the other room to know what he’d see. Lily’s children loved their bedtime stories. They’d all be crammed onto the couch next to their father, the oldest probably holding the baby. How many times had he been the one reading the story? Especially after a new baby was born, he liked to stop by and give Josiah and Lily a break. Tonight, they seemed to be coping with their growing family rather well, other than the disaster in the kitchen.
He pulled two mugs from the cabinet and filled them with decaffeinated coffee as Lily fetched a tin of peanut butter bars. Thomas ate two on the way to the back porch.
“Didn’t you eat dinner?”
“Nein.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have made you a plate of spaghetti.”
“There were leftovers?”
“Hmm. Now that you mention it, nein, they’re weren’t.”
“You’re a gut cook.”
“Those boys would eat anything I set before them. They have a bigger appetite than you did as a teenager.”
When Thomas didn’t respond to the teasing, she stared at him solemnly over the rim of her coffee cup. Josiah had placed small solar lights around the edge of the porch. They provided enough soft lighting to keep someone from tripping—and to allow Thomas and Lily to see one another.
“This must be serious.”
He’d sat in the rocker, and she’d taken the porch swing. The night had settled around them, and Lily draped the blanket she had brought over her shoulders. To Thomas the cool air felt good. It helped to ease his restlessness.
“You have a gut family, Lily. I’m happy for you.”
“Uh-oh. That sounds like you’re having a midlife crisis.”
“I’m only twenty-eight.”
“And yet you always were ahead of your time.” She sipped the coffee. “Spill it. What’s going on? What’s happened since Sunday?”
He told her everything—about showing up at Abigail’s expecting an elderly widow, about Abigail’s situation and his promise to help until she could settle her legal problems. He’d expected Lily to chide him for that—helping others was to be expected, but working for free for two years was above and beyond. Lily didn’t comment on that, though. She made sympathetic noises and motioned for him to keep talking.
He described the empty cabinets and the nearly depleted tea tin and the fact that she couldn’t even wear her own shoes. Finally, he ran out of things to say. Exhausted, he broke off another piece of peanut butter bar and stuffed it in his mouth—only this time it tasted like sawdust.
“Wow, Thomas.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Wow?”
Lily’s laughter loosened the tension in his neck. Lily had always been able to make him laugh. Even when they were children, huddled in the barn and hiding from their drunken father, she had been able to pull a smile from him.
“I’m a bit short on wisdom today. Sorry...”
“I hear a but in that sentence.”
“But it’s plain that you care about her.”
“Care about her?” He popped out of his chair. “I hardly know her. If I care about her, it’s in the same way I care about all of my clients.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“I don’t need to convince anyone.” He had moved to the porch railing and stood there with his back to her, staring out at the darkness.
Lily walked to his side and slipped her arm through his. Thomas again felt as if they were children.
“She reminds me of Mamm.” The confession felt like a betrayal. Why was it that even now, five years after his mother had died, he still felt a pang in his heart at the thought of her?
“Because of her situation?”<
br />
“I guess.”
“Neither Mamm nor your Abigail...”
He winced at the your.
“Neither are the first Amish women to be unprepared for their husband’s untimely death. For that matter, Englisch women experience the same.”
“But most Englisch women have their names on the bank accounts.”
“True. I’ve heard we Amish are a little slow to change.” She squeezed his arm, then returned to the porch swing to fetch the blanket she’d left there. Picking it up, she folded it neatly, then tucked it under her arm. “Abigail sounds a bit spunkier than Mamm.”
Thomas turned to study her and nodded once. “I suppose she is.”
“She’s going to be okay, Thomas. It sounds to me like you set her on the right path. Her bishop will see that she’s taken care of, and you’ll be there to run the farm as long as she needs you. That was a kind thing for you to do—quite the commitment to make.”
Thomas shrugged. It hadn’t felt kind at the time. It had simply felt like the right thing to do.
“Now come in and help me put the children to bed.”
“Isn’t it enough that I cleaned up your kitchen?”
“It is not. I don’t know why you won’t live with us. We could use your help every evening.”
“Which is why I don’t live with you.”
Her laughter slipped through the night. Thomas grabbed the two youngest boys and tucked them under his arms, as if he was carrying two rolled-up rugs. He bent and kissed baby Fremont, who he was determined not to hold until the child was unbreakable. David and Elliott squirmed under his arms as he carried them back to the room they shared, laughing and squealing and causing his heart to swell with happiness.
Fifteen minutes later he was home. He stabled his mare, trudged to his apartment and set about making himself a late dinner. With another mug of decaffeinated coffee and a peanut butter sandwich in front of him, he bowed his head to give thanks. He found himself thanking Gotte for his sister and brother-in-law and their energetic group of kinner. He thanked the Lord for his food, and again he pictured Abigail’s empty cupboard and stubborn expression.
And that was when he thanked Gotte for her spunk.
For the fact that her circumstances hadn’t left her beaten, though she was obviously downtrodden.
For the amount in his savings account, which allowed him to defer any wages she would owe him.
For their bishops who had kept an eye on her situation, even when she’d quite obviously refused help.
By the time he raised his head, it was past nine, and though he was terribly tired, he was also ravenous. He bit into his sandwich. The bread that Mary Lehman had given him was fresh baked, the peanut butter creamy and the jam homemade. He finished it quickly, then tackled the container of pasta salad she’d left in his refrigerator. Mary and John Lehman were gut friends.
His life was a gut life.
He rinsed his dishes, then prepared for bed. The morning would bring another day with plenty of work. He’d do what he’d always done.
Eat well.
Sleep well.
And then get to it.
Chapter Four
Abigail was not looking forward to visiting her bishop. Luke seemed to be a nice enough man, though she felt as if she barely knew him. He’d helped with the funeral, of course. He’d visited her several times since and offered various forms of assistance. She’d been morbidly embarrassed and determined to handle everything on her own.
Thomas was right, though—she couldn’t handle everything on her own.
She needed help.
Thomas.
What was she going to do about Thomas?
When she had finished her first cup of coffee and worked up the energy to look outside, she’d immediately seen him. He’d been harvesting in the fields with the same men who’d been there the day before. At least they looked like the same men. She couldn’t really make them out from so far away.
She tidied up the kitchen and checked the small hand mirror to be sure she looked presentable. She couldn’t wear the same dress as the day before. It was dirty and she wouldn’t do laundry until Monday. She put on her other dress, the one that was decidedly too tight. How would she make it two more months? She’d have to hide inside for lack of clothing.
Abigail put the hand mirror in her dresser drawer, snagged her purse off the hook by the back door and, at the last second, stepped back inside to fetch the list she’d made at Thomas’s insistence. Then she walked to the barn, again wearing Asher’s shoes.
Thomas.
How early did the man arrive? And was he going to be there every day? She was grateful for his help, for sure and certain, but in the last month she’d become used to being alone.
And look where that’s landed you.
Why was it that she always heard her mother’s voice in a chiding tone in her head? The woman hadn’t been a shrew, only strict and reserved. Somewhat harsh, if Abigail were honest about it. She pushed the memories away.
Thomas must have jogged to the barn because he was harnessing Belle before Abigail could attempt to do it herself. “I wasn’t sure how early you’d want to go,” he admitted.
“Best to get it over with.” She attempted to soften the harsh words with a smile, but it felt false and forced.
Thomas patted her clumsily on the shoulder, then stepped back and stuck his thumbs under his suspenders. His shirt was already stained with sweat, and he had a bit of hay in his hair. She fought the urge to brush it away.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you.” She didn’t add that hopefully he would be gone by the time she returned. She supposed that was asking for too much. She wanted the man to work for free and not to be around—an impossibility if there ever was one.
“Ya, for sure. Take your time. We have a full day’s work, so I’ll be here to unharness Belle when you return.”
She almost rolled her eyes.
She could unharness her own horse. Then the baby kicked, and she realized that maybe she couldn’t—not now. But the baby would be born by Thanksgiving. Surely then she’d be able to go back to taking care of everyday chores herself.
Bishop Luke’s farm was less than a ten-minute buggy ride from her place. She pulled into the yard and was surprised when Luke’s oldest son appeared in front of her buggy before it had properly stopped. He held the door of the buggy as she clambered out, then said, “Your horse is a beauty.”
“Thank you, Isaac.” His name came to her in a flash, and he smiled down at her.
Like his father, Isaac was tall and thin. And unlike Thomas Albrecht, he didn’t seem bothered by her large stomach. No doubt he remembered his mamm being in her last trimester. How many children did Luke and Naomi have? She should know since she’d been in the community for nearly a year now, but she hadn’t become well acquainted with anyone yet. Plus, there were easily over a hundred children at their church services. It was difficult to tell who belonged to whom.
As she walked toward the front porch, she noticed two boys washing off the bishop’s buggy. Another boy was brushing down a roan gelding, and two girls were beating rugs against the porch railing. They waved hello as she walked up, then ran inside to call their mamm.
Naomi pushed open the screen door, smiling and drying her hands on a dish towel. “Abigail, come on in. It’s gut to see you. Would you like some tea?”
“Nein. Danki.” Her stomach betrayed her and picked that moment to let out a growl. “Well, maybe tea would be gut.”
“And apple strudel. I loved apple strudel when I was pregnant. Unless you don’t like apples.”
“Sounds gut, actually.”
So it was that she found herself sitting at the table, enjoying the freshly baked treat and tea when Luke walked in. Bishop Luke was quite tall and thin; whereas Naomi was his exact opposite. They should h
ave made an odd couple, but instead they looked as if they’d been created for one another.
Luke sat across the table, but Naomi took the chair next to her.
“It’s gut to see you, Abigail. Wunderbaar to see you out and about.”
“Yes, well...” She stared down into her teacup for a moment, then raised her eyes to his. “The man you sent to help me—Thomas Albrecht—he has a convincing way about him.”
“I’ve heard excellent things about Thomas. An Amish handyman of sorts.”
“I suppose.” Pressed to describe him, she would use words like stubborn and pushy and opinionated, but there was no need to bring that up now. She pulled her purse into her lap and retrieved the business card from her purse.
“I went to the bank yesterday and met with Mr. Webb.” Neither Luke nor Naomi interrupted Abigail, so she continued. “My name isn’t on the bank account. Also, Asher didn’t have a will. The estate will have to be probated, and that could take some time.”
She placed the card on the table and pushed it toward Luke.
“He suggested I hire this woman, but of course I have no money to do so.” She quickly added, “I will, but at this point I’m not allowed to access what’s in the bank account.”
“I see.” Luke tapped the card, then looked up and smiled at her. “Gabriela Martinez is well-known in our community. She’s fair and familiar with our ways. Plus, her rates are reasonable.”
“But I don’t have any money to pay her, even if her rates are fair.”
“Aaron Lapp is our deacon who handles such matters. I’ll speak with him when I see him at our church service tomorrow. The benevolence fund has a healthy balance. He’ll contact Ms. Martinez on Monday and arrange payment. You should call her and make an appointment.”
“Okay. Danki.”
“We are happy to help in any way that we can, Abigail.” Luke’s words were soft, kind—not at all judgmental.
An Amish Baby for Christmas Page 5