An Amish Wedding

by Kathleen Fuller; Beth Wiseman Kelly Long

  She and the bishop moved about the kitchen with the accord of those long married, and soon steaming mugs of cocoa were placed on the table. Rose gave Ally back to Sylvia to hold when the child fussed for a drink.

  “Let her have a sip,” Mrs. Ebersol suggested. “Is your car somewhere about? You’re welcome to stay here for the night. Perhaps Luke and the bishop might bring in your things.”

  Sylvia raised a worried gaze to Luke and Rose. “I—I don’t have a car.”

  Luke rose to his feet. “Bishop Ebersol,” he said clearly. “Might we talk for a few minutes in private?”

  “Ya, certainly. Come this way.”

  The bishop lifted a lamp, and Rose met Luke’s shuttered gaze as she began to pray for him and the words he might feel convicted to say.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE NEXT DAY WAS CHURCH SERVICE, AND BEYOND DRIVING her home and telling her that he would speak at the end of the service, Luke didn’t go into what he and the bishop had discussed. Rose felt it within her spirit that it was not a time to question, so she went quietly to bed.

  “What was all the ruckus last night?” her mamm asked when Rose entered the kitchen the next morning. “I thought you and Luke might have been having an argument.”

  Rose sighed. She’d decided last night that the next time she was asked a direct question about what had been going on lately that she would give a direct answer. She found herself telling her mamm, and the rest of the family as they entered for breakfast, about Sylvia and the children.

  Her father pointed with his forked bacon. “You mean to say that Luke has been the Rob in the . . . the thief hereabouts?”

  Rose shrugged. “For a cause.”

  Her daed considered. “Well, Bishop Ebersol’s a wise man; he’ll handle it all right. But you, young lady, had no business out in those woods alone.”

  Rose was struck by a sudden inspiration. “I did say that your thief might be female, Daed. Perhaps I just had to prove my point.”

  Her daed stared at her, then laughed aloud as she’d hoped he would. Her brothers joined in reluctantly. Even her mamm and Aenti Tabby smiled.

  So they went in good spirits to the buggies and on to church, which was being held at the Lamberts’ that morning. Joseph Lambert greeted them with a warm smile at the door.

  Rose hoped that her marriage might go as well as that of Joseph and Abby. Abby Lambert certainly looked happy as she sat in the married women’s section, her stomach rounded with obvious pregnancy. Rose pushed aside the thought of carrying Luke’s child and made her way to sit down next to Priscilla. Rose squeezed her friend’s hand and decided that Priscilla was looking better, though still too pale, as the wedding loomed.

  Then the service began, and Rose was lost in the ancient soothing rhythm of the hymns and the message of Scripture. Then, at last, when she thought Luke must have been mistaken about speaking, the bishop rose to address the community.

  “Before we would dismiss, there’s a matter of confession that’s come to my attention. Young Luke Lantz would ask your patience while he speaks.” The bishop sat down, and the crowd rustled with curiosity as Luke made his way forward to the head of the benches.

  Rose’s heart ached at his pallor, but she knew his eyes were steady and clear. Priscilla now clasped her hand, and Rose was grateful for the support.

  Luke began to speak in a strong voice, and the general rustlings of the crowd ceased as his words burned into Rose’s heart.

  “I have betrayed you all,” he began. “All of you, but especially those I love. It’s easier to tell what you may think is the heavier offense—that I’ve been the one who stole from you these past months.”

  Rose couldn’t ignore the faint gasps of surprise, and swallowed hard.

  “Why I took from you doesn’t matter. I did it. It was wrong. I confess this wrong and beg your forgiveness. But . . . there’s more . . .”

  Rose felt his gaze rivet to hers across the space of crowded benches.

  “I’ve betrayed you by expecting little from you as a community, as a people. The truth is . . . the truth is that I’ve been angry at Derr Herr since my mother died. And I’ve been angry at all of you. I started to believe that if you didn’t have the power to save my mother, then you had no power together at all. And that is so wrong. Someone very wise told me that I had judged you, and it’s true. I might have asked for your help for a woman and family in need, but I didn’t. I believed I could do it alone . . .”

  His voice broke a bit, and silent tears slipped down Rose’s cheeks. Priscilla squeezed her hand harder.

  “Alone is not what our people are about. Our strength lies in our community. I have wronged the community. I confess this before you all and ask for your forgiveness.” He dropped to his knees and bent his dark head.

  The bishop rose and placed a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Is it the will of the community, then, to grant Luke Lantz the forgiveness he begs for?”

  There was a general assent of ya’s, and Rose breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Then,” the bishop continued, “please come forward following our dismissal to greet Luke Lantz with renewed goodwill and acceptance.”

  Rose received Priscilla’s hug, then wended her way forward to stand next to Luke. He caught her hand in a fierce grasp, which she returned as people began to come forward.

  “Stole my best linens, young man?” Esther Mast inquired with a glint in her faded blue eyes.

  “Yes. I’m very sorry,” Luke said steadily.

  The old woman sniffed. “Well, keep ’em. Probably for a gut cause. Would have given ’em to you had you asked.”

  “I know that now.”

  “Hmmm,” Mrs. Mast mused, ignoring the press of the crowd around her with the distinct dignity of the aged. “Seems like I’ve got some more linens in a trunk upstairs. They’ll make a fine wedding gift to go with what you already got.” She gave Rose’s hand a squeeze with her bony fingers.

  “Danki,” Rose whispered.

  Joseph Lambert was next. “Hey, anytime you want to talk, friend, I’m here. Ach, and keep that old goat of ours too. Kicked me once too often.” He shook Luke’s hand and winked at Rose.

  They came, one after the other, to forgive and to give, telling Luke to keep all that he had taken and offering more should he need it.

  Rose thrilled in heart and praised the Lord when Luke turned to her and whispered, “You were right, Rose.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  WORD OF THE DETAILS OF SYLVIA AND THE CHILDREN spread about the community, and Luke was inundated with offers of places to stay, clothes for the children, and a hundred other small kindnesses that made abundance seem too small a word.

  In all of the details, he barely had time to talk to Rose and sheepishly asked Joshua one morning if he’d do a favor for him.

  “Flowers?” Joshua snorted. “Weeds, you mean? There’s nothing much growing now . . . Why not ride into town and get her something?”

  “Just get a bouquet of something pretty. She likes the outdoors, and I want to get over there this evening and see her alone.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll have it ready.”

  That evening Joshua thrust a thick bouquet into the darkness of the buggy.

  “Danki.” Luke sneezed, wondering exactly what his brother had picked. He drove the short distance to the Benders’, glad to be rid of his crutches, and went to knock softly on the back door.

  Rose opened it with a shy smile, and he produced the bouquet, watching her face light up as she stepped back into the light of several lamps. Then he noticed what she held and dashed the flowers from her arms to the floor.

  “Luke? What—are you—”

  “Ach, that bruder of mine! It’s poison ivy, Rose.”

  She gasped and ran to the sink. They both knew that she was badly allergic to the stuff, and somehow Joshua had grabbed a strand as background to the Queen Anne’s lace and ragweed. She scrubbed frantically at her wrists and hands.

 
“I think I got it all. I barely held it.”

  Luke scraped the would-be bouquet from the floor; he was not allergic to the annoying weed. Then he bundled the stuff together and stalked toward the door. “So much for romance,” he muttered.

  “It’s the thought that counts,” Rose called with a smile.

  He laughed as he went outside with the offending gift, then returned to wash his hands at the sink. She caught his arm and pulled him to a set of rockers in the living room.

  “Everyone’s gone to bed, but I wanted to show you the coloring pages Ally’s been sending over from the Ebersols’ house.” She opened several wildly colored scenes, and he nodded.

  “Nice.”

  “You’re not getting it.” She poked his ribs. “Her clouds aren’t crying anymore.”

  “Oh, I didn’t notice—but wait. I thought the clouds were crying for her daddy?”

  Rose shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe just for a sense of home or”—she blinked her green cat’s eyes at him—“or community.”

  He reached over, and with one hand pulled her easily onto his lap. He nuzzled her throat cheerfully until she laughed and tried to push him away.

  “Luke!”

  He was concentrating on her hair, taking deep breaths of its heady scent. “Hmmm?”

  She sighed and relaxed back against him. “Nothing.”

  THE NEXT DAY WAS FRIDAY, AND ROSE WOKE WITH HER mind set to keep her promise to Priscilla and go and pick up her dress for the wedding. But when she sat up in bed, it was to look with horror at her wrists and inner arms.

  “Ach, no,” she whispered aloud.

  She dressed hurriedly, biting her lip in an effort to make no move to scratch, but the long wool sleeves of her dress were torture against the rash. She made her way to Priscilla’s in near tears from the sensation and knocked hurriedly at the back door, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Rose? What’s wrong?” Priscilla looked like she was prepared for anything from an ostrich to an airplane landing, and Rose plastered a smile on her face.

  “Nothing,” she managed. Then she could stand it no longer and burst into a spat of intense itching that made her jump and then wriggle with short-lived satisfaction.

  But Priscilla’s mother must have recognized the outlandish movements, because she soon rooted in her herbal closet and sent Rose off with her attendant’s dress and some salve that she guaranteed would help the affliction.

  Rose danced out onto the back porch, then gave in to another fit of intense itching, all the while praying silently that the salve would do something miraculous.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE WEATHER HAD TAKEN ON A DISTINCT CHILL, THE spiny spindles of tree limbs forming bare arms raised in supplication to the still bright sky.

  That afternoon Rose opened the door to Luke, but knew that she probably looked distracted.

  “Rose? Are you all right?” Luke took his hat off and stepped aside to reveal a thin Englisch man. “Rose, this is Jim. He was released yesterday and made his way out here. He was found not guilty.”

  Rose snapped herself back from her meditations on not scratching. “Ach, that’s wonderful. Please come in.”

  She held the door wider, but Luke shook his head. “We can’t. He’s got a car and is going to pick up Sylvia and the kids. They’re going to Colorado for a new start where his parents live.”

  Rose bit her lip as the desire to scratch radiated along her arms, but she didn’t want Luke to know and feel bad. “That’s great,” she burst out, reaching to shake Jim’s hand.

  And then she could stand it no longer and nearly doubled over with her efforts to get at her arms to her satisfaction. Luke groaned.

  “What’s wrong?” Jim asked.

  “Poison ivy,” she heard Luke mutter. “Rose, don’t scratch.”

  “Don’t scratch!” She rounded on him, then smiled again at Jim, lowering her voice. “Don’t scratch? I’ll scratch you, Luke Lantz, if you don’t . . .”

  Apparently, her betrothed knew when to beat a hasty retreat. She waved good-bye to a bemused Jim.

  “IS MRS. KING’S SALVE NOT WORKING?” AENTI TABBY ASKED from where she sat reading her Bible near her bed.

  “I want to believe it’s helping.” Rose sighed as she maneuvered onto her aunt’s bed, rubbing her woolen clad arms against the quilt.

  “Well, let’s talk about something to distract you then . . . Tell me if things are better now that you know a little more about Luke.”

  Rose flopped on her belly and regarded her aenti’s merry face. “I have the feeling that there’s a lifetime of things for me to learn about Luke.”

  “That’s as it should be—like the Bible says, ‘new treasures out of old.’”

  Rose gave in to one delightful scratch. “Then I’ll pray that we have a lifetime of treasures together, Aenti Tabby.”

  The older woman smiled. “You will, Rose. You will.”

  ON MONDAY MORNING, LUKE’S FATHER TOLD HIM TO step into the office. “Just go along and have a hello with our new bookkeeper.”

  A new bookkeeper? What was his daed talking about? Luke shrugged and knocked on the office door with good grace, then, when no one answered, opened it slowly.

  The back of a dark head and kapp greeted him.

  “Rose?” he asked in disbelief.

  She spun in a new swivel chair and smiled up at him, pencil in hand. “Hiya! You’ve always known I have a head for figures.”

  He smiled slowly. “So you do, but what about . . . ?”

  “The house?” she queried. “I can do both, Luke Lantz. Women are great at multitasking.”

  He had to laugh, then bent close to her. “Is that your secret, Rose? Being able to do two things at once?”

  “Maybe. What did you have in mind?” She blinked bright eyes at him, and he lowered his mouth to hers.

  “Ach, I don’t know,” he whispered, pressing his lips to hers. “Maybe this . . . and this . . .”

  “And this,” she added, drawing him close again until he had to sigh aloud.

  A PERFECT

  MATCH

  KATHLEEN FULLER

  Chapter One

  “THOSE COOKIES SMELL APPEDITLICH.” NAOMI KING SMILED at Margaret as the young woman pulled a tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. She brushed a bit of excess flour from her hands. “Chunks or chips?”

  “Chunks, this time.” Margaret put the cookie sheet on top of the stove and turned to Naomi. “I noticed the chunky ones sell faster than the chips.”

  Using a knife, Naomi cut the freshly rolled bread dough into narrow strips, which she then manipulated into twists. “I’m surprised we ran out of the bread twists so soon.”

  “They’ve been pretty popular too.” Margaret picked up a metal cooling rack and put it on the counter next to the stove. A knock sounded on the front door. “I’ll get it.” She left the kitchen.

  With quick, practiced motions Naomi put the pale twists on a baking sheet and popped them into the oven. She wound the timer and walked over to the sink to wash her hands. The window above the sink was open halfway, letting a refreshing cool breeze into her small kitchen. Not for the first time she said a prayer of thanks for Margaret’s help with her bakery business. For the past three months, since Naomi started selling baked goods from the daadi haus where she lived behind her parents’ home, business had been brisk. She wouldn’t have been able to keep up, not without Margaret’s help.

  A few moments later Margaret returned and handed Naomi thirty dollars. “Three loaves of bread, a gooseberry pie, and two pumpkin rolls. The Englisch woman was a repeat customer, by the way.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Naomi looked at the money. “Geh ahead and keep it.”

  “But you already paid me.”

  “I know. You’ve been working hard these past two weeks. You deserve a little extra.”

  Margaret smiled and tucked the money into her purse, which was hanging on a peg near the back door.
“Did you know you have a leak in your front room?”

  “What?”

  “A small drip in the corner, by the couch. I noticed it as the woman was leaving.”

  “Nee.” Naomi hurried out of the kitchen, down the narrow hallway to the small sitting room. She saw several drips of water slip from a sag in the ceiling. Last night an intense storm had hit Paradise. Being a deep sleeper, she’d slept through the whole thing. But this morning Margaret had mentioned seeing several large branches littering the yards along the road, ripped from the trees by the harsh winds. The winds must have damaged the roof somehow.

  Quickly she went to the back porch and retrieved a bucket. She moved the couch out of the way and put the bucket under the drip. After getting a towel from the linen closet she wiped up the water from the hardwood floor.

  “How bad is the damage?” Margaret moved to stand next to her.

  “I think the floor is all right.” Naomi looked up at the ceiling again. “I don’t know about the roof.”

  “Isn’t the haus pretty old?”

  “At least fifty years. My grossvatter built it for his parents.” She rubbed her fingers against her temple. “I hate to tell Daed about this, but I’ll have to. He’s so busy with wedding preparations; he doesn’t need another thing to worry about.” She also didn’t think her father needed to be repairing a roof, not at his age. “So many things have been going wrong lately. Like the house Chester is building for Priscilla and him to live in. The foundation didn’t set right, the lumber they ordered for the frame was delayed, and Chester’s brother Abraham broke his wrist when he fell off the roof. Now this.” She frowned.

  “It’s only a small leak, Naomi. It shouldn’t be any trouble to fix. Do you want to tell your daed now? I can handle any customers that come by, and I’ll whip up another batch of cookies too.”