by Naomi Miller
She was positively radiant with excitement—and Katie was certain it was entirely natural, which made her feel a lot better about their plan for the small party they would have just after closing today, before everyone went their separate ways to celebrate Christmas.
“I believe so, Mrs. Simpkins.” She took a deep breath, then another look at the list in her hand, before adding, “Jah, we are ready.”
Amelia nodded, and then turned to move through the kitchen door.
* * *
Earlier, Mrs. Simpkins had confided in her that she had been staying late, night after night, trying to re-create a recipe for cookies that Mr. O’Neal’s grandmother had made for him.
She had tried using Irish Whiskey in the recipe, but finally decided to try a substitute. She had given Andrew the cookies last night, and he had been delighted with them!
Katie was relieved to finally know the mystery had been solved—that the bottles she had found in the closet had been for a gut purpose.
Mrs. Simpkins had also confided that Mr. O’Neal had presented her with a special gift—an heirloom brooch that had belonged to his grandmother, then passed on to his own mother, before he gave it to Amelia.
Danki, dear Lord. Two very dear people have each received a blessing—for sure and for certain—and will have a wunderbaar gut Christmas.
And I am certain the Davis children will not go unnoticed by their freinden in the community. I know you will be working this out in a wunderbaar way.
* * *
Less than a minute later, Katie heard the sound of many feet on linoleum as the customers, who had been lined up and waiting outside, gathered inside the Sweet Shop.
It was only a few seconds later that Mrs. Simpkins walked into the kitchen and gave Katie the first of many names.
Katie wasted no time in moving into the walk-in cooler for the box of treats for Mrs. Mueller, smiling at the thought that she was not in the least surprised at who had commanded the first place in line.
She was likely up with the cows to get here so early.
Katie passed the box to her boss and then checked the name off her list. She had no more than set the pencil down, when Freida moved through the kitchen door with the next order.
* * *
The morning moved quickly after that. Never once did the steady stream of customers let up—and no one lost their temper or showed impatience.
Only once did Katie hear raised voices—and when the kitchen door opened, she could hear music, and soon realized that it was several people out front, who had decided to entertain those waiting in line, with Christmas carols.
When Freida walked into the kitchen for the next order, she propped the door open so that Katie could enjoy the impromptu concert as well.
Mrs. Simpkins practically sang out the next order name when she came in a minute later—and Katie laughed when she realized her boss was humming the same song the carolers were singing as she went back out to deliver the order.
* * *
Travis opened the back door to the bakery and smiled at the sight that greeted him. Katie was singing quietly as she moved between the counter top and the wall where her list hung.
Mrs. Simpkins and Freida were moving back and forth, between the kitchen and the customer area, both humming along to the same song.
And there was the sweet sound of his favorite Christmas carols wafting in through the open kitchen door.
He stood there for several minutes, watching the scene before him as it repeated—almost as if it were a movie on some sort of loop. . . except for the song changing after several minutes.
His observation was broken when Katie noticed him standing just inside the door.
“Oh gut! You are here just in time.” She clapped her hands together before adding, “We have several orders that must go out this morning.”
“Are any of them in need of delicate handling?” He asked with a grin, remembering the first delicate order Katie had sent him out with. “It is a blessing you are so talented with your decorating. I would never have been able to salvage that mess.”
He laughed when Katie swatted him playfully.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, the Mayor's order requires delicate handling, but I am sending it with you first. . . and all by itself.”
“So you have time to fix it if I mess it up?”
“Travis Davis, you had best not mess it up. I will never be able to fix it if you do.” She swatted him again before he held up both hands in surrender.
“Hey, hey . . . I'm only joking. I will be extremely careful. I promise.”
“Gut, because this is the main attraction for the Mayor's Christmas table and he will not be pleased if it is ruined.”
“I believe you.”
“Gut.” Katie nodded solemnly before turning toward the oversized walk-in cooler.
It was nearly a minute before she returned, carrying an enormous box that must have been specially made for this “fragile” desert the mayor had ordered.
She carefully slid it onto a rolling cart that was waiting right outside the cooler door. Travis moved over to help her roll it carefully across the kitchen, pushing against the kitchen door and then lifting with her as they moved over the threshold.
Once outside, they eased the cart down again and slowly rolled it down the gradual ramp that switched back and forth along the back of the building beside a short flight of steps.
“This thing looks really fancy. I didn't think the plain folk approved of such fancy things.” Travis meant for the comment to sound genuine, but apparently Katie took it as teasing, because she answered with more than a little snap in her voice.
“We don't approve of owning fancy things, but we don't mind making them for Englischers who want them.”
“Katie, I've seen your quilts. I know just how crazy talented your family is. I was trying to pay you a compliment. You were in such a great mood when I got here and now I’ve ruined it. I’m really sorry.”
“No, I am the one who is sorry, Travis. You are right. It is not really that. Truly, I did not mean to snap at you.”
“Did you get the presents done?”
“Jah, I did.”
“And the customer pickups are going well?”
“Oh, jah. For sure and for certain they are.”
“Then what's the problem? Is it me?”
Katie looked down at the ground as they maneuvered the cart gently over the uneven ground between the end of the ramp and the delivery van's back doors, which Travis had opened before coming inside.
“Katie, what is it?” When she didn't answer again, he added, “Is it me? You can tell me.”
She let out a long breath before answering. “Nee, it is not really you. It is just . . . many things. Please forgive me?”
“Of course. I know how stressful this time of year can be.”
It might have been his imagination, but he thought she looked even more stressed than before they talked.
* * *
When Travis left with the special desert for the mayor, Katie watched the van until it disappeared around the corner. Then she closed her eyes and bowed her head once more.
Dear Gott, please help me to have peace about this. I have asked for your help, with my feelings for Travis, and with his family not having Christmas gifts. There is nothing more I can do now. Please help me to know everything is going to be okay.”
A sense of peace settled over Katie —just as the first rays of sunlight broke through the horizon and the sky filled with the most amazing colors.
And she knew. . . Gott had something in motion already.
* * *
When Mrs. Simpkins walked into the kitchen a moment later, Katie waited for her to call out a customer's name.
“Katie, there are some people out front, who want to speak with you.” Mrs. Simpkins looked a bit naerfich. She waited for Katie to pass, then followed her through the doorway.
Katie's dat was waiting for her, along with Preacher Amos. N
either of them looked very froh—happy—right now.
“Katie, am I to understand that you were the one who painted all the pictures on the window over there?”
“Jah, Amos. That was me, for sure.”
“And did you seek council from your dat or the Bishop, before doing so?”
“Nee. I thought perhaps it would be considered part of my rumschpringe.”
“She has a point there, Amos.” Katie's dat spoke up.
“Jah, Caleb. That is something to think on, for sure.” Preacher Amos turned from Katie's dat—to the window—and back to her for a moment. “Katie, I think we can perhaps overlook this wrongdoing—this one time.”
“Danki, Amos.”
“Sir, I want to assure you—to assure you both—that Katie has not even been talking to the customers about her artwork. She has been staying in the kitchen to work this week.” Mrs. Simpkins looked over at Katie, giving her a smile, then turned back to the man who had been doing most of the talking.
Preacher Amos looked over at Mrs. Simpkins, then back to Katie. When he spoke again, he seemed to be speaking to Mrs. Simpkins.
“Danki. We will not be bothering you further. Come along, Caleb. You and I have much to do today, jah?” Preacher Amos turned toward the door.
Katie's dat smiled at her, tipped his hat to Mrs. Simpkins, then followed Preacher Amos out the door.
As new customers came in, Katie hurried back to the kitchen to give herself a moment to catch her breath—before heading back into the cooler to pick up the customer's order.
Hmm. I wonder what Dat and Amos had to do that sounded so urgent. . .
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas . . .
Irish Gingerbread Cookies
Ingredients:
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons dark brown sugar*
3 tablespoons sugar
1 large egg yolk
1/2 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 tablespoon pure almond extract
1/3 cup flour
1/3 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup quick-cook oats (I prefer steel cut)
Instructions:
1. Preheat the oven to 350°
2. Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper
3. Cream together the butter and sugars (with an electric mixer)
4. Add egg yolk
5. Mix until combined
6. Add vanilla and almond extract and mix
7. Sprinkle the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon and salt over the mixture
8. Mix until combined
9. Stir in the oats
10. Scoop heaping tablespoons of dough and lightly roll into balls
1. Bake for 10-12 minutes
12. Let cookies cool completely on cookie sheet
13. Makes about 1 dozen cookies
You may store in an air-tight container for up to 3 days
Notes:
The flavor of dark brown sugar really shines in this recipe. If you only have light brown sugar, you can add extra molasses. Per 1 cup of light brown sugar, stir in 1 tablespoon of molasses (Do not use 1 cup in this recipe. Save the excess for use in a later recipe).
* * *
Also. . . you'll notice we put the recipe Mrs. Simpkins actually used in the book. . . not the one Mr. O'Neal remembers his dear sweet Grandmother making all those years.
Since he cannot actually remember just how much Irish whiskey she put in the recipe, Mrs. Simpkins did a bit of experimenting to come up with this recipe.
Also, since Mrs. Simpkins does not drink, she asked Travis to look up a suitable substitution—which he found online.
— TWELVE —
Travis crept downstairs as quietly as possible. He knew Bobby would be up at the slightest of sounds—and what little surprise he had would be ruined.
He had waited up as long as possible last night with everyone, until he finally had to admit that the early morning hours were taking their toll on him. He had consoled himself with the knowledge that he could come down early in the morning to arrange everything under the tree, with little fear that anyone else would be up before him.
Feeling his way along the wall, so that he would not lose his footing, he slipped silently through the hall, heading toward the living room.
Once his eyes adjusted to the tiny amount of light that came from the fire he had banked last night before going up to bed, he realized he wasn’t alone in the room.
It was no surprise to find his mother asleep on the couch. She had not said anything to him about wanting to move—and though she was perfectly capable of traversing the hallway by herself now that she was on the mend—he still wished she had at least said something to him, given him a chance to help get her settled, something. . .
A quick, hard rap at the front door had him nearly jumping out of his skin.
He set down the bag he carried as carefully—and as quickly—as possible, and rushed to the door before the person could knock again and risk waking anyone.
Pulling open the door, he expected to see one of his neighbors—or likely one of Katie's—on the porch with sweets or treats for Christmas morning, wanting to deliver them early before they headed out to their visiting.
But there was no one in sight.
After a moment, he stepped over the threshold, crossing his arms over his chest in deference to the cold, and looked around for any sign of who had knocked. He looked left. He looked right.
No one was there.
He looked at the houses on either side and then across the street, wondering if perhaps it had been one of their neighbors, but all of the houses were still dark.
Perplexed, he stepped forward, bare feet and all, and his toe bumped hard against something.
When he looked down to see what he had bumped into, certain it must be some sort of basket filled with food, he saw instead a large pile of brightly wrapped gifts.
His first reaction was that it must be some sort of mistake, but the box on the very top showed a tag peeking out from under an enormous bow that read “Bobby”.
When he lifted it from the pile, he found another one underneath, bearing Bobby's name and yet another one with the name “Gwen”—written in a decorative sort of script.
He turned and walked across the porch, from end to end, searching for any sign of who had brought this to them. There was no clue whatsoever, no matter where he searched.
There was nothing.
Four trips later, he managed to bring in the last of the gifts. He immediately went to work getting them settled under the tree. Obviously whoever had done this was determined to play Santa—and Travis had a feeling that he might never know who it had been.
Once he arranged everything to his satisfaction, including enough candy, fruit and nuts to fill all their stockings—socks that each one had contributed for Santa to fill—that had been in bags beside the pile of gifts, he went off to the kitchen to set out breakfast.
We are going to eat breakfast together, as a family, before presents are opened.
While he sorted through pastries, biscuits and bagels that had been dropped off over the last week, he thought of the gifts.
Why would someone do that—just leave them all out there with no hint of where they had come from?
And how did they get away so quickly?
Travis had opened the door within seconds of the knock, but whoever it was had managed to get completely out of sight before the door was opened.
He suddenly realized that he was questioning a miraculous deed, when he should be thanking God that his brothers and sister would have a nice Christmas. With a quick prayer of thanks, he felt happier than he had in a very long time.
* * *
Travis and his mom watched as everyone ripped into the festive paper covering their presents. Each time someone opened something new, the click of his mother's camera sou
nded beside him.
They watched as Bobby opened a small remote controlled car, a popular building set with hundred of tiny plastic bricks, and a box that held a thick, navy blue coat, a pair of boots and a large pack of socks.
When Travis asked Bobby if he was excited about his gifts, his little brother answered with a wide grin.
“I love it all! And especially the socks!”
“You mean you wanted socks for Christmas?”
“I did. I asked Santa for them. I always end up with Trevor’s socks when he can't fit no more. I wanted some of my very own.”
Travis smiled at his enthusiastic baby brother as he thought about his answer. Bobby had asked Santa for socks. That would have to mean it was someone there who heard what he asked for.
Of course, that could be anyone. Half the town was lined up that afternoon, waiting for their turn with the jolly old elf—who just happened to bear a striking resemblance to a certain proprietor I know.
It could even have been Mr. O'Neal himself. Travis thought back to the night he had dropped Katie off and headed home to find Mr. O'Neal and his nephew entertaining everyone in the den.
He could have even used that visit to figure out what everyone else might want for Christmas—since every gift seemed to be the perfect fit for the recipient.
But it could be just as possible that Mr. O’Neal gave the information to someone else, who played Santa for his family. In the meantime, there was no reason to worry about it.
His family was safe, warm, fed, and having a splendid Christmas. The wisest thing to do would be to ask God to bless whoever was responsible, then to relax and enjoy this time with his family.
And that is exactly what he did!
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas . . .
Irish Salted Chocolate Cookies
Cookie Ingredients:
1 cup butter, softened
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon pure almond extract
2 cups plain flour
Filling Ingredients:
11 oz vanilla caramels
3 Tablespoons Heavy Whipping Cream