She sighed and reached a single arm down to tug fretfully at his coat sleeve and then lost her balance, her toes colder than she cared to admit. She gave a small cry as she pitched forward on her knees in the snow, and she saw his head turn out of the corner of her eye.
Then she gasped, amazed and shamed. Her lip began to quiver. “Joel?”
A Honeybee Christmas
JENNIFER BECKSTRAND
To the strong women in my life, especially Aunt Beatrice Pyne, the original Aunt B.
Acknowledgments
As always, I want to thank my agent, Nicole Resciniti, my editor, John Scognamiglio, my prayer warrior, Tonya, and my dear family for supporting my crazy schemes. Most especially I’d like to thank my husband, who is my biggest fan and best friend. Love you, Gar!
Chapter 1
“This is dumm, Dawdi,” Levi said, making a big show of trudging through the snow as if it were as thick as molasses.
Yost Weaver forced a smile and tapped Levi’s hat so it fell over his eyes. “You walk slower than an old lady with bunions.”
Levi grinned in spite of his sour mood. “I do not.”
“Maybe I need to light a fire under the seat of your pants.”
“What are bunions, Dawdi, because I probably have them. I should go home and rest.”
Yost chuckled. “No use dragging your feet. What needs to be done, needs to be done.” He said it with more conviction than he felt. Yost would have done just about anything for the welfare of his grandson’s soul, but setting foot on Honeybee Farm was almost too much to ask, even for young Levi’s sake.
Bitsy Kiem owned Honeybee Farm, and Yost wanted nothing to do with her. He had wanted nothing to do with her for thirty-five years, and most of the Amish in the community felt the same way. They all tried to show her Christian charity, but Bitsy was irreverent, unconventional, and she dyed her hair all sorts of improper colors. Not only that, but Yost had heard a rumor that Bitsy liked to talk to Gotte right out loud, as if she were sitting in her kitchen drinking kaffee with an old friend. Was it any wonder that the Plain folk in the community were suspicious?
Even though she lived in his district, Yost had avoided Bitsy like the plague ever since she’d moved back to town with her three orphaned nieces fifteen or so years ago. But a meeting couldn’t be helped today. Levi needed to learn a lesson, and Bitsy Kiem, no matter how odd, was the one to give it to him. Yost could only hope that Bitsy would give Levi the kick in the pants he needed.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as Yost glanced at his twelve-year-old grandson out of the corner of his eye. Levi slumped his shoulders, and his ears stuck out straight from underneath his hat. They were both dreading an encounter with Bitsy Kiem. “You’re well nigh coming up to be a man, Levi, and men take responsibility when they’ve done something wrong.”
“I know,” Levi mumbled. “But why can’t I just write her a letter? What if one of her cats attacks me? Or maybe she’ll make me get a tattoo.”
“No one can make you get a tattoo,” Yost said, with a hint of tease in his voice, even though he wasn’t so sure of himself. Bitsy plastered herself with temporary tattoos, and Yost suspected she had a real tattoo on some unmentionable area of her body. He clenched his teeth. Maybe Levi was right. Maybe a letter would be enough.
Nae. Levi needed to make restitution for his sins, and it couldn’t be done in a letter.
Yost wouldn’t leave Levi’s side. How much damage could one woman with a loose screw do to his grandson in a mere few minutes?
Bitsy had jumped the fence and left the community when she was eighteen years old. Yost had thanked the gute Lord every day that he hadn’t followed her to Green Bay or wherever it was she had ended up. Bitsy had spent twenty years as an Englischer, and no doubt, she’d gotten herself into all kinds of trouble. Yost had always been very grateful he’d chosen to stay in Bienenstock, raise a family with Ruth, and work the land. Ruth had been gone for almost four years now, and Yost had many happy memories of their life together. He wouldn’t have traded that for any kind of life in Green Bay. Even when he felt days of excruciating loneliness or when his daughter Hannah said he was boring, he didn’t see that anything needed to change in his life or that he should have done anything differently.
They paused briefly at the sign that marked the entrance to the Honeybee Farm. The sign had all sorts of flowers painted on it and three words in bold black letters.
“Beware the Honeybees,” Levi read. “What does that mean?”
Yost didn’t say what he was really thinking. The sign only meant to warn people about the many beehives that Bitsy kept on her property, but it was also an apt warning about the woman who lived there. The gossip was that she sometimes painted her fingernails. Black. Yost wouldn’t be surprised if Bitsy owned a pair of fancy shoes. He smiled at his grandson so Levi wouldn’t suspect that Yost was worried about fingernail polish. “Bitsy has lots of beehives on her property. She doesn’t want anyone to get stung.” He had to admit that it was a very thoughtful sign. Maybe Bitsy’s niece Rose had come up with the idea.
For all her strange and rebellious habits, Bitsy had done an adequate job of raising her nieces to be devout and proper Amish girls. Bitsy’s sister and brother-in-law had died several years ago, and Bitsy had raised her three nieces as her own. Yost was honest enough to give her credit for doing a gute job where Lily, Poppy, and Rose were concerned. As far as he knew, none of them colored their hair or had a tattoo, and they had all married godly Amish men a little over a year ago.
Yost and Levi crossed the small wooden bridge that spanned an even smaller pond at the front of the property. The pond was frozen over, even though it was only two days after Thanksgiving. A body of water that tiny probably froze in mid-October.
A dozen beehives stood under a line of bare trees across the field of snow to the right. “I don’t see any bees,” Levi said. “Do they fly south for the winter?”
Yost raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Bitsy.” He grimaced. He’d rather not spend any more time with Bitsy than they had to. It would be best for everyone if they could be in and out of her house in three minutes. Yost scrunched his lips to one side of his face and scratched his cheek. Was it possible for Levi to make restitution in less than three minutes?
Probably not.
Maybe Yost could pay Bitsy for Levi’s damages and then let Levi work off the debt on Yost’s farm. That was an excellent solution. Three minutes would be plenty of time.
They ambled up the snow-packed lane, both lollygagging for their own reasons. The lane curved to the right past more beehives, a couple of outbuildings, and a country-red barn and stopped at a flagstone path that led to the house. Bitsy’s house was a mossy green color with white trim and a wide covered porch. A strand of pine boughs hung over Bitsy’s front door with two bright red ribbons tied at the corners. Bitsy had already done a little decorating. At least she still believed in Christmas.
To Yost’s surprise, Levi slipped his hand into his as they trudged up Bitsy’s porch steps. At twelve, Levi had made it very clear that he wasn’t a child anymore and didn’t wish to do childish things like hold Dawdi Weaver’s hand or get a kiss from his mamm before he left for school. The closer Levi got to thirteen, the more surly and withdrawn he became, as if it offended him that he had to get up every morning. Yost didn’t like the change in his happy-go-lucky grandson, but he hadn’t really expected anything different. He knew enough about teenage boys to understand what could happen if a young man didn’t have a firm hand to guide him through the teenage years.
Yost hung back, and Levi tapped lightly on the door, as if hoping Bitsy might not hear him and he’d have an excuse to leave.
The door opened about five inches and a mangy black and white cat darted outside, hissing and growling as if there was something very frightening on the other side of the door. Levi jumped back as the cat ran between his legs. A second cat, orange marmalade and smaller, shot out of the hou
se and chased down the porch steps after the first one. Just when Yost thought they were done, a third kitty with a brown striped coat strolled out of the house, brushing her thick fur against Levi’s trousers as she passed. Levi glanced up at Yost and grinned. Yost’s heart melted, and he smiled back. Levi wasn’t too grown up yet to take delight in a parade of cats.
Bitsy Kiem opened the door wider and looked past Yost and Levi as if they weren’t there. “Don’t come crying to me if you freeze to death, you dumm cats.”
Yost couldn’t help but chuckle. Bitsy had her fingers wrapped around the barrel of a shotgun while the butt of the gun rested on the floor, and she leaned on it as if it were a cane. Her prayer covering, or kapp, sat askew on her head and one of the pins that held the kapp in place stood straight up, perpendicular to her scalp. Any sudden movement and she would skewer herself. Her salt-and-pepper gray hair was tinted a light shade of periwinkle purple and more than one strand poked out from beneath her kapp as if she and her cats had been having a pillow fight.
A quick glance told Yost she wasn’t sporting any tattoos, at least on the skin he could see. He cleared his throat. No good would come of thinking of the skin he couldn’t see.
Even with lavender hair, Bitsy didn’t look especially wicked or even particularly unpleasant. His gut clenched. He saw her every other week at gmay. He knew exactly what she looked like. Why did it feel as if he were seeing her for the first time?
Bitsy was fifty-three, exactly two years younger than Yost. They shared a birthday—a fact that had made them instant and unlikely friends years ago in school. The years had been good to her. A few wrinkles congregated around her eyes, but the lines were softer around her mouth. There was good humor in her face, even though she was scowling fiercely in the direction of the cats.
Yost tried for a friendly lilt to his voice. “How many cats do you have?”
Bitsy waved her hand as if swatting her cats into the trash bin. “Ach! Too many. People call me ‘the cat lady’ behind my back. I’d let you take one home, but Rose loves those cats, and it would break her heart if one or two of them disappeared mysteriously in the middle of the night.” She cocked an eyebrow, tilted her head to one side, and looked at Levi. “Gute maiya, Levi Weaver. You’ve grown an inch since gmay last Sunday. If you’d pull your shoulders back, you’d probably clear five feet.”
Levi didn’t like being told what to do, but he straightened his spine slowly so that Bitsy might not notice he’d taken her advice.
Bitsy tilted her head to the other side and studied Yost like a lice-infested horse. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and maybe a hint of something else. Annoyance? “Well, Yost Weaver. This is the first time you’ve set foot on my farm in fifteen years. It must be a special occasion.”
Why did he feel as if she were accusing him of something, and why did guilt niggle at the back of his throat? He hadn’t done anything wrong, and he certainly didn’t regret any behavior where Bitsy Kiem was concerned.
She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s no use trying to apologize after all these years.”
“Apologize? You want me to apologize?” Every muscle in his neck tensed. How had the woman with shocking blue eyes and purple hair managed to raise his hackles in a matter of seconds? This was Levi’s confession, not his.
Bitsy blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes, and by the look on her face, Yost half expected her to scold him for slouching. “I’ve long since gotten over it, Yost. I dare say I haven’t given you a second thought in three decades, and the last time I asked Gotte to smite you with a dread disease was thirty-five years ago.” She drew her brows together and peered at him as if she were trying to read his mind. “You didn’t happen to get chicken pox right after I left town, did you?”
She looked almost hopeful, and Yost had no idea what to say. Bitsy had asked Gotte to give him the chicken pox? Was that allowed in the Ordnung? “I . . . I had the chicken pox when I was three,” he said, not sure why he’d told her that. His childhood diseases were none of her business.
“What about heat rash? Have you ever had a gute heat rash?”
Yost shook his head slowly.
Bitsy looked up at the ceiling. “Lord, you said to ask and I’d receive. How will I learn to believe if you won’t answer my prayers?”
So the rumors were true. Bitsy prayed to Gotte right out loud. That discovery shocked Yost into silence. He’d be wise to stay far away from this one.
Levi, on the other hand, seemed quite taken with Bitsy Kiem. His eyes widened and his lips parted in a bewildered smile, as if Bitsy Kiem knew a wonderful secret that Levi could discover if he just gazed at her long enough. Yost nearly yanked on Levi’s suspenders to drag him down the steps. Someone as brash and unapologetic as Bitsy Kiem shouldn’t be allowed around impressionable kinner.
Yost expelled all the air from his lungs. Didn’t Jesus say that inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Him? If nothing else, this encounter with Bitsy would teach Levi that some people were chosen by Gotte while others were not. He nudged Levi forward. “My grandson has something he needs to tell you.” In an instant, Levi seemed to lose four inches of height.
Bitsy raised her eyebrows, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and leaned the shotgun against the wall. She slid her arm around Levi’s shoulders and tugged him into the house. “What you need is a mug of hot cocoa and a slice of oatmeal cake. Cum reu before all the warm air goes out with the cats.”
Yost followed Levi into the house and closed the door behind him. The tempting aroma of cinnamon and sugar met his nose and made his mouth water. Bitsy and her nieces were known for keeping bees and baking all sorts of appeditlich desserts and goodies.
Bitsy’s kitchen stood to his left, with shiny wood floors, a butcher-block island, and an ample table directly in front of him. The kitchen chairs were sturdy, but one of the chair slats had duct tape wrapped around it. The sitting room was to his right, with a sofa half covered in duct tape, two overstuffed chairs, and a rag rug—also crisscrossed in duct tape—on the floor. It looked like a comfortable house, except for the abundance of duct tape.
“Hoch dich anne, sit down,” Bitsy said.
They took off their hats, and Bitsy pulled out a chair at the table for Levi. He slumped into it and fiddled with his suspenders. Yost took a chair next to him.
Bitsy pulled two plates from the cupboard and some mugs from the shelf. “Do you like cinnamon in your cocoa, Levi?”
“Nae.”
“Do you like marshmallows?”
Levi perked up at the thought of marshmallows. “Have you got little ones?”
“I have four sizes. Jumbo, normal, miniature, and tiny.”
Levi nodded, and a smile might have played at the corner of his mouth. “Tiny, please.”
“Would you like tiny marshmallows too, Yost?”
Yost sort of flinched. Bitsy had admitted she’d prayed for him to get chicken pox. He hadn’t expected her to offer him marshmallows. “Nae, denki.”
“Do you want a jumbo marshmallow?” Bitsy said, propping a hand on her hip as if she was waiting for him to come up with a cure for warts.
He worried that marshmallows would soften him up, and though he didn’t know why, he thought maybe he shouldn’t let Bitsy soften him up. No marshmallows. “Nae. I don’t need marshmallows.”
Bitsy smirked. “No one needs a marshmallow. You could just as well eat a teaspoon of sugar for all the good it does.”
She poured three mugs of cocoa and dropped tiny marshmallows into two of them, then brought the mugs to the table with a fourth mug filled with nothing but marshmallows. She gave Yost a shrug. “Just in case you change your mind.” She nudged Levi with her hand. “Or if you want extra.”
Steam rose from the cake sitting on the butcher-block island. It was almost as if Bitsy had been expecting company and had just pulled the cake from the oven for them. Maybe she’d made the cake for someone else. Without aski
ng if they wanted any, she cut two slices and scooped them onto two small plates. “Do you like oatmeal cake, Levi?”
“I’ve never had it.”
“Almost thirteen years old and never eaten oatmeal cake?” She put the plates on the table and gave Yost and Levi each a fork. “If you don’t like it, you can give it to Farrah Fawcett. She might be willing to eat it.”
Levi perked up a little more. Not only did he get cake and hot cocoa, Bitsy was turning out to be more interesting than he’d probably expected. “Farrah Fawcett?” He took a gulp of cocoa, and a marshmallow stuck to his top lip.
Bitsy turned and gazed at a fluffy ball of white fur lounging on the window seat. The ball of fur had a pink, upturned nose and mustard-yellow eyes. “My cat. Well, one of my cats, though Farrah Fawcett likes to pretend she’s the only cat in the family. The others are beneath her notice.” She sat down on the other side of Levi. “Do you like it?”
“Mmm,” Levi said, stuffing a large piece into his mouth. “I brrg id.”
Bitsy nodded. “It’s a gute recipe.”
Yost gave Levi one of his firm looks. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” He glanced doubtfully at Bitsy. “Aren’t you having any?”
Bitsy shrugged. “Ach, I can’t eat that. If I get chubby, I won’t have the energy to chase my worthless cats.” She tapped her chin. “Although, if I couldn’t chase them, maybe they’d run away—all but Farrah Fawcett. She wouldn’t run if the house was on fire.”
Yost took a bite of cake while he studied Bitsy out of the corner of his eye. She was wiry but sturdy, someone who worked hard enough to never catch up on her eating but wouldn’t be blown over by a stiff wind either. With her high cheekbones and full lips, she was really quite pretty when she didn’t scowl. “This is gute,” he said, tempering his show of enthusiasm. Bitsy didn’t need any encouragement, even if her cake tasted like a plate full of heaven.
“Eat as much as you want,” she said. “My nephew-in-law Luke is coming over tonight, and it would do him gute to see that he is not entitled to all the food in the house.” Bitsy laced her fingers together and propped her elbows on the table. “Now, Levi. You have something you want to say to me?”
The Amish Christmas Candle Page 7