A Simple Christmas

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Wyatt briefly flashed his driver’s license. “Wyatt McKenzie, Marcus’s employer. State your case and let’s see some documentation,” he said impatiently.

  “Did your client tell you to confront Marcus in the most public place possible, or was that your idea?” Rebecca chimed in, crossing her arms. “I have zero tolerance for people who depend upon intimidation to conduct their business.”

  Marcus’s eyes widened with an idea. Had Rosalyn’s father hired this guy to embarrass him in front of her—to call him out in public when Cornelius, too, was in the store, so she’d never want to associate with him again?

  Nah, Mendenhall’s been tailing you all the way from Lancaster County. And considering the many opportunities he’s had to nail you, he’s either a really incompetent investigator—or he knows he’s got a lame case. Or he’s running up his billable hours to make more money from his client.

  This line of logic helped Marcus to regain a sense of perspective. He breathed easier as the investigator pulled some papers from his briefcase.

  “Here is the record of withdrawals you’ve made with a bank card that belongs to Carrie Hoskins,” the investigator said with a flourish. “Thousands of dollars—”

  Marcus snatched the papers, becoming angry and suspicious at the mere mention of Carrie’s name. “That’s nonsense!” he snapped as he skimmed the first page of the credit card statement. “As of last Monday, I’ve repaid Carrie in full—and look at this! Most of these withdrawals were made in the past week, long after I left Lancaster County—”

  “You still have her card number and her PIN,” Mendenhall pointed out, sneering in Marcus’s face. “Carrie believes the only way to stop you is to take you to court—”

  “Wait just a minute,” Wyatt interrupted, placing his hands on both men’s shoulders. “This is escalating beyond reason. Marcus did indeed repay Ms. Hoskins. He has the checkbook register and bank statements to prove it.”

  “Yeah, they’re back at my apartment,” Marcus put in. He inhaled deeply to settle himself, regretting that he’d allowed Mendenhall’s accusations to upset him. Even with the office door closed, he sensed the folks at the checkout counter—including Rosalyn and her dat—were hanging on every word the investigator was saying as they watched through the glass.

  “That’s nonsense!” Mendenhall mocked him. “If you’ve repaid Ms. Hoskins, why would she have advanced my fee on Monday morning—for another two weeks? She’s not letting up until she sees you in court, Hooley.”

  The question jarred him. Marcus thought back to his rocky relationship with Carrie—kicked himself for getting sucked in by her looks and sweet talk, and for staying in the relationship after he’d realized her habits had taken control of her life. “Carrie kicked me out in a fury,” he muttered, “because her recreational drug use was getting way out of hand. I paid her off as fast as I could so I could put her behind me. Her habit—and the friends that came with it—were starting to scare me.”

  Rebecca’s eyebrows rose. “Why do I have a feeling she received your money, blew it on drugs, and then decided maybe you were good for more money?”

  Wyatt cleared his throat, eyeing Mendenhall. “We might be able to say the same thing for you, considering how long you’ve been on Marcus’s trail without closing in on him,” he pointed out. “It’s not as though he’s been hard to find. I can vouch for him working with my horses every day since he’s arrived in Willow Ridge. May I see that transaction record, please?”

  As Marcus handed the pages to Wyatt, the investigator bristled. “That’s all conjecture!” he blurted. “You have no proof, whereas I have the log of my hours to—”

  “And you have no proof that Marcus made these withdrawals,” Wyatt countered, tapping the pages with his finger. “The money was taken from ATM machines in various places in Pennsylvania—while Marcus has been in Missouri—so the person using the ATM would’ve had the card in her hand. Ms. Hoskins has sent you on a wild-goose chase, Mendenhall—”

  “I can’t even believe you took her case,” Rebecca put in as she, too, perused the transaction record. “Maybe Carrie—and you—figured that because Marcus grew up Amish, he wouldn’t know about ATM records and he’d fall for this flimsy setup. For all we know, Carrie herself—or a new boyfriend—took this money out of her account,” she added in a disgusted tone. “These papers don’t prove anything.”

  “Maybe we should have Sheriff Banks take a look at these papers—and call the bank that issued the card,” Wyatt continued, glaring tersely at Mendenhall. “While we’re there, we’ll have him run a check on you, as well, Mr. Mendenhall. The more I hear, the more I wonder if you’ve printed out a bogus investigator’s license on your computer.”

  Mendenhall got very quiet.

  Marcus let out a disgusted sigh. “So what’s your real story? Have you actually met Carrie Hoskins?”

  The investigator shoved his glasses into place as he considered his reply. “I spoke with her on the phone, and she emailed me these account documents,” he admitted under his breath. “She was quick to cover my fee with a PayPal deposit. Considering how hard it is to get some clients to pay me, I didn’t ask many questions.”

  “So you have no idea how erratic her behavior is—how she talks in circles and changes her mind from one minute to the next,” Marcus said. “You just followed the money and took her at her word.”

  Mendenhall shrugged. “Most people who hire investigators for jobs like this one are a little out of balance, and they don’t usually tell the whole truth,” he admitted with a sad laugh. “I went with the evidence she gave me.”

  “Well, when you’re in contact with her again, you can tell her I didn’t fall for it, and I’m not paying her another cent,” Marcus stated. “Carrie was fascinated with me because I grew up Amish, and yeah, maybe that’s why I didn’t figure out her personality quirks and her habits sooner—I was naïve. But I’ve repaid her. I’m done. Got it?”

  Mendenhall fastened the clasp on his worn briefcase. “Fine by me,” he murmured. “I’ll leave you folks alone now.”

  As the investigator preceded them out of Nora’s office, Marcus felt exonerated—ready to announce to the customers milling around in the store that he’d met his responsibility honorably. But the expression on Rosalyn’s face broke his heart. She was standing a short distance from the cash register, her head bowed and her hands clasped tightly in front of her, as Nora spoke to Cornelius in a low, urgent voice.

  “What you assumed about Marcus and your daughter meeting here is absolutely untrue,” she insisted to Rosalyn’s burly, bearded father. “Marcus came in with Wyatt not two minutes before you showed up—”

  “Ah, and here he is now,” Cornelius said as he glared at Marcus. “A bad apple, rotten to the core. I’ll not have him dragging my Rosalyn’s reputation any further through the mud.”

  At these words, Wyatt stopped to address Cornelius. “We’ve cleared Marcus of the wrongdoing of which he was accused, Mr. Riehl,” he said, loudly enough that the nearby customers could hear him.

  “The way I hear it,” Rebecca murmured as she stood beside Wyatt, “you have no room to be pointing a finger at anyone concerning fiscal integrity.”

  Although Marcus appreciated her support, he wished Rebecca hadn’t made such a remark. Cornelius’s face reddened as he brusquely took hold of Rosalyn’s arm. “You English!” he muttered, looking askance at Wyatt before glaring at Nora, Rebecca, and Marcus. “And you who have forsaken the Old Order, constantly flaunting your lack of faith and respect, and now undermining my parental authority! Get your coat, Rosalyn. We’re going home.”

  Blinking rapidly, Rosalyn headed to the storeroom. Marcus knew better than to follow her or say anything, but his heart ached for her as she emerged a few minutes later wearing her black coat with her black bonnet tied tightly beneath her quivering chin.

  She might as well be dressed for her own funeral.

  The thought startled Marcus, because he’d grown up among Am
ish women and men who often wore black—the color that signified respect for God and the communal conformity that allowed no one to appear different or special. “I’m sorry, Roz,” he whispered as she passed a few feet in front of him.

  She gave no sign that she heard him. He hadn’t really expected her to.

  When the Riehls had gone, Marcus sighed. “I wish that had turned out differently,” he murmured. “Maybe if I hadn’t taken her out on Saturday—or if I’d paid closer attention to the weather report—”

  Nora shook her head sadly. “Cornelius was intent on his own mission today, no matter what you had or hadn’t done, Marcus,” she said. “I’m really sorry to lose Rosalyn—and Loretta, too, no doubt—during the busiest season in my store. But we knew their father might make a scene, considering he’d forbidden them to work here in the first place.”

  The three ladies closest to the cash register appeared confused. “I’ve chatted with both of those girls when I’ve shopped here, and they’re delightful young women,” one of them said.

  “You have a lovely store that supports Plain crafters, Nora,” another of the ladies chimed in. “Why could that man possibly object to his daughters working here?”

  Nora turned to them with a resigned sigh. “The way Cornelius sees it, I’ve corrupted his daughters by exposing them to the worldliness of the English,” she explained. “He believes I’ve encouraged them to be disobedient and disrespectful.”

  “Old Order women live in a tightly confined world. I could never pour myself into that mold again,” Rebecca said softly.

  “Neither could I,” Nora agreed. She smoothed the bright red apron she wore over a dress made of red and green paisley fabric, reclaiming her smile as she stepped over to the cash register. “Thanks for your patience, ladies, while we dealt with a couple of local dramas. I’ll ring up whoever’s next.”

  One of the ladies in line held up a colorful wreath Rosalyn had made from ribbon candy. “Does this mean we won’t have any more wreaths to choose from? I think I got the last one—and I’d like another one to give as a gift.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Nora replied ruefully. “I don’t want to get Rosalyn in hotter water with her dad by asking if she’ll make her wreaths at home.”

  Marcus agreed. Nodding at Wyatt and Rebecca, he left the Simple Gifts store in time to see the Riehls’ black buggy turning onto the road that ran past their house. He stood in the cold air to follow its progress, wishing he knew how to apologize to Rosalyn. Even if he joined the Old Order Amish church, Cornelius would never feel he was good enough to associate with his eldest daughter.

  It was startling, to think about changing his life in order to meet with someone else’s approval. It’s even scarier that you considered, for the briefest moment, taking your vows. Do you realize what that means? What you’d be giving up?

  Marcus buttoned his leather jacket and started off across the parking lot, headed for his lonely apartment.

  The scariest thing of all is that Rosalyn’s being held hostage by a father who’s up to his eyeballs in something a lot more serious than I’ve ever tried. I wish I could figure out exactly what he’s involved in . . . or catch him at it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Early on the following Monday morning, Rosalyn opened the door to go tend the chickens and discovered several inches of fresh snow—and it showed no signs of stopping. It was an hour before sunrise. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the shapes of the barn, the chicken house, and the snow-capped fence, all of them a shadowy gray behind a curtain of falling snow.

  “We’d better shovel a path as we go, or we’ll get snow inside our boots,” she told Loretta. “My word, look at it!”

  Her sister gasped as she poked her head out the doorway. “It’s like the song—like a winter wonderland!” she said. “But jah, we’re asking for cold, wet feet if we tromp out to the chicken house without pushing the shovels ahead of us.”

  Once they’d put on their work coats and bonnets, each of them grabbed one of the lightweight plastic shovels they’d been keeping by the mudroom door. The snow was light and feathery, so they made a race of it to see who got to the chicken house first.

  “I’m still the fastest!” Loretta crowed when she reached the door a few steps ahead of Rosalyn.

  “But my shovel’s bigger, so I was scooping a wider path,” Rosalyn pointed out. She dipped her shovel blade into the snow and playfully tossed some onto her sister, who returned the favor. By the time they stepped inside, they were laughing loudly. As Loretta lit the lantern, Rosalyn closed the door to keep the snow from blowing inside.

  “It feels gut to laugh again,” she remarked as she caught her breath.

  “Jah, the past few days have been rough,” Loretta said. “Thursday, when I would’ve been working for Nora, the time passed so slowly I thought the kitchen clock’s battery was dead. At least Dat has stopped yammering at us.”

  “His silence—and all the time he’s been spending downstairs—don’t feel right, though.” Rosalyn’s eyes had adjusted to the unlit corners of the chicken house, beyond the lantern light. It was a comfort to see the hens settled in the wooden roosts built along the walls, and to hear the muted rustling of their feathers as they shifted on their nests. At least out here, life seemed normal. “I’m glad Dat accepted it when Preacher Ben said that you and I didn’t need to confess at church yesterday.”

  “That was a blessing,” Loretta agreed. “Did you notice that once Ben had pardoned us for defying Dat’s orders by working at Simple Gifts, he seemed mighty interested in how things were going at home?”

  Rosalyn nodded as she scooped cracked corn into a bucket. “It was nice of him to say that Marcus has matured a lot, too—and to point out that my date with him didn’t go against the Ordnung just because he hasn’t joined the church yet.”

  Loretta hung the lantern on a big nail that stuck out from a center support pole. She joined Rosalyn with the bucket she’d filled with water, and together they went to the feeding and watering station in the nearest corner. A few of the hens hopped from their roosts to approach the fresh feed in the metal trough, pecking at the floor for stray grains along the way. The daily chicken ritual soothed Rosalyn even as her poignant thoughts dampened her mood.

  “Even though we only went out the one time, I—I miss Marcus,” she admitted softly. “I knew how it would turn out before I even got into the sleigh—how angry Dat would be, no matter what time we got home. But I’m not sorry I went,” she insisted in a bolder tone. “I had a wonderful evening, and I’ll cherish the memory of it.”

  “Don’t write him off just yet,” Loretta said sympathetically. She poured water into the galvanized metal dispenser, careful not to let it overflow. “He’s been coming to church—”

  “Dat will never accept Marcus, even if he gets baptized,” Rosalyn said ruefully.

  “Puh! Did Dat accept Drew?” Loretta challenged. “Did that stop us from courting and marrying? And moving in to live under the same roof with him?”

  “I’m glad you did that, too,” Rosalyn murmured. “I realize Dat won’t really like any man I would choose, but he has such a chip on his shoulder when it comes to Marcus. I’m not sure I could endure his daily confrontations the way you and Drew do.”

  Loretta slung an arm around Rosalyn’s shoulders. They stood together, giving and accepting comfort in a way that was difficult when they were in the house, where Dat would probably accuse them of scheming. “It’ll all work out, sister,” Loretta said. “Marcus will find a way to break through the barrier Dat’s put up.”

  With a catlike smile, Loretta went to fill the watering container in the opposite corner. “Drew says that once Dat’s big secret gets out, he and I will be building a house—and you can come live with us, Rosalyn.”

  Rosalyn’s eyes widened. This was the first she’d heard that the newlyweds were definitely planning a new home. “I wish we could settle this whole mysterious mess Dat’s created,” she s
aid, pouring the last of the chicken feed into the feeder. “I’m tired of living under such a cloud. Why do we have to be the last to know what’s going on with our own dat?”

  When they’d put away their buckets, they gathered the eggs and returned to the house to start breakfast. Soon the salty-sweet aromas of bacon and pancakes filled the air, mingling with the scent of coffee that had percolated on the stove. Although it was a more pleasant meal because Dat wasn’t saying much, Rosalyn felt uneasy about his silence.

  Drew was talking about the weather and how the snowfall would affect his day. “Before we start work at the shop, Asa and I will hitch up the horses and plow,” he said as he drizzled syrup over his second stack of pancakes. “I suspect the county snowplow has driven past our intersection, so we’ll have quite a pile of snow to remove before anyone on our road can get into town.”

  “Smart folks will be staying at home,” Dat remarked gruffly.

  Rosalyn fetched the plateful of fresh pancakes Loretta had made. “Eat your breakfast, sister, while I start cleaning up,” she said. “With Christmas just a week from today, it seems like a gut morning to bake some cookies, don’t you think?”

  “Something chocolate!” Drew called out. “And sugar cookies with lots of frosting. Lena Witmer’s decorated cookies are cute, but Asa and I have always preferred our cut-out cookies totally covered with frosting. Just sayin’.”

  Loretta laughed. “You think you have an inside track to the cookie baker, jah?” she teased as she sat down to eat. “How about you, Dat? What’s your favorite Christmas cookie?”

  Rosalyn turned from running dishwater into the sink to hear his answer. She’d been watching him eat cookies all her life, yet she couldn’t recall him ever stating a preference.

  Dat’s face fell. “Any cookie your mother made,” he replied morosely. “I told you we’re having a simple Christmas this year. Don’t go overboard with the baking—and don’t think you’ll get me to be more cheerful.”

  As he went to the stove to pour more coffee into his mug, Rosalyn blinked back tears. Why did their father jump at every opportunity to ruin a conversation with his grief?