by Amy Clipston
5. Which character can you identify with the most? Which character seemed to carry the most emotional stake in the story? Was it Mia or Chace?
6. Mia and Chace were down on their luck when they moved into the daadihaus on the Allgyers’ farm. Think of a time when you felt lost and alone. Where did you find your strength? What Bible verses would help with this?
7. What do you think inspired Dr. Simpson to help Mia and Kaitlyn? Have you ever helped someone in need? If so, how did you feel after you helped that person?
8. By the end of the story, both Chace and Mia found solace through prayer and they decided to find a church to attend. Think of a time when you found strength through prayer. Share this with the group.
9. What did you know about the Amish before reading this book? What did you learn?
A CHRISTMAS VISITOR
KELLY IRVIN
To my husband, Tim. I consider every day with you in my life a gift from God. Love always.
GLOSSARY OF PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH WORDS USED IN BEE COUNTY, TEXAS
aenti—aunt
Ausbund—hymnal
boplin—baby
bruder—brother
daed—dad
danki—thank you
Deutsch—Pennsylvania Dutch
dochder—daughter
Englisch—English
Englischer—a non-Amish person
fraa—wife
galluses—suspenders
Gelassenheit—yielding to God’s will and forsaking selfishness
Gott—God
groossmammi—grandmother
jah—yes
kaffi—coffee
kapp—white head covering
kinner—children
mann—man
mudder—mother
nee—no
onkel—uncle
Ordnung—the written and unwritten rules that guide the Amish way of life
rumspringa—the running-around period
schtinkich—stink
CHAPTER 1
They meant well. All of them. Frannie Mast ladled another spoonful of steaming okra gumbo into her bowl. The spicy aroma tickling her nose did nothing to calm the willies in her stomach. She couldn’t help herself, her gaze wandered down the crowded table past Aenti Abigail and her self-satisfied smile to Joseph Glick sitting on the other side with Caleb and her cousins. A giggle burbled in her throat. Stop it. Be kind. Did Joseph know he had a smear of butter on his upper lip? Did he know her aunt and uncle were doing a little matchmaking? Not that they would admit it. Plain boys and girls were to find their own mates during their rumspringas with no interference from their elders.
Apparently her situation had been deemed an exception to the rule.
Joseph flashed Frannie a smile. A chunk of venison had found a home in a gap between his lower front teeth. She suppressed a sigh and forced a smile. None of this could be construed as his fault. She remembered Joseph from school. He had been a so-so student, but a good softball player and a hard worker. He was easy to look at, with toast-colored hair, green eyes, and tanned skin. He was also the third single man Aenti Abigail and Onkel Mordecai had invited to supper since her return to Bee County, Texas, three weeks earlier.
It seemed more like two years had passed since her arrival in her childhood community after three years in Missouri.
They meant well, but what were they thinking? Joseph was Leroy Glick’s son. Leroy, the bishop. Did they think Joseph would keep an eye on her, too, and report back to his father and to Mordecai, the district’s deacon? Would he keep her from going astray?
She wouldn’t do that. If they’d give her half a chance, she’d show them.
A fierce burning sensation assailed Frannie’s fingers. She glanced down. Gumbo dripped on her hand. The burning blush scurrying across her face had nothing to do with the soup’s heat. She dropped the ladle and grabbed her napkin, attempting to wipe the hot liquid from her fingers.
“Ouch!” She stood. Her pine chair rocked on spindly legs, then tumbled back. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Child, you’re always spilling something.” Aenti Abigail’s fierce blue eyes matched the frown lurking below her high cheekbones and long, thin nose. “Get it cleaned up.”
“It’s fine. No harm done.” Deborah King leaned over and wiped up the soup with her own napkin. Something in her tone reminded Frannie of the way her favorite cousin talked to her two-year-old son, Timothy. “Stick it in some water.”
“Rub some butter on it. It stops the sting and helps it heal.” Joseph held out the saucer with the puddle of half-melted butter that remained, still unaware it seemed of the smear on his own lip. He grinned. The venison hadn’t dislodged from his teeth. “That’s what my groossmammi used to say.”
“Old wives’ tale.” Onkel Mordecai shook his head. His shaggy black beard, streaked with silver, bobbed. Mordecai mostly knew everything. “Water is best since we have no ice. Go on to the kitchen then.”
Relief washed over Frannie. Escape. She whirled, stumbled over a chair leg, righted herself, and rushed into the kitchen. A tub of water sat on the counter in anticipation of the dirty dishes. She shoved her hand into it, barely aware of the stinging skin on her fingers. Gumbo stained her apron. Tomato juice from the canning frolic earlier in the day provided background color. Without looking, she knew sweat stains adorned the neck of her gray dress, like jewelry she would never wear. She was a mess as usual.
Why did Aenti Abigail insist on having gumbo in this weather? Something about soup cooling a person off because it caused him to sweat. This had to be an Onkel Mordecai theory. He had tons of them, each stranger or funnier or more interesting than the last. At least life with him would not be boring. Which was good, because Frannie likely would spend the rest of her life in his house if she behaved like that in front of every man in the district. She wanted to marry and have babies like her cousins and her friends. Like every Plain woman.
Why did that seem so hard for her?
She swished both hands in the lukewarm water and stared out the window at the brown grass, wiry mesquite, live oak trees, and a huge cluster of nopals. No breeze flapped the frayed white curtains. September weather in Bee County hadn’t changed, just as nothing else had. No one who grew up here minded hot weather. They embraced it. Still, Frannie would savor her memories of evenings in Missouri this time of year. The air steamed with heat and humidity, but huge elm, oak, hickory, and red mulberry trees populated the countryside. A breeze often kicked up the leaves in the evening hours, making it a perfect time to sit in the lawn chairs and watch the sun dip below the horizon.
Nee, she wouldn’t think of that. Thinking of those long summer nights made her think of him.
Rocky.
She swallowed hard against tears that surprised her. Rocky was only a friend. He couldn’t be any more than that. Not for a faithful Plain woman such as herself. She understood what that meant even if her parents didn’t trust her to make the right choices.
Gott, help me be good.
“Frannie, come out here.”
Clear notes of disapproval danced with surprise in Onkel Mordecai’s gruff voice. What had she done now? Drying her hands on a dish towel, Frannie trudged from the kitchen to the front room where her family sat, scrunched together like peas in long pods at two rough-hewn pine tables shoved together. No one looked at her when she entered the room. They all sat, not moving, staring toward the door as if mesmerized by a hideous rattlesnake coiled and ready to strike a venomous blow.
She plowed to a stop.
Nee. It couldn’t be.
CHAPTER 2
Frannie managed to clamp her mouth shut without biting her tongue. All six foot two, two hundred pounds of muscle known as Richard “Rocky” Sanders towered in the doorway. He waved his St. Louis Cardinals ball cap at her with a hand the size of a feed bucket. Acutely aware of the gazes of a dozen pairs of eyes drilling her in the back, Frannie waved a tiny half wave. Her burned fingers complained.
&
nbsp; Rocky cleared his throat and shuffled work boots in the size-fourteen range. “Hey, Frannie.”
“Hey.” Her voice came out in an unfamiliar squeak that reminded her of the stray cat out by the shed when she fed him table scraps and accidentally stepped on his tail. A drop of sweat ran down her nose and dripped onto her upper lip. She fought the urge to scratch the spot. “Rocky.”
No one spoke for several long seconds. Rocky shifted his feet again. His dark brown almost black curls hung damp around his ears. His blue eyes, so like the color of Missouri sky in summer, implored her. She took another step forward.
“Introduce your guest, Frannie.” Onkel Mordecai’s disapproval had been displaced by the politeness they all were taught from childhood to show guests. “Invite him in.”
“This here’s Rocky Sanders from Jamesport. I . . . knew him up yonder.” Frannie couldn’t help herself. She glanced at Joseph. He studied his bowl as if gumbo were the most interesting food he’d ever tasted. “He used to come into the restaurant where I was a waitress.”
She kept to herself the longer version, how Rocky began to make an appearance at Callie’s Restaurant and Bakery two or three times a week. How he left big tips on small meals and complimented the food as if she’d cooked it herself. How he showed up at the school fund-raiser on July Fourth and spent too much on a treadle sewing machine he said his mother wanted to use as a “conversation piece” in their living room. Her throat tightened at the memories. Breathe.
Mordecai nodded. “We’re having gumbo if you want to pull up a seat.”
“No, no, I can see you’re having dinner. I don’t want to barge in on you.” Rocky edged toward the door, but his gaze remained on Frannie. “I’m sorry to drop in without letting you know I was coming. Being you don’t have a phone—not that there’s anything wrong with that. No calls from those pesky salespeople at dinnertime. I was . . . in the neighborhood.”
After that preposterous statement, he tugged a red bandanna from the back pocket of his faded blue jeans and swiped the sweat dampening his face. “Begging your pardon, but could I have a quick word with your niece . . . on the porch? I won’t keep her long.”
Frannie’s breathing did that same strange disappearing act it did when she jumped into the cold water at Choke Canyon Lake. She dared to hazard a glance at Aenti Abigail. Her lips were drawn down so far it was a wonder they didn’t fall from her face onto the planks of the wood floor. The blue-green of Onkel Mordecai’s eyes had turned frosty. “Go on, but make it quick. There’s dishes to wash and chores to do.”
Frannie whipped past Rocky, catching the familiar, inviting scent of his woodsy aftershave and Irish Spring soap—what she’d come to think of as Rocky smell—as she opened the screen door and led the way outside. To her relief he followed without another word. On the porch, she drank in the sight of him, now that they had no audience. Same tanned face, same little scar on his chin where he fell from a swing in the second grade, same little twist to his nose where he took a punch in a boxing match. “What are you doing here?”
The words sounded inhospitable. She wanted them back as soon as they fell on the early-evening air. Rocky’s smile faded. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He ducked his head and smoothed the cap in his hands. “Like I told you before, I have a bit of a wanderlust. You talked about this place so much, I figured I’d come see it for myself.”
A wisp of disappointment curled itself around the relief that rolled over her. He simply wanted to travel. He knew her so he stopped by. Like stopping by Bee County in the far reaches of south Texas was an easy feat. Most folks couldn’t find it with a map. “Are you staying long in the area—where are you staying?”
“I just got here.” An emotion Frannie recognized—disappointment—soaked the words. “You want me to leave?”
Nee. Not at all. Stay. Please stay. She swallowed the words before they could spring forward and betray her. “It’s just . . . surprising.”
“My Uncle Richard passed.”
“Oh, Rocky.” With no thought for appearances, Frannie touched his hand. Richard had been the only true father Rocky had ever known. His eyes blazed with sudden emotion as his long fingers turned and wrapped around hers. His strong grip seemed to embrace her. A slow heat warmed her from head to toe. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Heart attack. Sudden. He left me a small nest egg.”
She itched to give this bear of a man the hug he deserved. That he needed. She kept her gaze on their entwined hands. “That was nice of him.”
“He was a nice man. He was a good man.” Rocky’s voice had a sandpaper roughness about it she’d never heard before. “Anyway, he gave me the chance to have a fresh start if I want.”
The last sentence seemed more of a question than a statement. A fresh start. Was Bee County his fresh start? Was Frannie his fresh start?
The screen door slammed. Frannie tugged her hand back, fingers burning worse than when she’d spilled the gumbo. Joseph clomped past them, a painful smile plastered across his face. “Mordecai said to tell you there’s plenty of leftovers if your friend has a hankering.” He tossed the words over his shoulder without looking back. “I’m headed home. Chores won’t wait. I imagine those dishes won’t either.”
“Be safe.” Now what a thing to say. Like Joseph couldn’t take care of himself. Like he hadn’t grown up with the javelinas, the bobcats, the rattlesnakes, and the occasional escapee from the prison outside Beeville. “Bye.”
“You too.” This time Joseph looked back. His gaze skittered from Frannie to Rocky. “You never know where danger lurks.”
CHAPTER 3
Rocky smoothed the folds in the tattered road map. He’d found the King farm once, he could do it again. Even though it had been by sheer beginner’s luck the first time. He would find it and he would take Frannie for a ride, like he’d done in Jamesport. He liked the idea of shining a flashlight in her window. It was sweet, like Frannie. Her uncle might be stern-looking, but he was a pacifist. All the Amish were. Frannie had assured him of that the first time he picked her up for a ride after her parents went to bed that momentous evening six months earlier. The night he’d fallen in love.
Best get to it or she’d be asleep. He studied the map. His scribbles on the margins had been gathered from a convenience-store clerk, a guy at the Dairy Queen, and the librarian in Beeville. Did the Bee County Amish District go out of its way not to be found? Surely not, considering their store, the honey sales, horse training, and saddle-making businesses. They needed outsiders to survive. What Rocky needed was a GPS. He patted the steering wheel as if the old Dodge Ram with a hundred-fifty thousand miles on its odometer had heard the traitorous thought and taken umbrage.
“We made it this far, we’re doing fine,” he muttered. To himself, not the truck. He’d replaced the battery in Oklahoma City and the water pump outside Dallas. Blown a tire in Killeen. What else could go wrong? “We should hold off a day or two anyway, let them get used to the idea.”
Let Frannie get used to the idea. She’d looked as surprised and horrified as her family at his sudden appearance. Her relief had been abundantly clear when he’d taken his leave of the porch shortly after the surly-looking man named Joseph the previous evening. Somehow he’d seen their reunion going differently than that. Her face would light up with that trademark Frannie Mast grin that spread across her face so wide her freckles nearly popped off her nose and cheeks. She’d run to meet him like those cheesy commercials on TV.
They’d kiss.
As if they’d done that before. He respected the line Frannie had drawn, even if he longed for so much more. He’d settle for a handshake at this point.
Frannie wasn’t a beauty by most standards. Rocky’s friends went so far as to call her scrawny when he announced his plans to follow her to Texas. They pointed out he’d never seen her legs, what with the long skirt, or her hair, hidden under that cap, even on the hottest day of the year. He liked her modesty and the thought that she guarded thos
e secrets for the one she would love for the rest of her life. In his eyes, her beauty was unquestionable. The south Texas drawl with the strange German—Deutsch words, as she called them—sprinkled in. From the prayer kapp setting askew on hair the color of carrots to the sea of freckles to the black sneakers she wore everywhere, even to church, she captivated him. Even with tomato stains on her apron and sweat on her dress.
And she had feelings for him. He had no doubt of that. No matter what lines she drew or how she’d acted the evening before. No waiting. Time to put up or shut up. He shoved his hat back on his head, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out from the motel where, in a moment of eternal optimism, he’d plopped down a month’s worth of rent up front. It took a chunk from his nest egg. He’d have to find a job soon or stick to eating ramen noodles like he had during his college days.
Thirty minutes later he saw the SUPPORT BEEVILLE BEES, BUY LOCAL HONEY sign on Tynan Road. Score. Three minutes later, the Combination Store, a long, dirty white building with rusted siding and a tin roof, came into sight with its adjacent junk graveyard of buggy parts and farm equipment. They weren’t much for sprucing up around here.
Close. He was very close. The King farm was a few miles from here. The sun had begun its descent in the western sky. That would make it harder to find the turnoff. Maybe someone at the store could point him in the right direction for one last turn.
Likely the store was closed. Still, a wagon with a weary-looking Morgan hitched to it stood near the door alongside a shabby black buggy that sported an orange triangle dangling from the back along with a FOR SALE sign. It couldn’t hurt to try.
Rocky hopped from the truck and strode to the door. To his relief it opened. After a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the dusky interior. Jars of honey, baskets of fresh produce, stacks of straw hats, candles, cookbooks, a quilt, dusty saddles, a couple of handmade rocking chairs, even lip balm made from beeswax. A veritable collection of unrelated stuff. No customers perused the aisles. Nor a salesman.