A Mother's Gift

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Not to mention another surprise we think you’ll find useful,” Mama chimed in from a couple rows in front of Leah. “But instead of talking about it, let’s go out on the porch and take a look!”

  “Jah, and we’ll get out of the men’s way while they handle the meal setup,” Naomi put in with a laugh.

  “Now wait just a minute.” The district’s deacon, Saul Hartzler, stood up with a scowl on his swarthy face, silencing the excited crowd. “This being Sunday, you women aren’t to be doing such work as sewing—especially with a sewing machine.”

  “Ah, but this is a frolic,” Margaret countered quickly. “And my son the bishop gave me permission to organize this hen party, considering the circumstances Leah and Jude face now that Betsy’s come back without any clothes or diapers.”

  Martha Maude Hartzler rose to address her son as well. “This is no different from you men giving feed and water to the livestock on Sunday,” she pointed out. “Animals have to eat on the Sabbath, and babies have to dirty their diapers no matter what day of the week it is.”

  Laughter filled the room. As Leah situated Betsy in her basket, the women all began chattering excitedly as they headed outside. Leah welcomed the breeze as she stepped onto the porch, where Mama and Margaret were already standing with bright smiles lighting their faces. With a flourish they lifted a sheet that had been draped over some large, lumpy items that must’ve been positioned and covered after Leah had entered the house.

  “A new washing machine!” she gasped as her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Jah, with two wee ones in diapers, you’ll be doing a lot of laundry,” Mama explained. She was smiling as though she were the one receiving the gifts, probably because she and Margaret had so quickly organized this surprise party without Leah knowing about it.

  So much for Mama going to Cedar Creek yesterday for her clothes and such, Leah thought. She really went to the mercantile—maybe with Margaret and some of these other ladies.

  “We got lots of baby bottles, too, and a new pot for warming them on the stove,” Delores Floud said, pointing at the box of items on the floor.

  “And diaper pins and ointment and wipes—”

  “And a new bassinet—”

  “And the pillow and sheets to go with it—”

  “And little stuffed toys—”

  “And sippy cups and baby bowls—”

  “Oh, my word,” Leah said as she tried to keep up with the ladies’ rapid-fire responses. She set Betsy’s basket on the porch floor and approached the huge assortment of gifts these women—truly her friends now rather than just curious neighbors—had accumulated for her on very short notice. “I—I don’t know how I can possibly thank you all for helping us yet again.”

  “It’s what friends do, Leah,” Anne Hartzler said gently. “Where would any of us be without other hens to cluck with when we need them?”

  Leah smiled, unable to argue with that statement. The door banged behind them, and Stevie quickly made his way through the gathered women to stand beside her.

  “Wow-ee!” he blurted out as he gawked at the items arranged on the porch. “It’s even better than Christmas! We got stuff for Betsy—and we’ll be ready for the new baby, too! But don’t go sewin’ a lot of pink stuff, coz it’s gonna be a boy. I just know it.”

  The women laughed, and when one of them held the door open, the men began carrying long tables outside. Jude caught Leah’s eye and came up beside her with two folding chairs in each hand. When he saw the assortment of gifts, he nodded.

  “You ladies outdid yourselves—and I’m grateful for all your help on such short notice,” he said. “If anybody deserves a party, it’s Leah.”

  “Hear, hear!” Margaret said. “Any woman who can steer my granddaughters back onto the straight and narrow while taking on another girl’s child—twice—gets my vote.”

  Leah gaped. Was this her mother-in-law, the same Margaret Shetler who’d made a cruel joke at the wedding about her inability to cook?

  “Jah, Leah doesn’t just sit around making tiny stitches in a quilt,” Naomi put in with a nod. “She’s out there doing things for people, and getting involved. I had my doubts about her ever getting along with Alice and Adeline, but I’m a believer now.”

  “My life—my family—would be a hopeless mess if Leah hadn’t married me.” Jude gazed at her with a wistful sigh. “Happy first Mother’s Day, Leah. All these things piled on the porch are nothing compared to the gift of love you give me every day.”

  Leah was speechless. She saw envy on the faces of other wives, while the twins and their friends were aglow with romantic wistfulness. Had there ever been another husband as attentive and expressive as Jude? Even Esther and Naomi were nodding their approval of his admission.

  Another table came through the door, with Jeremiah carrying one end of it. He looked toward Leah and Jude with a warm smile. “I have a confession,” he said to all the friends gathered on his big porch. “I was wrong—and I’m glad.”

  Folks glanced at one another with questioning expressions, waiting for the bishop to explain his odd admission. Jeremiah set down his end of the table so he could slip his arms around Jude and Leah.

  “Remember that tough talk I was giving you the night before you married this woman, little brother?” Jeremiah asked. “I believed you were rushing into marriage with Leah, and I couldn’t see any way for her to fit into your family. I stand corrected.”

  Leah felt her cheeks heating up as the friends around her nodded.

  “You weren’t the only one, son,” Margaret chimed in. “I thought Jude was making the biggest mistake of his life because Leah bore no resemblance to our idea of what a wife should be like. Nobody’s happier than I am that Leah has proved us wrong.”

  Jude began chuckling, and he elbowed his brother. “Jah, I recall your lecture the night before our wedding,” he teased Jeremiah, “and I said that someday we’d look back on it and laugh, because Leah and I would be deliriously happy. Am I a prophet, or what?”

  Leah chuckled, because she was deliriously happy. “Mama gave me the same sort of talk before we married, Jude—with the best of intentions,” she added, smiling at her mother. “Considering all we’ve come through since that wedding on December first, I can only believe that God has made our life together—our happiness—possible. Without His blessing, we wouldn’t be standing here sharing our joy with all these friends, looking forward to more happiness ahead. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”

  Jude’s smile made Leah feel like the most beautiful woman on earth. “That’s your story, and I wouldn’t change a word of it,” he murmured. “I’m just grateful that you’ve written me into it, sweet Leah.”

  More heartwarming Amish romance from Charlotte Hubbard, available now!

  A Mother’s Love

  Faith, tenderness, security—there’s nothing a mother won’t give. Now beloved author Charlotte Hubbard brings you an unforgettable tale of hope, courage, discovery . . . and the most precious gift of all.

  For widow Rose Raber, it’s been a year of tragic loss and difficult decisions. She thought providing for her young daughter was the greatest challenge she faced. Until her dying mother revealed that Rose was adopted—and her birth mother is someone with much to lose if the secret comes out. As Rose struggles to reconcile the truth with her faith—and her troubling curiosity—outgoing newcomer Matthias Wagler is another surprise she didn’t expect. His optimism and easy understanding inspires her. And his prospective partnership with wealthy deacon Saul Hartzler promises a possible new life for them—together. But with this second chance comes yet another revelation for all involved.

  When Saul’s wife unexpectedly turns up at Rose’s new job, their bond as mother and daughter is instant and unmistakable. And it isn’t long before an unforgiving Saul discovers the truth, threatening Matthias’s livelihood and Rose’s future. Now with more than just their happiness at stake, Rose and Matthias must find the strength and courage to s
tand strong—and trust God’s enduring miracles of motherhood, forgiveness, and love.

  “An Amish love story with an added twist! This story has secrets, romance, mystery, and memorable characters. The storyline is well-written, and the twist makes it all even more believable. Hubbard writes from her heart, and her light shines in all her novels.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars

  “[An] endearing romance . . . By making a space for determined women inside the Amish community and providing a satisfying conclusion to various familial hurts, Hubbard provides readers with a comforting tale of love and forgiveness.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Chapter 1

  Rose Raber looked away so Mamma wouldn’t see the tears filling her eyes. As she sat beside her mother’s bed, Rose prayed as she had every night for the past week. Please, Lord, don’t take her away from me. . . . I believe You can heal my mother’s cancer—work a miracle for us—if You will.

  Tonight felt different, though. Mamma was dozing off more, and her mind was wandering. Rose had a feeling that Mamma might drift off at any moment and not come back.

  “Was church today?” Mamma murmured. “I don’t . . . recall that you and Gracie . . . went—”

  “We stayed here with you, Mamma,” Rose reminded her gently. “I didn’t want to leave you by yourself.”

  Her mother sighed. As she reached for Rose’s hand, Rose grasped it as though it could be a way to keep Mamma here—to keep her alive. They didn’t speak for so long, it seemed Mamma had drifted off to sleep, but then she opened her eyes wide.

  “Is Gracie tucked in?” Although Mamma’s voice sounded as fragile as dry, rustling leaves, a purpose lurked behind the question.

  “Jah, she is, but I’ll go check on her,” Rose replied, eager for the chance to leave the room and pull herself together. “All that fresh air from planting some of the garden today should make her sleep soundly.”

  “Gracie was . . . excited about doing that. She asked me . . . how long it would be before the lettuce . . . peas, and radishes shot up.” Mamma chuckled fondly, remembering. Then she gazed at Rose, with her eyes fiercely bright in a face framed by the gray kerchief that covered her hairless head. “When you come back, dear, there’s something we . . . must discuss.”

  Rose carefully squeezed Mamma’s bony hand and strode from the bedroom. Out in the hallway, she leaned against the wall, blotting her face with her apron. Her five-year-old daughter was extremely perceptive. Gracie already sensed her mammi was very, very ill, and if she saw how upset Rose had become, there would be no end of painful questions—and Gracie wouldn’t get back to sleep.

  The three of them had endured a heart-wrenching autumn and winter after a fire had ravaged Dat’s sawmill, claiming Rose’s father, Myron Fry, and her husband, Nathan Raber, as well. The stress of losing Dat had apparently left Mamma susceptible, because that’s when the cancer had returned with a vengeance, after almost thirty years of remission. The first time around, when Mamma was young, she’d survived breast cancer, but this time the disease had stricken her lungs—even though she’d never smoked.

  With the family business gone, Rose and Gracie had moved into Mamma’s house last September. Rose had sold her and Nathan’s little farm so they would have some money to live on—and to pay Mamma’s mounting bills for the chemo and radiation, which had kept her cancer manageable. Until now. Rose had a feeling that this date, April third, would be forever emblazoned on her heart, her soul.

  Little Gracie has lost so many who loved her, Rose thought, sending the words up as another prayer. She composed herself, took a deep breath, and then climbed the stairs barefoot. She peeked into the small bedroom at the end of the hall.

  The sound of steady breathing drew Rose to her daughter’s bedside. In the moonlight, Gracie appeared carefree—breathtakingly sweet as she slept. Such a gift from God this daughter was, a balm to Rose’s soul and to her mother’s as well. For whatever reason, God had granted Rose and Nathan only this single rosebud of a child, so they had cherished her deeply. Rose resisted the temptation to stroke her wee girl’s cheek, feasting her eyes on Gracie’s perfection instead. She’d seen some religious paintings of plump-cheeked cherubim, but her daughter’s innocent beauty outshone the radiance of those curly-haired angels.

  Rose quietly left Gracie’s room. Standing in her daughter’s presence had strengthened her, and she felt more ready to face whatever issue Mamma wanted to discuss. Rose knew of many folks whose parents had passed before they’d had a chance to speak their piece, so she told herself to listen carefully, gratefully, to whatever wisdom Mamma might want to share with her. Instinct was telling her Mamma only had another day or so.

  Pausing at the door of the downstairs bedroom, where Mamma was staying now because she could no longer climb the stairs, Rose sighed. Mamma’s face and arms were so withered and pale. It was a blessing that her pain relievers kept her fairly comfortable. When Mamma realized Rose had returned, she beckoned with her hand. “Let’s talk about this before I lose my nerve,” she murmured. “There’s a stationery box . . . in my bottom dresser drawer. The letters inside it . . . will explain everything.”

  Rose’s pulse lurched. In all her life, she’d never known Mamma to keep secrets—but the shadows beneath Mamma’s eyes and the fading of her voice warned Rose that this was no time to demand an explanation. Rose sat down in the chair beside the bed again, leaning closer to catch Mamma’s every faint word.

  “I hope you’ll understand . . . what I’ve done,” Mamma mumbled. “I probably should have told you long ago, but . . . there just never seemed to be a right time—and I made promises—your dat believed we should let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Rose’s heart was beating so hard she wondered if Mamma could hear it. “Mamma, what do you mean? What are you trying to—”

  Mamma suddenly gripped Rose’s hands and struggled, as though she wanted to sit up but couldn’t. “Do not look for her, Rose. I—I promised her you wouldn’t.”

  Rose swallowed hard. Her mother appeared to be sinking in on herself now, drifting in and out of rational thought. “Who, Mamma?” Rose whispered urgently. “Who are you talking about?”

  Mamma focused on Rose for one last, lingering moment and then her body went limp. “I’m so tired,” she rasped. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Rose bowed her head, praying that they would indeed have another day together. She tucked the sheet and light quilt around Mamma’s frail shoulders. It was all she could do. “Gut night, Mamma,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  She listened for a reply, but Mamma was already asleep.

  Rose was tempted to go to Mamma’s dresser and find the mysterious box she’d mentioned, but desperation overrode her curiosity. She couldn’t leave her mother’s bedside. For several endless minutes, Rose kept track of her mother’s breathing, which was growing slower and shallower now, as the doctor had said it would. He had recommended that Mamma stay in the hospital because her lungs were filling with fluid, but Mamma had wanted no part of that. She’d insisted on passing peacefully in her own home.

  But please don’t go yet, Mamma, Rose pleaded as she gently eased her hands from her mother’s. Stay with me tonight. Just one more night.

  Exhausted from sitting with Mamma for most of the past few days and nights, Rose folded her arms on the edge of the bed and rested her head on them. If Mamma stirred at all, Rose would know—could see to whatever she needed.

  In the wee hours, Rose awakened with a jolt from a disturbing dream about two women—one of them was Mamma, as she’d looked years ago, and the other one was a younger woman Rose didn’t recognize. They were walking away from her, arm in arm, as though they had no idea she could see them—and didn’t care. Rose called and called, but neither woman turned around—

  “Oh, Mamma,” Rose whispered when she realized she’d been dreaming. Her heart was thumping wildly and she felt exhausted after sleeping in the armchair beside her mother’s bed. She lit the oil la
mp on the nightstand. “Mamma? Are you awake?”

  Her mother’s eyes were open, staring straight ahead toward the door, but they didn’t blink when Rose gripped her bony shoulder. Mamma’s breathing was so much slower than it had been yesterday, and in the stillness of the dim room, the rasping sound of each breath was magnified by Rose’s desperation.

  Rose stared at her mother for a few more of those labored breaths, trying again to rouse her. Mamma’s expression was devoid of emotion or pain. She was unresponsive—as the doctor had warned might happen—and Rose curled in on herself to cry for a few minutes. Then she slipped out to the phone shanty at the road.

  “Bishop Vernon, it’s Rose Raber,” she said after his answering machine had prompted her. “If you could come—well, Mamma’s about gone and I . . . I don’t know what to do. Denki so much.”

  Rose returned to the house with a million worries running through her mind. Soon Gracie would be awake and wanting her breakfast and—how would Rose explain that her mammi couldn’t talk to her anymore, didn’t see her anymore? How could she manage a frantic, frightened five-year-old who would need her constant reassurances for a while, and at the same time deal with her own feelings of grief and confusion? All the frightened moments Rose had known this past week, when she’d thought Mamma was already gone, were merely rehearsals, it seemed.

  “Oh, Nathan, if only you were here,” Rose whispered as she walked through the unlit front room. “You always knew what to do. Always had a clear head and a keen sense of what came next.”

  Rose paused in the doorway of the room where Mamma lay. Her breathing was still loud and slow, and the breaths seemed to be coming farther apart. Rose hoped it was a comfort to Mamma to die as she’d wanted—even though it was nerve-racking to Rose. There had been no waiting, no doubts, the day she and Mamma had returned from shopping in Morning Star to discover that the sawmill had caught fire from a saw’s sparks. The mill, quite a distance from any neighbor, had burned to the ground with her father and husband trapped beneath a beam that had fallen on them. Their men’s deaths had been sudden and harsh, but quick. No lingering, no wondering if she could be doing some little thing to bring final comfort.