Gift of Faith

by Shanna Hatfield

  But she’d learned to love the bakery as much as her parents. While her mother was the one who created the baked goods, her father took care of the business side of things, helped in the kitchen wherever needed, and could even turn out a light loaf of bread when his efforts were required to fill orders.

  Helen hated the bakery as a child and liked it even less as an adult. Amy couldn’t blame her sister for taking a job as a receptionist for an insurance office. If she hadn’t been working there, she might never have met Reece who came in as a client when he moved to town and opened an accountant’s office five years ago.

  The back door opened and Myrtle Madsen sailed inside with a basket full of spices.

  “When did you leave?” Amy asked as her mother set the basket on the counter then removed her hat and gloves.

  “About fifteen minutes ago. I told you I was going to run down to the store to get more cinnamon and nutmeg, but you seemed entirely caught up in your daydreams.” Myrtle glanced at the cooling cookies then at her husband. “She didn’t burn them, did she?”

  Jeff held the partially eaten cookie in his hand to his wife’s lips. “Nope. She caught them just in time.”

  Myrtle took a bite and chewed. She winked at Jeff then smiled at Amy. “Crispy, but tasty. I thought we could whip up a few batches of doughnuts with the leftover cider tomorrow and glaze them with cider mixed with honey.”

  “That’s a great idea, Mom.” Amy hurried to move the trays of cinnamon rolls out of the way as her mother tugged on her apron and washed her hands. Myrtle glanced over her shoulder and jutted her chin toward the basket. “I saw something at the store to add to your hope chest, honey.”

  Her mother’s mention of the hope chest caught her off guard. Amy had half-heartedly added items to it since she received it as a graduation present in high school. But after her first date with Marc, she’d begun adding items in earnest. She had beautiful hand-embroidered pillowcases, lace-edged tablecloths with matching napkins, a lovely quilt Helen helped her piece, and many more treasures that would serve her well when she one day had her own home. Once Marc proposed, her mother had contributed a pair of crystal candlesticks that belonged to Amy’s great-grandmother, and a gorgeous crystal bowl that had been a wedding gift to her own parents from a great-aunt. Together, they’d enjoyed adding special items to the hope chest, for the time Marc returned and Amy began her life with him.

  Then her mother began making comments about Marc that hurt Amy’s feelings. The longer it took for a letter from him to arrive, the angrier Amy’s mother became about his lack of correspondence. A month ago, she’d told Amy she’d do well to forget about him and move on. For the first time in her life, Amy had yelled at her mother, informing her that she would wait for Marc even if it took fifty years for him to come home to her.

  Her father had wisely refrained from getting involved in the argument that ensued. Myrtle had finally admitted she just didn’t want Amy to get hurt if something happened to Marc.

  “It’s far too late to worry about that, Mom. I’m going to marry Marc when he comes home.” Amy stubbornly lifted her chin as she glared at her mother. “I don’t hear you warning Helen to forget about Reece. Just because Marc and I didn’t have time to marry before he left, doesn’t mean I love him any less.”

  “I know, honey, but I don’t want that boy to break your heart.”

  “Then have a little faith, Mom. If we don’t have even a smidgen of faith, what use is there in getting up and facing a new day. I know he’ll come home.”

  At that, her mother had given her a hug and left her to her thoughts.

  For Myrtle to purchase something for the hope chest meant a lot to her.

  “What did you buy, Mom?” Amy asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel then lifting the spices from the basket. At the bottom, she found a small box.

  “Take a peek,” her mother said, smiling over her shoulder as she stirred together the ingredients for a quick bread.

  Amy opened the box and drew out an incredible blue glass ball that featured a night scene in the snow.

  “The Johnsons were starting to work on a holiday display when I was at the store and that just made me think of you. I know the night sky is special to you and Marc. I heard you telling Helen about painting that little medallion for him. I thought this might be something special you could put on your tree every year to remind you that even the distance of the war failed to alter your faith in each other.”

  “I love it, Mom. Thank you.” Amy kissed her mother’s cheek then held the ornament on her finger by the silk ribbon attached to the top of it. “It’s so pretty.”

  “You did good, Myrt,” Jeff said, giving his wife an approving nod.

  Amy set the ornament back in the box and placed it on the table out of the way. Before she could return to dropping more cookies on a pan to bake, the bell jingled above the door, alerting them to a customer. Since it sounded like a herd of wild cattle right off the range had entered the shop and raced toward them, she assumed the Rawlings twins had come for a visit.

  “Go take care of the boys. I can finish the cookies,” Jeff said, giving her a nudge toward the door that opened to the front of the bakery.

  “Finish as in bake, or eat?” Amy tossed her father a cheeky grin as she hurried into the front of the shop and grinned at Rory and Rogan. Playfully, they jostled each other while peering into the glass case of the front counter.

  “What brings you boys in today?” Amy asked, leaning over the wooden counter where they kept the cash register.

  “Hi, Amy!” they said in unison, gifting her with friendly smiles.

  “Dad said we could get a treat after school. We thought about getting a candy bar or a soda,” Rory said, holding up a nickel.

  “But we decided to come here and get a cookie.” Rogan gave her an endearing grin. “I want a chocolate one.”

  “And I want one of those.” Rory tapped the glass over a display of oatmeal cookies loaded with dried cherries and chopped nuts.

  Amy took two oatmeal and two chocolate cookies from the case, wrapped them in napkins, and handed them to the boys.

  “Gee, thanks, Amy,” Rogan said, nudging Rory to give her the nickel.

  Amy would have gladly given them the cookies at no charge, but she knew it made them feel important to be allowed to come to the bakery and purchase their treats.

  “Would you boys like a glass of milk?”

  “Nah. We better get home,” Rogan said, nudging Rory. “Mom said we had to finish raking the leaves today or else.”

  Amy walked around the counter and placed a hand on each small shoulder. “Or else what?”

  Rory shrugged. “Dunno, but when she says ‘or else,’ we all start dancing to her tune.”

  With effort, Amy bit back her grin and glanced toward the door to the kitchen. “Will you boys wait right here for a minute?”

  “Sure,” Rory said, then took a big bite from his cookie.

  Amy rushed into the kitchen and caught her father giving her mother a smooch as they danced around the tall worktable in the center of the room to the sound of Glenn Miller’s “A String of Pearls.” Her parents seemed as much in love now as they’d been years ago when they wed.

  “If you two think you can spare me for a few minutes, I’m going to walk Rory and Rogan home.” She grinned at her mother’s flushed cheeks as she whipped off the apron she wore, tugged on a jacket, then filled a small basket with day-old pastries to take to Marc’s mother.

  “Give Sarah and Brett our regards,” Jeff said, still dancing with Myrtle as they watched Amy lift the basket and snatch her hat off the hook by the back door.

  “I will. See you in a bit.” Amy gave them one last indulgent look, pleased to see them dancing as they waited for the cookies to bake. She hoped twenty or thirty years from now, she and Marc would still be as much in love as her parents appeared to be.

  When thoughts of her absent fiancé made her heart ache, she forced herself to smile as she retur
ned to where the twins stood by the door, cramming the last crumbs of their cookies into their mouths.

  “Do you think you could stand it if I walked home with you?” Amy asked, pulling open the bakery door and watching the boys race outside.

  “Yes!” they both cheered. Rory grabbed her hand that wasn’t holding the basket of baked goods while Rogan leaned against her other side and smiled up at her with an expression that looked so much like Marc her heart came to a halt before skipping a beat. Oh, how she missed him, longed for him.

  However, for today, spending time with his little brothers would have to do.

  And what a glorious day it was. One full of fresh golden air and warm sunshine and the earthy spices of autumn.

  She breathed deeply, then looked down at the boys. “Smell that?” she asked.

  They both sniffed, looked around, sniffed again, then gave her puzzled looks.

  “What is it? Apples?” Rogan asked.

  Rory tried to peek into the basket she carried. “Did you bring along more muffins?”

  “I did bring some muffins, but that isn’t the scent.” She smiled at the two little rascals. “It’s autumn.”

  “Autumn has a smell?” Rogan asked, clearly confused.

  “Sure it does. Breathe it in.” Amy demonstrated taking a deep breath. “Nothing in the world smells like a beautiful autumn day. It’s a mixture of ripened apples and pears, just picked from the trees, crisp leaves that have been touched by the first frost of the season, and sunshine-soaked earth, settling in for the long winter ahead, all mixed with the aroma of pumpkins and spice.”

  “Yum! I want a piece of it,” Rory said, taking a skipping step ahead.

  “You can’t eat a smell, you dummy.” Rogan gave his brother a shove.

  Rory shoved back, then the two of them were soon engaged in a bout of fisticuffs.

  Amy stepped between them, taking Rory’s hand in hers again. Thank goodness the boys had different colored eyes or she’d never be able to tell them apart. “That is enough of that, you two.”

  “Sorry, Amy,” Rogan said, lifting orbs the same shade of green as his father’s eyes to her in apology.

  “Yeah, we’re sorry.” Rory turned his blue-eyed gaze to her, doing his best to look repentant before he grinned again. “Tell us more about how the season smells. What about spring? Does it smell?”

  Amy nodded. “Spring smells new and fresh and green as Mother Nature brings everything back to life after the cold winter months. It’s the earth shaking off the last of the snow and frost, and awakening from a long slumber. Haven’t you ever noticed how good it smells on a warm spring day? It smells like hope and happiness.”

  “I never thought about it,” Rogan said, looking up at her. “What does summer smell like?”

  “Like wheat and peaches and watermelon and horses and swimming in the creek at Gramps and Nonna’s house,” Rory said excitedly.

  A laugh rolled out of Amy at his enthusiasm. She squeezed his hand and nodded her head. “That is exactly right.” She offered his brother an inquisitive glance. “Can you describe winter, Rogan?”

  The boy grew quiet for several moments as they walked down the leaf-strewn sidewalk. His forehead wrinkled in concentration. Finally, his eyes brightened and he took a few hopping steps before stopping and grabbing her arm, heedless to the basket she carried in her hand. “I know, I know!”

  “Well, tell us, Rogan.”

  “It smells like Christmas trees, and Nonna’s bread, the kind with the nuts and candies in it, and the chocolate fudge that Mom makes, and smoke from the fire, and presents from Santa Claus, and peppermint sticks, and the candles Mom lights on Christmas Eve!”

  “All that?” Amy asked, pleased that the twins hadn’t yet decided Santa didn’t exist. They were at the age it could go either way, but perhaps the Rawlings family would get one more year of the boys believing in the jolly old elf.

  “Yep, all that,” Rogan said, taking a few running steps before waiting for her and Rory to catch up to him.

  They were almost to the Rawlings home when they saw a boy on a bicycle in a crisp Western Union uniform, satchel draped across his chest, pedaling down the sidewalk while Sarah Rawlings crumpled to her knees in the open door of the house.

  “Mom!” Rogan yelled and took off running with Rory right behind him. Amy was close on their heels as they raced through the front gate, across the sidewalk, and up the porch steps.

  “Mrs. Rawlings? What’s wrong? Are you injured?” Amy asked, kneeling beside the woman who sat with her head in her hands, sobbing incoherently as she rocked back and forth.

  Amy noticed a telegram on the floor beside her and picked it up. The message was brief, but one she’d never forget.

  THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEPEST REGRETS THAT YOUR SON PRIVATE M. RAWLINGS WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC. LETTER TO FOLLOW.

  “No,” Amy whispered, letting the telegram fall from her hand. She glared at it as though it was a venomous serpent, ready to strike.

  The basket of pastries she still held dropped from her hand and muffins rolled down the front step, but she was oblivious to anything but the grief searing through her.

  Momentarily incoherent, she didn’t hear the boys as they questioned her and Sarah, wanting to know what was wrong.

  Amy slumped beside a mother lost in her grief, encircled the woman in her arms, and cried.

  Chapter Five

  Feeling oddly detached from the world around her, like the gossamer thread that kept her soul tethered to the earth had been clipped, Amy wandered home with sluggish steps. Kade had offered to drive her, but she’d mumbled an excuse about needing the walk to clear her head.

  When neither she nor Sarah responded to the boys’ frantic questions, Rogan had raced inside the house and called his grandfather since his father was out of town on business.

  Kade had quickly arrived, read the telegram, and carried Sarah inside the house then returned to offer comfort to Amy even while tears streamed down his weathered cheeks as he hunkered down beside her.

  “I’ll be fine, Judge Rawlings. Please, take care of Sarah,” Amy muttered as she forced her wooden legs to function and made it down the porch steps.

  The twins didn’t know whether to go with her or stay with their mother. Amy gave them both a hug when they raced over to her before she reached the front gate. “Go inside, boys. Your mother needs you,” she whispered, kissing freckled noses before she turned and made her way toward the bakery.

  Numb and despondent, she stumbled through the back door, feeling as though she’d run the whole way. It hurt to draw air into her lungs and her hands shook as though she’d been stricken with palsy.

  “My stars, honey! What is it?” her mother asked as she dropped onto one of the chairs at the round kitchen table. When Amy couldn’t find a voice to speak the words lodged in her throat, Myrtle turned and yelled up the stairs. “Jeffrey! Come quick!”

  Her father rushed down the stairs, stopping beside the table as he studied Myrtle hugging Amy’s shoulders. In spite of her effort to stop the shaking that seized her body, Amy trembled like a leaf in the November wind.

  Slowly, her father walked over to the open door and closed it then disappeared into the bakery. Amy heard the lock click, knowing he locked the door and turned the open sign to closed before he returned to the kitchen. He pulled a chair in front of hers and sat so close his knees bumped against hers then took her ice-cold hands between his warm palms.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, holding her pain-stricken gaze.

  Amy tried to speak, wanted to tell her parents what had happened, but she couldn’t make her tongue function long enough to eject the words. After opening and closing her mouth three times, she finally expelled the word “telegram.”

  “Telegram?” Myrtle asked, glancing from Amy to Jeff as she continued to hold Amy’s shoulders in a comforting embrace. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “From the wa
r department?” Jeff asked in a hushed voice.

  Amy nodded as tears began to spill down her cheeks.

  “Oh, baby. No. Not that,” her mother said as she realized what the telegram meant. Her tears escaped as she pulled Amy’s head to her breast and held her close as only a mother can.

  Amy didn’t know how long she and her mother cried, how long her father sat with them, fighting to keep his emotions in check, but eventually the storm passed, leaving her exhausted, weary, and so heart sore she thought she couldn’t endure the pain of it.

  “It said…” Amy accepted the towel her father handed to her. She mopped at her tears and wiped her nose. “The telegram said he’d been killed in action in the South Pacific.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Letter to follow.”

  “We’re so sorry sweetheart,” Jeff said, looking for all the world like he wished she was five again and a lemon drop or a bounce on his knee would make it all better.

  “I know, Dad. I just… The telegram had just arrived when we got there. Rogan called Kade. Brett’s out of town. Sarah isn’t… She just…”

  “I’ll go to her,” Myrtle said, wiping her eyes on her apron before whipping it off. “Will you be…”

  The back door burst open and Helen scurried inside, looking winded and wild-eyed. “Is it true? Is Marc…?” She glanced at her father for confirmation of the question she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

  Jeff nodded and Helen raced over to Amy, enfolding her in a hug as they both burst into tears.

  Myrtle gathered a basket of food, handed it to Jeff to take to the Rawlings home, and joined her girls in their shared grief.