Chapter 5
Christmas Eve, Maggie stood at the kitchen counter cutting out perfect circles of shortbread cookies and sliding them onto a cookie sheet. Her mind was on that envelope that Atley had taken with him last night. It was kind of him to protect it for her, but she needed it back. Would she have a chance to retrieve it before he left? She could only hope.
The Lapp women had been baking all day, everything from bread and dinner rolls for the following evening to cookies, pies, and tarts. Naomi sat at the table forming little roses out of dough to top the dinner rolls, her two young kinner playing with blocks in the hallway, well out of harm’s way. Aunt Ruth stood by the stove, stirring a pot of thickening fruit so that it wouldn’t stick at the bottom.
“Amos has a second cousin who was recently widowed,” Naomi said, glancing up at Maggie. “He’s older than you—about fifty—but he’s got a very profitable business in greenhouse vegetables. We were going to suggest he meet you.”
“He’s fifty?” Maggie said, her voice tight.
“Not that it matters,” Naomi said. “I don’t think Amos will do it, now.”
“He won’t?” Mamm interjected. “This little matter will be swept away quickly enough. I’m sure we can still arrange a meeting—”
“Amos’s family is very proper,” Naomi said primly.
“Naomi, this is your sister’s future we’re talking about!” Mamm shot back.
“I know,” Naomi replied. “And she should have been more careful. A girl like her should—”
“I’m older than you are,” Maggie snapped.
Naomi fell silent, and Maggie exchanged a look with her aunt. Ruth continued to stir. If an unmarried woman was still a “girl,” then so was Aunt Ruth, who was nearly sixty. Naomi might enjoy rubbing Maggie’s unmarried state in her face, but she wouldn’t do the same to their aunt. There were lines.
“I read those columns,” Ruth said. “Did you, Naomi?”
“I don’t recall,” Naomi said primly.
“Don’t lie, now,” Maggie said. “You either read them, or you didn’t.”
“I read them when I thought the author was a stranger to us, not my sister making a fool of herself!”
Maggie bit back a retort. She was a fool, now? Apparently, everyone had read her replies to those letters, even her own sister.
“They were well written,” Ruth said. “There were other communities reading them, too. I heard that some papers were sent all the way to Pennsylvania.”
“As far as that!” Mamm said, then heaved a sigh. “Still, it isn’t proper. Whether she’s good at it or not.”
“Maggie, do you want to meet this new widower?” Ruth asked pointedly.
“No,” Maggie replied.
“Now, Maggie—” Mamm started.
“I don’t want to!” Maggie replied. “A man in his fifties with children my age, no doubt. And grandchildren. No, I don’t want that at all. I’d rather provide for myself.”
“How?” Naomi asked, aghast.
“I could teach school like Aunt Ruth,” Maggie replied. “Or I could start my own business. I won’t make enough off the quilts I make myself, but I could start some quilting classes in town. I’m sure the Englishers would gobble up a chance to sit with an Amish woman in a quilting circle.” The idea had only struck her now, but she liked it. “I could serve tea and a few of our baked goods, and I could teach them to stitch by hand. They could come back week after week and continue working on the quilt.... Or maybe something small for themselves so they can take it away with them after a few weeks. I could sell it as a package—two evenings a week for three weeks, or something like that. . . . ”
“She’s the smart one,” Ruth said, shooting Mamm a grin.
“And her brain will keep her single,” Mamm retorted. “A man doesn’t want a woman with smarts. He wants a woman with a heart and an ability to cook.”
“Some intelligence doesn’t hurt,” Ruth countered. “You don’t raise children, keep a home, can your own food, keep your own garden, and make some money on the side because you’re stupid. It takes a brain to run a home as well as anything else.”
Mamm sighed. “Ruth, you’re not helping. She needs a man to marry, not a career option!”
“She needs to be happy,” Ruth shot back.
That was true—Maggie needed something to fill her heart, to use her skills, to keep her mind busy. But she also longed for a family of her own, and she simply couldn’t be a proper Amish woman writing columns for the paper—not without the bishop’s permission.
“Are you happy, Aunt Ruth?” Naomi voiced the question, and the kitchen fell silent.
Maggie shot her sister a scandalized glare, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if her aunt would even answer.
“Yes, I think I am,” Ruth replied. “I’m happy enough.”
“But wouldn’t you rather have gotten married?” Naomi pressed. “Looking back on it.”
“I didn’t get the proposal,” Ruth replied. “And so I built a very satisfying life for myself teaching school. I taught all of you, didn’t I?”
“Do you think Maggie should find an older widower?” Naomi pressed. “If you were to act as Miss Amish and give her some advice, what would it be?”
Ruth sighed. “When Christmastime comes and you’re baking for your nieces and nephews instead of your own kinner, it isn’t easy.”
Maggie stole a glance at her aunt, who continued to stir the pot on the stove. Her gaze had turned inward, though, and she pursed her lips. That was all she was going to say, it seemed, and Maggie understood her aunt’s intent. Nieces and nephews didn’t take the place of her own kinner. A brother’s home wasn’t home enough come Christmastime. Aunt Ruth had been passed over in her day, and she’d paid for it. Maggie would very likely pay the same dues.
The problem was, Maggie didn’t want to be married off to whoever would have her. That was insulting, too. When she thought of wearing a wedding apron and taking those vows, the foggy man who materialized in her imagination had Atley’s dark, laughing eyes. It was silly—he didn’t want her, and she couldn’t have him, either. She didn’t need a willing man; she needed the right man, the one who wouldn’t be intimidated by her thoughts and ideas. A man who wouldn’t give her lectures for saying what she thought. She couldn’t muzzle herself, even for a husband.
“Why doesn’t Aunt Ruth meet the widower?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, why not?” Mamm turned to Naomi.
There was silence for a moment, and then Ruth said, “It’s a little late for that.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Mamm replied. “You said yourself that this life you have isn’t quite enough.”
“I’m set in my ways,” Ruth replied with a shrug. “I’ve gotten so used to doing what I want that I’m not sure I could stop. There comes a point of no return, and I’m afraid I’ve passed it.”
Had Maggie passed her own point of no return? She’d tasted a freedom like none other—a whole audience of people who wanted to hear her advice. There was no undoing it.
Naomi looked relieved that Ruth had turned down this newly available gentleman. Perhaps they’d promised him a young woman with tight skin and eager for more babies. That could be a strong lure for some men.
“The Grabers have been helping us a great deal since the barn fire,” Mamm said, changing the subject. “We’ll send some baked goodies over to them today.”
The Graber farm, where Atley was staying. This might be her chance to get her letters back.
“I’ll bring a basket over,” Maggie said quickly. “It won’t take me long.”
“Would you?” Mamm said with a relieved smile. “That would really help, Magdalena. Let me put one together. Leave those cookies. I’ll finish them.”
In the kitchen window, candles nestled in fresh evergreen wreaths were already lit. It was Christmas Eve, and outside the house she could hear the clatter of a wagon and the laughter of the youth group. Naomi got to her feet and her little girls dashed to the window to look outside.
“The carolers are here,” Ruth said, a smile breaking over her face. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas until the young people come caroling.”
Outside, the teenagers broke into song—“It Came Upon a Midnight Clear”—and Maggie felt tears prick her eyes. Ruth was right. The carolers did make it seem like Christmas.
She was too old to be out there singing with them, single or not. Maybe she was more like her aunt Ruth than she’d realized. This very well might be her life from now on—doting on her siblings’ kinner and accepting that she had become more than passed over.... She’d become too set in her ways to marry.
“Naomi, get some tarts and cookies together so we can bring them out to the young people,” Mamm said with a smile. “And Maggie, grab a jar of strawberry rhubarb jam for the basket for the Grabers, would you?”
Maggie did as her mother requested, then passed it over to her.
“There, done,” Mamm said with a smile. She handed the basket to Maggie, then went to the door and opened it wide to better listen as the young people sang. She looked over her shoulder. “Hurry back, Maggie. Daet and Amos will be in soon enough, and we don’t want to start Christmas without you.”
Maggie put down the basket for a moment and reached for her shawl. The young people started a new carol, and Maggie pushed her feet into her boots and pulled on her gloves. Then she picked up the basket again.
It was cold this Christmas Eve. And there were festive goodies to deliver. The young people sang about the angels, singing over the earth as they told their good news....
Christmas was about more than her broken heart, and that was strangely comforting.
* * *
Atley gave the horse one last long stroke with the brush before patting its flank. Uncle Ben knocked the shovel against the wheelbarrow, tapping the last of the dirt off the blade. Outside, the night was dark and stars already twinkled overhead. It felt appropriate to be out in a stable on Christmas Eve, smelling the tang of manure, listening to the nickers of horses.
“Uncle,” Atley said, coming out of the stall and closing the gate behind him. “I wanted to talk to you about something alone.”
“Oh?” The bishop looked up. “You know that your aunt has pie and treats for us inside, don’t you?”
“Yah, I do.” Atley shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s about Maggie Lapp.”
“Ah. And what about her?”
“I was hoping to plead her case,” he said.
“So, she’s asked you to speak to me?”
“On the contrary. She refused to ask you to change your mind,” Atley said. “But I never did tell you all the good that column was doing.”
“It’s a mockery of our way of life,” his uncle retorted. “An Amish woman answering the base and sinful questions of Englishers.”
“The questions they post might be peculiar,” Atley agreed.
“But they are honest. I’m sure of that. And when Maggie answered, she never said anything that would go against church teaching. She simply explained how we Amish live, and the reason why we make the choices we do.”
“She’s a woman. Her place is in the home,” the bishop sighed.
“She’s unmarried, and she’s likely to stay that way,” Atley said, and the truth of it made his voice catch. “She’s not neglecting any children or a husband. If she were, it would be different. But she’s more like her aunt Ruth, finding a way in our community without a family of her own. If you take this away from her—”
“Atley, it doesn’t change that this isn’t appropriate,” the bishop went on. “A woman, whether she has a husband or not, is to be meek and quiet, listening to the leadership in the community. In this one thing I can commend her. Yes, she made a mistake, but when informed of the leadership’s decision she accepted it like a good Amish woman.”
She accepted it, even if it crushed her. Atley couldn’t just give this up. Maggie deserved someone on her side, a man willing to speak for her.
“Uncle, she’s doing good. God didn’t send His son that first Christmas for only one group of people. There is neither Jew nor gentile, remember. There is neither slave nor free. Man nor woman. The Savior came to save all of us, and by speaking her faith, Maggie is spreading it! These are people who might never listen to a minister, but they listen to her.”
The bishop was silent, pursing his lips in thought. Then he said, “At this time of year, we think of Mary, the mother of Christ, as our example. She was meek and gentle, the perfect example to our young women. When the angel told Joseph they had to flee to Egypt, she followed her husband and allowed him to be her protector—”
“This might be the only time many of these people hear about our faith, Uncle,” Atley interrupted. “Would you be the reason that they don’t?”
Uncle Ben sighed. “It doesn’t change the fact that she’s a woman. If she had a husband to oversee her . . . But she doesn’t.” The older man went silent for a few beats, his gaze turned inward. Then he sighed. “If she were to submit all her writing to me for oversight before she hands it in, then I could make notes to ensure that proper theology is being relayed.”
Atley shook his head. “No.”
“No?” Uncle Ben shot him a sharp look. “I thought that was incredibly generous. You’d turn down an offer like that? Are you sure she would?”
“Uncle, if you add your notes and your theological discourse, it will no longer be her voice, and the people won’t read it. Her column would be canceled, and this would be over. Those Englisher readers don’t want to hear you or me; they want her!”
The bishop looked at Atley in surprise. “You feel strongly.”
“I do.” Atley swallowed. “I don’t mean to overstep, Uncle, but I feel that God is using her for something, and we cannot stand in the way of the Almighty, or he’ll move us Himself.”
“If I can’t be certain of the validity of the theological stance she takes—” his uncle began.
His uncle was close, but he was still worried, and Atley could understand. The bishop didn’t know Maggie like he did. He was concerned for the community, for their reputation, for the young people who might read her words . . . He needed proof, and while Atley knew that Maggie wouldn’t easily agree to this course of action, Atley pulled the manila envelope out of his jacket where he’d been carrying it.
“Read for yourself,” Atley said. “These are the letters she’s answered in her latest batch. They’re honest and heartfelt, and nothing she says goes against our theology.”
For the next few minutes, Uncle Ben flipped through the letters, reading Maggie’s answers in thoughtful silence. He flicked through page after page, chewing the side of his cheek while Atley pensively watched him in the soft golden glow of the kerosene lamp. A horse nickered, and the pages crinkled as the bishop set them carefully aside.
Outside, the sound of horses’ hooves crunching through the snow and the laughter of teenagers broke the stillness. Some of the voices were chatting, and a few were singing a line or two of a Christmas carol. Then they were silent for a moment, some murmuring; then they broke into song.
Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king . . .
From his position in the stable, he could see out the window and could just make out the backs of a few of the teens. There was a time when he and Maggie were part of a group like that one, going door-to-door on a hay wagon and singing carols for the Amish homes. They’d even stopped for a few Englisher neighbors they knew.
“You’re right,” Uncle Ben said after a moment. “I can’t fault her answers. I might have phrased them differently or put a different emphasis, but—” He tapped the pages together again. “I see your point, Atley.”
Atley stared at his uncle. There weren’t many people who could claim to change the bishop’s mind once it was made up. Had he just succeeded?
“Are you saying . . . ” Atley wasn’t sure he should even voice it, lest his uncle change his mind.
“I’m saying that I will allow this,” the bishop said slowly. “I will personally read every column that comes out, and if she begins to slide into heretical territory, I will stop it. But as it stands . . . ”
“You’ll let her write the column,” Atley concluded.
“Yah. I’ll allow it.”
Atley couldn’t help the grin that broke over his face. “Uncle, you have no idea how happy this will make her. Thank you for this.”
“It’s Christmas,” the bishop said with a small smile. “There are miracles this season.”
The door rattled and then pushed open, and Atley turned. Maggie stood in the faint light of the doorway.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I brought some baked treats to the house and your wife said that you were out here. I was hoping to speak with Atley—” It was then that her gaze fell on the envelope and the pages in the bishop’s hands. Her complexion paled and her scandalized gaze whipped over to Atley in shock.
“Atley?” she breathed.
He knew what she must be thinking—that he’d betrayed her again. “Maggie, it’s not what it looks like,” he said hurriedly. “My uncle has reconsidered his decision about your column.”
Maggie didn’t seem to register what he’d said right away, because her hands still trembled and her gaze flashed with anger.
“Maggie—he’s reconsidered,” Atley repeated.
“He, what?” The anger bled from her face, replaced with a look of shock.
“I have reconsidered,” Uncle Ben said with a nod. “You are free to continue writing the column, but only if you remain careful to portray our faith correctly.”
“Yes, yes! I have been careful, and I will continue to be.... ” Maggie’s entire face lit up and she put a hand over her mouth as her eyes welled with tears. “I won’t let you down. Thank you, Bishop Graber. Thank you. This means more to me than . . . ”
“Happy Christmas,” the bishop said, patting her shoulder. “Now I’m going to leave this wheelbarrow with my nephew to empty, and I’m going to go inside for some of those baked treats you were speaking of.”
“Thank you!” she repeated.
The bishop went out the door, shutting it behind him, and as soon as they were alone, Maggie flung herself into Atley’s arms. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her shawl. She smelled warm and sweet and ever so faintly like baking. She felt so good in his arms, and as they stood there, the sound of the carolers echoing through the cold night, he pulled back just enough to look down into her face.
“You are a good man, Atley,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s no need,” he said gruffly. “Call it a Christmas gift.”
“Horace is going to be thrilled,” she said with a soft laugh.
“Yah, I imagine so,” Atley agreed.
“This means so much to me,” she said; then she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. He closed his eyes, memorizing the feeling of her lips brushing against his skin. “What made you do it?”
Atley looked down into her chocolate brown eyes, and he didn’t have it in him to hide what he was feeling. Because while he hadn’t been able to see it before, he suddenly knew why he’d done everything up until now . . . every step he’d taken had been for one reason.
“Why I did it?” he asked, shaking his head. “Because I love you, Maggie. I have for years. I never stopped. It gave me wings when we were together, and it hobbled my feet when I broke it off. But I’ve loved you for years, Maggie. You have to ask?”
She stared up at him, her lips parted and her eyes wide.
“You love me still?” she breathed.
“Yah.” He bent his head down and caught her lips with his. He kissed her tenderly, then pulled back. There was nothing else to say. It was the truth.
“I love you, too,” she whispered, and tears misted her eyes. “You were the only one I’ve ever loved.”
“I should have given you the rock I used for target practice,” he said with a low laugh.
“No. . . . ” She dropped her gaze and her chin trembled. “You should have married Miriam.”
Atley blinked. “What?”
“She was the kind of woman you wanted, Atley. Whatever you felt for me, it doesn’t change who I am. We know we can’t work.”
“Maybe we’re wrong,” he said quietly. “Maybe we do have what it takes. I argued your case to my uncle because you needed this. But if you were married . . . ” He stopped, swallowing hard. “You don’t have to write those columns if you’re married, do you? You could put your heart into your bobbilies and your home—”
Even as he said it, it sounded wrong in his ears. He wanted her to be the kind of woman who wanted to take care of him. . . . He wanted her to need him, not the Englishers out there, hanging on her words.
“You think this is just to keep me busy without a family of my own?” Her voice firmed, and she took a step away from him. He could see it happening, the distance, the misunderstandings, the heartbreak when he asked too much of her and she offered too little to him. He could see how feelings could be wounded and hearts could be cracked, chipped away over time.
“No.” He sighed. “I know what that column means to you.”
“I’d never be that quiet, sweetly traditional wife, Atley,” she said. “That hasn’t changed. I am Amish to the core, but there is more to me, and I’m only finding that out now. It’s who I am. I say what I think. With the bishop’s permission, I can now continue writing my column. People hear me, Atley. They listen. They understand me. I know that it shouldn’t mean so much to me, but it does. This is me.”
Beautiful, individual, and determined to go her own way. He loved her with a love so fierce that it could break stone, but it might also break her, if he let it. He wanted a wife devoted to him and their children. She wanted a husband who could let her go free into that unknown territory with the Englishers. It was one thing to argue for a single woman who needed something to fill her days and nights, but his own wife? Would he be so confident in their love to encourage that? He knew his own limitations, too.
Atley thought of Abram sleeping alone in that bed, and he knew for a fact that love was not enough to keep a man and woman happy together. If it were, Abram and Waneta would be celebrating Christmas together with their children instead of separated by miles, waking up to empty arms.
“We’d love each other deeply,” he said, his voice catching with emotion. “And we’d break each other’s hearts.”
Maggie slid her hand into his, and her lips trembled. “Thank you for what you’ve done for me today, Atley. I will always love you. I promise you that.”
She raised his hand to her lips and kissed the tops of his fingers, then she released him, and he stood there frozen as she made her way to the door. She pulled it open and, without looking back, disappeared outside.
The carolers sang, their song winding its way through the stable, and Atley covered his eyes with the heels of his hands, holding the waves of heartbreak inside.
He loved her . . . he always had! And seeing her again hadn’t released him from that burden. But there would be no relief for them, either. He’d have to go back to Bountiful and face his life with the knowledge that he’d love her ’til the day he died.
Love wasn’t always enough.