Chapter 7
Maggie sat on her bed, a rock in the palm of her hand. It was small and round, perfect for target practice . . . and she’d kept it all these years.
When Atley gave that rock to Miriam Peachy, she’d smiled her thanks ever so sweetly, touched his arm, batted her lashes, and the minute he turned his back she just tossed it away. Maggie had gone back for it, scouring that part of the road until she found it. Atley had thrown that rock away on a girl who would never appreciate it for its true value. He should have given it to her, she’d told herself.
But this rock had never been about target practice or their time together; it had been a symbol of his affection. Miriam could have learned to be worthy of that.
So why, fifteen years later, did it hurt so much to think about another woman in Atley’s arms?
Loving him should mean loving him enough to let him have the life he wanted. He deserved a beautiful, sweet wife who would cook up a storm and starch his Sunday shirts with a smile on her face and no desire for anything else.
The family had left for the Grabers’ place a few minutes ago, and Maggie had decided to stay behind. She couldn’t face him—not like this. She rose to her feet, her heart still feeling sodden and heavy in her chest.
Atley had to return to Bountiful, and once he was gone it would be easier. She had her column, at least, and she had her aunt Ruth to show her how to live this single life with some grace and dignity, because she would not throw herself away on some old widower, either.
Maggie fiddled with the rock as she descended the stairs and headed into the kitchen. There were some Christmas treats that her mother had left on the counter for her, and she picked up one of the shortbread cookies but put it back on the plate.
She wasn’t hungry.
Outside she heard boots on the step, and she glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly ten in the morning. It could be anyone—friend or extended family coming by to wish them a Happy Christmas. There was a knock and she instinctively put her hands up to check her kapp before she went through the mudroom to open the door.
When she pulled the door open, Atley stood on the step, and he gave her a hesitant smile.
“Atley?” she said, stepping back. “What are you doing here?”
He came inside and swung the door shut behind him. He held a little package in one hand and he lifted his shoulders.
“It’s Christmas,” he said. “You were trying to avoid me, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I was.”
“Any other girl would have tried to spare my feelings,” he said.
“I’m a grown woman, and I think we’re past that, aren’t we?”
A smile spread over Atley’s face, and he caught her hand, tugging her close. “I love you, Maggie.”
Maggie pulled her hand free and went back into the kitchen. She couldn’t do this—not again.
“Maggie?” He followed her, that little package in his hands still.
“Atley, stop it,” she said, her voice tight. “It doesn’t matter how we feel.”
Atley was silent for a moment; then he held out the little package toward her. “Open it—”
She looked down at the rock in her palm, and when she took the package from his fingers she pressed the rock into his palm. It was time to give the rock back.
“What’s this?” he asked with a frown.
“It’s the rock you gave to Miriam. She tossed it aside when you left, and I went back for it. It was silly of me, and I feel foolish for having kept it. But I should give it back. You deserve a girl like Miriam.”
Atley rolled the rock around in his palm, then shook his head. “Who cares what I deserve when I know what I want?” His dark gaze met hers; then he tapped the gift in her hand. “Open it.”
She pulled on the string and unwrapped a clothespin doll, this one dressed like an angel with wings made of real feathers. She frowned, looked up at him . . .
“It’s pretty,” she murmured.
“We always hear the Christmas story and we’re told the moral, right?” He licked his lips. “For the girls, they’re told that they should be like Mary—sweet, obedient, allowing their husbands to care for them. And the men should be like Joseph, strong and faithful. And those are the only options.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, I was thinking about it last night, about the Christmas story, the stable, a man and a woman starting out their marriage . . . and I realized that you aren’t Mary. And I’m not Joseph.”
No, they weren’t. The lifetime of love and marriage would not be theirs. She nodded, a lump rising in her throat.
“Mary was quiet and demure, or so we’re told,” Atley went on. “But out in the hills that night, angels exploded into song. Their joy knew no bounds! They weren’t quiet or proper . . . Maggie. You’re not the meek and mild wife; you’re my Christmas angel.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Then who are you?”
“Me? I don’t know.... Probably just a grateful shepherd.” His eyes welled with tears. “Last night Waneta came back to find Abram. And my uncle told me something about marriage. He said that married people realize what they have to lose and it is only then that they choose to bend for each other. I don’t want to wait as long as Abram did, Maggie. I want to bend now, because I know what I have to lose—”
“What are you saying?” she whispered.
“I’m saying I want to marry you, Maggie,” he breathed.
“And I know as I say it that you will probably say no. But I do want to marry you, just as you are. I want you to write that column for the Englisher paper, and I want you tell me what you feel about things, and your opinions and your observations. I want you to be yourself, open and funny and kind and . . . I want to be your husband.”
She blinked at him; then her fingers fluttered up to her lips. “Atley . . . ”
“Marry me, Maggie,” he pleaded. “We’ll sort it out. And I mean that. I’ll bend for you.”
Maggie sucked in a breath. “Do you mean that?”
“Yah. From the bottom of my heart.”
“Because last night my father asked me if I had to choose between being understood by one man, or by a whole multitude of Englisher strangers, which would I choose? And I chose you. If I had to give up the column, I could if it meant a lifetime of being understood and loved by you. But it wouldn’t change who I am . . . not who I am deep down. . . . ”
“I don’t want to change who you are. Write for the paper,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You’re too talented to stop. But marry me, too.”
Marry him . . . Dare she? But as she looked up into those dark eyes it was impossible to say no. She couldn’t watch him leave again.
“Yes,” she breathed, and Atley’s lips came down over hers. He lifted her off her feet and spun her in a slow circle as he kissed her. When he pulled back, she smiled up at him.
“Now we should go back to my uncle’s place,” Atley said, grinning down into her face. “Your daet had a good idea of what I was going to ask you, and he said we have his blessing. It’s okay. He’s keeping it a secret.”
“Are you serious?” She shook her head.
“Sometimes your people know you better than you think,” he whispered.
Maggie kissed him again, and her heart welled with love. Then she pulled back and reached for her shawl. She had her Christmas miracle—Atley in her arms. And now it was time to share Christmas with the friends and family she loved most. This was why she loved her Amish heritage so much—for better or for worse, this community was hers . . . and now so was Atley Troyer. Her heart was full, and she couldn’t wait to marry him.