Emma Blooms At Last (18 page)

“He can take Eddie home, too, until after the holidays. We haven't got room for his ladders, what with the extra shoppers, so he's been helping us in the hardware department—and sneaking peeks at Gail.” Abby let out a short laugh. “Far as Jerome visiting with Emma, I
think
she'll enjoy seeing him—although she's not saying much on that subject. She's a tough nut to crack.”

Amanda's eyebrows rose. She caught herself before she mentioned how smitten Emma had looked after her sleigh ride with Jerome, as she didn't want Abby to know about the two quilts they'd been working on. “We all have to bloom in our own time,” she said quietly. “It took me a long while to consider seeing another man after Atlee passed, and I suspect Emma misses her mamm something awful. You never saw one without the other.”

“She was devoted to Eunice,” Abby agreed with a little hitch in her voice. “Even if Jerome doesn't come to see Emma, Merle would be happy to have a visitor. The colder weather has kept him in his recliner of late, almost like a shut-in.”

“I'll let Jerome know. He'll be there either Thursday or Friday. Denki so much, Abby.”

As Amanda hung up, she wondered how things were going in the Graber household. Merle had delighted in playing with the children and eating cornmeal mush—and in speculating with Wyman about the Wengerds' motives as well. She had a hard time thinking of the sweet old fellow folding in on himself when he
wasn't around other people. All the more reason to invite the Grabers for a day of Second Christmas festivities, to take their minds off their mourning.

When Amanda returned to the house, Jerome had the three little girls lined up in kitchen chairs and was putting on their snow boots. “We're going out in the sleigh to cut evergreen branches,” Cora announced.

“Jah, because we got the Christmas candles out of the attic!” Dora chimed in.

“And Baby Jesus!” Alice Ann swung her booted feet with an excitement only a three-year-old could generate. “And widdle sheeps!”

When Jerome had helped the toddler to the floor, he smiled at Amanda. “Jemima asked me to carry the box with the Nativity set downstairs, so I figured it was time to fetch the fresh greenery. Our decorating will keep us busy after dinner while you work at your wheel.”

“What a fine idea,” Amanda replied. “I can glaze and fire Lois Yutzy's salad set—and I can't wait to see the front room when you're finished,” she added with a big smile for the girls. “It's wonderful to have such gut helpers.”

It touched her heart to watch Jerome button Alice Ann's coat and then playfully heft her to his shoulder as the twins dashed ahead of him. He would make such a wonderful father.

As the trio of girls headed out the door, Amanda pulled Jerome aside. “Just so you'll know,” she murmured, “Emma's working on the mercantile's books at home now. Seems the bishop and Sam thought she was wearing herself too thin.”

Jerome's eyebrows rose. “Glad to hear it. I was concerned about—well, a lot of things,” he added with a smile.

“My order should be ready by tomorrow—or whenever you'd care to fetch it for me,” Amanda hinted.

“Jah, I can do that. Denki, Aunt,” he replied as he bussed her cheek. “You're the best.”

*   *   *

“
S
o you're saying Amanda just called in this order?” Wyman asked as he stood with Sam at the mercantile's front counter.

“Jah, and Abby said she's figuring on Jerome coming for it in a day or two,” the storekeeper replied. “But if you've got some shopping to do, I can have everything boxed up by the time you're ready to check out.”

“That's better than Jerome having to make a special trip. Let's do it.”

Wyman didn't have to see the prices alongside all the items on the page to wonder if he had enough cash to cover them—not to mention anything he'd hoped to find for Amanda's Christmas gift. What could she possibly want with so much fabric, when she had no time to sew? And why couldn't the girls' stockings and kapps wait until next year, considering how they were watching their money so closely these days?

“It's too hectic for Eddie to be painting now, but he's a big help with the customers. I hope it's all right if I keep him into next week,” Sam said. “He's got a gut head for figures and the patience for explaining how things work, so I've put him on the payroll.”

Wyman's eyes widened. “But he's probably eating you out of house and—”

“Happy to have him,” Sam insisted with a wave of his hand. “With the store so busy, he's making my life a lot easier, believe me. I'll have Abby cut that fabric and see you back here in a bit.”

The mercantile
was
as crowded as Wyman had ever seen it, and it did his heart good to spot his eldest son over by the snow shovels. With a polite smile, Eddie was demonstrating the difference between a bent-handled model and the regular kind to an elderly English gentleman.

At least one of us is bringing in some money,
he thought bleakly. Wyman wondered if Sam was paying Eddie out of sheer kindness—or, Lord forbid,
pity
—because he was aware of the Brubakers' financial straits. His first impulse had been to cancel Amanda's order, at least until he could quiz her about the need for some of the things on her list . . .

“Dat, let's look at fishing gear!” Simon said, pointing toward the display of rods along the wall. “We've got a pond now, so we'll be needing—”

“Not today, Son.”

“But, Dat! If the water's going to freeze, don't we need to get the fish out before they die?” the boy went on, his voice rising. “They'll turn into Popsicles, or—or fishsicles!”

Wyman caught himself before he snapped at Simon again. It wasn't his son's fault that he was preoccupied with how little progress Reece Weaver had made on his grain elevator. Nor had Simon phoned in such a long, expensive store order. Wyman stooped to his son's level. “The fish will spend the winter near the bottom, where the water won't freeze,” he explained. “They'll have enough oxygen to breathe.”

“So can I find a present for Mamm? I want her to have a real nice Christmas.”

Wyman's heart flew up into his throat as two brown button eyes gazed into his. It was such a blessing that his boy considered Amanda his mother now. “I want her to have a real nice Christmas, too, Simon,” he murmured, searching for words that conveyed the right tone. “But it's not really about the gifts, you know.”

“Jah, it's all about Jesus,” the boy replied without missing a beat. “But the Wise Men brought
Him
presents—and they were silly perfume things that a baby wouldn't even use.”

Wyman choked on a laugh. “We can't judge what men back
in Bible times selected as gifts. They were giving Jesus gold and precious oils to—”

“Oil!” Simon dug down into his coat pocket and brought up some one-dollar bills. “I'll get Mamm some cooking oil—'cause it's
gold
, too! Jerome paid me for helping with the horses this week.”

Simon's logic beat adult reasoning hands-down, so Wyman started toward the grocery aisle. At least his boy would have a gift he was excited about giving—and maybe something would jump out at Wyman as a gift for Amanda until he could afford something . . . worthy of her. It rubbed him like a burr under a horse's blanket, to be so strapped for cash at this time of year. It galled him even more that this situation stemmed from his own lack of judgment about how thin to stretch his money, and about Reece Weaver's character as well.

Wyman felt out of place amongst the pie plates and measuring cups, and he didn't see anything that Amanda didn't already have. As he followed Simon toward the next aisle, however, he noticed that Sam and Abby were having an intense discussion next to the fabric counter. And when Abby looked at
him
, her face conveyed an emotion he couldn't interpret.

Now what have I done?
Wyman wondered if he would ever reach a point where women didn't befuddle him. At least Simon was snatching up a bottle of canola oil as though he'd found the perfect gift—and indeed, Amanda would be pleased with the boy's biblical explanation, and she would put Simon's oil to good use.

“I'm all set, Dat! And I can color a design on the grocery sack, to use it for my wrapping paper,” Simon added with a satisfied nod. “But don't tell the girls, okay?”

“I wouldn't spoil your surprise for anything.” As Wyman watched his son skip along the aisle, deftly dodging other shoppers as he held his bottle of oil high, he wished for some of Simon's ingenuity . . . just a hint at some little thing . . .

At the end of the grocery aisle, Wyman grasped a jar of dill pickles—
because I'm certainly in a pickle,
he mused. He chatted with Eddie for a few moments, catching up with his son while Abby got Amanda's order together. When she bustled toward the counter with an armload of bundles wrapped in brown paper, Wyman made his way over to check out. It was a treat to watch Simon hand his money up to Sam and then hold the bagged bottle to his chest as though it were indeed as precious as myrrh.

“You've got quite a shopper here,” Sam remarked as he punched button after button, tallying Amanda's bill. “Simon chose a brand that's on sale this week—ain't so?” he asked the boy.

“It's all gut!” Simon crowed as he stuffed two dollars back into his coat pocket.

Remember that—it's all gut
.
The ultimate statement of faith,
Wyman mused as he set down the pickle jar and took out his wallet. He sighed inwardly as Abby added a bunch of hairpins—
hairpins
, of which they already had dozens at home!—and waited for the total of Amanda's purchases.

“Comes to a hundred twenty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents,” Sam said.

“Oof. I didn't know I'd be picking up all this extra stuff,” Wyman murmured as he counted out a fifty and some twenties.

“Your credit's gut with me,” Sam replied. “Not a problem at all.”

“I pay my bills,” Wyman insisted, “and you've been way too generous these past couple of months, as it is. Phooey. I'm shy by a buck and half. This is downright—”

Simon elbowed his thigh.

“Just a minute, Son, I—” Wyman glanced down and his breath caught in his throat. His boy was holding up the two ones he'd just pocketed, smiling like a mop-haired cherub.

“Got you covered, Dat.”

A wondrous love for this son filled his heart as well as yet
another lesson about childlike
faith
. Didn't Simon always believe things would work out right—sometimes in spite of adults' nay-saying? Wyman cupped his hand around the boy's downy cheek, and then accepted the money. “I'll pay you back as soon as we get home,” he said. “I'm pleased you were so quick to share your money with me, Simon.”

“I wish some of the other boys who've been in the store lately could see what you just did,” Sam added with a nod. “The Lord loves a cheerful giver.”

Wyman added the pickles to Simon's paper bag and then grabbed Amanda's bulky bundles and her grocery sack. As they started for home, he was grateful that his boy was such a happy chatterbox today, for it kept the heavier subjects on his mind from bogging him down.

“Will you help me color holly and red bows and evergreen branches on my paper sack, Dat?”

Wyman smiled, picturing himself at the table with crayons—an activity he really didn't have time for.
Why not? Don't you recall how you cherished every moment your dat spent with you, at Simon's age?
And designing paper for Christmas packages would certainly be more fun than the phone call to Reece Weaver he had to make when he got home.

“Tell you what,” he replied. “If we use one of the sheets of brown paper Abby wrapped your mamm's stuff in, we'll have a piece big enough to wrap your gift and mine, too.”

Simon's eyes got wide. “But all you bought was pickles! Is that what you're giving Mamm?”

Wyman leaned sideways until his nose nearly met his boy's. “It's a secret, what-all I'm getting her, so you can't say a word. Promise?”

Simon made a big X across his chest with his mittened finger. “Jah, promise. I can't wait to see her face when she opens
that
one.”

Wyman laughed. He could only hope Amanda would accept his explanation of the pickles as readily as she would love Simon's story about the Wise Men and his oil. Considering how most of his morning had gone, he was going to need a lot of heavenly intervention if this Christmas was to be as wonderful as he'd intended.

“I
'll be in after I make a phone call,” Wyman said as he climbed out of the buggy. “How about if you see what we can have for a quick lunch, Simon?”

“Jah! After I hide my present up in my room,” the boy replied as he scrambled down to the floor of the barn. “I'll hide yours, too, okay?”

“That'll be gut. Denki.” As his boy slid the barn door shut, Wyman unhitched the Belgian and gathered his thoughts. He'd been stewing over this phone call to Reece Weaver ever since this morning, when he'd seen that
nothing
had been done on his elevator after the foundations for the big bins had been poured. It wasn't his way to be confrontational, but a new tactic was necessary if he was to command his contractor's full attention—and get what he'd already paid for.

Guide my mind and my tongue, Lord,
he prayed as he picked up the receiver and dialed. Wyman heard the third ring . . . the
fourth, and then the funny ring that signaled he was being transferred into Reece's voice mail. He could picture Weaver recognizing the Brubaker number on the window of his cell phone and refusing to answer—maybe for several more days. So he'd have to leave a message that would get results.

“Jah, Reece, it's Wyman, and I'm not at all pleased at what I saw—or rather, did
not
see—at the elevator site this morning,” he said in a rising voice. “Unless I hear your assurances that the bins will be going up by the end of this week, I'll be contacting my lawyer. Christmas season or not, I won't accept empty assurances rather than visible progress on my elevator. Call me.”

Wyman's stomach clutched with more than hunger as he hung up. He didn't
have
a lawyer, and the idea of consulting an English attorney went against his religious convictions, but he hoped Reece would take him seriously now. He and Ray had made more than enough phone calls lately, and Weaver's lack of response was gnawing on him. He was beginning to wonder if he'd been altogether wrong to expand his business—much less to choose Reece as his contractor. Considering what he stood to lose if this project went wrong . . .

It's got to go right. There's just no other way.

As Wyman gathered Amanda's bulky packages into his arms, he prepared himself for the next little chat he needed to have, with his wife—now, before the older kids got home. He'd always considered Amanda a prudent, conscientious shopper, but this morning's spending spree had to be addressed if they were to get through the next several months without owing Sam and every other area merchant a bunch of money. He was as averse to running up a tab—being beholden to anyone—as he was to getting into a legal hassle with Reece. He would go right into the pottery workroom and—

“Wyman!” Amanda said in a strained voice as she threw open
the door. “Why'd you bring those packages home? Abby and I had agreed that—”

“I was saving Jerome a trip.” He reminded himself to remain calm but direct, because it seemed that Amanda, too, was in a confrontational mood.

“But we agreed that Jerome could fetch them in a day or two and pay for everything with money from the pottery orders he'll be delivering for me.” Amanda leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Now I suppose Simon knows every little thing I got him and the girls for Christmas.”

Wyman's heart thudded dully. As he faced his wife across the top of the bundles he held, he noticed that she'd been crying. Her flummoxed expression suggested she was about ready to start up again. “I had no idea—”

“Jah, and now you've seen some of
your
presents as well.”

“Because Sam didn't let on about—”

“Well, Sam doesn't know everything!” Amanda blurted. “And now Jerome has no reason to go into town and visit with Emma, or—oh, just get inside and shut the door! Bring those packages into my workroom before the girls hear you're home and come downstairs.”

Wyman had never been one to let a woman manipulate him or make him feel guilty, yet he kept his mouth shut as he followed Amanda through the kitchen. From what he could tell, he'd foiled a little Christmas scheme by going along with Sam's practicality . . . which also explained why Abby and her brother had engaged in such an intense discussion at the fabric table, and then Abby had scowled at
him
.

When he entered the room where Amanda's pottery wheel, kiln, and shelves of supplies were set up, she quickly shut the door behind him. As she opened the closet and pointed for him to put his bundles inside it, Wyman noticed the broom and dustpan near
a pile of shattered cobalt and cinnamon-colored pottery on the floor. “Uh-oh. What happened here?” he asked gently.

Amanda exhaled loudly. “Jemima and the girls were decorating the front room, and when I was taking one of Lois's bowls out of the kiln, Alice Ann came up behind me with the Baby Jesus from the Nativity set. She was
so
excited—but she startled me, and then the bowl hit the floor. And so did Jesus.”

Wyman's face fell. His toddler was just beginning to grasp the Christmas story, at least the fact that barn animals and a special baby were involved, and she had to be heartbroken. Just as Amanda was.

“I know it's only glass,” Amanda went on with a sad sigh, “but Alice Ann was beside herself about breaking Jesus, and the pieces are too tiny to glue together . . . and it was from a Nativity that's been passed down in my mamm's family.”

Amanda turned away, crossing her arms tightly as she got her emotions under control. After a few moments she faced him again. “I'm sorry I got upset, Wyman,” she murmured. “I just wanted this first Christmas to be the best ever for all of us and—”

“We all want that,” he murmured.

“I'll pay you back for those presents when—”

“No, you won't,” Wyman insisted. “It's not your place to—”

“Please, let's not fight about it!” Amanda blurted. Her shoulders slumped. “Now that I think back, I didn't tell Abby I was Christmas shopping,” she admitted. “I'm sorry, Wyman. The whole morning's been jagged around the edges.”

“I'm sorry, too, Amanda. I really didn't mean to spoil your surprises.” Wyman opened his arms, grateful that his wife entered into his embrace and wrapped her arms around him. His morning had felt pretty jagged, too, and yet as pressing as his problems with Reece and the family finances had felt, those concerns now seemed petty compared to the trauma of breaking the most important piece of a beloved family Nativity set.

As Amanda let go of her tension, Wyman held her closer, savoring her warmth and the way she fit so perfectly against him. Last year at this time, he'd felt desolate and overwhelmed, wishing the Christmas season would pass him by so he wouldn't have to face it—and the kids—without Viola. He'd been financially well-off then, but a broken man nonetheless.

Wyman breathed deeply, inhaling Amanda's clean scent. He held her for a few moments more. Simon and the girls weren't used to seeing the door to this room shut, so they'd soon be knocking on it out of concern or curiosity. It was probably in his best interest to talk about something less emotionally charged—which certainly didn't include voicing his frustrations about Reece Weaver—so Wyman considered his topic options carefully.

“Is there any way I can have a sheet of that brown paper that's wrapped around some of your packages?” he asked. “I promise I won't look at what's in them—and Simon, by the way, didn't see what you got him or the other kids, either. He was too busy picking out his gift for you—and he bought it with his own money, too.”

Amanda looked up at him, a smile lighting her face. “Jah, I suppose I could—”

“He's asked me to help him design his wrapping paper,” Wyman explained as he thumbed a final tear from her cheek. “I think I'll take a couple of sandwiches upstairs so we men can color in his room for a while.”

“Oh, he'll love that, Wyman.”

“And I love
you
, Amanda,” he murmured, holding her gaze. “Can you forgive me for thinking that my way surely must be right and that I always know best?”

Never
would he have asked his previous wife such a question, but Amanda wasn't Viola. Today's shopping episode was one more reminder that
change
was in order—and that such changes started
from within. Wyman held his breath as the woman in his arms kept him waiting for her answer.

“Jah, I can do that,” Amanda finally whispered. “I love you, too, Wyman.”

Wyman kissed her. He noticed that she hadn't asked for his forgiveness in return—but then, why did she need to? That was another example of his old way of thinking. Instead, his wife had offered him the perfect response to almost anything she would ever ask of him:
Jah, I can do that.

Because with Amanda by his side, Wyman believed he really could do anything.

*   *   *

B
efore dawn the next morning, Wyman headed out to the barn as though he intended to get an early start on the chores. After seeing the Nativity set in the front room yesterday, with all the pieces except for the most important one, he'd thought long into the night about how to remedy the situation. The crèche probably dated back to the early 1900s, and the sets being made today were far less detailed. But he had to try. He lit the lantern and then dialed the phone.

“Jah, it's Wyman,” he said when the Fishers' answering machine kicked on. “I'd like Tyler to give me a call, about seeing if he can locate something on his computer. It's a Christmas gift, so he'll have to talk to me rather than Amanda or Jerome. Have a gut day—and I wish your family a blessed Christmas.”

As he hung up, a sense of anticipation and peace filled him. Chances were slim that a Baby Jesus of the right size and style could be ordered and delivered in the week that remained before Christmas—if ever—but it was a mission Wyman could wrap his heart around. He walked slowly down the center aisle of the barn, gazing at Jerome's mule foals as they slept in the hay near their mothers. The shadowy stalls smelled earthy with manure, and the winter wind whistled through a crack.

Once again Wyman was reminded how humble and lowly the Christ Child's beginnings had been and how blessed he was that his own children had a sturdy roof over their heads and a mother to care for them. Amanda had provided his family with a great many gifts to be grateful for this year.

Behind him, the door slid open. In the lantern light, Jerome's expression looked tight. “Is Pete out here with you?” he asked.

“Nope, it's just me and the livestock. Why?” Wyman replied.

Jerome shut the door against the wind. “When I heard you go downstairs, I thought I'd shake him awake, so you wouldn't be doing the chores by yourself. But his bed hasn't been slept in. Looks like a bunch of his clothes are gone, too.”

Wyman gripped the top railing of the stall to steady himself. Then he hurried along the center aisle, taking a count of their horses and rigs, his heart racing along with his footsteps. “How'd he get out of here without any of us knowing? Or without Wags barking?”

“The dog sleeps in Simon's room,” Jerome reminded him. “What with the way Pete's been talking about how useless school seems—”

“And how much he dislikes Teacher Dorcas,” Wyman joined in, “maybe we should've seen this coming. Blackie's gone, but none of the rigs, so he's on horseback.” He stopped, still puzzled, to stare into the empty stall where their oldest gelding usually stayed. “But where on God's gut earth would Pete
go
? Do you suppose he said anything to Vera or Lizzie?”

“They would've told you or Amanda after they tried to talk him out of it.”

As Jerome came to stand beside him, Wyman recalled more incidents and remarks than he cared to . . . times when Pete had expressed his unhappiness, and then
he
had responded with the usual stern fatherly insistence that his son follow the rules.

“You know, this probably started when Amanda and I first married,” Wyman murmured. “When the two oldest boys made a fuss about moving to this farm, I told them that if they didn't want to pull their weight in our new blended family, they should get out and make their own way.”

“You couldn't have foreseen this, Wyman,” Jerome assured him. “Boys go through this stage—just like you and I did at thirteen. But that doesn't mean we took off.”

Wyman chuckled ruefully. “Speak for yourself. I recall more than a night or two when I didn't go home, but I was older than Pete—in my rumspringa. I was out with Mennonite or English boys my parents didn't approve of.”

“But you eventually faced them and took the lecture you had coming.”

“Jah, that's how it worked.”

Jerome paused to collect his thoughts. “I suspect Pete'll be back as soon as he misses a few meals. And I can't think any Plain man would hire him or take him in without asking him why he's on the loose, young as he is.”

“Haven't heard him mention any gut friends he's made around here . . . and if he's gone back to Clearwater, any of those parents would call me—or at least I hope they would,” Wyman reasoned aloud.

“It'll be the same if he's gone to Cedar Creek,” Jerome pointed out. “Maybe he hopes to work with Eddie—”

“If so, Sam will call as soon as Pete shows up. And there's no point in taking off down the road looking for him while it's still dark.”

“It's probably best to wait him out,” Jerome remarked as he grabbed a bucket and headed for the feed bins. “Pete's not world-wise enough to get far.”

While Wyman refilled water troughs, he thought back to when he'd come down on Pete for teasing Lizzie—downright
flirting with his new stepsister—during her brief time at the Clearwater school and again over the past few weeks, when Pete had wanted to contribute to the family's income. What could he have said or done differently?