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An Amish Christmas Gift: Three Amish Novellas

By Amy Clipston, Tricia Goyer, Ruth Reid, Kelly Irvin

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Chapter 1

They meant well. All of them. Frannie Mast ladled another spoonful of steaming okra gumbo into her bowl. The spicy aroma tickling her nose did nothing to calm the willies in her stomach. She couldn’t help herself, her gaze wandered down the crowded table past Aenti Abigail and her self-satisfied smile to Joseph Glick sitting on the other side with Caleb and her cousins. A giggle burbled in her throat. Stop it. Be kind. Did Joseph know he had a smear of butter on his upper lip? Did he know her aunt and uncle were doing a little matchmaking? Not that they would admit it. Plain boys and girls were to find their own mates during their rumspringa with no interference from their elders.
Apparently her situation had been deemed an exception to the rule.
Joseph flashed Frannie a smile. A chunk of venison had found a home in a gap between his lower front teeth. She suppressed a sigh and forced a smile. None of this could be construed as his fault. She remembered Joseph from school. He had been a so-so student, but a good softball player and a hard worker. He was easy to look at, with toast colored hair, green eyes, and tanned skin. He was also the third single man Aenti Abigail and Onkel Mordecai had invited to supper since her return to Bee County, Texas, three weeks earlier.
It seemed more like two years had passed since her arrival in her childhood community after three years in Missouri.
They meant well, but what were they thinking? Joseph was Leroy Glick’s son. Leroy, the bishop. Did they think Joseph would keep an eye on her too and report back to his father and to Mordecai, the district’s deacon? Would he keep her from going astray?
She wouldn’t do that. If they’d give her half a chance, she’d show them.
A fierce burning sensation assailed Frannie’s fingers. She glanced down. Gumbo dripped on her hand. The burning blush scurrying across her face had nothing to do with the soup’s heat. She dropped the ladle and grabbed her napkin, attempting to wipe the hot liquid from her fingers.
“Ouch!” She stood. Her pine chair rocked on spindly legs, then tumbled back. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Child, you’re always spilling something.” Aenti Abigail’s fierce blue eyes matched the frown lurking below her high cheek bones and long, thin nose. “Get it cleaned up.”
“It’s fine. No harm done.” Deborah King leaned over and wiped up the soup with her own napkin. Something in her tone reminded Frannie of the way her favorite cousin talked to her two year old son Timothy. “Stick it in some water.”
“Rub some butter on it. It stops the sting and helps it heal.” Joseph held out the saucer with the puddle of half melted butter that remained, still unaware it seemed of the smear on his own lip. He grinned. The venison hadn’t dislodged from his teeth. “That’s what my groossmammi used to say.”
“Old wives’ tale.” Onkel Mordecai shook his head. His shaggy, black beard, streaked with silver, bobbed. Mordecai mostly knew everything. “Water is best since we have no ice. Go on to the kitchen then.”
Relief washed over Frannie. Escape. She whirled, stumbled over a chair leg, righted herself, and rushed into the kitchen. A tub of water sat on the counter in anticipation of the dirty dishes. She shoved her hand in it, barely aware of the stinging skin on her fingers. Gumbo stained her apron. Tomato juice from the canning frolic earlier in the day provided background color. Without looking, she knew sweat stains adorned the neck of her gray dress, like jewelry she would never wear. She was a mess as usual.
Why did Aenti Abigail insist on having gumbo in this weather? Something about soup cooling a person off because it caused him to sweat. This had to be an Onkel Mordecai theory. He had tons of them, each stranger or funnier or more interesting than the last. At least life with him would not be boring. Which was good, because Frannie likely would spend the rest of her life in his house if she behaved like that in front of every man in the district. She wanted to marry and have babies like her cousins and her friends. Like every Plain woman.
Why did that seem so hard for her?
She swished both hands in the lukewarm water and stared out the window at the brown grass, wiry mesquite, live oak trees, and a huge cluster of nopales. No breeze flapped the frayed, white curtains. September weather in Bee County hadn’t changed, just as nothing else had. No one who grew up here minded hot weather. They embraced it. Still, Frannie would savor her memories of evenings in Missouri this time of year. The air steamed with heat and humidity, but huge elm, oak, hickory, and red mulberry trees populated the countryside. A breeze often kicked up the leaves in the evening hours, making it a perfect time to sit in the lawn chairs and watch the sun dip below the horizon.
Nee, she wouldn’t think of that. Thinking of those long summer nights made her think of him.
Rocky.
She swallowed hard against tears that surprised her. Rocky was only a friend. He couldn’t be anymore than that. Not for a faithful Plain woman such as herself. She understood what that meant even if her parents didn’t trust her to make the right choices.
Gott, help me be good.
“Frannie, come out here.”
Clear notes of disapproval danced with surprise in Onkel Mordecai’s gruff voice. What had she done now? Drying her hands on a dish towel, Frannie trudged from the kitchen to the front room where her family sat, scrunched together like peas in long pods at two rough hewn pine tables shoved together. No one looked at her when she entered the room. They all sat, not moving, staring toward the door as if mesmerized by a hideous rattlesnake coiled and ready to strike a venomous blow.
She plowed to a stop.
Nee. It couldn’t be.

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