Christmas in Apple Ridge (5 page)

As innocent as her words were meant to be, they carried a mild dishonor to him. Aside from a few pangs of loneliness once in a while, he was content being single. As the thought rumbled through him, the memory of the stranger in black stood before him again. She’d captivated some part of him, but it wasn’t her beauty that had piqued his interest. Like an ancient oak, she carried hidden years, and as an artist, he was drawn to it.

He walked outside, and cold liquid splattered over his head and down his neck. “Whoa.”

“Jonah.” Mark’s surprised voice came from above him.

Jonah looked up to see his friend on the roof with an upturned cup in his hand. A couple of men moved to Mark’s side to see what had happened.

Jonah licked his lips. “Mmm. Lemonade.”

Laughing, the men returned to work.

Martha brought him a dishtowel, looking more concerned than amused.

“Thanks.” Jonah wiped his face. “You’re standing in dangerous territory unless you prefer to wear your lemonade rather than drink it.”

She motioned toward the picnic table. “Maybe you’d prefer trying on some food instead.”

Her sense of humor amused him, which would make the chore his grandmother had laid before him easier.

Why was it so hard for married men and women to accept that he liked being single? Only one thought came to his mind—
they
needed to find a better hobby.

C
hildren’s laughter echoed across the snow-covered hills. Beth shivered, watching from a distance. Her feet ached from the cold, and her fingers were numb. A little Amish boy got off his sled and faced her. A younger girl took him by the hand. They stood motionless, watching Beth.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. A man moved among the trees, calling to them. When they didn’t come, he walked closer and called again. The children motioned for Beth to join them, but her legs worked no better than her mouth. As the man drew closer, he smiled and gestured toward the field where half a dozen other children played. Too cold to move, Beth began to recognize the children. She knew their names, didn’t she? But from where?

The frigid air around her seemed too much to bear, but the man and the children appeared as warm as if they sat in front of a wood stove. As if reading her thoughts, the man tilted his head and opened his jacket, revealing heaps of embers glowing in his chest. The children followed suit, showing a bonfire inside their tiny upper bodies.

With stiff fingers Beth unhooked her black cape and looked at her heart. Anxiety spread through her body. Where they had embers and fire, she had frozen tundra.

The man touched his chest and then held out an ember for her. Embarrassed at her frozen soul, she wanted to hold out her hand, but she couldn’t. Even if she could lift her arm, he stood too far away. She tried to walk toward him but couldn’t move. He held out his hand again.

Her jaws fought against the wires that kept them clasped. “I … I can’t.”

He looked straight through her, and she understood that he couldn’t come any closer. She had to be the one who moved. Snow began to fall, and the sky grew dark, but she couldn’t budge an inch. The sadness in the children’s eyes ran deeper than Beth could comprehend. They clasped hands and ran back to the others. The man stood, watching her. A tear slid down his face, and one by one the children faded into nothingness.

His eyes pleaded with her to find the strength to move forward and take the ember, but even as she willed herself to take a step, he too faded away.

Beth sat up in bed, trying to steady her pounding heart.

That dream—and a dozen others like it over the last two weeks—was as bad as the ones that had plagued her since Henry died. Nightmares of him clinging to her as rain poured from the skies and formed rivers that swept him away while she remained on solid ground, her clothing soaked as the temperatures dropped and freezing winds began to blow. The images were too close to reality, and she couldn’t find
freedom whether Henry was alive or dead, whether she was awake or asleep. Thoughts of Henry always brought confusion, but lately the dreams weren’t about him.

Sliding into her housecoat, she moved to the wooden steps that led to the store below. The darkness inside the stairwell felt familiar and welcoming, and she sat down. As the reassurance of the place wrapped around her, she began to shake free of the dream.

She folded her arms and propped them on her knees, making a place to rest her head. While trying not to think about anything, sleep drifted over her again. A few moments later the sound of a horse neighing made her jerk awake. It took only a moment to realize the animal had been in her dream.

It was useless trying to sleep, whether on the stairway or in bed. Rising to her feet, she grabbed the handrail, feeling a bit dizzy. She might as well get a little work done.

Making her way down the stairs, through the store, and into her office, she couldn’t help wondering when dreams started mixing with a sense of reality. After entering her office, she slid her hands across the paper-strewn desk top, searching for a set of matches. Her fingertips brushed against the carving she’d bought nearly two weeks ago. It took up a good bit of her desk, but she’d made room for it.

Forget the matches. Her mind was too cloudy to think anyway. She walked around her desk and sat in the chair. Gliding her fingertips over the intricate detail of the carving, she wished her aunt would at least go meet with the artist.

She’d lost the argument with the bishop that it wasn’t an idol. He
quoted the second commandment—“thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.” Because the wood had human images carved into it, Omar felt it was too close to what the Old Testament warned against. Since faceless dolls were commonplace among her people for the same reasoning, Beth had little grounds for appeal. His decision was final, but she held on to the hope that she could convince Englischer stores to carry the carvings. That wasn’t working either since Lizzy refused to let her try. She said it would disrespect their bishop. Beth’s Daed and uncles sided with Lizzy, so for now Beth could do nothing.

If her aunt was willing to talk with the artist and his bishop, she might feel differently. Then Beth could at least sell the man’s work to Englischer stores. But Lizzy seemed more interested in pleasing Bishop Omar than in making a difference in an artist’s life.

Beth sighed, wishing they could see the carvings like she did, as no more of an idol than an Amish-sewn wall hanging. Maybe then the strange dreams where the children and the man from the carving beckoned her to enter their snowy Amish world would disappear.

Standing on the porch of the store, Lizzy slid her key into the lock and turned it. Inside, she noticed the door to the steps that led to Beth’s bedroom stood open. Lizzy moved to the foot of the stairwell. “Beth?”

She heard no movement upstairs. Turning slowly in a circle, she expected her niece’s head to pop up from between the aisles. Usually by this time each morning, the two of them had shared a breakfast, talked business, and begun preparing to open the place at nine. “Beth?”

Her heart ran wild, and panic over her niece sliced through her. The young woman hadn’t been herself in so long. She handled herself well, but Lizzy knew something ate at her. Suddenly Lizzy admitted to herself that images of Beth taking her own life slipped into her mind at times.

“Beth!”

When she didn’t respond, Lizzy rushed to the office and pushed against the slightly open door. Her niece was slouched over the desk, her fingers resting on that carving she’d bought.

Her legs shaking, Lizzy touched her niece’s face. “Honey?”

Beth moaned and drew a sleepy breath. Unable to remain standing, Lizzy eased into a chair next to the desk.

Blinking, Beth frowned and lifted her head. “Good morning.” Her voice sounded hoarse and groggy.

“Did you sleep here all night?”

Beth took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. “No.” Stretching her neck, she yawned. “I didn’t sleep much anywhere. What time is it?”

“A little after eight.”

Beth looked straight at her and narrowed her eyes. “Is something wrong?”

Unable to share her fears, Lizzy shook her head. Beth came around to the front of the desk. She didn’t look depressed, so why did Lizzy’s imagination get the best of her? As soon as the question ran through her mind, she knew the answer. Her niece had changed, and Lizzy feared she might be getting worse rather than better.

Beth brushed her fingertips across Lizzy’s forehead. “Then why is there fear in your eyes?”

“I … I couldn’t find you.”

Beth sat on the edge of the desk. “So you thought mountain lions came out of the hills, into the shop, and ate me?”

“My imagination got away with me, and I …” Lizzy swallowed hard, willing herself to say what was on her heart. “You worry me. It’s like you’re not the same person anymore.”

Beth patted her hand. “I know.”

Does she really know how much she’s changed?
And how completely scared and out of control Lizzy felt concerning her?

“Why are you sleeping in the office?”

Her niece’s delicate hands caressed the carving. “It calls to me. Dreams that make little sense fade in and out as if they’re trying to tell me something.” She raised one eyebrow and mockingly pointed a finger at Lizzy. “And you know how I feel about people talking to me when I’m trying to sleep.”

In spite of her humor about it, her niece’s blue eyes held absolute rawness, as if Henry had died yesterday rather than sixteen months ago. And Beth had asked only one thing of Lizzy since Henry had died. Just one.

“I’ve decided to go see this artist of yours.”

Beth’s eyes grew large, and a beautiful smile seemed to remove some of her paleness. “Really?”

“Ya.”

A spark of delight stole through the usual sadness in Beth’s eyes, and Lizzy’s heart expanded with hope. Maybe her niece would find her way back to herself yet.

“I’ll call Gloria and set up a trip,” Lizzy said. “I’m not making any promises, though. I’m checking it out. That’s it.”

“Then you’ll meet the carver. And I bet you’ll be glad you did.”

“Maybe.”

Or maybe Beth was hunting for fulfillment outside the Old Ways and Lizzy was helping her.

A
s Gloria drove down the back roads to Jonah Kinsinger’s place, Lizzy prayed. Her niece had no idea how awkward this upcoming cold call might be. She didn’t want to build up the artist’s hopes, yet she needed to talk to him about Beth’s possibly selling his work to Englischer tourist shops.

Beth was so much better with this kind of stuff, but if she were here, she might pursue the work without regard to the bishop’s opinion.

Gloria slowed the vehicle and turned into a gravel driveway. “According to our directions and the mailboxes, this should be it.”

From the looks of it, two homes, maybe three, used this triple-wide driveway and turnaround. According to the mailboxes, two of the places belonged to men named Jonah Kinsinger.

“Which one?” Gloria asked.

“Let’s stop at this first one. It looks like the original homestead, and the Jonah Kinsinger we’re looking for is an older man, according to Beth.”