A Lancaster County Christmas Read online

  Start Reading

  © 2011 by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  E-book edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3416-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published in association with Joyce Hart of the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC.

  To a very special woman,

  a friend extraordinaire for nearly thirty years,

  Nyna Dolby.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Two Days before Christmas

  Christmas Eve

  Christmas Morning

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  Back Ads

  Two Days before Christmas

  The first thin flakes of snow had begun to swirl. Mattie Riehl glanced out the buggy windshield and up at the troubling clouds during the trip into town for a doctor’s appointment. When they reached the parking lot, she hesitated before climbing out of the buggy. “The sky is more ferocious looking than when we left home.”

  Solomon, her husband, reached his hands around her waist to help her down. “We’ll be home in plenty of time before it hits.”

  “Bet we’ll get fresh snow for Christmas!” Danny nosedived over the front bench of the buggy and slipped out behind his mother. He lifted his small face to the sky, scanning it for snowflakes.

  “Looks like we might,” Mattie said. She straightened her son’s glasses and turned to her husband. “I still don’t think this appointment is necessary.”

  Sol paid her no mind. “Well, we’re already here. The doctor thought it would be wise, Mattie. Just to be safe.”

  When she lifted her head, her eyes caught her husband’s gaze. A look of joy and suffering, woven together. That’s what these last few weeks have been like. Love and pain, joy and suffering. Sol bent down and tugged the felt brim hat on his son’s forehead, then gently steered Mattie into the doctor’s office.

  Mattie and Danny sat down in the empty waiting room while Sol spoke to the receptionist. Mattie glanced around the room, amused. It was covered with English-style Christmas decorations. Gold garland draped the walls, Christmas cards were thumbtacked onto a bulging bulletin board, an artificial spruce tree sat in the corner, blinking its colored lights. The door opened and a young English girl swept in, nearly knocking down the wreath made of shiny gold and silver metal sleigh bells that practically engulfed the door. The girl steadied the wreath before she walked up to the desk to check in.

  After Sol finished talking to the receptionist, he sat down next to Mattie. “It’ll be a few minutes. The doctor’s running behind.”

  Danny walked around the room, examining the walls. “Dad, where is that music coming from?”

  Sol pointed out the speakers in the ceiling. Mattie hadn’t even noticed the music until Danny mentioned it. Then she heard strange lyrics pour out: “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” She and Sol exchanged a startled look.

  “Englische Schpieles,” Sol murmured and shrugged his shoulders. English music.

  The English girl, still talking to the receptionist, pulled off her hat and scarf. Hair the color of ripened peaches spilled around her shoulders.

  “Is that a Burberry scarf?” the receptionist asked the girl.

  “What kind of a berry is a burr-berry?” Danny asked Mattie, but she hushed him before he could ask another question. Once her son got going, nothing stopped him. He had more questions than there were answers.

  Mattie overheard the English girl ask the receptionist if she could just pick something up and go.

  “No, no,” the receptionist said. “The doctor always likes to talk to his patients before he renews a prescription.”

  “Why?” the girl asked, her voice a little louder, exasperated. “I just saw him six months ago.”

  The telephone rang and the receptionist turned her attention to it, grabbing the receiver as she pointed to a chair for the girl to sit in. “Take a seat,” she mouthed. “He’ll be with you as soon as he can.” She pointed to a basket of candy canes. “Help yourself.”

  The girl picked out a candy cane, turned slowly around, and found an empty seat.

  Mattie had it wrong. The English girl wasn’t a girl at all, but a woman. A woman with a very odd haircut. It was longer on one side than the other. Peculiar! Other than the cockeyed haircut, the woman was quite lovely, Mattie realized, with blue eyes that tilted at the corners and a soft, round face. But there was turmoil behind those eyes—as if the world were all at sea. Danny whispered a question to Sol and the woman startled, as if she had forgotten anyone else was in the room. She looked curiously at Mattie and Sol and Danny as she took in their Plain clothes—a look of puzzlement Mattie was long accustomed to. Then Danny left his father’s side to cross the room to the English woman. Mattie reached out to stop him, but Sol put a hand on her knee. Danny was known for wandering off, talking to strangers. Sol always said to let him be, that it was in his nature to be curious. Mattie used to be more agreeable, allowing Danny room to be adventurous, but over the last year or so, she could feel herself changing in a way she didn’t like and couldn’t help.

  Danny sat down next to the woman and showed her a wooden whistle. The woman looked at the whistle politely, but seemed a little uncomfortable around a child, especially a Plain one. Danny didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, but then, that was Danny. He assumed everyone liked to talk to him. “My dad made this for me. For my birthday.” He looked up at her. “Want to hear what it sounds like? It’s an owl whistle.”

  “Danny,” Sol said in a warning voice. “You’re in a doctor’s office.”

  As soon as Danny mentioned the word “owl,” the English woman visibly relaxed. “He won’t bother anyone,” she said, her eyes glued to Danny’s whistle. “It’s just us in the waiting room. I’d like to hear it.”

  Danny’s cheeks puffed with air as he blew out three short hoots. “It’s a screech owl. Everybody thinks a screech owl should sound screechy, but it’s really a hoot sound. It’s the barn owl that sounds so screechy.” He then imitated the ear-piercing sound of a barn owl. “I found a baby barn owl with a broken wing. I feed it mice every day.”

  The woman fingered the wooden whistle. “Must be nice to have an owl for a pet.”

  “Oh, it’s not a pet,” Danny said solemnly. “Wild animals should never be pets. My dad helped me set the wing, and after it’s healed, we’re going to release it.”

  “I’ve always admired owls,” she said. “I think I read somewhere that owls are the only birds that fly without making any sound.”

  “That’s true!” Danny said. “And they’re not waterproof like other birds. They get soaking wet and
weighed down by their soggy feathers so that they can’t fly. If an owl can’t dry off quickly, it can shiver with cold and die.” He wrapped his arms around himself and started to shake, to show her how a wet, cold owl acted.

  The woman burst out with a laugh. “How old are you?”

  “Six-and-a-half,” Danny said, as if it were one word. He poked his spectacles higher up on his nose. “How old are you?”

  “Danny!” Mattie said sharply.

  A slow smile softened the woman’s features. “It’s only fair. I asked him. He’s asking me.” She turned to Danny. “I’m twenty-five. And my name is Jaime. Jaime Fitzpatrick.” She held out her hand to Danny.

  He reached over and shook her hand. “Danny Riehl.”

  “Are birds your favorite animals?” she asked.

  He wrinkled his nose, a sign he was deep in thought. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I used to take pictures of rare birds,” Jaime said to Danny. “And once I photographed the migration flyway during the Audubon Christmas Count.”

  “I know about that!” Danny said. “My cousin lives in Ohio and rides bicycles to count the birds. My cousin and his friends set records on how many birds they counted.” He sat down next to her. “What do you take pictures of now?”

  Jaime hesitated. “I take pictures of people, mostly. I’ve been working at Sears Portrait Studio. Just down the street from here.”

  “You don’t take pictures of birds anymore?”

  “Not like I used to. But it’s my favorite thing—to take pictures of nature and wildlife. It’s not easy to do. Movement is a photographer’s greatest challenge, and birds are always on the move. But then you’ve got a trade-off—because natural light is so much better than artificial lighting.”

  Danny’s face scrunched up. “If you like to be outside so much, then why would you work inside?”

  A strange expression crossed Jaime’s face. “Well, the backdrops for the portraits can make it look like a person is outside.” She glanced at her watch.

  “Danny, du hast genug sach Fraugt,” Mattie said. Danny, you’ve asked enough questions.

  The nurse opened the door and asked sternly, “Did somebody let a wild bird loose in the waiting room?” Her face broke into a mischievous grin as Danny’s eyes went round. “Why, lo and behold, it’s not a wild bird at all. It’s just a wild boy!” She winked at Danny and he giggled. “We’re ready for you now, Mrs. Riehl.” She turned to Sol. “Shouldn’t be a long appointment.”

  “Danny and I will go outside,” Sol told Mattie, giving her a look of reassurance.

  “We can play catch with snowballs!” Danny said.

  He ran to the door and opened it, letting in a blast of cold air. Then he turned and waved goodbye to the English woman. She tossed him the candy cane and he caught it in his mittened hands. He turned to Mattie, a silent request to eat it. She nodded, and he gave the English woman what Sol called his jack-o’-lantern grin. Four front teeth were missing.

  As soon as the Amish woman disappeared into an exam room, the nurse returned to the waiting room and motioned to Jaime to follow her into the doctor’s office and step on the scale. She moved the weight until it finally balanced, whistling two notes: up, down. “You’re sure inching your way up that scale!”

  Jaime studied her feet. “Must be these shoes.” Along with her new hobby of grief snacking.

  “I don’t think so, hon.”

  Jaime frowned at her, but the nurse was oblivious as she scribbled down the weight. “Five pounds is really not all that much.”

  The nurse snorted. “No, but ten sure is, sugar.”

  Jaime winced. The funk she’d been in since her mother’s death last summer was taking its toll in more ways than just increasingly uncomfortable clothes.

  As the nurse wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Jaime’s arm, she turned to face the instrument on the wall. Long blond hair swung around the perfect oval of the nurse’s face. Jaime poked an errant curl behind her ear and wondered how the nurse’s hair fell like that—sleek and smooth—unlike her own hair, which continued to defy the new straightening product she’d paid way too much for.

  “Born that way,” she said, reading Jaime’s mind.

  “I figured,” Jaime sighed. Her own hair was the curse of her existence, especially on a windy winter day when even industrial-strength styling gel couldn’t keep her hair settled down.

  The nurse rolled up the cuff and stuffed it into the holder on the wall. “Your hair is . . . unusual.”

  Okay. Now the nurse had sailed past mildly irritating and was flirting in the annoying zone.

  “You don’t see that color every day . . . unless it’s out of a bottle.”

  This nurse had a knack for poking Jaime’s raw spots: her blossoming weight, her unruly hair. What was next, her ever-so-absent father? Or better still, what about her fragile marriage? “Well, it’s not,” Jaime said, sounding a tad more defensive than she intended. At least her hair color added some flash to the rest of what she considered her very ordinary features. She’d always liked her eyes, though, and she liked to believe their slight tilt gave her a mysterious look. As a child she used to wear a scarf over the bottom half of her face as a veil and pretend she was a Moroccan spy.

  “So, doll, are you ready for Christmas?”

  Jaime never understood why people used diminutives in place of names. Hon, doll, sugar. Why didn’t the nurse just admit she couldn’t remember Jaime’s name? “This year will be a little different. We’re not really celebrating. We’re going away for Christmas.”

  The nurse turned to leave. “Christmas has a way of coming, wherever you might be.” She snapped Jaime’s chart shut. “Dr. Engel will be seeing you today. He’s on-call for the regular doctor.”

  Jaime’s head snapped up. “What happened to Dr. Cramer?”

  “Dr. Cramer is at his daughter’s preschool recital. Dr. Engel agreed to take over his office visits today, as a favor.” She tilted her head. “Dr. Engel will just be a moment. Or two.”

  The nurse hummed along with the tinny music piped in through the ceiling speaker: “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” She smiled distractedly at Jaime as she reached for the door. The door was decorated as a giant gift—covered with shiny foil wrapping paper and taped with a big red bow. The bow came loose and fluttered to the floor. “Blasted bow,” she muttered as she picked it up and pressed the sticky side against the door. “These decorations have been up since before Thanksgiving. I’ll be glad when Christmas is over and this place can go back to looking like a doctor’s office.”

  As the door closed behind the nurse, Jaime glanced at her wristwatch and weighed her options. She was frustrated with herself for leaving this errand to the last minute. She heard a gust of wind blow a tree limb against the building and walked over to the window to look at the ominous clouds.

  She saw two black hats outside—the Amish father and his son gathering snow that had dusted the ground, packing it into balls, and pelting each other. The Amish boy’s snowballs weren’t packed hard enough and they splayed apart after release. Soon there was as much snow being flung through the air as rested on the ground. The sight made her laugh out loud. That little boy was so cute! Strawberry blond hair, thick blond lashes framing saucer-sized brown eyes, and freckles across his nose, like someone had sprinkled it with cinnamon. The nosepiece of his eyeglasses was wrapped with adhesive tape. And such round cheeks! He didn’t walk so much as he bounced; he didn’t talk so much as he bubbled over like a shaken-up can of soda. She wasn’t really one to notice children. C.J., her husband, was the one who noticed kids, in restaurants or at parks. But then, he was a teacher.

  The little boy nailed his father square in the face with a snowball. Jaime’s gaze shifted to the father. She felt a pang of worry for the boy, fully expecting the father to start bellowing. Instead, she saw the father wipe snow dramatically off his face and laugh. Then he chased his son and grabbed him in a bear hug. That sight . . . it was so unexp
ected, so charming, she framed it in her mind like a photograph. If her mother were still here, she would’ve turned it into a Currier & Ives type of Christmas card, with such a caption as “The best things to give your children aren’t things!”

  Tears pricked Jaime’s eyes. She had to stop doing that. Stop cobbling together imaginary conversations with her mother as if she were still alive. She wasn’t.

  Jaime’s mother had worked as a writer for an inspirational greeting card company. She spent all day thinking up verses and phrases: An Easter card that read, “No bunny loves you like Jesus!” Or a pick-me-up card: “Exercise daily! Walk with Jesus!” These platitudes—always with exclamation points!—infused her mother’s everyday speech in a way that used to embarrass Jaime, especially around her friends.

  No longer.

  She leaned her forehead against the cold windowpane. A moment ago she had been laughing. Now she felt an aching sadness that she couldn’t understand.

  Jaime heard the slightly accented voice of the Amish woman talking to the nurse as she walked down the hall to leave.

  Then the door to the examining room where Jaime was waiting opened slowly. The doctor shuffled in and gave her a warm smile. He had penetrating blue eyes and a shock of white hair. But he was old, so old that Jaime’s heart sank. This won’t be quick. Jaime extended her hand to shake his. “Dr. Engel, I’m Jaime Fitzpatrick. And I won’t take but a moment of your time.”

  The doctor reached out and clasped her hands with both of his as if he were greeting a long-lost friend. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her straight on, in a manner that was so frank and plain it might have been mistaken for rudeness if his blue eyes had not been so kind.