To Love and to Cherish (31 page)

“My sister is well.” She carefully let the sentence dangle.

“Well? Really? That’s good, then maybe she’ll return to her housecleaning duties.” Mrs. Jenson pursed her thin lips and wrinkled her nose as if she’d just smelled a piece of spoiled meat. Her penciled eyebrows arched. “We’re trying to make allowances for her erratic behavior. After all, she’s been through so much.”

“Erratic—”

“You know, since she called off the wedding, she hasn’t been coming regularly. She says she’s sick.” Mrs. Jenson patted Emma’s shoulder with a hand weighted down by three enormous, sparkling rings. “We do a lot of entertaining, and I need the floors to be absolutely spotless, you know?”

Sick? If Catherine wasn’t going to the Jensons’s house, where did she go when she left home? Emma worked to keep the worry off her face. “I’m sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced in any way.”

“Oh, don’t let it worry you, dear.” Mrs. Jenson tossed shiny blonde curls—they’d been brown the last time Emma saw her—over her shoulder. “I can always find someone else if she doesn’t get better.”

“I’m sure she—”

“Mrs. Jenson, your packages are ready,” Annie broke in. The sharp jerk of her head and narrowed eyes sent a message loud and clear to Emma.
Hush up
. “That will be fourteen thirty-two with tax.”

“My, my, that’s a lot for cookies and bread, but they’re worth every penny.” Mrs. Jenson’s sugary sweet tone gave Emma a toothache. The lady sashayed—there was no other word for it—on her high heels back to the counter. “My Gerald just can’t live without those peanut butter macadamia nut cookies, and the French bread will be lovely with the spaghetti this evening.”

Annie nodded and smiled. Emma didn’t know how she did it. Her sister’s expression never wavered. Emma would have been tempted to suggest Mr. Jenson would like cookies baked by his wife much more, and her efforts would save him a few hours of hard labor to earn money wasted on buying them at the bakery. Of course, if everyone did that it would put Sadie Plank’s bakery out of business, and Annie would be out of a job. Emma came around to her sister’s way of thinking and plastered a smile on her face. “Enjoy your baked goods.”

Mrs. Jenson shooed her daughter and friend out the door. As soon as the bell dinged, Emma whirled and slapped her hands on the glass countertop. “What is she talking about? Where did Catherine go this morning, if not to clean that lady’s house?”

Annie peeled Emma’s fingers from the glass. She grabbed a rag and wiped off the counter. “Fingerprints, schweschder!”

Who could think of fingerprints at a time like this? Annie was stalling. Emma put her hands on her hips. “What? Tell me.”

Before Annie could answer, Sadie trudged through the door that led from the backroom, carrying a twenty-five-pound bag of flour over her shoulders. “Emma, so nice of you to drop by. How are you?” She dumped the bag next to Annie’s prep area and dusted her hands off. “Have a cookie. You look much too thin.”

She grabbed a cookie from the cooling rack and held it out. Emma took it. When Sadie made no move to continue with her work, Emma dutifully took a bite and chewed. The warm chocolate chip cookie melted in her mouth.

“Delicious.” Emma caught Annie’s grin. Sadie loved for people to praise her baking. Even when it was Annie who’d done the baking. “The best I’ve tasted in a while.”

“Gut. Gut.”
Sadie surveyed the supplies. “I’ll bring up more sugar, too. Oh, and David will come in at noon to spell you for lunch, Annie. Don’t let him hold you up with his endless patter about this and that and nothing.”

Sadie’s snippy tone notwithstanding, Emma knew the woman doted on her son. His cancer was still in remission, but she never stopped worrying about it. He wasn’t well enough to work at the family farm yet, so he helped at the bakery. Instead of answering, Annie busied herself with a huge measuring cup. Sadie didn’t seem to notice. She kept a running commentary going about David’s propensity to chatter until she disappeared into the backroom.

Emma studied her sister’s bent head. “Annie, what’s going on? Your face is the color of pickled beets.”

“Hmmm? Nothing. It’s just hot in here with the ovens on.”

“Annie! Why did the mention of David’s name make you look like you just came in from working in the fields in the hot sun all day?”

“What are you talking about?” Annie made a big show of cutting butter into flour, an innocent expression anchored on her face. “I’m just baking.”

“You like David.” Emma tried the idea on for size. David was one of Josiah’s closest friends. They’d all gone to school together, played together, laughed together. He was a year older than Annie, but his cancer had kept him from his rumspringa and courting. He was in remission, but for how long? “Has he said anything to you? Is he interested?”

“Don’t be silly.” Annie stirred so hard, she tossed plumes of flour about that hung in the air, and then landed on her hands and sleeves in a powdery dust. “Besides, we’re talking about Catherine, not me.”

“Right. What about Catherine?” Emma tucked her concerns away for the time being. Catherine’s situation took precedence at the moment. Emma felt as if she kept pouring buckets of water on a grass fire only to have another one pop up a few feet away. “What happened?”

“You can’t tell Luke.” A scared look scampered across Annie’s face. “Promise me.”

“Tell Luke what?” Emma couldn’t make any promises, not without knowing first. Annie knew that. “What is Catherine doing?”

“I’m not sure, but I saw her coming out of Doctor Miller’s office yesterday.” Annie handed Emma another cookie—this one oatmeal raisin—then selected one for herself. “When I waved at her, she pretended not to see me. I was late opening the bakery so I didn’t have time to go after her.”

Emma chewed and thought for a moment. “Did you ask her about it last night?”

“Of course I did.” Annie laid her cookie on the counter without taking a bite and brushed flour from her dress. “She said she was picking up a prescription for Mrs. Calloway.”

“So she picked up a prescription. That makes sense.”

“Why did she pretend she didn’t see me, then?” Annie’s scrunched-up eyebrows and wrinkled nose gave her an almost comical look. “And why would Mrs. Calloway send her cleaning girl to pick up a prescription? She has a car. She drives. She always comes to town while Catherine cleans. It takes much longer for Catherine to do errands in a buggy.”

The door dinged and another gaggle of customers swarmed in. The bakery always did well on Saturday mornings when many of the Englischers did their shopping. Emma stepped out of the way and concentrated on the last bite of her cookie. Why indeed? What was Catherine doing at Doctor Miller’s that she didn’t want Annie to know about?

The cookie turned to sand in Emma’s mouth. If it involved Doctor Miller, it couldn’t be anything good. “I’ll see you at home,” she called to her sister, who waved and went back to a lady trying to decide between Deitsch chocolate and carrot cake.

Emma pushed through the door and stood on the sidewalk, torn over what to do next. Catherine was eighteen, legally an adult. Doctor Miller would never talk to her about her sister’s medical care. Maybe she should try to find Catherine. Where would she hide all day? Maybe she had returned home by now. Resolute, Emma turned and ran smack into a woman carrying two large paper bags of groceries that obscured
her face. A head of lettuce hit the ground and rolled. Canned goods scattered.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve been looking where I was going.” Emma knelt to gather up oranges escaping in all directions. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s all right. Don’t worry about it, honey.” Emma looked up at the high voice she’d heard only once before. Mr. Cramer’s wife. She knelt next to Emma, scooped up the head of lettuce, and stuffed it back in the bag. Her eyes were puffy and red behind wire rimmed glasses that made them look huge. “I’m sure you have a lot on your mind.”

Mrs. Cramer looked like the one with a lot on her mind. “Are you all right?” Emma handed her the oranges. “You look…upset.”

The lady frowned. She grabbed a can of peas and popped it in the bag and then heaved herself to her feet. “I’m fine. It’s my husband I’m worried about.”

Emma stood as well. “Something’s wrong with Mr. Cramer?” He was such a big, strapping man. He looked the picture of health—something that Emma couldn’t help but resent. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s not physical, mind you.” Mrs. Cramer leaned toward Emma, her tone dropping to a whisper. “His heart is broken over what he’s done to you poor things. He feels a terrible guilt for having taken your parents from you. It breaks my heart to see him suffer so.”

Mr. Cramer suffered from a broken heart. Just like Catherine.

Emma fought back tears. She’d been so focused on her own pain and the suffering of her family, she’d been blind to what this tragedy could do to the one who caused it. “Is there any way we can help?”

“No, no, you’ve done plenty by being so forgiving.” Mrs. Cramer’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She hoisted the grocery bags into her arms with a grunt and straightened. “He just has to learn to forgive himself.”

He couldn’t forgive himself. Emma understood that feeling, but she had her hands full with Catherine’s problems and school. How could she help the man who killed her parents?

“Take care now, dear.” Her shoulders slumped, Mrs. Cramer started to walk away. “Tell your brother my husband meant every word of what he said when he came by the house the day of the funeral,” she
called over her shoulder. “He wants to help with the farm work. Just name the time, and he’ll be there.”

Emma hung her head in shame. She could barely get the words out. “Yes, ma’am.”

The words she needed to say stayed buried in her throat.
I forgive him
.

A
ware of the avid gazes of her entire family, Emma forced a smile as she held out the ceramic serving bowl filled with slips of paper to Catherine. Her sister pulled her shawl tighter around her thin arms. She hesitated, her gaze stuck somewhere over Emma’s shoulder. Despite the warmth of the fire and the pungent aroma of the evergreen garlands on the mantel, Emma still felt the chill brought on by the absence of two people during this holiday season.

Mudder loved Christmas. She made every holiday special with her girlish enthusiasm for making homemade cards to send to family who’d moved away and their Englisch friends, cooking sweets, and making small gifts for each of her children. Emma now stood in her place and the shoes seemed far too big to fill.

“Pick one.” Trying to catch Catherine’s gaze, Emma made her tone encouraging. “’Tis the season of giving.”

Her pale face averted, Catherine stuck trembling fingers in the bowl and pulled out a name. She managed to avoid eye contact. She’d also refused to talk to Emma about where she’d gone on Saturday when she was supposed to be cleaning house. When Emma confronted her about it, she simply walked away. She dropped the paper in her lap without looking at the name and turned to stare out the living room window at the snow-covered fields.

Emma moved on to Josiah. She refused to let tension with her sister spoil this Christmas tradition. She hadn’t told Luke about her conversation with Mrs. Jenson. If things didn’t improve, she would go to him after Christmas. They needed the spirit of Christmas to pick them up and carry them through the end of this year. A new year would bring a new beginning. Catherine would get better. Emma forced herself to smile at Josiah. “Pick your name. Remember, we’re making our gifts this year. Nothing store bought.” Money was too tight for store bought. Made with love represented the holiday better anyway. “Everyone will have so much fun making presents.”

“But I wanted gel pens and a coloring book.” Lillie pouted from her seat on the rug by the fireplace. “Or a tea set for my dolly.”

“And I wanted skates.” Mary chimed in. “I’m old enough to skate on the pond all by myself now.”

Emma doubted that, but she understood the girls’ disappointment. Gifts were rare in Plain households. Birthdays and Christmas. This year there was no money to be had for store bought, but that just meant the gifts they would receive from each other would be much more special. “Count your blessings.” She fixed them with a stern stare. “You have brothers and sisters who are good at making things. Sewing. Carpentry. Drawing. Painting. I think you’ll have a nice surprise on Christmas morning.”

“You can have my old skates.” Mark sat cross-legged on the throw-rug next to Lillie. He propped his hands under his chin, looking very pleased with himself. Emma wanted to laugh. Being he was ten and a boy, his feet were twice as big as his little sister’s. “My feet are too big for them. You’ll have to share them with Lillie.”

“And I have lots of gel pens you can use,” William piped up. Luke’s boys liked to tag along after their young uncle and do whatever he did. Even when it came to being generous with their pesky girl aunts. “Aenti Louise gave them to me for my birthday.”

Appeased, Lillie grinned and stuck her hand in the bowl. After she looked at the name she’d drawn, she clapped her hands and popped up on her feet. “I got—”

Emma held up a hand. “No, no! Don’t tell. It’s a secret.”

“I forgot.” Lillie sank back on the rug. “Can I tell Mary?”

Emma pretended to consider. “That’s no fun. The idea is for it to be a secret from everyone until Christmas day.” She turned to Mark. “And now you.”

He wrinkled his freckled nose and selected his slip. “I guess there’s no way to make a rifle at home.”

Emma patted his arm. At ten, he was old enough to hunt with his older brothers and cousins. “Fortunately, we have enough of those around here to share.”

“That’s right.” Josiah squatted next to his little brother and elbowed him. “It’s not too late to hunt turkey or deer. If you want, you can go with me, Mark.”

Mark ducked his head, obviously pleased. Emma loved the generous feelings the Christmas season brought out in everyone. She offered the bowl to Annie. “Now you.”

Annie was staring at Catherine. Emma followed her gaze. Catherine had rolled her piece of paper into a tiny tube. She seemed to be contemplating something far, far away. “Are you all right, Catherine?”