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A Wells Landing Christmas Page 7


  “Margery, what are you going on about?” Another woman as blue-haired and wrinkled as the one she sat next to came up, cane in one hand, extra-large paintbrush in the other.

  “Ethan Dallas,” Margery of the purple paint answered. “Have you ever seen him have a visitor, Reva?”

  “Not even once. Good-looking man too.”

  “Good-looking has nothing to do with his family visiting him.”

  “I’m talking about women,” Reva explained. “I could see a hottie or two flitting in.”

  “Hush yourself.” Margery waved her away with one hand, but never quit painting.

  “You think he’s good-looking too.”

  “Every woman in here thinks he’s handsome. So what?”

  Reva nodded and didn’t protest. Whoever this Ethan Dallas was, he must be something to see.

  Ivy almost wanted to get up and see if she could find him, but she had tarried long enough. If someone were to see her tractor out front . . .

  The chances of that might be slim—after all, they would have to be driving by, most likely with a driver, at this particular time. But her luck never seemed to hold out for long. She was pushing her fortune as it was.

  Ivy stood and waved to Lorie, a small farewell. Hopefully Lorie wouldn’t say anything to her sisters. Maybe Ivy could get out of this without incident.

  “Nice meeting you,” she said to the two women around her.

  “You too, dear,” Margery said. “Though I didn’t get your name.”

  Ivy told them.

  “Such a pretty name.”

  “Such a pretty girl.”

  “We do hope you’ll come back.”

  “The holidays get lonely without the young faces around.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Ivy murmured, unsure of what else she could say. Without another word, she made her way back down the hall to the desk where she had signed in.

  Angie was still sitting there with her not-quite-mourning black and deep-dimpled smile. “Did you have a nice visit?”

  Ivy took up the pen and added the time to her line on the log. She wasn’t sure nice was the word to describe her visit. Maybe confusing, enlightening, or baffling. “Jah, thank you.”

  “You know you’re welcome to come back any time. The residents love having visitors.”

  “Strangers?”

  “They don’t care. Any new face is a joy to them.”

  Somehow the thought made her even sadder. She only nodded.

  “Ivy.” Angie stopped her before she could get to the door. “I know this isn’t what you came here for, but I know they all loved having you here.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, feeling as if she was somehow stuck on the one phrase.

  “I know you’re having troubles with your grandfather. But have you considered this? Aside from the cost and him being away from home, have you thought about what life in a place like this might mean to him since he’s been on his own most of his life?”

  No. She hadn’t thought of that. Dawdi would hate this place. There were no horses, no goats, no chickens to fuss about and over. Dawdi loved outside; he loved his freedom. Hadn’t that been the one, main reason why she hadn’t packed up and gone to Indiana with her mamm and Alan Byler? Her grandfather would hate it up north. He wouldn’t survive outside of Oklahoma. A retirement home might be part of their state, but it would still be the same to him: a prison. An exile. A place to go and die.

  They were struggling, that much was true, but that didn’t mean they had to go down without a fight. Somehow, some way.

  Yet the whole way home she couldn’t stop thinking about Reva, Margery, Ethel, Ethan Dallas, and the visitors they might not get this holiday season.

  * * *

  If she had thought the yard was cleaned the other day when Zeb came by, she soon learned it could always be cleaner.

  “I told you that boy had it bad for you. When are you going to start listening to me, Irene Jane?”

  Ivy sighed. “I’m Ivy, Dawdi.”

  “Of course.” He ran his thumbs down his suspenders and rocked back on his heels. “He’ll make a good husband for you.”

  “I’m not marrying Zeb Brenneman.”

  “You should think about it.”

  There were so many things wrong with that idea she didn’t know where to begin in addressing them. He hadn’t asked her, she wasn’t a member of the church, she didn’t love him, he didn’t love her. “Just because a man comes over and cleans up the yard doesn’t mean there’s romance in the air.”

  “It’s a fine gesture though.”

  Fine and unwanted. “Where were you when all this happened?”

  Couldn’t she leave for just a couple of hours without having to worry that everything would fall apart?

  “Bah.” He waved a vague hand toward the road. “Doing stuff.”

  If it had been close to her birthday or if her grandfather was the type to go in for parties, she would have thought he was planning some sort of surprise. But as it was she knew that he had already forgotten wherever he had been.

  It’s not the worst thing for him to forget.

  But how long until he started forgetting where he was before he even left?

  The thought was sobering.

  “Then how do you know Zeb did this?”

  “I’ve seen how he looks at you. That boy’s in love, and not afraid to show it.”

  That “boy” was in guilt. And that was all.

  * * *

  Saturday’s shift at the bakery was more tiring and more satisfying than any other she could remember. She got up early, before light even, and drove her tractor into town. There wasn’t a soul on the roads, and the morning air was crisp and fresh. The day promised to be mild for winter, and she enjoyed the feel of the wind on her face. Too bad she would spend most of the day inside.

  She helped bake cinnamon rolls, dinner rolls, breakfast rolls, hamburger rolls, every kind of pie and whoopie pie imaginable, and more cookies than she could count. Snickerdoodles, chocolate chip, sugar with icing, sugar without icing, peanut butter, and an Englisch recipe called cowboy cookies. She was told they were Andrew Fitch’s favorite, and they seemed to be a combination of oatmeal and chocolate chip, with pecans baked in as well.

  I should take some home to Zeb. No, Dawdi. That was who she really meant. Zeb wasn’t a part of her life, and he wasn’t a part of her home. Regardless of what he had said at the hospital.

  At the time, she had been so grateful to have him there beside her. But now she realized what a mistake it really was. She had dropped her guard and let him in once again. And that would lead to nothing but heartbreak.

  How long before he got antsy and bored and headed off to Florida once more?

  Except that he hadn’t been antsy or bored when he left in the first place. Like her, he had needed a little space. Some time to heal, clear his head, and figure out the future. But when he hadn’t come back, when her letters to him arrived in her mailbox unopened, that was when everything changed.

  Ivy pushed those thoughts aside and concentrated on the road before her.

  Beside her in the seat was a sack full of cookies. Oatmeal raisin, Dawdi’s favorite. As she packaged them up, she realized she didn’t know what Zeb’s favorite cookie was. Why? Because they had never gone anywhere for the subject to come up. They had kept their relationship hidden, as it was. She wasn’t a member of the church and was therefore not allowed to date. They had snuck around, fibbing about where they were going and who they were going to be with. As far as she was aware, only Obie knew about the two of them. That was why she had helped him make Clara Rose jealous last year. She might not be able to have a love of her own, but she did what she could for Zeb’s brother.

  She turned the tractor down their lane and pulled it to a stop next to the house.

  The front door stood open. Several cardboard boxes sat on the porch, peppered with brown paper grocery sacks from the Super Saver.

  “Dawdi?” She slid to
the ground cautiously, leaving the cookies on the seat until she could figure out what was going on.

  With all the filled containers piled on the porch she would suspect some kind of robbery. But what sort of robber left things?

  Maybe they were loading up when her grandfather came back home and surprised them. They attacked him and that was why the door was open. He was prone and bleeding on the other side.

  Her mouth turned to ash and her heart pounded in her ears. It was more logical than the first scenario and more disturbing by far.

  “Dawdi?” she called again, easing toward the house. Surely they were gone now, but she couldn’t be too careful. What-ifs kept circling her thoughts like vultures.

  “Irene Jane? Is that you?”

  She nearly screamed when Dawdi appeared in the doorway. He shocked her so, she couldn’t even correct him calling her by her mother’s name.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked, hand pressed to her heart to hold it in her chest. It was beating so frantically she was afraid it might leave her body.

  Dawdi gave a careless shrug. “I don’t know. I came home from the auction and found all this stuff out here. I’ve been trying to get it all in the house ever since.”

  Ivy crept up the porch steps as if one of the boxes held a live snake. “What is it?”

  “Food, mostly. Some Christmas decorations.” He chuckled. “There was even one of those Englisch Santas in there. Can you believe that? Who would leave something like that on our porch?”

  Who indeed?

  “Zeb Brenneman,” she whispered, her teeth clinched. He had gone and done it again.

  “Why would Zeb leave all this out here for us?”

  “Why would he do any of the things he’s been doing lately?”

  “Love will do that to a man. Even make him believe in Santa.”

  “Dawdi,” Ivy admonished. “You don’t believe a word of that yourself. Why are you forgiving him already?”

  “The Lord tells us to forgive.”

  “The Lord also tells us to smite our enemies.” She marched back to her tractor, her determination and resolve mounting with each step. She grabbed the bag of cookies and tossed them to her grandfather. “I brought these home for you.”

  He opened the bag and inhaled deeply. “Oatmeal raisin. Yum. I think I’m going to like this new job of yours.”

  She gave a stern nod and started the tractor.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t let this continue,” she said. She adjusted her scarf back over her ears and swung up into the seat.

  The wind was chilly as she drove over to the Brenneman place. She barely noticed, she was so angry. How dare he come to her house and leave food and clothing like they were vagrants or something. She had done the best she could to provide for them both and not to pat herself on the back, and all things considered she had done a mighty fine job. Even if she did say so herself.

  She fumed the entire time she drove, only the cool air keeping her from catching fire from anger alone.

  Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath: For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.

  The words circled slowly in her head, like a buzzing bumblebee on a lazy summer afternoon.

  Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath: For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.

  She told herself that over and over as she chugged along the roads leading from her house to the Brennemans’.

  She was no less angry by the time she arrived.

  Obie came out onto the porch before she even got the tractor parked and the engine killed. “Hi, Ivy.”

  “Don’t ‘hi, Ivy’ me,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “Zeb?”

  “Of course, Zeb. Who else would I want to see?”

  “Uh . . . no one . . . I guess.” He turned back into the house, never before having been witness to her redhead’s temper. In fact, not many people got a glimpse. She kept it under tight wraps. It was better that way. When she was young, she had gotten into a lot of trouble over her temper and learned early on that if she wanted peace in her family she had to keep her anger buried. But this . . . this was something else entirely.

  She sucked in a deep breath and tapped her foot against the hard ground. First she was going to give him a piece of her mind. Then she was going to tell him in no uncertain terms to leave her alone. It was Christmastime. She had a lot of responsibilities. Meeting all the elders at the retirement home and knowing they might not have visitors for the holiday had tossed her over the edge. She could take no more, and that included Zeb Brenneman and his good deeds. He’d have to save his soul on someone else’s time.

  “Ivy?”

  Zeb stepped out onto the porch, and her heart gave a strange jolt. She wrestled it under control and took a lunge toward him.

  “I’m not sure what you mean to prove by coming to my house and leaving all that . . . stuff. But we don’t need you. We’re doing just fine without your help, and it is not appreciated.” She whirled on one foot and marched toward her tractor.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Back she turned. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  A strange smile quirked the corners of his mouth. Was he trying to make her angrier? Did he want to see how far he could push her before she completely snapped? She was a good, Christian, Amish woman, but everyone had their limitations. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  He didn’t look sorry.

  “You left a Santa Claus in one of the boxes.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “And that means I did it?”

  She threw up her hands. “Of course! Who else?”

  “Anyone, I suppose.” He gave a casual shrug and loped down the porch steps. He had left his coat in the house, though he acted immune to the cold.

  “Anyone? A Santa Claus? You were just talking about him the other day.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in Santa.”

  Ivy growled. This conversation was not going according to her plan. She was supposed to come over here, put him in his place, and make him weak with remorse, then she would hop on her tractor and drive back home.

  Remorse seemed completely out of the question.

  She turned toward her tractor, weary of this verbal battle of wits. “Fine. If you don’t want to admit it, I’m not going to make you. But hear me now, Zebadiah Brenneman, if you ever—”

  Before she could finish that thought, strong hands clasped her arms and whirled her around. In less than a heartbeat, she was pulled close and his cool lips crashed into hers.

  Chapter Six

  He had been wanting to do this ever since he had seen her in church. Maybe even before, on the long bus ride from Pinecraft.

  Zeb wanted to linger, kiss her until her lips were familiar again. But she was too angry. He would lift his head and she would be spitting mad. Now was not the time to kiss her. Yet he had been unable to stop himself.

  Even with her blazing anger, the kiss was all he remembered and more. How he had missed her.

  Yet he released her lips, freed her arms, and took a step back.

  High color rose into her cheeks, a shade very near the pink peonies his aunt Eileen grew just over the hill. Ivy’s blue eyes shimmered with a light he couldn’t name. Recognition? More anger? Confusion? Maybe a combination of all three. But the set of her jaw was unmistakable. He was lucky the Amish were a peaceful people. She looked mad enough to haul off and slap him.

  He waited for the blow. He deserved it. Not for leaving whatever it was on her porch. He hadn’t done that. But for overstepping. He needed her to set things back the way they should be between them. Once upon a time they had thought they would have more. That time had passed and it would never return. They could only be friends. He knew it. She knew it. So why had he kissed her?

  Because he wanted to. Because d
eep down, he had never stopped.

  “I didn’t leave anything on your porch,” he said once it became clear she wasn’t going to hit him.

  “Then who did?” Her voice sounded far away, distant, as if traveling for miles before it got to him.

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  She shook her head. “It had to be you.”

  “Why? Because of a Santa? Maybe the stuff wasn’t for you and someone left it at the wrong house.”

  “That’s about as far-fetched as it can be.”

  “Maybe. But it is possible.”

  “Maybe,” she repeated, though she didn’t sound convinced. She crossed her arms. “Why did you kiss me?”

  “It calmed you down, didn’t it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. She couldn’t argue with that, though he thought she might. “Don’t ever do that again.” She marched toward her tractor, started it, and left without so much as a glance back.

  “What was that all about?” Clara Rose asked from behind him.

  “Ivy thought I left something on her porch.”

  Clara Rose’s mouth twisted into a slant that told him without words she knew it to be more than that. “Uh-huh.”

  Zeb shrugged.

  “What’s really going on between the two of you?”

  He swallowed hard and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “But there was before?” she guessed.

  “Jah.”

  “Before you went to Pinecraft?”

  He nodded.

  “I see.”

  She didn’t. There wasn’t any way she could understand what he didn’t get himself.

  “I don’t know a lot, but I do know this. If you want to win her back, you are going about it the wrong way.”

  * * *

  All she wanted to do was go home. And scream. Yelling nothing at the top of her lungs seemed like a beneficial endeavor. Maybe it would bring her a measure of peace. Add some calm to her day. But it wouldn’t erase the feel of Zeb’s lips on hers.

  There had been a time when she would have welcomed his kiss, but no more. That time had passed. The two of them could never be a couple, and there was no sense even thinking about it.