The Christmas Quilt. Patricia Davids
Turning around, he waited until she reached him. Her aunt hung back, a faint look of displeasure on her face. It wasn’t seemly for Rebecca to seek out an Englisch fellow.
She moved toward him until her cane touched his feet. When she opened her mouth to speak, he forestalled her. “I know what you’re going to say, Miss Beachy, but there is no need.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her face. He memorized the fine arch of her brows, the soft smile that curved her lips. She wore a pair of dark, wire-rimmed spectacles, but he knew her eyes were sky blue. If this was the last time he saw her face he wanted to remember it until the day he died.
“There is always a need to show our gratitude for the kindness of others, Mr. Booker.”
“Consider me thanked. I’ve got to get going.” Any second now he was going to blurt out his identity and undo all of the good he’d accomplished.
He was keenly aware of Rebecca’s aunt standing a few paces back. A burly man came out of the crowd and stood with her, a look of displeasure formed on his face, too. Gideon turned his back to them. It was possible they’d met but he wasn’t sure.
This was nuts. He wanted to see Rebecca again. He’d done that. He wanted to help her and he had.
Mission accomplished. Walk away.
No, what he really wanted was an answer to why she stopped loving him. But that was an answer he was never going to get.
“Good luck with your surgery, Miss Beachy. I wish you every success.” He turned away and walked out into the stinging cold sleet.
Chapter Three
Rebecca held on to her aunt’s arm as they entered the lobby of the Wadler Inn. The instant she stepped inside the building she was surrounded by the smells of wood smoke, baking bread and roasting meat. She felt the heat and heard the crackling of burning logs in the inn’s massive fireplace to her right.
The clatter of cutlery and plates being gathered together as tables were cleared came from her left. The Shoofly Pie Café was adjacent to the inn and accessible through a set of wide pocket doors. The murmur of voices and sounds told Rebecca the doors were open. The discordant noise increased the headache growing behind her eyes.
As her aunt moved forward, Rebecca automatically counted her steps so she could navigate the room by herself in the future. Although she had stayed at the inn several times in the past, she needed to refresh the layout in her mind. She thought she knew the place well, but a chair carelessly moved by one of the guests or a new piece of furniture could present unseen obstacles for her.
The thump of feet coming down the stairs and the whisper of a hand sliding over a banister told her the inn’s open staircase was just ahead. The tick-tock of a grandfather clock beside the stairway marked its location for Rebecca.
“Velkumm.” Emma Troyer’s cheerful voice grew closer as she left the stairs and came toward them.
“Hello, Emma.” Rebecca smiled in her direction.
“I just finished readying your room. I’m so happy you decided to stay with us again.”
“We’re glad to be here,” Vera replied.
Staying at the inn had become a ritual for the two women following the quilt auctions. It was a time Vera truly enjoyed when the work of cooking, cleaning, sewing and running the farm was put on hold for a few days so she could relax and visit her many friends in town.
Rebecca would rather be back in her aunt’s small house. The openness of the inn disoriented her, but she never said as much. Rebecca loved her aunt dearly. Vera deserved her little holiday each year. If Rebecca had insisted on staying home alone, her aunt would have cancelled her plans and come home, too.
Emma said, “Rebecca, I couldn’t believe it when I heard how much your quilt went for.”
“God was good to us,” Vera said quickly.
Rebecca shook her head. “It was not worth that much money. The Englisch fellow who bought it did so out of pity. He saw a story about me on his television. That’s the only reason he came.”
Vera patted Rebecca’s arm. “It matters not what his motivation was. His being there was God’s doing.”
“How much more money will you need for your surgery?” Emma asked.
“Another twenty thousand dollars,” Vera answered.
“So much?” Emma’s voice echoed the doubt in Rebecca’s heart. It was unlikely they could raise enough money in time.
She said, “Doctor White has told us the surgeon who is perfecting this operation is moving to Sweden to open a special clinic there after Christmas. If we can’t raise the rest of the money before then it will be too late.”
Emma laid her hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “Do not give up hope. We know not what God has planned for our lives.”
Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. “I must accept His will in this.”
“Are you hungry?” Emma asked. “We’ve started serving supper in the café.”
Vera said, “I could eat a horse.”
“Goot. My mother has been waiting impatiently for you. I’ll tell her you’re here and we can catch up on all the news. Did you hear my Aenti Wilma over in Sugarcreek broke her hip last week?”
Rebecca said, “You two go ahead. I think I would rather lie down for a while before I eat.”
“Is your headache worse?” Vera asked.
Rebecca appreciated her aunt’s concern. “Nee. I’m sure a few minutes of peace and quiet are all I need.”
“Let me show you to your room,” Emma offered.
“I can find my way,” Rebecca insisted. She didn’t want to be treated like an invalid.
“Very well. I’ve put you in number seven, the same as last year.” Emma pressed an old-fashioned key into Rebecca’s hand.
“Danki. Enjoy your visit.”
She opened the white folding cane she carried and headed toward the ticking clock she knew sat beside the staircase. The clock began to strike the hour. It was five o’clock.
When she located the first riser, she went up the steps slowly, holding tight to the banister. There were fifteen steps if she remembered correctly. When her searching toe found the top of the landing, she smiled. Fifteen it was.
She walked down the hallway, letting her cane sweep from side to side. The rooms were numbered with evens on the left and odds on the right. It took only a few moments to locate her door.
She fumbled with the key for a second and lost her grip on it. It fell, struck her toe and bounced away. The hallway was carpeted. She couldn’t tell from the sound where the key landed.
Annoyed, Rebecca dropped to her knees and began searching with her hands, letting her fingers glide over the thick pile. The carpeting was a concession to the English guests that stayed at the inn. Amish homes held no such fanciness. A plain plank floor or simple linoleum was all anyone needed.
The sound of a door opening across the hall sent a rush of embarrassed heat to her cheeks. A second later the door closed.
She knew who it was. She recognized the spicy scent of his aftershave. Her heartbeat skittered and took off like a nervous colt at a wild gallop.
The silence stretched on until she thought she must have been mistaken. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. She cocked her head to the side. “Is someone there?”
“Can I help?” His raspy voice was a mere whisper.
It was Booker. God had given her another chance to spend time with