Leigh Bale - Her Amish Christmas Choice

“All right. When can you start?” she asked, hoping he didn’t let her down.

“Right now. But we don’t work on Sundays. I’ll get my tools.”

He headed outside with Hank. She watched them through the grimy windows that desperately needed cleaning. While many people worked or played on Sunday, she figured Martin and his family must go to church. With her father’s death and mother’s illness, she’d been thinking about God quite a bit lately. She’d been hungering to know and understand His place in her life. She’d even considered going to church, to see if she could learn more about Him, though she hadn’t had time to act on that goal yet.

It was then she noticed a horse and buggy-wagon, tied beneath the tall elm tree that edged the five-space parking lot in front of the store. Martin reached into the back of the wagon, lifted out a large wooden toolbox with a handle on it, then headed back toward the store with Hank trailing after him like a waddling duck.

With a measuring tape, Martin calculated the expanse of the porch and made some notes with a pencil and notepad. Placing his hands on his narrow hips, he studied the wreckage. Hank copied his brother’s stance, his pudgy hands on his thick waist. Standing side by side, the two brothers looked endearing. When Martin jerked on a pair of leather gloves and started stacking debris off to the side of the building, Hank did likewise.

Soon, Martin appeared at the front door. “I’m afraid the lumber is rotted clear through.” He met Julia’s gaze.

“What do you recommend?” she asked.

“I should install new lumber and then paint it to match the rest of the store. It’ll be more sound and last you for years to come.”

Again, she was struck by his self-confidence. “All right. If you’ll go to the building supply store, just tell Byron Stott what you need and to put the charge on my account. I’ve already made arrangements with him and he knows I’ll have someone coming in to buy supplies for me.”

She didn’t tell him that she’d also warned Byron not to let her new handyman cheat her. Byron knew he must provide her with a receipt. She’d trusted money to Dallin once and it had quickly disappeared. She wouldn’t do that again.

Martin nodded, then turned on his boot heels and went outside. Hank was poking the dirt with a long stick but came running when his brother called him. As the two climbed into the buggy, Julia folded her arms, thinking it was much too cold in the shop. Soon, the snow would fly. She should speak with Martin about obtaining firewood for the old black stove. Hopefully he would know where she could buy fuel at the lowest price.

Turning, she glanced out the window, noticing the horse and buggy had disappeared from view. Trust. It wasn’t a new notion to her, but something she no longer freely gave to everyone she met. Dallin had betrayed her trust, but she was willing to try one more time. She just hoped Martin Hostetler didn’t let her down.

Martin stood inside the building supply store and gazed at the stacks of two-by-fours he intended to buy. Wearing his heavy leather gloves, he lifted several boards onto his flat cart and thought about the woman who had just hired him.

Julia Rose was pretty, with a small upturned nose, a stubborn chin and soft brown eyes that showed intelligence and an eagerness to succeed but also a bit of self-doubt. With her russet hair pulled back in a long ponytail and no makeup, she looked almost Amish. But not in the blue jeans and shirt she was wearing. And most definitely not without the white organdy prayer kapp that all Amish women wore.

She was Englisch . A woman of the world. Yet, Martin couldn’t help admiring her spunk. The way she’d stood on that rickety ladder and gripped the hammer told him she was determined. In fact, she reminded him of his mamm , who had raised six children and still worked beside his daed after twenty-eight years, doing whatever needed to be done without complaint.

“Whatcha gonna make?” Hank asked in Deitsch, the German dialect his Amish people used among themselves.

Martin turned and found his brother standing beside him. He was as sweet and sincere as they came. The Amish only went to school through the eighth grade. Now that Hank was too old for that, Martin had taken him under his wing. Both his parents tended to lose their patience with Hank and his penchant for getting into trouble, but Martin had deep compassion for his younger brother and had recently started taking the boy with him.

“Remember, we’re making a porch overhang for Rose Soapworks?” Martin said.

“ Ja , that’s right. I remember now,” Hank said, his thick voice filled with a happy lilt. Nothing seemed to ruffle the boy’s feathers. He was always in a good mood.

Pushing his cart, Martin headed toward the aisle where sheets of metal siding were stacked in tidy order. He was careful not to buy too much. He’d been pleasantly surprised when Julia Rose had told him to come pick out the supplies he would need and he didn’t want to betray her trust.

“Julia’s gonna like the porch we make, huh, Mar-tin?” Hank said, speaking his name as if it were two words.

“ Ja , I hope so. But you should call her Miss Rose.”

“How come? I like her name. Julia. Julia. Julia,” Hank repeated in his heavy staccato voice.

“It’s not good manners for you to call her by her first name. She’s a grown woman and you’re still a youth. It’s proper for you to call her Miss Rose.” Martin stepped past the boy, pushing his cart as he went.

With dogged determination, Hank hurried after him. “I like her last name, too. Rose. Rose. Rose. How come she’s got two first names?”

“I don’t know but Rose is her last name.” Martin didn’t try to overexplain as he rounded the corner and quickly filled a paper sack with nails and lag bolts. He was used to his brother’s incessant chatter and didn’t let it bother him. He selected several pieces of flashing to sieve off water during rainstorms.

Hank grinned and slid his dirty fingers beneath the suspenders crossing his shirtfront. He’d removed his leather gloves and tucked them into his waistband. “We’re gonna get enough money to build your barn, huh?”

“We’re working toward that goal and a little extra so Mamm can make you a new coat and vest for Church Sunday,” Martin conceded.

“ Ach , a gray coat ’cause I look gut in gray. Julia sure is schee . Don’t you think so?”

“Miss Rose,” Martin corrected.

“ Ja , Miss Rose sure is schee ,” Hank said.

Yes, Julia was pretty, but Martin didn’t say so. It wouldn’t be proper, especially since she was Englisch . Even now, he couldn’t forget the soft feel of her during those few scant seconds when he’d held her in his arms, or the fragrance of her hair, a subtle mixture of citrus. And the moment he’d looked into her beautiful brown eyes, he’d felt something shift inside his heart like the cracking of a giant oak tree’s trunk beneath a bolt of lightning.

No! He mustn’t think such things. Julia wasn’t Amish and he didn’t want to do anything unseemly that might get him into trouble with his parents or church elders.

Hurrying to the front of the store, he set the bag of nails on the counter. Byron Stott, the proprietor, stood behind the cash register. He pushed a jagged thatch of salt-and-pepper hair out of his eyes and glanced at Martin.

“Anything else you need?”

“ Ne , this is all. Please put everything on Julia Rose’s account,” Martin said.

Byron lifted a bushy eyebrow in curiosity. “So, she hired you as her handyman, did she?”

Martin nodded.