Christmas Wish, page 1
The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY
Copyright © 2023 by Linda Byler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
Good Books books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.
Good Books is an imprint of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.goodbooks.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Byler, Linda, author.
Title: Christmas every day : an Amish romance / Linda Byler.
Description: New York, New York : Good Books, [2023] | Summary: “A heartwarming tale set in Amish country at Christmastime”-- Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023020543 (print) | LCCN 2023020544 (ebook) | ISBN 9781680998955 (print) | ISBN 9781680999013 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Amish--Fiction. | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Christian fiction. | Christmas fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3602.Y53 C46 2023 (print) | LCC PS3602.Y53 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20230501
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023020543
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023020544
Print ISBN: 978-1-68099-895-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-901-3
Cover design by Create Design Publish LLC
Printed in the United States of America
They keep Christmas all the year.
—William Walker (1672)
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
Chapter One
IN THE HILLS OF KENTUCKY, BETWEEN TWO fairly high ridges covered in all manner of trees and flowering shrubs, fallen logs and mushrooms, moss and decayed leaves leftover from last year, a river wound its way along the base, a ribbon of greenish brown water loaded with silt, pebbles, rocks, and fish. Not too far away, the rolling terrain leveled off to an expanse of farm land, crops growing in neat if uneven patches, like a crazy quilt, where one single patch is not perfect but is made to fit in with all the rest.
Red barns and concrete silos with white or beige or gray farmhouses punctuated the landscape, with undulating roads winding along every which way, some of them macadam with yellow lines down the middle, but many of them covered in gravel, cross-hatched with potholes deep enough to jar your teeth if you were riding on a steel-rimmed buggy wheel attached to the body of the buggy itself.
The sky above was blue as far as you could see, with loose clouds blowing along on the summer breeze, scattering wherever they wanted, creating many shapes and forms. Heat hung just below them, the sun’s rays creating a pocket of discomfort for man and beast as the mercury on the rusted white thermometer on Mam’s wheel line post rose to ninety-eight degrees.
Annie and Fannie, the twins, were instructed by Mam herself to bring the clean, dry laundry in, fold it, and put it away. They considered themselves much too young to accomplish a task of this size, but when Mam’s face turned red, her nostrils flared slightly, and she spoke louder than normal, you did what you were told, no question.
Fannie was the older, by a few minutes, and she weighed five pounds more. Her hair was thicker and her face rounder, so she considered herself superior, which seemed to serve as a bellows for a slow-burning fire where her twin was concerned. Annie was thin as a reed, her face without the full rounded cheeks of her sister, so folks could tell them apart easily, although they were identical twins. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, brown as an acorn, and cute as a button, they wore identical dresses every day, their bare feet callused from their wandering around the many fields, woods, creeks, and ponds in which they found adventure.
The only downside of their happy-go-lucky existence was the great number of older siblings that inhabited the enormous farmhouse. Ten of them, and no twins except themselves, which in their opinion should have given them more status, a bit of special treatment, of which they were sadly lacking.
“Fannie do this, Annie do that. Get me a drink, fetch me some ice. Oh, we’re out of applesauce. Fannie, get a jar of applesauce. Annie, we need ketchup. Run quick.”
At the age of ten, it seemed their primary value to the family was in running here, running there. Their only chance at freedom was some of these bossy siblings finding someone, anyone, to marry so they’d leave the home. But the way it appeared, there was no chance of anyone even thinking about moving out. No boyfriends or girlfriends, nothing. Older brothers were the biggest trouble of all, especially when it came to laundry. All these denim trousers, an endless line of colorful button-down shirts, heavy socks that took forever to dry.
Mam was a very good kind of mother, but she favored those big dark-haired galumphs, walking through the house in their stocking feet, leaving wet, muddy, or manure-encrusted shoes lying haphazardly on the kettlehouse floor, walking like elephants and taking up as much room. Mike and Amos could be married by now, but showed no interest, which meant Annie and Fannie were pretty much stuck being gofers. Dat laughed and laughed about that, and neither Fannie nor Annie thought it was slightly humorous. They just rolled their eyes at each other and felt very misunderstood, very servantly.
When it was time to get the long line of laundry in, they took turns standing on tiptoe to draw the line to the back porch where they took off the clothespins and dropped the clothes in the huge Rubbermaid clothes basket. Mam was mowing grass, the mower purring along as she walked behind it, leaving a swath of neatly cut lawn.
Sarah was at work, cleaning an English (non-Amish) lady’s house, while Becky and Mary snapped green beans on the front porch. There was always work to be done, always someone coming or going, especially in summer when school was over.
Fannie threw a handful of clothes in the basket, then told Annie it was her turn, her legs were tired from standing on her tiptoes. Annie looked at the height of the line, then got a sturdy patio chair, hoisted it into position, and stepped up on it. She reached way out to grasp the line and upset the chair, crashing down on the cement floor, scattering clothespins everywhere. Landing on her side, she lay motionless, howling.
“Annie! Are you alright? My goodness.” Fannie tried to help her up, but Annie swatted her away, rolled over, and continued howling. Fannie watched as Annie sat up, gripped her shoulder and made horrible grimaces, her face contorted in pain.
“Did you break your arm?”
When there was no answer, only an increase in the awful noise coming out of her throat, Fannie ran across the yard and waved down her mother, who shut off the mower, took one look at Annie, and hurried to the porch, perspiration rolling off her very red face.
“Annie, hush. It’s okay. Come. Let me see if it’s broken.”
She manipulated the arm tenderly, then wiped her face with the corner of her apron, said it was time for them all to take a break. The lawn mower sat in the middle of the lawn, the clothes stayed in the basket, and the bushel of string beans on the front porch sat unfinished as Mam poured tall plastic glasses of meadow tea for everyone. Ruth and Naomi came in from the barn, their arms and legs scratched from helping with the hay.
“What happened to you, Annie?”
Annie didn’t answer, but just sniffed and went inside for a Kleenex. She blew her nose with a mighty honk, wiped her eyes, and went back out for her own glass of meadow tea. She was ready to slide into her place by the picnic table when Mam said, “Pretzels would be good.”
Annie pretended not to have heard. So did Fannie.
After a while, Mam sighed, heaved out of the chair, and went inside.
“Why didn’t one of you go? Mam is tired. Didn’t you see her mowing grass?” Becky asked.
Fannie glared and Annie sniffed, rubbing her shoulder. Neither of them said anything. They drank their tea, then got down the rest of the clothes— without the use of the chair—and went inside to fold them, leaving Mam and the big girls to talk about important subjects, things they knew didn’t include them at all.
Fannie pulled a pair of denims off the pile, held them up before tucking the waistband beneath her chin as she brought the side pockets to their position along the inside back. She folded them, slapped them on the pile, and reached for another. Every pair was marked with the owner’s initial on the inside of the waistband, taking out the guesswork of which pair belonged to whom.
Suddenly Fannie said, “I’m not going to have twelve children when I get married. It’s too much laundry.”
“I’m never marrying, so that takes care of that,” Annie answered.
“Go get the towels and tablecloths.”
“You go. It’s hot, and I hurt my
Fannie went. Annie matched socks, folded them, and placed them on the piles of trousers and shirts. Even the underwear was initialed, but not the socks. They had to wear whatever was put in their drawer.
By suppertime, the yard was mowed, the beans bubbled in the agate canner, laundry was folded and put away. Fried chicken was in the oven, tomatoes sliced, zucchini squash fried, and a huge platter of golden ears of corn waited to be taken outside to the picnic table. Mam moved around the kitchen like an efficient work engine, barking orders, handing out ice cube trays and pitchers of meadow tea. Dat and the boys were filthy with sweat and hay dust, their faces black with it, their hands dark and callused. Their eyes danced as they jostled for position at the sink in the kettlehouse, rolling the green lava soap around in their palms before scrubbing, then drying their hands on the brown towel beside it.
“Come on, Mike. You’re not getting ready to do surgery. Hurry it up.”
Towels were snapped, backsides turned quickly, shoulders punched. Everyone slid into place along the two picnic tables on the back porch of the mammoth white farmhouse, the old oak tree casting deep shadows, the breeze toying with thick leaves, bringing a bit of cooling air to the heat-soaked bodies. Hummingbirds flitted from the red feeder to the hosta blossoms and back again, sparrows chirping from nests in the wooden eaves of the tool shed beyond the garden. Cows lowed softly by the white board fence, the red metal on the barn creating a picturesque scene straight out of a rural American painting.
Doves cooed from the electric wire, and barn swallows dove into the open door of the barn, the source of contention among the boys and their father. Dat loved barn swallows, said they helped with the fly population, but the boys did not like the nests in the ceiling, the inevitable pile of bird excrement on the floor of the forebay. They muttered to themselves as they took scraper and broom to the mess.
But the swallow problem was the last thing on their minds as they all waited till Dat asked if they were ready for the silent prayer, then bowed their heads in unison, after which they helped themselves to Mam’s delicious supper.
Four dozen ears of corn, twenty pieces of chicken, four cast iron pans of fried zucchini and six whole tomatoes, gallons of meadow tea. Bread and mayonnaise, loaded down with zucchini rounds and tomato.
“Butter!”
“Who has the salt?”
Dat raised his eyebrows. “What happened to please and thank you?”
“Oh, sorry. May I please have the salt after you’re done emptying the whole shaker on one ear of corn?”
“Yes, kind sir. You may. There are still a few granules for your consumption, thank you.”
Laughter rippled along the benches. Fannie looked sideways at Annie and grinned. Suppertime was always something to look forward to, a time to listen to the big boys and Dat, hear about the day’s farming, in haying season especially. Sometimes the twins were allowed to drive the team of plodding Belgians, but only Dan and Tom, the two oldest and most trustworthy.
Dat sat back, full of good food. His eyes were crinkly, set deep beneath bushy eyebrows, his forehead pale in comparison to the rest of his deeply tanned face. His dark hair and beard were fringed in gray and white.
“We got some high-quality hay in the barn today,” he said, finding his wife’s eyes on his face.
She smiled, and he smiled back. “A good feeling for you. Certainly a blessing from the Lord.”
“Yep, sure is. My dat used to say we need to thank God for every load that goes into the barn. Hear that, boys?”
Nods of assent, distant “yeahs.”
It was scary, though, these wagons loaded heavily with bales of hay, clattering on steel wheels lurching up the incline into the bank barn, the Belgians’ haunches lowered as they leaned into their collars, immense hooves digging in as they drew the great load up and over the cement threshold of the great old barn. They’d make their way into the dark interior, the air thick with the pungent scent of freshly baled hay, shafts of light coming through high windows in the gable ends, the heavy floorboards able to hold the massive horses, the mighty load of hay balanced on steel wheels. Not all of them were drawn into the barn, only the first loads. When there was no more room, an elevator was placed on the incline, the gasoline engine chugging faithfully as the bales of hay went up, up, up to tumble into the bay to be packed tightly with the rest. And that wasn’t the only thing that was scary. If Dat was sloppy or miscalculated the moisture in the mown and raked hay, it could heat up to a high degree, actually starting a hay fire in the barn during the night. Sometimes Annie couldn’t go to sleep thinking about it.
Things like that didn’t bother Fannie, who could snore through all kinds of summer thunderstorms or talk of war or new presidents or climate change, while Annie read the newspaper and felt a dull tingling in her stomach about the war in Ukraine. She also thought about every parking lot and freeway covered in blacktop and concrete and all the heat that would throw off, not to mention men hacking away at the rainforest and all the cars and airplanes and trucks and buses putting out all that stuff in the air, whatever it was. She told Fannie about this not too long ago, and Fannie told her not to be ridiculous, which really made Annie hopping mad, just the way she said it. She smacked her lightly on her forearm and told her to quit it, too, which really didn’t do any good, but still.
She sat up, held very still, and stopped chewing. Dat was talking about signs of the end of the world. Her stomach lurched. Why did he have to say such things at the supper table? She excused herself and went to the bathroom and stayed there for a very long time before venturing out to the screen door to listen.
“We have nothing to be afraid of. Not one single thing. We are fa-sarked (taken care of) by our faith in the end times.”
Words like honey. Soothing and sweet. Annie sat back down at her space along the picnic table and didn’t answer Fannie when she asked where she was.
After everything was cleared away, dishes washed, and the porch swept, it was time to feed calves. There were eight of them, all in their own white hutch with a small woven wire enclosure. It was not nearly enough space, Annie told Fannie, who told her she thought of the most unnecessary things. The calves were perfectly alright until they were done being bottle-fed, but Annie thought they should be able to run and kick up their heels the way they did years ago. But they were happy to see Annie and Fannie approach with the big plastic bottles with the brick-colored nipples. Their eyes were large and gentle, and sometimes they were sad, she didn’t care what Fannie said. Calves had feelings, too.
After the white calf starter powder was mixed with warm water, they filled the bottles and hooked them to a special hook made for that purpose, except for a few who had to be hand-fed, the bossy ones who bucked the bottle too hard. All the barn cats hung around, waiting for their dish of milk, so Fannie sat in the grass and petted their silky backs as they arched against her, purring. Annie was okay with cats, but she never petted them the way Fannie did. Cats had parasites and sore eyes, and their bathroom habits were deplorable.
When the animals were fed, the twins were allowed to play in the creek, but they weren’t allowed to swim in the pond unless Becky or Mary or Sarah accompanied them. They could swim like fish, all of them, so it made no sense that they couldn’t swim without the older girls, Annie and Fannie thought, but it was Dat’s rule. Mam’s too.
So tonight they had to be content to splash in the creek, way back behind the corncrib, down the dirt lane and across the hay field that was nothing but scratchy stubbles. They had to wear shoes so they wouldn’t hurt their feet. The big girls were allowed to wear flip-flops, but Annie and Fannie weren’t. It was not even remotely fair what these rumschpringa (teenage Amish) got away with, but at only ten years old, no one asked the twins what they thought.
They lifted their skirts and waded up to their knees, then tucked them between their legs to bend over and watch minnows darting in and out of the shadows. They were impossible to catch without a net, so they watched a while, till they got bored, then dared each other to lift big rocks and look for salamanders and snakes. They slipped on moss-covered rocks, fell into the shallow water, and sat down with the ripples going past their waists. It was delightfully refreshing after the heat of the day.
