The Christmas Quilt. Patricia Davids
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southward delivering early ice and snow in its wake.
Craig said, “I read the Amish don’t believe in health insurance. Is that true?”
“Most don’t. The community would rally round a family that had big medical expenses, but they could only do so much.”
Gideon had to help. He pulled his phone from his pocket and prayed the news station could give him more information. It wasn’t until he tried to speak that he realized his voice was gone. He handed the phone to Roseanne and wrote a quick note on a piece of paper from her desk.
Get me all the information you can about the auction.
After a brief conversation, Roseanne hung up and handed the notepad to him. “It’s at noon the day after tomorrow.”
That gave him one day to rest up. If he headed out early the following morning he could make the six-hour trip there and back. It would be a long day, but doable.
Craig said, “Tell me you’re not going to drive to Ohio.”
Roseanne studied Gideon’s face. “Yes, he is.”
“I know we’re going to have a wonderful time today.”
Rebecca Beachy didn’t share her aunt Vera’s optimism. She folded her white cane and tucked it under her arm. Grasping her aunt’s elbow, she let Vera lead her toward the tent where the quilt auction was about to get under way. Besides Rebecca’s quilt, there were thirty others being auctioned off. Rebecca kept a smile on her face as she followed her aunt even though she was anything but comfortable.
Disoriented by the noise and smells of the fairlike atmosphere, she wished she were back in her aunt’s small home where everything was in its rightful place and nothing was ready to trip her up.
The thought had barely crossed her mind before something hit her legs and made her stumble.
“Sorry,” a pair of childish voices called out. She heard their footsteps as the children ran away.
“Hooligans,” Vera muttered.
“Excited Kinder at play.” Rebecca listened to the sound of the children’s voices as they shouted to each other. A pang of longing escaped from the place in her heart where she kept her fading dreams.
Dreams she once had of being a wife and a mother, of holding a child of her own. She’d had the chance to make those dreams come true years before, but she had been too afraid to take the risk. Had she made the right choice? Only God knew.
“Englisch children without manners,” Vera grumbled. “Come, we’re almost there.”
Rebecca drew a deep breath. Her life was what it was. This was God’s plan for her. Impossible dreams had no place in her dark world.
But if the darkness could be lifted?
She didn’t dare hope for such a miracle. This benefit auction was her aunt’s doing. Rebecca had tried to convince her the surgery was too expensive. They would need more money than would be raised here today. Even if they did manage to cover the cost, there was no guarantee her sight would be restored.
She had argued long and hard to no avail. The auction was under way. It was all in God’s hands, but Rebecca didn’t believe He would produce a miracle for her. She was not worthy. She knew exactly why her sight had been taken from her.
She pulled the collar of her coat closed against a cold gust of wind and ugly memories. An early storm was on its way, but God had seen fit to hold it off until the auction was over. For that she was thankful. At least she and her aunt didn’t need to worry about traveling home in foul weather. They had already made plans to stay in town for several days.
Suddenly, the wind was blocked, and Rebecca knew they were inside the tent. It was warmer than she expected. The smells of hot dogs, popcorn, hot chocolate and coffee told her they were near the concession stand. The sound of hundreds of voices raised to be heard over the general din assaulted her ears. When they finally reached their seats, Rebecca unbuttoned her coat and removed her heavy bonnet. Many of the people around her greeted her in her native Pennsylvania Dutch. Leaning closer to her aunt, she asked, “Is my kapp on straight? Do I look okay?”
“And why wouldn’t you look okay?” Vera asked.
“Because I may have egg yolk from breakfast on my dress, or my backside may be covered with dust from the buggy seat. I don’t know. Just tell me I look presentable.” She knew everyone would be staring at her when her quilt was brought up for auction. She didn’t like being the center of attention.
“You look lovely.” The harsh whisper startled her.
She turned her face toward the sound coming from behind her and caught the scent of a man’s spicy aftershave. The voice must belong to an Englisch fellow. “Danki.”
“You’re most welcome.” He coughed and she realized he was sick.
“You sound as if you should be abed with that cold.”
“So I’ve been told,” he admitted.
“It is a foolish fellow who doesn’t follow goot advice.”
“Some people definitely consider me foolish.” His raspy voice held a hint of amusement.
He was poking fun at himself. She liked that. There was something familiar about him but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. “Have we met?”
“I’m not from here,” he said quickly.
Vera said, “I see the bishop’s wife. I want to ask her how her brother is doing after his heart attack.” She rose and moved away, leaving Rebecca to her own devices.
The Englisch fellow said, “You’ve been deserted.”
She heard the folding chair beside her creak and his voice moved closer as if he were leaning over the seat. Although she knew it was unwise to encourage interaction with an outsider, she wanted to figure out why he seemed familiar. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard traces of a Pennsylvania Dutch accent in his raspy speech.
She said, “I don’t mind. I’m Rebecca Beachy.”
There was a long hesitation, then he said, “My friends call me Booker. The quilts on display are beautiful.”
“Are you a collector, Mr. Booker, or did your wife make you come today? That’s often the case with the men in the audience, Amish and English alike.”
“I’m not married. What about you?”
“Nee, I am an alt maedel.”
“Hardly an old maid. There must be something very wrong with the men in this community.”
Flustered, she quickly changed the subject, but he had confirmed one suspicion. He understood at least a little of her native tongue. “Have you been to one of our auctions before?”
“No, but I know what goes into making a quilt like the ones up on stage. My mother quilts.”
“They do take a lot of effort. I’m glad people such as yourself appreciate our Amish workmanship. How did you hear about our auction?”
“I caught the story on WHAM.”
Puzzled, she asked, “What is WHAM?”
“A television station where I live.”
“There was a story about our little auction on television?”
“Yes, and about you.”
She frowned. “Me? Why would they talk about me?”
“According to the story, this auction is helping raise money for your eye surgery.” His voice was barely a whisper and fading.
Embarrassment overtook her. The heat of a blush rose up her neck and flared across her cheeks. “Perhaps Dr. White or