An Unexpected Joy Read online

  “Abigail will keep you company,” he said.

  Mammi snorted.

  “I’m going to be working long hours to get the glass orders finished before Christmas.” He should be working now. Micah paced to the end of the room and peeked out the window facing the driveway. Snow was falling, but there wasn’t any sign of Abigail. He walked back and turned. For someone who wanted the job so desperately, she could have at least shown up on time.

  “You’re going to wear the wax off those planks, pacing like you are.” She pulled the end of the yarn, unraveling more from the ball.

  He made another jaunt across the floor, this time leaving the room to look out the window in the foyer. Maybe he should get the woodstove fired up in the shop. It always took awhile before the kiln was hot enough to melt the glass. He pulled his coat off the hook and slipped his arm into the sleeve. Micah poked his head around the wall of the sitting room. “Abigail should be here shortly. I’m going to start the fire in the shop.”

  A knock sounded on the front door.

  “That must be her.” Finally. He went to the door and opened it.

  Abigail looked up from stomping snow off her boots. Her green eyes held a twinkle, and her whimsical smile greeted him before she ever opened her mouth to speak. “Hiya.” She waved her blue mitted hand.

  “Kumm in, Abigail.” He moved aside so she could pass.

  She breezed into the house, a brown shopping bag in hand. Moving toward the coat hooks, she thrust the sack at his chest. “It’s snowing hard again. We probably had more inches fall last nacht than all of last week combined.” She removed her mittens. “I just love this wedder. What about you, Micah, do you like it when it snows?”

  “Nett so—”

  “It’s pure and I like catching it on my tongue. But it’s cold . . .” Her assessment of the weather continued as she took off her wool cloak. “I think the horses like this wedder too. Don’t you agree?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but not quick enough to get a word in.

  “Horses grow such a thick coat of fur, which always makes for a lot of brushing in the spring, ain’t so?”

  He raised his brows. Horse grooming in their community was common knowledge. But she rattled on about how horses should be blanketed in the winter and given extra feed. A walking textbook. It struck him then that perhaps he was dense. All this talk about horses was probably her way of hinting that he should offer to unhitch her horse and put him in a stall. Still holding her bag, he went to the window and looked out. “Where’s your buggy?”

  “David was on his way to the hardware store so he offered to drop me off.” She lined her snow-covered boots against the wall, then drew in a deep breath and clapped her hands together. “So, where’s your grandmother?”

  He motioned to the sitting room. “She’s around the corner in the—”

  Abigail went to the entrance of the sitting room and waved. “Hello.”

  Micah caught Mammi’s grimace as he came up beside Abigail.

  “You must be Abigail Kemp.”

  Mammi’s lackluster tone didn’t shy away Abigail; she beamed. “Jah. Should I call you Mrs. Zook?”

  “Edith will be fine.”

  Micah tapped the paper sack. “Where do you want this?”

  “On the kitchen table will be fine.” She trailed him to the kitchen and started to unpack the bag. “I brought some puzzles for me and Edith to do. Does your grandmother like to put puzzles together?”

  He shrugged, then nodded toward the door. “I should head out to the shop nau. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Abigail trailed him to the door. “How long did you say your folks will be away?”

  “Until Christmas.”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip. “Three weeks?”

  “Is there a problem with taking care of mei mammi that long?” He removed his hat from the wall hook.

  “Nope.” Her smile widened. “Just making conversation.”

  “Wasn’t a conversation supposed to go two ways?” he muttered under his breath as he donned his hat and gloves.

  She slipped into the sitting room. Within seconds, the women were engaged in conversation—at least Abigail was. Mammi was being polite. Perhaps this arrangement would work out after all.

  Micah went outside. A brisk wind lifted his hat, but he caught it and pushed it back into place. The temperature had dropped since he’d gone out to feed the horses earlier that morning. The tracks he’d made were barely visible now. He flipped his coat collar up and held it tighter against his neck. He sure didn’t share Abigail’s enthusiasm for the cold weather. Despite the festive Christmas season, this wasn’t his favorite time of year.

  The snow crunched under his boots as he trekked across the yard to the workshop. He should have hired Abigail last week when his parents first went out of town. He hadn’t considered how much supervision his grandmother would require, nor had he expected his Englisch customers to make last-minute changes to their orders. Now, in addition to the wedding table centerpieces, he was commissioned to make the cake topper along with several hanging glass icicles and snowflake decorations.

  Micah started the fire in the kiln and gathered the glassblowing pipe, metal crimpers, and the wooden shaping bowl. The sand, borax, and cullet mixture molted into a pliable mass of clear bubbles as the temperature rose. He slid the end of the blowing iron into the fiery liquid and slowly rotated the pipe, collecting the spongy material. Micah removed the pipe from the heat, rotating it so the molten glass didn’t drip off the rod as he carried it to the steel table. Rolling it against the marver, he evened out the shape. The piece was cooling faster than he liked. He lifted the pipe and blew gently into the end.

  The shop door opened and Abigail entered. “Ach,” her eyes opened wide, “what are you making?”

  He’d hired her to keep his grandmother busy, not bother him while he was working.

  “Can’t talk, can you?” She chuckled.

  Micah withdrew his mouth from the pipe and capped the hole with his finger. “What do you need, Abigail?”

  She pointed to the pipe. “It’s . . . glowing—and growing.”

  He glanced at the glob of molten glass and groaned. The trapped air from closing off the hole had created a hollow bubble, as it should, but by not working the shape at the same time, the walls had overexpanded. The piece was too thin to develop any further.

  “Is it supposed to do that?”

  “Nett really.” Another time he might have found her bright green eyes, wide with childlike wonder, attractive, but not today. He blew out a breath. “Is there something that you need?”

  “You didn’t say what time you wanted lunch. I found some jars of vegetables in the pantry. I thought I could make soup.”

  He used the pliers to snip the glass, then set the blowpipe on the steel worktable and moved toward her.

  “Or I could make sandwiches. There’s peanut butter and jelly or if you want—”

  He reached for her elbow and turned her toward the door. “Anything you make will be fine with me.” He opened the door. “I’m nett fussy,” he said, guiding her outside the building.

  She blinked several times in rapid succession, and for the first time, she said nothing when her mouth dropped open.

  He closed the door. That was rude. Apologize. Guilt pricked his conscience, but he pushed it aside and returned to his workplace. He wasn’t about to apologize. Doing so would only encourage the maedel.

  Abigail touched her arm where Micah had cupped his hand over her elbow and shuttled her out. His simple gesture had generated a l
ight tingling sensation that even now continued to circulate. She stared at the closed door. If he didn’t want to be interrupted, he should have posted a sign.

  She hesitated a moment, then yanked the workshop door open and reentered the building. Her eyes needed a second to adjust to the dimly lit room. Once they did, she spotted Micah hunched next to the furnace opening, feeding the blaze with more wood. Abigail approached the steel table.

  “You never said what time you wanted to eat lunch,” she said.

  Micah jerked, then slowly facing her, his eyes narrowed.

  She hadn’t meant to surprise him. Oh dear, he looks annoyed. Her gaze traveled his six-foot frame as he stood. She swallowed hard.

  He swept the wood bark off his knees, then wiped his hands of sawdust.

  “Is there . . .” She straightened her shoulders and stood a little taller. “Is there a particular time you normally eat? Mei daed and bruder like to eat right at noon. But I thought I should find out from—”

  His eyes closed for a brief second. “You’re making cold sandwiches, right?”

  “I don’t have to. That was merely a suggestion. I could make something warm. Soup or macaroni and—”

  “Abigail.”

  He stifled his stern tone with an extended groan, which sounded a lot like the bear she’d heard once while berry picking. That or the noise her father made when he tried to restrain his agitation with her mother’s absentmindedness.

  Abigail clamped her hand over her mouth before she said something stupid and then peered up. But the moment his hazel eyes met hers, a shudder cascaded down her spine. She looked away and focused on the pile of kindling stacked in the woodbox.

  “Perhaps we should set some ground rules,” he said. “I hired you to look after mei mammi so that I could work out here. Uninterrupted.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “How about you make whatever mei mammi wants for lunch. If it’s something hot, I’ll warm it up myself when I come in, okay?”

  Abigail nodded. Her attention skipped over to the flaming furnace, the bucket of water, and the long steel rod lying beside a glob of something green on the table. Her brother had said Micah worked with glass, making fancy things to sell in one of the downtown shops, but she’d never seen any of his products while window gazing. She scanned the nearby shelves lined with boxes labeled molds. Her curiosity rose, but she resisted asking about them. A wooden crate was marked cullets and he had various tools hanging from a pegboard over a workbench. The man kept his work area neat.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Oh, I suppose I should go.” She headed toward the door. “I wouldn’t want Edith to get worried about me being gone so long.”

  Abigail stepped outside. She clenched the opening of her cape at the neck and, with her free hand, caught the white flecks of snow. The last time it snowed this hard, she had been skating. Twirling in a tight circle with her head up, the mesmerizing snowflakes had made her dizzy. She’d only gone to the pond once this season. David had said the ice wasn’t thick enough, but she’d tested it anyway and hadn’t heard any cracks. Abigail slid her boot in long strides over the freshly fallen snow on the driveway. She hoped to have time before supper to skate.

  Abigail removed her cloak at the door and hung it on the wall hook. Blowing warm air into her fisted hands, she crossed the room. “It’s getting colder out there.” She stopped in front of the woodstove, its radiating heat eased the winter chill from her bones.

  “You need a hot cup of tea to warm your insides.” Edith set her knitting aside and stood. “I’ll put the kettle on to boil.” She ambled toward the kitchen.

  Abigail rubbed her arms a few minutes longer, enjoying the warmth from the woodstove, then joined Edith in the kitchen.

  Edith wasn’t the frail, little woman Micah had made her out to be. She had climbed a footstool and was removing two cups from the cabinet.

  “Let me help you with those.” Abigail reached for the cups. An eighty-five-year-old woman shouldn’t be climbing a stool. She might fall and break a hip. The cups rattled as Abigail set them on the counter. She took Edith’s hand and helped her down.

  “Danki, dear.”

  “I wish you would have waited for me to get them down.” Abigail sniffed an awful metallic smell in the air. She glanced at the stove. It wasn’t steam coming from the kettle’s spout, but black smoke, and it was filling the room. She grabbed a potholder, lifted the empty kettle from the stove, and deposited it into the sink.

  “Did I forget to put water in it?” Edith frowned.

  “It’s okay.” She opened the window over the sink and waved the potholder, fanning the smoke outside. Icy air nipped at her nose and cheeks. “You might want to wait in the sitting room where it’s warmer.” Abigail glanced over her shoulder, but Edith had already left the kitchen.

  A few moments later, the door flung open and Micah rushed into the kitchen, a bucket of water in his hand. “Where’s the fire?”

  “There isn’t one.” She stopped fanning the smoke.

  He sniffed the air and grimaced. “What’s that smell?”

  “The tea kettle boiled dry.”

  “That’s it?”

  Abigail nodded.

  He set the water bucket on the floor, then crossed his arms and glared at her. “That’s the emergency? Mammi said the haus was on fire.”

  Edith came into the house, breathing hard and shivering. “Did you put the fire out, Micah?”

  “Everything is fine, Mammi.” He turned to Abigail. “I hope the next time you’ll make sure there’s enough water in the kettle before putting it on the stove.”

  “I—” Abigail bowed her head. Finger-pointing never gained favor. “I’ll be more careful.”

  “I’m glad you’re both okay,” he said quietly.

  “Danki.” She forced a smile. He was probably thinking of a hundred different reasons to find someone else to care for Edith now. She’d better keep a closer eye on the elderly woman if she wanted to keep this job.

  He picked up the water bucket. “I’ll be out in the shop if you need me.”

  Abigail watched him walk to the door. His rolled-up shirtsleeves exposed muscular forearms. Carrying a full bucket of water, he never let a drop slosh over the side of the metal pail. He pushed his hat down, covering the tips of his ears before stepping outside. Abigail stared at his vacant spot at the door for a long moment.

  “I thought I would make lentil soup for lunch,” Edith said.

  She closed her eyes and blew out a calming breath. “You’re nett trying to take mei job, are you?” Without giving Edith time to answer, she continued. “I’m trying to save enough money to buy a buggy horse. Mr. Troyer has a gelding he plans to sell. He’s a beautiful animal.”

  Abigail opened the lower kitchen cabinets and searched for a large pot and matching lid. If Edith wanted lentil soup, Abigail was going to make it. She filled the pot with tap water.

  “What were we talking about? Oh, I remember. Mr. Troyer’s gelding. I’ve been saving for a year. Mostly the money I made from selling mei baked goods at the—” She hushed herself. That wasn’t a topic she wanted to discuss with anyone. She needed to learn to keep her mouth shut. Fran’s words about Abigail’s defiance replayed in her mind. If Fran was instructed not to sell Abigail’s baked goods, Micah would probably be told he couldn’t hire her to care for his grandmother. The ordeal would embarrass her parents, and the bishop may think her parents were unable to keep their daughter in line. Her thoughts flitted a dozen directions. She couldn’t lose her job. Lose the chance to buy Cactus. All she had to do was keep her mouth shut for three weeks, and she would have her independence.
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  CHAPTER 4

  The afternoon stole away from Micah. What he wasn’t able to get done before lunchtime, he made up for later. He finished the first glass centerpiece. A green leafy wreath design with clusters of red berries. Micah held the lantern over it and admired the way the glass reflected the glow from the flame. He hoped the bride and groom would be pleased. They certainly paid a premium price for the artwork. When he met with the couple’s wedding planner last week, she had mentioned the possibility of hiring him to make glassware for another wedding around Valentine’s Day.

  Micah had never been one to count his sales before delivering the product and getting the final nod of acceptance, but this account was different. If all went according to plan, he would be able to break ground on his own home come spring. His father had given him the back forty acres to build on. He had always assumed he wouldn’t start building until he was married. His two brothers married and left home at twenty-one, his sister at twenty-two. At age twenty-four, Micah was ready to establish his own independence, even though he didn’t plan to go far.

  His stomach growled. The lentil soup he’d eaten at lunch hadn’t filled him up. Micah cleaned up his work area and put the tools back in their proper places. He trekked across the yard, the snow crunching underfoot.

  The scent of garlic bread and yummasetti met him at the door. He peeled off his coat and hung it on the wall hook. His mouth watered. Since his parents had left town, he’d eaten a few burned meals his grandmother made. Then deciding it’d be safer for her not to cook, he’d requested sandwiches.

  He rounded the corner into the kitchen and paused. The sight of Abigail, standing at the stove, removing the tinfoil cover from the pan, made his heart skip a beat. Maybe there was something to that old saying about the way to a man’s heart.