Winter of Wishes by Charlotte Hubbard Page A

have tolerated her lack of culinary interest had she been more patient
     with the kids. More honest with him.
    Wasn’t it her brutal honesty that punched you in the gut? Things seemed comparatively
     easy when she lied about where she was really spending all those nights away from
     home.
    As Rhoda approached him with more pancakes on a plate, Andy let go of the rancor such
     memories called up. How could he remain bitter when a kindhearted young woman was
     flipping an A and an L onto his plate, and a fancy cursive B onto his mother’s?
    His mom chortled with delight. And wasn’t it the most wonderful thing, that her interest
     in everyday living had returned—at least for this meal?
    “Thank you so much, Rhoda,” he murmured as he watched his son jam another bite of
     pancake into his mouth. Even the smears of tan and purple around Brett’s mouth seemed
     something to be thankful for—not to mention the way Taylor carried the bacon platter
     to her grandmother.
    “You’re quite welcome,” Rhoda replied.
    And weren’t the simplest exchanges, the quiet niceties, fulfilling in themselves?
     
     
    Why was making someone else’s beds and cleaning someone else’s bathrooms more fun
     than doing those same chores at home? Rhoda put the final load of clothes in the dryer,
     marveling at how quickly laundry got done when she didn’t have to run the clothes
     through the wringer and hang them on hangers or a clothesline—and then fetch them
     inside, frozen stiff. Although it hadn’t taken but a moment for Andy to explain the
     controls on the electric washer and dryer, she reminded herself not to wish for such
     luxuries at home. She peeked into the room where the computers were, gratified to
     see Taylor dusting while her brother organized their games and something they called
     DVDs in the hutch where the children’s computer sat.
    “Rhoda, shall we talk for a moment? It’s almost four o’clock and I need to pay you.”
     Andy stood in the kitchen doorway, waiting for her.
    “Where has the day gone? I’ll start your dinner while we talk, if that’s all right.”
    “All right?” he teased. “That’s just the latest of the wonderful ideas you’ve had
     since you set foot in my home.”
    Rhoda glowed from the many compliments he’d paid her today. “Well, I won’t be here
     tomorrow, ya know. Sundays are for spendin’ time with the Lord and your family, even
     when there’s no preachin’ service.”
    Andy’s eyes widened. “You don’t go to church every Sunday?”
    She shook her head as she chopped an onion over the hamburger she was browning in
     a large skillet. “Services’ll be held at our house tomorrow, so we’ve been reddin’
     up the rooms and cookin’ for the common meal that follows the preachin’. Might have
     a hundred-fifty folks there, so it takes a little gettin’ ready.”
    “How on earth do you fit so many people into your home? And how do you feed them all?”
    While his questions sounded incredulous, Rhoda sensed Andy Leitner was sincerely interested
     in her day-to-day life. “When Amish folks build a home, a lot of the downstairs rooms
     have partition walls that come down,” she explained. “That way, we can fit in all
     the pew benches and the tables where everybody eats afterwards. And believe me, after
     about three hours of church, sittin’ on those hard wooden benches and kneelin’ on
     the floor now and again, we’re ready for movin’ around while we set out the food!”
    He was leaning against the counter, watching her stir the sizzling hamburger as he
     considered the Sunday morning ritual that had been a part of her life forever. “Three
     hours?” he murmured. “So where are the kids all that time? They surely don’t sit through—”
    “Oh, jah , they do,” she said. “We’re raised up to be quiet and prayerful during church, nappin’
     on our mamm ’s or dat ’s lap when we’re wee little. As we get older, we listen to the preachin’.