Cakes and Kisses Read online

  Copyright

  ZONDERVAN

  Cakes and Kisses

  Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Irvin

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  ISBN: 978-0-310-35285-3 (e-book)

  Epub Edition September 2019 9780310352853

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

  CIP data is available upon request.

  Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  19 20 21 22 23 / LSC / 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my sweet uncle Duane, may he rest in peace

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Glossary

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Discussion Questions

  Author Note

  About the Author

  GLOSSARY

  ab im kopp: addled in the head

  ach: oh

  aenti: aunt

  appeditlich: delicious

  boppli: baby

  bruders: brothers

  bu: boy

  daadi: grandfather

  daed/dat: dad

  danki: thank you

  dawdy haus/ daadi haus: grandparents’ house

  Deitsch: Dutch

  dochder: daughter

  dummkopf: foolish person

  Englisch/Englischer: English or Non-Amish

  fraa: wife

  Frehlicher Grischtdaag!: Merry Christmas!

  freind: friend

  freinden: friends

  froh: happy

  gegisch: silly

  geh: go

  gern gschehne: you’re welcome

  Gmay: church district

  Gott: God

  groossmammi: grandma

  gude mariye: good morning

  gut: good

  gut nacht/gute nacht: Good night

  haus: house

  hund: dog

  Ich liebe dich: I love you

  jah: yes

  kaffee/kaffi: coffee

  kapp: prayer cap or head covering worn by Amish women

  kichli: cookie

  kichlin: cookies

  kinn: child

  kinner: children

  krank: ill

  kuchen: cakes

  liewe: love, a term of endearment

  maed: young women, girls

  maedel: young woman

  mamm/mudder/mutter: mom

  mammi: grandmother

  mann: husband

  mei: my

  nee: no

  nix: nothing

  onkel: uncle

  Ordnung: written and unwritten rules in an Amish district

  rumspringa/rumschpringe: period of running around

  schee: pretty

  schtupp: family room

  schweschder: sister

  schweschders: sisters

  sohn/suh: son

  vatter: father

  Was iss letz?: What’s wrong?

  Wie bischt: How are you?

  Wie geht’s: How do you do? or Good day!

  wunderbaar: wonderful

  ya: yes

  yer: your

  yerself: yourself

  *The German dialect spoken by the Amish is not a written language and varies depending on the location and origin of the settlement. These spellings are approximations. Most Amish children learn English after they start school. They also learn high German, which is used in their Sunday services.

  Epigraph

  So God created mankind in his own image,

  in the image of God he created them;

  male and female he created them.

  GENESIS 1:27

  1

  AMBROSE HERSHBERGER COUNTED THE CHANGE AGAIN. The last time his boss sent him to the Jamesport Grocery Store to buy extra food for the café, the change hadn’t matched the receipt. Ambrose wasn’t good at math, but his boss, Burke McMillan, never complained. He never yelled at Ambrose. He simply pointed out the mistake. Then he gave Ambrose a cup of coffee, sat him down on a stool at the front counter of the Purple Martin Café, and went over the numbers with him, like he was a regular guy who understood these things.

  Like he cared about Ambrose knowing how to count change.

  Jonnie Parker’s forehead furled. The cashier’s dark eyebrows, mismatched to her blonde-and-blue hair, rose and fell. “Is everything okay, Ambrose?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I keep telling you, don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’m only twenty-nine.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Jonnie giggled. “You’re holding up the line, sweetie.”

  Ladies always called Ambrose names like sweetie and honey. He had no idea why. “Sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t apologize so much.” She handed him a chocolate Tootsie Pop. “On me. See you next time.”

  “Thank you.” He liked chocolate. A lot. He unwrapped the sucker and popped it in his mouth. The cashier held out her hand. He deposited the wrapper on her palm. “See you next time.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  That wasn’t very nice. How did a man answer that?

  “I’m joking, sweetie. You’re welcome here any time.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He laughed. He liked a good joke, even if it was on him. “Take care.”

  “You too. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

  He glanced at the change in his hand. Three dollars, a quarter, two dimes, and two pennies. No nickels. Wooden or otherwise.

  “It’s a joke, Ambrose.”

  “I know.” Of course he knew. No wooden nickels. Careful not to jostle the two twenty-four packs of eggs nestled on top, he scooped up three large paper bags and headed for the door.

  “Do you need some help?” Louis, the stock-boy-slash-janitor, set aside his push broom and rushed to open the glass door for Ambrose. “I can carry some of those bags out for you.”

  Louis was a nice kid, but Ambrose topped six four and weighed at least two hundred pounds. He had lots of muscles from working on his little farm, doing handyman jobs for folks around town, and delivering for the Ropp family’s bakery. “Thank you, but I got it.”

  “Take care.”

  “You too.” Louis closed the door after Ambrose.

  They were such nice folks. Most people in Jamesport, Missouri, were. It was one of the many reasons Ambrose was content to live in the place he’d been born thirty years earlier.

  Contentment felt good. Like hot coffee on the front porch as the sun crept over the horizon each day.

  He’d parked the wagon in the only open spot, near the corner. He didn’t mind the short walk. The chocolate sucker tasted good. The sun shone on this first day of May. A breeze blew and only a hint of summer’s heat touched his face when he lifted it to the sun. Spring was by far the best time of year. He tilled the soil for his garden, planted vegetables and flowers, filled the bird feeders, and sat on his front porch to drink his coffee and share his breakfast with Samson, Jasper, and Amelia, his cats, and Pirate, the one-eyed dog who acted like he owned the place.

  Sometimes Aunt Mae joined them, but she didn’t talk much, so Ambrose didn’t mind.

  He had a good life. It lacked a wife and children, but he’d given up the desires of his heart long ago. A simple man like himself couldn’t expect to be a husband and father. He wasn’t smart enough to be in charge of anything.

  A group of English boys clustered around a bench outside the store. They bellowed over something on a phone.

  Ambrose zigzagged to avoid their sprawling legs and feet that wore fancy, expensive sneakers.

  A second later, his boots encountered an obstacle he couldn’t see over the bags. He teetered and pitched forward.

  Don’t let go, don’t let go.

  He had no choice. He let go of the bags, flailed, and tried to catch himself.

  Too late. The sucker went flying. He flopped facedown in a quart of fresh strawberries.

  A jar of articho
ke hearts shattered. Cans of tomato sauce rolled into the street. Heads of lettuce scattered.

  “Oops!” One of the boys squatted next to him. Conner Benson, the middle school principal’s oldest son. A squinty look on his pimpled face, he patted Ambrose’s face and grinned. He had a mouth full of braces. “You fell.”

  “It’s okay. I’m fine.” Ambrose struggled to rise. “I’m clumsy.”

  Another boy Ambrose didn’t recognize planted his cowboy boot in the middle of Ambrose’s back. “Don’t get up. You might have broken something. You shouldn’t move.”

  “You lost your hat.” Jason Mick, one of Conner’s buddies, picked it up. Instead of putting it back on Ambrose’s head, he plopped unbroken eggs, one after the other, into the straw hat. “Here you go.”

  He slapped the hat on Ambrose’s head.

  Slimy egg yolks and pieces of shell trickled down Ambrose’s forehead and into his eyes. “That’s not nice.” He slid his hands forward, palms down, and hoisted himself up. A nasty pain sliced through his palm. Broken glass. “Ach! It’s okay. Let me up.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Laughing, Jason and Conner moved back a step. Ambrose stared at their fancy shoes. A foot remained shoved into his back.

  The word idiot floated over him, mixed with snorts and chortles.

  “Get away from him right now,” a familiar voice yelled from a distance.

  The laughter died. The pressure on his back disappeared.

  The scents of cinnamon and vanilla tickled his nose. Soft fingers touched his cheek.

  No one ever touched Ambrose. Not even Aunt Mae.

  It felt so nice.

  2

  “I SAW WHAT YOU DID!”

  Yelling at the fleeing boys did no good and likely would’ve caused the bishop to wince at the public display of ire if he were present, but Martha Ropp wanted them to know their meanness had not gone unnoticed. She saw it. So did an omnipotent, omnipresent God, if she understood Bishop Ben’s sermons.

  Which, truth be told, she often didn’t.

  Martha crouched next to Ambrose. She used her apron to wipe egg yolks mixed with broken shell from his forehead and eyes. “That boy Conner stuck his foot out and tripped you.” She peered at Ambrose’s face, looking for wounds. “They need to be taught a lesson. Preferably in the woodshed.”

  “They’re just being boys.” Ambrose drew up his knees and rose on all fours. He grunted. “I’m so clumsy. I’ve ruined Burke’s groceries.”

  “You’re not clumsy. They did it on purpose.”

  “Ben would say to forgive them.”

  Indeed the bishop would say exactly that. “You’re right, but he would also say children need to sow what they want to reap in order to become God-fearing adults.”

  “Did they plant seeds?”

  Ambrose’s penchant for literal-mindedness tickled Martha sometimes, but she never laughed at him like the others. “None that will grow.”

  He swiveled, sat on his behind, and swiped at his eyes. A streak of blood mixed with the eggs, strawberries, and dirt on his face.

  “Ach, you’re bleeding.” Renewed anger coursing through her, Martha grabbed his hand. A gaping cut seeped blood on his palm. She applied pressure with her apron. “I should tell Deputy Dan. He’ll have a word with their parents. And the high school principal. He’ll stop letting them leave the campus for lunch.”

  “Nee! Nee.” His smooth, dimpled cheeks were cherry red. Ambrose tugged his hand back. He ducked his head and grabbed the closest paper bag. It was wet and dirty. “It’ll be fine. Burke is waiting for the groceries.”

  “You’re covered with eggs and produce.” She’d touched him without thinking. Now heat toasted Martha’s cheeks. With the exception of her father, God rest his soul, she’d never touched a grown man. A single Plain woman didn’t take a man’s hand—or any man’s hand. The bishop wouldn’t like that either. Nor would Martha’s parents if they could see her now.

  Martha didn’t think of Ambrose like that. He was sweet and kind and ready to help at the drop of a hat. He’d give a person his favorite clean shirt along with his last dollar. Why would anyone be mean to him? “You can’t go back to the restaurant looking like this. Come to the bakery. You can clean up in the back.”

  Ambrose scooped up a head of iceberg lettuce and laid it gently in the bag. Still on his knees he corralled cans and jars. “Burke is waiting.”

  “He’ll wait a little longer, I promise.” Martha plucked a large container of pepper from the detritus on the sidewalk. “I reckon this is just stopgap until he does his big grocery shopping on Friday. Come on. Come with me.”

  She stood. Ambrose did the same. Martha was short and round. Ambrose towered over her. He had broad shoulders, big hands, and not an ounce of fat on his body. Despite his size, he had a child’s face. Smooth, fair skin, eyes the color of maple syrup, curly brown hair, and not a line around his eyes or mouth. He was the same age as her oldest brother, Henry—thirty. His sweet smile always made Martha smile in return.

  Not that she would tell him that. She grabbed a sack and started filling it. Louis stuck his head out the grocery store door. She explained the mess and he promised to take care of hosing it down. After a glance back to make sure Ambrose followed, Martha trotted across the street to the Sweet Tooth Bakery, owned by her family since before she was born. She unlocked the door and pushed through. “Come around the counter into the back.” She set her bag on the table behind the counter. She didn’t want that mess on her sparkling-clean glass countertops.

  His expression meek, Ambrose deposited his sacks and lumbered past her without speaking.

  “First things first.” She pointed to a chair tucked into a table by the room’s only windows. “Have a seat so I can take a look at your hand.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” He shuffled his scuffed, worn work boots. “I’m okay.”

  “You keep saying that, but you don’t want that cut to get infected, do you? Raw eggs have germs in them.” She tugged the first aid kit from the shelf and moved to the table. “Sit.”

  He sat.

  “Let me see your hand.”

  He kept it tucked in his lap.

  “It won’t hurt. Not much. And you’re a big guy. You can handle it.”

  He sniffed and scowled. Slowly, his hand slipped on to the table. Palm down.

  “Ambrose.”

  He turned it over. The piercing wound was deep, but not too long. Martha took a quick breath. She loathed to hurt him. Still, it would hurt worse if it got infected. Sighing, she poured hydrogen peroxide on a piece of clean gauze and dabbed gingerly until the cut was clean.

  His hand jerked once or twice, but Ambrose didn’t speak. Martha let her gaze sideswipe his face. He seemed mesmerized by her hands. His fingers were twice as long as hers with calluses representing years of hard work. His fingernails were clean but jagged.

  She touched a scar near the inside of his ring finger. Now he’d have another to match it. Something about holding his hand in hers and tending to it made her throat tighten. He was like an injured animal, scared but trusting.

  Their heads were so close she could’ve leaned forward a bit more and kissed him.

  Whatever made that thought rise to the top?

  Goose bumps tap-danced on her arms. The pancakes she’d eaten for breakfast decided to somersault from one end of her stomach to the other. She was a silly goose who spent too much time reading mail-order bride books. That’s what Mother would say.

  If she were here. But she wasn’t. She was gone.

  First to faraway Mexico for special treatments that were supposed to make her better. But didn’t. And then simply gone. A phone call from Uncle John said so. The bishop said so at her funeral only weeks before Christmas. Yet, it still didn’t seem real. Couldn’t be real.

  For the thousandth time, the question of why darted around in Martha’s head like a mosquito that wouldn’t die. Why Mother? Why cancer? Why their father first, and then Mother? Why, Gott?

  Ambrose began to hum in a low, singsong fashion that reminded her of something. She couldn’t put her finger on it. “What’s that song you’re humming?” She fashioned a bandage from a clean piece of gauze and white tape. “It’s pretty.”

  “Nothing.”

  “You made it up?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s nice.”

  “You’re nice.”

  He uttered the words without innuendo or flirtation. A simple observation. A statement. Still they hung in the air, a lilting tune all their own. No one ever complimented her, least of all a man. Not that Martha needed compliments, but still it seemed exceedingly sweet of him to offer the kind words. “Th-thank you.” Her own words came out in a semi-stutter. Why? “I try.”