could have hot fudge sauce on her ice cream to wishing that she had her parents again. There was no comparison.
But how could she put such things into words? She couldn’t, especially if it risked making E.A. sad. Will would be very upset with her, and might even be so mad that he wouldn’t let them stay until Christmas.
“All I want to do is get something from my room.”
Looking disappointed in her, E.A. nodded. “I’m sorry, Jemima. Of course you may do that. How about you meet me in the dining room in a half hour or so? We’ll work on the baskets and then maybe make some pretzels.”
Jemima scooted off the couch and hurried to her room. She closed the door and leaned up against it. And then slid down the wood until her head was resting near the floor. It was uncomfortable and the wood floor was cold, but she was safe. No one could come inside without her knowing.
Only then did she start to pray for Jesus to watch over her and Roy this Christmas. She wasn’t sure if He was listening, but just in case He was, she made sure to say “please” a whole bunch.
Chapter 8
E.A. waited thirty minutes, which had been difficult, since each minute felt like two hours. Then she walked back upstairs. A dozen emotions warred inside her. She didn’t know how Jemima was feeling, not really. Her parents were still alive, and they were still living in the home E.A. had been born in. She’d never had a social worker assigned to her or lived with one foster family after another. She’d never even had a little brother to feel responsible for.
No, the only thing E.A. and Jemima had in common was that Jemima was nine years old and E.A. had once been a little girl as well.
But then she remembered that they had something more than that. They had love. E.A. already loved Jemima and Roy, and she wanted them in her life for years and years. She wanted to protect them and show them that even though life could sometimes be very, very hard, there were also good things that happened.
She didn’t know if she had the right words to convey all that, but she knew she had to try. Feeling a little better, even though she worried that it was the exact wrong thing to do, E.A. at last knocked lightly on Jemima’s door.
There was a pause and a sniff. “I’ll be right out,” she said at last.
The little girl’s voice was hoarse, and she sounded so resigned that E.A. gave in to impulse and opened the door without waiting another second. To her surprise, the door almost hit Jemima’s leg when it swung in.
Jemima scooted a few inches down.
“Oh, honey. Look at you, sitting on the floor.” E.A. sat down next to her.
“You don’t need to sit here, too.” Jemima was looking down at a hand, which was pressed flat on the edge of the beige area rug that covered a portion of the wooden floor.
“I’m not so big that I can’t sit here with you.” She smiled sadly at her. “Jemima, I know we are still getting used to each other, but I think you need to know that I, um, like you very much.” She almost said “love,” but she was afraid to scare the child off.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I am saying it because it’s true, child. I do like you a lot. You’re a likeable person.” She smiled softly. “You are sweet, and bright, and you care about Roy so much. If you had come into my sewing shop, I would want to know you better.”
“Oh.”
“You know, we haven’t talked a lot about your parents.”
Jemima’s head whipped around. “Who?”
“Your real mamm and daed. I know they were good people, and I know that they died in a car accident, but I don’t know much else about them.”
Jemima’s blue eyes turned conflicted. “They were nice.”
“I’m sure they were, but what was special about them?”
“Special? I don’t know what to say.”
“Why don’t you tell me about Christmas?”
“Christmas?”
“Jah. What did they do at Christmastime? Did your mother like to bake cookies? Did she send Christmas cards?”
Jemima froze, then slowly nodded.
E.A. leaned back against the wall. “My mother has always loved Christmas. She’s the type of person who starts making Christmas presents for other people in July or August. And, don’t tell anyone, but she secretly loves to sing Christmas carols.”
“Really?”
E.A. chuckled. “One time my daed and I caught her singing ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ when she thought she was alone in the house.”
“I don’t think my mother sang that.”
“No?”
Jemima shook her head. “My mamm really liked Thanksgiving best. She said Christmas was for Jesus, but Thanksgiving was for everyone.”
“I like that saying. It’s true, too.”
“Mamm used to buy lots of pumpkins and put them all around the haus. And she made the best apple cider and applesauce.” Jemima peeked up at her. “We had an apple tree in our yard.”
“Did you? I always wanted one of those. Were the apples good?”
Jemima smiled. “They were the best. Mei daed used to say that he didn’t need to be a rich man because we had the best apple tree in the county.”
“If I had an apple tree in our yard, I think I’d sneak apples all the time.”
“Daed did! Mamm never even got mad because we had so many of them.”
“I bet you miss that tree,” E.A. said softly.
Jemima nodded. “I do.” Her lip trembled. “I miss the apple tree and our house and how our kitchen always smelled like cinnamon.” Looking up at E.A., she added, “I miss my parents, too. I wish they hadn’t died. Everyone says God must have wanted them bad, but I wanted them, too.”
And then the tears came.
“Oh, Jemima.” As the little girl let out a noise that was so full of pain it practically sliced her heart, E.A. reached out and held her close.
And then E.A. cried, too. She cried for Jemima and Roy’s parents, two people who were far too young to die, . . . and for two little children who were far too young to have only memories of them.
Chapter 9
Three days before Christmas
Jemima was wearing a brand-new red dress for the Christmas party. The fabric was buttery soft and the sleeves were slightly puffed. She thought the matching red apron over it was awfully
