Montana Sky Christmas: A Sweetwater Springs Short Story Collection (17 page)

She described choir practice.

At times she could see his mouth quirk, as if he suppressed a grin, and she gave him a friendly elbow in the side to remind him to remain suitably concerned.

“Guess you’ll have to choose between sound and participation.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you want a fine-soundin’ choir, then you’ll have to reject some of the children, like Jack. If you want one that includes everyone, then you’ll have to settle for one that might not be so pretty.”

Elizabeth let out a long sigh. “You’re right. As much as I’d love to have the children match the picture in my mind of how I want that night to go, it wouldn’t be right to exclude any who wanted to sing.”

“You can always ask them to mouth the words.”

She laughed, then sobered. “No. I couldn’t do that either. You know I feel there’s something about singing that connects me with God. And I bet the good Lord doesn’t care what we sound like, just what’s in our hearts when we raise our voices.”

Uncaring that they were in church, she leaned her head against his. “I guess it’s me that will have to change—do the best with what…who I have, and let go of the idea of a perfect choir.”

“That’s my girl,” Nick said in an affectionate tone. He stood and helped her to her feet. “Come, my love. Let’s go home.”

~ ~ ~

Three weeks later, a weary and irritable Elizabeth reclined on their four-poster bed while her accommodating husband massaged her tired feet. She’d changed into her nightgown and had propped pillows behind her so she could relax and breathe.

When Nick pushed on a tender spot, she let out an appreciative gasp.

“Easy, girl,” he said.

“This pageant, Nick,” she complained. “Why did you let me start it? We have the oddest assortment of presents.” She shook her head. “Some people’s idea of charity is to send us all their cast-offs. Which,” she paused to appreciate him kneading the arch of her foot, “I wouldn’t mind, if they were in good shape. But some of the clothes are practically rags. I wouldn’t give them to the dog.”

Elizabeth caught the telltale quirk of Nick’s lips and sent him a
don’t you dare laugh
look. “If,” she reached up to ruffle his brown hair, “the dog wore clothes.”

“That would be quite a sight.”

He was being mock serious, and she ignored him…well she couldn’t help enjoying the delicious things his fingers were doing to the ball of her foot. “Some of the children
still
aren’t singing on key.”

Nick gave her a solemn nod, but she suspected a twinkle lurked in his eyes.

Determined to prove the seriousness of her grievances, Elizabeth forged on. “The candles I ordered turned out to be pink, not red.”

This time, Nick laughed. But he picked up her other leg, feathered his touch down the calf, and started on the foot.
Oh, mercy, that feels good.

“The mercantile has run out of sugar,” she said, but the sting had gone out of her words.

“Sounds serious,” he murmured.

“The women need to bake cookies and cakes for the party after the pageant.”

“Christmas isn’t for a week, Beth. I’m sure the Cobbs will have the sugar in time.”

“Worst of all, Tim has a cold and has lost his voice.”

Nick lost his amused look. “Just a cold?”

“So Dr. Cameron says. But,
he’s lost his voice
. Samantha says he croaks like a frog. Actually, she said now Jack actually sings better than Tim.”

“Worse luck, sweetheart.” His thumb dug into a sore spot on her arch, and she stopped complaining to hum with pleasure.

“Tim’s solo is the highlight of the pageant. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

“You’ll think of something.”

The quiet confidence in her husband’s voice and the blessed relief from the pain in her feet cheered up Elizabeth. “It’s just that I want everything else to be perfect, even if the choir isn’t.”

“It will be,” Nick assured her. “We’ve never had a Christmas pageant and party here. So whatever you do will be special. You’ll see.”

The baby chose that moment to kick. She felt a tiny foot push out her skin. “Quick, Nick. Come feel.”

Nick set down her leg and scooted closer.

Elizabeth guided his hand to the area. Tonight wasn’t the first time he’d felt their child move, but the feeling of awe for both of them only increased with each opportunity.

In perfect accord, in silence, they felt the baby move around. Sometimes, they glanced at each other, sharing the wonder and joy—a magical moment too precious to break with words.

~ ~ ~

A week before Christmas, eight-year-old Marta Heisman followed her twelve-year-old cousin, Mattias Mueller into the mercantile. Mattias wanted her to help him choose Christmas presents from the money he’d saved by delivering bread and pastries to the outlying farms and ranches.

Together, they selected a length of lace for his mother, for his baby brother a wooden pull toy of a sheep, and a pair of suspenders for his father. While he paid the man behind the counter, Marta wandered through the shelves of the store.

Curious about the various goods, many she’d never seen before, she soon began to hum. Her humming turned into a song, and as she fingered the silk dress of a China doll, she allowed the words of a German lullaby to flow out.

“What are you doing?”

The harsh words jerked Marta out of her trance. The shopkeeper stood there, hands on hips, her close-set brown eyes narrowed. Although Marta couldn’t understand what was said, the look of contempt on the woman’s face spoke a clear message. Another flow of angry words had Marta shrinking back in fear.

Mattias stuck his head around the shelf but didn’t step into the aisle. “Mrs. Cobb doesn’t want you to touch anything because you might get it dirty or break it,” he explained in an anxious voice, not looking at the shopkeeper. “And she doesn’t like you singing in German.”

Marta wanted to sink into the floor. She muttered an apology, which Mattias translated, before she turned and hurried out of the store.
 

Gulping to hold back her tears, Marta ran down the street. She headed for the safety of the bakery and her mother.

I want to go home. I wish we’d never come here!

~ ~ ~

The next day, Marta huddled on the steps of the schoolhouse, watching the other students throw snowballs at each other. They yelled words she didn’t understand, although she could figure out a few of them. The children mostly kept to the side yard, dashing around the oak tree and using the wide trunk to shield themselves from the attackers.

She wrapped her arms around her knees to keep warm. The chill breeze tickled up the sleeves of her coat, where the edge of her mittens didn’t cover the skin. She’d grown, but after
Vati’s
death, her mother didn’t have money for a new dress or coat.

But even the sting of the cold on her wrists and face didn’t hurt as much as the cold emptiness she’d felt ever since her father died. Just thinking about
Vati
made Marta’s heart ache, and she had to work hard not to burst into tears. She’d cried and cried when
Vati
died, and
Mutti
took them away from their village and all her friends and brought them across the sea to America. But tears hadn’t changed anything. In fact, her tears often made her mother cry, and Marta couldn’t bear that.

Traveling on the ship had seemed like an adventure, even though they’d crammed together in the hold. At least, some passengers spoke German, and she’d made friends with the other children.

In Sweetwater Springs, her
Tante
Helga and
Onkel
Ernest and her cousin Mattias were the only ones who spoke German. When they were all together in the rooms behind the bakery, the house filled with the scent of fresh bread and pastries, things weren’t so bad. But when she was thrust across the street to the schoolhouse, forced to sit on a hard bench and listen to a teacher she didn’t understand, and be teased by the other students…. Even if she didn’t know the meaning of the taunts, the tone and expressions were enough to hurt.

As Marta sat alone on the steps, she let her imagination take her to the kingdom of the Snow Queen. Although
Vati’s
stories had made the ice castle a bad place, Marta longed to live there, isolated from everyone, her heart as frozen as the world around her. Then she wouldn’t feel the overwhelming grief for her father and the loneliness of being far from her home and friends.

Marta imagined wearing a crown of ice crystals and a robe of ermine and standing on the balcony of the palace, looking over the snowy grounds. She saw a lavender-gray sky above, and below in the garden, a zoo of fantastical ice-sculpture animals kept her amused. In the distance glittered a frozen lake she could skate on. She pretended to soar over the ice, her robe flying behind her like a cape.

The smack of a snowball hitting her face yanked Marta from her fantasy kingdom. The cold sting brought tears to her eyes.

She jumped up. Blinded by tears and snow, she raced away, heading toward the bakery, only to collide with a solid body—a man who held her upright and said something in a gentle voice.

Marta swiped an arm across her eyes. As her vision cleared, she saw a tall man, like her
vati
, but with brown hair and gray eyes, instead of blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. His shoulders were broad, not like her thin
vati’s
. But something about him made her relax, and forgetting he couldn’t understand, she blurted out what had happened in a torrent of words.

“Whoa,” he said.

That word she did know.

A woman stepped from his side. Marta hadn’t noticed her before, but she gazed in awe at the most beautiful lady she’d ever seen, more lovely than the exquisite Snow Queen. Unlike the Snow Queen, with her white flowing hair, crystal eyes, and milky pale skin, this woman had vibrant beauty, from her bright auburn hair, to her kind blue eyes and even features. She had pale skin, too, but with pink in her cheeks and even the tip of her nose from cold. The Snow Queen never showed the affects of the cold.

“
Vas ist lose, mine herzchen
?”

The familiar endearment and the words asking what was wrong stunned Marta. She gazed up at the lady in wide-eyed astonishment. “
Sprechen Sie deutsch
?”

The man looked at the woman with equal astonishment on his face. He must have said something nice, for her cheeks became even pinker, and she looked pleased.

“
Ich bin in Deutschland geboren
,” the lady said, explaining that she was born and raised in Germany because her father worked for the American consulate. She went on to introduce herself and her husband as Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. Then she asked Marta to show her the boy who’d thrown the snowball.

Marta turned to see the children, still caught up in their snowball fight, and pointed to one of the boys who wore a brown coat.

The Thompsons exchanged rueful glances. “Jack,” they said together.

Mr. Thompson cupped his hands around his mouth. “Jack,” he shouted. “Get over here, now!”

About to throw a snowball, Jack glanced over at them. Another boy, who looked just like Jack, although dressed in a blue coat, took advantage of his brother’s inattention and aimed for him. The snowball hit him on the side of the head.

Marta could tell the Thompsons were amused. Mr. Thompson’s jaw clenched, as though to hide a laugh. Mrs. Thompson pursed her lips, but she, too, smiled with her eyes.

With a belligerent set to his shoulders, the boy trudged over to where they stood. When he saw Marta, a sheepish look came over his face.

Mr. Thompson dropped his gloved hand to Jack’s shoulder. “Marta wasn’t playing the game. It was wrong of you to hit her with the snowball.”

Mrs. Thompson translated for Marta.

Jack kicked at a clump of snow on the ground. “I know. I just couldn’t resist. She made a perfect target.”

The man’s voice hardened. “A perfect target is one you can test your skill on, like a moving
boy
. A girl who’s sitting still, not paying attention… That’s not worthy of you, son.”

He’s their son!

Jack looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Marta.”

“Say this, Jack.” His mother told him the German words.

Jack’s stumbling attempt to repeat them made Marta smile.

“Ah.” Mr. Thomson grinned at her. “That’s much better.”

Mrs. Thompson ran a mittened finger over Marta’s cheeks, wiping away the frozen tears. “I think coming to a new country is hard. Leaving everyone behind,” she said in their shared language.

Marta’s throat choked up at the woman’s compassionate words and kind expression. She gave a vigorous nod of agreement, wishing her mother would be more like this lady, instead of telling Marta she’d just have to make the best of it.

Again, the Thompson’s exchanged glances. The woman gave a decisive nod. “Our Christine is about your age. She’s been home with a cold. But when she’s better….”

Another woman trudged up to join them. She wore an elegant blue coat trimmed with fur. A matching fur hat covered her blond hair. She panted a little, as if the walk had tired her, and placed her hand on the curve of her stomach.