Mamm didn’t mind working in the market, but Salome hated to bake and agreed to do the selling, even though it meant interacting with the Englischers that she seemed to disdain. She’d come home with stories about how hopelessly impractical they were, how it took them forever to make a simple decision between something as mundane as choosing either a blueberry or peach pie. How they fretted if their children would prefer the chocolate whoopie pie or the peanut butter one. “It’s no surprise,” she once said, “that our word for anxious is Engshtlich. Don’t you think it was inspired by the word Englisch?” Noelle responded that she had no idea.
And she had no idea if her sister was accurate in portraying the Englisch. She hadn’t spent enough time around any to know, except for nieces and nephews who hadn’t joined the Amish.
Salome would go on and on. Not only were the Englisch anxious, but they always bought more than they needed—of everything. Still, Salome never balked at working at the market. Noelle asked her once why she agreed to do it when she seemed to despise the Englisch.
“Oh, I don’t hate them,” she’d said. “Quite the contrary. I find them highly entertaining. I enjoy spending time among them. And I find getting them to buy our goods quite rewarding.”
And she was good at selling, which meant Mamm and Noelle could do the baking without any pressure to go to the market. Noelle had hoped to continue with the arrangement after Mamm died.
She sighed. There was no reason to think Salome wouldn’t soon be back at the market, and Noelle back in the kitchen. As Noelle stacked the pies, all securely packaged in cardboard boxes, she caught a whiff of chocolate. She had her back to the aisle as she looked to her left, to the soap booth. Then to her right, to the quilt booth. She turned around. Sure enough, a candy booth was directly across from her.
A young woman, probably around Noelle’s age, pulled trays of handcrafted chocolates from a plastic crate. She already had five candles, four purple ones with a white one in the middle, set up on the front counter, along with a stack of super-thin boxes that had a picture of a nativity scene on the front.
A young man arrived with another plastic crate. “That’s all,” he said. “I’ll see you at five-thirty.”
“Thanks.” The young woman flipped her long dark hair into a hair band and then knotted it into a bun high on her head. “Have a good class.”
“I’ll try.” The young man’s dark eyes sparkled as he turned to go.
“Carlos.” The girl’s voice was commanding. “Don’t forget to call Mama on your way.”
“I won’t.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll tell her you’ll call this evening.”
Realizing she was staring, Noelle turned her head.
As the young man walked away, the girl called out to Noelle. “Hey, where’s Salome?”
“She hurt her back.”
The girl stepped into the aisle, her hand extended. “I’m Holly.”
Noelle met her and shook her hand. “Noelle.”
“Really?”
Confused, Noelle nodded.
“Any chance you’re a Christmastime baby? I mean, with a name like that . . .”
Noelle couldn’t help but smile. “You too?”
Holly laughed. “Christmas Eve.”
Noelle wrapped her finger around the tie of her Kapp. “Same.”
Holly held up her hand. It took Noelle a half second to realize she wanted to high-five. Awkwardly she slapped her palm against Holly’s.
The girl said, “I’m turning twenty-two.”
Noelle smiled in surprise, again. “So am I.”
“We’re twins.” Holly beamed. “I was born at Lancaster General. How about you?”
“A birthing clinic.” Her Mamm had been forty-seven, a little old to have a baby. But all the tests, including an ultrasound, had indicated her baby was fine and the birth would be low risk.
“Ah well. We’re still twins.”
Noelle fought the urge to laugh. Clearly they weren’t, but she enjoyed the thought of it. A twin would have been lovely. She wouldn’t have felt like the odd one out, the tagalong, the after-thought child.
“I’ve always wished my parents named me Noelle instead of Holly. It’s the perfect Christmas name.”
“Oh no,” Noelle said. “I’ve always loved the name Holly.” It was true, she had. Mainly because her Mamm had been sure that her last baby, this Christmas surprise, was going to be a boy. In fact, that was what the ultrasound technician had told her. After having eight girls—she’d finally have a boy. She’d make the best of the shock and name the baby boy Noel.
When a little girl arrived instead, she couldn’t think of another name, so Salome convinced their mother to add “-le” to the end. At least that was the story Noelle had heard her entire life.
Of course, she didn’t tell Holly all of that.
Pamela arrived with another crate. Holly said, “We’ll chat later . . . twin.” The girl’s melodic laughter warmed Noelle’s heart.
The market opened by the ringing of Christmas bells. Salome had told Noelle all about them, saying the manager thought they added class. Salome thought they added chaos. Noelle listened carefully, thinking she liked the sound of the bells as they reverberated under the open timbers of the hall. Granted, they had to be a recording. There were no bell ringers on the premises. But she still appreciated the sound.
She turned her attention to her products—whoopie pies, bread, rolls, and pies. All things she’d made in the Dawdi Haus kitchen yesterday morning, before several of her nephews moved most of her and Dat’s things, while she packed up the kitchen and then moved the rest.
Now she needed to sell what she’d made. A few customers trickled by, but no one stopped to buy anything the first half hour. However, several people stopped and bought the thin boxes Holly was selling.
Finally, Noelle’s curiosity overpowered her
