The Christmas Quilt. Patricia Davids

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       “You’re the one leaving—for home!”

       “I can’t go anywhere until this next load of freight gets here. Then I’m taking it to Caribou.” Gideon barely recognized his raspy voice. He sounded almost as bad as he felt. Almost.

       “If I was sick as a dog, you wouldn’t let me fly a kite, let alone your prize Cessna.”

       It wasn’t like Gideon had a choice. Their business was finally showing a profit. A small one, but it was something to build on. He’d make today’s flight. If his austere Amish upbringing had taught him anything, it was the value of hard work. “I’ve got a contract to fulfill.”

       Shaking his head, Craig said, “We’ve got a contract. I know you think you’re indispensable, Booker, but you’re not.”

       The two men had known each other for six years, since their flight school days. It had been Craig who’d given Gideon his nickname on the first day of class. Gideon—Bible—the Book. Hence, Booker. Gideon had returned the favor a few weeks later when their trainer plane experienced mechanical trouble the first two times Craig took the controls. Craig was saddled with “Law” as in Murphy’s Law. If anything can go wrong, it will.

       “Are you offering to take this run?” Gideon took a swig of lukewarm coffee from the black mug on the corner of his desk. It turned into razor blades sliding down his throat.

       “Yes. Go home and get some rest.”

       Gideon looked at him in surprise. “You mean that? I thought you had plans with Melody?”

       “We’re sort of on the outs. Caribou in October will be warmer than the reception waiting for me the next time I see her.”

       A woman’s voice from the other room said, “That’s because you’re a knucklehead.”

       Craig rolled his eyes and raised his voice. “Stop giving people a piece of your mind, Roseanne. It’s almost gone.”

       Gideon rose to his feet. The room spun wildly for a second before settling back into his cluttered office.

       Craig put out a hand to steady him. “You’re grounded, buddy. Not another word.”

       Gideon hated to admit it, but he was in no shape to be in a cockpit. “Thanks, Law. I owe you one.”

       Craig leaned closer. “Roseanne is making me do it.”

       Gideon cracked a grin. Their secretary’s powers of persuasion were legendary. She might look like someone’s cookie-baking grandmother with her gray hair pulled back in a bun, but she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body.

       “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Gideon promised.

       Roseanne came around Craig with Gideon’s coat in her hands. “You will not come back for a week.”

       Gideon scowled at her. “Tell me again who’s the boss here?”

       Roseanne plopped her hands on her ample hips. “You two might own this business, but I run it. If I come down sick, we’re really in trouble. Who can handle the computer, the phone, the fax machine, invoices, accounts payable and the coffeepot all without leaving her chair?”

       “You,” he and Craig said together.

       Gideon smiled. “You’re indispensable, Roseanne.”

       “And you’re sick. Get out of here and take this with you.” She held out a foam cup with a lid on it.

       “What’s this?”

       “Your favorite brand of blackcurrant tea. I’d send some chicken soup home with you, but I don’t have any here.”

       Blackcurrant tea had been his mother’s surefire remedy for sore throats when he was growing up. He’d thought about sending her a box of this gourmet blend, but he knew she wouldn’t accept it. Not from the black sheep of the family. Gideon was the only one of her five children who’d left the Amish faith.

       As if his thoughts of home brought up a connection, he heard the words Amish country on the television. Glancing toward the small screen, he saw a female reporter, bundled against the brisk October chill, gesturing to a row of Amish buggies lined up behind her.

       “Roseanne, turn that up, please.” His voice was failing him. The words barely squeaked out.

       She sighed, but picked up the remote and raised the sound level so he could hear the reporter.

       “Preparations are under way in Hope Springs, Ohio, for this quiet Amish community’s largest event of the year. The Quilts of Hope charity auction is being held here this weekend.”

       Craig moved to stand beside Gideon. “Is that where you’re from?”

       “Nearby.” Hope Springs was forty miles from his father’s farm, but Gideon had never been there. Until he left the Amish he hadn’t traveled more than twenty miles from the farm where he was born. Now he lived in Rochester, New York, and he’d been to every state and all but one Canadian province.

       The camera panned away from the buggies to a group of Amish men raising an enormous red-and-white-striped tent. After a second, the camera swung back to the reporter and followed her until she stopped in front of an intricately pieced quilt hanging on a display frame. “In the past, this event has raised thousands of dollars for the special needs of Amish families throughout Ohio. This year they are helping one of their own.”

       Roseanne said, “Now, that’s pretty. I wouldn’t mind owning a quilt like that.”

       The reporter ran her hand down the cloth and the camera zoomed in to capture the details. “Rebecca Beachy is the Amish woman who made this incredible quilt.”

       “It can’t be.” In an instant, Gideon was transported back to his youth when he had courted the prettiest girl in Berlin, Ohio. The girl who broke his heart and turned him down flat when he’d finally found the courage to propose.

       “Someone you know?” Craig asked.

       “No. There are a lot of Beachys in Ohio. The girl I knew would be married to some Amish farmer or carpenter.” It was the life Rebecca wanted—as long as he wasn’t the farmer or the carpenter. Chances were slim that it was the same woman, but his gaze stayed glued to the screen.

       The camera switched to a group of Amish women who were talking. The women didn’t realize they were being filmed. They were dressed alike in dark coats and bonnets. One held a baby on her hip, but it was the woman in the center that he strained to see.

       The reporter’s voice cut into Gideon’s thoughts. “The money from this year’s auction is going to help pay for some very specialized surgery for Miss Beachy.”

       The camera zoomed in on the group of women and Rebecca’s face filled the television screen. The sight knocked the breath from his body. After almost ten years, his heart still ached at the sight of her. She was more beautiful than ever. Her heart-shaped face with those stunning high cheekbones had matured from the soft roundness of youth into a quiet elegance.

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