Chapter 1.
The alpacas watched Verity with curiosity and judgment as she stepped out of the hired car. She'd forgotten how unnerving their stares could be—those long-lashed eyes that seemed to see straight through every careful plan she'd ever made.
“Home sweet home,” she muttered, pulling her bag from the car.
The driver, an elderly Englisher who'd made the two-hour journey from her district without much conversation, nodded toward the farmhouse. “Want me to wait? Make sure someone's here?”
“No, thank you. They're expecting me.”
First week of December, like clockwork, Verity came home. Stayed through Christmas. Left the day after.
She paid the driver and watched the car disappear down the long gravel drive. The December cold bit through her coat—sharper here than in her community somehow, or maybe she'd just grown soft. Two hours away wasn't far, but it was far enough. Far enough to build her own life, her own midwifery practice, her own carefully controlled world where no one asked when she was getting married or why she was still alone at thirty-five.
The farmhouse looked exactly as it had last Christmas, and the Christmas before that, and every Christmas stretching back through her childhood. White clapboard, green shutters, the porch swing her father had built the year she turned twelve. Smoke curled from the chimney.
Through the kitchen window, she could see her mother moving about, probably pulling something from the oven.
Behind the house, the alpaca barn stood sturdy and red against the gray December sky. Her father would be out there, doing evening chores. Twenty-three alpacas now, if her mother's last letter was accurate. The farm had grown since Verity had left home at twenty.
Before she reached the steps, the front door flew open.
“Verity! Oh, you're here!” Her mother Martha burst onto the porch. “I've been watching for the car. I don’t know how I missed it. Come in, come in, you must be frozen. Was the drive all right? I made your favorite—apple strudel, just out of the oven.”
Verity let herself be pulled into her mother's embrace. For a moment, just a moment, she let herself relax.
“The drive was fine, Mamm.” Verity pulled back, studying her mother's face. “You’re energetic.”
“Well, it's Christmas season! How can I not be excited when my youngest child comes home?” Martha took Verity's bag and pulled her inside. “And this year is special. Very special.”
“Is it?” Verity knew what was coming.
“Yes.”
Verity sat at the kitchen table and looked over at the strudel. It sat cooling on the counter, golden and perfect. The table was set for supper—four places. Verity's stomach sank. She thought she’d be having the first night off.
“Is someone joining us for dinner?”
“What? Oh, no, no.” Martha waved a hand. “That's for later. Your father will be in soon. Take your things upstairs, get settled. Are you hungry? Of course you're hungry.”
“Mamm. What's going on?”
“Going on? Nothing's going on. Can't a mother be happy her daughter's home for Christmas?”
“You can, but you're also planning something.”
Her mother's laugh was too bright, too quick. “Planning! I'm always planning. It's Christmas, there's much to plan. The gatherings, gifts, the baking—”
“Mamm.”
Her mother finally met her eyes, and Verity saw it clearly: hope, schemes, that particular brand of maternal determination that had resulted in ten years of carefully orchestrated Christmas “coincidences.”
“All right,” her mother said, clasping her hands together. “But don't be upset. You're not upset, are you? You can't be upset before I've even told you.”
Verity folded her arms. “Who is it this year?”
“I know the other men weren’t quite right, Verity, but this time it’s different. I can feel it. Ruth moved here—you remember Ruth Beiler? No you probably wouldn’t. She was widowed, poor thing, her husband passed six months ago. Such a tragedy. Anyway, she and her son moved here to be near family, to start fresh, and her son—Adam, his name is Adam—he's a carpenter, very skilled, and he's such a man, so devoted to his mother, and—”
“And you thought you'd set us up.” Verity kept her voice level. No point getting angry. Anger changed nothing. “Does Ruth know about your plan?”
“It's not a plan, exactly. More of a... Ruth and I have been friends for years, we've kept in touch, and when she mentioned moving back here, naturally we talked about our children, and naturally we thought—well, you're both single, both good people, both the same—”
“He’s the victim this year, then?”
“Oh, Verity, victim is such a harsh word! We hoped you’d fall in love. Is hoping a crime?”
“It should be.” Through the kitchen window, she saw the alpaca barn. Her father would be finishing up soon, would come in for supper. He would understand this shouldn’t be happening, but there wasn’t much he could do. He wasn't the one who orchestrated these annual matchmaking setups.
Verity had perfected her response over the years. No point refusing outright—that only made her mother dig in harder, made Christmas tense and miserable for everyone. Better to go along with things. Date the man through December. Let Mamm have her hope. Then after Christmas, end it gently and leave.
Her system had never let her down. It kept Mamm happy, kept herself free, kept everyone safe from disappointment in the long run.
This Adam man would be like all the others. Nice enough, probably. Dull, maybe. Awkwardly eager to please Mamm, definitely. She'd smile, make conversation, go on a few walks or attend a few community gatherings with him. He'd be relieved when she left. She liked to think they always were, once they realized she had no intention of staying.
She was a midwife. She brought life into the world. That was her calling and nothing her mother did would change that.
“When do I meet him?” Verity asked.
Mamm's face lit up. “Oh! They're staying with Isaac and Anna Yoder until Adam finds land to buy. I was thinking, we need help with the fence, and Adam's a carpenter, so perhaps he could look at that bad post in the back pasture, and you could—”
“When is all this happening?”
“Tomorrow morning?” Martha looked pleased with herself. “I'll mention to Ruth tonight that we need help, and she'll mention to Adam, and he'll come by, and you'll just happen to be here, and—”
“And what a coincidence.”
“Exactly! What a wonderful coincidence.”
Verity stood and picked up her bag. “I'm going to unpack.”
“You're not angry, are you?” Mamm followed her to the stairs. “Verity, please don't be angry. I want you to be happy. Is that so terrible?”
Verity paused on the first step, looked back at her mother. Mamm was seventy-two, gray threading through her dark hair, lines around her eyes from years of squinting in the sun, hands rough from farm work. She looked older than she had last Christmas. They all got older. Time didn't stop because Verity wasn't here to see it.
“I'm not angry, Mamm. Really, it’s fine.”
“You'll like him. I know you will. He's different from—well, he's a good man. You'll see.”
Verity climbed the stairs to her childhood bedroom, the one that had stayed frozen in time since she left. The same quilt was on the bed, the same curtains, the same view of the barn and the fields beyond. She set her suitcase on the floor and sat on the bed.
She would perform her ruse with this new man. She'd done it every year for a decade. One more time wouldn't hurt.
Outside, the alpacas called to each other in their strange, warbling way. Her father's voice drifted up, low and soothing, talking to the animals. The sun was setting over the fields.
It was beautiful here. It had always been beautiful.
Downstairs, her mother was humming a hymn, and despite everything, Verity smiled. Mamm's schemes were predictable, annoying, ultimately pointless—but they came from love.
A few minutes later, her mother called out. “Verity, your father’s coming in. Supper's ready.”
“Coming!”
Tonight, she'd eat her mother's strudel and let herself pretend, for one evening, that coming home for Christmas was simple.
She headed downstairs to greet her father, eat supper, and begin another December performance.
