“ Magdalena!”

“Yes?”

“I said, ‘Get out of my office.’ ”

“Certainly. But you could have asked me nicely.”

“I did-several times, in fact.”

“My, aren’t we snippy!”

“Good day, Magdalena.” He actually pushed me over the threshold. “And as long you’ve got your list of suspects out, may I suggest that you put the Zug twins on top?” Although worded as a question, it was most definitely an order.

There was only one person in the entire world capable of ordering me around. At that moment he was a very short-just twenty inches-bald guy who pooped in his pants willy-nilly and burped with panache. Before I put the screws to anyone else, this little man was getting his midmorning feeding, and I was getting a load taken off my chest. I mean that literally.

Although my beautiful, semiauthentic, nineteenth-century Pennsylvania farmhouse sports a front porch replete with rocking chairs and a proper front door, I almost always enter through the kitchen in the rear. The kitchen is where one is sure to encounter my cook, and kinswoman, Freni Hostetler, and because of the warmth and pleasant atmosphere, this is where I’ve set up Little Jacob’s day bassinet.

However, I was to discover that upon this occasion the big love of my life was cradling the tiny love of my life tenderly in his arms. There is nothing sexier, in my opinion, than the sight of a man caring for an infant. I might have initiated the begetting process all over again, had I not still had a somewhat sore nether region from the act of spitting out a complete human a month earlier. Instead I extended warm greetings to everyone in the room, which also included Alison.

Upon hearing my voice Little Jacob let out a wail that could be heard as far as the Maryland state line. I must confess that my heart swelled with sinful pride at this confirmation that my son had inherited at least one of my traits, albeit perhaps not the most attractive. His cry was, of course, hunger motivated, so I flung my pocketbook on a corner stool and rushed over to perform the most motherly of deeds.

“Well,” the Babester grumbled, as his offspring latched on to me as tight as a leach, “I guess now I’m superfluous.”

“Nonsense, dear. As soon as he’s done he’ll fill his diaper. From what I’ve observed, changing nappies is something you do very well.”

“Gross,” Alison said. “Everything about this kid is gross: the way you feed him, the way he poops. This family ain’t nothing like it used to be, ya know? It’s Little Jacob this, Little Jacob that-it’s all about the stupid kid. If ya ask me-which nobody does anymore-I say send that brat back where he came from.”

“Alison!” the Babester said sharply.

“Alison!” I said in horror. The thought of Little Jacob returning the way he arrived was too awful to contemplate-especially now that he’d grown a bit.

Freni adores Alison and thinks of her as a granddaughter, but her Swiss-German genetics make it all but impossible for her to express physical affection. Instead of hugging the girl-and I’m sure Alison wouldn’t have enjoyed that either-Freni flapped her stout arms, which made her look like a black-and-white turkey trying in vain to achieve liftoff.

“Yah,” she said, “this family is very much changed. But now you have a baby brother.”

“So? What good is that? He can’t talk, and he don’t even listen when I talk to him. How am I s’posed to boss him around?”

“Yah, maybe now he is not so much fun. But someday he will be a very good friend to you. You must trust me, Alison; a brother-or a sister-is the best friend to have.”

“Yeah? Do you have brothers and sisters, Freni?”

“I had nine brothers and five sisters,” she said, her plump round face lit by the memories of bygone years.

“What d’ya mean ya had ’em? Ya saying that ya ain’t got ’em no more?”

“Freni’s seventy-five,” I explained gently. “She’s also the youngest child in her family.”

“Oh, I get it; all the rest of them are dead.”

“Ach, not all!” Freni turned her attention to a pot of stew that was simmering on my institutional-size stove. “I still have one brother and two sisters. Each is a blessing. You will see.”

“Ha! I don’t even think so,” Alison said before stomping from the room in a prerequisite teenage snit.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “She seemed so excited at first. You would have thought she was the mother when we first brought Little Jacob home.”

My handsome husband, who’d relinquished his chair for me, stooped to plant a kiss on my forehead. “It’s a normal reaction, hon. First she had you all to herself, and then she had to share you with me, and now there’s him. How can she compete with a helpless baby?”

“But she doesn’t need to compete!”

“Yes, but she doesn’t know that-not on an emotional level. Listen, I’ve had some cross-training in basic psychology. Why don’t I talk to her and see if I can’t get her to understand that she’s still every bit as much a part of this family as she was before?”

“Would you?” My heart swelled with love.

“Of course.”

“A good man,” Freni muttered. “Never mind what they say.”

“What?”

“Ach!”

It was too late. With Little Jacob as firmly attached as a nit, there was nothing to stop me from leaping to my feet and cornering her over the stew pot.

“What did you mean by that?”

My stout little cook didn’t even have the nerve to turn and face me. “What is this that of which you speak?”

“Freni,” I said sternly, “dissembling is lying just as much as telling an out-and-out falsehood.”

“Hon,” Gabe said, his tone pleading, “leave her alone. She can’t help what anyone else says.”

“Yah,” Freni said, sneaking a peek at me through the corner of her right eye, “this is very true, because I do not even know this Mr. Dis Embling.”

I sighed. No matter how long he lived in our community, my Sweet Baboo would always be an outsider. Hernians were graded like diamonds; not by clarity and color, but by the year in which their ancestors first set foot on our sacred soil. Not to brag, but my ancestor Jacob Hochstetler (indeed, I share him with most Amish and many Mennonites in Hernia) passed through the area in 1750 as a captive of a Delaware Indian raiding party. That unfortunate fact makes me a triple-A, gem-quality Hernian of impeccable credentials. It wasn’t until 1820 that the village was founded, but again my ancestors were represented.

The third-tier cutoff date is usually given as 1860, the fourth is 1900, and the last, which barely counts for anything, is 1946. After World War II the book on new arrivals was closed; marriage to a triple-A gem did nothing to change an immigrant’s status. As one local wag described it, “Putting a cubic zirconia and a diamond in the same ring doesn’t make the CZ a diamond.” To be sure, though, the gentlefolk of Hernia will never mention this distinction to your face, for with the exception of the occasional cold-blooded killer, they shy away from confrontation.

“Okay,” I finally said, “subject dropped. But I need to have a serious discussion with the both of you.”

“Ach!” Somehow Freni managed to squeeze out from between me and the stove. It must have been instinct that propelled her to Gabe’s side. He might not be blood, but he was the only other possible ally in the room.

My dearly beloved was on his feet, a look of genuine concern written all over his classically handsome features. “What is it, hon?”

“Sit back down, dear, because you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”