Baby It's Cold Outside (31 page)

Arnie traced the cold outline of it, pressed his finger into the point of the star. Over his bed, the airplane dangled on a piece of fishing line. Mr. Lindholm had offered to take him fishing in the spring.

Arnie rolled over and groped in the darkness for the flashlight hidden under his bed.

Then he pulled a Little Big Book from under his pillow and tucked the blanket over his head.

Outside the wind shuddered his windowpane. He wound his cold toes together and flipped open the page to where Flash Gordon was escaping the torture chambers of King Vultan….

And so our intrepid adventurer, armed with his newest weapons, has found at last his beloved Dale Arden. Warm and full, he sets out for another interplanetary adventure, ready to conquer his foes with his compatriots, Thun of the Lion Men, Dr. Zarkov, Fria the Ice Queen, and beautiful Aura by his side.

EPILOGUE

“Just press on the gas when I tell you to.”

Violet blew on her fingers then held the rag to the fuel line. “Okay, Jake!”

He pressed on the gas, and the fuel popped and bubbled out, until it finally settled into a steady flow. “Okay, that’s good. Turn it off.”

Jake turned off the power to the roadster then hopped out, blowing on his hands. “Are you sure you want to take this thing out tonight? It’s going to be cold.”

“We’ll bundle up. And it’s only to the dance hall. Only, after hearing about your story of crashing your jeep into a tank, I’m not sure you should drive.”

“Do I mention the tree outside? Hmm.” Jake grinned at her then held up his greasy hands. “I still can’t believe you got this thing to run.”

“It just needed a rebuilt carburetor.”

“And the brake lines replaced. And fresh fuel.”

“Dottie said that Nelson drove it into the pond. I can’t believe he couldn’t figure out how to get it running again.”

“Not everyone is as brilliant as you,” Jake said, coming close, catching her chin with his hand. He kissed her, sweetly, full of mischief, and when he pulled away, he wore grease on his nose. She nipped it off.

“I think it’ll make a nice wedding gift, don’t you?”

“I hope Dottie is wearing something warm.”

“I think she’s wearing something practical.”

He looped his arms around her. “But please tell me you’re not.”

She grinned at him, pushing him away. “You’ll have to wait.” But no. She had a dress, a new dress that fit her curves and dispelled any lingering librarian images.

Funny what a good-looking man on her arm could do for her reputation in town. And in the space of a week, no less.

And not just any man. A chaplain. A decorated chaplain, one with a purple heart and a bronze star.

That was a story she was glad Alex hadn’t known. It belonged to Jake.

She closed the hood of the car. “Let’s start her up, take her for a spin.”

To her surprise, Jake took the passenger seat. But he braced himself as they drove down the hill, out past the stone walls. The Plymouth would take a bit more repairing than the old roadster, with the front grill smashed, the radiator destroyed. But she’d pulled it into her father’s garage, had already started working on it in the evenings.

Last night, her mother had even brought her out coffee. She stood in the glow of the light from the house, watching her.

“You really do have your father’s talent,” she said quietly, then returned to the house.

Violet would take that as a compliment.

They motored down Third, over to Saint Olaf Street as the sun began to sink into the far gray horizon. The star radiated from the top of the tree, and would soon light up Main Street like a postcard.

“I need to get ready,” Violet said. “Do you mind taking the car back?”

“Oh, I think I can manage,” Jake said. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

He let her off at her house, the drifts now piled high along her walkway. Johnny and Roger had worked all week digging out the house while her mother camped out at Thomas’s. Violet spent every day at Dottie’s, preparing for the wedding.

One week? But what, really, did they have to wait for?

She scrubbed off the grease, put her dark hair up into rolls, and wiggled into a white and red swing dress, a pair of dancing shoes.

She pinned on her hat for the ride, a little pillbox, and was waiting by the door when Jake showed up.

His trip back to Minneapolis to retrieve his dress browns had paid off. He appeared resplendent as he offered her his arm, helped her out to the roadster. He covered her legs with a blanket.

Dottie was waiting in the church vestibule when they arrived, twilight falling through the church windows, painting the sanctuary. Through the glass doors, Violet spied Gordy, looking too dapper for his own good in a suit. No other guests sat in the pews, the moment private between them and their witnesses. Dottie wore her hair up, curled back, and Violet nearly fell over when she saw the pale yellow dress, as cheerful as a spring morning. Covered in lace, it came with a short veil and pillbox headpiece and long white gloves.

“Why, Dottie.”

“Just hush now.” But she looped her arm through Violet’s. “You’re supposed to just hold me up here.”

So, she did. Delivering Dottie to her new husband, at the altar, where Dottie’s pastor married them and Jake and Violet signed their approval.

Violet and Jake drove Gordy’s truck to the reception.

Her mother had turned out the best in Frost for the party, the women baking up their goodies, trundling them out to the dance hall. Twinkly lights, still affixed from the night of the cancelled dance, sparkled throughout the room.

The Hungry Five had set up again, apparently hungry to play.

Violet stationed herself by the door, waiting for Dottie and Gordy to arrive.

“Miss Hart!”

She turned and spied Arnie strutting up to her, looking dangerously grown up in his suit and bow tie. He grinned at her.

“You lost another tooth.”

“And look at my medal!” He pointed to the victory medal Gordy had given him.

And then they arrived. Gordy and Dottie, swinging into the reception as if they might be teenagers, grinning, glowing. A brand-new life together for the new decade.

“You’re next, you know,” June said into her ear as they toasted the couple with punch. Violet glanced at Jake. Maybe. Or maybe they’d simply correspond until…

“She is most definitely next,” Jake said, his eyes shining.

Oh. Well.

The band played “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” and Jake teased her with the lyrics until he coaxed her onto the dance floor.

Gordy had his arms around Dottie, something too wonderful on his face to bear.

They caught up to Arnie, dancing with his mother. He grinned up at them. His medal glinted on his chest.

Violet stepped on Jake’s toe. “I’m sorry!”

Jake grabbed her before she could spin away. “Don’t give up on me, Violet. I won’t let you down.”

“Oh, Jake. You’ve never let me down.” She smiled at him. He bent down, whispered the steps in her ears. “You are exactly the man I hoped for.”

As they neared midnight, the dancing ceased and they gathered around the punch table for Dottie and Gordy’s cake cutting. The couple fed each other, laughing as the townsfolk of Frost counted down to the New Year.

“C’mere,” Jake said, taking her hand. He pulled her away from the town, the counting, the celebration, and outside, into the crisp, quiet cold. They stood in the darkness, the tree sparkling against the night, the star shining into the darkness.

“Happy New Year, Violet Hart,” Jake said, then tucked his arms around her. He kissed her, and in his touch, she tasted their tomorrows as snow began to drift like fairy dust from the sky.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The idea of a book that took place in a Storm House simmered in my mind for the better part of two years. I came upon the concept while walking with an older friend in our small town. She pointed out an old house on the corner, one that looked like it might have grown there, with the weeds around the porch, the overgrown maple in the front yard, and said, “That was my Storm House.”

She then went on to explain that, back in the day when she attended school in our town, she lived an hour away, out in the woods. For her, and other children who lived out of town, they were assigned a Storm House—a place to escape to in the storm. Apparently, families signed up to act as Storm House hosts, and at the beginning of the school year, the school educated children on where to go. I’ve also heard storyteller Garrison Keillor talk about Storm Houses in one of his monologues, and when I mentioned the concept to my parents, who hailed from South Dakota, they knew exactly what I meant. I have a hunch this concept might be something particular to the snowy regions of the world.

The notion intrigued me. My friend said she made up stories, as a child, of escaping to her storm house in time of need, of the family she might find there, of being fed hot cocoa and cookies. It made her feel safe, even if she never needed it.

I wanted to write a story about this Storm House, about how four “strangers” might find healing and comfort, but also how being trapped might churn up old secrets and hurts. What if two of the characters were estranged, but had once loved each other? And what if, inside Storm House, a miracle happened?

It did for me, as I wrote, because suddenly the spiritual theme began to take place. When I wrote this line, “I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore…. There’s nothing left in it for me,” and answered with, “Except, of course, Jesus,” I simply stared at that, letting it sink in. Jesus is the only reason we can celebrate anything. The only reason for Hope. Without Him, life blind-sides us, traps us, steals our joy. We become Dottie.

Jesus is our Storm House. Our safe place. Inside His arms, we find family, comfort, and hope, and the courage to face our secrets and discover forgiveness. He gives us that place of peace inside the storm.

Is your world “cold outside”? Maybe you need a Storm House. A place of safety, comfort, a place to feel Hope again. I invite you to find Jesus. He is enough. He is, in fact, the answer to everything.

As I struggled through the writing of this book, God took me into His Storm House protection and provided me with fellow travelers who stopped to encourage and assist with this story.

M
Y DEEPEST THANKS GO TO
:

Curt and MaryAnn Lund
for letting me quiz them about life in the 1940s. I’m sorry I asked you if you had electricity. Really, I realize you’re not that old. Now, please, could you carry out the clinker?

Rachel Hauck,
for being there for every chapter and helping me dream up Arnie.

Ellen Tarver,
aka my secret weapon who knows how to help me get the story just right, and can make blini with the best of them.

Nancy Toback
, and her amazing polishing abilities! Thank you for the details!

Susan Downs
, my amazing editor, for her brilliant ideas (thanks for the title!) and for believing in me. Your encouragement means the world to me.

Andrew, Sarah, David, Peter, and Noah.
Your hilarious version of
Baby, It’s Cold Outside
will forever be my favorite. You are the people I’d want with me in my Storm House.

2 eggs

1 teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons sugar

2 cups kefir (or whole milk)

1 teaspoon baking soda plus enough vinegar to make 1 tablespoon total

2 cups flour

Mix eggs, salt, and sugar together well. Add milk, baking soda, vinegar mixture, and flour to make a thick batter. Mix well until smooth. Add 1 cup water to thin mixture; mix well again (should be the consistency of thick cream).

Heat a small fry pan. (Russian hint: Put a small amount of oil in a cup. Spear a small piece of potato on the end of a fork and dip it in the oil. Use the potato to grease the pan lightly.)

Using
cup batter, pour into the pan. Pick up the pan and slowly turn it to distribute the pancake evenly and thinly along the bottom of the pan. Cool until edges curl slightly (about 30 seconds), then turn for another 20–30 seconds.

Serve immediately, filling with jam, fresh fruit, or butter and sugar. The Russians then fold each blini in half, and then in half again to resemble a triangle. They often will pour sour cream over the top of it, but we prefer a dab of powdered sugar. Or, if you have leftovers, fill with browned ground beef and onions, seasoned with garlic, roll up, and refry in a small amount of oil until crispy brown. Delicious for both breakfast and supper! (Or when you are trapped inside your house with nothing to cook!)