A Warmth in Winter (12 page)

“We slept in the church.” Brittany looked up, her eyes as wide and blue as the sky. “Gabe let us in and fed us peanut butter sandwiches.”

“Gabe?” Birdie tilted her head. She'd never heard of a Gabe even visiting Heavenly Daze. “Are you sure his name wasn't Pastor Wickam?”

“No, ma'am.” Bobby answered this time, his eyes meeting his sister's. “We saw the pastor's picture in the little front room. Gabe doesn't look anything like that.”

“Really.” Birdie pasted on a casual smile. “Well, what does Gabe look like?”

Brittany lifted her arm high over her head. “He's very tall. Taller than the grandfather, probably. And he has white hair.”

“Lots of white hair,” Bobby added. “Like I said, he doesn't look anything like the men in the pictures.”

If the children had seen the portraits in the vestibule, there was no doubting they had been inside the church. But how? Pastor Wickam kept the building locked when there were no scheduled activities. Even if they had found a way to slip into the building, the place would be dreadfully cold on a week night. The old furnace barely performed well enough to heat the place for Sunday services.

“A tall man with white hair . . . named Gabe.” Dismissing the thought, Birdie hooked her fingers into the collar of each child's coat. Children with imaginations this vivid might be tempted to soar away on the wings of fancy.

“That's his nickname,” Brittany added. “His real name was Galla-belle.”

Bobby lifted his chin. “No, it wasn't. It was—Gab— well, it was something else. But it didn't have any bells in it.”

“Really.” Quickening her stride, Birdie hurried her charges along, more than ready to get inside and warm her hands by the fire. She and Salt could solve the riddle of the children's whereabouts later.

The day had brightened along with her mood. The sky swept over them, cozy with cloud, but backlit with brilliant sunshine. The kiss of sunrise had summoned a rosy flush to the gleaming lighthouse in the distance, and Birdie felt her heart lift at the sight.

They hurried forward, her long shadow flanked by two smaller ones, and as they rounded the curve they saw Salt standing on the shore, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He faced the sea, a picture of dejection.

“Grandfather!” Bobby cried, his voice catching as if he were unused to the word.

Salt turned at the sound of the boy's call, then his eyes widened. For a moment he seemed to sway on his feet, then he staggered forward, his arms lifting. The children sprinted to meet him, and they met at a place where a tumble of blueberry vines clung tenaciously to the soil, unbroken by the wind and as yet unbowed by the cold.

Chapter Nine

B
ack in the lighthouse, where a freshly laid fire blazed in the stove and the children sat at the table with warm oatmeal in their bowls (Birdie had been horrified to learn that he'd been feeding them cookies for breakfast), Salt reclined on his bed, wrapped in a warm bunting of relief. Birdie had ordered him to rest, and now she seemed intent upon fortifying him with a bowl of barley soup, extrastrong now that it had simmered in the Crockpot for nearly twenty-four hours. He willingly obeyed her, his heart softened by gratitude for the children's safe return.

“You haven't told me,” he said between force-fed spoonfuls, “where you found them.”

“They were on the road,” Birdie said, tucking her feet beneath the edge of a lap blanket covering her legs. She leaned forward in the rocker, pushing soup toward him. “Walking along as if they hadn't a care in the world.”

“So where”—he slurped the spoon nudging against his lower lip—“did they sleep?”

“In the church,” Bobby called, looking up from his oatmeal. “With Gabe.”

Salt narrowed his eyes at Birdie. “What on earth is the little dickens talking about?”

“I'm not sure,” she answered, her voice as smooth as the shiny skin on the back of her hands, “but apparently someone let them into the church, fed them, and watched over them. So don't go getting your feathers ruffled, Cap'n Gribbon. You should be thanking the good Lord that someone was willing to look out after these children.”

Feeling the sting of rebuke in her words, Salt lowered his eyes. Ayuh, he was grateful, to her and to whomever had taken the kids in last night.

“Maybe they got turned around in the dark,” he finally said, pausing to accept another spoonful of soup. “Maybe they ended up at Zuriel Smith's cottage. He's got that long hair and a beard, and maybe it looked white in the lights or something—”

“Or maybe your two grandchildren have vivid imaginations.”

He shifted his gaze to Brittany, who was licking the back of her spoon with great relish. “The little one does have a tendency to embellish a story.”

Apparently satisfied that he'd finished the soup, Birdie dropped the spoon into the bowl and lowered it to her lap. “They seem like bright kids, Salt. They must take after their grandpa.”

Without warning, tears stung his eyes. Salt looked away and lowered his voice. “Their dad was bright enough when he was young.” He felt a flush burn his face. “But then he started drinking, and I think his brain's turned to mush. I went over to Wells a couple of months ago, thinkin' I'd pay him a visit, but he wasn't home. Instead, I found these two, lookin' as though they hadn't seen the inside of a bathtub in weeks.”

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he struggled to push the words over the boulder in his throat. “They were bruised, too, even the little girl. I haven't talked to them about it, but I know he wasn't a fit parent.”

Birdie didn't answer for a moment, but when he looked at her again, he saw that her eyes were shiny. “So you took them and brought them here.”

“Ayuh. I left a note telling Patrick that I had 'em and said he could come see me after he'd gotten some help.”

“Has he come?”

“No.”

“Called?”

Salt shook his head.

“So—you're determined to keep them until your son gets his act together? That could take a long time.”

He frowned, amazed at the unspoken objection in her voice. “Why wouldn't I keep 'em? They're my own flesh and blood. No one has any more right or responsibility than I do.”

“Perhaps.” She tilted her head, then glanced over her shoulder at the children, who were talking over their bowls of oatmeal. She lowered her voice a degree. “I applaud your concern, but you can't expect to take care of two young children without help. They'll need to go to school; they need the company of other kids and other people.”

“They weren't in school when I found 'em. They've never been to school a day in their lives, but Bobby can read almost any book you put in his hand. You know what he wanted to bring from his old place? An encyclopedia! The kid's a budding genius!”

“Still,” Birdie leaned closer, “the three of you are likely to go stir-crazy if you winter up here all alone.”

“I ain't never minded bein' alone.”

Her eyes sparked. “You're not an impressionable child. And look at you—flat on your back, weak as a baby, and about to wizzle away to nothing. Admit it, Salt—those children would have been lost last night if they hadn't stumbled into the church. What's going to happen the next time you're sick?”

“I won't get sick again.” With an effort, Salt pulled himself off his pillows and sat straight up. “I don't get the flu often; after this I'll be good for another five years or so—”

“You'll be lucky if God decides to grant you another five years.”

She was hissing at him now, her face only inches from his, and Salt could do nothing but stare at her. Birdie Wester had more gumption than he'd thought, and her arguments were more reasonable than he wanted to admit. But what more could he do? If the townspeople found out about the children, it'd only be a matter of time before the news slipped out to the mainland. Cleta Lansdown at the B&B was the coordinator of gossip central; tell a story to that basket and it'd be leaked all over town in an hour. And even if the news didn't travel to Ogunquit and the county beyond, some do-gooder like Dana Klackenbush or Edith Wickam was bound to get it into her head to call social services. And if someone called in bureaucrats from the State of Maine, the children would be taken away, pure and simple.

“Birdie Wester.” Leaning over, Salt gripped her wrist with every ounce of strength he could muster. “You know my secret—it couldn't be helped, and I'm grateful for what you did today. But you've got to keep quiet about these children. The state will take 'em away, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. They won't think a man of my age”— he paused for effect, knowing that Birdie wasn't too many years behind him—“could take care of youngsters. They think we're old and twitterpated, but no one, I tell you, is better qualified to take care of kids than the man who loves 'em.”

She pulled away from him, but her piercing blue eyes never left his face. “Why, Salt Gribbon,” she whispered, “I believe you do love these children.”

Salt swallowed, anger and indignation rising inside him. Why should she find that hard to believe? He was an independent man, not a misanthrope, and he could love as well as anybody. He'd loved his wife while she lived, God rest her, and he'd loved Patrick with every breath he drew. He still loved Patrick, wherever he was, but his love for his son had long since ceased to be blind.

An idea formed in his mind then, a strategy he'd often used in his marriage and with the crew of his ship. He hadn't been much around people, though, and even the best of tools could grow rusty if you didn't use them.

“'Course I love 'em,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “What's not to love? They're good kids, and they'll be fine here with me . . . as long as we've got you to help us.”

He lowered his lids, then lifted his head to look at her through the slit between his lashes. Most women could recognize flattery a mile off, and Birdie Wester was no fool, but she'd have to be warmed by the compliment . . . and by his willingness to confide in her.

“You're the only one I trust,” he went on, hoping she wouldn't realize he had no choice in the matter. “The kids know you now, and it's obvious they like you. In fact,” he widened his eyes to smile at her, “I thought you knew about the kids a long time ago. When you started bringing me those children's books, I was certain you'd found out.”

“The books?” A blush warmed her pale face. “Why, I brought you those books because I thought you were illiterate. I was sure you were trying to teach yourself to read.”

He looked at her and blinked hard, then grinned in the first moment of pure mirth he'd felt in days.

“Birdie Wester,” he said, not resisting as she pushed him down and pulled the covers to his chin, “you're a right opinionated gal.”

“A woman has a right to her opinions,” she answered, her voice light as she smoothed the blanket over his chest. “And I'm of the opinion that I'll keep your little secret— at least until you come to your senses and get well enough to be out of this bed. I don't think you're firing on all four cylinders, so to speak, so you lay back and rest. Don't worry about a thing. I'll be here with the kids, and we'll all be fine.”

And, as he closed his eyes to surrender, Salt smiled in the certainty that Birdie was absolutely right.

As Salt slept, Birdie helped Bobby and Brittany clean up the kitchen, then clean themselves. She found herself delighted by their chatter, and she was amazed by the children's independence. Salt was right—though the kids assured her they'd never been to school, they seemed to know quite a bit about a lot of different things.

For one thing, they'd been amazed to learn that Salt had no Werther's Originals tucked someplace inside his house. After all, Brittany explained, the grandmother on TV always gave her granddaughter that candy when she came for a visit.

“I finally told her it's because he's a grandfather, not a grandmother,” Bobby explained. “Maybe only grandmothers have 'em.”

Birdie was a little surprised to hear them talk openly about their father. For children who had been abused— and she didn't doubt Salt's story, not for a moment—they referred to their dad more often than she would have expected.

“My daddy likes to fish,” Brittany said as she helped Birdie wash out the soiled dishtowels they'd hidden on the beach. “He doesn't do it often, though. He's too busy looking for a job.”

Birdie glanced at Bobby, but the boy only pressed his lips together and grunted as he wrung out one of the wet towels.

“When Daddy's not out or sleeping, he watches TV with us,” Brittany went on, apparently oblivious to her brother's silence. “He likes football. He likes the Steelers. He said he's going to take us to a game, so we'll go next year when they win the Super Bowl.”

“The Steelers aren't going to win the Super Bowl,” Bobby said, icy contempt flashing in his eyes. “And Daddy's not going to take us anywhere. Daddy hasn't even come to see us. Daddy doesn't care!”

Birdie felt the noise in the room abruptly cease. She placed her hand over her heart, uncertain how to answer in the unnatural silence, then Brittany bent into the sink and began to slosh another dirty towel in the hot soapy water.

“Miranda is my doll,” she said, not looking at Birdie. “She sleeps with me every night, no matter where I am.”

And so the afternoon had passed, with Birdie listening more than talking.

Now Bobby grinned at her as he wiped a plate with a dishcloth. “Did you know, Miss Birdie—” (since they'd come to know each other so well after meeting almost at death's door, she'd thought it fittin' to allow them to call her by her given name), “that an aardvark can grow to be five feet long? They are the color of sand and have short hair.”