A Warmth in Winter (34 page)

“I know two children who'd disagree with you— three, if you count Georgie. He thinks you're a real hero.”

He snorted softly. “I'm nobody's hero.”

“You're mine.” Birdie lowered her voice. “Last night I saw your light shining out, and I saw you risk much for those you loved—and yes, Salt, you can love deeply, I saw it as plain as the sun in heaven. And I knew then how much I loved you, Salt Gribbon.”

And then, carried away by the realization that the moment would never come again, Birdie leaned forward and kissed Old Man Gribbon smack on the lips.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Floyd sat at the table staring at Cleta.

Cleta glared back.

Stanley sat between the warring couple, slumped over a bowl of oatmeal.

Across from him, Vernie focused on the refrigerator.

Six days had passed since she'd found Stanley hidden away in her friends' house. Though after that discovery she'd stomped out and vowed never to return, time and Elezar's gentle prodding had softened her heart. Last night she'd finally agreed to one round of peace talks before worship.

She reckoned it was the least she could do, it bein' a Sunday and her calling herself a Christian. Especially since Floyd had convinced her that Stanley Bidderman was a dying man. She didn't feel so good herself these days.

Now she sat at the Lansdowns' kitchen table listening to the clock tick away long minutes. Though sharp eyes dominated the unspoken conversation, for the moment a weak truce kept the peace.

“I think,” Floyd broke the strained silence, “we should leave the room, Cleta, and let Stanley and Vernie talk.”

Vernie crossed her arms and looked away. “I don't want to talk to that worm, but I will. I want you all to know that I'm here under distress.”

“That's duress,” Floyd corrected.

“That, too.”

Cleta wearily dropped her chin into her hand. “He's not going to budge until you hear him out, Vernie.” Her unspoken meaning was clear—get him out of my house, please!

Floyd tapped Vernie's arm. “Hear him out. If you don't like what he says—”

“You'll ask him to leave?” She sniffed. “You should have never brought him here in the first place.”

Lifting a feeble hand, Floyd closed his eyes. “Just let the man talk,” he said, his teeth clenched.

Chair legs scraped the floor as Floyd and Cleta got up. Giving Vernie's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, Cleta said, “I'll be right outside the door if you need me.” She bent closer. “Don't forget that there are other fish in the sea— there's always Eugene Fleming.”

Vernie snorted.

A veil of silence enveloped the kitchen as the door closed. For a moment Vernie stared at her hands, unwilling to give Stanley a moment's satisfaction. Her head throbbed and she felt as hot as a blast furnace. Was she coming down with the flu, too? Cleta had developed a fever three days ago and still looked a little streaked.

When the silence stretched to an uncomfortable thinness, Stanley lifted his head. He'd aged. Of course, he was probably thinking the same about her. His once-youthful features had weathered. Lines creased his cheeks—what had put them there? Age alone, or age plus regret?

She looked away, pretending to study the photographs on the refrigerator. “Say what you've come to say, Stanley, so you can go in peace.”

Stanley's eyes shone with remorse. “I know I hurt you badly, Vernie. I hurt myself even worse, and I'm sorry for it.”

She refused to meet his gaze. “You should have shot me, Stanley. It would have hurt less.”

He stiffened. “I'm here to ask your forgiveness.”

“It's too late for that.”

“You're wrong, Vernie. I can see you haven't changed a lick, but that's okay. I'm not responsible for your reactions, just my actions. So I'm here to ask for forgiveness, and I'm telling you it's not too late for us to make things right.”

Vernie crossed her legs, struggling to digest the apology and the man who had so forcefully delivered it. This wasn't the man she'd known—that fellow would have tucked his tail and run back to his hiding place after she hung up on him the first time. Then again . . . a pending appointment with heaven might motivate even Stanley to get serious about settling his eternal affairs.

She slowly lifted her gaze. “How long do you have?”

He frowned. “I'm not sure. Cleta wants me out, but Floyd said—”

“Good grief, Stanley, do you think we're thick as planks? You're dying, aren't you? You're only here to make amends before you meet the Lord.”

Surprise crossed his wan features. “I'm not dying, at least, I don't think I am. I was perfectly fine before I came down with this flu.”

Vernie tapped her fingernail on the plastic place mat. He wasn't dying? He wasn't terminal and he obviously still had all his marbles. So he had changed. A lot.

Stiffly, she looked straight at him. “Why, Stanley?”

To his credit, Stanley didn't avoid the question. “Because I didn't feel you needed me.”

A simple, forthright reply. Vernie suspected he had rehearsed his answer. “I didn't feel you needed me,” he repeated, his voice softer now. “A man needs to feel wanted and important; I felt like an intruder in my own home. I felt you didn't love or need me.”

The words stung. When had she ever made him feel like an intruder? Why, he should have felt like a king in his castle, pampered in every way! She had always seen to their business, looked after things, made decisions, managed the mercantile, and ordered stock. She had downright coddled him. Why, she didn't even complain about the bowling he loved so much though she knew his time could be better spent.

She had worried about bills and mortgages and food on the table while he stood in the background, rarely offering an opinion on anything more important than the color of a new bowling ball. He couldn't decide on something as simple as supper.

“What do you want for supper, Stanley?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Chicken?”

“That's fine.”

“Or maybe beef?”

“That's fine.”

How she had longed for him to thump his chest and yell, “Forget the beef and chicken. I want a can of hot tamales!”

But noooooooo, Stanley never said anything. At first she got tired of being in charge, then she got used to it. But now he had the nerve to accuse her of indifference?

Stanley's voice broke into her reflection. “You asked why I came here, and I've told you. I don't expect you to understand.”

Closing his eyes, he began again: “Leaving you was the worst mistake of my life. I knew it within a few weeks, but by then I knew coming back would only make things worse. You never seemed to need me, and nothing I did was ever good enough. You got bent out of shape no matter whether I agreed or disagreed. So, that night, I just decided to miss the ferry. I spent the night at a hotel, and the next morning I decided to go to Wells. Before I knew it, I was running, leaving the one commitment I'd managed to make in my life. I knew it was wrong, and I knew running wouldn't change anything. But then I couldn't face you, so I stayed away.”

Somehow, Vernie found her voice. “What made you . . . why did you decide to call?”

Shaking his head, he looked up. “A commercial on television—one of those Hallmark things, I think. I saw a couple about our age, welcoming home the kids for Christmas, and I suddenly realized that we could have had twenty Christmases like that one, but I'd messed it up. So I decided to come home and apologize. See if you could find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Pushing back from the table, he got up. “I can see in your face that forgiveness isn't exactly what you had in mind. So, if you'll excuse me, I've said what I came to say. I reckon I'll go up and pack my things, get out of Cleta's way.”

Vernie pressed her hand to her mouth as he left the room.

Dazed, she sat in the quiet kitchen with her thoughts.

And Stanley's words.

Stanley's apology.

And Stanley's accusation.

Throughout morning worship and all afternoon Vernie replayed Stanley's words in her mind.
“I decided to come home . . . and see if you could find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Could she forgive? On one level it'd be easy. It'd be easy as pie to say, “Yes, because I'm a Christian, I forgive you, but get out of my sight and stay out, Stanley Bidderman.” She could find sweet justice in that, and nobody on the island could blame her for booting Stanley off Heavenly Daze for good.

But . . . was that the kind of forgiveness Christ expected of her? It wasn't what he gave. Every time she goofed up, the Savior welcomed her back with loving arms and sweet acceptance. He loved her, blunders and all, and when he forgave, he forgot.

So why couldn't she forgive Stanley?

Because he'd cost her years of physical and mental suffering. Because he'd ravaged her emotions and left her numb and too tired to care about love. Because he'd taken the best years of her life, years in which she could have had the whole Hallmark commercial . . .

So he'd hurt her . . . but hadn't she committed her share of hurts? She'd hurt him, too, though she'd never understood how until this morning. She'd taken over Stanley's life, interpreting his sweet nature as incompetence, mistaking his patience as weakness. She'd stolen his masculinity, his leadership, his role as a husband. She'd worn the pants in the family, sure, but she'd stepped into them first.

She should have waited for Stanley.

She pulled down her Bible, ran her finger over the verses where the Lord told his disciples they should forgive not seven times, but “seventy times seven.” In the margin, she had written, “Forgiveness is my choice to personally bear the consequences of your choice, and never again hold you responsible for what you did to hurt me.”

The words cut through her soul like a knife. When had she written that? Probably years before Pastor Wickam came to town, since he tended to major on the Minor Prophets. Pastor Claude might have preached this sermon, and she might have written this even while Stanley sat by her side in the Heavenly Daze Church . . .

Funny, how lessons were never really learned until you put them into practice.

That evening she climbed the Lansdowns' attic staircase. Pausing at Stanley's bedroom door, she called, “Stan?”

She heard shuffling sounds, then, “Ayuh?”

“Can I come in?”

After a long pause, Stanley opened the door.

Feeling feverish, Vernie walked in and reached out for the bedpost. She probably shouldn't have come, but flu or no flu, she had to speak to her husband before he left.

Grasping the bedpost, she closed her eyes as her head swam. She'd be in bed tomorrow, too, most likely, and Elezar would have to play nurse and run the mercantile . . .

“What's wrong, Vernie?” Concern tinged Stanley's voice.

Chuckling softly, Vernie opened her eyes and saw the open suitcase, the clothes piled on the bed. He was leaving, so this couldn't be postponed, not even if she fainted.

“Are you okay?” Stanley reached out to support her. The touch seemed familiar, even after all these years.

“Stan?”

“I'm here, Vernie.”

She looked up, meeting his troubled gaze. “You know how you said I didn't need you?”

His eyes softened. “Ayuh.”

She drew a long shuddering breath, chills assaulting her fevered body. “Well, right now I couldn't need you more.”

Chapter Twenty-five

O
n the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, Annie dropped her last pair of new shorts and summer blouses into her suitcase. Outside her window, snow fell in heavy sheets while the radio played holiday music as a prelude to Christmas Eve. She kept one ear alert for weather reports as she packed. The promised storm was on its way.

The D. J. segued out of “I'll Be Home for Christmas” with a weather bulletin, so Annie leaned forward to turn up the volume. “A few flights have been delayed, but most airlines are still operating. Snow totals estimated to be between eight and ten inches before this system passes. Well, folks, we're usually begging for a white Christmas, but this year we're gonna get a doozy!”

Annie's thoughts drifted to Frenchman's Fairest. Caleb would be in the kitchen, probably stuffing the turkey and making his famous fat-free pumpkin pie. Olympia would be wrapping the old butler's gift, tying a candy cane into the ribbon. Caleb loved peppermints.

Annie's gifts for Caleb and her aunt sat on her pillow, wrapped and ready to be delivered the moment she returned from the cruise. Neither Olympia nor Caleb would mind the delay, and a little festivity after the holiday would only extend the season . . . wouldn't it?

Melanie had already called twice to remind her that their group was meeting at the airport gate. The flight left Portland at 6 PM, then they'd change planes in Boston and fly through the darkness to Miami. By this time tomorrow, Annie would be sitting on the deck of the
Glorious
sipping a tall glass of tropical fruit punch decorated with a tiny umbrella.

So why wasn't she doing handsprings?

She tossed a bottle of suntan lotion into her bag, then sat down on the side of the bed and stared at the suitcase.

“Go on the cruise, dear. And have a wonderful time.”

Throwing her head back, Annie shut her eyes. “Don't do this! Keep packing.”

She pulled herself off the bed, then moved to the closet and added another pair of dress slacks. “The ferry isn't running,” she reminded herself. “You couldn't get there if you wanted to.”

Pulling her favorite pajamas from beneath her pillow, she tossed them in the suitcase.

Just think—dozens of single men, unlimited food, dancing under the stars.

Her gaze fell upon the framed picture on her nightstand— a photo of Caleb and Olympia, snapped in happier days. Staring at the picture, she could almost smell Caleb's turkey and dressing, see the joy on his face when he gave her his Christmas present . . .