A Warmth in Winter (4 page)

“I just—”

“It's time you moved on, Vernie Bidderman. It's been, what? Twenty years since Stanley left?” Shaking her head, she poured steaming water into her cup. “You're not so old that love won't find you yet.”

Vernie threw her head back and hooted. Love? At her age? With Eugene Fleming?

Diners at a nearby table swiveled in their chairs to discover the source of her amusement.

Vernie dropped her gaze and added a spoonful of honey to her tea. “Do I look like a fool?” she hissed over her cup. “I'm perfectly happy with my life. I don't intend to ever get involved with a man again.”

“And why not? Until Stanley walked out he was as good as gold. Why, I remember how you used to talk about him like he was the salt of the earth. You were happy, Vernie; you had a bloom in your cheeks. Don't you want that again?”

Vernie leaned closer and lifted a brow, then frowned.

Cleta dropped her spoon to the saucer. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the bloom.”

“I said your cheeks, Vernie, not mine.” Snorting, Cleta took a sip of tea.

Vernie leaned back and relaxed. “I'm perfectly content with my life and I have no intentions of changing it, Cleta. Once Stanley walked out on me, that was it. No more problems of the male persuasion. Elezar's around during the day, and when I close the mercantile, he goes to the carriage house and shuts the door.” She took a tentative sip from her cup. “That's the way to keep a man around the house. The only way.”

“I still say you're missing a good opportunity to find happiness with Eugene. Why, he may look a little worn, but he's only a few years older than you. Besides, I hear he's made some real money on Wal-Mart stock.”

“It would take more than Wal-Mart stock to interest me.”

Sighing, Cleta lifted her cup. “You always were hardheaded. No wonder Stanley—”

“I'll thank you to keep your observations to yourself, Cleta Lansdown.”

Rolling her eyes, Cleta took a sip, then grinned. “You may change your mind.”

“I won't.”

“Better to change it now than later . . . when Eugene Fleming's no longer around.”

“Cleta, unless you want me to tell your husband you've picked up a new frying pan, you should drop the subject.”

And with that, the conversation shifted to holiday worries— how big a turkey should they bake, and how many mincemeat pies?

Vernie was relieved to talk about such trivial things. She'd willingly talk about 'most anything. Except Stanley.

Chapter Four

S
alt shifted his shopping bag from one gloved hand to the other as he walked up the lighthouse path. He'd picked up bread and cookies from Birdie's Bakery, then bought milk, cereal, eggs, and a block of cheese from Elezar at the mercantile. He needed a few other things, too—new toothbrushes for the kids, toothpaste, soap, and laundry detergent— but he'd get those things in Ogunquit when he felt more energetic. The wind seemed to sap his strength today, and he'd begun to perspire under his flannel shirt.

He paused at the row of sand dunes that stood like a barrier between the city and the desolate marsh that covered the northern half of Heavenly Daze. The kids needed clothes, new underwear and sturdy snowsuits. They'd been wearing thrift store castoffs when he brought them home, but he didn't dare buy children's clothing where anyone from Heavenly Daze might see him.

No one could know about the kids. He'd had no choice but to take them, yet the government do-gooders and social workers wouldn't see it that way. They'd say he was seventy and too old to be caring for children, then they'd take Bobby and Brittany and put them in a foster home where perfect strangers would care for his own flesh and blood. Well, that wasn't going to happen. Not as long as Salt had breath. Being a Gribbon meant doing what should be done, and a Gribbon man was supposed to provide for his family. Salt had provided for his wife and son by spending weeks away at sea, and now he would provide for his grandchildren by keeping them close . . . no matter what anybody else said.

He turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes against the icy sting. Ayuh, winter was gathering her strength, no doubt preparin' for a real blast. If his aching bones could be trusted, 'twould be a cold one this year.

Spurred by determination and an undeniable sense of guilt, he pulled his collar to his throat and walked on. He hadn't taken the kids from spite. God above knew he hadn't done that. He'd wished Patrick well; he'd have given anything to know his son was a good father to those young 'uns. But he'd seen the truth with his own eyes. When he arrived at the apartment in Wells, Bobby and Brittany were both as thin as a heron's leg. That apartment hadn't been fit to live in, and when he saw the bruises on the little girl's arm . . .

He'd been right to take them. No social worker could do better for them than he could, and he'd already brought a measure of peace and comfort to their lives. So far they seemed happy to be with him, though they were still a mite shy. Poor things, Patrick had probably told them to keep quiet and out of the way, for they didn't laugh and shout and giggle like ordinary children. In the three months they'd lived in the lighthouse, he couldn't recall them laughing at all.

He couldn't recall many instances of Patrick laughing, either, but he'd spent so little time with the boy when he was young. The sea had called him away, and longliners grew closer to their crew mates than to the family waiting at home.

He struggled to swallow over the lump in his throat and winced at the pain. Well, no wonder he had a sore throat. He'd been traipsing down to the village more often than usual, and the wind was breezin' up.

“And you're getting along in years,” he chided himself, breathing through his mouth as he crossed the final steps to his own front door. “You can't expect to feel fresh in a savagrus month like December.”

He hesitated at the door and knocked, then grunted in satisfaction when the boy didn't answer. Yessir, they'd corrected that habit right away. Bobby wasn't to open the door for anyone, not even his grandfather.

He lifted the latch and stepped inside. “I'm home,” he called, gratefully pulling off his gloves. Two ash-blond heads appeared from the space beneath his bed. Brittany's gaze darted straight to his shopping bag. “More cookies?”

“More cookies, more milk, and a box of Froot Loops.” Salt shrugged out of his coat, then, while the children scrambled to go through his shopping bag, he moved to his rocker by the fireplace.

He needed to sit a minute and catch his breath. Only a minute. That's all he needed.

Safe and warm in Portland, Annie Cuvier signed the last Christmas card with a flourish, then ran her tongue around the edge of the flap. There! Another Christmas obligation dispatched.

After dropping her holiday cards into the outgoing mail basket, she glanced over her desktop and sighed when she saw the stack of research papers. She'd hoped to get out of the office early, but the staggering pile reminded her that tomatoes took precedence over an early dinner and a quick stop at the bookstore.

Reaching for a folder, she opened it and stared at the printed page, willing herself to focus.

Some of the older tried and true ornamentals descend from a collection of Madame Aglae Adanson (1775–1852) and include the rare Tomato Pomme d'Api, which looks like lady apple. Lewis Darby offers more accessible colorful miniatures such as Ochradel, Debbidel, and Chocodel . . .

Yawning, Annie turned the page, ignoring the activity outside her window. Christmas was in full swing at the Southern Maine Technical College. Maintenance men were hanging holly and preparing for the special campus tree lighting scheduled for six o'clock on Sunday evening.

The lovely pommes d'amour, or “apples of love” as tomatoes were once called, are most succulent when eaten when the sun is high and the weather is hot.

That, Annie conceded, was the honest truth. Her experimental tomatoes, designed to grow in winter, looked more uncertain every day. An early winter had descended upon Heavenly Daze, and the tender plants looked more like starving victims than fruit-bearing plants. Annie had considered uprooting the remaining vegetation and throwing in the trowel, but some persistent and annoying shred of hope prevented her from completely giving up. Her supervisor called her a born optimist, her coworkers called her nuts, but she wouldn't give up until she had no other choice. After all, for a while her experiment had exhibited signs of promise. The spindly seedlings she'd planted on Heavenly Daze had perked up and actually thrived even after her aunt's dog uprooted them. All through October and mid-November Annie clung to hope. But last weekend even she had to admit the plants were teetering on extinction.

Closing the folder, she gently massaged her throbbing temples. Her Aunt Olympia was struggling to hang on, too. Though Uncle Edmund's death had been expected for weeks, the reality of his absence was only beginning to sink in. For the first time in forty years Olympia had no family in the house.

At least she had Caleb. The old butler had served Olympia for as long as Annie could remember. But Caleb couldn't take Edmund's place, and Olympia had only begun to battle the loneliness.

Getting up from the desk, Annie shuffled to the file cabinet. Lately her own disposition hadn't exactly exuded sunshine and mirth. A dark cloud hovered over her heart, ready to devour her. Even though she hadn't been close to Edmund the past few years, she couldn't shake the feeling of loss.

Added all together Edmund's death, the time she had spent in Heavenly Daze helping Olympia tie up odds and ends, and the funeral had thrown Annie hopelessly behind in her work. The extra hours she'd been forced to put in hadn't helped her mood. She hadn't left work before seven a single night this week, and now she was in her office on a Saturday . . . working.

Where was the old Annie?

She'd forgotten how to laugh so hard her side ached.

It had been months since she'd savored the feel of a warm robe fresh out of the dryer.

She missed giggling, the serendipity of finding a forgotten twenty-dollar bill in her coat pocket, and the beauty of a drive on a rural road.

Instead her life had been filled with trudging to work, coming home to a quiet apartment, feeding the cat, and dropping into bed—sometimes too exhausted to eat. Her clothes hung on her, and well-intentioned friends had begun to ask if she was bulimic.

Bulimic? Annie Cuvier, who could polish off a Big Mac and fries and go back for a hot apple pie without a moment's hesitation?

Where was the Annie who derived pleasure from something so simple as discovering a no-wait line at the Super Wal-Mart? Or the woman who was delighted to discover a fat-free version of her favorite rocky road ice cream?

She pulled a file from the cabinet, the label blurring as her eyes filled with tears. How had her life become so empty? Her friends had husbands and young children; she had a paycheck and an empty apartment.

Had she missed the boat? She'd been standing on the dock, doing what all the experts suggested. She'd read every book:
How to Find a Mate, Keeping Mr. Right Interested
,
Living for Love and Loving It
,
Man Plus Woman: Putting the Two Together
. She had read and studied and taken notes, yet here she was, twenty-eight and still single.

Maybe she should have taken the money she'd spent on those books and put it toward one of those Love Boat cruises— She glanced up to see her coworker, Melanie Procter, about to tap on her door.

She dashed the tears away. “Come on in, Melanie. What are you doing here on Saturday?”

The petite blonde flashed a dimpled grin. “Just checking on you. Bought your cruise tickets yet?”

Closing the file drawer, Annie moved back to her desk. “Not yet.”

The cruise—she'd pushed it from her mind. The majority of her coworkers were taking a Caribbean cruise over the Christmas holiday, visiting Jamaica, Grand Cayman, Montego Bay, and Cozumel. They were all places she'd love to see, but maybe later, when she was in a more festive mood.

She drew a shuddering sigh.

Melanie frowned. “You are going, aren't you? The deadline for reservations is five o'clock.”

Lifting her shoulders briefly, Annie sat down and rearranged a stack of rubber bands. She glanced at her watch. Four forty-five.

“You're not going?” Melanie's blue eyes widened. “You can't be serious. At these prices? When would you ever get a seven-day Caribbean holiday at a bargain basement price? We're talking cheap, Annie. We have a window room—a real window, not a porthole. We can actually look out and see the water. How could you possibly consider not going?”

Annie shrugged. She wanted to go—the price was great. And though it wouldn't be the Love Boat, it could be fun and she could sure use the break.

Venturing into the office, Melanie kicked the door closed, then bent and placed her palms on the desk. “You can't be serious.”

“Aunt Olympia—”

“Is grieving. I understand.” Bending closer, Melanie's tone gentled. “Invite her to come along. The sea air will be good for her, and getting away from the house where your uncle died will be even better.”

“She won't come.”

And, if the truth be known, Annie wasn't sure she'd want Olympia along. She loved her aunt and wanted the best for her, but penny-pinching Olympia would be miserable on a cruise, probably groaning the entire time about how much money it cost. And if Olympia was miserable, everyone around her would be miserable, too. Annie closed her eyes, already hearing what her aunt would repeat at least ten times an hour: “That's what's wrong with young people today; they don't know the value of a dollar.”

No, she might as well go to Heavenly Daze and spend Christmas in the de Cuvier mausoleum, sitting in the chilly parlor watching paint peel. Her friends would thank her for not bringing Olympia along. And she'd save money.