A Warmth in Winter (23 page)

Floyd froze. Vernie, here? World War III would break out if she discovered that Floyd had offered Stanley amnesty. Without thinking, he blurted out, “You can't bring Vernie over here.”

Filling the pot with water, Cleta glanced over her shoulder. “And why not?”

“Because . . . it's your turn to go over there.”

She gave him The Look.

“I mean it. It's Vernie's turn to host the candy making. You two get to cackling and I can't think . . . and I need quiet today. I'm not feeling so good and I have to study for finals.”

Cleta spun the dial on the stove. “Finals, my foot. That's a home correspondence course, so you can take that test anytime.”

“I can not! I need to have it in by January fifteenth.” He absently lifted the cup of tea to his mouth and took a sip, then struggled to keep a straight face. Man, how could anyone drink this syrup?

Lowering the cup, he trained his eyes on his wife. “I need quiet today, that's all. I want to be finished with my studies before Christmas, so I'll have free time to do family things.” He grinned. That should make her happy.

But a warning cloud had settled on his wife's features. “There's no rush, Floyd, so drink your tea and let me cook in peace. Russell and Barbara will be down any minute wanting their breakfast. I'll call you when the oatmeal is ready.”

Picking up the mug of tea, he stood and moved to his wife's side. “You go on over to Vernie's and make that candy.” He kept his voice low and level, the voice of a man who meant business. “I mean it, Cleta. I need peace and quiet this afternoon. I'm into the chapter on pistons, and as the feller says, they ain't easy to learn.”

Carrying his mug, he stomped up the back stairs, hoping Cleta would assume he was going to sip his tea while getting dressed. He'd tiptoe up to the attic and leave it with Stanley, then come back and sneak the oatmeal up to the sick man, too. And then, after church—he sighed heavily as he stepped onto the landing and nodded good morning to his son-in-law. He had to get Cleta out of the house and Stanley back to good health before feathers hit the fan.

Across the street, in Frenchman's Fairest, Caleb was also preparing tea, but he served his in an heirloom silver service. His charge, Olympia de Cuvier, stood at the window of the living room. Though she wore her best church dress, her thoughts seemed a long way from Sunday worship.

Stepping into the parlor with the tread of an aging mortal, Caleb set the tea tray down on a table. “Come away from the window, Missy,” he said, lifting the delicate china cup and saucer. “Annie's most likely on her way back to Portland. You know she has to work tomorrow.”

Sighing, Olympia dropped the lace curtain. She moved to the sofa and sat down, then accepted the cup of tea Caleb had poured. “So she isn't coming.”

“Not today,” Caleb said softly. “But for Christmas.”

Olympia released a dignified huff. “Probably not— with my luck, the weather will stop her again. I might as well prepare myself.” Her eyes moved to the lace-covered window. “We will be all alone this year.”

Caleb offered her the sugar bowl. “Luck has nothing to do with it, Missy. And you're never alone. You have the Lord with you. And me.” He softened his voice. “We'll be fine.”

He glanced out the window. “The weather is a bit windy. Would you like to take the carriage to church this morning?”

Olympia sighed as she spooned up a sugar cube. “No need for that. I'll walk.” Her eyes grew wistful. “I was so hoping—”

“Don't borrow trouble; today has enough of its own.” Dropping the lid on the sugar bowl, he smiled at her. “Miracles happen all the time. Why, just this morning I found two new blooms on Annie's tomato plants. Imagine that.” He drew a deep breath as wind whistled down the fireplace chimney. “Two healthy blooms, surviving even a gale like this one.” He smiled. “You see, Missy? Miracles happen when we least expect them.”

“I need a miracle, Caleb.” After only a perfunctory sip, Olympia set the cup aside and left the room.

An hour later, Vernie stepped through the doorway of the mercantile and blinked in the sting of the wind. The walk to church would be frigid, but there was no way she was going to get all sissified and drive a cart whenever the temperature dropped below forty degrees. She usually rode her scooter around town, but the church was only a five-minute walk and she could handle it without any problem, thank you very much. After all, she had a coat and scarf and hat to keep her warm.

She walked to the end of the porch, then paused for a glance at the ferry dock. The big boat was absent, as she'd feared it would be, but a solitary figure stood on the dock, dark against the mist rising off the waters. Olympia.

Vernie felt her heart twist. Olympia had always seemed like the original iron maiden, but with her husband just passed and Annie unable to come for the town's party . . .

Olympia might find this a difficult Christmas.

And so might Dr. Marc. His son hadn't made it to the party, either. The doc had put on a brave face, saying that Alex had been called away on an emergency, but Vernie hadn't missed the glimmer of regret in the doctor's eyes.

Life sure had a way of fouling things up. If it wasn't cranberries missing the boat, it was people.

She leaned against a porch post, wondering how long Olympia would stand on the wind-swept dock. She might be on her way to church, too, and if she came soon Vernie would offer to keep her company.

“There's no sense in standing there wishin',” Vernie whispered to the solitary figure in the distance. “The ferry's not coming, and wishin' won't change anything. The good Lord knows I'd done plenty of wishin' in my time, and none of it did me a bit of good.”

Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she studied the frozen ground around the porch. Mud season would be upon them before they knew it, and the bitter cold of winter would fade into dim memories. Olympia's pain would fade, too, but there was no sense in telling her that now. When a body was shivering, tales of warm beaches and summer days weren't worth a flip.

Her own bitter memories had faded, though sometimes they crept up on her and caught her by surprise. She'd been caught when Stanley called the other day—the sound of his voice had grated across her nerves like nails across a chalkboard. Her pulse had begun to pound, and every coherent thought had stood up and marched right out of her brain . . .

Maybe Olympia was battling similar memories. One of Edmund's belongings, his voice on the answering machine, his scent in an old sweater—any of these things could have chased her out to the dock to be alone with her thoughts.

Vernie waited until her teeth began to chatter, then she stepped off the porch and walked to the church with brisk steps. Olympia would be okay in a little while. She would spend Christmas day with Caleb, doing her best to cope with memories too fresh to be of comfort and too sweet for tears.

Vernie grinned and waved as Elezar stepped out of the carriage house and began his own trek to the church. She would spend Christmas with him and MaGoo. If in the hubbub of celebration she found time for a quiet moment, she might allow herself to wonder why Stanley had called.

And why her dreams were haunted by a man for whom she no longer cared.

After Sunday supper, quiet filled the mercantile like a soothing fog. In the back room, Vernie relaxed in her chair, skimming the latest Vermont Country Store catalog. MaGoo curled next to the fire, soft snores resonating from the mound of fur. Elezar had gone off to church for his regular Sunday night meeting with the other Smith men. Vernie didn't know what the meetings were for, exactly, but she suspected pizza filled a major part of the agenda. Lately Abner Smith had taken to baking a huge one in the church basement every Sunday night.

Rows and rows of chocolate candies filled sheets of waxed paper in her kitchen, the results of her afternoon of candy making with Cleta. Come morning, she'd wrap the chocolates and put them into decorated tins as she did every year, and come Christmas Eve, she'd deliver a tin to every household in Heavenly Daze.

And, if things went well, the weather would let up sometime this week—enough for her to get over to Ogunquit and fetch the sugar, nutmeg, and cranberries the town needed for a proper celebration. Christmas wouldn't seem like Christmas without one of Birdie's traditional Saint James Puddings under her tree.

Outside the window, a mixture of snow and rain dripped from the eaves. Earlier she'd phoned Olympia and invited her over for a bowl of soup, but the widow declined, saying she wasn't feeling well. She added that Annie had given up and gone back to Portland. The two-hour trip had taken five because of worsening road conditions.

Despite Olympia's attempt to sound casual, Vernie knew she was upset. “It'll be okay,” she said.

The statement didn't seem to register. “Spent all that money on a room this weekend,” Olympia went on. “That's the trouble with young people these days; they never think twice about wasting good money.”

Now Vernie had Andy Rooney for company, and he was well on his way to wrapping up
60 Minutes.
She liked Andy. Seemed like a down-to-earth sort of fella.

The phone jangled.

Stirring, she fumbled for the receiver. “Mooseleuk's.”

“Vernie?” Cleta's voice came over the wire. “I'm on my way over for Pepto-Bismol and Advil. Floyd's sick as a dog.”

Vernie sat up straighter, trying to clear her drowsy brain. “Sure, come right on. What's wrong with him?”

“Flu, I suspect. Woke up from his nap with a high fever and he's chilling.”

Vernie hung up, then shoved herself out of her chair with a groan. This cold was murder on old bones.

Padding downstairs, she pulled bottles of Pepto-Bismol and Advil from the shelf and dropped them in a bag. Unlocking the door a few minutes later, she handed the items to Cleta.

Wind whistled through the crack, penetrating her thin sweater. “Thanks,” Cleta said, her teeth chattering. “Add it to our tab, will you?”

“Sure. And let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“Ayuh.” Cleta turned and hurried back across the street, hunching into the wind.

By eight o'clock Vernie was sitting with a bowl of popcorn, ready for the CBS Sunday night movie, a feature starring James Garner and Julie Andrews. The phone jangled again.

She reached for the receiver. “Mooseleuk's.”

Cleta's worried voice met her ears. “Vernie, I hate to ask but Floyd's awful sick and I'm afraid to leave him. Can you bring me a box of Epsom salts? I need to get him in the tub and bring his fever down.”

Vernie cast a longing glance at the television. Jim and Julie would have to wait. “I'll be right over.” After hanging up, she set the VCR to record and punched the button. Five minutes later, after layering on sweater, coat, hat, gloves, and boots, she left the mercantile and trudged toward the bed-and-breakfast with a box of Epsom salts.

Cleta was waiting by the back door to let her in. “I've never seen Floyd so sick,” she said.

“You want me to fetch Dr. Marc?”

“Floyd insists it isn't necessary, but if the salts don't bring the fever down, I'm going to have to call him. You want to come in and warm up before you go back?”

Vernie hedged. The last thing she wanted was a case of flu. Once the flu got started, it would tear through the island like greased lightning. Maybe it already had begun— after all, Birdie had been in to buy Tylenol or something for Salt up at the lighthouse . . .

“Cleeeeeeta.” Floyd's weak voice echoed down the stairway. “I neeeed youuuuu.”

Reaching for Vernie's arm, Cleta pulled her into the warm kitchen. “Stay here a minute. I'll see what he wants.” Then she was off, muttering something about sick men being such babies . . .

Vernie shifted her weight from foot to foot, listening to the television blaring from the parlor. Someone was watching the Sunday night movie.

She moved closer to the doorway, aiming to sneak a peek. Russell and Barbara sat on the sofa with their backs to her, while on the television James Garner sat wedged in the front seat of a sports car with Julie Andrews behind the wheel. Oh, this was going to be good! If Cleta didn't need her she would go on back—

Cleta appeared, tight-lipped. “Pigheaded man,” she said, stomping down the stairs. “Care for a cup of coffee while you're here?”

Vernie pointed toward the door. “I'll get on back. I kinda wanted to watch the movie.”

Again Floyd's voice rolled down the staircase. “Cleeeeeta. Can you get me a glass of juiccccce?”

The women's eyes met. “I'm going to kill him,” Cleta said.

“He's sick,” Vernie reminded her. “Remember when you had that gallbladder attack last summer? Floyd went all the way to Boston to get that brand of vanilla ice cream you wanted.” She nudged Cleta toward the stairs. “I'll get the juice; you take care of your man.”

A few moments later Vernie walked past Barbara and Russell—who remained oblivious—and carried a glass of orange juice up the stairs. Pausing in front of Cleta's bedroom door, she called, “I have the juice.”

Cleta thrust her head through the doorway and took the glass. “Can you bring me some extra blankets? They're up in the spare attic bedroom.”

“No problem.” As Vernie turned toward the seldom-used attic stairs, she heard Cleta yell, “Floyd! Get back in that tub! What's gotten into you?”

Searching for blankets, Vernie walked into the attic bedroom and headed immediately for the closet. Two blankets sat on the top shelf, but they were on the thin side, and a person with fever could get terribly chilled, especially in weather like this. May as well take the comforter from the bed, too.

She dropped the folded blankets into a guest chair, then turned and frowned at the rumpled bed. Lumpy and bumpy, it looked for all the world like neither Barbara nor Cleta had found time to clean since their last guest. She sniffed. The air was stale, too, and a tray of dirty dishes sat on the floor near the door.