Jake pushed Arnie onto her lap. He wasn’t a large child; perhaps if he’d been husky, he might not have suffered so. Dottie felt his bones through the blanket as he shook. His crying fell to whimpers then back to wailing.
But he curled against her, and she held on. “Shh.”
Gordy turned back to the fire, added a log, then just stayed crouched, staring at the flames.
“Is he going to be okay?” he finally said to Jake.
Jake had risen, grabbed his shirt. “I don’t know.” He crouched, reached for the boy’s white toes. “They don’t look frostbitten.” He met Dottie’s eyes. “Where do I find some socks?”
She spoke without thinking. “Upstairs, in Nelson’s room, top drawer.”
He ran up the stairs as Gordy glanced at her. She gave him a look. “What am I to do—let the boy freeze?”
But instead of barking back at her, his face softened. “No.”
She tucked her head against Arnie’s, whispering, her tone warm. “It’s going to be okay. Once, when my boy Nelson was about six, he went ice skating. When he came in, his feet were nearly ice blocks. We thawed them in the tub and he cried for an hour. But then it was over, and he was warm again, good as new.”
She didn’t look up as she spoke. But she wondered if Gordy heard her, remembering those days when he’d watch them skating on the pond, back before the marsh overtook it.
“I’ll get tea for him,” Violet said.
“Make sure it’s not too hot,” Gordy said. And then, to Dottie’s surprise, he pulled up a chair across from her and took the little boy’s toes in his big hands.
This could have been their grandson. The thought pulsed inside her. They might have had more children, a daughter, perhaps. Well, no, probably Arnie was too old, but the thought wouldn’t leave her.
This could have been their life.
Maybe God is giving you another chance to make things right between you and Gordy.
She glanced up, but Violet hadn’t yet returned.
Gordy sat so close, his expression tight against Arnie’s whimpering. He smelled of the smoky fire, had rolled up his sleeves past his elbows to reveal his amazing farmer’s forearms.
She had been in those arms, and pushed him away.
Arnie continued to squirm, almost falling off Dottie’s lap.
“Let me take him,” Gordy said, moving to sit beside her, as if she would simply acquiesce and hand the boy to him.
Dottie tightened her grip, almost an instinctive move. But the tenderness on Gordy’s face as he looked at the boy loosed her hold. Maybe Arnie did need someone stronger than her to hold him.
“Be careful,” she said as she released Arnie into Gordy’s arms. He held the boy as Dottie tucked the blankets around him.
Arnie immediately curled into Gordy’s chest as Gordy wrapped his strong arms around him.
Dottie had to turn away, focus for a moment on the flames in the hearth.
“I found the socks.” Jake returned down the stairs and handed them to Dottie. She crunched them in her hands a moment, warming them before working them onto Arnie’s feet.
His cries had subsided to a persistent moan. She cupped his cold cheek. “It’s going to be okay, Arnie.”
He chose then to open his eyes. And for a second, just stared at her. She tried a smile, but it seemed too late because, gaze still glued to hers, he pushed away from her, kicking at her. “No! No!”
“Arnie, you’re safe.” Gordy’s voice cut through the boy’s panic. He leaned down, guiding the boy’s gaze to his own. “You made it to the barn. You were very brave.”
Dottie’s eyes filmed.
Arnie looked up at Gordy. “I wanna go home.”
She expected some snippy remark, even under his breath, from Gordy, but he surprised her again by softening his voice into something kind, even fatherly.
“I know. But the storm is too bad. I promise, we’ll take good care of you. You’re at your storm house.”
She stared at the fire again, blinking against the heat.
“No—I have to go home,” Arnie said.
“You’re going to be okay, Arnie. It’ll stop hurting when you get warm. Look, Mrs. Morgan’s here. You remember her from the library, don’t you?”
Arnie’s eyes widened. Dottie turned back and offered a smile.
“And there’s Miss Hart—”
Dottie turned, and Violet had entered, carrying the tea. She, too, grinned at Arnie.
Arnie turned and buried his face once again in Gordy’s chest.
Dottie had the strange urge to do the same thing. In fact, she might know exactly how this little boy felt.
Yes, Jake’s prediction of the pain getting worse before it stopped seemed accurate. Because, as Jake stood back, by the fire, and Violet sank down in a chair, holding the tepid tea, Gordy tucked the child under his chin and began to sing.
It came out husky and even roughened, not so much a lullaby as something he might sing to his cows.
“I’ll have a blue Christmas…without you.”
And wouldn’t you know it, he looked up at her, meeting her eyes. “I’ll be so blue, just thinking about you…”
Yes, this was really going to hurt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jake had to give Dottie and Gordy credit for being able to handle Arnie’s cries without flinching.
He, for one, just wanted to run from the house at top speed. How he hated the crying.
It only made him feel helpless. How he hated helpless.
He’d prayed, however. That, he could still do.
Dottie and Gordy had worked together, slowly warming Arnie’s extremities, first with tepid water, then adding warmer water as his body thawed. At least he could move his toes now.
The child would live.
But, with the wind swirling the snow outside, Jake couldn’t tell if it had stopped snowing, or if it might just be the wind stirring to frenzy—they wouldn’t be breaking free anytime soon.
And deep inside, Jake didn’t want to leave. Not yet.
No, for one day he’d like to live in this icy wonderland where Violet looked at him like he might be more than he knew he was.
Gordy’s words had tolled in his head all afternoon, but he pushed them away. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet.
He’d worked it out in his mind for the better part of four years, but had lost it the moment she said,
I still think you’re a hero
.
Yeah, a hero who had lied to her, led her on.
“It’s your move, Jake.”
Violet had found a wooden Aggravation board and some marbles, and she had just whittled his arsenal down to one, with three in her home base.
“I’m a little afraid,” he said, not lying in the least.
“Chicken.”
He smiled and rolled the die. It clattered on the board and he advanced his marble four spaces. He needed a one or a six to rescue a new marble from base.
Violet scooped up the die. “Poor kid. I remember him now. His mother comes into the library sometimes to pick him up after school. She works at the flour mill. I think his dad died in the war.” She advanced her marble three spaces. “Christmas hasn’t been the same since my father died. It seems like I’m always waiting for him to return home, that at anytime, he’ll walk through the door with a giant tree.”
He rolled again, nearing home with a count of five. At least one of his marbles would be safe from the Great Aggravator.
“I’m sorry about your father, Violet.”
“It’s been three years. And at least I had a childhood with him. It would be terrible to be Arnie’s age. If it’s just he and his mother, then Christmas must be pretty quiet.”
“I had a few quiet Christmases when I was young—just me and my parents. I remember one year, my father was treating patients with influenza, and my mother wouldn’t put up a tree. So, Christmas went by without even a present.”
He didn’t add that it was the year his brother died, of that very same influenza.
She looked up at him, holding the die. “Alex told me about this Christmas where he snuck a bag of oranges from the housekeeper’s pantry and gave them to this little boy who lived with him—a child of one of the servants. They sat in a closet and ate the entire bag.” She tossed the die on the table. “He said what he missed most in the military was oranges.”
Jake watched her move, his breath caught in his chest.
He’d given Alex those oranges.
More than that, Alex had been the servant boy, the son of their Russian housekeeper. The cold edge of horror sank deeper. Had Alex…stolen his life? His identity, his past?
Maybe she just had the story mixed up. He picked up the die and shook it. A three. Apparently he was stuck here.
“Christmas Eve is tomorrow.” She rolled again and moved her fourth marble into home. “Sorry. Want to play again?”
“I’m too bruised, I don’t think I can take it.” He grinned at her as he collected the marbles. “Why is Dottie’s house so…there’s not one decoration up. Not a hint of Christmas cheer.”
Violet tucked her hair behind her ears, slid her folded hands between her knees. “She hasn’t decorated for Christmas since her son died.”
“Is that him, holding the football in that picture?” He pointed to a framed shot on the piano.
“Yep. Nelson T. Morgan. Everyone loved him, he didn’t have an enemy in town.” She got up, picked up the picture. “I even had a crush on him, although he was a couple years younger than me.”
“Where was he stationed?”
“He was a sniper with the 4th Infantry.”
“That was Alex’s division.”
She nodded. “I saw Nelson when he came through Fort Meade. Even introduced him to Alex at the canteen. I hope they became friends.”
Gordy had wrapped Arnie in a blanket after his ordeal in the kitchen and now brought him to sit before the fire. Arnie closed his eyes, curling against the man.
Gordy looked up and met Jake’s gaze with a raised eyebrow, his eyes darting to Violet.
Jake turned away from him. “I have an idea. Where do you think Dottie keeps her Christmas decorations?”
“I don’t know. The attic?”
“This house needs some cheer.” Jake leaned close to her, cutting his voice low. “And that child needs a Christmas. If we don’t get out of here tomorrow, there’ll be no Santa coming down the chimney, no stockings, no tree, no oranges. Just a bunch of crabby grown-ups—”
“Speak for yourself.”
He grinned. “Okay, three crabby grown-ups and one beautiful woman.”
Violet held up a hand. “You’re right. He…we all need some Christmas cheer.” She glanced toward the kitchen, as if she included Dottie in that assessment. “C’mon.”
She stood up then gestured with her head for him to follow her. “I think I know where the attic stairs are.”
“Don’t move so fast there, champ.” He watched her as she settled weight on her foot, tucked his hand under her elbow.
“It’s really much better.” She glanced at him, a smile tugging up her face. “All that doctoring.”
Oh. Well.
Dottie was in the kitchen, humming something as they moved past the door then up the stairs. The steps creaked, but Gordy didn’t betray them. Violet shuffled down the hallway, toward her bedroom. “I saw a door in the ceiling.” A cord hung down from it, and Jake snagged it, drawing it down. A stairway unfolded onto the floor.
The cool breath of the attic sifted down into the hallway.
“We need our jackets,” he said.
“We’ll only be up there a minute.”
Dust mites. Cold. A lethal combination for a man with only one lung, and that one prone to infection. He willed his breathing steady as he climbed up behind her, making sure she didn’t fall. Her ankle must be improving. And, so far, despite the stress of the day, he’d managed not one moment of labored breathing.
This attic, however, might just suffocate him. Dust lay on the boxes, the room frigid despite the gray batting stuffed in the rafters, the only daylight from the floor below.
“It’s hard to see up here without the electricity.”
Boxes, most of them marked, filled the room. Violet had found one and opened it. “Lights, and this one is Christmas bulbs.”
Jake opened one, holding his breath, and pulled out table linens, a tree skirt, and a stocking, the name “Nelson” embroidered at the top.
“I wish we had electricity,” Violet said.
“Gordy dragged in an old generator from the garage, but he gave up on it.” Although, Violet might be able to fix it, couldn’t she? Jake glanced at her, but she betrayed nothing of curiosity about the project.
“How about we just bring down the advent candles.”
“No.” He got up, moved over to what he thought— “It’s a crank Victrola.” He ran his hands over the sides, started to crank it, felt the tabletop turn. “What we need is music. I’ll bet Dottie has something cheery.”
Violet had joined him. “Do you think it still works?”
“Let’s try it.” He hoisted it up. “Think I can hand it down to you?”
She nodded and hiked down the steps, reaching up to take it. He placed it into her hands and followed her down.
In the fading daylight, the antique Victrola seemed in good shape. Dusty, yes, but with the gramophone in place and the needle still intact. He grinned at her and brought it downstairs.
Dottie came out of the kitchen and froze. “Where did you get that?”
“In the attic. We need some Christmas cheer.”
She drew in a breath but, miraculously, didn’t argue. He set the Victrola on a table in the parlor. “Do you have any records?”
“They’re in the bookcase.”
As Jake dusted off the Victrola, Violet opened the bottom of the bookcase and pulled out a stack of records. “You have Glenn Miller—‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ and ‘At Last.’”
“I also have Dinah Shore, and that new crooner, Frank Sinatra. Nelson left his records with me for safekeeping.”
Jake didn’t have to look at her to see the expression on Dottie’s face. He saw it reflected in Violet’s eyes.
Grief left its handprints everywhere he looked.
“Let’s play one,” Dottie said, suddenly, almost too brightly. She walked over to Violet and took the stack from her hands. “How about something…cheerful. Here’s the Andrews Sisters, ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.’”
Her eyes were shiny as she handed the record to Jake. He took it and she walked past him without another word as he unsheathed it and put it on the Victrola, then cranked the handle and set down the needle.