Annie closed her eyes, imagining the strains of Calypso music mingling with the scent of Australian Gold Exotic Blend suntan lotion.
Balmy sea breezes.
For seven glorious tomato-free days.
Her eyelids snapped open. “I can’t.”
Heaving a sigh, Melanie sank into a nearby chair. “You’re nuts.”
“I know, but I can’t, Melanie. And there’s no sense in asking Aunt Olympia to go because she won’t.” Annie’s thoughts skipped back to the October day she accompanied her aunt to get a mammogram. That would be a walk in the park compared to getting Olympia aboard a cruise ship.
Melanie wasn’t giving up. “How do you know until you ask? She might be more than willing to get away for a few days. Is money a factor?”
Annie smothered a laugh. Money was always a factor with Olympia. She took great pains to portray herself as a woman of means, but Annie knew her airs were only an act. For years Olympia had struggled to maintain the grand old house known as Frenchman’s Fairest, but funds had been dangerously tight in the past few months. Edmund’s life insurance would provide for Olympia’s comfort now, but she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—be frivolous. A cruise would definitely fall into Olympia’s frivolous category, right behind massages and garden statuary.
“Money isn’t the point, Melanie. I’d be happy to buy her ticket. But it’s too soon after Uncle Edmund’s death. I’m sorry. Maybe next time.”
Melanie sighed. “Of course I understand, but I wish you would at least ask your aunt. There are always older women on these cruises—your aunt might even make new friends.”
Yeah, right. And Mr. Perfect was going to sail through her doorway in the next five minutes.
“Mrs. Oberite in the art department lost her husband last year and she’s going,” Melanie persisted.
Summoning a smile, Annie repeated, “Maybe next time.”
Melanie blew her bangs off her forehead. “Have it your way, then.”
As the door closed behind Melanie, Annie stared at the phone. Should she call Olympia? The cruise was such an unbelievable opportunity.
No. She knew what her aunt’s answer would be.
But shouldn’t her feelings count, too? Olympia was mourning, and such things couldn’t be helped. Some women endured widowhood with admirable strength; others took longer to adjust. Olympia had steely fortitude, but she and Uncle Edmund had been so inseparable Annie couldn’t begin to predict how her aunt would fare through the coming months. The island women would help, of course. And her aunt’s closest friends, Cleta, Birdie, and Bea, would provide emotional and physical support if her aunt would allow them near. But in that lay the problem. Olympia seldom allowed anyone to help her.
Sighing, Annie stood and filed three folders, her mind refusing to dismiss the cruise. She wanted that vacation. She needed a break from the past few hectic months. The tomatoes weren’t going to make it; anyone could see that. If she weren’t so stubborn, she would have already written her final paper and ended the experiment.
Move on, Annie. Isn’t that your mantra? Get on with your life.
Yet she couldn’t bring herself to concede defeat . . . and for some crazy reason she couldn’t dismiss the desire to take that cruise.
Turning, she absently closed the filing cabinet drawer, her gaze resting on the phone. Melanie’s admonition still rang in her ears. You could at least ask.
Fascinated, Annie watched her index finger move toward the keypad.
She’ll say no. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t open yourself up for another clash unless you’re willing to accept what she says.
Holding the phone to her ear, she heard the melodic tones as her finger tapped the keys, the brief pause, and then the ring.
Hang up. It wasn’t too late. And it was a silly cruise. Next year would be different. Olympia would be adjusted to widowhood and Annie could leave without feeling guilty . . .
One ring.
Two rings. Caleb’s voice came on the line.
Swallowing, Annie winced. “Caleb?”
“Yes—Annie?”
“Yeah, hi. Is Aunt Olympia around?”
“She is, but she’s resting now.” She heard silence, then Caleb said, “I gave her a mild sedative. This has been a particularly trying day for Missy, but if you need to speak to her—”
“No.” Annie sank to her chair, weak with relief. “It’s not important. Tell her I called. If she wants to, she can call me back.”
“I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you. She should be awake soon. You’ll be home later?”
“No, I’m in the office. I’ll be here for quite a while. Thank you, Caleb.”
After hanging up the receiver, she propped her head on the back of the chair. Olympia wouldn’t go. Even asking was idiotic.
So why had she called?
By six o’clock, after a dinner of cheese sandwiches and chicken noodle soup, Salt felt like he’d been hung out on a mast for four days. His throat burned, his skin felt hot and prickly, and his head buzzed. But still he rolled out the children’s bedding before the woodstove, watched them brush their teeth, then settled in the rocker for a quick bedtime story.
At first he’d been horrified and indignant to realize the kids had never attended school, but now he was grateful. Since the children had never been enrolled in the state’s public education system, there weren’t likely to be any principals, truant officers, or social workers looking for them. And he could teach them. What did six- and seven-year-olds need to know? How to count, how to read, how to share, and how to do a fair day’s work. Salt could teach them all that and a lot more they’d never find within the pages of a schoolbook.
As the overhead lantern whirred, sending an alternating red-and-gold glow over the children’s faces, Salt read a chapter of Black Beauty, then closed the book and inclined his head toward the bedding on the floor. “Time for you young ’uns to be asleep,” he said. “Now don’t give me any trouble, but get to bed.”
If the truth be known, they’d never given him a minute’s trouble, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to let them know he expected it—and wouldn’t tolerate it. Bobby moved first, carefully lifting the covers and tucking his feet inside, but Brittany hopped over her bedroll like a frog, her pitiful doll tucked beneath her arm. After much flailing and flapping of her blankets, she tucked herself in and lay still, looking up at Salt with bright eyes.
“Snug as bugs in a couple o’ rugs,” he pronounced, standing. The room swam before his eyes, and he reached for the back of the rocker to steady himself. ’Twouldn’t do to fall in front of the kids . . . but in a minute he’d be abed, too, and a good night’s sleep would do ’em all good.
Bobby sat up. “You okay, Grandfather?”
“Ayuh.” Salt opened his eyes wide and forced the room to focus. Then, as was his custom, he made his way to the woodstove, tossed in another log, then drifted toward his bed.
He lay atop the blanket, suddenly feeling too weary to lift it. In a minute he’d catch his breath, then he’d get up, brush his teeth, and strip down to his longhandles.
In a minute. When he could find the strength.
Chapter Five
Salt wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but sunlight was prying at his eyelids by the time he heard Bobby say, “Grandfather? Are you going to get up?”
With an effort, Salt lifted his heavy lids. Above him, the spiral staircase wound up toward a blinding sky and Bobby’s head loomed large and out of focus.
“Grandfather,” Bobby repeated. “Are you okay?”
Salt opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He moistened his tongue and forced a rasp. “Not feeling well. You kids fix yourselves some breakfast. I’ll be okay. I need . . . a little sleep.”
He closed his eyes and drifted away on a warm tide. The kids would be okay. They hadn’t given him a minute’s trouble since they’d arrived, and they weren’t likely to start now. If he could rest, he’d feel better.
Bobby frowned a
s the grandfather’s eyes closed. This was not good. The grandfather usually got up before daylight, yet Charles Osgood and CBS Sunday Morning had come on and still the man had not moved from his bed.
From her beanbag chair Brittany wailed, “I’m hungry.”
“Okay.” Bobby turned and pointed to the pile of bedding on the floor. “Let’s put away our stuff, then we’ll fix something to eat.”
Britt made a face. “Why do we have to clean up?”
“We do, that’s all.” Bobby picked up his quilt and spread it from arm to arm as he’d seen his grandfather do. “He’s not feeling good, so we have to let him get over it.”
But even as he pretended to have the answers, something didn’t make sense. The grandfather wasn’t drunk. He didn’t smell like beer and smoke, and Bobby hadn’t seen him take a drink of anything but milk. Of course, he might have drunk something when he left yesterday morning, but last night he’d read Black Beauty without any trouble. Daddy couldn’t even sign his name when he was drunk— well, not so Bobby could read it.
But he knew what to do. Long ago he’d learned that when adults stopped leading, kids should keep quiet, keep clean, and wait.
After he’d folded his blankets and stacked them against the wall, he helped Brittany with her bedroll. When the space before the fireplace was picked up and empty, Bobby led the way to the cabinet that served as a pantry.
“He bought Froot Loops, remember?” He opened the door. “And milk. So sit down and let me get us something to eat.”
Britt glanced over at the sleeping man on the bed. “Should we fix him something, too?”
Bobby shook his head. “Don’t seem like he’s much interested in eating now. He’ll eat when he’s ready.”
Bobby pulled two bowls from the dish drainer, then set them on the table with two spoons. He gave Brittany the cereal box to open while he walked to the refrigerator and pulled down the cardboard container of milk.
A sound like spattering raindrops made him turn.
“Uh-oh.” Britt stood on the chair with the open box in her hand. An assortment of rainbow colored cereal circles decorated the table.
Bobby cast a quick glance at his grandfather. The man hadn’t moved.
“Just pick them up and eat them,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Don’t worry about it. You can toss some of them in my bowl.”
Brittany nodded, but her eyes widened as she looked toward the refrigerator. “Is that orange juice in there?”
Bobby looked. “Ayuh.”
“I love orange juice, Bobby. I had a Florida sunshine tree in my yard when I was a little girl—”
“Stop fibbing; you had no such thing.”
Bobby glanced back toward the man on the bed. The grandfather hadn’t said they could have the orange juice, but he hadn’t said they couldn’t have any, either.
“I reckon a little won’t hurt,” he whispered, setting the milk on the table. “Get the cups, will you? The plastic ones.”
While Britt climbed down from her chair, he stood on tiptoe to reach deep inside the old refrigerator. The orange juice was in a big jug, and it was lots heavier than the nearly empty carton of milk. Holding his breath, Bobby hoisted it from the shelf, then heaved it onto the table.
Brittany set two yellow cups before him. “I love orange juice,” she repeated, a smile deepening the dimples in her cheeks. “A day without orange juice is like a day without sunshine.”
Bobby didn’t answer but carefully peeled away the plastic ring on the top of the orange juice jug. Once he’d removed it, he tossed it into the garbage can, then gripped the slick container with both hands.
“Stand back, Britt.” His eyes centered on the first cup. “This is heavy.”
Brittany took a step back and he lifted, tipping the bottle slightly forward—
The liquid gushed out, splashing the plastic cup with such force that it tipped over, knocking the second cup to the floor. Bobby struggled to catch the slippery container, but it fell against the table. Brittany squealed as juice chugged out of the jug, then Bobby finally gripped it.
By the time he got the gallon jug upright and capped, the tabletop and floor were streaked with rivers of bright orange juice.
Placing her hands on her hips, Britt jerked her nose skyward. “I am not going to lick that up!”
“Shh!” Ducking, Bobby glanced toward the bed. The grandfather slept on, still in his clothes, still with one hand draped across his chest. He hadn’t moved since Bobby woke him.
“You don’t have to lick it, just help me clean it.” Bobby looked toward the sink. “Where’s that rag he used yesterday when we spilled the milk?”
With two fingers, Brittany plucked the dishcloth from the sink and brought it to Bobby. The fabric was cold and sticky against his hand and smelled faintly of sour milk.
He tried swiping the wet cloth through the spill, but the juice only spread over the uneven stone floor. And it smelled! Without even having to look, the grandfather would wake up and know something had happened.
“This isn’t working.” Bobby handed the dripping cloth back to Brittany, who tossed it in the sink as if it were a disgusting thing. “What else can we use?”
Moving quietly, he opened drawers and cabinets without finding anything useful. Britt found a drawer of clean dishtowels, but if he used one of them, he’d have to leave it dripping in the sink. When he woke up, the grandfather would see it and know about the spill and the wastefulness.
Better to find something else.
Brittany held up an appliance she’d found in a cabinet. “How about this?”
Bobby grinned. “A DustBuster!” He’d seen the commercial a thousand times. On TV the tiny vacuum cleaner picked up dirt, lint, cat hair, and, of course, dust. Why wouldn’t it pick up orange juice?
He took the machine from Britt and felt its weight against his palm. He gave the on button a quick push to test the noise, then decided the low rushing sound wouldn’t bother the grandfather. If he’d slept through Brittany’s squeal and his own splashing, the tiny sound of a DustBuster wasn’t going to bother him.
The DustBuster worked—but only for a moment. Then liquid began to spray onto Bobby’s hand and face and clothes. Nervously he shut off the machine and set it aside, then took one of the dishtowels to wipe his face. Might as well use the rest of them to clean up the floor. Maybe they could hide the dirty cloths outside . . . and sneak them back into the house. Maybe the grandfather wouldn’t notice if they came back one-by-one instead of in a heap.
So he and his sister cleaned up the spill and rinsed the DustBuster and ate their Froot Loops and brushed their teeth and combed their hair and put on clean clothes. They also put five juice-soaked dishtowels into a spare pillowcase, then slipped outside and hid the bundle beneath the grandfather’s overturned rowboat.
As they came back inside, Bobby helped Brittany unbutton her sweater, then nodded when she pointed toward the TV.
“Keep it quiet, though,” he whispered. “Don’t wake up the grandfather.”
Things were going pretty well at the lighthouse. Bobby didn’t want to rock the boat.
Dust fogged the atmosphere as Vernie whipped a feather duster over the bottles lined in a neat row. She crinkled her nose when particles tickled her nostrils.
“Now, Vernie, what are you doing on that ladder? You’re gonna break your neck.” Coming from behind the candy counter, Elezar steadied the wooden perch, then peered up at her. “Besides, it’s Sunday. You should be resting on a quiet afternoon like this, not working.”
“Hold the ladder still. I’m not so tired I can’t do a little dusting.”
“Didn’t say that,” Elezar replied. His lips parted as if he’d say something else, but then he must have decided to hold his tongue. Vernie exhaled in relief and kept dusting.
“Shoo, MaGoo.” The clerk gently nudged the plump cat away from the ladder. “If she falls she’s going to take us with her.”
Vernie eyed him disagreeably.
“Plumb crazy,” he muttered, not looking at her. “I could get up there and do that.”
“Thought you wanted to rest.”
“I’m not so tired I can’t give you a little help.”
The phone jingled, startling Vernie. Her right foot slipped on the rung and Elezar’s hand shot out to catch her. Teetering on one leg, she grasped hold of the shelf and righted herself. “Let go of me and answer that! Folks will think we’re closed.”
“We are closed,” Elezar mumbled, but he moved toward the phone.
If not for the grocery needs of her neighbors, Vernie would have had to shut down for the winter. The months of November and December, however, replete as they were with holiday baking occasions, helped keep the Mooseleuk Mercantile profitable even when tourists were as rare as a two-door outhouse.
Keeping an eye trained on Vernie, Elezar edged toward the phone and snatched up the receiver. “Mooseleuk’s.”
Humming along with the Christmas carols playing in the background, Vernie dusted the jars of maple syrup. Outside, a bright sun glittered on frozen ground. Land, it’d been weeks since they’d seen sunshine, but by the sounds of things, the reprieve was going to be short-lived. Weathermen were predicting a storm to blow through in the latter part of the week. But if you didn’t like snow and cold, Maine wasn’t a place you’d likely take up residence.
She shoved a couple of pints of maple syrup to the side and dusted around the cans. No one liked bad weather, with the possible exception of Floyd Lansdown. Floyd was taking a ten-week correspondence course in mechanical engineering, so no matter what the weather he was content to sit in front of the fire, his feet propped up on the hearth, and study his lessons. Floyd apparently thought the Heavenly Daze fire engine needed an overhaul. For the life of her, Vernie couldn’t see why. Other than Floyd’s starting the engine every couple of days to keep the pistons lubed, the truck sat idle. She didn’t see how an engine could wear out from that kind of activity.
A Warmth in Winter Page 4
