A Warmth in Winter

by Lori Copeland

  As Salt slept, Birdie helped Bobby and Brittany clean up the kitchen, then clean themselves. She found herself delighted by their chatter, and she was amazed by the children’s independence. Salt was right—though the kids assured her they’d never been to school, they seemed to know quite a bit about a lot of different things.

  For one thing, they’d been amazed to learn that Salt had no Werther’s Originals tucked someplace inside his house. After all, Brittany explained, the grandmother on TV always gave her granddaughter that candy when she came for a visit.

  “I finally told her it’s because he’s a grandfather, not a grandmother,” Bobby explained. “Maybe only grandmothers have ’em.”

  Birdie was a little surprised to hear them talk openly about their father. For children who had been abused— and she didn’t doubt Salt’s story, not for a moment—they referred to their dad more often than she would have expected.

  “My daddy likes to fish,” Brittany said as she helped Birdie wash out the soiled dishtowels they’d hidden on the beach. “He doesn’t do it often, though. He’s too busy looking for a job.”

  Birdie glanced at Bobby, but the boy only pressed his lips together and grunted as he wrung out one of the wet towels.

  “When Daddy’s not out or sleeping, he watches TV with us,” Brittany went on, apparently oblivious to her brother’s silence. “He likes football. He likes the Steelers. He said he’s going to take us to a game, so we’ll go next year when they win the Super Bowl.”

  “The Steelers aren’t going to win the Super Bowl,” Bobby said, icy contempt flashing in his eyes. “And Daddy’s not going to take us anywhere. Daddy hasn’t even come to see us. Daddy doesn’t care!”

  Birdie felt the noise in the room abruptly cease. She placed her hand over her heart, uncertain how to answer in the unnatural silence, then Brittany bent into the sink and began to slosh another dirty towel in the hot soapy water.

  “Miranda is my doll,” she said, not looking at Birdie. “She sleeps with me every night, no matter where I am.”

  And so the afternoon had passed, with Birdie listening more than talking.

  Now Bobby grinned at her as he wiped a plate with a dishcloth. “Did you know, Miss Birdie—” (since they’d come to know each other so well after meeting almost at death’s door, she’d thought it fittin’ to allow them to call her by her given name), “that an aardvark can grow to be five feet long? They are the color of sand and have short hair.”

  Birdie made a face. “Goodness! I wouldn’t want to run into one of those in the dark.”

  “You wouldn’t find them here,” Bobby answered, his countenance falling. “They’re only in Africa. So I suppose I won’t ever see one.”

  “I saw one on TV,” Brittany said, turning from the table she’d wiped. Birdie glanced at the tabletop—gleaming wet streaks indicated that Brittany had done an admirable job of wiping the edges, but her short arms hadn’t touched the center of the table where a few bread crumbs and two pink cereal loops remained.

  Brittany dropped the wet cloth into the sink. “The aardvark has a long nose and eats ants. They said you can find them in America.”

  Bobby glared at his sister. “Can not.”

  “Can, too!”

  “Can not! They’re only in Africa! The encyclopedia says so!”

  “Can too! You can find one in a zoo, smarty!”

  Unnerved by the argument, Birdie threw up her hands. “Children! Why don’t we find something quiet to do? Your grandfather needs his sleep. It’s too cold to play outside, so perhaps we can play an indoor game.”

  “Really?” Her eyes alight, Brittany bounced on her tiptoes. “What kind of game?”

  Birdie tried not to frown. “Perhaps, um . . . Simon Says?”

  Bobby and Brittany shared a quizzical glance, then Bobby looked at Birdie. “We don’t know how to play that.”

  Birdie searched her memory. “London Bridge?”

  Bobby shook his head.

  “Um . . . Hide and Seek? Though this isn’t the best location for it—”

  “We’ve never played that.” Brittany spoke this time, her voice dripping with regret.

  “Red Rover? Duck, Duck, Goose? Ring around the Rosey?”

  The children stared at each other again, then Bobby shrugged. “I reckon we could learn something.”

  Birdie sighed. She was too tired for squatting and running, and she wasn’t about to climb the iron staircase in what could be a dangerous game of Hide and Seek.

  “Why don’t we forget games right now.” She bent forward and pressed her hands to her knees. “What do you like to do?”

  “Watch TV.” Without another word, Brittany moved toward the tiny set next to Salt’s fireplace.

  Bobby pointed toward the thick blue volume on the fourth chair at the kitchen table. “I like to read. I’m reading through the As. That’s how I learned about the aardvark.”

  “Okay, then.” Birdie watched helplessly as Brittany turned on the TV and Bobby picked up his book. Without knowing what else to do, she moved toward the rocking chair and slowly lowered herself into it.

  What was she doing? She knew absolutely nothing about taking care of children. Neither she nor her sister Bea had been blessed with the privilege of motherhood, and the only children Birdie ever talked to were the kids who came into the bakery during tourist season—and Georgie Graham, of course. But she rarely said more than hello and good-bye to Georgie; most of her conversations about him were directed at his mother.

  Leaning her head back, she sighed and relaxed, breathing in time to the rocker’s steady creak. She’d stepped into a mess this time, one she didn’t know how to handle. Salt Gribbon was some kind of devil, bringing her up here—

  She hesitated, correcting herself. Okay, Salt hadn’t brought her up here. She’d come on an errand of mercy, drawn by Georgie’s insistence that Cap’n Gribbon was sick. And he was sick, and Birdie had been of help, but she’d encountered far more than she’d bargained for.

  Two kids! One in love with the television, another married to an encyclopedia. And both of them given to telling fibs, for there was no one fitting Gabe’s description on the island.

  Closing her eyes, she made a mental note to speak to Pastor Wickam. She wouldn’t mention the children, in deference to her promise to Salt, but she’d suggest that the pastor take a careful look around the church to be sure the kids hadn’t damaged anything. The good Lord knew something in that building broke or sprang a leak nearly every week. If anything had gone amiss while the children were inside, she and Bea would cover the expense of repairs.

  After all, she was glad they’d found shelter. And it seemed fitting, somehow, that they’d found it in Heavenly Daze Community Church.

  The watery sun floating overhead did little to combat the wind blowing off the ocean. Annie huddled deeper into her down coat, clamping her teeth together to keep them from chattering. Sometimes, safe in Portland, she forgot how chilling the Heavenly Daze wind could be, but ever since driving down to visit Olympia for a surprise midweek visit, she’d been mercilessly reminded.

  Now she stared at her tomato plants—holocaust survivors. The stems leaned to one side, whipped by the punishing wind.

  “Time to put you out of your misery,” she murmured.

  Weeks, months, and endless nights of burning the midnight oil had failed to produce the results she’d hoped for. She’d designed a hybrid that would be pollinated by the wind, not insects, and thus could survive even in winter. She’d dreamed of thick slices of tender red tomato resting on burgers. She’d hoped to produce a tomato that’d make an unbeatable salsa, delicately flavored with cilantro, lime, and garlic. Her visions of a potential BLT garnish producer now lay gasping for breath, begging for mercy. A succession of swift yanks, and the experiment would be over.

  As she knelt, her hand involuntarily moved toward the plants. “This will hurt me more than it hurts you,” she whispered, closing her eyes before the compassionate final act
.

  “Hot cocoa?”

  Annie’s eyes flew open. She spun on the balls of her feet and saw Dr. Marc extending a steaming cup toward her. Rising, she gratefully accepted the warmth, cradling the stainless steel in her gloved hands. “Thank you. It’s freezing out here.”

  The two stood for a moment, sipping the cocoa and staring at the plants. Neither said anything until the silence stretched uncomfortably.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” Annie heaved a sigh.

  “Not at all.” The older man shook his head. “Actually, I’m impressed. The plants are still alive, and—” He paused, stooping to examine a tiny green orb dangling in the wind. “Why, by Jove, they’re actually producing fruit!”

  He had no sooner spoken the words when the baby tomato dropped to the ground with a soft plop.

  “Oh, dear.” He reached for it, then set the tiny green button in the center of his palm. Too upset to look at the misbegotten fruit, Annie focused on the doctor’s hands. You could tell a lot about a man by his hands. Dr. Marc’s were large, with smooth nails neatly trimmed. A surgeon’s hands.

  “My father used to grow tomatoes,” he said. A distant look entered his eyes. “Early Girls, he called them. Mother used to can quarts and quarts of produce and make gallons of tomato juice. We’d drink it on special occasions like Christmas afternoon. Nothing quite hit the spot after a large dinner like a glass of tomato juice.”

  Perhaps intuiting that tomatoes might be a sore subject, Dr. Marc dropped the fruit, then slipped his hands into his pockets. “Dad had the biggest garden on the block and supplied the whole town with string beans, zucchini, and sweet corn. In the fall the pumpkins would come on and we’d help scrape the innards. Mother would boil them and pack them in quart jars to make pumpkin pies during the winter.”

  Annie smiled, watching reminiscences play across the doctor’s face. He obviously had pleasant, happy recollections of his childhood. She didn’t have those kinds of memories. Her mom and dad had died in a plane crash, leaving her a seven-year-old orphan. That had been a rough time, even after she’d come to live with her Aunt Olympia and Uncle Edmund at Frenchman’s Fairest. Yet though she’d known struggle and pain, she still had fond memories of golden autumn afternoons in Heavenly Daze with the smell of wood smoke in the air, Caleb calling her to supper as bronze shadows filtered through the branches of oaks decked out in variegated yellows, reds, and russets . . .

  “Pinch off the top blossom,” Dr. Marc said.

  Annie frowned. “Pardon?”

  “Top blossom. You have to pinch it off if you want a good crop. That’s what Dad always said. Pinch off that top blossom.”

  Apparently still focused on the plants, the doctor took a sip of cocoa. As tired of tomatoes as she was, Annie still felt a moment of gratitude, for in the instant the doctor diverted his thoughts from the tomatoes he’d doubtless mention his son, the single, eligible neurosurgeon, the Catch-of-New-York. In the short time Annie had known Dr. Marc, she’d learned that the man was a matchmaker at heart, a born romantic.

  No thanks. Anyone who needed this much strong-armed help in the romance department wasn’t for her. Couldn’t the guy get a date without his father’s influence? She shivered as another thought struck her—merciful heavens, was the good doctor as broad in his hints with his son as he was with her? Had Dr. Alex Hayes heard two dozen reports on Annie Cuvier from Heavenly Daze, the Girl who was Desperate for a Date?

  She glanced around for something else to talk about. Any minute now, the well-intentioned doctor would say, “Have I mentioned my son is coming home for Christmas?”

  She glanced back at the house. She could talk about Uncle Edmund—but that dear man’s death was too fresh to be discussed with anything but reserved sorrow. Ditto for Aunt Olympia and Caleb. She could talk about the weather, but she’d sound like an inarticulate fool, babbling on about wind and chill factors and mud—

  Dr. Marc had mentioned his son every weekend Annie came home this fall. They’d been supposed to meet at Thanksgiving, but an emergency had come up and Alex had canceled his visit at the last moment. Annie knew Dr. Marc had been disappointed, but he understood the demands a doctor faced. Some things simply couldn’t be helped.

  His gaze shifted to her face. “I reckon you’ll be here for the holidays, then?”

  Uncomfortable, Annie shifted her stance, huddling deeper into her coat as she remembered Olympia’s reaction to the suggestion of a cruise. When Olympia finally returned Annie’s call, she’d listened to Annie’s proposal in frosty silence, then flown into a temper, saying she couldn’t go sailing across the ocean with Edmund barely cold in his grave. Smothering her resentment, Annie had reminded her aunt that the cruise was only a suggestion. They could just as easily spend Christmas at Frenchman’s Fairest.

  But two tickets for the cruise ship Glorious lay in Annie’s desk drawer—she’d beaten the reservation deadline with only two minutes to spare. The ship would embark from Miami the afternoon of Christmas Day and return on New Year’s. Annie was clinging to the hope that Olympia’s indignation would cool and the saving grace of second thought would persuade her to change her mind.

  Swallowing her frustration, she lifted her chin. “I suppose I’ll be here—at least that’s the plan right now.”

  Dr. Marc sipped from his cup. “Have I mentioned that my son, Alex, is coming for Christmas?”

  “Really?” Annie gave him a polite smile. “How nice for you.”

  “Yes. I’d love for the two of you to meet—Alex’s a real catch, you know.”

  “I imagine so.”

  Ready to change the subject, Annie looked away toward the ocean. The wind had begun to pick up; dark clouds scudded across the waters. She couldn’t stand out here a moment longer. She either had to pull up the plants or let them struggle another day. The weather was growing more miserable by the minute.

  “Leave them,” Dr. Marc advised as her eyes returned to the struggling vegetation. “It’s a shame to destroy a living thing, and the plants are holding on. If they don’t make it, at least they’ll die from natural causes.”

  Because the doctor had seen more than his share of life and death, Annie knew he offered good advice. This experiment, like so many in her life, had gone awry, but nothing required her to end it today. Or tomorrow, for that matter. The world would survive without winter tomatoes, and their demise certainly wouldn’t hamper modern civilization.

  Dr. Marc fell into step beside her as she walked back to her aunt’s house. “Olympia is going through a difficult time right now. Edmund’s death is only beginning to sink in.”

  “But he was sick for so long—”

  “Unfortunately, most people believe they’re prepared for death, but they rarely are when it actually happens. Your aunt spent most of her adult life with Edmund, so a part of her died along with him. It will take time, Annie. Time and patience for her to come to the point where she’ll want to live again.” He gave her a dazzling smile. “I’m so pleased you’re willing to help Olympia through the holidays. Your coming home reveals what a generous and unselfish person you are.”

  Swallowing a knot of guilt, Annie thought of the tickets in her desk drawer. Going on a cruise wouldn’t mean she didn’t care about Olympia. The cruise was three weeks away—maybe Olympia would start to feel better by then. And the holiday was a time of joy, so maybe the spirit of the season would brighten her aunt’s outlook. The women on the island would help Olympia through the sad days that lay ahead, so Annie didn’t really need to be here. Her tired presence would do little to cheer her aunt, and the cruise would do wonders for Annie’s sagging spirits . . .

  “So,” Dr. Marc opened the back door, then reached for her empty cup. “Can I count on you coming to my Christmas Eve party?”

  She forced a grin. “Better put me down as tentative. If the weather’s bad and I can’t cross on the ferry—”

  “The Lord wouldn’t keep you from home on Christmas Eve. I’m praying for good weather and fair se
as.” His eyes sobered. “You are coming, aren’t you? You and Alex would hit it off.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll try my best.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. Even if she did go on the cruise, she could still spend Christmas Eve with her aunt—as long as she reached the airport before 6 PM.

  “Thank you.” The older man beamed, his hand clasping her shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Annie.”

  “The same to you, Dr. Marc.” After patting his hand, she stepped into the warmth of Frenchman’s Fairest. The smell of roasting meat filled her nose. Caleb was preparing her favorite supper: roast beef, mashed potatoes, and brown gravy.

  Caleb turned from the stove as she came into the kitchen. “Annie! You must be near frozen.”

  Annie warmed her hands over the hissing radiator pipes. “They’re not going to make it, Caleb.”

  His silver-laced brow lifted slightly. “The tomatoes?”

  Annie nodded. “I was about to rip them out when Dr. Marc interrupted.”

  “Pity,” Caleb murmured. “I know they look rather worn but perhaps—”

  “No perhaps.” Annie might be a dreamer, but she knew when she’d been beaten. The experiment was over. Her tomato hybrid could not survive a harsh Maine winter. Whatever had made her think they could?

  Hot water bubbled from a pan on the stove. Caleb poured a cupful of steaming liquid into a cup, then added a tea bag and a generous dollop of honey. “Missy likes honey better than sweetener,” he said. “Care for a cup?”

  “I had hot chocolate earlier, but—” She smiled when he pressed the cup into her gloved hand. “God bless you,” she murmured, sipping the scalding brew.

  The old man’s mouth lifted in a smile. “Oh, he does. Every day.” Turning back to his work, he asked, “What did Dr. Marc have to say?”

  “Not much. He invited me to his Christmas Eve party.” Annie set her teacup on the kitchen table, then removed her gloves. “Is Aunt Olympia going?”

  Lifting the lid of a pot of boiling potatoes, Caleb shook his head. “I hope she will agree to attend this year. The outing would be good for her.”