A Warmth in Winter

by Lori Copeland

  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 g
lance 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.

  “My, my,” she murmured, bending to grasp the edge of the comforter. “Cleta must be slipping a little.” She gave a yank, pulling in one smooth movement, and in that instant a body shot up from the bed, hair waving atop its head, shrunken chest looking like that of a dead man, and blue boxer shorts—

  A man!

  Vernie screamed and closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight. This intruder must have sneaked into the house while Floyd and Cleta were at church, and he was hiding out in this room—

  “Heavenly days!” a voice croaked. “Can’t a man get some sleep in this place?”

  Vernie halted in midscreech. Opening one eye, she peered at the apparition and shuddered when she realized the apparition was peering back.

  Oh, my. This was no intruder—it was Stanley Bidderman. Older, thinner, and balder, but unmistakably the rat.

  Time froze as Vernie collided with her past. For a long moment she stared, then her anger rose in a full-throttled rush.

  “Floyd Lansdown,” she shrieked, dropping the comforter to the floor. Without missing a step, she trotted down the attic stairs and burst headlong into Floyd’s sickroom. Cleta nearly dropped the glass of orange juice she was force-feeding her robe-wrapped husband. “Why do you have that man in your house?”

  Stanley followed a few minutes later, his eyes as dark as two burnt holes in a blanket.

  Forgetting Floyd, Vernie turned on her long-lost husband. “What are you doing here, Stanley Bidderman?”

  Stanley lifted his hands in a don’t-shoot pose. “Now listen, Vernie, I can explain—”

  “Floyd!” Cleta exploded. “Did you know Stanley was in the attic bedroom? How long have you had him hidden up there?”

  Floyd rolled over in bed and covered his head with both arms. “I’m siiiiick, Cleta. Have mercy.”

  “Behind my back, you brought that—that—” Running out of words, Cleta thumped out of the room and down the stairs. While Vernie sputtered and turned her fury upon Stanley, Cleta returned a moment later with Floyd’s grandpa’s ten-gauge shotgun. At the sight of the weapon, Floyd struggled out of bed and began to wrestle with his wife.

  “Cleta Lansdown, have you lost your mind? Give me that!”

  “Don’t you touch this gun, Floyd! I took a vow, and Stanley has this coming!”

  As Vernie yelled and shook her fist at her bewildered husband, Russell entered the room and demanded, “Where’s the fire?” Barbara hovered in the hallway, timidly peering around her husband’s frame.

  Russell snapped his suspenders into place. “Mom, put the shotgun away. You could hurt someone!”

  “I’m gonna put the fear of God in him!”

  “Sweetums, you have to listen, ah-ah-achoo!”

  “Cleeeeeta! Be reasonable!”

  “You’re sick, Floyd! Be quiet! Stanley, get over here and take your medicine like a man!”

  And while the Lansdown household wrestled and yelled and thundered over the floor, Vernie separated herself from the commotion and stared at the scene, then shook her head.

  For this she was missing the Sunday night movie? Sighing, she turned and left the room, then took the stairs one slow step at a time.

  She had some serious thinking to do.

  “There, now. That ought to hold you awhile.” Elezar gave MaGoo an affectionate pat as he watched the cat lick a bowl of cream. The pudgy feline purred, leaving the treat long enough to affectionately rub the length of the man’s leg.

  “Yes, you’re a good ol’ kitty—”

  Elezar shot straight up when the front door opened and slammed so hard the percussion toppled a display of cardboard Christmas trees standing on the counter.

  MaGoo hissed, his four legs stiffening as his fur stood on end.

  Vernie filled the doorway, her cap perched unevenly on the top her head, her earflaps hanging lopsided. Steam rolled out of the wool plaid collar.

  Eyes widening, Elezar dropped the can of cream, splattering the sticky contents over the floor and MaGoo’s back.

  “My goodness . . . Vernie?” Elezar took a tentative step forward. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Snatching the hat off her head, Vernie marched through the store, shoving displays out of her way. Cans of tomatoes and tuna crashed to the floor. An apple barrel overturned. MaGoo bolted for cover.

  Muttering under her breath, Vernie shrugged off her coat and threw it in the general direction of the closet. She peeled off her galoshes, and then stomped back to the counter where she uncapped a thirty-two-ounce bottle of Coke and poured a tall glass, adding a splash of vanilla. She took a long, deliberate s
wig, lowered the glass, then added another dash. While Elezar held his breath, she drank the heavily-laced Coke and drummed her fingers on the counter as if she could drive her nails through the pine.

  Elezar stood by, uncertain. Vernie was upset, but why? A simple errand of mercy shouldn’t have aroused this kind of irritation.

  Vernie took another long drink, her throat bobbing with each swallow. After a deep gulp, her gaze fixed on him. “Do you know who’s sleeping in the Lansdowns’ attic?”

  Elezar felt a frown creep onto his face. “Do Floyd and Cleta have guests?”

  “Do they!” Vernie eyed him, tossing down another swallow. When she finished, she belched, then wiped her mouth with the corner of her sleeve.

  Expectancy hovered on Elezar’s face as he waited for her to continue. She’d been in a good mood earlier— watching TV and relaxing. What could have lit her fuse?

  “Vernie?” he prompted.

  “What?”

  “Do the Lansdowns have a guest?”

  Vernie slammed her glass down on the counter. “There I was, minding my own business and getting extra blankets for Floyd who’s sick as a goose that’s eaten ripe peaches. I was doing the Christian thing, pitching in when somebody’s down and out.”

  Elezar nodded. “Stomach flu?”

  “Head, stomach, you name it.” Vernie picked up the soda bottle and refilled her glass. “Judas!” she yelled. The clerk jumped when she slammed the bottle to the counter. His eyes scanned the room for a suspect. Judas? What had gotten into her?

  “Judas!” she reiterated, splashing more syrup into her drink.

  Elezar inched forward. “Excuse me, Vernie . . . have I done something to upset you?”

  “Not you. Him.” Vernie sputtered (highly irregular for Vernie). Now Elezar noticed that she was shaking, her hand unsteady as she lifted the glass back to her mouth. Crossing the floor, he took her by the shoulders and gently steered her to a nearby bench. She sat down with a stunned look on her face, and then her tongue loosened.