A Warmth in Winter

by Lori Copeland

  “There he was, Elezar. Big as life, hunched under the covers, feverish and talking out of his head. After all these years—can you imagine? I should have known he’d try something like this—but how did he get here?” Vernie’s eyes darted to the front window where sleet pelted the pane. “The Devil himself couldn’t get across in this kind of weather.”

  The woman wasn’t making a lick of sense. “Who?” Elezar asked, sinking to the bench beside her. “Who was under the covers feverish and talking out of his mind?”

  The fight suddenly drained out of her. She slumped, and Elezar caught her, holding her tightly for a moment. Whatever was wrong was bad wrong, he decided. Trivial matters didn’t upset Vernie.

  “What is it?” he asked softly. “What has you so distressed?”

  Emotion clogged her voice. “Stanley. Stanley’s at the Lansdowns’.” She looked up, tears rolling from her eyes. “Did you know, Elezar? Did you know Floyd invited Stanley into his home?”

  Elezar’s heart ached. “I knew.”

  Hurt shone from Vernie’s red-rimmed eyes. “And you didn’t warn me?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  Elezar shook his head. “It wasn’t my place to warn you, Vernie. But you have to face him. Whether tonight or tomorrow or the day after. This is a matter only you can settle.”

  Shrugging out of his hold, Vernie crossed her arms. “Why is he here?”

  “You would have to ask Mr. Bidderman.”

  “Oh, I know why.” Vernie tipped her head back and took a deep breath. “He’s here to beg my forgiveness.”

  Elezar let the words echo in the empty store a moment, then he whispered, “You don’t know that.”

  “Oh, I do know that.” She drummed her fingers on her knee. “He thinks I’m angry, but I’m not angry.”

  Elezar kept quiet. Unacknowledged and suppressed emotion often hindered the ability to forgive. And Vernie had harbored a horde of pain and hurt for years.

  “I’ll tell you one thing—I can’t forget. He can’t expect me to just smile and say hello as if nothing had ever happened.”

  The clerk nodded.

  “And someone has to pay,” she murmured.

  Elezar scratched his head. Who had to pay? Stanley? Vernie? Elezar longed to remind her that every argument had two sides. But he remained silent. He was not there to judge, but to minister.

  She shoved up from the bench. “If Stanley is here to ask forgiveness, he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t understand how a woman’s need for justice differs from a man’s need for . . . whatever.”

  “Men and women aren’t so different,” Elezar pointed out. “Everyone seeks justice. And everyone needs forgiveness.”

  “There is no justice in this situation. Stanley walked out on me. Period. I didn’t walk out on him. I’m living with the memories, not him. I can’t forgive myself for being such a fool. I shouldn’t even try.”

  “Is forgiveness not an option?”

  Vernie shrugged the suggestion aside. “I’m not the forgiving kind.”

  Elezar closed his eyes a moment, seeking direction from the Spirit. “Forgiving someone who violated your trust doesn’t mean pretending nothing ever happened.” He worked gently now.

  “If I forgave him, God forbid, he would only walk out again. I know his kind.”

  “Yet he was a trusted husband and your confidant for years, wasn’t he?”

  “Until he decided to go out and forget he ever knew me.” She walked to the counter and pounded it with her fist. “Not one word—all these years, not one word! And now I find him in my best friend’s house, cozy as a bug in a rug in their attic bedroom, and not one person thought to inform me the rat was back in his nest.”

  Elezar tilted his head. “I understand Stanley is very ill.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Physically ill,” Elezar said, a note of reproach in his voice.

  “He’s going to be more than physically ill when I get my hands on him.” Straightening, she pushed her empty glass aside.

  “Then you do plan to see him?”

  “Certainly not. I wouldn’t waste the time of day on that man.”

  “How will you know what he wants if you refuse to talk to him?”

  Vernie whirled on him with a flash of defensive spirit. “I know what he wants. He wants what all men want after their little midlife fling. Forgiveness from the dutiful wife. Well, let me tell you something, Elezar Smith. Forgiveness is a journey; the deeper the wound, the longer the journey. My wounds are so deep it would take an angel and a Ditch Witch to unearth them. Stanley can’t just waltz in here after all these years and pretend all is forgiven. Life doesn’t work that way.”

  “But, Vernie! His purpose for coming may be something entirely different—”

  Her features hardened. “I know one thing—I’ll never speak to Floyd Lansdown again. He’s responsible for this fiasco, and I’m going to find out what part Cleta’s played in the whole mess, too!”

  Whirling, she stomped toward the stairway, leaving Elezar to wearily view her ascent.

  Oh, Vernie, he pleaded silently. When humans forgive, they set a prisoner free . . . and the one released is not the forgiven, but the one who forgives.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On Wednesday morning, Salt slipped another log into the woodstove, then latched the iron door and slowly rose from his knees. The lighthouse seemed preternaturally silent without the children—in the past few months, he’d grown used to their laughter and arguments, even the quiet sounds of their breathing at night. He’d intended to keep them only until Patrick got help, but how could he adjust to the silence if they left?

  On the other hand, what if Patrick never got his act together? The boy could be sitting over in that filthy apartment right now, a full bottle in his hand and an empty heart in his chest. Salt loved the children, but Birdie Wester had been right about one thing—he was seventy years old. Though he felt strong and capable, every day his aching body and weakening eyes reminded him that man’s days are numbered, his strength a finite thing . . .

  After moving to the kitchen sink, he washed the soot off his hands and stared out the window at a snowy landscape. The children were playing in front of the lighthouse, just as he’d told them. Bobby wore the puffy blue snowsuit Birdie had found at a yard sale in Ogunquit; Brittany’s was the color of a ripe orange and made her look like a pumpkin. But both outfits were down-filled and certain to keep the kids warm.

  In the past week and a half, Birdie had become Salt’s lifeline. Before the weather stopped the ferry, she’d gone over to the mainland and picked up what he needed for the children, and she’d been careful, she assured him, to buy things from folks who didn’t know her. Now nearly every day she brought something nice for him or the kids—new books, something tasty from the bakery, a couple of boxes of medicated tissues when Brittany got the sniffles.

  She’d even begun to read up on lighthouses. The Heavenly Daze lighthouse, she informed Salt, had been built in 1898 and immediately fitted with a Fresnel lens and electricity. “That’s the best kind of lens in the world,” she told him, lifting her chin, “and I happen to know that this one uses a thousand-watt bulb—that’s equal to the brightness of 449,000 candles.”

  Salt laughed. “What are you trying to do, woman, impress me?”

  Twin stains of scarlet appeared on her cheeks. “Maybe,” she’d said, smiling. “Just a little.”

  Salt shut off the water and wiped his hands on a dishtowel, then leaned on the counter and smiled at the children’s antics. Bobby was trying to build a snowman, but the ball he’d rolled looked more like an egg than a sphere. In an effort to help, Brittany was packing snow onto the top, caking the white stuff into her knitted mittens. Tallulah and Butch, the bulldog that lived in town, were barking and biting the snow.

  Salt bit his lip. He’d told the kids they could play outside for half an hour, no more. Though he could well understand how active
children could go stir-crazy living in a one-room house, the weather was too cold and the risk of discovery too great to allow them outside much longer.

  Still, it did them good to play like this, and it did his heart good to see them having fun. Tomorrow he’d give them some pointers on how to shape a snowball, maybe even dig out an old scarf and corncob pipe. Working together, the three of them could build a perfectly lovely snowman—

  He swallowed. No, they couldn’t. Though the townspeople didn’t often come up to Puffin Cove in the winter, he never knew when one of them might take a notion to walk up and stand by the rocks or look for puffins on the shore. And if they saw a snowman in front of the lighthouse, they’d think the lightkeeper had gone daffy.

  Movement from the south caught his eye. Salt drew nearer to the window, pressing his hand against the glass as he struggled to see around the corner. A golf cart was slowly spinning up the snow-covered path, its vinyl cover glaring in the sun.

  It might be Birdie. Then again, it might not.

  Salt pounded on the glass, but the children didn’t hear. For an instant he thought about raising the sash, but the storm window beyond that had a tendency to stick.

  He sprinted toward the door, his heart pounding. “Bob! Brittany!” He stepped out into the crisp cold and waved for their attention. “Quick! Come inside!”

  Without hesitation the children moved away from the mounded snow and lumbered toward him, two padded figures in bright colors. Bobby turned to see who was coming, but Salt threw an arm around the boy’s shoulder, pulled him into the house, and slammed the door.

  “What if it’s Miss Birdie?” Bobby asked, a note of wistfulness in his voice. “She might be bringing us some more gingerbread.”

  “Or some Werther’s Originals,” Brittany added, a flicker of longing in her eyes.

  “I’m not expecting Birdie today,” Salt said, motioning toward the bathroom. “Now, both of you, go in there and take off your wet things.”

  “But if it’s Miss Birdie—,” Brittany began.

  “If it’s Miss Birdie, you can come out. But if it’s not, you’ll stay put. Go, now.”

  Like little soldiers they marched into the bathroom while Salt pressed his ear to the wooden door. The golf cart had crunched to a halt outside, the two dogs were barking, and someone was taking their sweet time about coming up to knock.

  Salt reached for his rifle. This past summer, right after the children arrived, two yuppie couples from Manhattan had pulled up in a rented golf cart and demanded to tour the lighthouse. They seemed to think it was a public building and theirs for the taking. Salt hadn’t hesitated to blast the ground in front of their toes. The horrified look on their faces had been worth the $7.69 it cost him for rock salt and lima beans.

  Good thing he’d repacked the rifle. Through the peephole he could see Floyd Lansdown and Winslow Wickam, the persistent preacher, unzipping themselves from the cart. They seemed to be having trouble getting clear of the dogs.

  “You kids stay in that bathroom,” Salt barked, then he opened the door.

  The wintry wind hit him like a fist, or perhaps it was fear shriveling the flesh around his belly. He brought the rifle up and held it in both hands, his trigger finger resting lightly at the point where the stock met the firing mechanism. Only a fool could misread his intention, but Lansdown and Wickam kept coming, their heads encased in caps and earflaps, their faces red above their neck scarves.

  “Morning, Cap’n,” Floyd called, clapping his gloved hands together as he approached. “Heard you’d been sick. I was poorly, too, and this is my first day outta bed.”

  Salt didn’t answer but shifted his jaw as he chewed the soft flesh inside his mouth.

  “I hope you’re feeling better,” the preacher called, coming up from the other side of the cart. The bulldog followed at his heels. “We came out to see if we could offer some assistance.”

  Salt bit down hard, catching a flap of skin between his teeth and causing blood to flow. He waited until the men drew closer, then worked up a good spit and let them have it. The bloody glob landed on the snow at Lansdown’s feet, stopping him as neatly as any blast of salt-and-limas.

  “Good heavens, man!” Lansdown cried, staring at the mess in the snow. “Are you coughing up blood?”

  “Let me call the paramedics,” Wickam said, coming closer. “Let’s get you inside, and we’ll fetch you some help—”

  “Stop right there.” Salt brought the gun down, level with the preacher’s quilted jacket. “I’m not sick and I don’t need your help. Don’t have a phone, and I don’t want anybody meddlin’ up here.”

  Blanching, Floyd took a half-step back. “Put that gun away, Salt, what are you tryin’ to do? As mayor and caretaker of all municipal property, I thought it was my responsibility to come up here and make certain the lighthouse is functioning properly. After all, if you’ve been ailin’—”

  “The light is fine,” Salt drawled, “not that you’d know anything about it.”

  Stiffening, Floyd took another step back. “I happen to be quite mechanical. I’m taking a correspondence course—”

  “Salt didn’t mean any insult, Floyd,” the pastor interrupted, his voice dry.

  Floyd’s chin jutted forward. “Don’t care. Birdie said you were almost human these days, but apparently she’s as psycho as you are. How anybody could expect the town lunatic to change is beyond me.”

  Turning, he tromped back toward the cart, but Winslow Wickam was not as easily dissuaded. Pressing his hands together like a child saying prayers, he gave Salt a soft-eyed smile. “Cap’n Gribbon, I know this life must sometimes be unbearably lonely for you. Won’t you let us come in? You might discover that you’ve missed having regular companionship with other human beings. And certainly the Lord longs to fellowship with you—”

  “God and I are already on speaking terms, thank you very much.” Salt shifted the barrel of the rifle toward the pastor. “So good day, Reverend. Now you’d better hurry and get in that cart, ’cause the walk back to town is a fairly good piece.”

  Wickam turned, and his mouth opened when he saw that Lansdown had already put the golf cart in reverse. The minister ran toward the vehicle, waving one hand and shouting, while Tallulah and Butch nipped at his heels. Salt kept the rifle trained on his visitors until they had rounded the corner and were lost to his sight.

  Sighing, he stepped back into the lighthouse and propped the rifle in the corner. Rock salt and lima beans wouldn’t pack a lethal punch, especially on a man dressed in layers of winter padding. But it could sure sting exposed flesh, and the sound of the blast could rattle a body’s nerves . . .

  And quite possibly scare a child.

  Salt latched the door behind him, safe with his secret and relieved he hadn’t had to fire the weapon. No sense in spoiling a perfect winter day.

  Vernie sat in her bedroom window and watched the snow fall. Three days ago she had been mad enough to spit at Stanley Bidderman. Now her anger had cooled and melancholy had set in—a deep ache for things that might have been. Perhaps she was wrong in refusing to see Stanley. Cleta had sent word that Stanley was slowly improving, and could Vernie find it in her heart to hear him out?

  Vernie could not. Not yet. Maybe never.

  Then again, maybe Elezar was right. Maybe she ought to at least hear what he had to say, even though she wasn’t the slightest bit interested. Their years together had been good for the most part. She smiled when she recalled the two-pound box of Fannie Mae’s they’d eaten on a dare one evening. Stanley claimed he could eat more chocolate than her, and she’d said, “In a pig’s eye.” After polishing off the entire box, they hadn’t been able to look a chocolate in the eye for years afterward.

  They both liked thin crust pizza with Canadian bacon and green peppers.

  Dagwood and Blondie had been their comic strip of choice—they fought over the funnies every Sunday morning.

  They each took three teaspoons of sugar in their coffee, followed
by a dollop of cream.

  They favored vinegar and mustard in potato salad, celery stuffed with peanut butter, and cutesy cards as opposed to gushy ones. Guests and backyard cookouts were frequently enjoyed at the mercantile in their early days. Vernie would bake for a week getting ready for Saturday night open house. Friday nights, weather permitting, they played Monopoly and Rook with a couple in Ogunquit, and then later with Floyd and Cleta and Olympia and Edmund— before Olympia got so uppity.

  Vernie closed her bleary eyes, resting her forearm on her forehead. Those had been good years. Why did things have to change? Why couldn’t life stay good? Most of all, why hadn’t Stanley remembered all the good times when he decided to leave?

  Why couldn’t she eat a Fannie Mae chocolate without getting the sniffles?

  A headache pounded at the base of her skull, threatening to batter her brain. She massaged the tender spot, wondering where she’d put the Advil. The unrelenting cold made every bone in her body ache, and the older she got, the worse it seemed to affect her . . .

  A soft knock interrupted her musings. “Yes?”

  “Are you all right, Vernie?” Elezar’s inquiry penetrated the heavy wood. “You’re usually downstairs by now.”

  “I’m not feeling up to par this morning. We’re not busy, are we?”

  “Nary a customer yet. You rest for a while. I’ll call you if you’re needed.”

  “Thank you, Elezar.”

  “Can I get you anything? Hot tea? Juice?”

  “A new body.” She was too old for her own good.

  She heard Elezar’s chuckle on the other side of the door. “In due time, Vernie. In due time.”

  Vernie stretched out across the bed and pulled a crocheted afghan up to her neck. Elezar was so good to her. What would she do without him? His capacity for human kindness and forgiveness far exceeded hers.

  She shivered as a sudden chill set her teeth to chattering. The bedroom was as cold as Pharaoh’s tomb this morning. As goose bumps welled, she sat up and turned the electric mattress pad up to 14. Crawling between the sheets she’d left an hour earlier, she reached for a book on the nightstand and read a random devotional thought: “We do not forgive because we are supposed to; we forgive when we are ready to be healed.”