The chill contributed even more to Violet’s appearance as a spinster librarian, with her long, knitted brown cardigan buttoned over the white blouse. And, to keep her legs warm, she wore pants, something Mrs. Morgan raised a thin eyebrow to two years ago when she showed up for her new position. But she’d remembered the younger, unconventional Dottie Morgan of her childhood and taken a chance.
Violet shelved the books back in their places in the graded reader nook, nearly sitting down with The Little Engine that Could as she heard in her head Mrs. Morgan’s storytelling voice, the one she’d grown up on.
That Mrs. Morgan inspired a world beyond the prairie hamlet of Frost, bordered on all sides by boring farmland, a dirty creek, a pond turned marshland. In Mrs. Morgan’s voice, the children of the town waged battle with evil Mr. MacGregor and wandered the Hundred Acre Wood with Piglet and Christopher Robin. They uncovered mysteries with the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, the Five Little Peppers, and sometimes, Mrs. Morgan even displayed a fresh copy of a Big Little Book—Dick Tracy or Tarzan, Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon, or even Jack Armstrong, wonder athlete.
Nelson usually commandeered the Jack Armstrong books. Violet could still see him climbing on the wooden chairs or hiding behind the shelves as he waited for his mother to close up the library. Or, in his later years, stopping by to drive her home, his shoulders wide in his Frost High letterman’s sweater.
Violet might have even harbored a crush on Nelson, despite his being a couple years younger than her, with his unruly tawny brown hair, shorn short on the sides and curly on top, those deep prairie sky-blue eyes, filled with a charming mischief. He had a way of turning a girl’s insides to soft caramel, inspiring the men with athletic memories of their childhood as he sank baskets and ran for touchdowns. In fact, who, really, in Frost hadn’t loved Nelson T. Morgan?
The town’s love for Nelson didn’t help Violet’s cause any either. Because if it weren’t for Violet’s service in the WAACs, she wouldn’t have been among those women who “stole a man’s job and freed Nelson to be shipped off to war.”
So many of their young men might have been spared if Violet hadn’t usurped their behind-the-frontlines jobs.
She had a feeling that Nelson wouldn’t have been one of those filing clerks left behind on American soil or changing the tires on the army colonel’s jeeps or even running one of the chow lines. Still, the town hardly embraced her when she arrived home at the depot two years ago, and with their stares she’d felt the specter of his death on the back of her neck.
No wonder Dottie abandoned storytelling hour, spending long hours locked in her office, turning over most of her duties to Violet. And yet, no one wanted to take her place in the story nook. Even Violet, thank you very much. Taking Dottie’s place felt like a prophecy. Or an epitaph.
Even, surrender.
Violet would not end up like widowed, lonely, dowdy, and pinched librarian Dottie Morgan.
Violet arranged the children’s chairs into the traditional circle, turned off a study light at one of the long pine tables, then gathered up her handbag and camel wool coat. This morning, ice crusted the puddles in the dirt driveway, and with the grim pallor of the sky, she’d also grabbed an umbrella, along with a plastic accordion rain hat and her boots.
In fact, Violet might be even more of a librarian than Dottie, who’d worn a pair of stylish black dress boots today, as if she hadn’t quite forgotten the woman she’d wanted to be.
As she locked up, balancing the umbrella above her, Violet heard the train whistle moan over the blanket of dark weather suffocating the town. She calculated roughly ten minutes before the post office closed at 6 p.m.
Maybe today she’d find a letter waiting. She could almost imagine Alex’s Christmas greeting in her box, in that tight, precise handwriting. If she could, she’d will it there, along with his agreement to visit her this holiday season.
Five years ago he’d made the promise. It seemed time to fulfill it, and she’d gently—without sounding desperate or angry or even melancholy—suggested it. Minneapolis wasn’t far, on the train at least. A half-day’s ride at most.
The rain pelted the sidewalk, and when the wind splattered it into her face, Violet realized it had turned to sleet. She hunkered down against it as she strode past Berman’s Hardware, the grocery lot, now full of cars, then the bank and the florist. Her stomach growled as she passed Miller’s Cafe. She’d managed a cold mincemeat sandwich today, and dinner seemed nowhere in sight, what with her mother pressing her into duty for tonight’s Christmas social.
Violet shook out her umbrella, holding the door open for Ardis Weiss at the post office. Inside, the gates had already closed at the desk, but the area to the post office boxes remained accessible. She found her wooden box, unlocked it, and held her breath.
Yes. A small white envelope lay crossways in the box, the size of a Christmas card. She pulled it out, her breath catching.
No, wait—she recognized her own handwriting scrawled on the front of the envelope. A stamp across the top—Return to Sender—in blood red screamed out to her.
Return to Sender?
She ran her thumb over the directive. How—but only three months ago he’d sent her a postcard from Chicago, and before that, St. Louis. And…well, yes, their correspondence seemed rudely one-sided, but Return to Sender?
Movement beside her made her glance over—she spied Esther Jamison in her periphery and tucked the envelope into her pocket, swallowing hard to find a smile, in case the organist from the Lutheran church greeted her.
Mercifully, Esther shuffled past without acknowledgment, sorting through her mail. Violet made it out into the street without choking on the ball of heat in her throat.
Return to Sender.
It took a moment before she realized rain wetted her face as it plinked upon her rain hat, sifting into the collar of her coat, warming, then dribbling down the nape of her neck. She opened the umbrella and ran a gloved hand over her cheek. So that was that. She probably should have expected it, really. After all, with all the other younger, beautiful women available—women who hadn’t sacrificed their marrying years to the service of their country—she didn’t truly expect him to take the train all the way from Minneapolis on an icy winter night, Christmas weekend, no less, and find a woman he’d only met once, during the early years of war at Fort Meade, Maryland.
The lights from the community center at the end of St. Olaf Street glowed, but Violet stood in the rush of the wind for a moment, a cold hollowness pressing through her.
It should be easier to be alone. She had so much to be grateful for. She and all of her brothers survived the war, she had nieces and nephews, a job, and a family.
So Alex had moved on, let go of their friendship. Violet would take it as a sign that she should too.
Enough of these shiny dreams of a home, a family, a life that might be waiting for her after the war.
Perhaps she should take over story hour at the library and resign herself to weaving stories with happy endings rather than living one.
The community center bustled with activity as she pressed inside, shaking off her umbrella. Members of the Ladies Auxiliary, her mother somewhere leading the charge, worked to transform the old dance hall into the annual Frost Christmas celebration. Miriam Wilkes wrapped the middle cement pole with greenery, a battalion of women that included two of her sisters-in-law dressed the long punch table with a crimson tablecloth, crystal punch glasses, and trays of brownies and cookies. Soon, the members of the Hungry Five Band would arrive to set up on the stage at the far end of the room. The place smelled of the new decade—balsam and pine, sugar cookies, nutmeg, and cinnamon-spiced cider. A promising decade of celebration, free of war and sacrifice.
Violet shucked off her jacket and hung it in the coatroom. She found her newest sister-in-law, Hattie Grace, kneeling on the floor by the kitchen entrance, plugging in a stringer of colored bulbs that ran along the ceiling. “I can’t believe this entire string of lights
won’t work. I just wasted an hour.”
She sat back, ran her hand behind her head to tuck up a wayward loop of blond hair. “I just want to go home and take a nap.”
Violet gave her a grin, holding out her hand to lift her off the floor. “A nap? You’re not supposed to be tired. You’re only nineteen. Talk to me when you hit twenty-nine.” Or thirty. She could barely think it. Two weeks and, well, she’d be an official spinster, wouldn’t she?
Return to Sender.
Right.
“Oh, it’s just the baby. I’ve been so tired since…” Hattie pressed her hand over her mouth. “Violet, I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t know yet.”
Violet had stopped moving, although somehow she managed to keep breathing. Baby? Hattie Grace, her kid brother’s wife, was already expecting? But they only married three months ago. But perhaps, like everyone else, they felt the urgency to start their family, join in on the celebration of life.
“No, of course, that’s wonderful.” And Violet even made it sound that way. She reached out, embraced Hattie. The girl would have to gain some weight if she wanted to keep her baby healthy.
Hattie hung onto her arms. “Johnny was going to tell you tonight when we were together. Really. At the dance, with the whole family. Only your mother knows.” Hattie pressed her hand to her mouth again, this time to hide a smile, a little giggle.
Truly, Violet could be happy for Hattie, for Johnny. He’d barely seen war, had enlisted a day after his eighteenth birthday, dropping out of school and entering basic two weeks before D-Day. He hadn’t made it to Omaha Beach but managed to tromp about Europe for the cleanup fourteen months later. As far as she knew, he hadn’t even fired his weapon.
Not that she’d even been issued a weapon, but she’d seen more action changing tires for officers in London, France, and Berlin than Johnny ever had acting as an MP for starved Germans. She hadn’t even had a furlough, not once, in four years. That should count for at least an acknowledgment on the Fourth of July.
Hattie reached down, unplugged the lights. “I guess I’ll have to find a new strand.”
“Wait one moment.” Violet walked over to a table by the door and removed a lamp from it. Then she plugged it into the outlet near Hattie and turned it on.
Nothing. “I think this outlet isn’t working.”
“I tried the strand in the outlet by the stage. It didn’t work there either.”
“Could be the breaker is blown for these outlets. Let me see what I can do.”
Violet plugged the colored lights back in, returned the lamp, then headed for the utility closet near the kitchen. Snapping on the overhead light, she moved back beyond the mops, the buckets, and the brooms, and found the utility box. Yes, one of the fuses had blown. She unscrewed it, found a new fuse from the cardboard box on the shelf nearby, and screwed it in.
“It’s on!” Hattie yelled from the dance hall.
“Violet? When did you get here? What are you doing?”
She didn’t have to turn to know the owner of the voice. She could nearly see her mother standing in the hallway, probably carrying a tray of cookies, wearing one of her old homemade checkered aprons over her black party dress, her graying hair rolled back from her face, her red lipstick perfectly applied.
No dour widowhood mourning for Frances Hart.
Violet closed the box and turned to answer her mother as she pried herself from the closet. “The fuse was blown for the Christmas bulbs.”
“And of course you had to fix it. Why didn’t you ask Roger, or even Johnny?”
“Because Roger and Johnny aren’t here, and I’m perfectly capable of fixing a fuse, Mother.”
Violet accepted the tray of brownies her mother settled in her arms.
“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re always perfectly capable. You don’t need a man.”
Violet ignored her and headed to the serving table. Probably she wouldn’t make it home to change before the dance tonight. Not that it mattered, anyway. She could count on one hand the remaining eligible bachelors in Frost. Clyde, from the feed store, and Tony, the janitor at the school. And don’t forget Father O’Donnell, in his midforties. But he was a priest, so that really didn’t count.
She set the tray on the table, did some rearranging.
The band members began to arrive—Lew and Bobby, toting their trumpets, Howard lugging in an upright bass. Another man she didn’t recognize tromped in behind them, stomping his feet. He carried what looked like a suitcase, although maybe it fit a saxophone.
Perhaps the Hungry Five had added a hungry sixth. Oh, see, life wasn’t so despairing when she could laugh at herself. She would survive Alex’s Return to Sender.
“I can’t believe it’s raining, three days before Christmas.” June, her oldest sister-in-law, the one married to Thomas, corralled her seven-year-old with a grab at the back of his shirt. She and Thomas married right after high school, a year before he shipped out. “So much for the Christmas spirit.”
“We don’t need snow to have Christmas, or Christmas spirit.”
“It would help. Poor kids, it’s not the same as when we grew up. With sleighs and horses mushing up and down Main Street and kids skating on Silver Lake and story hour at the library.”
“And the star. I miss the star.” This from Sara, the tall, elegant daughter of the town doctor, married to Roger. Violet felt short and dour next to her lanky blond sister-in-law. Sara had served as a navy nurse, stationed in London. When Violet returned, she’d thought they’d share that kinship.
Apparently, serving Uncle Sam as a nurse held a different prestige. And Sara’s return to town heralded a parade of men to her door. Roger had fought them all off to win her heart.
Sara ran her hands over her extended belly. “When I was young, I could see the star from my bedroom window, like it had been plucked from the night sky and set right in the middle of Frost.”
“Dottie and Nelson made that star when Nelson was about five, I think.” Frances added a batch of Krumkake to the table.
“The tree seems so dark without it,” Sara said.
“Where is it now?”
“Well, I suppose Mrs. Morgan has it, somewhere in that creepy house of hers,” June said. “She stopped putting it up the year after Nelson—”
“Shh. Not today, Junie,” Frances said. “Today is a day of hope.”
“All the more reason to put the star up.” Sara arranged the punch cups on the table. “Maybe we could get another one.”
“Oh no, Sara. That’s just not right,” Frances said, moving the napkins for the addition of the punch bowl.
Sarah turned to Violet. “You know Mrs. Morgan—can you go ask her for it?”
Ask Dottie for her son’s star? “I don’t think—”
“It’s a great idea,” June said. “Don’t you think so, Tripp?”
Perfect. Violet’s nephew had to nod, to grin at her with that gap-toothed smile.
“Listen, Dottie just wants to be left alone. Trust me on this. I know you all remember her as the woman who made books come to life, but frankly, she’s not that woman anymore. She’s…well, she’s…” Violet didn’t want to use the word dead, not today, but—
“She used to be a real firecracker.” Frances had moved around the table, begun arranging the napkins. “Highfalutin—her daddy owned most of the town back then. She had suitors lining up on her doorstep. And then TJ Morgan motored into town the summer after she graduated from teachers college in his bumblebeeyellow Studebaker roadster. She took one look at that gangster, with his dark wavy hair, hypnotizing blue eyes, and dangerous swagger, and turned into a flapper right before our eyes. Cut off her hair and ran away with him.”
“Mother!” June said, putting her hands over Tripp’s ears. He wriggled away.
Frances shrugged. “It’s true. I guess we all should have expected it. Dottie was always so independent, so feisty. She even played women’s basketball at Mankato State Teachers college. But six months l
ater, when TJ landed in prison and she returned home pregnant, I can assure you we thanked the good Lord we’d missed that bullet. Of course, she asked for it, behaving the way she did, but no one can deny she had a blessing out of that Nelson.” She smiled at Violet. “I had hoped Nelson might fancy you.”
“Oh please, Mother.” If she could, Violet would run from the building at top speed.
“It’s true. You remind me, in a way, of Dottie. She and you are both such free spirits.” Frances patted her cheek. “It’s difficult to catch a man when you’re flitting about, I suppose.”
“I was hardly flitting about, Mother. I was serving my country.”
“You were changing tires. Let’s not over-glamorize your role in the war effort.” Frances sighed. “Sweetheart, no man is going to marry a gal who can change her own tires. Men need to feel needed.” She looked at June and winked. “Even if we know the truth.”
Right now. The earth could open right now, gobble her whole, and Violet would go to glory with joy.
But Frances hadn’t quite finished. “And it wouldn’t hurt you to wear a clean dress, a little lipstick, perhaps. You could put some effort into your appearance. We Hart women have to work at it a little harder than the rest.”
Hardly. Her mother had a natural, shapely beauty at age fifty that turned the heads of the widowers in town. But yes, Violet, a true Hart, had inherited her father’s wide lips, dull mud-brown hair, strong hands, and less than womanly silhouette. She had to work at femininity doubly hard.
Return to Sender. Perhaps Alex had simply remembered her in her greasy uniform, her hair pulled back with a scarf, her unpainted face, and realized that, back then, the air of desperation could cloud a man’s mind. With so many women single after the war, he could certainly do better than plain and even mannish Violet Hart.
“I’ll try to change before the dance, Mother,” Violet said quietly.
“That would be wonderful. Now, can you grab a broom, sweep up some of the drying mud? We need a clean dance floor.”
Baby It's Cold Outside Page 2
