Baby It's Cold Outside

by Susan May Warren

  And then, their son would bounce into the kitchen from the barn, wearing his work jacket, carrying in a bucket of milk. “Hey, Dad.”

  The image had the power to turn his chest into a knot as he stared at the brown paneled ceiling of Dottie’s den.

  But he’d never been Dad to Nelson. Just Gordy. And, most of the time, that felt like enough. More than enough, really. Because as Nelson got older, he spent nearly as much time at Gordy’s farm as he did with Dottie. And it never seemed that she resented it.

  He remembered the day she waved to him from the porch, smiling. As if she might invite him in. Nelson, about sixteen, had even suggested it.

  “Ma always makes too much food anyway.”

  But, like always, whenever he got too close, the hurt would rise to strangle him. “Naw. I have chores.”

  He couldn’t ever quite erase from his memories the look of disappointment on Nelson’s face.

  Gordy had managed to sleep the entire night on the dark leather sofa, warm enough under a wool blanket. Now, as he sat up, clad in his thermals, the cool room shook him awake. Back to reality.

  He had a farm to run, a cow to milk.

  And if he stayed much longer under the roof of Dottie Morgan, his longings might devour him whole.

  He stood at the window, gauging the weather, and shook his head. He couldn’t even see Dottie’s barn across the drive, the snow heavy and blinding. And, in the night, a thin veneer of ice filmed the window, pasted the cracks.

  So much for milking. Harriet was nearly dry anyway, and skipping her milking would seal her fate. Maybe by this afternoon…

  He pulled on his wool trousers, then his flannel shirt, buttoning it before he opened the door, peeking into the hall. He heard voices in the kitchen—so Dottie had already risen, probably to make breakfast. He tiptoed up the stairs to the bathroom. Last night she’d issued them all toothbrushes and towels. At least he could make himself presentable.

  It took an eternity for the hot water to reach the shower. He washed up, wishing he had clean clothes, then scrubbed his hair dry with a towel, staring in the mirror.

  He didn’t usually care about his appearance, but this morning, in Dottie’s oval mirror, he appeared ancient. Saggy around the jowls, his beard grizzled, like an old hermit, his eyes tired. Once upon a time, in that visage had been a man who had made Dottie laugh, who had coaxed her onto his Ferguson tractor for a drive out to the back forty, who had believed she’d say yes to his proposal of marriage.

  He drew his hands down his face. He needed a shave. He needed a haircut.

  He needed the last twenty-seven years back.

  What if—what if this were his one chance to remind Dottie of what they could have had? What if—what if today he wooed her back into his arms?

  He stared at the old man with his schoolboy longings, and shook his head. No. He’d never been enough for Dottie. Sheesh, twenty-plus years of her saying no, in word and deed—and he hadn’t yet figured that out?

  He brushed his teeth and exited the bathroom. He heard singing in the kitchen now—a duet of voices—male and female.

  “Oh, the weather outside is frightful…”

  Dottie?

  He hung on the banister, listening. The impulse returned to him. What if today, trapped in her home, the one built for family, he could stir up the past, the good memories? The ones where he wasn’t a specter of guilt or shame. The ones where he’d been enough, or even more than?

  “Can I have this dance?”

  The memory shook him through, and for a moment, he clung to it.

  He’d learned to dance especially for her, for that night. The lights twinkled, tacked around the perimeter of the Germanic hall and on a Christmas tree in the corner. The band played something jazzy, new, and he’d gotten his hair cut. She wore her blond hair in waves, as if she’d tied it up in rags the night before, and he longed to touch it. He liked it shorter, although it scared him, the way she’d changed in three months since graduation from high school. She didn’t need makeup, but she’d painted her lips anyway, her eyes darkened too, like the other girls at teachers college. She wore a long red dress that clung to her curves too much, but he didn’t mind. He’d missed her so much this fall, her absence drilled a hole right through his chest. When she arrived home, he’d barely waited an hour before he strolled by her house.

  He planned to ask her to go skating with him on the pond. And then, under the crisp moonlight, with their mingled breaths in the air, he’d get down on one knee and beg her to stay in Frost, to build a life with him.

  But first, they had to dance.

  He’d held out his hand, and she smiled into his eyes. “Why, Gordon Lindholm, when did you learn to dance?”

  In the kitchen with his mother, the yard with his dog, and even a rake in the barn. “I promise not to step on your toes,” he said, barely able to form words.

  Once upon a time, it had been so easy with her, her laughter like sunshine on his heart. He’d head over to her house after he finished his chores and they’d spend hours exploring the creek or stealing apples from the Nystrom’s orchard, or just walking in the tall field grass. She wanted to see the world, and that had frightened him a little too. But he dismissed it. Probably too easily.

  Definitely too easily. He held her in his arms, silently counting out the foxtrot, smelling her silky hair—apples, cinnamon—and dreamed up their future. He’d build them a house, and she could teach at the school until they had children. They’d have a passel of boys and he’d teach them how to farm and hunt. And every night he’d come home to her, hold her in his arms, and yes, dance in the kitchen if she wanted.

  “Did I tell you that the girls and I are going to Minneapolis right after Christmas? One of my dorm mates has invited us for New Year’s Eve.”

  He frowned, met her eyes. “But…I thought we could go skating.”

  She smiled at him then leaned her forehead to his shoulder. “You’re a wonderful dancer, Gordy.” He might have dreamed it, but he thought she’d pressed her lips to his neck. “I promise to be back in the spring.”

  He drew a breath, leaned his head against hers. “I’ll be right here, waiting.”

  But she hadn’t returned then—not until summer. And a week later, Dapper Dan had arrived.

  Gordy had proposed all right. But not under the moon, with the words like magic, caught in the air. No, his proposal had emerged almost angry and desperate, in the back stall of the barn, in a moment neither of them probably wanted to remember.

  But he could change it all today. Hadn’t he spent over twenty-five years showing her he’d wait? That he’d forgiven her, if she could only forgive him back? That they could start over?

  He just needed one day to show her that she needed him, that he’d been here all along. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

  One day to bring warmth, even Christmas, back into her life.

  “As long as you love me so, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”

  He caught the song, humming the tune as he hit the landing and headed toward the kitchen. He’d fetch her fresh wood and start a fire, maybe even pop some corn.

  He stepped into the kitchen expecting to see Dottie with her hands in sudsy water, Jake, perhaps holding a towel, adding his tenor to her song.

  But, no. Violet sat on the counter, wiping dishes and singing as Jake stood elbow deep in the suds at the sink, matching her tune. No Dottie in sight.

  The song died inside as Jake turned. “Good morning. We saved you some breakfast.” He gestured to the table, where a cloth lay over a plate.

  Good grief, since when was he the last one to rise? “Where’s Dottie?”

  “She’s out in the barn getting more wood.”

  “It’s a whiteout—why did you let her go alone?” He didn’t care that his tone made Jake jerk, or that shame flashed in his eyes. Well, he should feel ashamed. “What kind of man are you?”

  He stormed past Jake, into the mudroom, pulled on his boots, his woo
l coat, hat, and mittens, and headed out into the cold.

  Where, apparently, he and Dottie belonged.

  * * * * *

  What kind of woman was she? Twelve hours after Alex’s death and all she could think about was Jake. She’d wakened with the feeling of his arms around her, the smell of him as she’d hung onto him through the snow, those devastating blue eyes in hers as he’d packed her knee and ankle in snow.

  She liked him too much for a girl supposed to be grieving for her long-lost love, and the shame of it could fill her throat if she stopped to consider it.

  Only…the thought continued to pulse at her: Even if Alex had cared for her, even if she had been “everything” as Jake claimed, Alex still hadn’t come for her two years after the war ended. She’d even written, telling him when she was passing through Minneapolis on her way home from Europe. Had looked for him as she pulled into the station, ready to disembark, hoping.

  No Alex.

  Maybe the silence of the cold room—the way she’d shivered the night away, huddled under the covers, then risen early to wrap herself in blankets and sit on the settee, watching the storm cover the earth, had helped her hear the truth.

  Alex hadn’t really loved her, despite her fantasies.

  Her mother’s voice found her as she shivered the night out, the darkness turning to gray. Sweetheart, no man is going to marry a gal who can change her own tires. Men need to feel needed.

  Like, perhaps, when she’d clung to Jake’s neck last night, and even let him help her up the stairs to this frigid room? He’d wished her good night, a sort of tug in his gaze she couldn’t quite figure out.

  He seemed like a good man. She should have asked him more questions about his life, but Dottie shooed them all off to bed so quickly after dinner, as if she wanted the night to hurry its way along.

  But, by the looks of the storm, they weren’t headed out anywhere today.

  She hoped her mother and sisters had figured out that she’d been stranded at Dottie’s. Weren’t worried sick for her, believing her stuck in a snowbank. But there was nothing she could do until the storm abated. Which meant that today, trapped in this house, she could be the kind of girl men wanted. A man like Jake might want. Needy and sweet. A girl worth taking a train to see, even to deliver bad news. He deserved it.

  So, she’d dressed, then limped down to the hall as soon as she saw Dottie vacate the bathroom. Her leg ached, but the swelling had diminished, and she could hobble enough to get around.

  Or maybe—maybe that was too independent? But she certainly couldn’t call Jake up here to carry her to the bathroom.

  She hung onto the banister, finally hopping on one foot into the bathroom. She’d never been so thankful for a toothbrush in her life as she scrubbed away the night then finger-combed her dark hair. It hung long and loose, not a librarian style in sight.

  She heard humming as she took the stairs to the kitchen, sitting on her backside to scoot down. She island-hopped from one piece of furniture to the next, finally putting weight on her ankle as she reached the door. The pain didn’t curl her over. She even took another step.

  Dottie and Jake sat at the table.

  “No, those aren’t the words… Good morning, Violet.” Dottie smiled up at her as if she actually belonged there.

  Jake turned. “What are you doing walking around? You could injure yourself.”

  I can take care of myself. The words edged her mouth, but she bit them back. “I’m sorry, it just smelled so good down here.”

  Jake got up, slipped his strong arm around her waist. He smelled good—freshly washed, with cinnamon on his skin. This wasn’t a terrible trade-off. She reached out, braced herself on the table, slid into the seat.

  Okay, her leg did hurt.

  “I’ll get you some breakfast.” Jake picked up a plate, slid a skinny pancake onto it. “This is called blini, it’s Russian.” He slathered it with apple butter—so that was the cinnamon smell—folded it twice, and handed her the plate.

  “Did you make this?”

  He grinned, and it could probably stop her heart. Oh, that Alex, why did he let her pine for him for so many years? “My Russian housekeeper taught us.”

  “Alex told me he had a Russian housekeeper too.”

  Jake looked at her, raised an eyebrow, like that news caught him unaware. Then, “Right. That’s right, he did.” He smiled at her, but it seemed polite.

  She skewered the blini, tasted it. “This is good.”

  “Of course,” Jake said, his real smile back. He stood at the sink, filling it with water.

  Dottie rose from the table. “We need a fire. I’m heading out to the barn to get some wood.”

  “I can do that—” Jake started.

  “Heavens to Betsy, I’m not an invalid here.” She patted him on the shoulder, and Violet just stared at her as she headed out to the mudroom.

  “What did you do to get adopted?” she asked when she heard the door outside close.

  Jake looked at her. “What?”

  “I haven’t seen her smile for…well, it’s been a few years.”

  He frowned and turned back to his dishes. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Froze to death, thank you. I can’t wait to sit by a warm fire. Maybe play a game.”

  “Chess?”

  Oh, she could kill him in chess, and wouldn’t that be fetching? “How about checkers?”

  “Ever play Monopoly?”

  He might stand a fair shake. “If Dottie has the game, you’re on.” She got up, began to hop toward him, carrying her plate.

  He frowned again as he met her and took the plate, her hand on his arm. “Listen, you need to stay put.”

  “I’m not an invalid either.” Oops. Wait, should she be?

  “I know that. But let’s pretend you are, just for today.”

  I know that? What was that supposed to mean?

  “How about if I sit on the counter, dry the dishes? Would that make you happy?”

  “Not as happy as letting me carry you to the sofa, but I know you wouldn’t go for that.”

  He did? She frowned and for a second, his eyes widened.

  “Alex used to say that you were pretty independent.”

  Why, thank you, Alex. She knew it. No wonder he hadn’t rushed out to the train station to meet her. He considered her just one of his chums, just like every other fella she worked with in the motor pool. “Not that independent. I’ll let you carry me to the sofa after we finish the dishes.”

  Had she really said that? The words just spiraled out, nearly on their own. But, she liked that smile—would trace her finger up it, get caught in his whiskers, if she could. “Let me help with the dishes.”

  He considered her a moment before he put his hands to her waist and lifted her to the counter. Then he walked over to the table, lifting a napkin and settling it over the remaining blini.

  “What were you and Dottie arguing about this morning?”

  “We were trying to figure out the words to that new Dinah Shore and Buddy Clark song, ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’”

  She’d heard it on the radio. She found the tune. “ ‘I’ve gotta get home…’”

  He laughed, “ ‘But baby, you’d freeze out there…’”

  “It’s a little…naughty.”

  “It’s funny,” he said, his blue eyes too full of trouble.

  “The song is all about seduction. He wants her to stay. He even makes her a drink,” she said, liking how Jake looked with his hands in sudsy water. She wanted to pick up some suds, blow them at him.

  The thought startled her.

  “He’s a red-blooded male. Of course he wants her to stay.”

  “But he’s a bad boy. He’s just trying to finagle a kiss from her.”

  “It’s about desire. And the games men and women play. Listen to her words, to the tone. She’s hoping he’ll talk her into it. A gal is supposed to play hard to get, it’s part of the game.”

  It is? Oh, she just d
idn’t know any of these games. “My mother would most definitely not approve of that song.”

  He handed her a plate. “Your mother isn’t here. And besides, you don’t live for the approval of your mother, do you?”

  She slowed her drying. “Why would you say that?”

  He made a face, shook his head, returned to his washing. “You just seem…more independent than that.”

  There he went with that independent word again.

  “Well, I guess you win, because you’re right, it’s a blizzard out there.” She put the plate on the counter.

  He handed her another plate. “ ‘Oh the weather outside is frightful…’”

  She grinned, adding onto his song.

  He had a nice voice, a rich tenor, and she had to like a man unafraid to sing, with his hands in dishwater. His strong arms rippled the edges of his white undershirt, stretching along his back, his slender waist and hips.

  The memory of being in his arms, her arms around his strong neck, made her nearly lose her place in the song.

  Steps fell on the stairs and the song died as Jake turned. “Good morning.”

  Gordy stood in the kitchen in his bare feet, his hair poorly combed, as if he’d just towel-dried it. He was a handsome man, with a farmer’s build, hazel eyes with flecks of gold. He must have been a catch back in his day, before the stern look set in.

  “We saved you some breakfast,” Jake said, gesturing to the table with his sudsy hand.

  “Where’s Dottie?” Gordy said.

  “She’s out in the barn getting more wood.”

  Something flashed in Gordy’s eyes, and even Violet flinched.

  “It’s a whiteout—why did you let her go alone?”

  Ow, his tone could take off a layer of skin.

  Beside her, Jake jerked, and something that looked like guilt, or even shame, hued his face.

  “I—” Jake started, but Gordy had already pushed past him.

  “What kind of man are you?”

  The kind of man who made you breakfast, Violet wanted to snap. But instead she looked down, at her swollen ankle, willing herself not to make a scene. Jake could fight his own battles, right?