A Warmth in Winter Page 12

  Too surprised to do more than nod, Birdie stumbled through the hallway, wondering how much Abner knew and how he’d come to know it.

  With her shopping bag on her arm, Birdie ducked into the mercantile in time to see MaGoo roll over, treating her to a rare glimpse of his expansive belly.

  He blinked in the blast of cold air that accompanied her, then narrowed his eyes to slits as she called a greeting. “How be you, MaGoo?” She peered over the candy counter to see if Vernie had noticed her entrance. “Do you know if your mistress has any Werther’s Originals on hand?”

  If the cat knew, he wasn’t saying. He settled onto his haunches and took a deep breath, inflating himself like an oversized black-and-white pincushion, then tucked his paws beneath his chest and closed his eyes.

  “That you, Birdie?” The voice was Olympia’s, and it came from behind the apothecary aisle where Vernie sold Carmichael’s Imperial Cuticle Cream, Bag Balm, and mutton tallow. (Vernie was fond of reminding customers that mutton tallow, used for treating dry skin, psoriasis, and eczema, had been standard issue in every GI’s first-aid kit in both world wars.)

  “It’s me.” Sighing in resignation, Birdie stepped out from the candy and confronted Olympia among the pharmaceuticals. She wouldn’t be away from the mercantile as quickly as she’d hoped if she had to stop and chat with every neighbor she met.

  Remembering her manners, Birdie reached out and took Olympia’s thin hand. “How are you all getting on over at Frenchman’s Fairest? I’ve been thinking about you and Caleb and Annie. I know things can’t be easy since Edmund passed on.”

  “I miss him.” The forthright statement caught Birdie off guard. This was a new Olympia—the old one would have mumbled a few polite niceties and pasted on a stiff upper lip, never admitting that she missed her dear husband. But this—Birdie leaned forward slightly and peered into Olympia’s faded blue eyes. The experience of Edmund’s death had changed the woman; the crust of her stiff shell seemed to have softened.

  Birdie squeezed Olympia’s hand. “Why don’t you stop in tonight for tea? Bea and I always have a cup after supper, and you’re welcome to come and join us.”

  “I don’t like to go out after dark.” Olympia offered a small smile. “The sidewalk is so slippery, and I daren’t risk a fall—well, you know how it is. Our bones can’t handle upsets like they used to.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Birdie considered asking Olympia for supper, but she wasn’t certain she’d be back from the lighthouse at a decent hour. Salt might need her, and heaven above knew the children would need entertaining.

  “Tomorrow, then.” Birdie smiled. “I’ve got to run some things up to Cap’n Gribbon at the lighthouse, but I’ll make a point of being home early tomorrow so you can come to supper.”

  “Did I hear mention of Salt Gribbon?” A deep voice cut through their genteel conversation like a foghorn. Birdie shifted her gaze in time to see Vernie step out from behind the counter. Wiping her rawboned hands on her apron, she smiled a sly, secret smile.

  Edith Wickam appeared from another aisle, her shopping basket bulging with scented candles—Christmas gifts, no doubt. “Good morning, Birdie,” she called, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “How be you this morning?”

  Birdie was about to answer Edith when Vernie interrupted. “I heard about your going up to check on Salt,” she said, folding her arms across her chest as she entered the circle of conversation. “I heard you spent the night up there.”

  Birdie bit her lip as a blush burned her cheek. Honestly, what didn’t these people know?

  “The captain was sick.” Birdie glanced at Olympia. “Too sick to get out of bed, in fact, with a raging fever. I stayed with him until the fever broke.”

  “My stars.” Olympia’s hand went to the lace at her throat. “What did he have?”

  “The flu, I think.” Birdie shifted her shopping bag from one arm to the other. “I’m going to pick up a few things for him and tote them up there—”

  “Seems to me you coulda called Dr. Marc,” Vernie interrupted, one corner of her mouth lifting in a wry half-smile. “After all, he’s a little more qualified to deal with influenza than you, Birdie. What did you do, feed him doughnuts and cookies?”

  “I gave him aspirin and water.” Birdie could feel heat rising in her neck. “The man was helpless; he couldn’t even get out of bed. He was also delirious; he kept talking nonsense about . . . things.”

  She bit her lip, realizing she’d go too far if she wasn’t careful. Besides, for all she knew Salt’s secret had already leaked out. The kids might have met someone when they slipped into the church, and Abner certainly seemed to know more than he was saying . . .

  At least the news hadn’t reached this henhouse.

  “If Salt needs a pastoral visit, I’d be happy to tell Winslow,” Edith offered. “Maybe we women could take turns carrying casseroles up there. Or maybe Cleta and Floyd would take the captain in at the bed-and-breakfast. He has to be awful lonesome up there all by himself—”

  “He’s all right, and he seems to like the solitude,” Birdie cut in. “I’ve offered all kinds of help, but he’s a right gormy old fellow. Terribly independent.”

  “Mind you watch yourself around that man.” Olympia pressed her hand to her chest. “He’s always frightened me a little. He’s so big and so . . . gruff.”

  Birdie nodded. “Ayuh, that he is, no doubt. But I’ve a suspicion his heart’s in the right place.”

  She nodded a polite “excuse me” and slipped past Olympia, but not before she heard Vernie’s braying laugh. “His heart—now the truth comes out,” she called, her voice echoing over the assembled toiletries. “Birdie’s interested in love at last.”

  As a furious blush burned her cheekbones, Birdie ducked and hurried forward, intent upon her shopping list.

  Feeling only a little weak and empty-headed, Salt placed two cereal bowls on the kitchen table, then braced himself against the counter as the children began their breakfast.

  “These are yummy, Grandfather,” Brittany said, crunching the Froot Loops. She dropped her jaw, giving him a direct view of pink, blue, green, and orange goop, then snapped her mouth shut and grinned. “Know what that is? Seafood.”

  From the end of the table, Bobby snorted. “She saw that on Leave It to Beaver. Eddie Haskell did it.”

  “Not very good manners for a little lady.” Salt crossed his arms. “You ask Miss Birdie when she comes. She’ll tell you about manners.”

  A mocking voice from within rose to chastise him: Birdie could teach her lots of things, if you’d allow it. Face it, man, you’re not equipped to teach a girl . . .

  Well, maybe not a young woman. But Brittany was only six, and hardly in the market for womanly things. He could handle a six-year-old.

  A knock at the door interrupted his musings. Bobby and Brittany both froze at the sound, then turned to him with questions on their faces. Pressing a finger to his lips, Salt went to the door. He lifted one hand toward the children, ready to point them toward the bathroom, but a glance through the peephole revealed Birdie Wester standing outside.

  He sighed in relief, then opened the door. Shivering like a wet hen, Birdie stepped across the threshold and sent a smile winging toward the children.

  “Well,” her bright voice warmed the room, “aren’t we the slugabeds this morning? I’ve been up and about for hours!”

  Was she calling him lazy? Salt opened his mouth to protest, then saw the twinkle in her eye.

  “Glad you’re up and on your feet,” she said, shrugging out of her coat. “I could use a hand with some things out in my cart. I stopped by the mercantile this morning.”

  Salt glanced out at her golf cart, parked outside the door. A wooden basket sat on the passenger seat, and a canvas bag bulged on the floor.

  “Did she bring cookies?” Brittany’s bright voice piped up at Salt’s elbow.

  Birdie laughed. “I brought all kinds of goodies, plus I picked up a few thing
s.” She shifted her gaze to Salt. “I got cold medicine for you and some Children’s Tylenol in case the kids catch whatever you had.”

  A tremor scooted up the back of Salt’s neck. “You bought children’s medicine from Vernie Bidderman? What were you thinking, woman?”

  “Relax.” Birdie grinned as she pulled off her gloves. “Your secret is still safe from Vernie. When she remarked on it, I told her I thought you’d like the taste.” She lifted a brow. “Won’t you?” She turned to the children. “I have good things in my bag, but first I want a hug from each of you.”

  Grinning, the children ran into her arms. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Salt stepped out the door and hauled in the groceries.

  By the time he returned, Birdie had moved to the table, swept up the empty cereal bowls, and carried them to the sink. As efficient as a company supervisor, she began ordering them around. “Bobby, why don’t you get those bedrolls put away so we have room to walk? Brittany, if you promise not to splash, you can help me wash the dishes. But first turn off the television. And when we’re done with our morning chores, I have a little something special for you. Abner made us some delicious treats.”

  Salt felt his stomach sway. While the children scrambled to do her bidding, he turned, his jaw tightening. “What did you tell Abner?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything.” Birdie twisted the faucet and held her fingers in the water, waiting for it to warm. “He’s an odd one, though, and sometimes he seems to sense things. I don’t think he knows about the children, but he must know something’s up. But don’t you worry, Abner’s as loyal as they come. He won’t say a word to anybody.”

  Salt carried his heavy thoughts to the table, then sank into a chair. What he had to do next wouldn’t be easy, and might be interpreted as ingratitude. But it had to be done.

  “Birdie,” he began, not daring to meet her eyes, “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your gentle care of me and the kids these last couple of days. If the truth be known, I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t come along. But I’m much better now, and the kids are okay. So I was thinking . . .”

  She turned and bent to meet his gaze, then held it. “What were you thinking?”

  He took a deep breath. “I was thinkin’ that maybe you shouldn’t be coming up here every day. Once a week is plenty and would keep me from having to go into town so much and leavin’ the children alone. As soon as I get my strength back, I’m going over to Ogunquit and layin’ in a store for the winter. The kids need heavier coats and shoes and socks and things.”

  Birdie gave him the kind of smile you’d give a temperamental child. “And why shouldn’t I come up here?”

  “Because . . . people might talk.”

  She stared at him a full ten seconds without changing her expression, then she tipped her head back and exploded in laughter. “Salt Gribbon,” she turned to plug the sink, “you are a silly! Why, people are already talking! Just this morning I had to run the gauntlet at the mercantile, and last night I had to endure a thousand questions from Beatrice. But you’d be proud of me—I answered as best I could, I told the truth, and I didn’t let your secret slip.”

  “But if you’ll leave us be, you won’t have to worry about anything.”

  Shaking her head, she bent to open the cupboard beneath the sink, then pulled out a bottle of dishwashing liquid and squirted a stream into the water. “You need to understand,” she went on, “that I’m a grown woman and I can take care of myself. And this is a free country, last time I checked, so I aim to come up here as often as I like.” She turned and her eyes softened. “As long as I have an invitation, that is.”

  Though his head spun in bewilderment, Salt forced a smile. She was barely five foot two and couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, but when Birdie Wester got her wind up, he felt like a little dinghy, helpless before a gale.

  A tremor touched her lips. “You wouldn’t be denying me an open invitation, would you?”

  Slowly, Salt shook his head. “No, ma’am.” He lifted a hand and feebly waved it as the children ran toward the sink, their giggles filling the air like an exotic sweet scent. “Right now I couldn’t deny you anything.”

  Vernie stepped over MaGoo and looked out the window. She’d been scouring the Internet for deals, and the morning had flown by.

  A biting wind rattled the green-and-white striped awning outside, but she could see nothing but gray skies, wet leaves, and the detritus of winter. Her eyes scanned the deserted road to the ferry. Captain Stroble’s boat had docked, but she didn’t see anyone with a dolly coming up the hill. Just Buddy dragging a large sack of mail.

  Scratching her head, she called out to Elezar in the storeroom. “Shouldn’t those deliveries be here by now?”

  The clerk poked his head around the corner, a pencil propped behind his right ear. “I’d think so. What time is it?”

  Vernie glanced at the clock. “Twelve-thirty.”

  “Hmmm—the ferry must be running late today.”

  “The ferry’s here.” Vernie returned to the window, lifting the curtain. With her sleeve, Vernie wiped moisture off the thermal windowpane. The deliveryman rarely ran late, but with the holidays approaching she supposed she could forgive a single slip-up.

  Speaking of slip-ups—her thoughts suddenly shifted to Stanley and his phone call. Why had he called? It couldn’t have been the anniversary because he’d let twenty of those slip by without so much as a how-do-you-do. So if it wasn’t the anniversary, and if he wasn’t dying, then he must have called because . . . he wanted a divorce.

  Vernie’s pulse thrummed. That was it; the old geezer had found another woman and now he wanted his freedom.

  Straightening, she turned from the window. Neither she nor Stanley had bothered to dissolve their marriage. She wasn’t about to spend good money on a divorce lawyer, and Stanley had never notified her of any proceedings on his part. Legally, they were as much married as they’d ever been.

  She lifted her chin. The Riche family did not condone divorce; the Good Book allowed few grounds and until today Vernie hadn’t considered the possibility of adultery. Stan had his failures, but adultery?

  She shook the image of Stanley and another woman out of her head. If Stanley wanted a divorce, he was going to have to come to Heavenly Daze and face her like a man. And when he left, he could have not only his divorce, but his clothes, his spare bowling ball, and his stuffed moose head. She’d kept that stuff far too long, and it’d be nice to have extra room in her storage closet.

  She shuddered as she remembered the day Stanley brought the stupid moose head home and hung it in the mercantile. He hadn’t shot the moose; Stanley didn’t know beans about hunting. He’d bought the smelly old head at a flea market. Said he’d always wanted one and this one begged him to find it a home. He said he liked the look in the animal’s glass eyes, that it looked content.

  “You’d be content, too, if you were deader than a doornail!” Vernie had shouted, then promptly draped a scarf over the animal’s face.

  Now she wished she could drape a scarf over her own face. Her head had begun to throb, and she needed an Excedrin Migraine pill.

  “I think I’m going upstairs now,” she called to Elezar. “Can you handle things down here?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you run along. Watch those stairs; they’re real steep.”

  Vernie’s day wouldn’t be complete without hearing at least a half-dozen of Elezar’s loving admonitions: Watch those stairs, now. Bundle up tight; it’s cold out. Stay cool now, you hear?

  At least Elezar was concerned about her welfare. She didn’t know what she would have done without him all these years.

  Stepping to the window a final time, she scanned the road. Georgie Graham was using a hockey stick to scoot a tennis ball down the street while Tallulah and Butch, the Klackenbushes’ bulldog, tried to intercept it. But she saw no sign of a deliveryman.

  Oh, well. Christmas was still weeks away.

  Tu
rning toward the stairway, she hesitated and reached under the counter, holding one hand to her throbbing temple. Caffeine helped a headache, didn’t it? Pouring Coke into her favorite glass, she looked up with a furtive glance, then reached for the bottle of vanilla syrup and unscrewed the lid. After adding a generous shot of the sweet stuff, she shoved the bottle back into her private drawer and took a long swig from her glass.

  Ah. The tastes were a delicious combination, nectar for the soul. Just what she needed on a trying day.

  Chapter Eleven

  Elezar! Will you please get that phone! It’s ringing off the hook today.”

  Vernie glanced down the stairs, then grumbled under her breath and returned to her desk in the spare bedroom. She didn’t need to be told who was calling on a Saturday. Either Cleta or Babette would be on the line, doubtless in a blind panic because the nutmeg and cranberries hadn’t yet arrived.

  She signed off her AOL account, then sat silently as the mechanical man took his leave with a musical “good-bye.” The shrill ringing of the phone had distracted her so much she’d forgotten to check her Microsoft stock and visit her bridge loop. The holidays left little time for Web surfing and she would be glad when the hoopla was over. Too many folks forgot the true meaning of Christmas. They got all caught up in things like cranberries and nutmeg . . .

  “No ma’am, Cleta,” Elezar was saying as she came down the stairs and entered the mercantile. “We haven’t seen a thing of the deliveryman, but he’ll be here, don’t you fret. You need to watch that blood pressure. We can’t have you sick during the holidays.”

  After saying good-bye, the clerk hung up the receiver, his eyes swiveling to Vernie. She waved at him in a who-cares gesture and stared at her candy display. Someone— probably Georgie Graham—had mixed all the green peppermint sticks in with the red ones, and the sixteen saltwater taffy flavors had been completely confused.

  She began to straighten out the mess, then snorted and walked away. She had enough on her mind these days. Why should she worry about candy? With that strange phone call from Stanley and the wholesaler being slow to deliver her order, she hadn’t slept much the past few nights. If the nutmeg didn’t come today, Cleta was threatening to buy her baking supplies in Ogunquit. Ordinarily Vernie wouldn’t care, but in the off-season she needed every bit of business she could get.