A Warmth in Winter Page 22

  With a toss of her hand, Melanie gave Annie the best gift yet. “Mr. Right hasn’t called since the office party. I think he’s moved to greener pastures.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Aw, don’t be. It was only one date, and I think I read too much into it. As always.”

  “Any girl would have been tempted to do what you did. He was an awfully sharp guy.” Annie felt another nip of guilt, but this time it had nothing to do with Olympia.

  When Melanie left, she reached for the phone and dialed Frenchman’s Fairest. The old butler answered.

  “Caleb? Is Aunt Olympia there?”

  A moment later her aunt came on the line. “Oh, Annie, so good to hear from you. I was just telling Caleb that I was glad for your sake that Vernie’s order finally arrived. I was sick about you being stranded in Ogunquit with all that stuff.”

  “It was no big deal—and I had time to catch up on my reading.” Annie cleared her throat, then took a deep breath. “Aunt Olympia, it’s like this—I have some things I have to do in Portland this weekend, so I won’t be able to leave for Heavenly Daze until Monday at the earliest. And I’ve just heard there’s another storm brewing. If that’s true, well . . . I may not be able to get to Frenchman’s Fairest for Christmas.”

  Her news resulted in a lengthy silence on the other end of the line.

  “You know I would come if I could.”

  Olympia drew an audible breath. “I know you would, Annie.”

  “Caleb will be with you—and Birdie and Bea and Cleta and Vernie and the Wickams.” Olympia’s neighbors were like family, and yet Annie knew their company couldn’t make up for her absence, especially this year. Her blood thickened with guilt.

  “Annie, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yes?”

  “If the storm moves in, why don’t you go on that cruise? I know you want to. There’s no reason for you to stay in Portland if you can’t come home.”

  Annie felt her pulse quicken. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “I would rather have you here with Caleb and me, but some things can’t be helped. I only hope there’s still room on the boat.”

  Catching her breath, Annie blinked back tears of gratitude. “I’m pretty sure there is.”

  “Then go on the cruise, dear. And have a wonderful time.”

  “Well,” Annie stammered, unable to believe her ears. “We still have four days till Christmas. If the storm doesn’t hit, I’ll try to come home, of course.”

  “That’s not likely, Annie. But thank you.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, then Annie realized the shadows in her office were lengthening. Time to go home and start planning.

  “I need to go, Aunt Olympia. If I don’t see you on Christmas, I’ll call you from the airport, okay?”

  “That’s fine, Annie. Have a merry Christmas, and try not to miss us too much.”

  As if she’d be thinking of snow-swept Heavenly Daze when she was on a Caribbean cruise! Annie hung up, then stood and lifted her hands in delight. The Lord was good! Life was good! Christmas was good! She was going on the cruise with Aunt Olympia’s blessing!

  Again, the gremlin of guilt niggled at Annie’s heart, but she ignored it. She’d be a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Safe and warm in her bed, Birdie slapped her feather pillow and tried to get comfortable. She’d put in a full day, working in the bakery and making that trip out to the lighthouse. She ought to be bone tired, but the thought of Salt Gribbon chafed against her heart like a new shoe against a blister.

  She rolled onto her side and flipped her pillow, then buried her head in the softness. “Sleep, Birdie,” she mumbled into the pillowcase. “Just close your eyes and forget about that ornery old rascal. He’s more stubborn than a child, but he’s a good man at heart. The kids will be okay with him. He loves them, doesn’t he?”

  She flipped again and lay flat on her back, staring at the swirls in the ceiling plaster. Shoot, she didn’t know a thing about young ones, but she knew they needed more than Salt was willing to give. Why not let them play with Georgie? Why not let Babette and Dana and the Wickams in on the secret? Heaven knew the town could use a few more sprinkles of children’s laughter, and if Pastor Wickam asked the townsfolk to keep Salt’s secret, they would. Not one of them would spill the beans, not even Olympia. And now, in winter, there were very few visitors to the island, so it wasn’t like anyone would see the kids and recognize their faces on a milk carton.

  She turned onto her other side and slid her hands beneath her pillow. Salt was going to defeat those kids by keeping them cooped up all winter. They’d found a little joy in playing with Georgie; Babette’s paintings had proven that. And though Birdie’d never had a kid, she’d been a kid, and she knew kids needed to play. They needed structure and discipline, but they also needed fun and hugs and daily doses of laughter.

  Opening her eyes, she stared at the slit of light beneath the door. Bea must still be awake. She’d left her sister in the keeping room, where Bea was working on yet another stack of angel letters. They’d hoped the mail would eventually taper off, but that silly urban legend about angels on Heavenly Daze was apparently as hard to kill as a computer virus.

  She propped herself up, then swung her legs out of the covers and stood. Pulling her robe from the foot of the bed, she padded to the door, grateful for the thick woolen socks covering her cold feet.

  A moment later she stood shivering by the fire, her arms crossed. Bea sat in the ladder back chair by the desk, one hand in her lap, the other on the desktop. Braced by the chair, her head was tilted back and her mouth open as she snored softly.

  Birdie reached out and tapped her sister’s shoulder.

  “Bea—you’re snoring.”

  Bea’s eyes opened and her mouth closed simultaneously, as if they were operating on the same switch. She blinked, then lowered her chin and gave Birdie a cool stare. “I don’t snore.”

  “You do, too. I could hear you from my bedroom.”

  Birdie sank into her easy chair, suddenly grateful for her sister’s company. She nodded toward the letter on the desk. “That one must have stumped you.”

  Bea looked down at the page. “It did. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Another sick child?” Since the e-mail about angels working miracles on Heavenly Daze had begun circulating on the Internet, the townspeople had been inundated with letters asking for money, toys, and impossible things like cures for paralysis and leukemia. Bea had taken it as a personal challenge to answer as many letters as she could, and the townspeople helped whenever possible. But for the difficult letters, they could only promise to pray.

  “Not a sick child.” Bea picked up the letter. “A sick father.”

  “Cancer?”

  Bea shook her head. “Alcoholism. He’s lost his two kids, he says, and he can’t seem to get his life straightened out. He’s afraid he’s lost them forever.”

  Birdie tucked her legs beneath her. “Lost his children? To social services?”

  “He doesn’t say.” Bea shook her head. “So tragic, and so close to home. The return address is Wells. Imagine such a tragedy happening just over the water.”

  Birdie felt a sudden electric tingle in the pit of her stomach. “Does he give a name?”

  Dropping the page back to her desk, Bea sighed. “Not a last name—ashamed of himself, I reckon. He just signed the letter ‘Patrick.’”

  Patrick—in Wells. A man who’d lost two children. And Salt having a son named Patrick in Wells and two children hidden up at the lighthouse.

  “I don’t quite know what to say,” Bea went on, picking up her pen. “I can promise to put his name on the prayer list at church, but I don’t have the authority to speak to the folks at social services. If they took his kids, I’m sure it was for their own protection.”

  “I know what to do.” Birdie caught her sister’s gaze and held it. “Invite him to Heavenly Daze . . . for the Christmas Eve service.”
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  Bea’s forehead knit in bewilderment. “Invite him to what?”

  “To church. To Heavenly Daze.”

  Bea laughed. “You think an alcoholic in Wells is going to come all the way out here for our tiny Christmas Eve service? That’s crazy.”

  “Maybe.” Birdie felt a smile lift the corners of her mouth. “But an invitation couldn’t hurt, could it?”

  “I reckon not.” Bea shook her head a moment, then uncapped her pen and began to write. “Um—how’s he supposed to get here? The ferry won’t be running that late at night if it’s running at all. Storm coming, remember. And if by some miracle the guy takes us up on this invitation, he’ll be stuck on the island for Christmas.”

  Birdie shrugged. “Maybe Floyd and Cleta will take him in at the B&B.”

  Bea frowned. “And maybe pigs can fly. You think the Lansdowns are going to take in a stranger on Christmas Eve? They’ll want to spend that night with Barbara and Russell, with family.”

  “If a body can’t find hospitality on this island on Christmas Eve,” Birdie said, standing, “then we’ve forgotten what that first Christmas was all about.”

  Bea’s lips parted as if she would argue the point, then she clamped her mouth shut and bent over the page, her pen driving furiously across the paper.

  Smiling, Birdie rubbed her sister’s shoulder, then padded back to bed. She had no idea if the invitation would result in anything, but wasn’t Christmas supposed to be a time of miracles?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Come on, kids.” Salt thumped two cereal bowls to the kitchen table, then stood in silent disbelief. Neither Bobby nor Brittany moved; they both sat as immobile as statues before the TV. Some silly cartoon about mutant aliens blared from that noise box, but the kids acted as though it were the most fascinating thing on earth.

  “Bob, Brittany.” He tried the direct approach. “Come on and eat before your cereal gets soggy.”

  Still no response. Bobby sat hunched and cross-legged, his hands limp in his lap, while Brittany lay on her stomach, her legs bent at the knee and her feet in the air. Every once in a while her legs swung lazily down and up again, but either she hadn’t heard his call or she was ignoring him.

  Salt lifted a brow. Could they be ignoring him?

  He walked around the table and stood between them, then bent to switch off the TV.

  “Hey!” Bobby said, a note of resentment in his voice.

  Salt pressed the power button, then crossed his arms. “To the table with both of you.” He lowered his voice to the no-nonsense tone that had always motivated his sailors. “I won’t tolerate back talk, so get up there and eat.”

  The growl seemed to work. The children rose and went to the table, though they spooned cereal into their mouths with a great deal less enthusiasm than they had exhibited a few mornings before.

  “What is wrong with you two?” Salt asked, coming closer. “The other day you loved Froot Loops.”

  “I want a doughnut.” Brittany propped her head on her hand. “Miss Birdie makes the best doughnuts I ever ate.”

  “Miss Birdie’s not here, and neither are her doughnuts.” Salt tried to keep his voice calm and steady. He couldn’t lose his temper, especially after yesterday. The kids had been in a pink stink for the rest of the day, and a good night’s sleep apparently had done little to improve their mood.

  Maybe they needed some encouragement. He glanced around the house, aware of how little he had to offer in the way of entertainment. When they’d first arrived, they’d been thrilled to play on the beach or walk with him up the spiral staircase to the lantern room and watch him clean the windows and polish the lens. They’d listened intently to his stories about seafaring and life as a longliner, but lately his work didn’t appear to interest them at all.

  But if it was pastry they wanted . . . He gestured to the bakery bags Birdie had brought. “There’s food,” he said, his desire to please them overriding Birdie’s opinion that children shouldn’t eat cookies for breakfast.

  Bobby shook his head. “No doughnuts.”

  “I tell you what.” He moved toward the counter and the nearly empty box of Froot Loops. “I have to go into town this morning to pick up a few things. While I’m there, I’ll pop over to the bakery and see if Birdie’s got any fresh doughnuts or fritters. Maybe she’ll even have some Christmas cookies.”

  Brittany’s nose crinkled. “I don’t think I’d want to eat a cookie with Christmas on it.”

  “Why”—Salt bent to her eye level—“Christmas isn’t on the cookies. It’s—well, have you never had a Christmas cookie?”

  Brittany looked at Bobby, who shook his head. Her suspicions apparently confirmed, she shook her head, too.

  Salt straightened, a sad realization beginning to bloom in his chest. Birdie had been right about a lot of things, and she’d been right about Christmas. These kids had never had a proper one, and if they stayed hidden away up here, they wouldn’t have one this year, either. He’d made no plans for the holiday other than thinking he’d pick up a toy for each child when he next visited Ogunquit.

  “Then we shall have to remedy that oversight.” Salt moved toward the door, where his coat and hat and scarf hung from pegs in the wall. “Bob, don’t forget to latch the door after I go. Brittany, be a good girl and put your bowls in the sink. Both of you stay in the house until I get back. Then we’ll see what sort of goodies Birdie is baking today, okay?”

  They watched wordlessly as Salt dressed for the weather, and neither said a word as he went out the door. He waited on the stoop, uncertain, then nodded as he heard the click of the door latch.

  Despite their recent moodiness, they were good children. And everything would be fine once he returned with something good to tickle their tummies and restore their faith in him.

  After fastening the latch, Bobby turned to the steel staircase, took a deep breath, and began to climb.

  “Bobby!” Britt called, looking up at him from the kitchen table. “You know you’re not allowed to go up there alone!”

  “I’m being careful,” Bobby said, climbing higher. “I only want to look out the window. When I see him pass the dunes, I’ll know the coast is clear.”

  Up and up he went, both hands clinging to the chilly iron railing, his eyes focused on the rising metal stairs before him. Halfway to the lantern room, at the point where the air began to feel warm and still, he came to the small window that overlooked the island. Lunging from the safety of the railing to the solidity of the wall, he pressed his hands to the window sill, stood on tiptoe, and looked down to see the grandfather walking toward town.

  Bobby felt his mouth twitch. The grandfather walked with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward. The wind pushed at him, flapping his coat, and Bobby felt sad as he watched. The grandfather wasn’t mean, exactly, even if he was a kidnapper. But he wasn’t their daddy, so they had to go home. Daddy needed them. The grandfather didn’t.

  Leaning against the window sill, his breath misting the glass, Bobby watched the grandfather pass the dunes, then saw him approach the brick building for the fire truck and jail. “If you’re bad, they’ll put you in the jail,” Georgie had told them as they painted puffin pictures on the sidewalk. “I’ve never been inside, but once I saw a drunk man they locked up. He was from away, and he broke a lot of bottles in Miss Vernie’s store before Mr. Floyd and my daddy got a hold of him.”

  Bobby lowered his chin to his hands. The grandfather had said something about their daddy coming to get them one day, but if their daddy came here, they’d put him in the jail ’cause he was drunk almost all the time. They’d put the grandfather in the jail, too, if they knew he was a kidnapper. That had to be why he and Brittany were supposed to be a secret.

  Once the lanky figure had moved a bit farther down the road, Bobby turned and began to make his way down the stairs. “It’s okay,” he called, carefully minding the steps. Going down seemed scarier than going up, because he could see how far away t
he floor was. “Get dressed, Britt. Wear your snowsuit . . . and you’d better take Miranda. We won’t be coming back.”

  Brittany’s mouth twisted in a knot. “Are you sure we can get home?”

  Bobby nodded and raised his voice to be heard above the metallic thunk-thunk of his steps on the stairs. “When we get to shore, we’ll go straight to the cops. We’ll probably be home in time for supper.”

  Stepping off the staircase, he moved to the kitchen. The white bag of bakery goodies sat on the table, and he opened it to peer inside. There were still several gingerbread men, half a loaf of rye bread, and several sweet brioches.

  “We’d better eat all of this before we go,” he told his sister. “We may not get lunch.”

  So he and Britt stuffed themselves until they couldn’t hold another bite, then they dressed in their snowsuits. Bobby helped Brittany put on her mittens, then tied the string under her jacket hood. She helped him, too, then picked up her doll and held Miranda tight in the crook of her elbow.

  “Okay.” Bobby grabbed his encyclopedia from where he’d hidden it in his bedroll, tucked it under his arm, then took a final look around the lighthouse. The grandfather was probably tired of taking care of them, so it was time they went home. Daddy would be worried; he might even be angry they’d stayed gone so long. But a whipping, Bobby figured, wasn’t as bad as being kidnapped and hidden away for the rest of their lives.

  Lifting the latch on the door, he drew a deep breath and said, “Let’s go.”

  A half-hour later, Bobby sat on the rocks near the boat, his chin propped on his fist. His careful plan had failed, and he didn’t know what to do next. After watching Gabe lift the old dory with one hand, he’d figured he could lift the boat, too. But he couldn’t. He and Britt had tried lifting it from the right side, the left side, the back, and the front, and nothing worked. They could rock it from side to side, but not even repeated rocking could flip the boat over.

  Not only were they kidnapped, they were stuck.

  “Hey, guys!” Georgie Graham’s voice rang out, startling Bobby. Georgie ran forward, his white tennis shoes shining beneath a pair of bright red sweatpants. He carried his backpack again, and for a minute Bobby wondered if he’d packed some sort of tool that could flip a boat.