A Warmth in Winter Page 26

  But all he’d done was make a mess of the situation. And he’d known that he could never be the permanent answer for Bobby and Brittany, for his mortal life span was already far spent . . .

  Forgive me, Lord.

  “I will.” His voice, low and passionate, commanded the glittering chamber. “As you forgive those who have wronged you.”

  Salt gulped hard as hot tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Oh, the shame of his life! He’d been so judgmental, so hard-hearted! He had given up on a wayward son and steeled himself against the pain he’d caused. He had taken two wounded and impressionable children and subjected them to a solitary existence more suited to a misanthropic hermit than youngsters on the threshold of life.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered, turning to bury his face in the softness of the flannel pajama sleeves. He tasted the salt of tears on his lips, and when he opened his eyes again, he was back in the lavender bedroom, propped on two lilac-scented pillows and covered with a pristine white counterpane.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  O n Sunday morning, Birdie ate a day-old doughnut for breakfast, then placed two phone calls. In the first, Babette announced that Bobby and Brittany were still sleeping. Georgie’s first official sleepover had ended, Babette assured Birdie, far sooner than Georgie had anticipated. At eight she had bundled the three children in warm bedclothes and placed them in front of an animated video with a huge bowl of popcorn. In less than ten minutes, all three kids were fast asleep.

  A call to the B&B revealed that Salt still slept, too. Cleta said the lightkeeper hadn’t moved, but Dr. Marc had come by just after sunup and found Salt sleeping soundly with a steady pulse.

  Birdie had been glad to hear that Salt would fully recover from his misadventure, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she saw him herself. So at eight-thirty she bundled herself in hat, coat, and gloves, then walked the short distance to the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast.

  Floyd answered the door and let her in with no comment other than a knowing smile. As Birdie shed her coat and hat in the foyer, Micah thrust his head out of the kitchen and asked if she wanted a cup of coffee or cider.

  “In a minute, maybe,” she called, pulling off her gloves. “After I check on Cap’n Gribbon.”

  “First door on the left at the top of the stairs,” Cleta called from the kitchen. “He was snoring like a walrus last time I walked by.”

  Birdie climbed the stairs with more energy than she’d felt in days.

  Salt didn’t answer when she rapped at the door, which was probably a good sign. She turned the knob and let herself in, then stood in silence for a moment at the foot of the bed.

  What a man he was. Stubborn and muleheaded, for certain, but loyal, hardworking, and responsible. As a husband he’d be the type to show his love in actions, not words, but Birdie figured she could learn to live with that.

  Once he realized he needed a wife.

  She sank to the edge of the mattress and ran her hand over the soft bedspread. Salt lay flat on his back, his chin jutting above the covers, the collar of Floyd’s pajamas framing his strong face.

  She pressed her hand to the spot just above his heart. At her touch, his eyelids fluttered open. “Wh–What?”

  “It’s me, Salt.” She smiled as his gaze lowered and met hers. “How be you this morning?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then groaned. “Nicely, I reckon. But my toes are still cold.”

  “That’s okay. I expect they’ll warm up soon enough.”

  He struggled to push himself up into a sitting position. “What about the kids?”

  “They’re staying with the Grahams. Babette said Georgie was thrilled to have friends sleep over, but they conked out ten minutes after she got ’em into their jammies.”

  His mouth twisted in something not quite a smile. “That’s good. I expect they can stay there . . . until they have to go. If Babette will keep ’em.”

  Birdie shook her head. “Why would they have to leave you?”

  “Oh, Birdie.” Lines of concentration deepened along his brows and under his eyes. “I was wrong to take ’em in the first place—I should have gotten some help for my boy. Or I should have taken him in. But instead I wrote him off and took those kids, thinking I could do with them what I never did with my own son—be a father, I mean. I was always gone when Patrick needed me, and last summer I took his children and left him alone, just like I’ve always done.”

  He turned slightly, gazing out the window with chilling intensity for a long moment. “Last night I learned something—I was never meant to live alone. I thought I had God’s help, I thought I knew him, but I only knew the figurehead.” His squint tightened, and Birdie saw thought working in his eyes. “Last night I met Jesus. And I realized that I’ve been the most hardheaded man on the planet.”

  Birdie felt her throat tighten as his blue eyes brimmed with tears. Something had happened to Salt, and though she didn’t understand it, she felt a thrill shiver through her senses. God worked miracles all the time, even on the little island of Heavenly Daze.

  “Salt.” She reached out and took his hand, then held it gently between both her own. “Do you know what I read the other day?”

  Looking away, he shook his head as if he could dislodge the tears from his eyes.

  Continuing, she kept her voice light. “I read a quote by George Bernard Shaw. He said, ‘I can think of no other edifice constructed by man as altruistic as a lighthouse. They were built only to serve. They weren’t built for any other purpose.’”

  Salt looked at her again. “What does that have to do with—”

  “You’re a lighthouse. Yes, you’re hardheaded, and yes, you make mistakes because you’re human. But God created you with a mile-wide streak of responsibility, and your intentions were good. You wanted to serve those children, and you’ve done a good job with them.”

  “But my son—”

  “You can start tomorrow with your son. Don’t dwell on the past, Salt; look toward the future. Let your light shine.”

  He gave her a quick, denying glance. “That sounds real nice, Birdie, but it’s too late. Lighthouses are a relic of the past. They’ve got these newfangled things now, aerobeacons and navigational buoys. With that GPS system, nobody really needs a lighthouse anymore . . . just like nobody needs an old mule like me.”

  “I know two children who’d disagree with you— three, if you count Georgie. He thinks you’re a real hero.”

  He snorted softly. “I’m nobody’s hero.”

  “You’re mine.” Birdie lowered her voice. “Last night I saw your light shining out, and I saw you risk much for those you loved—and yes, Salt, you can love deeply, I saw it as plain as the sun in heaven. And I knew then how much I loved you, Salt Gribbon.”

  And then, carried away by the realization that the moment would never come again, Birdie leaned forward and kissed Old Man Gribbon smack on the lips.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Floyd sat at the table staring at Cleta.

  Cleta glared back.

  Stanley sat between the warring couple, slumped over a bowl of oatmeal.

  Across from him, Vernie focused on the refrigerator.

  Six days had passed since she’d found Stanley hidden away in her friends’ house. Though after that discovery she’d stomped out and vowed never to return, time and Elezar’s gentle prodding had softened her heart. Last night she’d finally agreed to one round of peace talks before worship.

  She reckoned it was the least she could do, it bein’ a Sunday and her calling herself a Christian. Especially since Floyd had convinced her that Stanley Bidderman was a dying man. She didn’t feel so good herself these days.

  Now she sat at the Lansdowns’ kitchen table listening to the clock tick away long minutes. Though sharp eyes dominated the unspoken conversation, for the moment a weak truce kept the peace.

  “I think,” Floyd broke the strained silence, “we should leave the room, Cleta, and let Stanl
ey and Vernie talk.”

  Vernie crossed her arms and looked away. “I don’t want to talk to that worm, but I will. I want you all to know that I’m here under distress.”

  “That’s duress,” Floyd corrected.

  “That, too.”

  Cleta wearily dropped her chin into her hand. “He’s not going to budge until you hear him out, Vernie.” Her unspoken meaning was clear—get him out of my house, please!

  Floyd tapped Vernie’s arm. “Hear him out. If you don’t like what he says—”

  “You’ll ask him to leave?” She sniffed. “You should have never brought him here in the first place.”

  Lifting a feeble hand, Floyd closed his eyes. “Just let the man talk,” he said, his teeth clenched.

  Chair legs scraped the floor as Floyd and Cleta got up. Giving Vernie’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, Cleta said, “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.” She bent closer. “Don’t forget that there are other fish in the sea— there’s always Eugene Fleming.”

  Vernie snorted.

  A veil of silence enveloped the kitchen as the door closed. For a moment Vernie stared at her hands, unwilling to give Stanley a moment’s satisfaction. Her head throbbed and she felt as hot as a blast furnace. Was she coming down with the flu, too? Cleta had developed a fever three days ago and still looked a little streaked.

  When the silence stretched to an uncomfortable thinness, Stanley lifted his head. He’d aged. Of course, he was probably thinking the same about her. His once-youthful features had weathered. Lines creased his cheeks—what had put them there? Age alone, or age plus regret?

  She looked away, pretending to study the photographs on the refrigerator. “Say what you’ve come to say, Stanley, so you can go in peace.”

  Stanley’s eyes shone with remorse. “I know I hurt you badly, Vernie. I hurt myself even worse, and I’m sorry for it.”

  She refused to meet his gaze. “You should have shot me, Stanley. It would have hurt less.”

  He stiffened. “I’m here to ask your forgiveness.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “You’re wrong, Vernie. I can see you haven’t changed a lick, but that’s okay. I’m not responsible for your reactions, just my actions. So I’m here to ask for forgiveness, and I’m telling you it’s not too late for us to make things right.”

  Vernie crossed her legs, struggling to digest the apology and the man who had so forcefully delivered it. This wasn’t the man she’d known—that fellow would have tucked his tail and run back to his hiding place after she hung up on him the first time. Then again . . . a pending appointment with heaven might motivate even Stanley to get serious about settling his eternal affairs.

  She slowly lifted her gaze. “How long do you have?”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure. Cleta wants me out, but Floyd said—”

  “Good grief, Stanley, do you think we’re thick as planks? You’re dying, aren’t you? You’re only here to make amends before you meet the Lord.”

  Surprise crossed his wan features. “I’m not dying, at least, I don’t think I am. I was perfectly fine before I came down with this flu.”

  Vernie tapped her fingernail on the plastic place mat. He wasn’t dying? He wasn’t terminal and he obviously still had all his marbles. So he had changed. A lot.

  Stiffly, she looked straight at him. “Why, Stanley?”

  To his credit, Stanley didn’t avoid the question. “Because I didn’t feel you needed me.”

  A simple, forthright reply. Vernie suspected he had rehearsed his answer. “I didn’t feel you needed me,” he repeated, his voice softer now. “A man needs to feel wanted and important; I felt like an intruder in my own home. I felt you didn’t love or need me.”

  The words stung. When had she ever made him feel like an intruder? Why, he should have felt like a king in his castle, pampered in every way! She had always seen to their business, looked after things, made decisions, managed the mercantile, and ordered stock. She had downright coddled him. Why, she didn’t even complain about the bowling he loved so much though she knew his time could be better spent.

  She had worried about bills and mortgages and food on the table while he stood in the background, rarely offering an opinion on anything more important than the color of a new bowling ball. He couldn’t decide on something as simple as supper.

  “What do you want for supper, Stanley?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Chicken?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Or maybe beef?”

  “That’s fine.”

  How she had longed for him to thump his chest and yell, “Forget the beef and chicken. I want a can of hot tamales!”

  But noooooooo, Stanley never said anything. At first she got tired of being in charge, then she got used to it. But now he had the nerve to accuse her of indifference?

  Stanley’s voice broke into her reflection. “You asked why I came here, and I’ve told you. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Closing his eyes, he began again: “Leaving you was the worst mistake of my life. I knew it within a few weeks, but by then I knew coming back would only make things worse. You never seemed to need me, and nothing I did was ever good enough. You got bent out of shape no matter whether I agreed or disagreed. So, that night, I just decided to miss the ferry. I spent the night at a hotel, and the next morning I decided to go to Wells. Before I knew it, I was running, leaving the one commitment I’d managed to make in my life. I knew it was wrong, and I knew running wouldn’t change anything. But then I couldn’t face you, so I stayed away.”

  Somehow, Vernie found her voice. “What made you . . . why did you decide to call?”

  Shaking his head, he looked up. “A commercial on television—one of those Hallmark things, I think. I saw a couple about our age, welcoming home the kids for Christmas, and I suddenly realized that we could have had twenty Christmases like that one, but I’d messed it up. So I decided to come home and apologize. See if you could find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Pushing back from the table, he got up. “I can see in your face that forgiveness isn’t exactly what you had in mind. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve said what I came to say. I reckon I’ll go up and pack my things, get out of Cleta’s way.”

  Vernie pressed her hand to her mouth as he left the room.

  Dazed, she sat in the quiet kitchen with her thoughts.

  And Stanley’s words.

  Stanley’s apology.

  And Stanley’s accusation.

  Throughout morning worship and all afternoon Vernie replayed Stanley’s words in her mind. “I decided to come home . . . and see if you could find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Could she forgive? On one level it’d be easy. It’d be easy as pie to say, “Yes, because I’m a Christian, I forgive you, but get out of my sight and stay out, Stanley Bidderman.” She could find sweet justice in that, and nobody on the island could blame her for booting Stanley off Heavenly Daze for good.

  But . . . was that the kind of forgiveness Christ expected of her? It wasn’t what he gave. Every time she goofed up, the Savior welcomed her back with loving arms and sweet acceptance. He loved her, blunders and all, and when he forgave, he forgot.

  So why couldn’t she forgive Stanley?

  Because he’d cost her years of physical and mental suffering. Because he’d ravaged her emotions and left her numb and too tired to care about love. Because he’d taken the best years of her life, years in which she could have had the whole Hallmark commercial . . .

  So he’d hurt her . . . but hadn’t she committed her share of hurts? She’d hurt him, too, though she’d never understood how until this morning. She’d taken over Stanley’s life, interpreting his sweet nature as incompetence, mistaking his patience as weakness. She’d stolen his masculinity, his leadership, his role as a husband. She’d worn the pants in the family, sure, but she’d stepped into them first.

  She should
have waited for Stanley.

  She pulled down her Bible, ran her finger over the verses where the Lord told his disciples they should forgive not seven times, but “seventy times seven.” In the margin, she had written, “Forgiveness is my choice to personally bear the consequences of your choice, and never again hold you responsible for what you did to hurt me.”

  The words cut through her soul like a knife. When had she written that? Probably years before Pastor Wickam came to town, since he tended to major on the Minor Prophets. Pastor Claude might have preached this sermon, and she might have written this even while Stanley sat by her side in the Heavenly Daze Church . . .

  Funny, how lessons were never really learned until you put them into practice.

  That evening she climbed the Lansdowns’ attic staircase. Pausing at Stanley’s bedroom door, she called, “Stan?”

  She heard shuffling sounds, then, “Ayuh?”

  “Can I come in?”

  After a long pause, Stanley opened the door.

  Feeling feverish, Vernie walked in and reached out for the bedpost. She probably shouldn’t have come, but flu or no flu, she had to speak to her husband before he left.

  Grasping the bedpost, she closed her eyes as her head swam. She’d be in bed tomorrow, too, most likely, and Elezar would have to play nurse and run the mercantile . . .

  “What’s wrong, Vernie?” Concern tinged Stanley’s voice.

  Chuckling softly, Vernie opened her eyes and saw the open suitcase, the clothes piled on the bed. He was leaving, so this couldn’t be postponed, not even if she fainted.

  “Are you okay?” Stanley reached out to support her. The touch seemed familiar, even after all these years.

  “Stan?”