A Warmth in Winter Page 7

  She rubbed her hands together, gave the cover zipper a downward yank, then pushed the button to start the electric engine. Within a few moments she was powering her way up Ferry Road, a Crockpot on the floor and a bag of Salt’s favorite rye bread in her lap.

  While the soup was warming, she’d had time to reflect upon the last time she saw Salt. He had seemed a mite streaked on Saturday, and he hadn’t lingered to talk like he often did. She’d asked about the books she gave him, and he’d replied that they were fine stories, all of ’em.

  At this, Birdie had winked at him. She had a strong suspicion the man couldn’t read, but apparently he was trying to remedy the situation by applying himself to simple children’s books. Last month she’d visited the Ogunquit library and bought several volumes from their clearance room. Salt seemed to appreciate the gift—well, as much as he appreciated anything. The man was as obstinate as a cross-eyed mule and about as conversational. But at least he seemed willing to better himself, and though Birdie couldn’t understand how he intended to learn how to read, at least he was willing to take a stab at it. And she was willing to help . . . if he ever got around to asking.

  Babette Graham was checking her mailbox as Birdie zoomed by the gallery, and Edith Wickam stood hunched at her gate, her hands tucked under her arms. She and Babette were probably doin’ a bit of neighborin’, and Birdie knew they’d undoubtedly wonder where she was going in such a hurry. The only inhabited building past the Graham Gallery and the parsonage was Salt’s lighthouse . . . well, if they wanted to talk, she’d let them.

  Birdie drew a deep breath, inhaling the scents of beef barley soup and rye bread. Sick or well, Salt would have to appreciate her friendly offering. Though he hadn’t been what anyone would call an ardent suitor, he had given her a smile or two and taken her on walks, which was more than he’d done for any other female on Heavenly Daze. Given Salt’s crusty personality, such overtures were tantamount to a declaration of strong Liking.

  The road curved beyond the Lobster Pot, closed now for the winter. Birdie kept both hands on the steering wheel as the cart advanced from cobblestones to gravel— the road was apt to be bumpy up here, and she didn’t want to upset the Crockpot. To her left, the wind moved over the marshy reeds, bending them like waves in a storm.

  The thought of a storm renewed her sense of urgency, so she pressed harder on the pedal. Finally, like an exclamation point at the northern tip of the island, the lighthouse appeared. Birdie urged the cart forward.

  A few moments later she stood with the bread balanced on the Crockpot and the Crockpot on her hip. Tentatively, she knocked at the bright red door, then waited, listening to the strident call of a sea gull.

  No movement from within, but perhaps she’d caught Salt on the tall staircase. She knocked again, louder this time.

  Content to wait, she turned. Sometimes Salt walked along the beach, and sometimes he fished in his small dory. Though the shore was rough and rocky up here, a sand bar protected a shallow inlet known as Puffin Cove, making it relatively easy for a man to launch a boat from this point. But no—the dory lay upside down on the beach, so Salt wasn’t out on the water.

  “Salt?” Gathering her courage, Birdie tried the latch. To her surprise, the door opened easily.

  She stepped into the circular room. Captain Gribbon had taken up residence in the historic lighthouse about the time Bea had returned to the island. Though she’d heard rumors that Salt had remodeled the old monument into comfortable living quarters, none of the other townspeople had been allowed to venture inside. Except for his regular visits to the bakery and an occasional stop at the mercantile, the lightkeeper kept to himself.

  Now she looked at a tidy room, adequately if oddly furnished. To her immediate left the circular wrought-iron staircase spiraled up and away to the lamp at the top of the tower. Birdie felt dizzy looking up, so she lowered her eyes to more familiar territory. Beyond the staircase, a sink, stove, and refrigerator lined the curving stone wall. A solid table, gleaming with some sort of mottled veneer, stood within arm’s reach of the sink, and four chairs—four!—sat around the table.

  She smiled at the sight of the chairs. Why, for all she knew Salt Gribbon might play cards every night with a bunch of lobstermen. Wouldn’t that be something if the town recluse turned out to be a party animal?

  Just past the refrigerator, a door had been cut into the stone wall, and Birdie knew the room beyond it housed a modern toilet, shower, and sink. There’d been a bit of a brouhaha years ago when Salt petitioned the city council to install his plumbing. Vernie Bidderman had insisted that if the former lighthouse keepers could make do with an outhouse and/or chamber pot, Salt Gribbon should be able to do the same. But Salt had stared at the town committee with those frosty blue eyes and replied that his house was no more historic than any of theirs. If he had to make do with an outhouse, so should they.

  Birdie suppressed a smile as her gaze moved past the bathroom door. Just beyond the doorway stood the fireplace, flanked by an old wooden rocker and two vinyl beanbag chairs, one red, one orange.

  She wrinkled her brow. Men were peculiar creatures, to be sure, but beanbag chairs? What did he do, settle his backside in one and prop his feet in another as he relaxed in front of the woodstove?

  A tiny television with rabbit ears sat on a stand beyond the fireplace, and a dark wooden bed stood next to the TV. The bed traversed the rest of the circle, with its footboard less than a yard from where she stood—

  She jumped as the mound of blankets on the bed shifted. “Oh, my.” She hesitated, then leaned forward.“Salt?”

  She heard only the rasp of labored breathing.

  After placing the Crockpot and bread on the table, she rushed to the side of the narrow bed. Salt lay upon a thin mattress, his body covered by a faded quilt and an afghan, his face pale and shiny with perspiration. The stale odor of sweat rose from the bed.

  Bending, Birdie placed her hand upon his forehead. Still hot, but the perspiration was a good sign. At least he hadn’t completely dehydrated.

  Without hesitation, she crossed to the sink, then crinkled her nose at the mess there. A half-dozen cups lay in the basin, along with a handful of silverware, a pair of bowls, and a DustBuster.

  Salt obviously had not felt up to cleaning up.

  She pulled a clean glass from a dish drainer, gave it a perfunctory swipe with a dishtowel she saw on the counter, then drew a tall glass of water from the faucet. Before taking it to him, however, she stepped into the bathroom, shivered in the frigid air, and flung open the medicine cabinet.

  Aspirin. She took the bottle and shook two tablets into the palm of her hand even as a memory rose in her brain. He needs Tylenol.

  She glanced at the other items in the medicine cabinet. Georgie was right, Salt had no Tylenol, though aspirin would work just as well for fever. But Georgie might not know that.

  She left the bathroom, then frowned as another thought struck her—how had Georgie known that Salt had no Tylenol? As bold as the little urchin was, she doubted he’d have the nerve to invade Salt’s bathroom and inventory the medicine chest.

  “No time to worry about that,” she muttered, crossing the room. Kneeling on the stone floor, she slipped one hand behind Salt’s heavy head. “Cap’n Gribbon, you must drink some of this water and take this aspirin. Come on, now, drink.”

  Somehow, he heard. As his lips parted she brought the glass to them, struggling to lift his head. Her hand tangled in his wiry hair and his eyes never opened as she sloshed water over his neck and chest and bedclothes, but he swallowed, and that was good.

  The medicine would begin its healing work.

  Salt clung to the warm darkness as long as he could, but a soft voice persisted in calling his name. “Captain? Drink some more. Come on, only a little more.”

  He lifted his heavy lids and blinked as the world shifted dizzily before his eyeballs. Birdie Wester’s face hovered inches above his, her eyes shining with concern, her lips pursed.
“Ah, Salt.” A smile spread across her narrow face. “So you’ve decided to join the land of the living. It’s good to see you.”

  He blinked again and felt the pain of hot skin bending over his eyelids.

  “Tarnation,” he whispered, dropping his head back to the pillow. He felt like saying something worse, a sailor’s word not fit for the ears of women or children—

  The children!

  Alarm rippled along his spine. Where were the children?

  Resisting the shooting pains that raced along every nerve, he forced himself up on his elbows, his eyes darting left and right. A fire crackled in the woodstove; a lamp burned at the window over the sink. Through the odors of wood smoke he could smell the aroma of warm and hearty food—

  But the lighthouse lantern mechanism creaked overhead, so the sun had set. And Bobby and Brittany weren’t in their beanbag chairs, at the table, or curled up on the floor before the TV.

  His eyes met Birdie’s. “Where are the kids?” he asked, his voice coming out in a rough croak.

  “Kids?” Birdie cackled a laugh. “Oh, I expect Georgie’s home with his mom and dad.” Her strong, thin hands caught hold of his shoulders. “Now you lay back down and rest, Salt. I’ll admit I was wondering how Georgie knew about your medicine chest, and Babette’s going to read him the riot act when she hears he’s been up here bothering you. But don’t you worry, Georgie won’t come around again—”

  “No.” Salt struggled against her grip, unable to believe that a mere one-hundred-pound woman could hold him, even push him, down to his bed. He drew a breath, felt the burning of his lungs, and wheezed out two more words: “My kids!”

  Her eyes blazing with determination, Birdie forced him to lie still. When he saw that she would not relent and he could not overpower her, he stopped struggling.

  Gradually, she relaxed her grip. “My goodness, Salt, I thought you were over the worst of it. But if you’re hallucinating, maybe you shouldn’t be sitting up just yet.”

  He shook his head from side to side, steeling himself against the pounding at his temples. “No,” he rasped.

  Her finger fell across his lips. “You hush while I think this through. I knew fever could make a person delirious, but I never knew it could make a person . . .”

  A line formed between her brows, a harbinger of worry. “My stars,” she whispered, “I wonder if you’re coming down with old-timer’s disease.”

  Salt lifted his arm, trying to throw her off, but she gripped his shoulders again. He struggled, but her thin iron strength held until his will diminished like the flames of a dying fire, then faded into darkness.

  Outside the lighthouse, Bobby thrust his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, threatening to rip the lining. Beside him, Britt huddled against his back, her clattering teeth sounding like the skittering of cockroaches from their last apartment.

  “Bobbbbby,” she wailed, genuine anguish in her voice now, “I’m freezing! We have to go in!”

  “Not yet.” Shivering, Bobby glanced at the red door of the lighthouse. The woman had been inside all afternoon, so surely she’d come out soon and go home. When she did, he and Brittany could go inside. But until then, they’d wait. The grandfather had told them to never, ever let an adult from the town see them. That would bring certain danger, and none of them could risk it.

  Still—Bobby didn’t think he’d ever been so cold. A cloud of vapor rose with every breath he exhaled, and his feet were so numb they felt like weights at the bottom of his legs. The wind off the ocean had water in it, too, like an angry monster spitting at them with frigid breath.

  He looked around the beach. With the tide coming in there’d be no shelter on the rocks where they’d been sitting, but the grandfather’s boat lay on the sand, ghostly in the moonlight.

  “Come on.” He gripped Britt’s hand. “We’re going to find shelter.”

  He took her freezing fingers in his, then together they ran to the boat.

  “Bobbbbby,” she cried, balking. “I can’t crawl under there. It’s dark. What if there’s a crab, or a lobster . . . or an alien?”

  “You’ve been watching too many X-Files, Britt. There’s nothing under there.” Bobby squatted near the narrow opening to be sure. “And I’ll go first to prove it. But you’ve got to come in, too, or you’ll freeze your fingers off tonight.”

  Kneeling, he lifted the boat slightly, felt it rock on the point of the bow, then lowered himself to his knees and elbows and crawled inside. The deep darkness beneath the boat smelled of fish and seaweed, but the wind didn’t roar in his ears here, nor did the spray sting him through the thin fabric of his jacket.

  He scooted closer to the side to make room for Brittany, then froze when his foot encountered a soft lump. For an instant icicles coursed through his blood, then he caught a whiff of stale orange juice and remembered the dishtowels. He and Britt had tossed them here, to hide them from the grandfather.

  He thrust his head toward the opening. “Come on, Britt; it’s fine. You’ll be warmer under here, and we can watch the house through this crack.”

  Reluctantly, Brittany knelt and inched her way into the darkness. When she had curled next to him, Bobby rocked the boat back to its resting position, then put his arms around his little sister. “We’ll wait here until we hear the golf cart leave.” He drew a deep breath to ease his shivering. “Then we’ll go inside by the fire. It’ll be okay. After all, we wanted someone to come help the grandfather. Once she leaves, everything will be better.”

  Britt kept shivering. “Do—do you suppose that lady is Georgie’s mother?”

  Bobby shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”

  They huddled in silence, listening to the distant pounding of the surf and the howling of the wind. Bobby felt the wet from the sand begin to seep through his jeans, then his underwear. He might have a cold bottom by the time they could go back inside, but at least the yapping wind couldn’t nip at him here.

  Time passed. Bobby’s eyelids had begun to grow heavy when the boat rocked and the noise of the wind abruptly increased. He opened his eyes. A man stood on the sand, one hand supporting the boat, the other extended. His hair, skin, and coat gleamed like the moon in the night sky.

  “Bobby,” the man’s voice was gentle, “you and Brittany need to come with me. Come now, before you get much colder.”

  Bobby didn’t hesitate. He nudged Britt, whose sleep-heavy head lay pressed against his chest, then pushed her toward the man. Smiling, the man pulled her from beneath the boat, then lifted her into his arms. He waited until Bobby stood beside him, then he took Bobby’s hand. Carrying the still-sleeping Brittany with one powerful arm, the man led Bobby down the road toward the village.

  Though his mind buzzed with questions, Bobby didn’t speak. He didn’t want to seem rude, and he was so cold. This man knew his name, so he had to be okay. Only the grandfather and the boy, Georgie, knew his name, so either the grandfather or Georgie must have sent this man. He didn’t understand how the grandfather could have sent anyone, but still, he must have done something.

  Bobby didn’t care anymore. Even though the cold wind still howled over the island with spit in its breath, his teeth were no longer chattering and he could breathe without shivering.

  They passed the brick building with a sign that said “Public Rest Rooms” and the dark restaurant with a picture of a lobster above the door. They walked silently past Georgie’s house, then they turned up the path leading to the church.

  Bobby gaped at the building, his eyes lifting to the tall steeple. “You live in the church?”

  The man’s mouth split into a smile that lit his dark eyes like the sun sparkling on the waves. “Yes, I do.”

  Bobby swallowed to bring his heart down from his throat. “Are you God?”

  “No.” Again, the sparkling smile. “Only one of his servants. And I’m going to make certain you and your sister are safe and warm tonight.”

  Then the man reached out and opened the same door Bobby had
seen the pastor lock. Through the church they walked, then they moved down a wide wooden staircase into a bright basement room where a furnace glowed and filled the room with heat.

  Brittany stirred and lifted her head. She looked first at Bobby, then at the room, then at the man who held her. “Hello,” she said, placing her hands against his chest. Her voice seemed small in the open space. “Who are you?”

  “I am called Gavriel.” The man lowered Britt to the floor. “But you can call me Gabe. That’s easier to say, isn’t it?”

  Nodding, Brittany took a cautious step forward. The place wasn’t fancy. Lots of metal folding chairs clustered around a few long tables, but at the back of the room, behind a counter, Bobby could see a kitchen—a sink, a stove, and what looked like an old refrigerator.

  Gabe must have read his mind . . . or heard Bobby’s stomach growling.

  “I think I can find something for you to eat,” Gabe said, moving toward the kitchen with long strides. “How about some peanut butter sandwiches, potato chips, and hot cocoa?”

  “Yum!” Britt sank into a chair, then rested her arms on the table and dropped her chin to her hands. “Sounds like a picnic!”

  Puzzled, Bobby watched the stranger. The guy walked without making a sound, almost as if his feet glided over the floor without touching it. What was he wearing, special sneakers?

  Gabe laughed, his musical laughter warming the room as well as the rumbling furnace. “A picnic—what a good idea.”

  Bobby sank into a chair, too, swinging his legs back and forth as he looked around. Overhead he could see pipes and wires and dark beams. Beyond that lay more wood, probably the floor of the big room above. The walls here were painted block, and the floor was yellow tile, scuffed with black shoe marks. It wasn’t the prettiest place to spend the night, but it was definitely better than sleeping under a boat.

  “Do you have a TV?” Brittany asked, looking around. “If it’s seven o’clock, it must be time for Perfect Families. ”

  “It’s past seven,” Gabe called, pulling a pot from a cabinet. “And there’s no television in the church. There’s no need for one. People come here to learn about God, not to watch someone else’s idea of a perfect family.”