A Warmth in Winter (15 page)

“Oh, of course. No, I didn't have anything to do with it. I think it's automated.” Birdie swallowed a bite of the chowder, then dropped her jaw and reached for her water. The soup was hotter than she'd thought.

She drank and lowered her glass, then looked toward the window, where the sun had disappeared. Outside, over the roof of Abner's cottage, stars spangled the heavens in glorious abandon. Soon the lighthouse would send out its beam, and she would never again see it without thinking of the man who lived beneath it.

“Going to be a clear and cold night,” Bea said. “Cold last night, too.”

Lowering her gaze to her bowl, Birdie stirred her soup. “Ayuh.”

“Bad night to be sick. Worse night to be alone.”

“Salt doesn't seem to mind. He's a solitary sort by nature.”

Bea folded her arms on the table and leaned closer. “For a loner, he's been seeking out your company plenty these days. Why, last month he asked you out for a walk up to the point, didn't he? And now you've gone up there and not come home for a night—”

“Why, Bea Coughlin!” Birdie pasted on an appropriately horrified expression. “What are you insinuating?”

Bea puckered her lips into a tiny rosette, then unpuck-ered enough to whisper, “I was married, Birdie. I know about love . . . and men.”

“I can assure you there's nothing going on between me and Cap'n Gribbon.” Birdie straightened her shoulders. “We're friends, that's all. High time the man made some friends on the island; we've been scared of him for too long. But he's a nice man, a little shy—”

“Not too shy to shoot rock salt at people who go up there!”

Birdie lifted a brow. “Maybe he has his reasons. Maybe the tourists were pesterin' him, or in danger of damaging the lighthouse. He's not an unreasonable fellow.”

Bea leaned back, her thin mouth curving into a slow smile. “Why, Birdie, I think you're a little infatuated with that old hermit.”

“You're jealous.”

“Of that old codger? I wouldn't have him if he were the last man on earth.”

Birdie harrumphed and went back to eating her soup.

“You are infatuated.” Bea fairly sang the words. “Little sister's got a crush on Cap'n Gribbon.”

“I'm not your little sister, not anymore,” Birdie said, keeping her gaze lowered. “And if you say one word about this, or make even a peep to Vernie about my visit to the lighthouse, I think you'll find I can still wrestle you to the ground.” She looked up and smiled when she saw Bea's lips part in a silent gasp. “Yessir, and Daddy's not around to pull me off you, either, so don't you be forgetting that. Leave me be, sister, and we'll both be better off.”

With that said, Birdie stood, wiped her mouth on a paper napkin, then turned on her heel and left the room with what she hoped was a regal toss of her head.

Chapter Ten

T
he next morning, Birdie dressed with her usual efficiency, moved into the bakery to check on Abner's plans for the day, then sat down at the counter to make a grocery list. Salt desperately needed a few things from the mercantile, and for a few days he wouldn't be in any condition to venture into town.

When Abner paused at her elbow, Birdie reflexively brought up her left hand to cover her scrawlings.

“How's the captain?” he asked, balancing a tray of blueberry tarts on his open palm.

“He's fine—well, he's doin' a little poorly, if you want to know the truth. He was really sick, but I think he's mending.” She folded the list, tucked it in her pocket, and shifted to face her assistant. “I was thinking about picking up a few things for him at the mercantile and taking them up to the lighthouse this afternoon—unless you think I'll be needed here.”

Abner, bless his heart, pretended to act as though he actually needed her help. “Nobody makes those filled cookies like you,” he said, glancing at the freshly filled display case. “But I think we're set for now. It's been fairly slow on account of the windy weather. Most folks are holed up inside to keep warm.”

“Don't bake too much, then.” She glanced at the filled display case again, half-worried about what she'd do with so many pastries. Business was always slow during the off-season, but it could come to a virtual stop if a spell of really bad weather hit. And there was nothing quite so unpopular as a stale doughnut.

“I was thinking you could take some day-old pastries up to Captain Gribbon,” Abner suggested, pointing to a row of paper bags he had taped shut. “I filled them with molasses cookies, gingerbread men, and those nice brioches with the sugar sprinkles on top. And I included a couple of loaves of rye bread, since the captain likes them so much.”

Birdie stared at the row of sealed bags. Gingerbread men and brioches? Why, the children would love those! But though Salt had often expressed a liking for her rye bread and molasses cookies, as far as she knew he'd never bought a brioche or gingerbread man in his life.

She squinted toward Abner, wondering if he could possibly know Salt's secret. But the stout baker turned back to his work, humming “Joy to the World” as he transferred the blueberry tarts from the baking sheet to a doily-lined tray.

“Thanks, Abner.” She reached for her stout basket. “I know Cap'n Gribbon will appreciate these things. Considerate of you to think of him.”

She narrowed her eyes again, searching for any sign of knowledge or conspiracy, but his guileless face seemed as carefree and innocent as a baby's.

Shrugging, Birdie arranged the bags of day-olds in her basket, then moved toward the back of the building to find her coat, hat, and gloves.

“Give the captain my best when you see him,” Abner called. “And tell him I've been experimenting with a recipe for a butterscotch candy just like Werther's Originals. Next time you go up, I'll send a batch along.”

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 things.” 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.”