A Warmth in Winter (18 page)

“I've walked myself home for twenty-odd years and haven't broke a bone yet.” Her foot slipped on a patch of ice. “Whoops!” Catching herself, she latched onto the porch railing and carefully worked her way down the steps. She had to get home and find that order . . .

“You're gonna break your leg,” Cleta called. “Jumping up like a scalded cat and taking off. For heaven's sake, Vernie, we've got a bathroom you could use!”

Trudging across the frozen sidewalk, Vernie gritted her teeth and ignored Cleta's yelping.

“Just remember,” Floyd yelled, obviously straining to pitch his voice above the wail of the wind. “If you've never seen a good case of dry rot, you can't appreciate the value of new rubber.”

Bursting into the mercantile, Vernie rooted through stacks of magazines and papers on the counter, frantically searching for the order form. Nothing. She paused, scanning her memory. She'd found the order here, but then she'd gone upstairs to her office. That's where she'd been distracted.

Thumping upstairs, she flew into her bedroom. She searched the floor and looked under the bed, then pulled the spread off and tossed pillows across the room. In desperation she stripped the sheets and shook them out, hoping for a glimpse of the ink-scrawled order form . . . but there was nothing.

After she'd talked to Stanley, she'd been still for a while, then she'd gone back down to see Elezar.

Thudding back downstairs, she ripped ledgers out of drawers and shook spiral notebooks. Nothing. She raced back upstairs to her bedroom, overturning table lamps and peeking under lace doilies. Nothing.

Where was that confounded order? She'd eaten dinner, then slipped out of her sweater and work apron to put on a fleecy red jacket, something in keeping with the spirit of the holiday—

Her gaze fell upon the sleeve of her brown sweater, a forlorn lump under a discarded bedsheet. Vernie picked it up and swatted it, listening for the telltale crackle of paper—there! In the pocket, where she'd slipped it to conceal her mistake from Elezar.

Unfolding the order, she spread it flat on the desk and picked up the phone. She'd call Wagner's and explain things, tell them to put a rush on her order.

Three rings later an answering machine came on the line: “Wagner's Wholesalers. The office is now closed. Our hours are from 8 AM until 5 PM, Monday through Friday. If you know your party's extension, dial it now, or stay on the line and record a message at the beep—”

Vernie hung up and swallowed against a dry throat. She wouldn't panic. The Heavenly Daze Christmas party was still a week away. She'd fax the order tonight. She'd request an overnight delivery and pay extra. No problem.

A strong gust of wind rattled the old house, reminding her of the inclement weather brewing somewhere out in the ocean. All right, then. If her plans went astray, she'd send Elezar over to Ogunquit for supplies. He could keep a secret. But it wouldn't come to that. First thing Monday morning she would call the wholesaler to make sure they'd picked up the fax. The other women would never know she'd failed to place the order.

Her pulse thrummed. Failure wasn't a thing often associated with Vernie Bidderman. She prided herself on her self-sufficiency. Why, she'd never forgotten to do anything in her whole life! And even this wasn't her fault, it was Stanley's. He had her so unnerved it was a wonder she could remember her own name.

Sinking to the floor, she held her head with both hands. Dear Lord, what was happening to her? When her hot flashes receded, she'd assumed the worst of the change was over, but obviously nature had other tricks up her sleeve. Now her mind was taunting her, as it had when she started into the change—

She heard the sharp click of the key turning in the front door lock. Elezar. She sat up straighter. He would have seen the downstairs light and was probably stopping by to see if she needed anything . . . because she was supposed to be at the Lansdowns'.

Crawling on her hands and knees, she scooted into her closet, then dragged herself over shoes and boots and slippers to the very back. Heavy footfalls thudded across the mercantile floor, then creaked the stairs. The steps paused before her closed bedroom door.

“Vernie?”

Holding her breath, Vernie remained quiet.

She heard a hesitant tap. “You okay?”

She gasped when she looked up to discover a pair of puzzled sea green eyes peering at her in the darkness. MaGoo. Her hand shot over to cover the cat's mouth when it meowed.

“Vernie? You in there?” The door squeaked open.

MaGoo squirmed, breaking free of her grip. The cat darted away, throwing a final resentful look over his shoulder before he disappeared into the closet darkness.

Vernie heard the click of the light switch, saw the beam of light disappear from the bottom of the closet door. She pressed her hand to her mouth, wondering if she'd lost her mind. Why was she hiding from Elezar? He wouldn't know what happened unless she told him, and she wasn't going to tell him. She wasn't going to tell anybody what she'd done. And listen to them laugh? No, thank you. She was smart enough to stall the island women for another couple of days. Vernie Bidderman would not be the Grinch who stole Heavenly Daze's Christmas, not this year. By Wednesday morning Mooseleuk would have more nutmeg, cranberries, and sugar than Kroger carried in their entire chain.

She sat for another fifteen minutes until she was certain that Elezar had locked up and moved on out to his cottage.

Pulling herself out of a pair of flattened shoeboxes, she winced, listening to her bones crack.

She hated getting old.

Really hated it.

After going downstairs, she poured herself a tall glass of Coke, added a splash of vanilla syrup, then took a long, cold drink. The sweetness and bubbles helped.

Tomorrow will be better,
she promised herself. All she had to do was think of a logical explanation for why her bedroom looked as though a cyclone had ripped through it.

The phone rang, but Vernie ignored it. She was, as far as most people knew, still at the Lansdowns', enjoying their wassail and cookies on tree-trimming night.

After the third ring, the machine picked up the call. A moment later, Stanley's voice rumbled over the line: “Vernie, please. We need to talk. It's Christmas, sweetums. Can't you find it in your heart to—”

Her hand slapped the delete key. Hard.

She dumped another shot of vanilla in her Coke, then carried the glass upstairs, nearly tripping over MaGoo in the hallway.

The fax machine sat on her desk, ready and waiting for her order, and this time nothing was going to stop her from sending it.

Chapter Twelve

C
hristmas carols floated through the restaurant speaker:

Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la.

Threading her way through coworkers, Annie smiled at Dean Witsell and his wife, Luella. “You look lovely tonight,” she said, complimenting Mrs. Witsell as she paused to greet the elderly couple. She would have stayed for more polite conversation, but another man stepped forward to take Mrs. Witsell's hand—a fellow with more political pull than Annie.

Excusing herself, she worked her way through the crowd, smiling and calling “happy holidays” to coworkers she passed. She doubted her smile fooled many people— she hated office Christmas parties. They were boring and hot and an uninspired extension of an already long workday. If it weren't for Melanie's insistence that she put in at least a brief appearance, Annie would now be on her way to a hot bath and a rented Mel Gibson video.

She was on her way to greet Melanie when Hank Walters grabbed her. Dangling a sprig of mistletoe over his head, he flashed a set of expensive caps. “Merry Christmas, Annie.” As the megabucks dental detail came in for a landing, Annie turned her head at the last instant and redirected his smooch to her cheek, the only respectable place where she could entertain a kiss from a married man.

Hank was every woman's nightmare. He hung around the water cooler making lewd remarks for cheap laughs. His wife, a shy sort, stood near the wall nursing a glass of punch, a pained expression on her thin face.

“Merry Christmas, Hank,” Annie called over her shoulder as she moved away. “I hope Santa doesn't forget where you live.”

She sighed in relief when she finally reached Melanie. “This is awful,” she murmured, crossing her arms. “I hate these parties.”

Melanie brightened her smile. “Guess who's here?”

Annie accepted a glass of punch from a waitress wearing blinking reindeer antlers. “I don't know. Old Saint Nick?”

“Better.”

“Three kings bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh? For me?”

“Wrong again.” Melanie giggled. “A. J.”

Pausing with her glass halfway to her mouth, Annie frowned. “Who?”

“A. J. The guy I've been telling you about.”

Annie scanned the crowd. “Which one is he?”

“He's over there, the guy talking to Professor Blight.” Hugging Annie's arm, Melanie shivered. “Now is that a man or is that a
man?
”

“A man,” Annie agreed. Melanie had definitely found herself a handsome, suave-looking guy somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, a fellow who wore his slacks and blazer like a model for
GQ.
Melanie had suddenly developed a case of Good Taste; she was usually attracted to the
Popular Mechanics
type who wore ponytails and sported grease stains beneath their fingernails.

“Nice.” Annie shifted her gaze to search for the buffet line. “I'm starved. Let's eat.”

“Nice? That's all you can say about a hunk like A. J.? That he's nice?”

Annie gave the subject another quick once-over. Charcoal sport jacket, black collarless shirt, light gray slacks. “Okay, very nice. I hope there's shrimp on the bar—”

“Very nice? Are you nuts?” Leaning in closer, Melanie tightened her grip on Annie's arm. “Look at him.” She rolled her eyes. “He's to die for. I'm trying to talk him into joining us on the cruise.”

Annie gaped at her friend. “You're kidding, right? How many dates have you had?”

Melanie giggled. “Counting tonight, two. But when lightning strikes, it takes out anything in its path, including caution. He's the one, Annie. The one.”

Giving her friend a careful smile, Annie took Melanie's arm and steered her toward the buffet line. Melanie needed food—energy for the brain. But as they were making their way across the floor, the hunk turned and spotted the two women. Melanie pranced on her toes, waving and causing a spectacle. “A. J.! Over here!”

Annie groaned and lowered her gaze. Threesomes were always a drag. She'd nod at the introduction, eat a bite of shrimp, and be on her way.

Mr. Right casually excused himself and sauntered toward them. Peeking from beneath her lashes, Annie noted dark eyes, curly black hair, and a signet ring on his left hand. So, Mr. Wonderful was a college boy. Smooth. Cultured. And incredibly handsome.

For a moment she felt a surge of adrenaline, a moment of alertness, and something rose to the tip of her tongue . . . then disappeared. Whatever she'd remembered was gone. As he came closer she lifted her head and studied him head-on. She was sure she had never met the man, but she'd known plenty like him. Most were jerks, pretty boys with more flash than character.

“Honey,” Melanie looped her arm through his, “I want you to meet my friend, Annie. Annie, this is A. J.”

Mr. Right gave her the slow, easy kind of smile that made a woman smile back. “Annie.” He extended a hand. The faint scent of expensive cologne teased her senses.

She gave him a brief smile. “A. J.”

Melanie squeezed his bicep. “I was just telling Annie that if we asked real nice, you might take us up to see the lights of the city.”

Annie blinked. How had she missed that?

“Tonight?” The easy smile remained in place though surprise flickered briefly across his face. Melanie squeezed his arm again, then turned back to Annie. “A. J.'s a pilot. He owns his own plane—unless you're afraid to fly? I know you lost your parents in a plane crash.”

“It's okay.” Annie cleared her throat. She had too much of her pilot father in her to fear flying. Sometimes at takeoff she developed butterflies in her stomach for a few minutes, but by the time the plane leveled her fears always subsided.

“The plane's small,” Melanie's man warned, still smiling. “A 182 Cessna.”

“A small four-seater,” Melanie teased. “Like we all have a plane. Wouldn't that be fun, Annie, to view Christmas lights from the air?”

“I don't know.” Annie cast about for an excuse. She hated to be a fifth wheel—or, in this case, a third party.

“Come on,” Melanie pressed. “How often do you get a chance to fly in a private plane with such a competent pilot?” She tilted her head and cast a dazzling smile at Mr. Right.

Annie frowned. How did Melanie know this man was a competent pilot? For all she knew he could be a crazed psychopath who preyed on starry-eyed women. But, she decided, looking him over, he seemed perfectly sane and fairly comfortable with the suggestion. Melanie might be impulsive and change men as often as Annie changed shoes, but she had a sound intuition about people.

“Come on, spoil sport.” Melanie made a playful moue. “A. J.'s a real doll to ask.”

A. J. hadn't asked; Melanie had coerced him. But Annie adored flying, and a Christmas-lit Portland by air would be spectacular.

Before she could think of a reason to protest, she found herself in the backseat of Mr. Right's metallic gray Lexus.

“Nice car,” she said, getting in.

“Belongs to the company.” He tossed the answer casually over his shoulder.

“Nice company,” she answered. “Any openings for a frustrated botanist?”

In answer, he grinned at her in the rearview mirror.