A Warmth in Winter (24 page)

“My, my,” she murmured, bending to grasp the edge of the comforter. “Cleta must be slipping a little.” She gave a yank, pulling in one smooth movement, and in that instant a body shot up from the bed, hair waving atop its head, shrunken chest looking like that of a dead man, and blue boxer shorts—

A man!

Vernie screamed and closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight. This intruder must have sneaked into the house while Floyd and Cleta were at church, and he was hiding out in this room—

“Heavenly days!” a voice croaked. “Can't a man get some sleep in this place?”

Vernie halted in midscreech. Opening one eye, she peered at the apparition and shuddered when she realized the apparition was peering back.

Oh, my. This was no intruder—it was Stanley Bidderman. Older, thinner, and balder, but unmistakably the rat.

Time froze as Vernie collided with her past. For a long moment she stared, then her anger rose in a full-throttled rush.

“Floyd Lansdown,” she shrieked, dropping the comforter to the floor. Without missing a step, she trotted down the attic stairs and burst headlong into Floyd's sickroom. Cleta nearly dropped the glass of orange juice she was force-feeding her robe-wrapped husband. “Why do you have that man in your house?”

Stanley followed a few minutes later, his eyes as dark as two burnt holes in a blanket.

Forgetting Floyd, Vernie turned on her long-lost husband. “What are you doing here, Stanley Bidderman?”

Stanley lifted his hands in a don't-shoot pose. “Now listen, Vernie, I can explain—”

“Floyd!” Cleta exploded. “Did you know Stanley was in the attic bedroom? How long have you had him hidden up there?”

Floyd rolled over in bed and covered his head with both arms. “I'm siiiiick, Cleta. Have mercy.”

“Behind my back, you brought that—that—” Running out of words, Cleta thumped out of the room and down the stairs. While Vernie sputtered and turned her fury upon Stanley, Cleta returned a moment later with Floyd's grandpa's ten-gauge shotgun. At the sight of the weapon, Floyd struggled out of bed and began to wrestle with his wife.

“Cleta Lansdown, have you lost your mind? Give me that!”

“Don't you touch this gun, Floyd! I took a vow, and Stanley has this coming!”

As Vernie yelled and shook her fist at her bewildered husband, Russell entered the room and demanded, “Where's the fire?” Barbara hovered in the hallway, timidly peering around her husband's frame.

Russell snapped his suspenders into place. “Mom, put the shotgun away. You could hurt someone!”

“I'm gonna put the fear of God in him!”

“Sweetums, you have to listen, ah-ah-achoo!”

“Cleeeeeta! Be reasonable!”

“You're sick, Floyd! Be quiet! Stanley, get over here and take your medicine like a man!”

And while the Lansdown household wrestled and yelled and thundered over the floor, Vernie separated herself from the commotion and stared at the scene, then shook her head.

For this she was missing the Sunday night movie? Sighing, she turned and left the room, then took the stairs one slow step at a time.

She had some serious thinking to do.

“There, now. That ought to hold you awhile.” Elezar gave MaGoo an affectionate pat as he watched the cat lick a bowl of cream. The pudgy feline purred, leaving the treat long enough to affectionately rub the length of the man's leg.

“Yes, you're a good ol' kitty—”

Elezar shot straight up when the front door opened and slammed so hard the percussion toppled a display of cardboard Christmas trees standing on the counter.

MaGoo hissed, his four legs stiffening as his fur stood on end.

Vernie filled the doorway, her cap perched unevenly on the top her head, her earflaps hanging lopsided. Steam rolled out of the wool plaid collar.

Eyes widening, Elezar dropped the can of cream, splattering the sticky contents over the floor and MaGoo's back.

“My goodness . . . Vernie?” Elezar took a tentative step forward. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Snatching the hat off her head, Vernie marched through the store, shoving displays out of her way. Cans of tomatoes and tuna crashed to the floor. An apple barrel overturned. MaGoo bolted for cover.

Muttering under her breath, Vernie shrugged off her coat and threw it in the general direction of the closet. She peeled off her galoshes, and then stomped back to the counter where she uncapped a thirty-two-ounce bottle of Coke and poured a tall glass, adding a splash of vanilla. She took a long, deliberate swig, lowered the glass, then added another dash. While Elezar held his breath, she drank the heavily-laced Coke and drummed her fingers on the counter as if she could drive her nails through the pine.

Elezar stood by, uncertain. Vernie was upset, but why? A simple errand of mercy shouldn't have aroused this kind of irritation.

Vernie took another long drink, her throat bobbing with each swallow. After a deep gulp, her gaze fixed on him. “Do you know who's sleeping in the Lansdowns' attic?”

Elezar felt a frown creep onto his face. “Do Floyd and Cleta have guests?”

“Do they!” Vernie eyed him, tossing down another swallow. When she finished, she belched, then wiped her mouth with the corner of her sleeve.

Expectancy hovered on Elezar's face as he waited for her to continue. She'd been in a good mood earlier— watching TV and relaxing. What could have lit her fuse?

“Vernie?” he prompted.

“What?”

“Do the Lansdowns have a guest?”

Vernie slammed her glass down on the counter. “There I was, minding my own business and getting extra blankets for Floyd who's sick as a goose that's eaten ripe peaches. I was doing the Christian thing, pitching in when somebody's down and out.”

Elezar nodded. “Stomach flu?”

“Head, stomach, you name it.” Vernie picked up the soda bottle and refilled her glass. “Judas!” she yelled. The clerk jumped when she slammed the bottle to the counter. His eyes scanned the room for a suspect. Judas? What had gotten into her?

“Judas!” she reiterated, splashing more syrup into her drink.

Elezar inched forward. “Excuse me, Vernie . . . have I done something to upset you?”

“Not you. Him.” Vernie sputtered (highly irregular for Vernie). Now Elezar noticed that she was shaking, her hand unsteady as she lifted the glass back to her mouth. Crossing the floor, he took her by the shoulders and gently steered her to a nearby bench. She sat down with a stunned look on her face, and then her tongue loosened.

“There he was, Elezar. Big as life, hunched under the covers, feverish and talking out of his head. After all these years—can you imagine? I should have known he'd try something like this—but how did he get here?” Vernie's eyes darted to the front window where sleet pelted the pane. “The Devil himself couldn't get across in this kind of weather.”

The woman wasn't making a lick of sense. “Who?” Elezar asked, sinking to the bench beside her. “Who was under the covers feverish and talking out of his mind?”

The fight suddenly drained out of her. She slumped, and Elezar caught her, holding her tightly for a moment. Whatever was wrong was bad wrong, he decided. Trivial matters didn't upset Vernie.

“What is it?” he asked softly. “What has you so distressed?”

Emotion clogged her voice. “Stanley. Stanley's at the Lansdowns'.” She looked up, tears rolling from her eyes. “Did you know, Elezar? Did you know Floyd invited Stanley into his home?”

Elezar's heart ached. “I knew.”

Hurt shone from Vernie's red-rimmed eyes. “And you didn't warn me?”

“No, I didn't.”

“Why?”

Elezar shook his head. “It wasn't my place to warn you, Vernie. But you have to face him. Whether tonight or tomorrow or the day after. This is a matter only you can settle.”

Shrugging out of his hold, Vernie crossed her arms. “Why is he here?”

“You would have to ask Mr. Bidderman.”

“Oh, I know why.” Vernie tipped her head back and took a deep breath. “He's here to beg my forgiveness.”

Elezar let the words echo in the empty store a moment, then he whispered, “You don't know that.”

“Oh, I do know that.” She drummed her fingers on her knee. “He thinks I'm angry, but I'm not angry.”

Elezar kept quiet. Unacknowledged and suppressed emotion often hindered the ability to forgive. And Vernie had harbored a horde of pain and hurt for years.

“I'll tell you one thing—I can't forget. He can't expect me to just smile and say hello as if nothing had ever happened.”

The clerk nodded.

“And someone has to pay,” she murmured.

Elezar scratched his head. Who had to pay? Stanley? Vernie? Elezar longed to remind her that every argument had two sides. But he remained silent. He was not there to judge, but to minister.

She shoved up from the bench. “If Stanley is here to ask forgiveness, he doesn't know me. He doesn't understand how a woman's need for justice differs from a man's need for . . . whatever.”

“Men and women aren't so different,” Elezar pointed out. “Everyone seeks justice. And everyone needs forgiveness.”

“There is no justice in this situation. Stanley walked out on me. Period. I didn't walk out on him. I'm living with the memories, not him. I can't forgive myself for being such a fool. I shouldn't even try.”

“Is forgiveness not an option?”

Vernie shrugged the suggestion aside. “I'm not the forgiving kind.”

Elezar closed his eyes a moment, seeking direction from the Spirit. “Forgiving someone who violated your trust doesn't mean pretending nothing ever happened.” He worked gently now.

“If I forgave him, God forbid, he would only walk out again. I know his kind.”

“Yet he was a trusted husband and your confidant for years, wasn't he?”

“Until he decided to go out and forget he ever knew me.” She walked to the counter and pounded it with her fist. “Not one word—all these years, not one word! And now I find him in my best friend's house, cozy as a bug in a rug in their attic bedroom, and not one person thought to inform me the rat was back in his nest.”

Elezar tilted his head. “I understand Stanley is very ill.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Physically ill,” Elezar said, a note of reproach in his voice.

“He's going to be more than physically ill when I get my hands on him.” Straightening, she pushed her empty glass aside.

“Then you do plan to see him?”

“Certainly not. I wouldn't waste the time of day on that man.”

“How will you know what he wants if you refuse to talk to him?”

Vernie whirled on him with a flash of defensive spirit. “I know what he wants. He wants what all men want after their little midlife fling. Forgiveness from the dutiful wife. Well, let me tell you something, Elezar Smith. Forgiveness is a journey; the deeper the wound, the longer the journey. My wounds are so deep it would take an angel and a Ditch Witch to unearth them. Stanley can't just waltz in here after all these years and pretend all is forgiven. Life doesn't work that way.”

“But, Vernie! His purpose for coming may be something entirely different—”

Her features hardened. “I know one thing—I'll never speak to Floyd Lansdown again. He's responsible for this fiasco, and I'm going to find out what part Cleta's played in the whole mess, too!”

Whirling, she stomped toward the stairway, leaving Elezar to wearily view her ascent.

Oh, Vernie,
he pleaded silently.
When humans forgive, they set a prisoner free . . . and the one released is not the forgiven, but the one who forgives.

Chapter Seventeen

O
n Wednesday morning, Salt slipped another log into the woodstove, then latched the iron door and slowly rose from his knees. The lighthouse seemed preternaturally silent without the children—in the past few months, he'd grown used to their laughter and arguments, even the quiet sounds of their breathing at night. He'd intended to keep them only until Patrick got help, but how could he adjust to the silence if they left?

On the other hand, what if Patrick never got his act together? The boy could be sitting over in that filthy apartment right now, a full bottle in his hand and an empty heart in his chest. Salt loved the children, but Birdie Wester had been right about one thing—he was seventy years old. Though he felt strong and capable, every day his aching body and weakening eyes reminded him that man's days are numbered, his strength a finite thing . . .

After moving to the kitchen sink, he washed the soot off his hands and stared out the window at a snowy landscape. The children were playing in front of the lighthouse, just as he'd told them. Bobby wore the puffy blue snowsuit Birdie had found at a yard sale in Ogunquit; Brittany's was the color of a ripe orange and made her look like a pumpkin. But both outfits were down-filled and certain to keep the kids warm.

In the past week and a half, Birdie had become Salt's lifeline. Before the weather stopped the ferry, she'd gone over to the mainland and picked up what he needed for the children, and she'd been careful, she assured him, to buy things from folks who didn't know her. Now nearly every day she brought something nice for him or the kids—new books, something tasty from the bakery, a couple of boxes of medicated tissues when Brittany got the sniffles.

She'd even begun to read up on lighthouses. The Heavenly Daze lighthouse, she informed Salt, had been built in 1898 and immediately fitted with a Fresnel lens and electricity. “That's the best kind of lens in the world,” she told him, lifting her chin, “and I happen to know that this one uses a thousand-watt bulb—that's equal to the brightness of 449,000 candles.”

Salt laughed. “What are you trying to do, woman, impress me?”