A Warmth in Winter (27 page)

She pressed her fingertips to the mirror and shivered at the chill of the glass. Bea thought Birdie was infatuated with Salt, and maybe she was, a little, but she was far more concerned about Bobby and Brittany. Those kids had never known a mother, if Salt's story could be trusted, and their exile up at Puffin Cove couldn't be good for them, especially at Christmas.

But what could she do? She'd tried to convince Salt that the townsfolk could be trusted, but he didn't believe her. She'd begged him to let her involve Bea, whose heart was tender, but he'd insisted that the postmistress encountered too many people on a daily basis and therefore couldn't keep a secret. She'd tried to make a case for involving the pastor and his wife, or Babette and Charles, but to each entreaty Salt turned a deaf ear.

He was, she decided, like an offshore lighthouse, built to stand alone in a sea of trouble. Through her reading she'd learned that off-shore lighthouses had to be extra-tough in order to withstand the pounding sea, underwater quakes, and even iceberg collisions. Trouble was, once built, the sea isolated them from everyone and everything.

An out-of-tune rendition of “O Come All Ye Faithful” snapped her out of her reverie. An instant later she heard a short rap at the bathroom door. “Um, excuse me, Birdie, but I've put the care package on your kitchen table. It's all ready for you.”

“Coming.” She cleared the thickness from her throat, then buttoned her coat. She'd run up to the point and check on the kids, leave them some bakery goodies, and ask if Salt needed anything from the mercantile. Then she'd come back home and try to focus on something useful like coming up with something she could bake that didn't require nutmeg. Or maybe she'd help Bea answer some of the angel mail . . . or she could organize her underwear drawer. Something, anything, was better than worrying about Salt and the kids.

She stood her collar around her throat, then pulled her gloves from her pocket and glanced down the hall. Abner stood in the doorway that led to the bakery, and a shadow of concern darkened his eyes.

He smiled at her as if she were a small child. “You be careful up there, Miss Birdie.”

“Oh, Abner”—she yanked on her gloves—“the wind's not that bad.”

“I wasn't referring to the wind.”

Before she could look up to search his face, the man had turned the corner and disappeared.

The wind had picked up by the time Birdie rolled up to the lighthouse, and she was surprised to see Salt standing outside the small outbuilding that housed the generator. His serious eyes were intent upon the road, and his expression softened only a little when she unzipped the vinyl covering of her cart and waved hello.

The rising wind came whooshing past her, lifting her hair and whipping her coat around her frame as she walked toward him. “How be you?” she called, looking around for the children.

“Nicely,” he answered, glancing down the road as if he expected her to bring an entire parade of townspeople into his sacred territory.

“It's just me, Salt,” she said, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets as she walked forward. She gave him a smile, then inclined her head toward the lighthouse. “Are the children inside?”

He shook his head, then jerked his thumb toward the old dory he kept on the beach. “They're under there. When we heard you comin', I told 'em to scoot out of sight.”

“Why, they'll catch their death under there.” Leaving him to his tinkering, Birdie walked toward the boat. “Bobby? Brittany? You can come out; it's only me.”

In an instant, two hooded heads appeared and two smiles flashed in her direction.

“I've brought some goodies for you.” She pointed toward the cart. “Abner's been busy baking, and he gave me a package of cookies and candy for you.”

Brittany scrambled out from under the boat, her sweet face a combination of rose and pearl and wet sand. “Can we look?”

“You may look, and you may have a cookie,” Birdie said. “After that, you'll have to ask your grandfather. I wouldn't want to spoil your supper.”

As the children sprinted toward the golf cart, Birdie turned back to Salt. He had finished with the generator, apparently, for he'd closed the door and was wiping his bare hands on a grease-stained towel.

“Salt,” Birdie began, moving toward him, “can we go inside? I really need to talk to you about Christmas.”

Salt shook his head. “I don't want to leave the kids out alone. Yesterday they stayed out longer than an hour, and for a few minutes I couldn't find 'em. I nearly went out of my head with worry.”

Birdie drew a deep breath. He wasn't going to make this easy.

“Salt, I really wish you'd let me tell the other townspeople about the children. They could help, especially with Christmas. I'm sure you're going to want to do something special for the kids, but they've already missed the town party—”

“Don't need anything. I'm managin' fine, with your help.” He gave her a grudging nod. “And I wasn't planning on doing much for Christmas. We'll just keep quiet and stay out of sight. No sense in getting the kids all riled up about things they can't have.”

“Why can't they share in our holiday?” She brushed the windblown bangs out of her eyes. “Maybe you've forgotten, Salt, but Christmas means everything to children. You don't have to give them a stack of presents, but a gift and a festive dinner might be nice—and I'd even be willing to cook the dinner. And the Christmas Eve service—why, that's what Christmas is all about.”

He shook his head without looking at her. “We don't need all that stuff. We're doing fine on our own.”

“Not quite.” Birdie lifted her chin. “This morning I spoke to Babette Graham, who's convinced her son is either a liar or developing multiple personalities. Seems Georgie was with Bobby and Brittany yesterday, and the three of them painted pictures. Georgie went home and showed his mom the paintings—” She shrugged. “Well, you get the idea. Quite frankly, your secret is causing Babette a lot of grief, and I don't like being caught in the middle.”

His brow wrinkled. “I never intended for you to be involved at all.”

“I know, but sometimes—well, sometimes the Lord leads us to places we never expected to be. I never thought I'd be spending hours thinking about two children who mean nothing—I mean, who aren't mine by blood relation.” She softened her voice. “Because, you see, they have come to mean a great deal to me. I only want what's best for those kids, and I think the town could give them a lot more than you and I could. Why, Dana Klackenbush is wonderful with children, and she could teach them. And Olympia de Cuvier's Tallulah would love to play with the kids—”

“That mangy mutt is up here all the time,” Salt interrupted. “So is that dog with the smashed-in face.”

“Butch.” Birdie supplied the name. “He's the Klackenbushes' bulldog.” She hesitated. “Did the children . . . did they like playing with the dogs?”

Salt snorted. “Whaddya think, woman? I had to chase the durn dogs away before I could get the kids back in the lighthouse, and it colder than a clam digger's hands out.”

Birdie crossed her arms. “You see? Those kids need someone to play with. There's a whole town down there that'd be willing to keep company with those children, but you've got to let them in on the secret. There's no shame in asking for help, none at all. And it's what you need to do, especially with Christmas only four days away.”

Salt set his jaw, bristling the whiskers on his cheek. “I can handle things.” He turned and lifted a hand to the side of his mouth. “Bob! Brittany! You two come here and say good-bye to Miss Birdie. She doesn't have time for any more than a dooryard visit today.”

Birdie lowered her gaze, lest he see the hot tears that had filled her eyes.

Salt blew out his cheeks as the children came forward with cookies in their hands and a sizable bakery bag tucked beneath Bobby's arm.

“Do you hafta go?” Brittany asked, her face screwing up into a question mark.

“Apparently I do.” Birdie's voice had gone as cold as the wind. She smiled though and bent to pat Brittany's cheek. “But I'm sure I'll be back before too long. After all, Christmas is right around the corner.”

Determined to ignore her, Salt rested a hand on his hip. “Miss Birdie brought me a bit of bad news from town. Seems that Georgie Graham's in a peck of trouble with his folks for playing with you two. So from now on, you'll have to stay away from that boy. If you see him comin', you get on inside the lighthouse and stay put until he leaves.”

“But, Grandfather!” The genuine alarm in Bobby's voice caught Salt by surprise. The child had never argued or voiced a disagreement with any of Salt's rules.

He gave Bobby a stern glance. “You don't want that boy getting in trouble, do you?”

He shifted his gaze from Bobby to Brittany. Sadly, these kids knew what trouble meant, and though Georgie would probably never experience the tortures and neglect these two had known, still, it wouldn't hurt to stress a point.

Lifting his gaze, he saw Birdie staring at him, her lips pressed together and her eyes glowing with rebuke.

He looked away. “That settles it, then. No more playing with Georgie.”

Brittany's eyes welled with tears. “Did we do something wrong? We said we were sorry for staying out too long yesterday.”

Unable to stand the sight of the girl's distress, Salt turned and fumbled with the padlock on the door. You had to be firm with children, just like you had to be firm with men.

He heard an audible sniff from Birdie, then the crunch of boots upon gravel as she walked away. Then he heard her call. “Come here, kids, and give me a hug before I take off. What would you like me to bring when I come again? More molasses cookies? Maybe some gingerbread?”

Salt turned in time to see her bend and hug each child. He blew out his cheeks, then walked toward the shore, unable to suppress the troubling notion that he had somehow failed.

Despite all he'd done for those children, he could count on one finger how many times they'd hugged
him.

Taking Brittany's hand, Bobby stepped back as Miss Birdie zipped the cover to her cart, then waved and drove away. He watched her round the corner and disappear past the dunes, then he turned and saw the grandfather standing alone by the rocky shore.

Something had happened between the grandfather and Miss Birdie, something Bad, but no one had yelled or slapped or cried. Bad things at his daddy's house had always included yelling and slapping and crying, so for a moment he'd thought he had misunderstood . . . but he knew Bad well enough to recognize it.

So. Bad things could happen on this island, too. Only they sounded different. So maybe Bad things had been happening all along, and he'd been too much of a numb-head to realize it.

“Bobby?” Britt tilted her head to look up at him. “Did he mean we can never play with Georgie again?”

“I don't know,” Bobby answered, his gaze fastened to the grandfather's back, “but we shouldn't now, that's for sure.”

Brittany considered a moment. “But I like Georgie. I want to marry him.”

Bobby shrugged. “Well, then, I suppose you can. And maybe we can still play with him.”

His sister's eyes went round. “You mean—”

“Why do we have to obey him?” Bobby nodded toward the grandfather. “I mean, how do we know he's really our grandfather? Daddy never said anything about him. And he took us for no reason; he came and put us in his boat. Maybe we're kidnapped.”

He glanced down at his sister and felt a rush of relief when he saw that the word had registered. She'd watched enough TV to know that being kidnapped was big-time Bad Stuff.

“We're kidnapped?” She squeezed his hand. “So who's going to rescue us?”

“Nobody. 'Cause nobody knows we're here.” Bobby pulled her toward the road. “Come on, let's walk.”

He set out across the salt marsh at a quick pace, much faster than his grandfather could move, and fast enough to make Britt pant after a few steps. They walked fast and far, taking care to keep the sand dunes between them and the houses of Heavenly Daze.

“Maybe we will keep playing with Georgie,” he said, his breath misting in the frosty air. “Maybe we'll run away and go back to Daddy.”

Brittany stopped in her tracks. “But where is Daddy?”

“We came over in the boat, didn't we?” Bobby jerked on her hand and reestablished his pace. “We'll take the boat and go back. When we get to the other side, we'll call the police. They'll know how to take us back to Daddy.”

“Do you really want to go back?” Britt's brows settled in a straight line above her eyes. “There'd be no more cookies. No more Froot Loops. And no more dogs, unless you count the big one that growls at us every time we walk past the neighbor's door.”

“At least we'd be with Daddy.” Bobby stopped and faced his sister, suddenly unable to explain what he was feeling. How could he make a girl understand? Daddy was loud, and messy, and he drank and stank and hit them, but at least they knew him. Bobby knew what he had to do at Daddy's place—he had to clean up the messes, keep quiet while Daddy slept, bring in the mail, and not answer the phone. He knew how to carry the empty bottles in a sack without letting them chink together, because the chinking sound always woke Daddy, and if he woke when he'd been drinking, he'd be mean and growly and as dangerous as a bear.

But at the grandfather's house, he never knew what a day would bring. The grandfather wanted to do most of the work, and he wanted them to play, but sometimes he didn't want them to play, and sometimes he seemed terribly afraid of something.

On those nights, when the grandfather sat in the fire-lit darkness and stared up at the twirling light overhead, terror gripped Bobby, too.