A Warmth in Winter (3 page)

“Daddy will have to take care of himself,” he finally answered, keeping his eyes on the TV.

The answer seemed to satisfy Brittany, who sighed and hugged her doll. But Bobby couldn't forget the question— what if their daddy couldn't get help?

The weather hauses had arrived at Mooseleuk's.

Elezar Smith's smile widened as he held up one of the charming weather houses from Germany's Black Forest. The weather predictors were a favorite with island visitors. When dry weather was expected, the frau came out-of-doors; when ill weather threatened, die frau retreated and der mann of the house came out.

“Vernie?” The store clerk bent over the counter to peer up the winding staircase where the mercantile's living quarters were located: three undersized rooms, a small bath with a shower, sink, and commode, and a kitchenette last remodeled a hundred years ago and in dire need of renovation.

“What is that woman up to now?” Elezar leaned farther on the counter, trying to see up the stairs. Vernie Bidderman, proprietor of Mooseleuk Mercantile, had not been herself for days. She seemed thoughtful and distant, though Elezar couldn't discover a reason for her preoccupation.

When no answer came, Elezar reached for a box of colorful cross-stitched Christmas samplers portraying Saint Nicholas. He frowned as he read: “Saint Nicholas, the bishop of Myra in Asia Minor during the fourth century, was renowned for his generosity and his fondness for children. Dressed in his red-and-white bishop's regalia, he delivered gifts of fruits, nuts, and small toys to children not on December 25, but on December 6.”

Rolling his eyes, Elezar reached for a utility knife and slid the blade along the edge of a box of women's chamois nightshirts. The evolution of Saint Nicholas into Santa Claus never failed to amaze him. These earthly folks had bizarre imaginations.

He glanced up the stairs a third time. If Vernie didn't come down soon, he'd have to go up after her. Boxes of merchandise cluttered the floor, all needing to be unpacked and shelved. He was willing to serve, but he didn't have a clue how she wanted to arrange the newly arrived stock.

He pulled a nightshirt from the box, held it against his chest for a moment, then grinned and set it aside. The other angels would laugh if they saw him holding up a lady's nightshirt, but they'd have to admit the soft beige fabric set off his cocoa colored skin.

In her bedroom overhead, Vernie Bidderman perched on the side of her mattress and sorted through the contents of a shoebox. Moisture had formed in the corner of her eyes, a reaction, she was certain, having more to do with the dusty objects on her lap than nostalgia.

Carefully she lifted each object and returned it to the shoebox—pressed flowers, a bronze butterfly pin Stanley had given her on their first Christmas together, and Stanley's high-school class ring. She hesitated as she picked up the marriage license with the names Ingrid Veronica Riche and Stanley Bruce Bidderman inscribed in black ink and stamped with the seal of the State of Maine.

Outside the window, a cold wind whistled under the eaves as Vernie's thoughts reluctantly led back to the night she and Stanley had taken the marital plunge. They had not been kids. Stanley was twenty-eight; Vernie trailed him by a year. Her parents, Greta and Rolf Riche, warned her the match would be disastrous. Her father hadn't bothered to pull his verbal punches: “Why, Stanley is meek-mannered, while you, Vernie, have the diplomacy of a bulldozer running on high-octane premium!”

Despite her parents' objections, attraction overruled common sense. Or maybe it was love, Vernie decided a year later when the bloom still fragranced the rose.

Marriage to Stanley wasn't all that bad, and they'd forged a workable relationship. Maybe it wasn't Romeo and Juliet, but what couple did have the perfect marriage? Stanley let her have her way, and she let Stanley join a Thursday night bowling league. When Thursday night rolled around, Stanley would eat a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup, then put on his turquoise bowling shirt with “Hank's Lube and Tube” silk-screened across the back in red lettering. He'd then pick up his AMF bag containing a pair of white size 10 Dexter shoes and a sixteen-pound blue fingertip Dino-Thane ball Vernie had scrimped for months to buy him. At exactly six-thirty he'd throw his beloved ball and watch it thump and rattle down the polished alley.

He wasn't the best bowler, but marriage had been a good arrangement.

Dabbing the corners of her eyes, Vernie focused on a yellowed newspaper clipping announcing the Bidderman nuptials. Thirty-nine years had passed since that cold, snowy wedding day. Had Mr. Bidderman elected to come home that night back in '81, they would have celebrated their anniversary on December second. Tomorrow.

The tight knot in Vernie's throat threatened to suffocate her. She inhaled deeply, then heard the door to the mercantile open, followed by Cleta Lansdown's high-pitched warble. “Is Vernie busy?”

Elezar's soft baritone drifted up the staircase. “Vernie? You got a customer down here.”

Flushed, Vernie slammed the lid on the shoebox, then shoved it beneath the double bed so suddenly she startled MaGoo. The cat blinked his cone-shaped eyes, gave her a how-dare-you-disturb-me look, then went back to sleep.

Sliding off the bed, Vernie straightened her dress and repinned a strand of loose hair. Lately she'd been acting like a moonstruck fool. If Cleta knew she was up here pining over some shoebox filled with long-forgotten memories, she'd—well, she'd have a good chuckle.

“Vernie?”

“Coming, Elezar!” Land, a body didn't have time to think around here! After giving the mirror a fleeting glance, she closed the door, firmly leaving the shoebox and its memories behind her.

Cleta Lansdown, manager and co-owner of the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast, stood chatting with Elezar. Four sets of peppermint pigs sat on the counter in front of her. Vernie eyed the doodads, a Victorian tradition, as she came down the stairs. Those candies were a big favorite with Cleta every year.

“You buying more of those?” Vernie called.

The first lady of the Baskahegan B&B grinned and picked up a set of the hard candy. “Did you know that smashing one of these things is supposed to bring happiness and prosperity throughout the coming year?”

“Good grief, Cleta.” The swine sets were cute and gimmicky and sold like maple syrup, but Vernie doubted the pigs produced anything more noteworthy than a cavity. “You don't believe that stuff, do you?”

“Oh, Floyd and Barbara get a kick out of smashing the pigs on New Year's Eve—and you've got to admit the little red velvet bag and steel hammer is as cute as a bug's ear.”

As Cleta added another set to her order, Vernie made her way to her desk, refilled her glass of Coke, and took a long swallow. Floyd was Cleta's other half, and Barbara the Lansdowns' only child. Barbara and her husband, lobster-man Russell Higgs, married three years back. Before the ink on the license was dry, Russell moved in with Cleta and Floyd, lock, stock, and barrel. Now Barbara and Russell appeared to have taken root. Talk no longer centered on when Barbara and Russell would move, but
if
Barbara and Russell would move. Cleta didn't seem to mind having her daughter in the house, but Floyd said feeding Russell was like shoveling coal into licking flames. Cleta would get red in the face when he talked like that, and shy Barbara would run, but the Higgses and the Lansdowns hadn't come to blows.

Yet.

Vernie eyed Cleta sourly, then took another long drink. Remembering her manners, she turned and focused an eye on her guest. “Want a Coke?” she mumbled around the rim of the glass.

“No, thanks.” Cleta dropped a pair of red fleece earmuffs to the pile of merchandise. “Stopped by to see if you want to go shopping with me over to Ogunquit.”

Vernie's glass paused in midair. “Today?”

“Of course.” Cleta nodded to Elezar. “That'll do it, Elezar.”

After draining her glass, Vernie set it on the counter. “Can't. Promised to help Bea with the angel mail.”

Last month someone on the Internet had launched a ridiculous urban legend about angels working miracles on Heavenly Daze. Since then, everybody in town except old Salt Gribbon, the curmudgeonly lighthouse keeper, had been enlisted at one time or another to help answer letters.

Cleta waved Vernie's intentions aside. “Oh, come and go. Bea has plenty of help today. When I passed the bakery a few minutes ago, several of the Smith men were working in there.” She fished in her drawstring purse for money to pay her bill. “You haven't got another thing to do and the outing will do you a world of good. I saw this cute tree ornament I want to buy at the drugstore.”

“You can buy ornaments from me.”

“Not this one—it's a Hallmark.”

Vernie glanced out the front window. Hour by hour the clouds grew lower and thicker. For all the world, it looked like Heavenly Daze had been gripped by what might become one of the worst winters in years. Now a stiff wind whipped bare oak branches outside the mercantile, and Vernie shuddered to think of the bone-chilling walk to the ferry. Captain Stroble had already given notice that if foul weather descended, the ferry could close on a moment's notice.

The smiling clerk sacked the order and tied the butcher paper bag with a colorful red ribbon. “Why don't you go, Vernie? You've got a warm coat and mittens. I don't have a thing to do but put the new stock away. I'm assuming you want these things near the front?”

Vernie nodded absently. “Ayuh—anywhere you think best. You have a knack for arranging things.”

“Thanks.” Elezar shifted his gaze to Cleta. “Once I close up here, I plan to mosey on over to the bakery myself.”

Vernie sighed. It had been weeks since she visited the mainland. And her mood wasn't exactly A-1 today.

“Oh, come on,” Cleta nudged as Vernie vacillated. “You need to get out, get a little color in your cheeks. We can pick up a few Christmas presents, then eat a bite of lunch. I might even treat us to a movie. Popcorn's on me. Nicolas Cage has a new movie out.”

Vernie wasn't in the mood for shopping, popcorn, or a movie, but Cleta was right, she could use a break. Monotony had begun to set in and the worst of winter was yet to come. She glanced at Elezar, who smiled and nodded. “Are you sure?”

“Ayuh.” He picked up Vernie's coat, then came out from behind the counter to slip it over her shoulders. After adding her hat, scarf, and an encouraging pat, he slipped his hands into his apron and grinned. “Have a good afternoon, ladies.”

The amicable offering barely registered as Vernie's thoughts darted toward the last man who'd slipped a coat over her shoulders.

Stanley the Fink.

Stanley, the skunk who left to go bowling and forgot to come home.

With only a bare nod to Elezar, Vernie followed Cleta out of the store.

Chapter Three

O
gunquit's main street looked sleepy. A few residents hurried from stores to their cars, but for the most part, the town seemed as quiet as a church.

By late afternoon the women were tired of shopping and ready to fortify themselves for the windy ferry ride back to Heavenly Daze. Ducking into a restaurant, they stashed their shopping bags and took off their heavy gloves. The waitress set two glasses of water on the table and smiled. “What'll it be, ladies?”

“Hot tea for me,” Vernie said.

Cleta agreed. “With lemon and honey.”

“Earl Grey or Lipton?”

“Earl Grey.”

“Lipton.”

A string of colorful Christmas lights ringed the restaurant's window. One bulb was out and another one flickered, but still the decorations looked pretty. Steam frosted the plate glass so it was just about impossible to see out.

Vernie watched the tops of shoppers' heads bob by.

A white fleece hat.

A bright red woolen scarf.

A battered, snow-encrusted bowler. She cringed. Eugene Fleming.

The old goat that had pursued her for the last six months. As if she'd have the slightest interest in Eugene— or any man, for that matter. When Stanley walked out and vanished twenty years ago, Vernie had washed her hands of men—all men. She wasn't about to fall into that sinkhole again.

Cleta saw the bowler, too. “Look, Vernie.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There's Eugene.”

Carefully folding a paper napkin, Vernie changed the subject. “What are you getting Floyd for Christmas?”

The ploy worked; Cleta sobered instantly. “A lump of coal.”

A smile hovered at the corners of Vernie's mouth. Floyd wasn't exactly known for reckless or generous spending. Every year Cleta complained about her Christmas present or her lack of one. One year Floyd bought her a Teflon-coated frying pan, and the day after Christmas he walked around town with a knot on his head the size of a goose egg. He said he'd banged his forehead on an attic rafter, but rumor had it that Cleta had put his gift to appropriate use. No one really knew what had happened, but speculation ran rampant until Floyd finally stood up in church and demanded that the town stop gossipin'. He'd heard more than enough about that frying pan.

Cleta picked up a thread of their former conversation. “So what's wrong with Eugene?”

Vernie consulted her watch. “You got all day?”

Grinning, Cleta smiled at the waitress when she set two pots of hot water on the table, followed by Earl Grey and Lipton tea bags. She stepped away for an instant, then returned with a saucer of lemon wedges. “Anything else I can get you, ladies?”

The women shook their heads in unison. “That'll be all,” Cleta announced, dropping the bag of Earl Grey into her cup.

Picking up the stainless steel pot of hot water, Cleta fixed Vernie with a stern look. “Eugene's a fine man and he's interested in you. Told Sue Ellen Parsons he was. Why do you want to ignore him?”