A Warmth in Winter (6 page)

“This isn't working.” Bobby handed the dripping cloth back to Brittany, who tossed it in the sink as if it were a disgusting thing. “What else can we use?”

Moving quietly, he opened drawers and cabinets without finding anything useful. Britt found a drawer of clean dishtowels, but if he used one of them, he'd have to leave it dripping in the sink. When he woke up, the grandfather would see it and know about the spill and the wastefulness.

Better to find something else.

Brittany held up an appliance she'd found in a cabinet. “How about this?”

Bobby grinned. “A DustBuster!” He'd seen the commercial a thousand times. On TV the tiny vacuum cleaner picked up dirt, lint, cat hair, and, of course, dust. Why wouldn't it pick up orange juice?

He took the machine from Britt and felt its weight against his palm. He gave the on button a quick push to test the noise, then decided the low rushing sound wouldn't bother the grandfather. If he'd slept through Brittany's squeal and his own splashing, the tiny sound of a DustBuster wasn't going to bother him.

The DustBuster worked—but only for a moment. Then liquid began to spray onto Bobby's hand and face and clothes. Nervously he shut off the machine and set it aside, then took one of the dishtowels to wipe his face. Might as well use the rest of them to clean up the floor. Maybe they could hide the dirty cloths outside . . . and sneak them back into the house. Maybe the grandfather wouldn't notice if they came back one-by-one instead of in a heap.

So he and his sister cleaned up the spill and rinsed the DustBuster and ate their Froot Loops and brushed their teeth and combed their hair and put on clean clothes. They also put five juice-soaked dishtowels into a spare pillowcase, then slipped outside and hid the bundle beneath the grandfather's overturned rowboat.

As they came back inside, Bobby helped Brittany unbutton her sweater, then nodded when she pointed toward the TV.

“Keep it quiet, though,” he whispered. “Don't wake up the grandfather.”

Things were going pretty well at the lighthouse. Bobby didn't want to rock the boat.

Dust fogged the atmosphere as Vernie whipped a feather duster over the bottles lined in a neat row. She crinkled her nose when particles tickled her nostrils.

“Now, Vernie, what are you doing on that ladder? You're gonna break your neck.” Coming from behind the candy counter, Elezar steadied the wooden perch, then peered up at her. “Besides, it's Sunday. You should be resting on a quiet afternoon like this, not working.”

“Hold the ladder still. I'm not so tired I can't do a little dusting.”

“Didn't say that,” Elezar replied. His lips parted as if he'd say something else, but then he must have decided to hold his tongue. Vernie exhaled in relief and kept dusting.

“Shoo, MaGoo.” The clerk gently nudged the plump cat away from the ladder. “If she falls she's going to take us with her.”

Vernie eyed him disagreeably.

“Plumb crazy,” he muttered, not looking at her. “I could get up there and do that.”

“Thought you wanted to rest.”

“I'm not so tired I can't give you a little help.”

The phone jingled, startling Vernie. Her right foot slipped on the rung and Elezar's hand shot out to catch her. Teetering on one leg, she grasped hold of the shelf and righted herself. “Let go of me and answer that! Folks will think we're closed.”

“We are closed,” Elezar mumbled, but he moved toward the phone.

If not for the grocery needs of her neighbors, Vernie would have had to shut down for the winter. The months of November and December, however, replete as they were with holiday baking occasions, helped keep the Mooseleuk Mercantile profitable even when tourists were as rare as a two-door outhouse.

Keeping an eye trained on Vernie, Elezar edged toward the phone and snatched up the receiver. “Mooseleuk's.”

Humming along with the Christmas carols playing in the background, Vernie dusted the jars of maple syrup. Outside, a bright sun glittered on frozen ground. Land, it'd been weeks since they'd seen sunshine, but by the sounds of things, the reprieve was going to be short-lived. Weathermen were predicting a storm to blow through in the latter part of the week. But if you didn't like snow and cold, Maine wasn't a place you'd likely take up residence.

She shoved a couple of pints of maple syrup to the side and dusted around the cans. No one liked bad weather, with the possible exception of Floyd Lansdown. Floyd was taking a ten-week correspondence course in mechanical engineering, so no matter what the weather he was content to sit in front of the fire, his feet propped up on the hearth, and study his lessons. Floyd apparently thought the Heavenly Daze fire engine needed an overhaul. For the life of her, Vernie couldn't see why. Other than Floyd's starting the engine every couple of days to keep the pistons lubed, the truck sat idle. She didn't see how an engine could wear out from that kind of activity.

She glanced over her shoulder when she realized Elezar wasn't talking. He cradled the phone next to his ear, listening, while a frown marked his sober features.

She caught his attention and mouthed, “Who is it?”

Shaking his head, he turned so she couldn't see his expression. Peeved, she stopped dusting. He hesitated a moment and murmured something in a soothing tone, but Vernie couldn't hear a word.

Shimmying down the ladder, she tossed the feather duster on the counter and busied herself filling out the supply order. She needn't worry about Elezar. He'd been her trusted employee for longer than she could remember, and he could handle anything that came up.

She licked the tip of her pencil and studied her order form. Most of the mercantile's regular stock came from Wagner's, a wholesale grocer located upstate. She was running low on baking supplies and produce, plus she'd promised to order fresh cranberries for Babette. Babette brought the salad each year to the town's annual Christmas party, and the menfolk didn't think the holiday season had arrived until they ate some of Babette's cranberry salad. Then, of course, there wasn't a dash of nutmeg left on the island since every woman had sacrificed her stash to bail Birdie out at the bakery. And yesterday Birdie had mentioned she was running low on sugar, so it wouldn't hurt to order fifty pounds this time.

Pencil poised in midair, Vernie racked her brain to see if she'd forgotten anything. She'd order another bottle of vanilla syrup for her soda pop. Somehow she'd gotten hooked on putting that sugary stuff in her midafternoon pick-me-up. Last month she'd switched to sugar-free syrup, but she still felt a mite self-conscious about the habit. She kept the vanilla bottle under the counter so no one noticed the little shot she indulged in every afternoon. There were worse things than being addicted to vanilla Cokes, but she'd just as soon keep her addiction to herself. She scribbled sugar-free vanilla syrup and sugar on the form.

“Vernie?”

Startled, she looked up to see Elezar holding the receiver in his right hand.

“Who is it?” Probably Cleta calling to inquire when the nutmeg would be in, or Bea wanting help with the angel mail. Land, she didn't have time to work on mail today.

Elezar cleared his throat. “It's for you.”

“Can't you handle it? I'm filling out the Wagner's order. Got to get it faxed in this afternoon.”

The man's face gentled as his eyes shone with compassion. “I'm afraid you'll have to handle this one.”

Puzzled, Vernie dropped her pencil. Elezar could handle anything having to do with the business, so who could be calling? She had no children and no siblings. Ma and Pa had been dead for years. Anybody from Heavenly Daze would just tell Elezar to holler at her.

She lifted the phone to her ear. “Ayuh?”

“Vernie?”

“Yes.”

“It's Stanley.”

Blood drained from Vernie's head.

Stanley.

The
Stanley?

Stanley Bidderman, the rat who'd gone bowling and kept on traveling? The fellow who hadn't called or written or sent her so much as a Christmas card in twenty years?

“Stanley who?” she asked, hoping against hope it wasn't Stanley Bidderman. Surely even Stanley Bidderman wouldn't have the gall to call out of a clear blue sky after all these years.

“Stanley . . . your husband. I called to wish you a happy anniversary.”

Bitterness swelled to the back of Vernie's throat. As blood pounded in her ears, she grasped the side of the counter and struggled to stay on her feet. The soft sounds of the Christmas carols faded into a buzz, then she heard herself saying, “I don't have a husband.”

“I expected you to say that.” The voice on the other end sounded very old, very tired. “I don't blame you for feeling that way, but I really want to talk to you.”

Swallowing, Vernie glanced helplessly at Elezar, who stood at a discreet distance. His eyes sent a private, supportive message, as if he understood the cyclone swirling in her head. Her hand rose to her throat.

“Vernie?” Stanley's voice came over the line. “Have you fainted?”

Stiffening, Vernie fixed her eyes on the Wagner order form. “I don't faint, Stanley Bidderman, and if I had, I wouldn't be talking to you now, would I?”

A pause, then a soft chuckle. “Same old Vernie.”

The suggestion brought heat to her cheeks. “No, Stanley,” she calmly corrected. “I'm not the same old Vernie—not by a long shot. Now, is that all you wanted? I'm busy.”

Nervously she tapped her pencil on the order blank. Her thoughts were whirring so madly she couldn't think straight, but Stanley couldn't know that. She only had to hold together long enough to tell him to stay wherever he'd been all these years and leave her alone. For whatever reason he had called—and she didn't believe he'd called to wish her a happy anniversary, not for a minute—she was going to play it as cool as if they had talked every day for the past twenty years.

As if he hadn't walked out on her and left her alone, bewildered, and hurt. She'd waited for weeks, jumping at every ring of the phone, starting at the sound of every cart on the gravel road. She'd called the police, fearing a car had flattened him and he was lying in the hospital unable to speak and/or suffering from amnesia. A quick check of police records on the night of his disappearance produced no accident reports and no hospitalized John Does.

For weeks Vernie kept a vigil, clinging to the fading hope that he'd fallen and hit his head and didn't know who he was. Perhaps he had wandered off in a daze, searching for his home, his family, his wife.

But that idea proved to be sheer fantasy. The police had tried to cushion the blow; they told her men sometimes needed a little breathing space. They told her not to worry, that he'd call soon.

So Vernie had waited by the phone, scorning anyone who suggested Stanley had left of his own volition. Why, that was crazy! She and Stanley had a good marriage— maybe not the fireworks kind portrayed in books and movies, but they were comfortable together. When the islanders teased Stanley about Vernie wearing the pants in the family, he would smile and say, “Yes, I reckon she does.” He wasn't concerned that she was more practical-minded, that she could run the store, handle the books, and paint the woodwork better than he could. Stanley wasn't handy around the house, but he didn't seem to care. He was content to remain in the background, bowl on Thursday nights, and occasionally, when asked, vacuum the carpets when Vernie was too busy to clean.

She knew they had a good life. And she had thought Stanley would be the last person on earth to abandon his wife.

But he had.

And now he was on the telephone and she didn't know what to say to him. She didn't have anything to say to him.

His voice brought her back to the present. “I wondered if we might talk.”

“Talk?”

“Talk,” he repeated quietly. “You have every reason to deny me, but I need to speak to you, Vernie.”

“Ha.” She slammed the receiver down, startling MaGoo. The cat jumped, then landed on all four feet, his hair standing straight up.

Silence as thick as wool filled the mercantile as Elezar quietly returned to the register. Outside, a cloud moved in front of the sun, filling the room with gloom. The carols drifting from the radio suddenly lost their poignancy.

Vernie focused on the ticking clock over the doorway and struggled to regain her composure. She felt numb.

Sick at heart.

Puzzled.

Furious.

Happy anniversary? Where had that come from? And why, after twenty years, did Stanley finally want to talk? Did he think she actually cared where or who or how he was?

A chiding voice rose from her conscience:
Where's your human kindness, Vernie? Maybe he's sick and has only a few weeks to live. Maybe he wants to apologize before he meets his Maker. He's human, and humans make mistakes. You've made a few in your time.

Ayuh, but she didn't walk out on her spouse. She didn't leave without a word of explanation. She didn't leave the one she loved worrying and wondering what had happened. And she hadn't left him in a pool of fear and guilt, wondering what he'd done to make her want to leave . . .

Maybe he wants to tell you.

“But maybe he needs money and pity and a place to stay until he checks out.”

She didn't realize she'd spoken the hateful words aloud until Elezar looked up. Shoving the Wagner's order under the counter, she pulled her coat from the peg near the door, then shrugged her way into it and yanked a stocking cap over her hair.

“I'm going out for a while,” she told Elezar. A long, cold walk would clear her head. A brisk, windy walk would remind her that folks in her family didn't easily forget wrongs. They had memories like elephants. Her father kept a list of those who'd wronged him. “Fool me once, shame on you,” he'd often told Birdie. “Fool me twice, shame on me. If you let someone hurt you again, you're nothing but an idiot.”