A Warmth in Winter (8 page)

Georgie flashed a confident grin. “Sure. I'll be right back.”

He sprinted away then, the little dog prancing alongside his pounding sneakers.

“Bobby,” Brittany began, a note of warning in her voice. “We're not supposed to let anyone see us.”

“We won't.” Taking her hand, Bobby led her back down the dune, out of sight. “But we got someone to bring us medicine, right? So we'll hide until Georgie comes back, and then we'll give the grandfather the Tylenols. Then he'll be okay.”

“But what if Georgie tells someone about us?”

Bobby shrugged. “Won't matter. Nobody listens to little kids.”

Birdie Wester smiled as she put the last éclair into a bag and folded down the top. “That'll be five twenty-five,” she said, smiling at Babette Graham. “I think you'll enjoy these. Abner's done something special with the filling.”

“Almond flavoring,” Abner called from the counter where he was working. “One extra drop. I think you'll find the difference almost . . . heavenly.”

Babette moved to the counter and opened her purse. “I'm sure I'd like anything you make.”

At that moment the door blew open, propelled by a gust of wind and the outstretched arm of an almost-six-year-old. Georgie Graham, encased in an insulated coat that made him look like a Pillsbury doughboy, waddled into the room and peered at his mother through the tight oval opening in the coat's drawstring hood.

“Mom,” he tugged at Babette's sleeve, “we gotta take some Tylenols to old Cap'n Gribbon. He's sick, but it's not mumps or chicken pops.”

“Salt's sick?” Birdie's heart did a strange double beat in her chest. She and Salt weren't courting, exactly, but they'd taken a walk or two in the last couple of weeks . . . walks they didn't exactly have to take.

Babette shot Birdie a not-so-fast look. “George Louis Graham,” she cupped her son's chin, “you know I've told you not to go near the lighthouse. Cap'n Gribbon doesn't take kindly to visitors. The man likes his privacy.”

“I didn't go up there, Mom.” Georgie's face squinched in earnestness. “She told me he was really hot.”

An unexpected dart of jealousy pierced Birdie's heart. “And which she would this be?”

Georgie turned toward her, his nose crinkling. “Brittle-knees. She was playing up near the dunes and she said old Cap'n Gribbon was hot and needed Tylenol, and then Bob said she was right and did we have any, 'cause old Salt needs help and they don't know what to do with him 'cause he won't eat or move or anything.”

Birdie and Babette looked at each other, and, as was fittin', the boy's mother reacted first. “And who's Bob?”

“Brittle-knees's brother, I think. Or maybe cousin. I forget. But they asked me to bring them some Tylenol 'cause four out of five doctors recommend it for their patients with fever.”

Babette drew a deep breath, then blew out her cheeks. “Son, I want you to go stand by the door while I pay Miss Birdie. Don't go outside; don't leave the bakery. You and I will walk home together.”

She pushed at the back of the boy's puffed jacket as he turned to glance over his shoulder. “But what about old Cap'n Gribbon? He needs help.”

“Don't worry, Cap'n Gribbon is a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

Babette gave Birdie a rueful smile as she dropped a quarter on the counter, then opened her wallet. “Honestly, that child's imagination is going to be the death of me,” she whispered, counting out five dollar bills. “But I don't have the heart to be too hard on him. With no other children on the island at this time of year, I can't really blame him for creating imaginary friends.”

Birdie laughed as she took the money. “You gotta give his imaginary friends credit for stamina if they're playing outside on a day like today. Captain Stroble was in an hour ago, and he said the wind was blowin' so hard his chicken had to lay the same egg five times!”

Babette chuckled. “Well, Georgie is always keeping me guessing. So I'll think I'll take him home and fix his lunch. Food ought to keep him occupied for a while.”

“You're a good mother, Babette.” Birdie slid the bag of éclairs over the counter. “At least you give the boy a chance to run and play instead of plopping him down in front of the television all day.”

“Well—he does watch a bit of TV,” Babette said, turning away, “but only enough to help me keep my sanity.”

Reaching her son, Babette spread her hand and gripped his neck—rather firmly, Birdie noticed. She grinned as the two exited beneath the jangling door, then she picked up a towel and began to wipe the counter.

Odd, that Georgie would say Cap'n Gribbon was ill. Men like Salt never seemed to get sick. The former swordfish boat captain was as tough as shoe leather and as independent as a gypsy. She couldn't imagine him lying abed up at the lighthouse, but . . .

Had the light shone last night? She didn't know whether the light was on some kind of automatic switch or whether Salt had to activate it manually. And last night she and her sister had retired to the cozy keeping room behind the bakery, with Birdie spending the night knitting in her rocker while Bea read and sorted angel letters.

She made a mental note to call the Ogunquit Memorial Library where she used to work. Faye Lewiston, the head librarian, was an old friend and would be happy to pull a book or two on lighthouses and send them over on the ferry. The next time Salt came 'round for a chat, Birdie could impress him with her knowledge of lighthouses and lanterns and whatever made them go 'round and 'round.

“Strange that we haven't seen the captain today,” Abner volunteered from the mixing counter. “He should be ready for more cookies by now.”

Birdie shook her head. “He came in day before yesterday for his usual cookies and bread.”

“Ayuh, but I remember thinking that he looked a little pale.” Abner paused, his hand gripping a wooden spoon. “He didn't stick around to talk, remember?”

A creeping uneasiness began to rise from the bottom of Birdie's heart. What if Georgie was telling the truth? What if Salt was lying abed and the lighthouse wouldn't shine tonight? Theirs was a tiny island with a rugged shore, and any small craft could crash into the rocks once the sun went down . . .

Untying her apron, she turned to Abner. “I think I might ride up to the lighthouse and see what set Georgie off,” she said, ignoring the knowing smile that crossed Abner's face. “Do we have any soup left in the Crockpot? It wouldn't hurt to take that, I suppose, in case Salt is doin' poorly. Who knows? He's probably as healthy as a horse; the boy only thought it odd when Salt didn't holler at him for playing too near the lighthouse. Anyway, it won't hurt to drive up and have a look, will it?”

Abner grinned. “No, ma'am, it won't.”

Next door at the mercantile, Vernie faced her first customer of the day with bad news.

“No nutmeg?” Edith Wickam lightly fingered the string of imitation pearls at her neck. “Oh, dear. Winslow was hoping for an early pumpkin pie.”

Vernie smiled, hoping to allay the pastor's wife's fears. “It will be in Wednesday afternoon, Edith. Don't worry. Deliveries are running behind because of the weather. The moment the shipment gets in, I'll have Elezar personally deliver the nutmeg to you.”

“There's no need of that.” Edith smiled pleasantly and added a tin of baking powder to her order. “Winslow needs to be watching his cholesterol these days, but I've found this skim pumpkin pie recipe that uses Egg Beaters and low-fat milk. I figure one or two slices aren't going to send him to an early grave.”

The front door opened and Cleta and Barbara Higgs came in on a rush of cold air. The women exchanged pleasantries, commenting on how they would all be glad to see spring when it finally got there.

“Winter doesn't officially arrive until the twenty-first,” Vernie reminded them. She gave Cleta a warning look when the bed-and-breakfast proprietor took a napkin out of her coat pocket and began to feed MaGoo the remains of a sausage biscuit. “Stop that. He won't be able to get through the doorway if you keep feeding him breakfast leftovers.”

Cleta grinned and offered MaGoo a piece of sausage that had fallen to the floor. “Oh, a little taste won't hurt him. Can't let Maine's Heaviest Living Cat lose his title, can we?”

MaGoo purred, lacing in and out of Cleta's legs.

Vernie shifted her attention to Cleta's daughter, Barbara, who was browsing the cosmetics aisle. Barbara had always been a shy child, hanging in the background and turning beet red whenever anyone dared to ask her a direct question. She'd stammer, shuffling her feet and sometimes taking as long as five minutes to come up with an answer.

Barbara looked pale and washed out this morning, Vernie decided. Why didn't girls like her try a little harder to fix themselves up? She wasn't a beauty, but she wasn't unattractive, either. And her husband, Russell, was a downright handsome boy, so they didn't exactly go together like doughnuts and coffee. But Barbara had a heart as big as Texas. Too bad in the looks department she was a floor short of lingerie.

The phone rang and Vernie snatched it up with a free hand. “Mooseleuk's.” She listened, then sighed. “No need to worry, Babette, this weather's slowed everything down. The cranberries will be here in plenty of time for you to make the salad. If you bought them in Ogunquit, they wouldn't be fresh for the Christmas party. Just hold your horses. The party is ten days away yet.”

She held up a finger as Cleta approached. “I promise, the moment they come in I'll send Elezar with your cranberries. You say hello to Charles for me, okay?”

She hung up, then turned to Cleta. “Babette's worrying her head off about cranberries.”

“Well, the Christmas party wouldn't be complete without Babette's cranberry salad,” Cleta said. Her eyes followed Barbara, who was engrossed in a lipstick display across the room.

Noting Cleta's distraction, Vernie smiled. “A new cosmetics company sent me some samples. They're trying to get women to sell their product.” She raised her voice. “Maybe that's something you'd be interested in, Barbara— selling cosmetics. They say they pay their sales representatives real well. If you sell enough lipstick and such, they'll give you a blue Cadillac.”

Barbara shrugged and picked up a lipstick. “I don't drive.”

Vernie blew out her cheeks. Sometimes that rule about no non-emergency motor vehicles on the island was a blessing, but now it was a downright annoyance. She forced a smile. “Well, selling cosmetics still might be something to consider.”

Barbara replaced the lid on a tube of Papaya Pink. “I don't think so.”

Vernie gave up. She rolled her eyes at Cleta, who giggled softly. “Nice try, Vernie. Now—how about a pound of that fresh ground coffee behind you?”

Vernie scooped up a pound of coffee, then poured it in a bag. “Anything else?”

“No, that should do it. You're sure that nutmeg will be here Wednesday afternoon?”

“Nutmeg, sugar, and cranberries. I ordered extra so we'd be sure to have enough to go around.”

“You're sure?”

“Do I look addled?”

“No, but it would be a terrible shame if we got snowed in and couldn't get nutmeg and cranberries.” Cleta peered out the window at the lowering clouds. “A real shame.”

Vernie grimaced as she totaled Cleta's order. A Christmas grocery shortage would be more than a shame; it would cause an insurrection among the menfolk. Winslow Wickam could out eat every man on the island when it came to Babette's cranberry salad. At the last community Christmas party she'd had to make two punch bowls of the stuff just to keep the preacher happy.

Twice more the phone rang—the first caller was Abner, inquiring about the supplies and reminding her that the bakery was running low on sugar, the second was Dr. Marc, who planned to host a gathering at his house after the Christmas Eve service.

“I need nutmeg for the eggnog,” he said. “It's my own special recipe. I can't take shortcuts this year because my son, Alex, will be here.”

“Unless there's an emergency,” Vernie reminded the doctor. Unfortunately, she'd heard him say the same thing for the last several years, and the good doctor's neurologist son had yet to make a Christmas appearance. At least Dr. Marc realized that folks didn't schedule car accidents or cerebral aneurysms in order to disrupt their physician's holiday plans.

“Not to worry, Dr. Marc,” she told him. “The nutmeg is on its way.”

Chapter Seven

B
undled in her down coat, boots, gloves, and hat, Birdie unzipped the cover of her golf cart, then situated herself on the hard fiberglass bench. The clear vinyl cart cover had been designed for sunny golf courses in Florida and California, but it did a fairly decent job of keeping out the cold in Maine—as long as she remembered to put the vehicle away. One night last winter she forgot to put the cart in the garage, and in the morning the vinyl was as brittle as glass.

She rubbed her hands together, gave the cover zipper a downward yank, then pushed the button to start the electric engine. Within a few moments she was powering her way up Ferry Road, a Crockpot on the floor and a bag of Salt's favorite rye bread in her lap.

While the soup was warming, she'd had time to reflect upon the last time she saw Salt. He had seemed a mite streaked on Saturday, and he hadn't lingered to talk like he often did. She'd asked about the books she gave him, and he'd replied that they were fine stories, all of 'em.

At this, Birdie had winked at him. She had a strong suspicion the man couldn't read, but apparently he was trying to remedy the situation by applying himself to simple children's books. Last month she'd visited the Ogunquit library and bought several volumes from their clearance room. Salt seemed to appreciate the gift—well, as much as he appreciated anything. The man was as obstinate as a cross-eyed mule and about as conversational. But at least he seemed willing to better himself, and though Birdie couldn't understand how he intended to learn how to read, at least he was willing to take a stab at it. And she was willing to help . . . if he ever got around to asking.