Vineyard Chill (6 page)

Ted frowned, then brightened. “We may be able to kill two birds with one stone. My sister Eleanor has an apartment over her garage that you can probably rent cheap during the winter. And she's still got that old Bronco she planned to sell when she got her new pickup. She might give you a good deal on it. Nothing wrong with it, really. Just old.”

“The same is fairly true of me.” Clay laughed.

“I'll call her and sound her out,” said Ted, sounding pleased.

“And we'll head for home,” I said. “If Eleanor's interested in this deal, have her give Clay a call at our place.”

Ted pulled out a roll of bills and awkwardly peeled off wages for both of us. Then, as he walked toward his house, we drove away toward mine.

The promised cold wave was already crisping the snow when we pulled into the darkening yard, and we were barely in the house when the children came smiling up to Clay.

“We've done our homework and now we want the story about being lost in Alaska!”

“Give me five minutes to shed my coat and boots.”

“And another five for me to do the same and get us some drinks,” I said.

“I want to hear this, too,” said Zee, helping me out of my coat.

The fire in the stove was dancing and the room was warm. Oliver Underfoot and Velcro were stretched out, enjoying the heat. We sat in the living room and Clay sipped his hot cider and looked at Joshua and Diana.

“Well,” he said, “it happened like this.”

His tale was of being a last-minute copilot on a routine winter flight from Bettles Field north to the oil fields along the Alaskan coast, of leaving in sunshine and flying into a sudden and unexpected snowstorm where all landmarks were blotted out, of having a compass that didn't work because of the magnetic pole, of gradually running out of gas, and then, suddenly, unexpectedly, through a miraculous opening in the clouds below, seeing a tiny airstrip punched out of the tundra by a bulldozer driver for some reason, of landing the plane in howling winds, of stepping out into the storm and having hands that shook so badly he could barely light a cigarette, of shivering in the plane through the night and then, the next morning in bright sun, flying back to Bettles on the fumes from their gas tanks, and greeting friends who were sure they were dead.

His voice cast a glamour over his listeners, entrancing us. He could have been a skald of old, a scop, an Egil Skallagrimsson weaving such a tale of words that Eric Bloodax, his captor, allowed him to live. When he finished his story, there was a silence, then Diana spoke.

“Clay, don't you know that smoking's dangerous?”

The big people laughed and Joshua smiled uncertainly, not sure what was funny.

Clay brushed his hand across Diana's dark hair. “You're right. It is dangerous. I smoked then, but I don't do it anymore.”

“Do you still fly airplanes?” asked Joshua.

“I can,” said Clay. “But right now I don't have one to fly.”

“I want to be a pilot,” said Joshua.

“You'd like it.”

“I'd like it, too,” said Diana. “Can you teach us how?”

“Well,” said Clay. “I can teach you some things, but to really learn we'd need an airplane.”

“Is it like driving a car? We drive our car on the beach sometimes, sitting in Pa's lap.”

“It's something like that. If you can drive a car, you can probably learn how to fly an airplane.” Clay smiled at me. “So you're letting them learn on the beach, eh? When I was a kid out in Wichita we all learned by driving around in the fields.”

“We'll switch to fields when they get a little bigger.”

I went with Zee into the kitchen and helped get supper while Clay and the children discussed cars and airplanes.

“I see how he managed to get married so often,” said Zee. “He's got a voice that casts spells.”

“Put cotton in your ears,” I said. “You're already married to me.”

“Maybe you can take locution lessons.”

“I'm the strong, silent type.”

“Pardon my repressed laughter.”

“Speech is silver; silence is gold.”

“Silver apples of the moon.” She kissed me.

“Golden apples of the sun.” I kissed her back.

We called everyone to the table and afterward, when the dishes were cleaned and stacked and the kids were in their rooms reading and the adults sat over coffee and cognac in front of the fire, the phone in the kitchen rang. It was Eleanor Araujo calling for Clay. While he talked to Eleanor, I told Zee of Ted Overhill's job, housing, and transportation proposals.

She arched an eyebrow. “Really? Clay must have made a pretty favorable impression on Ted. One day working together and he offers him a full-time job and finds him a car and an apartment, too.”

“Clay inspires confidence.”

She nodded and glanced toward the kitchen. “He does that, for sure.”

Clay came back and sat down. “Well, it looks like you won't have to put up with me much longer. Tomorrow I'll go over to Eleanor's place and take a look at her old truck and her apartment. The prices she mentioned seem right, and if things work out I'll be out of your hair.”

“We don't want you out of our hair,” said Zee. “You just got here and you haven't told us half of your adventures.”

He gave her that smile of his. “Adventures are always more fun afterwards. While they're happening, you often wish they weren't.”

“This is afterwards,” she said. “And Jeff hasn't seen you for a long time. You two talk, and I'll listen and keep the drinking horns filled.”

“You know what they say about fish and guests,” he said, grinning. “And tomorrow will be my third day. I'd stay longer if I thought I wasn't going to see you again for another ten years, but it looks like I'll be your neighbor, so we'll have plenty of time to bring each other up to date. Besides,” he put a hand over his cognac snifter, “I don't imbibe as much as I used to, so I don't need my drinking horn filled again tonight.”

“Tell me what happened to that Tahiti Ketch you built when you were at BU,” I said. “I never did get that story straight. The last time I saw it was when you and Margaret sailed south for Florida.”

“Ah,” he said, sitting back and making a wry face. “Where to begin? The problem was Margaret's inner ear.” She was seasick all the time they sailed, and when they got to Fort Lauderdale, where his job waited for him, he knew she would never step aboard again, so he sold the boat and bought a share in a plane. But it turned out that Margaret got sick in planes, too, so he sold his share of the plane and bought a van, and…

By the end of his tale, Margaret had, as the result of a complex series of events, ended up with a wealthy Mexican ranchero driving a white Rolls-Royce toward Texas, and Clay had ended up with a used van full of his worldly possessions, most of which were tools, and all of us, Clay included, were laughing so hard, tears were streaming down our faces.

“That's enough for tonight,” said Clay when he'd caught his breath. “I'm going to bed.” And he did.

Alone in the living room, Zee looked at me and laughed again. “My God,” she said. “What a life. He lost his boat, his airplane, and his wife. It must have been a terrible time, but he made the whole thing sound incredibly funny!”

“Byron thought we laugh so we won't cry.”

“I know that quote: ‘And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'tis that I may not weep.' Maybe that's what we have to do.”

I didn't know whether life was comic or tragic. Perhaps it was both, though I suspected it was neither. But Zee was real and good, so I put my arms around her and said, “Let's go to bed.”

Dawn brought blue skies and a landscape that was a fantasy of snow: white, shimmering trees; white, sparkling earth; slanting light dancing off silver drifts and the icy pond beyond our garden; glinting snow on the far barrier beach and beyond it the cold blue waters of Nantucket Sound. Winter! The owl for all his feathers was a-cold.

We bundled the children in their warmest clothes and sent them up the driveway to wait for the school bus, because it's good for kids to know they're tough enough to go to school even though it's colder than an oyster on ice. They were not long on their way when Zee pulled the electric dipstick out of her Jeep's engine, kicked over the motor, and headed to the hospital. She left a few minutes early, in fact, because although her motive was never officially announced, she wanted to make sure that Joshua and Diana actually got on the bus.

That left Clay and me to have a last cup of coffee, clean up the breakfast dishes, and drive to Eleanor Araujo's house. The trees glittered at us as we passed them and the brilliant sky looked like blue ice.

Clay turned up the collar of his coat. “The older I get, the less I like cold weather,” he said. “But this is beautiful.”

“We've had some winters that got cold and snowy early and stayed that way until spring, but usually our snows melt before too long.”

“The gulf stream?”

“So they say. It usually keeps us warmer than the mainland in the winter and cooler in the summer.”

“Paradise enow.”

The purity of the snow made it easy to think so, covering, as it did, all signs of sin and woe.

There weren't many cars on the highway, but the road was clean thanks to the Highway Department guys who'd made good overtime money with their plows.

We turned down Eleanor's driveway and stopped in front of her garage. She came out of her house, pulling on her coat, and crossed to us. I introduced Clay and the two of them shook hands.

She looked up at him, then down, then up again. “So you're a friend of J.W.'s.”

He smiled that smile. “For many a year.”

“What brings you to our fair island?”

“I came for a visit and I'm staying to work.”

“My brother says he's going to give you a job on that schooner of his. You a boatbuilder?”

“I've built two or three. I like to work with wood.”

She nodded. “Well, he'll want things done right. He's been building that boat for years, and he's very picky.”

“So am I.”

“Are you, now? Good. Come on. I'll show you the apartment. I turned on the heat and water last night. After that, you can take a look at my old Bronco, if you want.”

She led us to a stairway to the second floor of the garage. “I even shoveled the snow off the stairs just to create a good impression.”

“Works for me,” said Clay, following her up to the landing, where we kicked the snow off our boots before going inside. I'd never been there before. It was a comfortable place with all the amenities plus a porch on the back that looked out to the east. Between two barren trees, I could just see a slice of the dark waters of Nantucket Sound.

“What the Realtors call an ocean view.” Eleanor grinned. “In the dead of winter, when all the leaves are gone, you can see a teeny bit of water. Jacks up the price.”

“Location, location.” Clay nodded, looking around as he walked through the small rooms. “Well, this is just fine. The price you mentioned is right, too. You want me to sign a lease?”

She waved a hand. “No. You're a friend of J.W.'s and that's good enough for me. Besides, if you do me wrong I'll sue his ass for bringing you here.”

He beamed. “An excellent idea. And if you do me wrong, I'll sue his ass for the same reason. Consider yourself a landlady. Let's take a look at that Bronco.”

We went down and she threw open one of the garage doors. Inside was the elderly blue Ford four-door, showing wear around the edges but nothing serious.

She waved at it and handed him the keys. “Take it for a spin. I'll be in the house. When you get back, come inside and tell me what you've decided. The apartment's yours whether or not you want the truck.”

She walked away.

“I'll go with you,” I said to Clay.

He checked the oil, then warmed up the truck while he familiarized himself with the dashboard. Then we backed out and drove up the driveway to the highway. We took a right and drove past the high school and turned left toward the airport. At the site of the Frisbee golf course, we turned and drove off the pavement, the four-wheel-drive traction moving us easily through the six inches of hardening snow on the parking area. Back on the highway, we drove to the Edgartown–West Tisbury road, took another left to Edgartown, where we wound through the narrow, snow-piled streets, then went back along Vineyard Haven Road to Eleanor's house. The old Bronco chugged along smoothly.

“I've driven worse cars than this clear across the country,” said Clay.

We put the Bronco back in the garage and went to the house, where Eleanor waved us inside and our noses led us to the kitchen, floating on the scent of fresh-baked gingerbread. There we sat and had coffee and gingerbread while Clay's eyes took in the kitchen, and Eleanor's, more subtly, surveyed him.

“Well, what do you think of Old Blue?” she asked after we'd done some chewing and swallowing.

He nodded his head. “Seems just fine. Anything I should know that I don't know?”

“Uses a little oil. Nothing serious, but you should keep an eye on it.”

He raised his coffee cup. “In that case, name your price.”

She did and he nodded and the deal was made. He pulled out a checkbook and scribbled a check. “You'll want to be sure this clears,” he said. “It's for the truck and the first month's rent. Should take a couple or three days. I'll be back then.”

“Move in any time you want,” she said. “This bounces, I'll take it out of J.W.'s hide.”

“The risks I have to run for my friends,” I said.

“I'll tell you what,” said Eleanor, ignoring me. “I don't have to be at work until noon, so why don't you and I take the Bronco up to the registry right now and do the paperwork that transfers ownership. That way you'll have wheels and I'll have the truck off my back.”

Clay nodded. “Good. Let's do it.”

“And you get a bonus,” said Eleanor. “A free garage for your Bronco. My ex took our other car when he left, so that garage stall is empty.”

“Is this a wonderful country or what?” said Clay.

We finished our coffee and gingerbread and left the house. I got into the Land Cruiser and headed for home. As I pulled out onto the highway, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw the blue Bronco coming out behind me. I envied its excellent heater and was happy for Clay, and then for some reason I thought of Nadine Gibson, the girl with the strawberry hair, and hoped that she was in some place warmer than this.