A Warmth in Winter
A
Warmth in Winter
Heavenly Daze Book Three
L
ORI
C
OPELAND
A
NGELA
H
UNT
© 2000 by Lori Copeland and Angela E. Hunt
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or any otherâ except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Published in association with Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, organizations, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Copeland, Lori.
A warmth in winter / Lori Copeland and Angela Hunt.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-8499-4306-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-59554-553-4 (mass market)
1. IslandsâMaineâFiction. I. Hunt, Angela Elwell, 1957- II. Title.
PS3553.O6336W37 2008
813'.54âdc22
2007047005
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 QW 5 4 3 2 1
Two people can accomplish more than
twice as much as one;
they get a better return for their labor.
âE
CCLESIASTES
4:9
Contents
Birdie Wester's Nutmeg Shortbread
If You Want to Know More About . . .
Oh, distinctly I remember it was in a cold December, And every village member came a-knocking at my doorâ
I
will apologize to Edgar Allan Poe, of course, if I have occasion to see him on one of my excursions into the supernatural realm.
Welcome back. I am Gavriel, captain of the angelic company guarding the small island of Heavenly Daze. I'm delighted, as always, that you could join us for yet another glimpse into the mysterious interactions of God and man.
If you're new to our little island, let me provide the history of this tiny settlement off the coast of Maine. Over two hundred years ago, a retired sea captain called Jacques de Cuvier begged the Father to guard the inhabitants of this place. In answer to Jacques's sincere prayer, the Lord dispatched me and six others of the angelic host. Our mission is simple: We guard and serve those who live in the seven original buildings on the island of Heavenly Daze.
As captain of the heavenly host here, I protect the church and minister to those who serve itâWinslow and Edith Wickam, the pastor and his wife. Since the lighthouse is a relatively modern building, I occasionally peek in from time to time on Salt Gribbon, our light keeperâbut only at the Father's command. Unlike the other angels, I rarely find it necessary to don mortal flesh. My brothers, however, live among the people, serving with quiet spirits and humble hearts.
Since the adventures of this most recent November, things have been fairly calm on our island. Birdie Wester, proprietor of the local bakery, did cause a bit of a stir right after Thanksgivingâseems she was using her famous recipe for Nutmeg Shortbread and ran out of the predominant spice. Because the rush order was for the Ogunquit Women's Circle, Bea Coughlin rose to her sister's aid. Taking advantage of her position as postmistress, she used her morning mail run to gather canisters of nutmeg from every kitchen on the island. Birdie baked the shortbread, the Ogunquit women inhaled every last crumb, and the next Sunday Pastor Wickam's sermon extolled the joy of sacrificing to meet a neighbor's need.
The Internet rumor about angels working miracles on the island still brings in letters by the sackful, but Bea and the Women's Circle do their best to answer it all. They say truth is stranger than fiction, and in this case, what the ladies believe to be fiction is truer than they realize. Ah, well. The Father does have a sense of humor, you know.
The days have begun to grow short; the leaves have disappeared from all but the evergreen trees. Soon the winter winds will howl and we'll be blanketed in snow. Winters on Heavenly Daze are not easy.
The other day I overheard Cleta Lansdown laughingly tell Pastor Wickam, “You know, the summer complaints are always saying that we live in God's country. Though it may look like God's country to them, I know he don't spend his winters here!”
Pastor Wickam, who has been yielded enough to speak for the Spirit on several occasions, smiled at his parishioner and truthfully answered, “Yes, he does, Cleta. He's closer than we realize.”
Ah, if only Winslow knew the full truth! For God is always near, and ministering angels are but a breath away. Even in the bleak December, when the wind howls and summer tourists are scarcer than buttons on a goose, we remain on this wind-swept island, ready and willing to do the Father's will. For miracles, even in winter, can be found in unexpected places.
Come join me for a very special December in Heavenly Daze.
âGavriel
O
n Saturday morning, Salt Gribbon looked across the expanse of his small home in the lighthouse and thanked God, not for the first time, that the busybody at the yard sale in Wells had insisted on selling the wooden table with its four matching chairs. At the time he'd groused plenty because he only had one bottom and therefore needed only one chair, but the woman wouldn't budge. Even after she agreed to toss in the other three chairs without charge, he had half a mind to leave the excess furniture on the shore, until his Yankee thriftiness rebelled against such waste. So he'd turned the table upside down in his dory, lashed the chairs into position between the legs, and rowed the entire load back to the northernmost point of Heavenly Daze.
Now three of his four chairs were occupied, one by his own weathered behind, and the others by the slender rear ends of his grandchildren, seven-year-old Bobby and six-year-old Brittany. The children, tousle-headed and heavy-eyed with sleep, were munching on molasses cookies, one of their favorite breakfasts.
“Grandfather,” Brittany said, breaking one of the cookies with a deft snap, “don't you have Froot Loops? We always had Froot Loops for breakfast when we lived with Daddy.”
“We never had Froot Loops.” Bobby cast his sister a reproving look. “Sometimes we had cold pizza, but most times we had nothing.”
Biting his tongue, Salt scratched his beard and watched his granddaughter. The little girl had a tendency to embroider the truth, especially when the subject had to do with her father, Salt's only son.
Holding her pinkie finger aloftâhow'd she learn to do that?âBrittany dunked the end of her cookie into her glass of milk. “I like these cookies better than anything we had at Daddy's 'partment. The pizza was always cold. And we never had milk, only soda pop.”
Salt's heart squeezed so tight he could barely draw breath to speak, but he forced words out: “The Good Book teaches us to be grateful for whatever we have. So eat up and get dressed, kids. We have work to do today.”
Actually, he had work to do, but he believed young ones should keep themselves busy as well. These two stood in a particular need of structure and discipline. Their father had done almost nothing to teach his children. He'd led a life of waste and drunkenness, leaving these kids to grow up on a diet of television, table scraps, and neglect.
Bobby reached for another cookie at the same moment Brittany extended her hand. Both sets of fingers met on the edges of the last one on the plate.
Bobby spoke first. “I want it.”
“It's mine!”
“But I grabbed it before you did.”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
In the ensuing tug of war, their tiny hands knocked over Bobby's glass. As the milk spread over the varnished tabletop, both children dropped the cookie and averted their eyes until Salt stood to reach for a dishcloth. After tossing it into the worst of the puddle, he crossed his arms and stood at the end of the table, waiting.
Two pairs of guilty eyes eventually lifted to meet his.
“You see what happens when you mess around?” he asked, hoping they'd attribute the gruffness in his voice to anger instead of heartbreak. “You waste good milk that you need. You're both too scrawny, and now I'll have to go into town to get more to replace what you spilt.”
He lifted his arm, intending to reach for the dishcloth, and winced inwardly when he saw the boy flinch.
What sort of monster had his son been? “Finish your cookies.” He lowered his gaze lest they see the shimmer of wetness in his eyes. “Then go pick a book out of the stack. I want you both to read a good bit today.”
Without taking another bite, both children slipped silently from the table and moved toward the small TV stand by the fireplace. Bobby plucked
Curious George
from the pile of books on a shelf under the TV; Brittany picked up
Betsy-Tacy and Tib
. Moving like quiet little robots, they sat cross-legged in the vinyl beanbag chairs and opened their books.
Salt shook his head as he wiped up the spilled milk. 'Twas unnatural, the way they responded to rebuke. Though the bruises had faded from their young bodies, the scars on their hearts would take longer to heal.
By the time Salt had washed the dishes, changed out of the long-handled underwear that served as his pajamas, and pulled the quilts over the mattress on his rope bed, the children had finished their reading. Still they sat in the beanbag chairs, apparently waiting permission to move.
“All right, then.” Salt sank to the edge of the bed as he regarded them. “You've done a good job of obeyin' and readin'. Now I must ask you to do a good job of something else.”
The children watched him, their eyes wide.
Salt pointed toward the lighthouse door. “Alst I ask is that you don't go outside while I'm gone. Stay here in the house. If anybody tries to come inside, you scoot under this bed and lay as quiet as statues until the stranger leaves.” He looked from Brittany to Bobby. “Understand?”
As one, the children nodded.
“All right, then.” Salt pressed his hands to his knees, then stood. He hated leaving them aloneâhe thought the loneliness would remind them too much of the place where they'd lived with their dad. They'd been alone in that filthy apartment when Salt found them, as they'd been left alone countless other days and nights while their father went out drinking.
“Grandfather?”
Salt looked to the girl. “Ayuh?”
Her voice trembled. “Will you bring us some more cookies?”