A Warmth in Winter (11 page)

No—as the light brightened he recognized the shape of the head, the graying hair pulled back with a wide barrette. His visitor was Birdie Wester.

So it hadn't been a dream. And the children—

Bending to peer under his bed, he lost his balance and pitched forward. He cried out as his hand hit the stone floor, then closed his eyes as Birdie squeaked, “Salt! What on earth are you doing on the floor?”

Opening his eyes, he turned his head to look under the bed. He could see nothing in the dark space—no forms, not even the semblance of shadow. He stretched his hand to search the space, hoping his eyes and ears had turned traitor and refused to reveal the children's presence. But his fingers closed on dust and empty air.

“Salt Gribbon, you're going to kill yourself if you don't get back in bed.”

Birdie Wester knelt beside him now, her iron fingers prying into the space under his arms. “I'm going to try to lift you, but you'll have to help me.”

Salt could not answer. He curled his dusty fist, empty and helpless, into his mouth and wept.

“Salt?” Alarmed by the sound of his dry, racking sobs, Birdie bent over the prostrate man. His fever had broken; his skin was cool to the touch. But every trace of the fiercely independent curmudgeon had vanished.

“The kids,” he choked out the words. “I told 'em not to come in if anyone else was about. And they're good kids, so they've got to be outside.” Still weeping, he pressed his hands to the floor and pushed himself up to a sitting position. “I've gotta go out and find 'em.”

Birdie's breath caught in her lungs. This wasn't a man given to delirium. “What kids do you mean, Salt?”

“My grandkids.” He turned to her, his eyes glassy and wet. “Bobby and Brittany live with me now. They must be outside.”

The startling confession brought another thought to her mind, with a chill that struck deep in the pit of her stomach. “Salt, they couldn't be, no one could—” Her voice broke in midsentence. The truth was unthinkable. The temperature had been well below freezing for most of the night.

She stood, the truth slamming into her as she reached for her coat. Georgie had said he was playing with two children. His friends weren't imaginary, after all.

“I'll find them, Salt.” She dove into her coat, then pushed him back toward the bed. “You're in no condition to go out. Get in bed, and when I come back with the children, I'll fix you all a warm bowl of soup.”

His eyes blazing, he caught her hand. “You've killed my grandchildren, woman.” The words echoed in the empty silence of the tower. “You came here to meddle, and my kids did what they'd been told and hid away. And now they're out there somewhere, frozen and cold as the grave.”

Birdie drew a breath, then closed her eyes and jerked her hand free of his grasp. He might well be right, but she could still hope . . . and pray.

“Please, Lord,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes as she opened the door and left Salt struggling to get dressed. “Let those children be all right.”

Salt cursed as his fingers refused to hook the zipper on his coat. Abandoning the effort, he pulled open the front door—when had it grown so heavy?—and stepped out into the cold. The gray grass around the lighthouse gleamed with frost; even his dory shone with an icy glaze. The night had been a cold one.

“Bobby!” He stepped forward and grimaced as the bawling winds caught his voice and tossed it away. He hadn't the strength to yell louder, but he'd have to. Victims of hypothermia usually fell asleep, which meant he might have to wake Bobby and Brittany in order to save them.

He stumped toward the boat, struggling against the wind. The old dory offered the only shelter against the damp weather, and Bobby was bright enough to figure that out. The kids would have been cold passing the night here, but at least they'd have been somewhat protected.

He gripped the edge of the vessel and struggled to lift it. Summoning strength that refused to come, he groaned, tugging with arms that felt as limp and powerless as noodles. Then another pair of hands joined his. The boat rocked, then rolled over onto its spine.

He and Birdie stood side by side, staring at a patch of sand littered with seaweed and rags.

“What's that?” Birdie pointed to a pile of cloth.

Salt stared, then knelt and gingerly lifted one of the corners. “Why—it's one of my pillowcases.” Turning the case upside down, he stared in amazement as a half-dozen stiff dishtowels tumbled out onto the sand.

He shook his head. “They must have spilled something . . . and were afraid I'd scold 'em.” He glanced up at Birdie, whose mouth had pursed in a disapproving expression. “I wouldn't have, you know. Because of their daddy. He beat those kids, so now they're afraid to make a peep.”

He wanted to lower his head into his hands and die on the spot, but Birdie wouldn't leave him alone. “Come on.” She nudged his arm. “We can walk along the beach. Maybe the kids are sheltering in the rocks.”

Not knowing what else to do, Salt plodded after her while shame and despair rose within his heart. If Bobby and Brittany died, he'd be the one to blame, not Birdie. If he hadn't tried to keep the world at arm's length, those kids would never have left the shelter of the lighthouse. He'd killed the two children he meant to protect with his life. He'd driven them away when it was the world he meant to shut out.

Tears clouded his gaze, obscuring his vision, but Salt lumbered on, not caring if the wind and the day sapped the last of his strength and left him a wasted shell of a man.

The children weren't on the beach. One quick glance assured Birdie that the meager cover offered no place for them to hide, no shelter at all. Besides, the wind was colder and wetter here, and even a child would know to come out of the storm.

That left the dunes. They might have headed toward the marsh and the sand dunes, but the piled sand would have offered little protection from the cold and wind.

She pressed her hand to Salt's shoulder and turned him toward the lighthouse. “You go back inside and turn up the heat on the Crockpot,” she said, shouting to be heard above the pounding surf. “I'm going to take my cart and follow the road. If the kids are hiding anywhere about, I'll find 'em.”

Salt looked at her, dazed and obviously weak, but he moved toward the lighthouse, his shoulders slumped and his bare hands swinging limply at his side.

Her hair flying, Birdie ran to her cart, unzipped the vinyl cover, and pressed the starter button. The engine clicked, but the cart wouldn't start. Probably too cold.

Hunkering inside her coat, Birdie stared at the road ahead. Nothing moved in the emptiness, warmed now by the first genuine rays of morning sunlight. A half-mile up, Edith Wickam and Babette Graham were undoubtedly rousing their households, setting up coffeemakers, and popping frozen waffles into toasters. Georgie Graham probably lay sleeping in his bed, his feet twitching with restless energy as the radiators hissed and clanged, filling his room with life-sustaining heat . . .

Her eyes widened. Of course! Georgie had met Bobby and Brittany, and maybe the children knew where he lived. If they couldn't go into the lighthouse, perhaps they had gone to the Graham Gallery. They might have even approached the little cottage behind the main house where Zuriel the potter lived.

Birdie stepped out of the golf cart and began jogging down the road, her hands in her pockets and her breath frosting with every step. Her mind kept returning to the sight and sound of Salt blaming her for the death of his grandchildren, and her blood ran thick with guilt. But how could she have known?

As she ran, other pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place—Salt's asking her about children's books, his obvious delight that she'd brought so many, his gruffness and discourtesy when she once tried to surprise him with a visit. Why, he'd been hiding those children for weeks, and nary a soul had spied them!

A dozen questions leaped into her mind—where had they come from, why had they come, and how had Salt managed to get them onto the island? Birdie hadn't known that Salt had a son. Come to think of it, she knew very little about the man at all, even after being his neighbor for nearly fifteen years.

Tears, unbidden and unchecked, flowed down her cheeks, stinging her cold skin. “Bobby?” she called, craning her neck as she approached the municipal building. The place was locked, but perhaps he and Brittany had managed to jimmy open a window. The brick structure housed the mayor's office, a single jail cell, and two public restrooms, which the kids might have needed at some point during the day and night.

Walking as fast as her panting lungs would allow, Birdie skirted the building and tested the windows. All were closed tight, and the door wouldn't budge. Floyd Lansdown had locked the building on Columbus Day, the official end of the tourist season, and wouldn't open the place again until April.

She glanced across the road to the Lobster Pot. The restaurant's painted sign swung forlornly in the wind, a testament to its emptiness now that the last tourists had departed, but the children might have sought shelter there. There were no windows, but she thought there might be a back door . . .

“Please Lord,” she whispered, thrusting her hands into her pockets as she lengthened her stride and crossed the windblown street. “Let me find those kids in a safe and warm place.”

“Bobby?”

Bobby's eyes flew open as the voice shattered his dream. He looked up to see the man called Gabe looking down at him. “We have to go now,” Gabe said.

Bobby straightened, a little embarrassed to realize that he'd slept all night against Gabe's chest. Brittany looked natural curled up against this strong man, but boys should be able to take care of themselves.

Gabe's eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You've done a fine job of taking care of your family. I don't think any boy in Maine could do better.”

Bobby felt the corner of his mouth lift. “Really?”

“Really.” Gabe looked down and gently shook Brittany awake. “Britt, honey, it's time to wake up. It's morning, and your grandfather's worried about you.”

Brittany yawned, then her big blue eyes opened. She lifted her head, and Bobby saw a small circle on her cheek—the imprint of Gabe's shirt pocket button.

She looked toward the kitchen. “Is there any breakfast?”

“Miss Birdie will have breakfast for you.” Gabe stood and stretched, his long arms seeming to fill the space above Bobby's head. “So hop up, both of you, and button those jackets. Miss Birdie's outside and coming this way, and we don't want her to worry any more than necessary.”

Bobby wanted to ask how Gabe knew about Miss Birdie, but the man seemed to have something on his mind as he reached down to pull them up. Once he'd stood them on their feet, his big hands smoothed Brittany's tangled hair, then he gave both kids a push toward the restrooms. “Freshen up, and splash a little water on your face,” he called, bending to fold up the vinyl pallet they'd slept on. “And be quick. We don't have time to waste.”

Bobby slowed his steps as he approached the door of the rest room labeled GENTLEMEN. “How does he know so much?” he whispered to his sister.

Britt shrugged and pushed on the door marked LADIES. “I like him. He's nice.”

Five minutes later, with his hair smoothed and his jacket zipped, Bobby followed Gabe and his sister up the wooden staircase. As they walked through the silent church, Brittany gaped at the windows. Tall and narrow, and made of bits of multicolored glass, they held pictures of trees, ships, and crosses. In the biggest picture, the one right behind the wooden box on the stage, a man with long brown hair carried a little lamb.

Bobby thought the windows were cool, but he didn't want to say anything. They had never been inside a church in their lives, but saying so probably wasn't a good idea— especially since this man lived in one.

They left the big room, then Gabe led them into a small space lined with wooden paneling. Two oil paintings hung above a table—an old-fashioned picture of a man in uniform holding a feathered hat, and another portrait of an ordinary-looking bald man.

Bobby slipped his hands into his jeans pockets and nodded toward the paintings. “Who are they?”

Gabe glanced over his shoulder. “Sea captain Jacques de Cuvier, the founder of the town, and Winslow Wickam, the current pastor.” He winked at Bobby. “You'll be meeting Pastor Wickam soon, I think.”

“I don't know.” Britt looked down at her hands. “We don't go to church.”

“Perhaps that will soon change.” Still smiling, Gabe opened one of the double doors. The wind rushed in, flapping the papers on the long table.

“Go on, now,” Gabe said, holding the door open. “By the time you reach the end of the walkway, you'll see Miss Birdie coming out from behind the Lobster Pot. Go to her right away, and she'll take you to your grandfather.”

Nodding soberly, Bobby gripped Brittany's shoulder and steered her out of the building and down the sidewalk. And though he distinctly heard the door close behind them, he had a strong feeling that Gabe was watching long after they reached the street, waved to Miss Birdie, and saw her come running toward them with tears in her eyes and a wide smile on her bright red face.

“My goodness!” Her heart singing with delight, Birdie embraced the little girl, then hugged the boy a second time. “Bobby and Brittany! I'm so glad you're all right!”

Bobby pulled out of her frantic grasp. “Is the grandfather okay?”

Birdie lowered her head to smile at him. “Yes. Your grandfather is much better this morning, though he's terribly worried about you. Come, let me walk you back.” Placing a hand at each of their necks, Birdie herded the children toward the north end of the island.

“Where did you sleep last night?” she asked, trying to keep a nagging note from her voice. “We were so worried.”