A Warmth in Winter (14 page)

“The same to you, Dr. Marc.” After patting his hand, she stepped into the warmth of Frenchman's Fairest. The smell of roasting meat filled her nose. Caleb was preparing her favorite supper: roast beef, mashed potatoes, and brown gravy.

Caleb turned from the stove as she came into the kitchen. “Annie! You must be near frozen.”

Annie warmed her hands over the hissing radiator pipes. “They're not going to make it, Caleb.”

His silver-laced brow lifted slightly. “The tomatoes?”

Annie nodded. “I was about to rip them out when Dr. Marc interrupted.”

“Pity,” Caleb murmured. “I know they look rather worn but perhaps—”

“No perhaps.” Annie might be a dreamer, but she knew when she'd been beaten. The experiment was over. Her tomato hybrid could not survive a harsh Maine winter. Whatever had made her think they could?

Hot water bubbled from a pan on the stove. Caleb poured a cupful of steaming liquid into a cup, then added a tea bag and a generous dollop of honey. “Missy likes honey better than sweetener,” he said. “Care for a cup?”

“I had hot chocolate earlier, but—” She smiled when he pressed the cup into her gloved hand. “God bless you,” she murmured, sipping the scalding brew.

The old man's mouth lifted in a smile. “Oh, he does. Every day.” Turning back to his work, he asked, “What did Dr. Marc have to say?”

“Not much. He invited me to his Christmas Eve party.” Annie set her teacup on the kitchen table, then removed her gloves. “Is Aunt Olympia going?”

Lifting the lid of a pot of boiling potatoes, Caleb shook his head. “I hope she will agree to attend this year. The outing would be good for her.”

“It would, but it's hard for her to see that right now.”

Annie dropped her gloves to the table, then slipped out of her coat and sat down. The kitchen was always bright, no matter the weather. The room had been Annie's second-favorite in the ornate two-story house, surpassed only by the attic room overlooking the sea. During her youth she had spent endless hours in the attic room, dreaming up numerous gadgets and inventions.

Come to think of it, she had passed a pleasant childhood on Heavenly Daze, and even now she enjoyed visits home—once she got over dreading the effort. Occasionally her aunt came up with wry observations that tickled Annie's funny bone. On one of their fifteen-mile excursions to Sanford, home of the nearest Wal-Mart, Olympia had been a regular laugh riot.

“Impulse spending,” she'd snorted as she tossed yet another item in her cart. “This store is chock-full of stuff I had no idea I needed until I saw it.”

That was Annie's life: chock-full of stuff she didn't know she needed until she received it. Like a cup of Caleb's soothing hot tea. And Dr. Marc's kind observations. And the warm, welcoming embrace of this cozy kitchen.

These things made the long trip from Portland worthwhile.

Caleb sat down, pleasure creasing his features as he stretched his legs beneath the table. “Any luck talking your aunt into that cruise?”

“None. Zilch. Nada.” When they last spoke on the phone, Annie had pleaded until she was breathless, but to no avail. Now the subject of the cruise was off limits; Olympia would probably burst into tears at the mere thought of leaving Frenchman's Fairest on Christmas Day.

“Edmund and I always celebrated the birth of Christ in our home,” she had stated unequivocally. “This year will be no different.”

Whether Olympia accepted it or not, however, this year would be different. Only Olympia, Annie, and Caleb would light the advent candle and fill the four stockings hanging in the parlor: Olympia's, Annie's, Caleb's, and Tallulah's. Festivities would be forced and dismal.

Caleb's features softened as he reached out to cover Annie's hand with his own. “I'm sorry, honey. You're caught in a dilemma, aren't you? Your aunt needs you desperately, but perhaps you need something for yourself, too. Something neither Missy nor I can give you . . . for we would, you know.” His eyes shone with love. “We would give you the moon if the Father would loan it.”

Annie fought back tears. Even when she was a child, Caleb always seemed to know her deepest thoughts. But she was a woman now, and tears wouldn't change her circumstances . . . or make her feel better about them.

She needed to forget the cruise. Big deal. She could always go to the Caribbean next year.

Drawing a deep breath, she thought of the tickets in her desk and negotiated a mental truce with her yearning heart. At least she'd had the foresight to purchase travel insurance, so she wouldn't lose much money.

“I'll be okay, Caleb.” She managed a trembling smile. “You don't need to worry about me . . . but I'm glad you do.”

He squeezed her hand. “So—do you plan to attend Dr. Marc's party?”

She gave the old caretaker a wry look. “Honestly? No.”

He frowned. “The doctor will be disappointed—why, he gives a fine party, Annie. Folks talk about it for weeks afterward. The man makes a scrumptious eggnog.” Caleb closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. “My, my. I can taste it already.”

Annie drained the last of the tea, then set the cup on the table and grinned at the old butler. “Come on, Caleb. He's only trying to set me up with his son.”

“And would that be so bad?” Caleb leaned over to wipe Annie's upper lip. Embarrassed, she snatched the napkin and finished wiping a smear of honey from her mouth.

“From what I hear,” Caleb continued, “the young man is talented and intelligent. He's one of the finest doctors in New York City.”

“And probably just as adverse to being set up with a complete stranger as I am.” Annie shoved away from the table, then stood. If Alex Hayes was all she'd heard, he wouldn't need his father to find him a wife, of that Annie was certain. That was quite possibly the only thing she was certain of these days—that, and the fact that her tomatoes had gone kaput. She moved toward the hall, then paused in the doorway. “Is Aunt Olympia resting?”

“I'm not sure. She stays in her room a lot these days.”

“I'll go up and say good-bye.” Annie glanced at her watch. She still had a two-hour drive back to Portland.

Alarm crossed Caleb's features. “What about dinner? It's almost ready.”

Annie sighed, thinking of the long trip ahead. If she left now, it'd be at least seven before she arrived home, and she didn't like driving in the dark. But Caleb had prepared all her favorites.

“I'll have a quick plate. And maybe I can talk Aunt Olympia into coming down for a bite.”

“That'd be good.”

Annie turned to leave, then had a sudden thought. “Caleb—do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Destroy the plants sometime this week. I'm not into mercy killing.” Stepping forward, she dropped an absent kiss on his forehead, then reached for her gloves and moved into the hall.

She hadn't yet reached the staircase when the old butler's gravelly voice met her ears.

“Father—” He was praying. Annie knew he prayed often, for her and for Aunt Olympia. Caught by curiosity, she paused in midstep.

“She's a good girl,” Caleb said. “Ease her pain, and help her to know the true meaning of Christmas is not found in the doing, but in the giving.”

Drawing another deep breath, Annie moved up the stairs. She was giving all she had to give. What more did they expect of her?

By suppertime, Birdie had a pot of stew on the stove (concocted from a thorough gleaning of Salt's pantry and refrigerator) and three places set at the table. She'd swept the floor, dusted the few surfaces in the house, and scrubbed the bathroom, including the floor and shower stall. Salt was sitting up in the bed, apparently well on his way to full recovery, and the two children were staring at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted a halo and wings.

“I have to leave you three now,” she said, slipping into her coat, “but I'll be back tomorrow to check on things.” She sent a wink winging toward Salt. “I'll bring some of that rye bread and the molasses cookies you're so fond of. I noticed there isn't a cookie crumb left in this house.”

A six-year-old body suddenly wrapped itself around her left leg. “Can't you stay?” This from Brittany, whose pixie face looked positively woebegone.

“I'm afraid not, darlin'.” Birdie bent to pat the child's face. “I have a sister, you see, and she's bound to be worried. If I don't go, she'll have half the town up here searching for me.”

“She has to go,” Salt boomed from the bed, ending all debate.

Birdie made a wry face, then moved to caress Bobby's cheek, too. “You be a good boy, help your grandfather, and I'll see if I can't find something else for you to read. The encyclopedia is a very interesting book, but not really designed for children. I'm sure I can find something more fittin' for you.”

Buttoning her coat, she moved to the foot of Salt's bed, then looked up and met the sea captain's eye. “I don't know a blessed thing about children,” she told him, “but I know how to cook and converse and give a hug when it's needed”—she felt herself blushing—“to the kids, I mean. Seems to me they need a lot of hugging.”

Salt grumbled in his throat, then pressed his hands to the bed and pushed himself into a standing position. “Get on with you then,” he said, reaching for his robe, “and we'll be seeing you tomorrow.”

Birdie exhaled slowly. What had she expected, hugs and thank-you kisses? Not likely from a man like Salt Gribbon.

Pulling her knitted cap upon her head, she tied the string under her chin, then gave the children a parting wave. As she put her gloved hand on the doorknob, Salt's crusty voice stopped her in midstep: “Thank you, Birdie. For everything.”

Blinking back unexpected tears, she gave him a nod, then opened the door and stepped out into the biting cold.

“Saints have mercy, where have you been?” Bea stopped in the kitchen and dropped her gloves onto the table as Birdie came through the back door. “I was about to call Vernie and ask her to ride with me up to the lighthouse. I'd have gone myself, but I'm a little afraid of old Cap'n Gribbon.”

Birdie pulled off her gloves, then moved to the roaring fire and held up her hands. “Georgie Graham was right— Salt was really sick, too sick to even get out of bed. He was delirious with fever when I arrived, but he's better now.”

Bea sank into a chair with an audible thump. “You mean you spent the night up there? I thought you came in late and left early, but I had no idea—”

“Good grief, sister, be reasonable. He was a sick man, and in no condition to carry on in any sort of improper fashion. My reputation is more than safe.”

“Your reputation?” Bea snorted softly. “I think folks would be more concerned about Cap'n Gribbon shooting you than seducing you. Why, the way he threatens tourists with that rifle—”

“There wasn't a gun in sight, and he didn't even growl—well, he only growled once.” Birdie unbuttoned her coat, then slipped it off and hung it on the rack by the door. “Brr, it's cold. I'm starving and frozen to the bone.”

Bea lifted a brow. “Didn't Cap'n Gribbon offer you any supper?”

“Salt Gribbon,” Birdie answered, moving toward the kitchen area at the back of their cozy keeping room, “has little to spare, so I threw a light supper together and left it for him.” She lifted the lid of a pot on the stove and inhaled the scents of lobster chowder. “Bea, this smells wonderful.”

“Abner made it. He was concerned and would have gone off looking for you himself if I hadn't told him to stay here and mind the bakery.”

Birdie opened the cupboard and pulled out a bowl. “How was the store today? Busy?”

“Not too. Edith Wickam came by for some almond croissants, and Olympia wants a chocolate log for Christmas. Apparently Annie and Dr. Marc's son are planning to come in . . . at least, Olympia and Dr. Marc hope they are.” She shook her head. “Young people! Never can seem to make up their minds these days!”

“Tell me about it,” Birdie murmured, thinking about the debate she'd enjoyed with the children at lunch. Brittany had wanted a Domino's Pizza (inspired, no doubt, by the pizza commercials that sang out from the television every five minutes), while Bobby had expressed a yearning for hot dogs. In the end, however, they had to settle for Froot Loops, milk, and a few squares of processed cheese Birdie found in the fridge.

“It's okay,” Brittany had said, nibbling on her cheese like a mouse. “Velveeta is versatile.”

Now Birdie tilted her head, trying to remember when the company used that slogan as a jingle.

“So”—Bea shifted in her chair as Birdie ladled out a bowl of chowder—“what'd you do all day up at the lighthouse?”

Birdie shrugged. “I took care of a sick man. Fed him crackers, made him drink lots of water, and made sure he took aspirin. His fever broke this morning, so I tried to get some food into him.”

“Pretty boring work, that kind of nursing.” Bea wore a bemused expression. “I mean, you're an active woman, Birdie. What'd you do, sit in a chair and stare at the man while he slept?”

“There was plenty to do up there.” Birdie took her bowl to the table, sat down, and bowed her head for a quick prayer of thanks. When she lifted her eyes, Bea was staring at her with a gaze sharp as a needle.

Birdie stared back. “What?”

“Is he a slob, then?”

“Not at all. He's a tidy man, I think, but the place still needed a bit of cleaning up. I swept and dusted, then started a stew.” She laughed softly as she spooned up a bite of the rich chowder. “I had to use my imagination. He didn't have much in his pantry.”

Bea leaned her elbow on the table. “Did you have to do anything with the light?”

Birdie frowned. “What light?”

“Sister!” Bea rapped her knuckles on the tabletop. “For heaven's sake, it's a lighthouse.”