Gordy watched him all the way to the exhale before he shook his head and walked over to the electric light, flicking it on.
Jake stood, his eyes closed, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, slowly, deliberately. He’d take a drag on his cigarette and do it again.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Jake glanced at him. “I’ll be fine in a moment here. It was the cold. And the wind.”
Gordy frowned.
Jake took another pull on his cigarette. Breathed that funny way again. Finally, “I have asthma. I’m smoking for medicinal purposes.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.” Gordy stuck his hands in his pockets, his gaze roaming past Dottie’s father’s International Harvester truck to the stall where they’d—
“It’s true. It’s almost entirely comprised of stramonium. There’s very little tobacco. It calms my lungs, helps slow my breathing. I’ve got a tin of Elliot’s Asthma Powder in my suitcase if it gets worse.”
Jake sounded like he spoke the truth.
“Huh,” Gordy said. “Never heard of it.”
“Asthma? It’s a disease of the lungs. I had it as a child, after a bout of influenza, but I grew out of it. I even made it through the army’s medical inspection. Didn’t give me a problem until I picked up pneumonia while over in Belgium. Now, when I exercise or get a cold or even get overly excited, anytime I breathe hard, really, my lung starts to swell. It produces mucus, which makes it difficult to breathe.”
“Then what are you doing out in the cold, if it’s so bad for you?”
Jake leaned against the truck, pinching the cigarette between his fingers and taking another drag. He looked at Gordy. “Trying to figure out a way to get Violet to forgive me.”
Gordy raised an eyebrow.
“It’s a long shot, really. But…I did this stupid thing.”
Gordy liked hearing that—confession—out of Fancy-Pants’s mouth. Gordy folded his arms over his chest.
“My…friend Alex was writing to Violet during the war. But he was killed in action, and they sent all her letters to me, as his beneficiary.” He looked away, lifted a shoulder. “I read them. And I liked her.”
His words made a fist form in Gordy’s gut. “And the stupid thing was…?”
“I wrote to her, pretending to be Alex. Or, a version of Alex that resembled me.”
Gordy shook his head. “And I thought I was in trouble.”
Jake didn’t look at him.
“I got home from—from visiting a friend just this morning. My mother informed me that Violet’s letter had arrived, and that, since it was addressed to Alex, she returned it to sender.”
“So you naturally hopped on a train to intercept it.”
“I wanted to tell her the truth, face to face.”
Gordy raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dandy pickle there, son.”
Jake winced. Gordy almost felt sorry for him. He wanted to say something profound, even encouraging, but his own mistakes rose up to silence him.
Jake had his gaze on him when Gordy looked up. “What?”
“Why do you look at Dottie like that?”
“Like what?” He reached over to turn off the light, but Jake stopped him. Gordy glared at him.
Jake smiled. “What trouble are
you
in?”
Gordy considered him. Now he wanted a smoke too. Could even feel his lungs tightening, a little.
“I taught her son how to shoot. She blames me for making him want to go to war.”
“Every boy wants to go to war,” Jake said quietly.
“No, every boy wants to be a hero. And Nelson was. He became a sharp-shooter for his unit. Even earned a bronze star before he died. They awarded it to Dottie posthumously.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He’d never had anyone say that to him before. Sorry. For Nelson’s death. Like he had lost someone. His throat burned as he drew in a breath. “He was a good boy.”
“Why didn’t his father teach him to shoot?”
Gordy shook his head. “His father was a no-account Dapper Dan who swept through town and took Dottie with him. He never returned for either of them after she came home.”
He tired to deliver those words without judgment, but by Jake’s raised eyebrow, he failed. Gordy lifted a shoulder. “I asked her to marry me first.”
Jake stared at him, too much pity in his face for Gordy to bear.
Gordy shoved his hands into his pockets. “She refused to talk to me after she came home. Too ashamed, I s’pose.”
“Did you try to court her?”
Gordy frowned at him. “Of course not. She made her choice. I asked once. I wasn’t going to ask again.”
Jake seemed to be breathing better now. “I’m not real swell with women, Gordon, but I think if you love someone, you don’t give up.”
“That why you were digging around for your suitcase, those letters from your buddy?”
Jake lifted a shoulder. “Could be.”
Gordy recognized his type, all right. He’d looked at him in the mirror for the last twenty-seven years. Hopeful. Foolish.
Brokenhearted.
“Listen, Dottie’s entire life was her son. When he died, so did she. All Dottie wants is her son back. I can’t give her that. Which means, she’ll never forgive me. So you can put aside your love talk. Me and Dottie—we’re never coming in from this cold.”
Gordy reached up again and flicked off the light, grabbed Jake by the collar, and stepped out of the barn. “Stay close!” he yelled as they headed back out into the storm. “You get lost, and no one will find you until spring!”
As he trudged toward the house, he noticed that he could no longer see his porch light glowing through the storm.
* * * * *
If only Dottie had given Violet that confounded star, she wouldn’t be serving up four bowls of watery tomato beef soup and hoping the biscuits would puff up enough to suggest a hearty portion.
Why didn’t she pick up the Cornish hens? Or even finish her marketing?
Because who knew she’d have houseguests? Not even the girl scouts had knocked on her door for over five years.
Tomorrow. They’d all leave tomorrow and she’d trudge back out into the snow and pick up what the market had on sale. Game hens or not, it didn’t matter. She could open a can of processed ham for Christmas for all the celebration she had in her.
Dottie opened the cupboard in search of more bowls. She’d only used the one—washing it over and over again for the past five years. Pulling down her pottery, she hiked back to the sink to wash the dust off before ladling in the soup.
“I’ll set the table,” Violet said, rising from her chair.
“Stay put,” Dottie barked. If the girl injured herself more, she just might camp out here through the weekend. Although, she had to admit, the girl seemed fairly stoic with the news of Alex’s death.
Dottie had seen the way she looked at the newcomer, Jake. Recognized the second glance, the spark of interest.
Perhaps she hadn’t really loved Alex. Or perhaps she’d been in love with the attention of a handsome man.
Dottie knew that confusion well.
She carried the bowls to the table then went in search of silverware, cloth napkins.
“Johnny always said your kitchen smelled like fresh-baked bread. I agree.”
Johnny had an overactive imagination. “Doesn’t your mother bake bread?”
“Of course. But more often we buy it now. She has no time for domestics, what with all her volunteer duties. And, with Father gone, it’s just her and me.” Violet reached down, picked the towel off her ankle. Tried to move it in a circle. It elicited a wince.
“Put the towel back on.”
“It’s dripping onto the floor.”
“It’ll clean. When did your father pass?” Funny, she should know that, but Dottie hadn’t exactly been abreast of Frost news. She simply couldn’t bear to read the paper, with the updates of the war, and since then, the boys returning home. She pulled out a stepstool, reached the soup tureen from the top of the china hutch.
“He had a heart attack in 1946. I was still overseas.” Violet readjusted her towel. “I never made it home for the funeral.”
“I’m so sorry.” Dottie grabbed a hot pad then poured the soup from the pot into the tureen. “Where were you stationed?”
She expected something like South Dakota or Iowa—she’d heard of the military sending women to training camps in Aberdeen or Des Moines. For a split second, right after Nelson signed up, Dottie had nearly followed him into battle. The WAAC enlistment allowed for women up to age fifty, and the vision of staying behind while her son galloped off to war nearly strangled her. Perhaps, also, she could attribute it just as much to the stirring of an old reckless impulse, the kind that caused her to jump aboard TJ’s roadster, tuck herself into his arms, ready to see the world.
Dottie glanced at Violet. She hadn’t tried to know her over the past year since the city hired her to assist Dottie in the library. The woman—nearly thirty, which qualified her as more than a reckless young girl—had an energy about her that could infect Dottie, if she let it. Dottie recognized the energy, however, and retired to her office—running down errant subscribers, ordering new stock, filing court records—and allowed Violet to take over the promotion of new circulation. Since Violet’s arrival, the children’s reading nook hosted fresh new books and a steady stream of youngsters who longed to hear a story. No wonder Violet had suggested the revival of the Christmas reading.
In fact, Violet should do it. The last thing the children of Frost needed was a Christmas story told by a woman who didn’t even believe in Christmas—or rather, the magic, the grace, the healing of it—anymore.
Indeed, she should have passed on that star to Violet. She’d never light it again anyway.
“I started in Des Moines then went to Fort Meade, in Maryland.”
See, just like Dottie, Violet had returned home, her dreams of seeing the world shattered—
“Then I volunteered for duty at SHEAF, and I went to London. We were there for the retaliation of D-Day, when the Germans bombed Bushey Park. After that, they sent me to La Havre, France, and I finally ended up in Berlin. I was discharged in 1947.”
“You came home after your brothers?”
“We were busy processing the soldiers headed stateside. And taking care of the POWs, helping the military keep order. It was a mess over there, and we just couldn’t leave.”
Which meant she’d missed the parades, the celebrations. The appreciation. Perhaps, really, there hadn’t been any for her. Dottie remembered the gossip—how Frances Hart had forbade her from going, how her daughter most certainly did not have “the questionable morals of the ladies of the WAACs,” and that she would not be going to “keep up the morale of the soldiers.”
Worse, a few blamed Violet for sending their boys to war by moving them from secure stateside jobs to combat.
If Nelson hadn’t been proficient with a rifle, if he hadn’t earned his excellent marksmanship medal, been tagged as a sniper during basic training, Dottie might have accused Violet of the same.
Not a fair—or accurate—indictment, to be sure. But accusations rarely were.
Dottie pulled out the biscuits. They’d puffed up with the addition of extra baking powder. She dumped them into a basket and added them to the table.
If only she had milk. But no, she hadn’t stopped by the creamery either. They’d manage with tea.
She found a jar of leaves, added a spoonful to the teapot to steep.
In the mudroom, Dottie heard the stomping of the returning men and steeled herself against Gordy’s entrance.
He had divested himself of his jacket, his coveralls, his boots, even his hat when he entered. She hadn’t seen him close-up, without his outer clothes, for years. Now, he wore a pair of wool pants and a blue-checkered flannel shirt, rolling the arms up to his elbows as he wandered in. He still had those wide farm-worked shoulders, the sinewy forearms, those strong milking hands. His age showed only in his dark brown hair—whitened around the edges and needing a cut, although it lay tousled by the stocking cap—and his white-flaked golden-brown goatee that accentuated his strong jaw.
He might still be the most handsome man in Frost, should a woman be assessing. But a woman of her years was long past noticing.
“Smells good in here,” he said. He glanced at her with those hazel eyes that could take her apart, second by second if they lingered. Her mouth dried and she looked away from him before they could scour up more of the past, or worse, send a dormant flicker of heat through her and really do damage
“Stop trying to flatter me and sit down.”
He rolled his eyes and pulled out a chair at the table.
Jake, too, had divested himself of his wool coat, his soggy shoes, and entered in his stocking feet. He wore a white cotton dress shirt with a thin tie, a pair of black dress pants, and, like Gordy, he’d rolled up the cuffs of his shirt. If she were younger, she’d label him handsome, with his dark hair cut army-butch short on the sides, the shank of hair that fell over his eyes, the rough edge of dark whiskers upon his chin, those blue eyes that moved to Violet as if caught in a magnetic pull.
Jake drew in a breath, and Violet looked up at him.
Oh yes, Violet couldn’t figure out her allegiances—her poor Alex, cut down in his prime, or this young man, who wore his emotions on the outside of his body.
A woman would have to be blind not to see the man was sweet on her.
Jake pulled out the chair opposite Gordy and sat down. “I’m ravenous.”
A smile that started deep inside Dottie came out in a smirk. He sounded just like…
See, this was why she shouldn’t have houseguests. She picked up the teapot, filled the cups. “I don’t have any milk.”
“I’m not surprised,” Gordy said, then looked up, eyes wide, as if he hadn’t quite meant to say that.
She glowered at him. He raised one of his eyebrows, clearly not sorry.
“I’ll get to the creamery tomorrow, thank you very much.”
“If it abates. A man can barely see his hand in front of his face out there.”
She looked at Gordy, a sort of horror whisking through her. “It most certainly will abate, Mr. Lindholm.”
He tightened his jaw.
It
had
to abate. They’d starve, at the least, and who knew what manner of emotional destruction might be wrought. She and Gordy could barely speak to one another, the specter of Nelson hanging between them, and Violet and Jake just might combust, both of them harboring their own unspoken longings.