by Loree Lough
He snapped off a smart salute and grabbed the doorknob. “Get inside before you catch your death. I love you,” he said, closing it before she could respond.
“I love you, too,” she hollered through it.
Julia did the dishes and decided to have one last cup of tea before heading up to bed. Hopefully sleep wouldn’t elude her too long. She hugged herself as the wind rattled windowpanes and sent crisp leaves skittering across the porch. The lights flickered then dimmed, and in a blink, the power went out completely.
Snow-thunder boomed as Julia scampered around, lighting candles and oil lanterns. Thankfully she’d had a cord of wood delivered just last week, and the day before, a chimney sweep had cleaned years of creosote from the stovepipe. As soon as she got into her PJs and robe, she’d build a toasty fire, make up the sofa bed, and wind Granny’s ancient alarm clock. Only one thing could improve the nearly perfect early-winter night…
…but Simon was halfway home by now.
Leave it to Julia, he thought, pulling into her driveway, to make a house look warm and cozy even on a storm-riddled, no-electricity night. Smiling, he locked up the truck and long-stepped through the drifting snow to her front porch.
She’d built a fire in her woodstove, and whiffs of the peat-scented smoke permeated the frigid air, reminding him of all those nights they’d sat talking near her chiminea—though the weather had been balmy back then.
Habit made him press the doorbell’s button. “Idiot,” he laughed to himself when it didn’t ring. He knocked on the leaded glass sidelight beside the heavy oak door. “Julia,” he called. “Julia, honey…it’s me, Simon.”
His ear craned near the window, he heard Mouser inside, alternately meowing and chirruping. “Hey, kitty…go get your mommy. Tell her there’s a nice man out here freezing his fingers off on her porch.”
The unrelenting wind wailed and bawled, threatening to blow Simon off balance. Shivering, he knocked again, harder this time. “Julia…open up! It’s like a blizzard out here!”
He saw her shadow on the other side of the glass and heard her sleepy, timid voice. “Simon?” she said as the door opened. “What on earth…?”
“Tree’s down. Huge one. Must be a hundred years old, if the size of that trunk is any indicator. It’s completely blocking the road, and I can’t get around it. Nobody can. Must be a dozen cars down there trying to figure out which way they’ll go.”
“Well, goodness gracious sakes’ alive,” she said, grabbing his sleeve, “come in here, will you, before I’m forced to chisel you from the floorboards!”
She slammed the door behind him and immediately began tugging off his wet gloves, scarf, and baseball cap. “Get out of that coat,” she said, frowning as she hung his things on the coat rack. “Shoes and socks, too. I’ve got a nice hot fire going in the family room. Stand there and warm up while I get you one of Gramps’s sweaters.”
“But…I haven’t brought back the last stuff you loaned me.”
“Oh, what a feeble protest,” she teased, giving him a playful shove toward the hallway. “Now what’s your preference…cocoa or herbal tea?”
“You built a fire, lit the lanterns, and made cocoa?”
Smiling, Julia shrugged. “I almost made tea, but then I got to remembering that night you made cocoa….”
“Man, oh, man,” he said, hugging her, “God broke the mold when he made you.”
“Unhand me, sir, or I’ll be forced to call a constable!”
Laughing, Simon stood back. “Unhand…Call a…call a what?”
“Seems the appropriate choice, since we’re living like it’s 1800. And since it seems you’re stuck here for the night, I need to change into something…into something proper.”
Ah, now that his brain had thawed some, she was beginning to make sense. Some puritanical sense of right and wrong had raised its self-righteous head, making her think her attire might look provocative. He resisted the urge to chuckle, because he thought her modesty and old-fashioned notions were adorable. “Julia,” he said, arms spread to emphasize his point, “you’re covered up more right this minute than you were last spring when we walked along the river. Why, I saw your bare arms that night. And your naked knees, let’s not forget!”
She hugged the shawl collar of her fuzzy robe tighter around her neck. “It was warm outside then,” she said, more than a little defensively. “And besides, that’s entirely beside the point.”
Julia was halfway up the stairs when she leaned over the railing to say, “Soon as I change into sneakers and sweats, I’ll fix you that cocoa. And if you’re a very good boy, I’ll put a dollop of whipped cream on top.”
Grinning, Simon stared after her, wondering what—in her old-fashioned-girl opinion—he’d have to do to qualify for “good boy” status. With a shrug, he decided to follow orders and headed for the family room.
Her woodstove boasted a rectangular window in its door, and when he caught sight of the fire’s amber radiance, it became easier still to follow Julia’s instructions.
She’d tossed a fading, frayed afghan onto the couch cushions, and the Good Book lay open on the end table. Mild curiosity made him wonder which of the poetic verses in Isaiah she’d been reading.
He heard her padding down the wooden stairs and pictured her tiny white-socked feet. What made her think she’d be less alluring in sweats than in her thick pink robe? The woman was femininity personified—not even a suit of armor would have hidden that fact—but Simon would humor her.
Carrying two gigantic mugs into the room, she placed one on the table beside the recliner and one at the end of the couch near the Bible. “This is your bed for the night,” she said, pointing as she opened the ancient wooden trunk beside the big leather chair. “It opens almost flat, so you can stretch out and catch a few winks.” Julia pulled out a thick cream-colored blanket and hung it over the arm of his recliner. “We’re stuck here in the family room, I’m afraid, since the woodstove is our only source of heat until the power comes back on.”
Simon wondered where the fuse box was in this aging farmhouse. If he knew, he might unscrew every one of them to ensure that the lights and heat would stay off even if the power came back on. He grinned to himself at the thought. “That’s fine,” he said, sipping his cocoa.
“Will Wiley and Windy be okay, home alone?” She cuddled on the far end of the couch and hugged her knees.
“They’ll be fine,” he said, releasing the recliner’s footrest. “I filled their food and water bowls before I left this afternoon, and Wiley can get outside through the doggy door.”
“Windy won’t use it?”
“Nope. Stereotypical scared-cat, that one.” He chuckled then scanned the room. “Where’s Mouser, speaking of cats?”
Julia lifted the corner of the afghan. “Voila!”
“I guess that’s one good thing about her being declawed. She can’t tear up that old thing any worse than it already is.”
“Hey, what’re you calling an ‘old thing’? My gran made this for me,” Julia said, sliding it onto her lap, “when I was a wee girl of four.” Her smile faded when she added, “I couldn’t take it with me when…”
Her voice trailed off, and he sipped some cocoa, hoping she’d continue, uninterrupted.
“When I got home, it was nice to find it, all folded up and smelling like lavender, on my bed.”
“Bet it was something to behold when it was new.”
A dreamy, wistful expression lit her face as she stared into the fire. “Oh, it was. Scraps from every old sheet and towel, every dress and shirt she could get her hands on, every square hand-stitched onto a thick flannel blanket.”
“Bet it’s warm, too.”
Nodding, she fingered the threadbare satin trim then got to her feet with the afghan draped over one arm. “See for yourself.” She covered him with it. “I won’t take no for an answer,” she said, taking the blanket she’d set out for him.
“But Julia…”
“But
Simon…”
He knew what that quirked brow and half smile meant and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Your house, your rules.” And just for fun, he tacked on, “But if you change your mind, it’s—”
“I won’t.” Then, “I promised myself earlier that this would be the very last night I’d use it. It’s too tattered and worn to be washed, even by professionals. So…I’ll have to muster up the backbone to do what I should’ve done years ago.”
“Seems a rotten shame.”
She sipped her cocoa. “I have a transistor radio in the kitchen drawer. Want me to get it? I could probably find a station that plays some good ‘snowed in’ music.”
“Nah.” He didn’t mind that she’d changed the subject. The lull in conversation gave him time to mull over the idea that had begun to brew in his brain. “I’d much rather listen to the music of your voice.”
“I sure hope they get that tree out of the road by morning. I have to be in court at nine….”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. If that mess out there keeps up, they’ll have to cancel it, anyway.”
They spent the rest of the night that way…Julia curled up on the sofa and Simon stretched out in her grandfather’s well-worn recliner…talking and laughing, scheming and dreaming about their future together.
One day soon, Simon would stop by the jewelry store in Paradise and see what sort of rings they kept on display. And while he was in that part of town, he’d drop off her grandmother’s afghan at the framers’ shop. The trick would be getting the thing out of her house without her noticing….
Julia would fuss and croon over her engagement ring, but he knew in his heart that no diamond would compare to having that treasured possession of hers forever protected and framed under glass.
Chapter Sixteen
Paradise still shimmered with the last remnants of Christmas decorations. Whistling as he walked down the street, Simon drove his hands deeper into his coat pockets and withdrew them occasionally to return the friendly waves of the shopkeepers he passed along the way. Shoulders hunched against the cold wind, he wondered how long it would be before the garlands wrapped around every lamppost blew loose and slithered down Main Street like shimmering snakes.
White plastic snowflakes and silvery stars suspended from street signs and overhead power lines clanked merrily with nature’s blustery breaths, and the two-inch blanket of snow that had fallen on New Year’s Eve still lingered in heaps and piles alongside the roads and sidewalks and glittered in the noonday sun.
What a gorgeous little town, Simon thought, smiling. What a gorgeous day. What a gorgeous life he had since Julia agreed to share it with him! He hadn’t felt this good, hadn’t been this happy since long before Georgia’s diagnosis. He sensed that she would have approved wholeheartedly of his relationship with Julia, and the knowledge filled him with calm and peace about the future.
“Doctor Thomas! Doctor Thomas!”
He’d have recognized the voice anywhere and turned to see Levi halfway up the block, bundled in a muffler and mittens, poking his head out the side of William’s dark gray carriage. “Hey, kiddo!” he called back. “Better watch out…you’ll get a windburn on your cheeks, hanging around that way!”
The boy glanced at his father, whose patient grin told Simon he was about to get an earful of youthful Amish wit and wisdom, delivered straight from Levi’s lips. “That’s what all the Townies say!”
Laughing, Simon shook his head as William guided the horse parallel to the curb in one of several parking spots reserved for Amish buggies. Even before his father’s boots hit the pavement, the boy hollered, “I will wait here for you, Papa.”
“But, Levi, it is cold.”
“Under this coat, Mama put two sweaters and two pairs of pants on me this morning.” He wiggled his own booted foot to add, “And three pairs of socks. I can barely move my toes!”
“As you say, then. But stay in the buggy. I will be back soon,” William muttered before disappearing into the hardware store.
Simon continued walking toward his clinic. He’d pay for those extra moments at the bakery, sipping coffee and munching hot-from-the-oven blueberry muffins. No doubt there’d be a short line of patients outside the—
In the reflection of a shop window, Simon noticed three teenage boys lurking near the intersection, two blocks back. Something about the way they stood, peering up and down the street, caught his attention. Everything about them seemed eerily out of place on this beautiful, snow-sparkling morning, and a sense of unease and dread settled over him. Simon thought he recognized two of the three as owners of pets who came to him for treatment for the animals. He thought the third boy looked like Michael Josephs, whose reputation for vandalism, assault, and breaking and entering had long been a topic of gossip throughout Paradise. His age, Simon knew, was the only thing preventing WGAL-TV news from reporting his crimes.
They were up to no good, that much was clear, and knowing it set Simon’s teeth on edge and raised the hair on the back of his neck. No doubt they aimed to pull some mean-spirited prank on William’s horse and buggy. Simon had seen enough of that to know how costly their graffiti might be and how terrifying it could be for the horse.
Simon turned, intent on marching right up to those rascals and giving them a piece of his mind. Burning Amish barns and shooting livestock and frightening horses, overturning carriages, and hurling stones and cruel words at the gentle farmers was bad enough. But Levi was in the back of this buggy. If these delinquents had decided to pick on an Amishman, they’d picked the wrong day.
One of the two kids he’d recognized noticed Simon looking their way and pointed at him. A series of nods and gestures quickly followed, telling Simon they understood that he aimed to have a cross word or two with them. The one who looked like Michael lifted his chin in defiance, as if daring Simon to interfere with whatever mischief he and his minigang had planned. “Nobody can do anything about it,” he yelled, “because Clapes are stupid and too chicken to press charges!”
Simon hated it when ruffians like these referred to the Amish as “clapes.” Bad enough they’d chosen the hard-sounding nickname. Worse still, when their acts of aggression were so frequent, even the cops referred to the abuse as “claping.”
The boys on either side of the portly one shook their heads and, hands in the air as if in surrender, backed slowly away. They hadn’t gone three feet before the leader stuck his hand under his down-filled jacket and locked onto Simon’s gaze…a bold, vicious glare that chilled him more than winter’s biting winds.
In the back of his mind, Simon was aware of the big clock in the square, ticking off the seconds:
Tick: sunlight, glinting from a glass bottle…
Tick: the white rag in its mouth, riffling in the wind…
Tick: a cigarette lighter, sliding from the boy’s pocket…
Tick: its aluminum lid snapping back…
Simon ran toward the boy, his boots thudding over the ice-and-snow-patched sidewalk as…
Tick: the wick ignited as the boy held the bottle high above his head…
Tick: the golden liquid sloshing inside the bottle glinted in the sunlight…
“Gasoline…” Simon said under his breath. And understanding what it meant, a coarse “Nooo!” growled from him as the flaming bottle flew, end over end, closer, closer to William’s buggy.
Something gleamed silver inside it. Bolts? Nails? Had this crazy kid actually built a crude bomb? Running full-out, Simon bellowed, “Nooo!”
In one eyeblink, the fiery bottle landed with a quiet think on the buggy’s front seat. Simon, arms outstretched in the hope he could right it before the flaming rag-wick reached the gasoline, raced for the vehicle. In the next, the bottle rocket fell onto its side, instantly igniting the fuel and spewing fiery liquid, nails, and screws in a hundred different directions. The cutting wind whistled through the buggy’s windowless doors, fanning the flames, and in the next instant, the floorboards, walls, even the ceili
ng were afire.
The startled horse reared up, trumpeting with fear, then thundered down the street, dragging the blazing buggy behind it. As it passed by him, Simon felt the wave of heat left in its wake; at the same moment, he heard Levi’s plaintive voice shrieking in panic and pain.
Shocked shoppers, tourists, and store owners stopped in their tracks. But Simon barely noticed. “Somebody call 911!” he roared. “911!”
When the horse tried to round the corner, it snapped the harness and breastplate. Freed from the fiery buggy, it quickly disappeared from view. For a precarious moment, the buggy teetered on two wheels before it continued down Main Street, its now-loose reins flapping like black ribbons…until it crashed headlong into a parked car.
“Find William Gunden!” Simon shouted to no one in particular. “The boy’s father…he’s in the hardware store!” Already blue-orange flames licked low-hanging tree limbs above the buggy as Simon closed in. Shrugging out of his coat, he plowed through the billowing tornado of thick black smoke and draped it over Levi’s scorched clothes. Gently lifting the boy into his arms, he grimaced when he had to tug a bit to separate Levi’s trousers from the melting vinyl seat.
Blond-lashed blue eyes fluttered open, crinkling slightly at the corners as Levi recognized Simon. “Doctor Thomas,” Levi rasped around a feeble smile.
“Shh,” Simon told him. “Help is on the way.” He slumped to the curb, cradling the child in his arms. Things looked bad, real bad, and Simon considered the possibility that even if an ambulance arrived in the next instant, it might be too late. Poor Levi looked like a human pincushion, thanks to dozens of carpenters’ nails that had been added to the gas-filled bottle. Shards of glass protruded from his chest, thighs, and throat. Thankfully, his face had been spared from the daggerlike projectiles and sizzling heat, and Simon could only presume God protected it to spare Hannah and William from having to carry that grisly image with them for the rest of their days.
“Hurts,” the boy croaked, “hurts everywhere…very much….”