A Warmth in Winter

by Lori Copeland

  Britt’s lower lip edged forward in a pout. “I like that show. It has funny stories.”

  “Does it?” Gabe sloshed milk from a jug into the pot. “Well, I know stories, too, some pretty good ones. While you’re eating, I might be willing to tell a story or two.”

  “Really?” Bobby felt his spirits rise. He had enjoyed learning to read the books at the lighthouse, and if he could hear a story without even having to read it—well, the night might not turn out so bad.

  “I might even be willing to tell you a story now, while the milk warms.” Gavriel put the pan on the stove, then smiled at them over the counter as he pulled bread out of a plastic bag. “Which would you rather hear—a story about love or war?”

  Brittany straightened in her chair. “Love!”

  Bobby glared at his sister. “I don’t want to hear anything with kissy parts.”

  Gabe laughed. “Okay. Maybe I can think of a story with a little bit of love and war. Let me think . . .”

  “I hate war stories.” Britt slumped, supporting her head with one hand. “One night we watched war movies all night long—at least Bobby did. I fell asleep.”

  “That’s probably a good thing,” Gabe said, spreading peanut butter upon slices of bread. “Was it one of the nights your daddy didn’t come home?”

  Bobby glanced at his sister. Nobody, not even the grandfather, knew about all the nights Daddy went out and didn’t come home until the next day. Once he stayed gone for two nights, then staggered home and slept on the couch for another full day.

  Tilting her head, Brittany gave Gabe a questioning look. “You know our daddy?”

  “I know about him,” Gabe said. “I also know about your grandfather. He’s a gruff fellow, and most of the islanders tend to leave him alone. But he loves you very much.”

  Bobby sat taller in the folding chair, then pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them. People on TV talked about love all the time, but he’d never heard the word in real-life conversation. Until now.

  Britt hadn’t seemed to notice the word. “You know our grandfather’s sick,” she said, her eyes following Gabe’s hands as he sliced the peanut butter sandwiches into triangles. “That’s why we were waiting outside. We tried to get help, and then we heard that lady coming up the road. We ran outside when we heard her coming ’cause we’re not supposed to let anyone see us.”

  “I know.” Gabe pulled two paper plates from a plastic bag, then set the bread triangles on them. He then opened a huge can and sprinkled a handful of potato chips beside each sandwich.

  Bobby had never seen more beautiful food in his entire life.

  “You two come on and grab a plate while I pour the cocoa,” Gabe said, turning toward the stove. “And while you’re eating, I’ll tell you the story I promised.”

  They scrambled out of their chairs and took the plates from the counter, then settled into places at the table and began to eat. Gabe came out from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of chocolate milk, complete with tiny marshmallows on top.

  Bobby swallowed a bite of the sandwich, then inhaled the warm, chocolaty steam. Gabe had to be a friend of the grandfather’s. No one else would want to take care of them.

  Brittany lifted a potato chip with her fingers, then carefully snapped it in half. “Okay, tell your story,” she said, commanding Gabe as if he were her servant.

  The man seemed to take no offense. He settled into a seat at the end of the table, propped one white sneaker on a rung of Britt’s chair, then folded his hands at his waist.

  “All right, here’s my story, and it’s true. Once upon a time, while the people of God were living at a place called Rephidim, the warriors of fierce King Amalek came to fight against them. Moses, the leader of the Israelites, commanded his assistant Joshua and said, ‘Call the Israelites to arms, and fight the army of Amalek. Tomorrow I will stand at the top of the hill with the staff of God in my hand.’”

  “What’s the staff of God?” Bobby lifted his mug. “His assistants?”

  Gabe chuckled. “His staff did assist him, but this staff was a tall stick. He used it to help him walk through the desert. Moses was an old man at the time.”

  Bobby nodded as the picture focused in his mind. The grandfather often walked slow and hunched over when he first woke up in the morning. A walking stick might help him, too.

  “Anyway,” Gabe went on, “Joshua did what Moses had commanded. He led his men out to fight the army of Amalek while Moses, Aaron, and Hur went to the top of a nearby hill. As long as Moses held up the staff of God with his hands, the Israelites fought well. But whenever he grew tired and lowered his hands, the Amalekites began to win. Moses finally grew too tired to hold up the staff any longer. So Aaron and Hur found a stone for him to sit on. Then they stood on each side, holding up his hands until sunset. As a result, Joshua and his fighting men were able to defeat the army of Amalek.”

  Silence fell over the room as Gabe finished, the stillness broken only by the sound of Brittany’s potato-chip crunching.

  “So,” Bobby began, knowing there had to be a lesson in the story. “If we’re ever in a fight, should we have somebody hold up a stick?”

  “Not exactly.” Smiling, Gabe leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. “I told you the story so you’d see the power of cooperation. You and Brittany are a team. Bobby, you’ve always been the leader, and you’ve done a fine job of taking care of your daddy and your little sister. But seven-year-old boys shouldn’t have to carry so much. Now it’s time for you to let someone take care of you.”

  Bobby blinked. “The grandfather?”

  Gabe’s smile deepened. “Yes—and other people, too. You can trust the folks on this island. They’re good, God- fearing people, and they’ll learn to love you . . . when they learn you’re here.”

  Britt’s face clouded. “Will they love my daddy?”

  Still smiling, Gabe’s gentle glance passed over her. “God loves your daddy, sweetheart, just as he loves your mommy. Your grandfather loves your parents, too. But sometimes people let other feelings get in the way of love.”

  Propping his head on his hand, Bobby stared at his empty plate. The sandwich and warm milk now sloshed in his belly, and waves of tiredness rippled through him. He lowered his head to the table and felt the coolness of the hard surface beneath his cheek.

  “You’re tired.” Gabe stood. “Come with me, both of you. I think I can make you more comfortable.”

  Obeying, Bobby stood and followed Gabe to the corner where the furnace belched and blew a current of warm air into the room. A padded pallet lay on the floor.

  “I found this in a storage closet,” Gabe explained, sinking onto the thin plastic pallet. “It’s nothing plush, but I think we can be warm and comfortable for the rest of the night.” Without seeming to care if he got his white clothes dirty, he sat with his back pressed to the wall, then stretched out his long legs. “Come on, you two. Sit beside me, and let me tell you another story.”

  Brittany bounded to Gabe’s side, settling beneath his arm like an affectionate puppy. Bobby followed a little more cautiously. Gabe placed his arms around each of their shoulders, then in his deep voice he began to tell another tale:

  “In the beginning Jesus the Word already existed. He was with God, and he was God. He was in the beginning with God. He created everything there is. Nothing exists that he didn’t make. Life itself was in him, and this life gives light to everyone. The light shines through the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it.”

  “Like a lighthouse,” Britt murmured, her voice soft with sleep.

  Gabe chuckled. “Yes, like a lighthouse. And the light had a helper, a man as independent as your grandfather. He was called John the Baptist, and God sent him to tell everyone about the light so that everyone might believe. John himself was not the light; he was only to tell people that the one who is the true light, who gives light to everyone, was going to come into the world.”

  “The Guiding Light?
” Though his eyelids were heavy, Bobby forced himself to look up. “Like the TV show?”

  Gabe shook his head. “He is a guiding light, but not many people know him that way. You see, although the world was made through him, the world didn’t recognize him when he came. Even in his own land and among his own people, he was not accepted. But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.”

  Nodding drowsily, Bobby listened, the words of the story coming steadily until he fell asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Salt opened his eyes in the time of half-light, before color filled the morning and night fled away. The gray air lay still and cool against his face; the heaviness of dark quilts covered his body. The woodstove had ceased its crackle and hiss; the only sound touching his ear was a quiet snoring from somewhere off to his right.

  He closed his eyes and shuddered in relief. The children were safe and sound. Bobby snored like that, especially in the morning when his sinuses were stuffed from the night.

  He’d had a terrible dream. Birdie Wester had been tending him, and the little woman had held him in his bed while he tried to tell her there were children about, two kids who must be fed and warmed and sheltered . . .

  Weariness clung to him like a shroud, but still he managed a wry smile. His mind must have been playing tricks on him, conjuring up terrors and trials as his fever staged one last stand against the healing touch of time.

  Shifting his weight under the heavy quilts, Salt rolled onto his side and opened his eyes. Silvery light from the approaching sun filled the room, bathing the kitchen table in a cool patina. Shadow pools filled the crevices of the beanbag chairs and the floor, but in a moment or two the room would brighten a bit more and he’d see his dear little snorer . . .

  The wooden creak of the rocker broke the steady rhythm, and Salt frowned. He adjusted his gaze, saw a form curled in the chair, a blanket draped about the chest and shoulders. Why would Bobby sleep in the rocker? He had a perfectly comfortable bedroll against the wall.

  Salt lifted his head as his eyes adjusted to the semi-gloom. The shape in the chair seemed wrong; it was too long and too sprawled, with one bony arm draped over the side and extended toward him. The hand at the end of that arm was long-fingered, with a gold ring gleaming above polished nails.

  Bobby didn’t wear jewelry or nail polish.

  Adrenaline pulsed through Salt’s bloodstream, fueling him with the strength to shove away a mountain of blankets and sit up. Driven by a fear he could not name, he placed his stockinged feet on the floor and squinted at the body in the chair, half-expecting to discover the form of some sea witch from the mariner’s stories he’d heard as a child.

  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.