A Warmth in Winter

by Lori Copeland

  Stepping to the window, she peered out. Nothing moved on Main Street but feathery lines of soft snow pushed by the cold wind. The ferry sat at the dock, tethered by heavy rope lines, but there’d been no sign of a deliveryman.

  Where was that order? She could only restrain Cleta and Babette for so long. Even Dr. Marc was getting frustrated. If he’d reminded her once, he’d reminded her thirty times that eggnog without nutmeg might as well be milk.

  Behind her, Elezar had busied himself stocking canned goods he’d brought up from the basement. Though he was as worried as Vernie about that delivery, she appreciated him for having the good sense to keep quiet. Yessir, Elezar Smith was good as gold and kept his opinions to himself unless she asked for them. The world could use more men like Elezar.

  As the front door opened, Buddy Franklin came in, tracking mud on Vernie’s spotless floor. He paused before the candy display, eagerly scanning the selection as if something new might have materialized, but it offered the usual fare: Skybars, Mallo Cups, nonpareils, Necco Wafers, Heath Bars, and Fralinger’s saltwater taffy in every imaginable hue.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Vernie smiled at her customer. She liked Buddy Franklin, though the boy had about as much sense as a tick on a dead dog.

  “What can I do for you, Buddy?”

  He looked up, a sly grin creasing the corners of his mouth. “Whatever.” His eyes focused on the box of Necco Wafers. “Does them have a marshmallow taste to ’em?”

  “No, no marshmallow.”

  His eyes moved from the Necco Wafers to the Mallo Cups. “Reckon I’ll have a Mallo, then.”

  Vernie handed him the candy, then took his dollar. “Seen anything of a deliveryman out there?”

  Buddy ripped the wrapper, then took a big bite of chocolate-covered marshmallow. “No, ma’am,” he mumbled.

  Vernie shook her head as she moved to the register for his change. “I don’t understand it. I sent that order in over a week ago.” She pressed a quarter into his palm. “Would you mind running down to the ferry and asking Captain Stroble if he has a box marked for the mercantile?”

  Buddy nodded as he slipped the quarter into his pocket, then took another huge bite of candy. As he closed his eyes, savoring the taste, Vernie crossed her arms and watched him chew. After a long moment she said, “Today, Buddy?”

  His eyes flew open and a flush crept up his neck. “Um. Sure.”

  Elezar stepped away from the shelves to look out the front window. “Ferry’s just pulling away, Vernie. And there’s no sign of anything on the dock.”

  “Shoot.” Vernie bit her lip. Now she was going to have to call Cleta and Babette and Dr. Marc and beg for an extension.

  “I don’t understand,” she fretted, pulling her ledger from under the counter. “I know I placed that order.”

  She opened the large book, then felt her heart stop. The order lay inside the cover, half-completed and unsubmitted.

  Great day in the morning, she hadn’t placed the order! How could she make such a mistake? She always faxed the order the first Sunday of the month. She’d done the same thing this month, working with Elezar in the quiet of a blustery Sunday afternoon. She clearly remembered ordering extra nutmeg, cranberries, sugar, chocolate chips, baking powder, candied fruit—

  Powdered sugar and eggs.

  Stanley.

  Her eyes narrowed. She’d been in the process of filling out the order when the louse called and got her all flustered.

  “Anything wrong, Vernie?”

  Elezar’s voice jarred her from her thoughts. Clearing her throat, she abruptly folded the order and slipped it into her sweater pocket. Forgetting an order wasn’t the end of the world; she could fax it into the wholesalers this afternoon and they would deliver by midweek.

  Taking a deep breath, she avoided her clerk’s eyes. “Not a thing, Elezar. I think I’ll do a little bookwork upstairs. Will you be all right here for a few minutes?”

  The clerk turned to study the nearly empty store. Buddy Franklin, the sole customer, stood at the magazine rack reading a Blues Clues comic.

  Elezar grinned at Vernie. “I believe I can handle it.”

  “Good,” Vernie murmured, moving toward the stairs. “If Cleta or Babette calls again, tell them our supplies will be here no later than Wednesday. Guaranteed.”

  Elezar’s face brightened. “You’ve heard from the wholesaler?”

  “Kind of.” Guilt climbed the steps with her, but it would vanish as soon as she faxed the order in.

  Upstairs, Vernie stepped into her bedroom and sat down on the bed, then saw that her hands were shaking. Never, not once in her entire life, had she failed to complete her order. Closing her eyes, she sucked in air. She still had time. She didn’t need to panic. Keeping Cleta and Babette and Dr. Marc at bay without revealing what she’d done might be tricky, but she could do it.

  She could hear what Cleta would say if she knew the truth: “You forgot to order? What’s happened, deary, are you getting senile?”

  Not hardly. Vernie Bidderman was as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. Stanley’s call had knocked her a little silly, but what woman wouldn’t be upset by such a thing? Blast that Stanley’s hide! He’d always brought her nothing but trouble. She thought that particular thorn in her side was long gone, but here he was again, back to plague her after twenty long Stanley-free years.

  She jumped when the bedside phone shrilled.

  Jerking up the receiver, she barked, “What is it?”

  Silence hummed on the line, followed by a soft apology. “I’m sorry. I was calling the Mooseleuk Mercantile.”

  Vernie tempered her tone. “This is Mooseleuk’s.”

  “Vernie?”

  Her heart plunged when recognition washed over her. “Stanley?”

  “Hello, sweetums.”

  Cupping her hand to the receiver, Vernie lowered her voice. “Don’t you dare call me that, Stanley Bidderman.”

  “You used to love it when I called you that.”

  She sharpened her tone. “You’re a swine.”

  After a brief hesitation, Stanley continued: “Just because something is true doesn’t mean it needs to be said.”

  Vernie closed her eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Conversation, sweetie. Simple conversation. Is that too much to ask from one’s wife?”

  “Yes, it is. After twenty years of not knowing if you were alive or dead? Yes. Conversation is too much to ask. So I’m going to hang up now, Stanley, because it takes two to have a conversation and one of us is leaving.”

  She dropped the receiver back into the cradle, then stared out the window. Ships passed in the distance, plowing through the icy Atlantic.

  Vernie’s heart felt as cold as that water. If Pastor Wickam were here, he would remind her that she needed to turn to God for comfort, that the world was full of troubles not necessarily of the Lord’s making. Perhaps that was true, but the Lord hadn’t been much help when Stanley walked out on her. He hadn’t seemed to care when she was left shamefaced to explain to her neighbors why a married man would up and run off and never come back.

  Heat flushed her cheeks as pain she thought she’d given up long ago came back in a hurtful rush.

  She drew a shuddering breath and held it, fighting off the assault. The townsfolk had tried to be kind. Floyd had mowed her back lawn for two years afterward, and Edmund de Cuvier had done her taxes every year since. Yet she’d felt the pressure of curious eyes on her back whenever she entered a room, eyes that silently asked what she had done to make her husband leave without a word. She’d borne those glances for so many years her skin felt calloused from the pressure of so many prying eyes.

  And now that mole wanted to share a conversation with her?

  She reached for a tissue and swiped at her eyes. To make matters worse, she couldn’t help feeling guilty about hanging up on Stanley a second time. He had never been persistent, so that last call would likely be the end of his attempts to reach her. Though
Vernie was glad to be rid of the nuisance, something in her churned in discomfort . . .

  No. She’d done the right thing. Now she could concentrate on work instead of dwelling on the past. She had a business to run and nobody was going to do it for her.

  Still—Stanley had called. Twice. Whatever had possessed the man?

  Lying back on the bed, she closed her eyes and refused to open them until she heard Elezar closing up for the night.

  Thankfully, the phone did not ring again.

  Watching from the sofa in the Lansdowns’ front room, Vernie dropped a handful of popcorn into her mouth and wished she had begged off the Lansdowns’ annual tree-trimming ritual. Micah Smith, the gardener at the B&B, had stopped by to remind her of the event that afternoon, promising that he’d picked out the best Christmas tree ever.

  Vernie had to admit the tree was nice. The nine-foot blue spruce in front of the Lansdowns’ front window now sparkled with multicolored lights and silvery tinsel. “Didn’t I tell you?” Cleta Lansdown took a step back to enjoy the women’s handiwork. “It’s the prettiest tree we’ve ever had.”

  “You say that every year,” Floyd grumbled. Stocking-footed, Cleta’s husband pored over his mail-order mechanics course before a snapping fire. Cleta complained that he spent more time on his schoolwork than municipal matters, and his studies kept him underfoot and in her way. Last month she’d embroidered a sampler that now hung over Floyd’s leather Berkliner: “I’ve got one nerve left and you’re stepping on it.”

  “More red balls, Mom.” Teetering on a stepladder, Barbara extended her hand for more ornaments.

  Vernie munched on popcorn and tried not to think of her own barren living quarters. She couldn’t seem to summon the energy to put up a tree, so she’d hauled a tiny desktop model down from the attic and stuck it in the middle of her kitchen table.

  She couldn’t summon much enthusiasm for anything these days. After Stanley’s second call, the wind had gone out of her sails. She hadn’t checked her computer after supper, and she never let her e-mail pile up. She didn’t get a lot of personal messages, but her AOL mailbox regularly filled with advertisements for cheap airfare and new diet products guaranteed to take off twenty pounds overnight (as if she would believe any of that foolishness). The only time she’d fallen prey to a similar come-on she ordered a bottle of grapefruit pills that nearly burned a hole in her stomach before she realized her heartburn was due to an overload of acid in her system. She’d thrown the pills away and deleted all subsequent messages about losing weight. Occasionally she engaged in chitchat with folks on the loops she’d joined, but it seemed the same people exchanged most of the ideas and she could never think of anything to say. Someone had shared a good fruitcake recipe earlier in the week, but she didn’t care for fruitcake. Stanley used to say—

  She clamped the thought off in midstream. That phone call had her bumfuzzled.

  “Don’t fall, Barb.” Cleta hovered near the base of the stepladder, ready to steady her daughter.

  From his spot by the fire, Floyd cleared his throat. “Says here rubber wears out if it sits too long—gets dry rot.”

  Cleta turned to eye him. “So?”

  “So.” Floyd eyed her back. “That means the engine could use a new set of rubber.”

  Shaking her head, Cleta handed Barbara a star for the top of the tree. “You and that silly fire truck. The tires on that engine are perfectly good—why, it’s not used twice a year.”

  “Tell me about it! That’s why it needs new rubber, Cleta. What happens if a fire breaks out and we discover a bad case of dry rot? The whole town’d burn down before we could change a tire. Ayuh, I reckon I’ll warn folks at the next town meeting. Dry rot ain’t to be messed with, not if we want dependable fire protection.”

  Vernie picked up a popcorn kernel that had fallen between the sofa cushions. “Barb, where’s Russell tonight?”

  A rosy flush invaded Barbara’s cheeks at the mention of her husband. “Out.”

  Vernie chewed the popcorn, thinking. Where could Russell have gone “out” on the island? The Lobster Pot had closed in October, and other than the bakery where almost any time of day you could find someone sorting angel mail, there wasn’t anywhere to be “out” in Heavenly Daze. On a blustery night like this, no one in his right mind would want to be out. Why, it was blowin’ fit to make a rabbit cry.

  “He’s at the dock working on his boat,” Cleta volunteered. She stood on tiptoe and pointed at the tree. “Needs more tinsel in the left-hand corner.”

  Barbara glared at her mother. “You want this job?”

  “Of course not, deary. You’re doing fine—but the tree needs a little more tinsel.” Cleta jerked her chin in Vernie’s direction. “You seen Birdie today?”

  “Dry rot,” Floyd interjected before Vernie could answer. “Nothing to be messed with, ladies. Tires might not seem like a big deal to you, but you’d better hope you don’t need fire services anytime soon. And with all these electric lights and dry Christmas trees—”

  “Haven’t seen her,” Vernie answered. “She called this morning about sugar, though. She’s anxious to make her Saint James Puddings once the supplies arrive.”

  Cleta paused, absently studying the tree. “Have you noticed she’s acting a mite strange these days?”

  “Birdie?”

  “Dry rot,” Floyd growled. “You ever see a good case of dry rot?” He shook his head. “Ugly.”

  “I need more tinsel, Mom.”

  “You’ve got too much on that side.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do, too.”

  Their voices faded as Vernie’s thoughts drifted from the family scene. She had helped decorate the Lansdowns’ tree for the past twenty years—ever since Stanley left her without a tree-trimming partner. She’d only missed one holiday with the Lansdowns, the year she came down with the swine flu. Floyd and Cleta treated her like family, but she didn’t feel like family tonight. She felt old and alone. Other than Elezar and MaGoo, she had no one.

  Twenty years ago she’d been young enough to start over, but she hadn’t because she thought Stanley would return any day. When it became clear he wasn’t coming back, anger and resentment embittered her until she vowed she’d never marry again. But no matter how well her friends treated her, the holidays were a lonely time.

  She made a mental note to stop by and visit Olympia one day next week. Until she experienced loss, she’d had no idea of how painful simple family acts like decorating a tree could be.

  From his recliner, Floyd picked up the television remote and punched the power button. A helmet-haired weatherman from Portland stood before the camera and gestured to the map at his back.

  “—nor’easter due late next week. The center is still forming off Virginia, but this one could be a doozy, folks. Meanwhile, our Accu-weather forecast calls for a high tomorrow of twenty-eight, low, seventeen. Tuesday will be windy with a chance of possible sleet; high, forty-three, low, twenty-one. Not a pretty picture, Lisa.”

  The attractive newscaster pretended to shiver. “Brrr. Thanks, Bill. I can’t wait till spring. This is Lisa Littleton, WPXT. Stay tuned for sports with Stone MacKenzie.”

  “Don’t like the sound of that weather,” Floyd said, closing his notebook.

  “Me either.” Cleta threw Vernie a worried look. “Maybe I ought to send Floyd to Ogunquit if the ferry’s running tomorrow. Why, Christmas without my pumpkin pie wouldn’t be Christmas. The men would be in a snit for sure.”

  “Christmas is still over two weeks away,” Vernie pointed out. “No reason to panic.”

  “But what if we get snowed in?”

  Vernie rolled her eyes. “I swan, Cleta. Have I ever failed you?”

  Her word was good as gold, and Cleta certainly ought to know that by now. Vernie might have fallen short in the marriage department, but her business was to look after her neighbors and that meant keeping them well-stocked with cooking supplies. Why, she’d faxed—no, wait. She’d
mailed—

  She bit her lip. No. She hadn’t mailed the order; she’d have remembered walking out to the mailbox. So she must have e-mailed it. That was it. She had e-mailed the order.

  Or had she?

  No. She hadn’t checked her e-mail after supper.

  She felt suddenly lightheaded. She’d been sitting on the bed, about to finish filling out the order form when the phone rang. Stanley again . . .

  Forgetting about the popcorn in her lap, she bolted up from the sofa. The plastic bowl flew across the room, spraying Floyd and his easy chair in a salty white snow. He sprang out of the Berkliner, arms flailing, and accidentally knocked Barbara on the ladder. She teetered and toppled sideways onto her mother, who caught her in a halfhearted embrace before both women fell to the carpeted floor.

  As Cleta and Barbara filled the air with an assortment of squeals and shrieks, Floyd eyed Vernie as if she’d suddenly sprouted a third head. “Dad blame, woman! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I have to go.”

  “Go?” Cleta echoed, brushing herself off as she stood. “Why, we haven’t had our wassail and cookies yet!”

  “It’s breezin’ up—I really need to go. Elezar will be worried.”

  “But the Smith men are having some sort of meeting at the church.”

  Vernie was in no mood to explain. Snatching her coat from the hall peg, she shrugged into it, then wound her wool scarf around her neck.

  Cleta fretted aloud as she yanked the front door open and Vernie sailed by. “You’re going to break your fool neck running home in the dark like this!”

  Floyd ventured out on the porch, wrapping his button-down sweater closer. He peered into the darkness. “Vernie, let me walk you home.”

  “I’ve walked myself home for twenty-odd years and haven’t broke a bone yet.” Her foot slipped on a patch of ice. “Whoops!” Catching herself, she latched onto the porch railing and carefully worked her way down the steps. She had to get home and find that order . . .