Grumbling at the inconvenience, she parked in the second wet parking lot of the day, pulled her collar up to her ears, and trudged into the grocery store.
After yanking a cart from the line of buggies, she pushed it toward the spice aisle. Rounding the corner in a rush, she collided with a fellow shopper’s cart, jolting her from stem to stern. The corner of her buggy swung wide, knocking over a display of thirty-two ounce bottles of Mountain Dew. Plastic bottles toppled and hit the ground, several exploding in pressurized yellow streams as unsuspecting shoppers slipped and slid through the sticky assault.
By the time she’d righted the bottles, helped an older woman up from the floor, and tried to explain the collision to a nervous store manager, Annie was drenched. Holding her sticky blouse away from her chest, she looked at the damage to her clothing and muttered, “Good grief.”
A rumbling baritone chuckle answered her wry observation. She glanced up to see A. J. grinning at her, the front of his blue shirt, silk tie, and leather jacket saturated in soda pop.
Her pulse rate kicked into overdrive. “What—what are you doing here?”
“Picking up some soda?”
Annie burst out laughing as a clerk approached with a mop.
“I’m so sorry,” Annie apologized, bending to help pick up the ruptured plastic bottles.
“No problem, ma’am, please be careful. Stand back.”
Like a knight in soaking armor, A. J. took Annie’s arm and pulled her away from the carnage. Beside a bin of broccoli she dabbed at her blouse with a paper towel, aware that a pink flush now dominated her face. Of all people to run into—literally—she had to soak Mr. Perfect.
Her thoughts abruptly shifted. What was A. J. doing here?
She lifted her gaze to meet his warm brown eyes. “Did you know I live near here?”
He stopped wiping his jacket long enough to give her a smooth smile. “How would I know that?”
“Maybe Melanie told you?” She didn’t want to believe he’d found out where she lived and was haunting the grocery store in order to meet her—or did she? Maybe she did, but then she’d be a traitor. Melanie might be as fickle as the wind, but she was a friend.
Mr. Perfect’s smile hadn’t faded. “The subject of where you live and shop could have come up the one time I was out with Melanie—or two, if you insist on counting the night I met her.”
Annie grinned, dropping her head when her cheeks burned hotter. “Okay. So what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
Half her heart thrilled at his words, the other half wished he wouldn’t tease. There was no way he could have known she would be in this store at this hour.
Reason won out. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” she said.
“Okay,” he conceded. “I’m following you.”
“You are not.” She tossed her crumpled paper towels into a trash can, then reached over to retrieve her dripping cart. Conversation like this would get them nowhere.
His smile deepened. “Like I said, I came in for a soft drink and a deli sandwich. I had a consultation in Portland earlier this morning, and now I’m on my way to the airport.”
Of course, Annie thought. The airport was only fifteen minutes from here. This would be a logical stop if he wanted to pick up something for lunch.
She lowered her gaze, afraid he’d think she was intent upon grilling him. What did his schedule matter to her? They were barely friends. Mere acquaintances.
He fell into step beside her as she pushed her cart toward the cash register. His eyes widened when he saw what she was buying—eight tins of nutmeg.
She laughed. “It isn’t for me. I’m doing friends a favor.”
“You had me worried. I thought maybe you had a nutmeg addiction.”
He flashed a million-dollar smile, then stepped away to get his sandwich and soda. As Annie pushed her cart through the checkout line, a wave of resentment washed over her. Why should Melanie have this man? She didn’t deserve him—well, maybe nobody did. So why should Annie feel guilty for feeling attracted to him? Something would be wrong with any woman who wasn’t attracted to this guy.
But Melanie, no matter what her faults, was a friend. And friends didn’t steal other friends’ boyfriends.
So Mr. Perfect was taken.
After she paid for her purchases, she walked slowly to the door, then smiled when he caught up with her.
“Express lane?” she asked, nodding toward his single grocery bag.
“Always.” He grinned. “Life’s too short to stand in line.”
They walked out to her car, which he seemed to remember.
“On your way home?” he asked, holding the door open after she unlocked the car.
“No, I’m off to visit my aunt for the weekend.” She paused, studying the lowering sky. The clouds looked bruised and swollen. “Do you know if they’re predicting snow?”
“I hope not; I still have to fly to New York.” A. J. ducked as his pager went off. Checking the number, he said, “I have to go.”
“Me too.” She slipped behind the wheel and he held the door a moment longer. Their eyes met.
“You will let me know?”
“Know what?”
“When I can take you to dinner.”
She dropped her gaze. “I think that will be up to Melanie.”
“The girl I dated only one time, two if you count—”
“The night you met.” She nodded. “That would be the one.”
He grinned as she turned the key in the ignition and looked up at him. “You’re a mess, you know it?” she said.
“Maybe I need a good woman to clean up my act.”
His eyes held hers and it was there again. Magic.
As she drove out of the parking lot, he followed in the Lexus, but at the first traffic light, he turned and headed toward the airport.
Sighing, she turned on the radio and hummed along with Bing Crosby who was dreaming of a white Christmas. And though she knew she shouldn’t, she took a few small liberties with the lyrics.
She was dreaming of a sweet A. J.
Such a silly, harmless thing to sing.
By the time Annie pulled into Ogunquit’s Perkins Cove, sleet was pelting her windshield. Ice had built up on the wipers, causing them to thump noisily against the glass.
After parking near the dock, she climbed out of the car and sprinted to the white clapboard office. The ferry was still moored to the dock, but by her watch Captain Stroble should have been halfway into his noon run by now.
Maybe she’d gotten lucky.
Breathless, she pulled the door open and greeted the captain with a smile.
“Well, look who decided to come home,” he said, tipping back his cap to grin at her. “I was beginning to think we wouldn’t see you this weekend.”
“Sorry I’m late.” She held her hands up to the small space heater in the corner. “But I’m glad you haven’t left yet. Got room for one more?”
The captain gave her a rueful smile. “Sorry.” He inclined his head to look out the window. “The storm’s moved in faster than they predicted. I don’t think we’ll be going out at all today.”
Annie’s heart sank. Vernie and the women at the bakery would be disappointed that she couldn’t bring their cranberries, sugar, and nutmeg, but Annie had a far more pressing problem. In weather like this, she didn’t dare start back to Portland.
Outside, waves rocked the channel and the dozens of boats anchored there. “I reckon I’ll have to find a room here tonight.”
“Ayuh.” The captain tugged at his beard. “The Williams at the Puffin’s Nest might put you up. They’re not really open for business, but since you’re a local gal and all . . .”
“Thanks, Captain. I’ll drive over there.”
The Williams did take pity on Annie, welcoming her to their bed-and-breakfast even though they’d officially closed for the season. After settling into her room, Annie called Frenchman’s Fairest and e
xplained the situation. “I’m sorry, Aunt Olympia. Maybe the weather will clear by tomorrow.”
As she disconnected the call, she heard the weatherman’s voice from the television downstairs. “This is going to be one for the record books, folks.”
Annie sighed. She had another call to make, one she dreaded even worse than the call to Olympia. If Vernie really was nipping at the bottle, news like this might really drive her over the brink.
“Vernie?”
Vernie broke into a relieved grin when she heard Annie’s voice on the line. “You made it!”
“Afraid not. I’m stuck in Ogunquit. The ferry’s not running ’cause of the storm. I’m sorry, Vernie.”
Vernie slumped against the counter and glanced at her watch. One o’clock. The town Christmas party started at six. So she had ruined the festivities and the islanders’ annual celebration.
The phone buzzed in her ear. “Vernie? Are you still there?”
Heaving a resigned sigh, Vernie stared at the sleet peppering the mercantile’s front window. “I’m here. Thanks, Annie, for trying.” She paused, aware that she was being self-centered. “Are you all right over there?”
“I’m fine; I’m spending the night at the Puffin’s Nest. But I’m worried about you.”
Vernie frowned. “About me?”
“Ayuh. I just want you to know that we love you, Vernie. You don’t have to look for answers, you know, in chemicals. And after Christmas, maybe you should check into one of those, um, support groups.”
Vernie listened in bewilderment. What in blazes was the girl talking about? Chemicals? Support groups? Must have something to do with the menopause program Annie’d been urging Olympia to join. Olympia had come into the mercantile with a long list of herbs and vitamins she wanted Vernie to order, saying they were all-natural and the best way to keep a woman’s hormones under control.
Vernie hadn’t bought into those claims. She’d learned her lesson from the grapefruit diet pills.
“Annie,” she forced a laugh, “sometimes you just have to get through things as best you can. Sometimes I still feel a little tingly in my hands and feet, but my mind’s all together. Most of the time.”
“Oh.” Annie’s voice softened. “Well, okay. But let’s talk the next time I’m home, okay? And maybe tomorrow the weather will ease up enough for me to get the supplies to you.”
Tomorrow would be too late, but that wasn’t Annie’s problem. It was Vernie’s, and now she would have to face up to it. She thanked Annie again and hung up, then dialed the bakery’s number.
Birdie sounded more resigned than angry when she heard the news. “Well, I reckon we’re not going to die without pumpkin pies at the party.”
“I’m sorry.” Vernie twisted the phone cord. “Reckon I should have let you buy the nutmeg while we could.”
The call to the Graham Gallery wasn’t any easier. Frustration tinged Babette’s tone, but at least she understood. “I guess the storm caught us all off guard.”
“Well, you know,” Vernie offered lamely. “Maine weather. Who can predict it?”
“Okay.” Babette fell silent for a moment, then added, “Don’t worry. I have a can of fruit cocktail on hand, so I’ll add it to the Jell-O for my salad.”
Fruit cocktail? Dejected, Vernie hung up and placed other calls to Cleta and Dr. Marc.
By six o’clock, candles and greenery festooned the drab basement of Heavenly Daze Community Church. Winslow Wickam, Floyd Lansdown, and Mike Klackenbush tried their best to hide their disillusionment when the meal began, but Vernie couldn’t help but notice their eyes searching the table for a miracle. Babette’s famous cranberry salad, now reduced to red gelatin spotted with chunks of glutinous grapes, pineapple, and peaches, did little to lift their spirits. With a wan smile on her pretty face, Babette offered the bowl to Floyd, who obediently dropped a teaspoonful onto his plate.
Abner had come up with a gooseberry pie in lieu of pumpkin, and as he placed his offering on the dessert table he explained that the bakery was down to its last canister of sugar so the gooseberry pie only contained one cup of sweetening. “I hope that’s good news for any of you who are watching your weight,” he added with a hopeful smile.
The occupants of Vernie’s table received the gooseberry news silently, then their lips involuntarily puckered.
Spirits improved as Pastor Wickam led them in prayer, reminding the islanders they had much to be grateful for this Christmas—good health, family, and food on the table. Vernie sliced into the turkey (which, thank heaven, had been delivered in November) and listened to her neighbors laugh and visit as they ate, their hearts warming the room even as the wind whistled around the eaves outside. They were all present, she noticed, except poor Annie, stuck in Ogunquit, and old Cap’n Gribbon, reclusin’ away up in his lighthouse.
“Things could be worse,” Cleta pointed out, scooping another helping of sweet potatoes for Buddy Franklin’s plate. “We could be homeless and out on the street. We’re being mighty ungrateful if we fret too much about missing cranberries, sugar, and nutmeg.”
“Ayuh,” the men halfheartedly agreed.
Birdie took a bite of the gooseberry pie, pursed her lips as tight as a persimmon, then unpursed them enough to tell Abner, “Sugar would have helped.”
“We all eat too much sugar,” Bea corrected. “It’s not good for us.” She took another helping of turkey from the platter. “Think about all that angel mail we get from people with dire needs. It makes our wants seem petty, doesn’t it?” She leaned over to spoon another helping of string bean casserole onto Olympia’s plate. “You need to eat, hon. Just try a taste. This year I used one can of mushroom soup instead of two.”
They all agreed the fuss over the missing traditions did make them look unappreciative. “Awful petty,” Mike Klackenbush echoed, which Buddy Franklin seconded with a “Whatever.”
Elezar, for one, seemed positively overjoyed to be part of the celebration. He made a point of mentioning the Lord’s goodness and how fortunate they all were to share the annual celebration with friends—good friends. The more he talked, the heavier Vernie’s guilt grew. Everyone around her seemed to be going out of his or her way to make light of the situation, but she knew what they were thinking behind those friendly facades. She’d known these people too long; they couldn’t fool her.
She couldn’t deny the truth. She was responsible for the lackluster dinner. She and her pride. If she had told the women that she’d forgotten to send the order, they could have picked up their baking supplies in Ogunquit . . . and Russell Higgs wouldn’t have such a sour look on his face.
Winslow Wickam caught her eye and winked. “Always got a little indigestion after I ate all that dessert. This year I won’t be up drinking soda water in the middle of the night.”
“You will if you eat that gooseberry pie,” Birdie warned in a stage whisper.
Edith, the pastor’s wife, shook her head. “I don’t know how you stand that soda water.”
Winslow grinned. “If it was good enough for my parents, it’s good enough for me.”
“That Alkey Seltzer stuff ain’t bad,” Floyd called from the end of the table. He extended his plate toward Vernie and gestured at the meat platter. “More ham, Vernie, if you please.”
She speared a slice, then dropped it into the sea of melted red gelatin on his plate.
“Well, ladies.” Charles Graham pushed back from the table and patted his stomach. “You’ve certainly outdone yourself, cranberries or no cranberries.” He smiled at Babette. “Going to have to loosen the belt a notch, honey.”
Their son Georgie piped up, “We can have us a cranberry party after Christmas!”
“That’s a good idea, Georgie.” Cleta beamed. “Why, there’s still plenty of time to get our things in before Christmas. And even if the storm doesn’t let up until New Year’s, pumpkin pie will taste as good in January as it does in—”
“Oh, all right!” Vernie’s fist slammed to the table,
rattling the silverware. A dozen pairs of eyes snapped toward her.
“It’s my fault that you don’t have cranberries and pumpkin pie, okay?” She whirled to confront Cleta. “I forgot to place the order—okay? I forgot. Twice.” Her face flamed. “So there. Hang me.”
Tossing her napkin on the table, she stood and bolted toward the kitchen, bawling like a fool.
Two minutes later Birdie and Babette found her slumped in a chair by the stove, weeping into a soggy handkerchief. “I’m an old fool,” Vernie mumbled between sobs. “And the dinner was ruined because of me.”
Babette knelt beside her. “Goodness, Vernie, who said the dinner was ruined? Everyone’s had a wonderful time.”
“Land, if I had a nickel for every time I forgot to do something,” Birdie added, “I’d be rich as Bill Gates.”
As Babette slipped her arm around Vernie’s shoulders, the other women came through the doorway—Cleta and Barbara, Bea, Edith, Olympia, and Dana. Forming a circle, they surrounded Vernie, their love engulfing and overwhelming her.
“Is that what’s been worrying you—your silly order?” Cleta asked. “Why, deary, you should have told me. Together we could have figured out some way to get the things you needed.”
Babette patted her shoulder. “Did you honestly think a few cranberries could come between friends?”
Speechless, Vernie covered her mouth with her handkerchief, unable to talk around the lump growing in her throat. But they needed to know the entire truth.
“It’s all Stanley’s fault,” she finally blurted out.
Curious looks shot back and forth. Eyes widened while eight sets of feminine brows lifted.
Dana timidly raised her hand. “Are we talking about your Stanley?”
Vernie dropped her handkerchief. “He’s not my Stanley.”
Birdie pressed her hand to her throat. “Did he write you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Burying her face in the cloth, Vernie bawled again. “I’m sorry,” she said when she could speak. “I’ve been nothing but thoughtless and scatterbrained these last few days—and I’ve always been proud of being so dependable. But pride can be a bad thing, can’t it?”
A Warmth in Winter Page 16