A Warmth in Winter

by Lori Copeland

  A moment later the door opened. Floyd Lansdown stood in the foyer, his cardigan sweater buttoned at the waist and a notebook beneath his arm.

  “I need a boat.” Salt crossed the wooden porch in two steps. “Is your lobsterman home?”

  “Russell?” Floyd took a step out the door and looked toward the docks. “He’s working on his boat. The engine’s out of her, I think; he’s doin’ maintenance and repairs.”

  Salt sprang off the porch, jumping over a snow-dusted bank of boxwoods, and ignored Floyd’s urgent cry: “Is this an emergency? Should I get the fire truck?”

  For an instant Salt debated whether or not he should even bother with the golf cart, for the dock lay just beyond Frenchman’s Fairest on the hill. But his bones were aching from his leap and his muscles were tense with panic. He jumped into the cart and floored the accelerator, arriving at the dock a moment later. The ferry was nowhere in sight, but Russell Higgs’s lobster boat, the Barbara Jean, bobbed alongside the dock.

  Salt set off at a sprint, each cold snatch of air searing the back of his throat. His steps pounded the boards of the dock, sounding for all the world like gunshots.

  Heavens, he was too old for this! Why had he ever thought a seventy-year-old man could care for a couple of young ’uns?

  “Higgs!” he bellowed, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Are you there?”

  Russell Higgs, clad in a hat, earmuffs, and flannel jacket, thrust his head out of the cabin. His eyes went wide and his thin mouth opened slightly when Salt leaned on the railing and panted: “Need your boat. Kids out on the water, and the wind’s bawlin’ up something fierce.”

  Russell blinked several times in rapid succession. “Cap’n, I’d be glad to help, but—” He spread his hands, gesturing to the deck. Following his gaze, Salt felt his heart leap uncomfortably into the back of his throat. Russell’s engine—most of it, anyway—lay in carefully arranged pieces on the wooden floor.

  Salt clung harder to the railing as his knees buckled under him. The dock was pounding again, this time with faster footsteps. Without looking, he knew that Birdie, Babette, and Charles Graham were rushing toward him.

  If God was merciful, they’d drown him here and now.

  Out on the ocean, Bobby squinted and searched the horizon for a sign of the shore. It was hard to see anything through the milky stuff the grandfather had called sea smoke. He said it was a fog that rose whenever the air grew colder than the water, and not even the wind could blow it all away.

  The thick white smoke blanketed the sea around them. Some of it had gotten into the boat as well, clammy tendrils that brushed his face and drifted between Brittany and Georgie, huddling at the stern.

  Georgie had stopped rowing long ago, claiming that his muscles were worn out. Even Olympic weightlifters, he said, needed to rest.

  “Bobby?” Britt’s voice trembled. “Are we there yet?”

  Bobby dropped both oars into the water and pulled again, but the boat only shifted a tiny bit to the right.

  “Gonna be a little while longer,” he said, keeping his eyes on the blue horizon. Brittany crouched on the bench with her doll, shivering visibly. They’d lost sight of Heavenly Daze and the lighthouse, and now Bobby wasn’t sure where they were. He expected to see home at any time and couldn’t understand why the trip was taking so long. It hadn’t taken this long for the grandfather to row them over . . . or maybe he hadn’t noticed how long they’d traveled.

  He pulled at the oars again and felt the boat shift. One thing was sure—it hadn’t been this cold when they crossed over with the grandfather.

  They were moving, though, and that was good. The waves kept pushing at the boat, sending it faster and farther than he and Georgie could ever drive it with the oars. So if they were patient, and waited a little longer . . .

  “I’m hungry.” Georgie squirmed on his seat. “I had crackers in my backpack. Has anyone seen my backpack?”

  “You didn’t put it in the boat.” Britt’s teeth were chattering like one of those wind-up toy skulls.

  “Rats. I like those crackers.” Georgie slumped, then looked at Bobby. “You got any food?”

  Bobby shook his head. “We ate before.”

  He’d remembered to eat, but in the rush of launching the boat, he’d forgotten his encyclopedia. Apparently Brittany was the only one who’d remembered to bring anything. She still clung to Miranda, and every once in a while she’d hug the doll and whisper, “Just a little bit longer.”

  Releasing the oars, Bobby tucked his cold hands into his armpits and tried to think about the woodstove back in the lighthouse. Some nights, while the wind howled outside and the stars shone so bright you knew it was frosty outside, the stove would fill the place with such heat that he’d wake up sweating. Amazing, really, that such a little thing could make a person feel so warm.

  “Bobby?” Britt was looking at him again. “Is it going to get dark soon?”

  The question made goose bumps rise on his goose bumps. He felt a sudden anger at Brittany for even thinking such a question, because some things couldn’t hurt you as long as you didn’t think about them. But now she’d gone and talked about dark, which meant it would surely come.

  He looked past Britt to the horizon where the sun had slipped low behind the clouds. His shadow on the water had grown longer, and soon, he knew, it would be swallowed by the night.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said, hunkering down into his coat. “We’ll be there soon.”

  On the dock, Salt paced back and forth, his hands in his pockets, his eyes glaring at the dark, hungry ocean, empty under the moon. For four hours the Coast Guard had been patrolling the waters between Heavenly Daze and the mainland, and they’d promised to radio as soon as they found anything.

  At the dock, Russell Higgs worked frantically to piece his engine back together. Salt would have offered to help, but Russell was a regular old woman when it came to his boat and Salt didn’t want to get in his way.

  From where he stood, he could see Birdie, the Grahams, and Floyd Lansdown holed up in the tiny shack that served as the ferry office. Floyd kept the radio transmitter at his mouth, most likely talking to the Coast Guard, while Birdie hovered by his shoulder. The Grahams kept a vigil at the window, staring out at the empty water. Birdie had invited Salt to share their shelter, but he’d refused. She had managed to get him to accept a cup of coffee, but he felt guilty drinking it—why should he be enjoying the comfort of a hot beverage when three kids were out on the cold and windy sea because he’d been an unreasonable old mule?

  He knew the Grahams blamed him for everything, and Birdie probably did, too. The Coast Guard guys undoubtedly had a few questions about how three children had managed to access a boat and take off without adult supervision, and Salt knew he deserved whatever censure they wanted to toss his way. Shoot, if they wanted him to pay for the search and rescue mission, he’d sell everything he owned to make things right again.

  He’d give his soul to see those children safe and sound.

  He turned and looked toward the mainland, where the sun was lowering. The Coast Guard had surely finished crisscrossing the waters on the west of the island; soon they’d have to turn their attention toward the open sea.

  Salt clung to a crusty piling and looked toward the east, where the ocean stretched out in a cold expanse that ended on European shores. Like every islander, he knew the prevailing winds came from the southwest. The children had launched their boat from the leeward side of the island, so if they hadn’t been fortunate enough to immediately drift west, they’d have been blown out to sea. The boat was seaworthy, he had no worries about their vessel, but how long could three young children survive freezing temperatures in treacherous wind-tossed waters?

  Salt lifted his eyes to the crystal-clear sky. “God Almighty,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes, “if you can forgive an old fool for years of neglect, will you listen to me now? The children are upon your sea, Lord, but they’re not prepared for th
e night. Help us, Lord. Please.”

  Gavriel received the summons the instant Salt began to pray. “Yes, Father.” He smiled. “I rejoice to do your will.”

  In a microsecond the angelic captain materialized, moving from invisibility to visibility, from supernatural form to mortal. His wings retracted and folded into flesh, his stature shrank to a scale more in keeping with man, God’s lower creation. As the pulsing subatomic particles of his being transformed, strength rippled through his frame, flushing his golden skin with the blushing tones of blood and earth.

  Moving with the confidence of an angelic warrior, he left the church and walked down to the beach where his escorts waited.

  Birdie felt her apprehension rise as the sun lowered. When it finally disappeared behind a dark cloud bank, she stood and went to the window, not wanting the others to read the apprehension in her face. She could not conceal her panic; it shook her until she feared her teeth would chatter.

  In the dim glow of a streetlight she saw Salt on the dock, a thin figure clinging to a post as though it alone kept him upright. He had to be chilled to the marrow, but he wouldn’t come inside . . . and, deep within, she knew why. He couldn’t face the Grahams, and he didn’t want to face her. But no one could have foreseen or prevented this.

  “I can’t believe Georgie did this,” Babette was whimpering, her fingers clawing at a piece of clotted tissue. She dabbed the end of her nose, then smiled weakly when Birdie pulled another tissue from the box on the ferry captain’s desk. “He knows he’s not supposed to wander far from home. Why would he think he could jump into a boat and go out to sea?”

  “Maybe he didn’t realize the danger,” Birdie said, keeping her gaze on the man outside. “Maybe he thought of it as an adventure. Boys will be boys, you know.” She bit her lip, realizing that Babette might think it strange to hear a spinster give child-rearing advice. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  “I’m going to hug the breath out of him, then I’m going to spank him,” Charles proclaimed, crumpling an empty foam cup in his fist. “Then I’m going to confine him to his room for a year. No playing outside, no wandering all over the island—”

  “Charles, you can’t mean that.” Babette rebuked him gently. “This is the safest place in the world for a kid— well, one who obeys his parents’ rules. Georgie knew he wasn’t supposed to climb on the rocks or go near the lighthouse.”

  Charles ran his hand through his hair. “I reckon we forgot to tell him it’s not okay to take a neighbor’s boat, launch out, and row away.” Charles turned to embrace his weeping wife. “I’m sorry to sound sarcastic, honey. I just want our boy back.”

  As Babette wept, Birdie kept her gaze focused out the window, not wanting to intrude on the couple’s private grief. Across the island, she saw lights burning in all the houses of Heavenly Daze, but the lights of the church fairly glowed with brilliance. Pastor Wickam had called an emergency prayer meeting, and as far as she knew, every single islander had reported to pray. Bea was there now with Abner, as were Vernie and Elezar, Olympia and Caleb, Zuriel, the Klackenbushes and Yakov, Cleta, Barbara, and Micah, as well as Edith and Winslow Wickam. A few minutes ago, Floyd had abandoned the radio and walked to the church. Birdie had thanked him for his help, assuring him that time spent in prayer was every bit as useful as time spent aiding the Coast Guard. Dr. Marc was trudging toward the church now, eager to pray for Georgie and two children he didn’t even know.

  Or did he? Birdie’s thoughts drifted again to the stranger who had sheltered the kids on that cold night when Salt was sick. Could Dr. Marc have been the kind man who took them in? Such kindness was part of his nature, and he was tall and handsome, which fit Bobby’s description. Maybe the boy had invented the part about the long white hair. After all, his sister was given to wild stories . . .

  She jumped as a foghorn shattered the stillness.

  “What’s that?” Charles leaped up and peered through the windows of the ferry shack.

  Birdie opened the door and looked out into the night. A large boat with a star-spangled flag was pulling up to the dock.

  “Must be the Coast Guard.” She buttoned her coat. “I’m going to go out and see what they’ve found.”

  Babette and Charles followed right behind her. “We’re coming, too.”

  The three of them covered the distance between the shed and the dock in long strides. As they drew nearer, Birdie noticed how the Coast Guard cutter shone in the moonlight. The color was a dazzling white she’d never seen before; it almost seemed to shimmer against the inky night waters. Odd, too, that the boat bore no seals, no numbers, no markings of any kind.

  A uniformed man on deck was tossing a mooring line—a pristine cream colored cord—to Salt, who caught it effortlessly. Another man, who wore a white pea coat over a uniform as bright as the gleaming boat, stood on deck with his hands behind his back. He nodded gravely as she and the Grahams approached, and a moment later a gangplank extended from the deck to the dock.

  “Please.” The captain stepped forward, his smile beckoning her through the darkness. “Come aboard. We understand there’s a rescue to be performed, and there isn’t much time.”

  No one needed to be asked twice. The Grahams walked straightway up the gangway, Charles tenderly shielding Babette. Birdie followed behind and turned at the end, noticing that Salt seemed to hesitate.

  “Salt?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. It’s all my fault.”

  “Captain Gribbon?” The man in white spoke now, his manner dignified and respectful. “Sir, my commanding officer has charged me with finding you. It would be our privilege to have your help in this mission.”

  Something in the man’s tone or manner seemed to energize Salt. He lifted his head, and for an instant the mantle of defeat seemed to fall from his shoulders. After giving a brusque nod, he trudged up the gangplank, inclined his head toward the captain, then took Birdie’s elbow and led her away from the opening at the rail.

  When they were aboard, one of the sailors ran down the gangway, cast off the ropes, and returned to the deck. Within minutes, the ship had pulled away from the dock and headed out to sea.

  Though the captain had invited her into the cabin where she’d be shielded from the cold wind and sea spray, Birdie found a place to sit on the deck. If Salt wouldn’t go inside, she wouldn’t, either.

  He stood alone near the bow, one arm wrapped around a post. Though the strong wind had been freezing on the dock, once the boat began to move the wind increased to a great roaring current of frigid air, a torrent so biting Birdie had to turn and lower her head in order to catch a breath. The cold slapped at her like an icy hand determined to buffet her into submission.

  The wind was unbelievably brutal, yet Salt stood silent in its assault, either bent on punishing himself or bitterly reliving his sea days. Birdie nearly deserted her post, then decided she would keep Salt company no matter what his motivation. If she were to help him, she’d have to understand him, and how could she understand a man like this unless she experienced what he did? She would stay with him, her heart keeping pace with the ship on its flight through the darkness.

  They cruised at a steady pace, riding the waves toward the rising moon, and despite her discomfort Birdie found herself marveling at the beauty and power of the churning sea. A person could get lost out here. This was a world apart, populated by animals and a breed of men she’d been around all her life but had never really understood.

  Salt moved to the bow and placed his hands upon the railing, his eyes scanning the sea as the ship slapped down the peaks of the waves. With each dip of the boat a spray of water rained over him, but he seemed not to care that he’d soon be covered in an icy glaze.

  What sort of man was this?

  Fortunately, the rising moon brightened the night, and after a few moments someone turned on a searchlight that swept the ocean in wide arcs. Then the captain cut the engine, and the empty air filled with dread as the boat floated silently on the ch
oppy sea.

  Birdie swallowed as doubts rose in her mind. Why had they stopped? She turned, and through the cabin window saw that Charles Graham had apparently wondered the same thing. He was speaking to the captain, his face a study in worry, his hands rising and falling like the wings of a frantic, wounded bird.

  And then she heard the treble sounds of children calling, “Heeeeeeeeeey!”

  On her feet in an instant, she rushed to Salt’s side. In front and to the right of the ship bobbed the dory, populated with three bundled children. The searchlight found and held them, and in its bright beam Birdie saw Bobby, Brittany, and Georgie, alive and well. Bobby was standing in the boat, holding an oar over his head.

  “Thank God,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

  A masculine voice rang out through a bullhorn. “Hello, children! Sit still; we’ll send a raft to pick you up.”

  When Birdie opened her eyes, she saw that Georgie and Brittany were jumping up and down, clapping their hands, and causing the boat to rock. As a wave lifted the boat the kids squealed and gripped the edge, but as soon as the wave relaxed, so did the children. Georgie was leaning over the side now, reaching out and causing the dory to list—

  “Sit down!” called the man on the bullhorn. “You must sit still.”

  But either the children couldn’t hear above the wind or they weren’t of a mind to obey, because now Bobby was jumping, too, waving the oar above his head.

  “They can’t hear,” Birdie whispered. The wind was blowing toward the big boat, carrying the children’s voices but working against the man with the bullhorn.

  “I’ve got to get to them,” Salt roared in Birdie’s ear. “If a wave catches ’em off balance like that, they’ll spill.”

  “Children!” the bullhorn voice called again. “Sit down!”

  Birdie clung to the railing, grateful for its stability on the shifting sea, but her heart froze when she heard a splash.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Got to get to the kids. Got to keep them from tipping the boat. The thoughts rose in Salt’s head like the air bubbles thundering past his ears. The briny water filled his nose, the familiar tang carrying him back to places and years long gone. Reflexively he curved his body to rise toward the silvery moon.