Winter's End

by Ruth Logan Herne

  The simplicity of Christy’s look underscored her meaning. “To die.”

  Her words rang true. Several of Kayla’s recent patients had sought the softer climes of southern states after retirement, opting away from the snow and ice. But in those final months, when fate held the winning hand, many came home, wanting the familiarity of what they knew first. Family. Friends. Church.

  Back outside, the storm pelted her with slanted snow, stinging cold. Shoulders hunched, she headed to her Grand Am, its warmth a respite.

  She was a Thomas Kinkade girl caught in a David Morrow canvas. Winter lovers esteemed Morrow’s work. His snow-filled landscapes offered haunting insight into the breathtaking reality of upper latitude cold. Thought-provoking. Windswept. Sometimes brutal. North Country, through and through.

  Kayla preferred sprigged cottages and thatched roofs. Decorative grasses, grown in abundance. Sources of light, teeming with hope.

  Winters at the forty-fifth latitude outlasted their welcome. She hadn’t given that proper consideration when she’d made the move north after graduating from the nursing program in Syracuse. Her goal then: financial, financial, financial. The Potsdam community had offered to forgive student loans and extend her a nice paycheck in exchange for years of service. The proposal sounded good to a young woman who’d struggled to make ends meet for as long as she could remember.

  But now her contract was nearly up. What next? She had no idea. She put the car in gear and aimed for Route 11, her headlights battling the snow.

  Numerous options lay open to an experienced nurse. She’d spend the next few months exploring them. Because her after-work life was fairly nonexistent, she’d have plenty of time.

  That thought could have drawn a sigh, but she resisted the pity party. Focused, she gripped the wheel and peered through the snow, wondering how warm a person would be to be warm enough. Someday she’d find out firsthand.

  Kayla wiggled her thermostat on Wednesday night, listening for the magic click that promised heat.

  Nothing.

  She thumped a corner of the radiator and paused, hopeful, glad she didn’t chip her polish with the useless maneuver.

  The upright, ivory-painted contraption maintained its silence, barely warm. The effect across the room proved negligible. Brittle weather stripping, designed to bind the storm window to the frame, was equally ineffective. The flow of chilled air across the ice-encrusted pane made her living room frosty.

  The bedroom stayed warmer. The windows in that room actually sealed. And she had a comforter she’d bought two years ago, her one concession to comfort, down-filled, thick and cushy. She’d made a duvet cover for the layered blanket, one of her first sewing projects, and she’d been proud of the careful work. Of course the piece was comprised of straight lines, intersecting, and who couldn’t sew a straight line with today’s machines? Still, it became a job well done. A new skill learned.

  She faced the living room, hating her choice. Skip the hour of television she’d promised herself, or drag the comforter to the couch and shroud herself in cumbersome down fluff, the only way she’d be warm enough to enjoy the show. Moving the dinosaur-era TV to the bedroom wasn’t an option.

  Grumbling, she trudged to the bedroom, dragged off the heavy throw, and retraced her steps. With care she arranged her nest and climbed in, hot chocolate steaming at her side.

  She’d be toasty warm someday. She’d made herself that pledge nearly two decades back, a mere child, and now the woman stood on the verge of the goal. Warmth. Hearth. Home. And flowers in abundance, blooming here and there. The kind of life she’d wished for, longed for, prayed for. Normal, by most people’s standards.

  Close. So close.

  Vi Twimbley’s attic apartment wasn’t the most reliable home, but the price was right. Every two weeks Kayla banked wages toward a place of her own. Her own little bungalow, well-lit, a cottage rigged out just for her. Flowers in the summer. Vines, creeping upward, covering craggy surfaces. Ornamental grasses waving in the breeze.

  And maybe, just maybe, a cat.

  Thursday’s dawn gave Kayla a better look at the DeHollander home. Thin light shrouded the farm, making the rough exteriors look worse against the pristine snow. What could be a pretty porch offered woebegone protection from the biting wind under peeling paint. Kayla snugged her collar close as she climbed out and surveyed her surroundings.

  A sign on the nearest barn proclaimed the wonders of scientifically blended dog food and medicated chicken feed. She pursed her lips as she scanned other outbuildings.

  Barns. Sheds. Grain bins. A light in a distant barn drew her attention, its glow fighting through an upper window hazed with dirt. Her gaze locked on the dingy, light-enhanced glass as her thoughts tunneled back to cold, hungry, silent nights, fed by the unreachable square of light and the chill of her limbs.

  Nope. Not going there. Not now. Not ever.

  She set her jaw and withdrew her gear, pushing memories aside, then strode up the shoveled walkway.

  “How’re we doing today?” Kayla didn’t wait for an answer when Pete opened the door himself. His tranquil features spoke for him. She smiled, knowing his reprieve might be short-lived, but grateful for his increased comfort. “Better, I’d say.”

  “Much.” The older man swept the door wide. “Come in. It’s cold out there.”

  “It is,” Kayla agreed. The interior warmth enveloped her again. For an old house, this one held its heat well. Either that or the DeHollanders had massive heating bills. “That makes your entry twice as welcome.”

  He smiled back, pleasing her. With the host of medicinal combinations at her disposal, there was no reason Pete DeHollander should suffer. She appraised him as she peeled off her boots. “You’ve been up and around?”

  “Yup. Feels good.”

  “I bet.”

  Pete hesitated, then shrugged. “Can’t do much, though. Get tired easy.”

  “Understandable.” Kayla slipped into her jeweled clogs and caught his glance as she straightened. “Yes, these are the shoes your son objects to.”

  “Pretty,” Pete offered, his tone easy. “Your toes don’t get cold?”

  Kayla laughed. “Not here. I couldn’t wear these at my place because my apartment’s like an Arctic wasteland. I double my socks to avoid frostbite.”

  “Heat don’t work?”

  “That’s debatable,” Kayla answered. He turned toward the kitchen. She followed. “My landlady claims it works fine, but my place is on the third level of a three unit. The hot water rises through two other families before getting to me. By then, it’s barely warm.”

  “She won’t fix it?” Pete eyed her, surprised, as if wondering how such a thing could be. Huh. In Kayla’s world of never-ending landlords, Vi Twimbley ranked pretty high, though that wasn’t saying much.

  “Says she can’t fix what ain’t broke,” Kayla quoted verbatim. “She offered me the second floor apartment last year, but the rent is higher. I decided I’d deal with the cold and guard my cash flow.”

  “Smart girl.” Pete sank into a kitchen chair. He sighed a hint of relief, his only concession to his grave condition. Kayla drew up the chair next to him and slid a small box his way. “From the Main Street Bakery.”

  “Them wafery things?” His smile made the effort to stop worthwhile.

  “Yes.” Kayla laughed at his description of Rita Harriman’s tender French pastries. “Would you like coffee to go with them, Mr. D.?”

  The use of his familiar nickname hiked his smile. “Yes, I would. Will you have a cup?”

  “Absolutely.” Sharing the hospitality of her client families bridged a gap that could hinder care. She rose and eyed the carafe. “I’ll brew fresh, if that’s all right?”

  Pete laughed. “Yes. Those dregs are the remnants of Marc’s early pot. He likes to get up and out once Jess catches the bus. And before, truth be known. You might want to make a full pot, though. No doubt he’ll be up for some before long.”

  “Ok
ay.” Reaching into the nearest cupboard, Kayla withdrew a bag of fair trade coffee and a fresh filter. The bag snagged her interest. Pretty cool. A farmer supporting other farmers on an international scale. Marc gained a point in his favor. Then she recalled his Monday morning attitude.

  Make that half a point.

  “How old is Jess?” Kayla asked as she measured.

  “Fourteen.”

  “Interesting age.”

  “It is that.” Pete paused, then added, “But Jess isn’t too bad. Does us proud in school and on the farm. Like Marc, she got her mama’s brains.”

  “I think you’re selling yourself short,” Kayla argued while the coffeemaker sputtered. “You seem pretty quick on the uptake, Mr. D.”

  “Not like my wife.” Silence followed the assertion. He drew a deep breath, his gaze on his hands. “There was a brilliance about her.”

  He missed her. Kayla understood loneliness, even in a room full of people. “How long were you married?”

  “Seventeen years.”

  Kayla frowned. Pete read her expression. “You aren’t from around here.”

  “No.”

  “Ari left about fifteen years back. Made for interesting talk.”

  Ouch. “A dubious honor.”

  “Yes.”

  “But Jess…”

  “Was an infant. Rough time, all around.”

  “I guess.”

  “But we did all right,” the older man testified. “Between Marc and me, we did okay by Jess.”

  Kayla laid a hand over his. “I’m sure you did. She’s in school?”

  “Freshman at the high school.”

  “Does she play any sports?” Kayla rose as she asked the question. The coffeemaker had gone silent. Feeling at home, she retrieved two hefty mugs.

  “Jess rides and does horse shows,” Pete explained. “Marc trucks her and Rooster around, using time he probably should spend here.” Pete raised his gaze to the sprawling farmyards. “A farmer only gets so many good days and fine weekends, but Marc had Jess on a horse before she could walk. She rides like she was born to the saddle.”

  “That’s very cool.” Kayla weighed the time frame. Summers never had enough weekends to accommodate everything slated for good weather. Work, home repair, social functions. From Pete’s depiction of Jess’s pastime, Kayla caught a glimpse of the younger DeHollander’s conflict. He was a one-man band, without the juggling monkey. Filing the information, she raised a thick-based cup into the air. “Guys’ mugs. I love ’em.”

  “Nothing fancy.”

  “But they hold a solid cup of joe.” Kayla flashed him a smile as she poured. “Smells good.”

  “You’re not going to lecture me on the evils of caffeine?” Pete teased, pretending surprise. “What kind of nurse are you?”

  “The kind that picks her battles,” Kayla retorted. She crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic jug. “Besides, I’d have to point the same finger right back at myself. You buy milk?” She turned to face him. “When you’ve got all those cows?”

  “Beef cattle.”

  The deep voice startled her. She turned. Marc’s flat and unfriendly expression did little to enhance his gasp-out-loud good looks, and that seemed a crying shame. For a moment she wondered if God had been distracted by some urgent need when Marc DeHollander moved to the front of the “winning personality” line, then reminded herself that blaming God was unfair. Jerks generally achieved their status on their own, and most deservedly. She arched a brow his way.

  “Dairy cattle give milk,” he continued, his stance rigid.

  “They’re mammals,” she corrected. “They all give milk. Those of the female gender, that is.”

  His expression toughened another shade. “Not for commercial purposes.”

  “I see.” She slid her gaze to the pot. “Would you like coffee, Mr. DeHollander?”

  The formal name tightened the hard set of his eyes, but his lips twitched. Either he’d actually considered gracing her with a smile or he had some mild form of palsy.

  Kayla put her money on the palsy.

  “I’ll get it.” He moved through the room with the outdoor elegance of a man comfortable with himself. He’d left his boots at the door and his socks were a heathered blend of brown, ivory and gray. They looked warm. Kayla eyed them with a hint of envy, then glanced up. “Excuse me.”

  Marc didn’t bring his cup to the table. He stood with his back to the sink, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to cool. He frowned, then glanced around. “Who? Me?”

  Difficult man. Could you try being nice? Kayla nodded. “Your socks.” She pointed down.

  “Yes?”

  He drew the word out deliberately, his voice tinged with disbelief. She ignored the cool bite. “They look warm.”

  He paused too long, stretching his response to make her feel awkward. No way would she let him see his strategy worked. She held her ground and her tongue until he answered. “They are.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  He swept her feet a glance. “Your toes cold?”

  She fought back a retort and counted to five. Why were her sassy clogs such an issue? Couldn’t he answer a simple question without being a jerk?

  “I walk for exercise,” she answered. She didn’t mention she needed the socks to keep her feet warm at home. That would give him an opening to make some schlocky remark about her shoes. “Warm socks would be nice.”

  “Ostrander’s.”

  “The bed and breakfast?” Marc DeHollander didn’t seem like the B and B type.

  “They have a wool shop beneath the house.”

  “Really?” Kayla pictured the farm’s bucolic setting. Tourists spoke highly of the accommodations. “Thanks.” She nodded. “I’ll stop by.”

  “Better check the hours,” Pete warned. Kayla turned his way. “During winter, the family might not be around as much.”

  “Good point. I’ll call first. Were they expensive?” She turned back to Marc.

  He looked as though he wasn’t sure what to make of her or the discussion. “Quality has its price. They do the job.”

  And the award for warm and fuzzy personality goes to…anyone but you, Farmer Boy.

  Kayla swallowed words she would have voiced short years past and nodded. “That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

  His eyes pierced, the gray-green color flint and flat. Long seconds ticked by before he switched his attention to his father, the move dismissive. “I’m picking Jess up from Nan’s later. Anything you need from town?”

  Pete patted the small package. “I had a hankering for some of them filled wafery things. Kayla got some for me.”

  “Wasn’t that nice?” The edge in Marc’s voice told Kayla she’d stepped on his toes again.

  She bit back a groan. What was it with this guy? Wasn’t anything easy? Did bringing his sick father a box of Napoleons constitute war?

  Marc rolled his shoulders. With one long swig, he drained his cup and plunked it onto the scarred counter. “Anything special you’d like for supper, Dad? I can defrost the meat.”

  Pete mulled, then said, “Stew.”

  Marc smiled.

  Whoa. Secret weapon, highly effective. Definitely part of his arsenal that should be kept sheathed, only to be revealed with a mandatory warning to all females within relative proximity. Kayla’s heart beat a rat-a-tat-tat against her breastbone, a totally adolescent reaction. Stop. Stay cool. Distant. Step away from the smile. Avert your eyes. Whatever it takes.

  The grin held a high-amp flash of teeth and a dimple that should have made him look soft, but didn’t. Just the opposite. The man looked good. Self-assured. Confident and happy.

  His father grinned in response. Kayla looked from one to the other, mystified. “Is there something I’m missing? A private joke?”

  Marc shifted his weight. “Family stuff.”

  Her spine tightened. The rebuff was meant to keep her in her place. He’d drawn a line in the sand, a marker o
f domination.

  She didn’t need his marker. She knew her place. Always had. With an audible intake of breath, she reached into her laptop bag and withdrew papers. “Are you up to doing paperwork, Mr. D.?”

  He nodded. “I’m okay.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him and worked to focus on the more rudimentary aspects of her job. Sparring with Marc would get her nothing but aggravation. She didn’t need that. With his father’s terminal condition, Marc didn’t either. The guy was spoiling for a fight, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. Maybe she could suggest a night at the gym, a bout with a punching bag. Did gyms still have punching bags?

  She didn’t know, but figured Marc might feel better after an evening-long session with one. Hours of repetitive thrashing could release his anger at a situation beyond his control. And beyond hers, for that matter. She’d been assigned to do a job, and had every intention of performing her task to the best of her ability.

  With or without Marc DeHollander’s approval.

  Chapter Four

  Marc pulled into Nan Bedlow’s at 5:40 p.m. He’d spent the better part of the day moving rotational fencing, allowing the herd new winter grazing on old cornstalks. His shoulders ached and his back knew the strain of bending and shifting, but he’d finished the job.

  The task wasn’t rhythmic like when he partnered with his dad. Then, one would drive, one would stake and unspool the wire to the plastic insulators, and they’d leapfrog one another to keep the installation moving. They could encircle a cornfield in a few hours time.

  Quick compared to today, anyway. Setting fence was a two-man job.

  He’d hired help for the feed store so he could have more time with his father. Even with the midwinter slump in business, he couldn’t be in the store, the barn and the house at the same time. Superman, he wasn’t. But he couldn’t justify paying two hands with the decreased work, so the store got the extra hands and Marc got the farm labor.