Baby It's Cold Outside

by Susan May Warren

  “And there’s Miss Hart—”

  Dottie turned, and Violet had entered, carrying the tea. She, too, grinned at Arnie.

  Arnie turned and buried his face once again in Gordy’s chest.

  Dottie had the strange urge to do the same thing. In fact, she might know exactly how this little boy felt.

  Yes, Jake’s prediction of the pain getting worse before it stopped seemed accurate. Because, as Jake stood back, by the fire, and Violet sank down in a chair, holding the tepid tea, Gordy tucked the child under his chin and began to sing.

  It came out husky and even roughened, not so much a lullaby as something he might sing to his cows.

  “I’ll have a blue Christmas…without you.”

  And wouldn’t you know it, he looked up at her, meeting her eyes. “I’ll be so blue, just thinking about you…”

  Yes, this was really going to hurt.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jake had to give Dottie and Gordy credit for being able to handle Arnie’s cries without flinching.

  He, for one, just wanted to run from the house at top speed. How he hated the crying.

  It only made him feel helpless. How he hated helpless.

  He’d prayed, however. That, he could still do.

  Dottie and Gordy had worked together, slowly warming Arnie’s extremities, first with tepid water, then adding warmer water as his body thawed. At least he could move his toes now.

  The child would live.

  But, with the wind swirling the snow outside, Jake couldn’t tell if it had stopped snowing, or if it might just be the wind stirring to frenzy—they wouldn’t be breaking free anytime soon.

  And deep inside, Jake didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

  No, for one day he’d like to live in this icy wonderland where Violet looked at him like he might be more than he knew he was.

  Gordy’s words had tolled in his head all afternoon, but he pushed them away. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet.

  He’d worked it out in his mind for the better part of four years, but had lost it the moment she said, I still think you’re a hero.

  Yeah, a hero who had lied to her, led her on.

  “It’s your move, Jake.”

  Violet had found a wooden Aggravation board and some marbles, and she had just whittled his arsenal down to one, with three in her home base.

  “I’m a little afraid,” he said, not lying in the least.

  “Chicken.”

  He smiled and rolled the die. It clattered on the board and he advanced his marble four spaces. He needed a one or a six to rescue a new marble from base.

  Violet scooped up the die. “Poor kid. I remember him now. His mother comes into the library sometimes to pick him up after school. She works at the flour mill. I think his dad died in the war.” She advanced her marble three spaces. “Christmas hasn’t been the same since my father died. It seems like I’m always waiting for him to return home, that at anytime, he’ll walk through the door with a giant tree.”

  He rolled again, nearing home with a count of five. At least one of his marbles would be safe from the Great Aggravator.

  “I’m sorry about your father, Violet.”

  “It’s been three years. And at least I had a childhood with him. It would be terrible to be Arnie’s age. If it’s just he and his mother, then Christmas must be pretty quiet.”

  “I had a few quiet Christmases when I was young—just me and my parents. I remember one year, my father was treating patients with influenza, and my mother wouldn’t put up a tree. So, Christmas went by without even a present.”

  He didn’t add that it was the year his brother died, of that very same influenza.

  She looked up at him, holding the die. “Alex told me about this Christmas where he snuck a bag of oranges from the housekeeper’s pantry and gave them to this little boy who lived with him—a child of one of the servants. They sat in a closet and ate the entire bag.” She tossed the die on the table. “He said what he missed most in the military was oranges.”

  Jake watched her move, his breath caught in his chest.

  He’d given Alex those oranges.

  More than that, Alex had been the servant boy, the son of their Russian housekeeper. The cold edge of horror sank deeper. Had Alex…stolen his life? His identity, his past?

  Maybe she just had the story mixed up. He picked up the die and shook it. A three. Apparently he was stuck here.

  “Christmas Eve is tomorrow.” She rolled again and moved her fourth marble into home. “Sorry. Want to play again?”

  “I’m too bruised, I don’t think I can take it.” He grinned at her as he collected the marbles. “Why is Dottie’s house so…there’s not one decoration up. Not a hint of Christmas cheer.”

  Violet tucked her hair behind her ears, slid her folded hands between her knees. “She hasn’t decorated for Christmas since her son died.”

  “Is that him, holding the football in that picture?” He pointed to a framed shot on the piano.

  “Yep. Nelson T. Morgan. Everyone loved him, he didn’t have an enemy in town.” She got up, picked up the picture. “I even had a crush on him, although he was a couple years younger than me.”

  “Where was he stationed?”

  “He was a sniper with the 4th Infantry.”

  “That was Alex’s division.”

  She nodded. “I saw Nelson when he came through Fort Meade. Even introduced him to Alex at the canteen. I hope they became friends.”

  Gordy had wrapped Arnie in a blanket after his ordeal in the kitchen and now brought him to sit before the fire. Arnie closed his eyes, curling against the man.

  Gordy looked up and met Jake’s gaze with a raised eyebrow, his eyes darting to Violet.

  Jake turned away from him. “I have an idea. Where do you think Dottie keeps her Christmas decorations?”

  “I don’t know. The attic?”

  “This house needs some cheer.” Jake leaned close to her, cutting his voice low. “And that child needs a Christmas. If we don’t get out of here tomorrow, there’ll be no Santa coming down the chimney, no stockings, no tree, no oranges. Just a bunch of crabby grown-ups—”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  He grinned. “Okay, three crabby grown-ups and one beautiful woman.”

  Violet held up a hand. “You’re right. He…we all need some Christmas cheer.” She glanced toward the kitchen, as if she included Dottie in that assessment. “C’mon.”

  She stood up then gestured with her head for him to follow her. “I think I know where the attic stairs are.”

  “Don’t move so fast there, champ.” He watched her as she settled weight on her foot, tucked his hand under her elbow.

  “It’s really much better.” She glanced at him, a smile tugging up her face. “All that doctoring.”

  Oh. Well.

  Dottie was in the kitchen, humming something as they moved past the door then up the stairs. The steps creaked, but Gordy didn’t betray them. Violet shuffled down the hallway, toward her bedroom. “I saw a door in the ceiling.” A cord hung down from it, and Jake snagged it, drawing it down. A stairway unfolded onto the floor.

  The cool breath of the attic sifted down into the hallway.

  “We need our jackets,” he said.

  “We’ll only be up there a minute.”

  Dust mites. Cold. A lethal combination for a man with only one lung, and that one prone to infection. He willed his breathing steady as he climbed up behind her, making sure she didn’t fall. Her ankle must be improving. And, so far, despite the stress of the day, he’d managed not one moment of labored breathing.

  This attic, however, might just suffocate him. Dust lay on the boxes, the room frigid despite the gray batting stuffed in the rafters, the only daylight from the floor below.

  “It’s hard to see up here without the electricity.”

  Boxes, most of them marked, filled the room. Violet had found one and opened it. “Lights, and this one is Christmas bulbs
.”

  Jake opened one, holding his breath, and pulled out table linens, a tree skirt, and a stocking, the name “Nelson” embroidered at the top.

  “I wish we had electricity,” Violet said.

  “Gordy dragged in an old generator from the garage, but he gave up on it.” Although, Violet might be able to fix it, couldn’t she? Jake glanced at her, but she betrayed nothing of curiosity about the project.

  “How about we just bring down the advent candles.”

  “No.” He got up, moved over to what he thought— “It’s a crank Victrola.” He ran his hands over the sides, started to crank it, felt the tabletop turn. “What we need is music. I’ll bet Dottie has something cheery.”

  Violet had joined him. “Do you think it still works?”

  “Let’s try it.” He hoisted it up. “Think I can hand it down to you?”

  She nodded and hiked down the steps, reaching up to take it. He placed it into her hands and followed her down.

  In the fading daylight, the antique Victrola seemed in good shape. Dusty, yes, but with the gramophone in place and the needle still intact. He grinned at her and brought it downstairs.

  Dottie came out of the kitchen and froze. “Where did you get that?”

  “In the attic. We need some Christmas cheer.”

  She drew in a breath but, miraculously, didn’t argue. He set the Victrola on a table in the parlor. “Do you have any records?”

  “They’re in the bookcase.”

  As Jake dusted off the Victrola, Violet opened the bottom of the bookcase and pulled out a stack of records. “You have Glenn Miller—‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ and ‘At Last.’”

  “I also have Dinah Shore, and that new crooner, Frank Sinatra. Nelson left his records with me for safekeeping.”

  Jake didn’t have to look at her to see the expression on Dottie’s face. He saw it reflected in Violet’s eyes.

  Grief left its handprints everywhere he looked.

  “Let’s play one,” Dottie said, suddenly, almost too brightly. She walked over to Violet and took the stack from her hands. “How about something…cheerful. Here’s the Andrews Sisters, ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.’”

  Her eyes were shiny as she handed the record to Jake. He took it and she walked past him without another word as he unsheathed it and put it on the Victrola, then cranked the handle and set down the needle.

  He watched as Dottie sat opposite Gordy on the velvet sofa, her hands folded in her lap. She glanced at Gordy like she might be in grade school.

  Gordy didn’t notice, apparently. “So, dance with her already,” he barked at Jake.

  Dance. Jake glanced at Violet. She’d stood up, but peered at the floor, as if they might be thirteen. What was it about music that seemed to paralyze some people? Well, dancing he could do. He got up and extended his hand to Violet. “I’d like to ask you for this dance, but I’m worried about your ankle.”

  She stilled. “My ankle is fine. But…I don’t know how.”

  Out of her periphery, he saw Dottie look up at her.

  “I never attended any of the dances in town.”

  He took her hand. “I’m a great lead. Trust me.” He pulled her into his arms. “It’s just like walking. Step, two, three, rest…” He showed her the footwork then counted it out.

  She kicked him in the shin. “Sorry.”

  “Your first step is back. Really, trust me.”

  She made a face. “I—I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. Listen—close your eyes. Feel my hand in yours, and on your back. I’ll move you.”

  She closed her eyes. “Don’t let me run into anything.”

  “Please.” He counted again, more of a whisper, then moved her forward, over, then back, in a foxtrot square.

  “Alex told me once that he learned to dance from his mother. His parents would have grand parties, and he’d sit on the top of the stairs, mesmerized by the food, the music, the lights. He said his favorite part was watching his parents waltz. His mother would close her eyes, and he wanted to be able to lead like his father did.” She opened her eyes, and he steeled himself against the expression that wanted to crest over him. “I think there was a latent romantic inside Alex.”

  He studied her face, looking for tease, but found none. His heart hammered. “When did he tell you this?”

  “In one of his letters. I can’t remember. He told me a lot about his childhood—how his brother died when he was seven, and how it destroyed him. How he made friends with the Russian housekeeper’s son and taught him to read. How the housekeeper died of TB, and he wished he could have helped her, maybe even become a doctor. He was a good man.”

  A good man. Jake could hardly breathe, a vise circling his chest. “Uh…I…”

  “Are you okay?”

  He stumbled then, lurched forward, and she stepped back, falling. Her hand flared out, brushed a milk glass lamp, and it flew off the table, crashing to the ground.

  “Oh!” Violet said.

  He let her go. Stared at the curls of white glass on the floor. “Dottie, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s my fault,” Violet said, bending to pick them up. “I told you I couldn’t dance.” She got up, brushing past him, stalking toward the kitchen.

  Jake stood there in the middle of the room, feeling the idiot as Dottie followed her out.

  He’d had his life stolen from him by the housekeeper’s son.

  “Are you okay, Jake?” Gordy said from across the room. Jake glanced at the door. Shook his head.

  “I—I can’t believe it. Alex stole my life.” He didn’t really expect Gordy to understand. He stepped closer, cut his voice low. “All those things Alex told Violet—they happened to me. He was the Russian housekeeper’s son. I was the one who shared my oranges, I was the one who taught him to read.”

  “You were the one whose brother died.” Gordy’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

  “Yes, exactly. So, how am I supposed to tell her that everything Alex wrote to her are lies?”

  “Not to mention the other lie you’re carrying around.”

  “Shh!”

  Gordy groaned, his hand on Arnie’s head. The boy had sunk into slumber, his lips askew on Gordy’s chest.

  Jake sank down on the sofa opposite Gordy. “It’s sounds desperate, and petty. What would I say? ‘Alex is me. He took my identity.’ Right.” He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the sofa.

  He got it. Really, he did. Alex, a poor immigrant’s son, would leap to create a new identity. Jake almost didn’t blame him for the ruse.

  It almost exonerated him of his own guilt.

  Almost.

  * * * * *

  Violet had told him she couldn’t dance. She stood at the window, her fingertips pressed against her eyes. What did he expect, Judy Garland?

  Oh, she’d been a fool to think that she could pull off dainty and beautiful. And now Dottie’s beautiful lamp lay in shards on the floor.

  Violet just wanted to keep running, straight out into the storm, lose herself in the whiteout.

  “Violet?”

  She heard the voice and didn’t turn, just opened the pantry door, searching for the broom. Finding it, she pulled it out, but Dottie put her hand on it, stopping her. She expected the librarian’s tone.

  “It’s okay, it’s just a lamp.”

  “First your tree, now the lamp.”

  “There’s no electricity anyway. And the tree was dying.” Dottie smiled at her, an expression of kindness so rare it caught Violet’s breath and held her fast.

  She looked away, past her, feeling a tear tickle down her cheek. From the next room, the music died. “I can’t dance.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  She glanced at Dottie, who wore a strange look. “I have to apologize to you, Violet. You probably don’t remember the last Christmas ball we had, but Nelson was eighteen and about to ship off to war. I was there—and you were there. Sitting in a chair, watching everyone dance. Nelson as
ked you to dance…and you turned him down. I thought, how can she turn my boy down when he’s going off to war?”

  “I didn’t want to embarrass him.”

  Dottie patted her cheek. “I forgive you for not dancing with my boy.”

  “I would have, if I had known—”

  “He had plenty of other girls to dance with. I just know he thought you were pretty.”

  Violet didn’t know where to begin to sort out Dottie’s words. Nelson Morgan had thought her pretty. She attempted a smile, but she knew it emerged pitiful.

  She looked past Dottie, to the owl clock hanging on the wall. A wind-up model, it ticked away the minutes. Darkness would be falling soon. “My mother hated the fact that I didn’t attend the town dances. She would send my brothers into town, and I’d be out there in the barn, helping my father with the tractor or the baler or some other piece of machinery. She’d storm out of the house and scold him for turning me into a boy.”

  She drew in a breath, her memory on her mother, silhouetted by the fiery sunset bleeding out behind her, and on her father’s soft reply. “Violet’s more useful to me than all my boys put together.”

  Violet ran her thumb under her eye. “I guess she was right. I am a boy.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Violet, you’re not a boy. Far from it.” Dottie turned Violet around to see her reflection in the window. “I see a beautiful young lady who is trapped in this house with a man who likes her enough to ask her to dance.”

  “Trapped is the operative word here.” Violet turned back around. “He’s just being kind because he’s Alex’s friend. If he knew I served in the military, that I knew the inside of my father’s Plymouth better than he did, he—”

  “Why should you be ashamed of what you’re good at? Why are you trying so hard to hide your spark?”

  “Because I don’t want to end up…” She looked away.

  Dottie drew in a breath. “Like me. Like the widow librarian, alone at Christmas.”

  Violet looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, Dottie.”

  Dottie shook her head. “Nope, you’re right. But what you don’t know is that I liked my life, very much. Sure, there were a few holes…” She drew in a breath. “But I had made my choices, and because of Nelson, I was glad for them.” She tucked her hand under Violet’s chin and raised it to meet her eyes. “You did a brave thing for your country. You should be proud of that. It doesn’t make you less beautiful or less of a woman because you did what you felt was right and honorable.”