Snowbound Weekend & Gambler's Love

by Amii Lorin

  That weekend the four of them, Johanna, Luke, Bette, and Vichy, decorated the inside of the house. Kitchen, dining room, and living room all received their share of a variety of ornaments from homemade to "store boughten" as her father described them. Every carton of decorations was emptied except the one containing the tree ornaments, as the tree would not be put up until the week before the big day.

  The Monday of the third week, almost as if her mother somehow sensed Vichy's need to keep busy, Johanna announced over breakfast that she was ready to start her Christmas shopping.

  Luke responded with a loud, exaggerated groan. Although he fully enjoyed decorating, baking, and even wrapping the gifts, Luke Sweigart hated the shopping necessary for all of them.

  "Relax, dear," Johanna advised serenely. "You're off the hook this year. Vichy and I will do the shopping." She raised questioning brows at Vichy, who nodded her silent agreement. "All you have to do," she went on sweetly, "is provide the money."

  "There's always a catch," her father grumbled, digging out his wallet.

  The morning was bright and sunny, but there was a definite chill in the air that warned of approaching winter. As she walked to the car, Vichy drew a deep breath, and when she released it, a small vapor cloud formed in front of her.

  "Where to, madam?" Vichy asked her mother after they were seated in the car.

  "We'll start in Lancaster," Johanna answered blandly, giving no hint of the miles Vichy would cover before the end of that week.

  Driving towards Lancaster and the large Park City Shopping Mall, Vichy's eyes caressed the countryside she'd grown up in. The fields, some dull brown, some with a dark yellow stubble from last summer's crop, lay resting and waiting for spring, and the expertise of the world-renowned Pennsylvania Dutch fanners to bring them to pulsing, green life.

  Near the turnoff road to Lititz, Vichy carefully passed a box-shaped, black, horse-drawn buggy, the occupants of which were attired in the traditional dark Amish garb.

  "They're still risking life and limb in those things, I see," Vichy observed, shaking her head.

  "Yes," Johanna replied quietly. "It's their way. But I'm sorry to say that with the crazy way some people drive today, they are struck with increasing regularity."

  Shifting a quick glance to the buggy's reflection on the rearview mirror, Vichy smiled sadly. It's really a shame, she mused, for, probably more than anything, or anyone else, these people and their picturesque conveyances are the trademark of eastern Pennsylvania.

  Vichy and Johanna began what turned out to be a shopping marathon in downtown Lancaster. By the time the week, and Vichy, had waned, they had combed the area. Collapsed into the overstuffed living room chair Friday evening, Vichy recounted their stops for Bette.

  "After we'd plumbed the possibilities of Lancaster's shopping district, we buzzed over to Park City and spent the remainder of the day, and a fair amount of money, there," Vichy sighed. "Tuesday we drove to Reading," she went on, to Bette's amusement. "Not only did we hit just about every one of the city's now-famous outlet stores, but we also shopped at both the Berkshire Mall and the Fairgrounds Square Mall, on the outskirts of Reading, as well."

  As, at this point, Bette was nearly convulsed with laughter, Vichy cut through the rest of her long list of places she and Johanna had stopped at, to end on a groan. "And do you believe we even drove all the way up to Allentown and the Lehigh Shopping Mall?"

  "Of course I believe it," Bette laughed. "I went through the same leg-killing routine last year. But, 'fess up, it's fun shopping with Mom, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is," Vichy admitted, laughing with her. "I enjoyed every footsore minute of it. And, everywhere we went, the Christmas decorations were absolutely beautiful."

  What Vichy did not admit were the number of times she caught herself thinking a particular article was perfectly suited to Ben. Should she, she'd wondered repeatedly, buy some small gift to give him on the day after Christmas?

  In the end she gave in to the desire to give him something, and bought him a gold money clip, fashioned in a dollar sign.

  Saturday evening Luke fastened a six-foot blue spruce into a metal tree stand, and within hours its aromatic scent had permeated the entire first floor of the house.

  Directly after the Sunday dinner dishes were dispensed with, Luke, Bette, and Vichy, following Johanna's expert supervision, trimmed the tree.

  Vichy remained downstairs for some time after her parents and Bette retired for the night.

  With a glass of white wine and a record of Fred Waring's Pennsylvanians singing carols on the stereo for company, she sat curled up in one corner of the wing-back early American sofa, staring dreamily at the glittering tree. As had happened on her first night home from California, haunting voices from yesteryear came stealing into her mind, drawing her back in memory to previous Christmases.

  "Mattie, if you don't hurry up, we're going down without you," an eight-year-old Josh yelled through the bathroom door as he fairly danced back and forth in the upstairs hallway early Christmas morning. Vichy, every bit as excited and eager to go downstairs as Josh, sat squirming on the top step of the living room stairway. It was out of the question that any one of them would venture downstairs alone on Christmas morning. They always waited for each other and went down together. At five, Vichy could have no idea that the thirteen-year-old Mattie was deliberately stalling in the bathroom to give their father time to plug in the tree lights and get the camera ready to catch their expressions at their first glimpse of the pile of gifts under the tree.

  "That's the most beautifulest tree ever." The awe-filled voice belonged to a four-year-old Bette. She had come to a dead stop at the foot of the stairs. Vichy, Josh, and Mattie lined up behind her in that order. It had been her first sight of the tree, because up until the time she no longer believed in Santa Claus, the tree was not put up till after Bette was sound asleep Christmas Eve.

  "Oh, Tom, it's absolutely beautiful," an eighteen-year-old Mattie whispered in a tear-choked tone as she gazed misty-eyed at the diamond engagement ring her future husband had presented to her in front of the whole Sweigart clan on Christmas day.

  Vichy blinked, and the tiny, shimmering lights came back into focus. Brushing impatiently at the moisture on her cheeks, she drank deeply from her stemmed glass. She had felt on the edge of tears all day, without knowing why, and now she told herself the tearful feeling was caused by the season and the realization of time slipping away.

  Vichy had never been a regular-as-clockwork, every-twenty-eight-days female. And so it was that she, foolishly, had given scant notice when her cycle date passed early in the previous week. Her mother had kept her so busy she had hardly had the time to do any counting, but she should have.

  The final days before Christmas were filled to overflowing with wrapping of gifts, and visiting friends and neighbors Vichy hadn't seen in over a year. The house rang with laughter the day before Christmas with the unexpected arrival of not only Mattie, Tom, and Brenda, but a glowingly lovely Nan and her obviously proud husband Mitch.

  When, soon after supper, with hugs and kisses and cries of "Merry Christmas," they departed for Williamsport, Vichy again had to blink against the onrush of tears.

  Christmas morning was a quiet time. The gifts under the tree went unopened as, by mutual agreement, they waited the lunchtime appearance of Josh and his family.

  The afternoon and evening was something else again. Once more laughter prevailed as Robert, being the center of everyone's attention, frolicked his way through the remainder of the day.

  As swiftly as the day flew by, the hours could not pass fast enough for Vichy who, at least a hundred times during the day and evening, found herself thinking: Tomorrow, I'll see Ben tomorrow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ben.

  His name was the first thing that popped into Vichy's mind on awakening the morning after Christmas.

  Forcing down the desire to toss her clothes into her suitcases and jump into her c
ar, Vichy joined her family at the breakfast table.

  "Won't you change your mind about leaving today?" her mother asked from the stove, where she was stirring her father's favored oatmeal. "Uncle John and Aunt Katie are going to be very disappointed if we arrive without you."

  "Not to mention Mark," Bette added slyly.

  "By all means, let's not mention Mark," Vichy drawled teasingly. Bette laughed and, although she tried hard not to, Vichy laughed with her.

  "Now, girls," Johanna scolded gently. "Don't be unkind. Mark is a very nice young man."

  "But dull," Bette grinned.

  Ignoring Bette, Johanna went on, "He's a conscientious, hard worker—"

  "With both feet planted firmly in cement," Bette inserted, her grin widening.

  Turning from the stove, Johanna leveled a quelling glance on Bette before plowing ahead. "Mark is kind and considerate. He's a good son, and will make a good husband and father."

  "If dull," Bette, braving her mother's look, passed judgment. "And old dull Mark has been wacko over Vichy forever."

  With a sigh Johanna turned back to her pot of oatmeal. Vichy hid behind her small glass of juice. Neither one of them dared challenge Bette's statement, simply because they both knew it was true. Mark Hartman had been "wacko" over Vichy, if not forever, almost as long as Vichy could remember. And, although every word of praise Johanna had uttered was true, Bette's judgment was also true; Mark was dull.

  There was no blood relationship between the Sweigart and Hartman families. Luke Sweigart and John Hartman had grown up on neighboring farms and were lifelong friends. The titles of Uncle and Aunt were honorary ones, and worked both ways. To Mark Hartman, Vichy's parents were Aunt Johanna and Uncle Luke.

  Mark, at thirty-five, was as set in his ways as a man twenty years his senior. Being the only Hartman offspring, he had been babied and cosseted by an overprotective mother every one of those thirty-five years.

  Vichy had a sisterly affection for Mark, and it saddened her to admit that he could be summed up in one condescending condemnation: Mark never went out in the rain without his raincoat, umbrella, and rubbers. In a word-dull.

  "I'm sorry, Mother—" Vichy began belatedly, only to be interrupted by her father, as he entered the kitchen through the back door.

  "Sorry about what?" he asked, his glance shifting from Vichy to Johanna as he shrugged out of his plaid jacket.

  "I've asked Vichy to reconsider her decision to leave for Atlantic City today," Johanna answered for Vichy. "I know John, Katie, and Mark are going to be very disappointed if we arrive there without her."

  "There" being the large farm John owned in Bucks County, for which Johanna, Luke, and Bette were planning to depart directly after breakfast.

  "I know they'll be disappointed," Luke agreed, but then, in defense of Vichy's decision, added, "but I can understand Vichy wanting to leave today. By going today she won't feel rushed."

  "Exactly," Vichy jumped in, relieved at having found an ally. "If I wait until tomorrow, I'll have only a few hours to settle in before I start working. If I go today, I can take my time, both driving down there and settling in," she explained patiently, for what seemed like the twentieth time. "I can have a good night's sleep and be fresh to start working tomorrow."

  What Vichy did not say was that, short of a major family catastrophe, nothing was going to keep her from meeting Ben today as planned.

  "May as well give up, Mom," Bette advised. "Poor old Mark will just have to grin and bear his disappointment."

  She tossed Vichy a look of pure devilry before quipping, "That is if he knows how to grin."

  "That is more than enough out of you, Bette Sweigart!" Johanna exclaimed. "I thought you liked Mark."

  "I do!" Bette defended herself, choking against the laughter bubbling in her throat.

  "She's baiting you, Johanna," Luke said quietly, pausing in the act of spooning oatmeal into his mouth. "If you're lucky, and you ignore her, maybe she'll go away."

  "How can I possibly ignore someone who is mostly all mouth?" Johanna inquired sweetly.

  "O-kay," Bette grinned unrepentantly. "I'll shut up. I can take a hint."

  The subject was changed and the rest of the meal was finished companionably. The name Hartman was not spoken again until Vichy mentioned it when her parents and Bette were ready to leave.

  "Give Uncle John and Aunt Katie and Mark my love," she requested of her mother. "And tell them I promise I'll visit them early in the new year."

  Finally, after assuring her mother for the third time that she would drive carefully, Vichy was alone. Turning from the door, she ran up the stairs and into her room to pack. Glancing at the small travel alarm by her bed, she calculated that if she could be ready to leave within the hour, she could be in Atlantic City by lunchtime.

  Would Ben be there when she arrived? she wondered as she hurried back and forth between her closet and the open suitcases on her bed. What if he didn't show up at all? Vichy stopped dead halfway between her large double dresser and the bed. He would show up. He had to show up! Vichy bit her lip at the intensity of the anxiety that rushed over her.

  She had not seen him in four weeks, yet just thinking about him made her tremble all over. Was it possible to fall so deeply in love in such a short time? Vichy was very much afraid that it was not only possible, but it was exactly what had happened to her. What scared her was knowing full well she had fallen head over heels in love very quickly once before. She had paid, painfully, for her impetuousness that time. Would she have to pay again?

  Shaking herself out of her reverie, Vichy resumed her packing. Except for the fact that they both enjoyed gambling, there was no comparison between the two men. In complete opposition to Brad, Ben was mature, settled, and secure in the life he'd made for himself.

  He'll be there, Vichy assured herself, beginning to hum snatches of a Christmas song she'd heard repeatedly over the previous week.

  Vichy wasn't on the road too long before she decided that everyone and his brother were making Christmas visits. Although the traffic was heavy on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, it moved at a steady, even flow and she was making good time until she left the Turnpike and got onto the bypass around Philadelphia. The bypass was bumper-to-bumper with cars, and every one of those bumpers was attached to a machine with a horn. It seemed to Vichy that at least half of those horns were being leaned on by irate drivers.

  By crawling, inching, and softly cursing, Vichy finally reached the Walt Whitman Bridge over the Delaware. After she'd crossed the bridge and driven onto the Atlantic City Expressway, the traffic was moving in an even flow again and Vichy was able to maintain the speed limit straight into Atlantic City.

  After making her presence known to the management, Vichy went to the same small room she'd occupied four weeks previously and began unpacking, jumping in expectation at every sound of movement in the hallway.

  Now what? Her unpacking finished, Vichy stood indecisively in the middle of the room. Had Ben arrived? Was he, at that moment, in his own room unpacking?

  Just the thought that Ben could be that close set her pulses hammering and, unable to stay still another minute, Vichy smoothed the sides of her hair, which she'd coiled back into a neat chignon that morning, applied a fresh coat of shimmering gloss to her lips, then, scooping up her handbag, left the room.

  The lobby was an absolute madhouse. Vichy could barely see the carpeting for the mass of humanity that filled the large area, After making her way to the desk, with repeated pleas of "excuse me, please" and "pardon me," she waited her turn with forced patience until the harried clerk glanced at her, a warm smile curving his lips in response to her own.

  "May I help you?"

  "Yes, thank you," Vichy hesitated, then rushed on. "Do you have a Mr. Bennett Larkin registered?"

  "Larkin," he repeated, his eyes making a quick, expert perusal of the registration book. "No, ma'am, no Larkin. I'm sorry."

  No Larkin. Vichy repeated the words dully to herself,
shocked at the feeling of desolation that swept through her. Biting on the inside of her lower lip, she made a half turn away, then, on inspiration, turned back to the clerk.

  "Could you tell me if you're holding a reservation for Mr. Larkin?"

  "Just a moment." He stepped away from the counter for a few seconds, and when he returned, his answer was written on his sympathetic expression.

  "I'm sorry, but I have no reservation under that name."

  "I see." Forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile, Vichy murmured, "Thank you," and walked away from the desk aimlessly.

  Ben was not here, and he was not coming. The phrase, circling around in Vichy's head, affected the nerves in her stomach. She felt sick, and suddenly very, very tired.

  Moving without purpose through the crush of laughing people, she fought a silent battle against the overwhelming urge to weep like an abandoned child. It was not until she noticed the odd glances being sent her way that Vichy, straightening her spine, made a concentrated effort to pull herself together.

  Coffee! Find someplace that you can get a cup of coffee, Vichy admonished herself sharply. And don't you dare cry!

  Vichy made a beeline for the nearest restaurant. She ordered coffee then, as a tiny frown made an appearance above the haughty waiter's slightly hooked, long nose, added weakly that she'd have a chefs salad with the house dressing as well.

  Ignoring the salad, she sipped at her coffee while trying to calm her rioting thoughts. Ben's last words to her had been, "I'll see you in four weeks." So, where was he? Had something happened to detain him? Or, and here she winced, hadn't he meant to keep his promise to join her today?

  Vichy motioned the waiter to refill her cup and suffered the grimace he aimed at her untouched salad.

  "The salad is not to your liking, ma'am?" he asked through lips that looked like they'd been sucking a lemon.

  "The salad is fine, thank you," Vichy sighed, half tiredly, half exaggeratedly, picking up her fork. "Don't go away mad," she pleaded bitchily. "Just go away, please."