A Midwinter's Tail

by Sofie Kelly

  Olivia gestured at the cat carrier with the blowtorch. “Give me the cat,” she said.

  I pressed the bag against my hip. Owen hadn’t yet realized the top was open and he could jump out. “No,” I said.

  Olivia’s eyes narrowed with anger. “You want the poor thing to die in here? What’s the matter with you?”

  She leaned over so the flame was just inches above the elegant Oriental carpet runner.

  “Give me the cat,” she repeated.

  What else could I do? Maybe I could get us all out of this. My hands were shaking, but I eased the strap of the cat bag off my shoulder. Olivia held out her hand.

  “Sorry,” I whispered to Owen, and then instead of handing over the carrier I threw it at her. As the bag arced down over the few steps between us, Owen somehow launched himself up and out. Eyes wide and angry, and fur going every which way, he landed three steps below me and darted between Olivia’s legs.

  It was enough to knock her off balance on those high heels. She fell backward, dropping the blowtorch. It ignited the edge of her faux leather pants. Whatever they were made of was highly flammable.

  Flames shot from her ankle to her hip in seconds. She screamed, hands flailing, which only succeeded in setting her sweater on fire. I flung myself on her, smothering the fire with my body and my heavy woolen coat. Above me Maggie sank onto a riser. She tucked her face in her elbow and looked at me. I tried to get my breath, but it was almost impossible, as there was so much smoke now.

  Olivia moaned in pain, tears streaming down her face. Her fake leather pants had melted more than burned, and there were patches of the fabric layered onto the burns on her leg.

  The blowtorch had fallen on the landing, and the Oriental carpet runner was already on fire.

  Maggie had stumbled down around the turn of the stairs. “We’ve gotta get out of here!” she said. She coughed, bending almost double.

  Olivia was shaking and whimpering. She was going into shock, I realized. The fire had spread now from the huge framed oil painting to the wallpaper. The woolen carpet was smoldering, making even more heavy dark smoke.

  “Grab her shoulders,” I yelled to Maggie. Talking started another coughing jag, but I managed to grab Olivia’s feet. Maggie caught her under the arms and we got her around the turn and down the few stairs.

  Then I heard a wrenching groan as if the house itself were in pain. The massive oil painting behind the stairs seemed to shudder and then, almost as though in slow motion, it broke from the wall and fell forward.

  “Maggie!” I screamed.

  Out of reflex she jumped backward, pulling Olivia with her. The momentum from the falling picture knocked me backward as well, up the stairs. Beside me Owen yowled as the carpet, which had been mostly smoking before, now began to really burn.

  Olivia gave an agonized moan of pain.

  “Kath!” Maggie screamed, struggling to get to her feet. The burning canvas was wedged on its side like a wall of flame between us.

  “Get out!” I yelled at Maggie. “Go!”

  She hesitated.

  “Go!” I screamed. “Get yourself and Olivia out and go!”

  Wheezing, she pressed her face into her elbow. “I’ll come back for you,” she shouted when she could breathe again.

  “No!” I hollered. “Just get out and call nine one one.”

  The flames were licking their way closer. Owen was beside me on the stairs, crouched low, ears flattened, hissing in anger or in fear, I wasn’t sure which. I waved Maggie down the stairs.

  She gave me a last panicked look and began to drag Olivia down the steps.

  I grabbed Owen and the empty carrier bag, pressed the crook of my elbow against my mouth and nose and began to climb. I knew it was a very bad idea, but I had nowhere else to go.

  There were four large rooms on the second floor of the old house. Every one of them was locked. I grabbed the doorknob of the closest door with both hands and tried to make it turn. I shook it. I took a step back and kicked it. It didn’t give. I tried to force the door open with my hip, but it was heavy solid wood with raised panels. It didn’t move. None of them did.

  The fire continued to lick its way up the carpet runner.

  “We don’t have a choice,” I said to Owen. I started up the staircase to the third floor.

  The air was actually a little better on the top floor of the old house, but I knew that wouldn’t last very long as the thick, noxious smoke rose through the stairwell. The doors on this level were locked as well. I was coughing most of the time and wheezing when I wasn’t. I put all my fear into kicking the doorknob to the room at the far right end of the hall, and by some miracle the door opened. I slipped inside, pushed the door shut with my hip and set Owen down on the floor. I doubled over, hands on my knees, and coughed. When I stood up again at least it was easier to breathe.

  There was very little smoke in the room. Owen looked at me wide-eyed.

  “We’re going to get out of here,” I said, swiping a hand across my face.

  The room we were in was set up as a sitting room with several elegant chairs grouped in front of a high, multipaned window. I couldn’t get it open, and even if I had, we were three floors up. It was too high to jump.

  I sank down on to the floor and Owen climbed into my lap and nuzzled my chin. I stroked his fur. “We can do this,” I said, my voice shaky. “We’ve gotten out of worse messes.”

  I remembered being trapped in that tiny cabin in the woods the previous winter, locked in a dark, cramped basement with a leaking propane stove above us. We’d gotten out just before the cabin exploded and I’d walked through snowdrifts up to my knees. But we’d survived.

  Smoke was rolling in under the door. “Hang on,” I said to Owen.

  I pulled off my coat and jammed as much of it as I could into the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor.

  The floor was warm. I felt the gleaming hardwood all around the area of the door. It was very warm. The fire had to be below us, working its way up the walls.

  “We have to get out of here now,” I told Owen.

  The cat turned to the long window. I walked over and looked out over the backyard. It was too far to jump. We’d never survive the leap.

  Then I saw it—a small balcony just slightly to my left and one floor down. Was it possible? Could I somehow drop onto those few square feet? From the balcony it was maybe a twelve-foot drop to the ground, less if I landed in one of the banks of plowed snow. I might end up with a broken leg, but the odds were better than if I jumped from here.

  It would have been better if the balcony were larger or directly underneath the window instead of off center from where I was. I tried to calculate how far off it was. My hands were shaking.

  It was too much of an angle. I couldn’t jump. “What if I miss?” I said to Owen. He looked at me for a moment; then he walked across the room and climbed into the cat carrier. Was that his vote of confidence?

  I couldn’t let Owen die and he couldn’t get out without me. I rubbed away tears I hadn’t known I was even crying. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

  I picked up the closest chair, took two running steps forward and flung it through the window. It smashed the glass and fell to the ground. Cold air swirled into the room. It felt wonderful.

  There was a poker by the fireplace. I used it to clear away the broken glass and the bottom part of the window.

  I held on to the wide trim and looked out, careful not to get too close to the edge. The balcony looked a long way down.

  “We need something to hold on to,” I said to Owen. The four-poster bed was covered with a rose-patterned quilt. I flung back the edge. Yes! It was also made up with sheets. I hauled them off the bed, used my teeth to start an edge and tore both of them into long strips.

  The area of warm floor was spreading. I knew I was running out of time. I knotted the ends of the sheets together, hoping this would work as well as it did in every prison escape movie Maggie had ever
made me watch.

  I was tying the makeshift rope to one leg of the big four-poster when I heard voices outside. I held on to the sheet and edged my way to the window again.

  Burtis Chapman’s big black truck was in the backyard almost directly below the balcony. Marcus got out of the passenger side and climbed onto the roof. I watched as he steadied himself, jumped and almost fell into the bed of the truck. He was trying to reach the balcony, I realized. He was coming to get me.

  The tears started again and I brushed them away. Marcus got hold of the railing on the fourth try. He pulled himself up and over onto the balcony.

  I zippered the top of the cat carrier and put the strap over my head. Then I made a loop in the end of my knotted sheet rope. Holding on to that, I went back to the window. Marcus was looking up at me. I’d never been so glad to see his face.

  “You have to jump,” he yelled.

  I nodded. The balcony where he was standing seemed like such a long way down. Every part of me was shaking.

  Marcus held out his arms. “Hang on to the window ledge,” he shouted. “Swing your legs to the right and let go. I’ll catch you.”

  I did the math in my head. It was about fifteen feet from the window ledge to the balcony below. Marcus was over six feet tall. Given my own height, I’d only be about eight inches from his arms.

  Eight inches felt like eight feet.

  “I’ll catch you,” he shouted. “I swear to God I’ll catch you.”

  I heard something collapse behind me in the hallway. A wall, maybe? The stairs?

  I was out of time. I shifted the cat carrier around onto my back and grabbed my bedsheet rope. Then I got down on my hands and knees and backed out the open window. My arms could only hold my weight for a few seconds, but that was all I needed. I swung my legs to the left and let go of the makeshift rope.

  And fell . . .

  Right into Marcus’s waiting arms. I knocked him back against the French doors, but he didn’t let go of me. And I didn’t let go of him.

  “You all right?” he said. He felt my arms, touched my face with his fingers. I nodded. I couldn’t seem to find any words.

  “We have to get off this balcony,” he said.

  Below us Burtis was standing in the bed of his truck. Marcus helped me over the railing.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Burtis asked, concern making tight lines around his mouth and eyes.

  I nodded. “I’m okay,” I said before another bout of coughing made it impossible to speak.

  Maggie was standing by the tailgate of the truck, tears sliding down her face. Burtis helped me down and she wrapped me in a hug.

  “I’m okay, Mags,” I said. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Owen made a loud meow of protest.

  Maggie let me go, swiped at her face and tried to smile at me but couldn’t quite get there. I pulled the bag over my head and undid the zipper. Owen poked his head out and looked around. His eyes seemed a little loopy, but otherwise he looked okay.

  Behind me Marcus jumped down into the bed of the truck. Ric Holm and his partner were coming across the snow to us carrying their first aid gear. I could hear sirens in the distance.

  I was still shaking, but I was safe.

  I was safe.

  27

  Olivia was charged with the premeditated murder of Dayna Chapman, as well as two counts of attempted murder and one of arson for the fire at Marsh Farm.

  It turned out that Marcus had been at the Chapman place, talking to Burtis, when Maggie called him. Burtis had followed Marcus out to the old house, both of them breaking every speed limit.

  Maggie spent the night in my spare bedroom after an afternoon in the ER to make sure we hadn’t inhaled too much smoke. Roma checked Owen over carefully from ears to tail. Aside from a little singed fur, he was fine.

  “I didn’t go out there on purpose to confront Olivia,” I told Marcus as we waited at the clinic for Roma to finish her examination.

  He put his arm around my shoulders. “I know that,” he said. “Maggie told me.”

  “So you’re not angry.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “All I am is very, very grateful.”

  I leaned my cheek against his arm. “Me too.”

  Marcus spent the night on the living room sofa. He showed up with his pillow, his toothbrush, Eric’s meat loaf and mashed potatoes and a look on his face that told me he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  When I woke up in the morning, Maggie was curled up in the big wing chair by the window with Owen snoozing on the floor at her feet.

  “Maggie, why aren’t you still asleep?” I asked, sitting up and raking my hands through my hair.

  Her expression was serious, lines etched around her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For not sleeping longer?” The back of my throat was dry.

  “For not coming back to get you. I keep thinking what would have happened if . . .” She let the end of the sentence trail away, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, Mags,” I said. “I should be apologizing to you. I’m the one who almost got you killed. The entire staircase was on fire. There was nothing you could have done.”

  She gave me a stricken look. “I don’t know what I would have done if anything had happened to you.”

  I felt the sting of unshed tears in my eyes and I blinked them back. “Me too,” I said. “But nothing happened that couldn’t be fixed.” I went to get out of bed to hug her, but my legs were tangled in the blankets. I did a crazy flailing dance and fell onto the floor as Owen meowed loudly and bolted into the closet.

  When Marcus appeared in the doorway, Maggie and I were on the floor in a heap of sheets and blankets hugging, laughing and crying all at the same time while Owen peered, wide-eyed, around the closet door.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake,” Marcus said. “There’s coffee.”

  For some reason that just made Maggie and me laugh harder.

  When the two of us went downstairs we found Rebecca and Brady Chapman at the table having coffee with Marcus. Hercules was sitting beside Rebecca’s chair eating what looked like a bowl of scrambled eggs.

  I looked at Marcus. “I couldn’t find the cat food,” he said.

  Rebecca came around the table and hugged both of us. “I’m so glad you’re both all right,” she said.

  “I’m sorry about Marsh Farm,” I said.

  She held up a hand and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. All Everett and I care about is that neither one of you . . .” She looked around me to Owen, who was standing in the living room doorway probably wondering why there was were so many people in the kitchen at breakfast. “. . . or you,” she said, smiling at the small gray cat, “are all right.”

  Which is why exactly six days later I found myself standing in the living room at Wisteria Hill, which had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Maggie, with a little help from Abigail, had strung white lights around the windows and the fireplace. One of Harry Junior’s trees stood in the corner decorated with the snowflakes that were eventually going to be hung on the library tree and the Christmas ornaments that were usually on Ruby’s personal tree. The mantel was trimmed with pine boughs, red ribbon and fat cream-colored candles inside glass hurricane lamps.

  Everett and Rebecca were getting married. After the fire at Marsh Farm Rebecca had told Everett what she really wanted: a simple wedding surrounded by the people she loved the most. Roma offered her living room, where Rebecca and Everett had met for the first time. It was perfect.

  Everett’s granddaughter tapped me on the shoulder. “Ready?” Ami asked.

  I smiled at her and fingered the small box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a red-and-green bow. “I’m ready,” I said. I nodded at Maggie as we passed her.

  Roma was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Like Ami and me, she was carrying a small wrapped present.

  Ami tapped on the door of the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

  “Come i
n,” Rebecca called.

  She beamed, clasping her hands together when she saw the three of us. “You’re all so beautiful,” she said. We were all wearing tea-length, cream-colored dresses—different styles—all with red sashes tied at the waist.

  I put a hand on my chest. “You’re the one who’s beautiful,” I said.

  She truly was. There was a glow to Rebecca. That was what love looked like, I realized. And the rose-colored dress from Abel’s that she’d tried on the first night Roma and I took her shopping looked perfect on her. The only alteration it had needed was to be shortened a little, and Ella King had done that in an afternoon.

  Rebecca noticed the boxes in our hands. “No,” she said shaking her head. “You don’t believe in that something old, something new superstition, do you?”

  Ami looked at Roma and me. “I told you she’d say that.” She turned back to Rebecca. “It’s not superstition, Rebbie. It’s tradition. Deal with it.”

  Rebecca smiled at her. She loved Everett’s only grandchild as if she were her own.

  Ami handed her the small square box she’d been holding. “This is borrowed,” she said.

  Rebecca undid the ribbons and unwrapped the paper. She pulled the top off the box and lifted the lid. For a long moment she stared at the contents of the box and then she lifted out a small silver heart-shaped locket.

  Ami smiled. “Do you remember that?”

  Rebecca’s eyes were bright and I noticed she swallowed hard before she answered. “I didn’t know you still had it,” she said softly.

  Ami looked at Roma and me. “Rebbie gave me that on my first day of middle school. She said I was about to start one of the best adventures of my life.” She turned back to her soon-to-be-official grandmother. “You’re about to start one of the best adventures of your life.” They hugged each other and I had to swallow down the lump in my throat.

  “I’m next,” Roma said. “Mine is blue.” The box she handed Rebecca was long and flat. Rebecca laughed when she saw what was inside—a lacy blue garter. She slipped off her high-heeled shoes and stepped into the garter, sliding it up her leg until it was just above her knee. She hugged Roma. “Thank you,” she said. “I think Everett will like this.”