A Late Hard Frost
By
Stephanie Joyce Cole
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The unauthorized reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Copyright 2017 by Stephanie Joyce Cole
Cover Design: Earthly Charms
ISBN-13: 978-1-942623-78-6
Produced in the USA
Dedication
For my family and friends who cared for me, in so many ways, after my husband Mark's death. Your love and support helped me find a new life path. Without you, this book would not have been written.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 1
When he sees her turn toward the window, reaching for her coat, he scrambles behind the dead, broken stump barely in time, slamming his shin hard as he stumbles into an icy hole. He growls a curse under his breath. He doesn’t think she’s seen him, but he’s got to be careful. Better to watch when it’s totally dark, when the light from her cabin rolls into the meadow and he can see her so clearly, bent over her potter’s wheel, weaving her spells into the lumps of clay.
Sometimes he hears the music she plays, some classical stuff, maybe violins, he thinks, or sometimes something loud, with a deep, thumping beat. He likes the softer music better.
He wants to stay all through the night, to be near her while she sleeps. It’s so cold that he can’t stay long. His arms and legs are cramped in place and his nose stings from the biting, cold air. The skin on his face is crusty and stiff, coated with ice crystals. He raises his head over the stump, inch by inch. She’s turning off lights now, getting ready to leave. He ducks low again. Once she’s gone he can stagger out to the road, his legs numb and stiff, and make his way home. He will shiver for hours, probably until he dives into bed and huddles himself into a tight ball under the thick mass of blankets. Then his body will unclamp and he will touch himself, moaning, stroking himself as she will stroke him one day, when they are finally together.
~ * ~
Mid-morning, Cassandra pushed open her cabin door into the slap of a cold, wet wind. She inhaled, pulling the clean air deeply into her lungs, willing her quaking stomach to settle. A rough breeze hissed through the tops of the nearby spruce trees, their dull green branches painting the only color against the pale gray of old snow and the darker gray of the flat clouds. She couldn’t leave the door open for long without chilling the cabin, but the fresh, swirling air was already scouring away the smell of sour garbage inside.
She’d intended to empty the trash sooner. Yesterday she’d wrinkled her nose when she opened the kitchen can, but her mind had been elsewhere. She was having trouble focusing on anything for long. She’d always been able to box up her troubles and tuck them away in a corner of her brain until she had the inclination to deal with them, but the phone message reminding her of her appointment at the clinic whispered over and over in her head. A haze of worries hovered around her, flickering images of Nick, and of Merry, whispered thoughts reminding her that life had changed, was changing still, with doors that had sprung open and doors now slammed shut forever, all crowding out everyday concerns like the creeping stench of garbage.
This morning there was no mistaking that rot was taking hold somewhere. She carted the stinky bag to the bin behind the cabin, her feet stuck into black rubber boots and a parka thrown over the long T-shirt she’d slept in, taking time to snap the bin’s heavy-duty lid securely closed. The bears were just starting to wake up at this time of year, but two or three wily ravens often lingered nearby, always eager to push their way into a free meal whenever they could. The hefty coal-black birds were smart and strong and she’d seen one flip off the top of a garbage can on its first try. If she wasn’t careful, she’d spend the afternoon scouring the meadow for orange rinds and runaway plastic bags.
She trudged back inside, kicking off her boots by the door, left open to hurry away the smell. Prodding the fire in the wood stove, she added a few more pieces of birch. Flames licked and sputtered around the wood, and the sweet earthy drift of birch smoke tangled with the cool air, pushing away the garbage reek.
She turned and then gasped, startled by a flicker of orange in the open doorway. A fox? She stepped backward, then realized the creature now sitting motionless on her threshold was a cat. A very bedraggled, thin cat with matted butterscotch-colored fur. The smooth contour of its left ear was marred by a ridge of scar around a ragged half-moon tear. Perched on the doorstep, the cat stared at her with unblinking, round, blue eyes. Its only movement was a rhythmic twitch of the very tip of its tail.
“Where did you come from?” she murmured. The cat declined to answer. Slowly, carefully, she moved toward the door, but the cat showed no inclination to shy away. She crouched low in front of it and extended her hand. The cat swiveled its head a few degrees, gave her fingers a perfunctory sniff, and then returned its stare to her face. The cat’s gaze was unnerving, its azure eyes huge in its small, triangular face.
She had never seen any cat wandering around the area before. She was a long way from her closest neighbors, and she was sure that the Selwicks only owned their massive dogs, three unruly husky mixes. Outdoor cats didn’t usually last long. The local eagle population seemed particularly fond of them.
After a few moments, the cat took charge of the situation and stood, stretched its back legs one at a time, slowly, then strolled around her into the cabin. As she turned and watched, it reseated itself on the warm tiles circling the wood stove and became intently engrossed in licking its front right paw, now ignoring her completely. Its self-confidence made her smile.
“Well, okay, you can get warm.” The cat moved on to its left paw. She hesitated, and then filled a shallow bowl with water. She placed it close to the cat, and the cat sniffled it briefly without interest. “I suppose you’re hungry, but how will I get rid of you if I feed you?”
She cocked her head to one side and sighed. She didn’t need this now. She couldn’t rescue anything. Not now. She did not want a cat. She couldn’t think about the future without wanting to scream or cry. This is a complication she didn’t need anytime, but certainly not right now.
She found herself in front of the refrigerator. She wasn’t going to let the cat stay, but she could see its ribs jutting through its mangy fur. She’d give it something to eat, that is, if she could find anything, but then she’d have to send it on its way.
&
nbsp; She frowned. What did a cat eat? She’d never had a pet. Her aunt and uncle, her guardians since she was three years old when her mother drifted away for good, hadn’t been interested in dogs and cats. The closest they’d come was keeping chickens for a while, but they’d soon given them up as too much work. She’d been on her own since she left their home years ago, and now she filled her days and nights with her pottery and she kept to herself. Animal (or for that matter, human) companionship wasn’t required. Did cats eat hummus? She picked up a half-filled container and put it back. In the corner of a cupboard she found a dusty can of sardines. She scooped its contents into another bowl and put it down next to the cat.
The cat abandoned any shred of nonchalance and buried its head in the bowl, emitting low growling noises as it gulped the sardines. The bowl was empty in less than ten seconds. It delicately sniffed the sides of the bowl and then looked at her, its eyes hopeful. “Sorry, that’s it,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. The cat licked its right paw and swiped it three times across its face before curling into a tight ball, pressing against the warm feet of the stove, immediately dropping into sleep. Cassandra sighed. She rubbed her stomach as another wave of queasiness washed over her. What do I do now?
~ * ~
He can hardly believe that it worked. The cat had hissed and scratched at him when he shoved it into the potato sack earlier, but it was so scrawny it was easy to handle. A couple of good shakes and it’d gone limp. It had been in the bag for hours, silent and still next to him, while he waited behind the big rock in the meadow. He knows his plan isn’t well thought out. When he’d grabbed the cat from where it was cornered by three kids with hockey sticks, he saw an opportunity. He’d chased them away and hoisted the cat by the scruff of its neck. If she didn’t take the cat in and it ended up dying in the woods, well, it was going to die anyway. But how was he going to get the cat inside? When she goes out back to the trash bin and leaves the door open, he takes a chance. He half expects the cat to run right away, but maybe it was too far gone for that. When he dumps it out of the sack outside her door and scrambles back to his hiding spot, it plays along just fine. She took his gift. And every witch needs a cat.
~ * ~
Cassandra sat across from Moira and waited, sipping her tea, sliding her index finger down the long, smooth line of the cup, one of a set she’d made for Moira at Christmas. Moira thrummed her long scarlet fingernails against the tabletop, her rhinestone hoop earrings dancing and sparkling as she scanned the ledgers spread over the table. Cassandra listened to her own breath, now quiet and even. Today had started out badly, a knot of worry stuck in her throat, pain pounding in her head. She’d pressed her forehead against an icy windowpane, trying to numb the ache, trying to make some sense of the changes suddenly cascading through her life. But here at the gallery it was easier to push the looming panic aside, to focus on the task at hand.
“I think...” Moira paused and frowned at the page in front of her. “I think we should try to stock even more of the bowl sets. I know you like to make the big pitchers, and the tourists do love them, but they cost a lot and they don’t fit easily into their suitcases. But just like last summer, I can probably move every bowl set you bring me. Like I said, those bowls with the raven patterns didn’t even stay on the shelves a week.”
Cassandra nodded, watching her breath push soft ripples into her tea. She wound a long strand of black, curly hair behind her ear. In the five years she’d been bringing her work to Moira’s gallery, she and Moira always had an early pre-season meeting, and Moira always puzzled and fussed about what she wanted in new inventory. Then Cassandra went off and made just what she felt like creating. Cassandra didn’t mind this pointless planning ritual. It didn’t take much time, and she suspected it made Moira feel like she was in charge. By the beginning of the season, Moira would have a grab-bag collection of every local tourist trinket she’d managed to gather together, and a few displays of quality local art, like Cassandra’s ceramics. She always put the pottery front and center and it sold well.
Cassandra cradled the warm cup against her chest. She liked Moira. More importantly, she trusted Moira, and that didn’t come easy to her. Moira looked like she should be running a seedy casino instead of a small-town art gallery in Alaska, but Cassandra knew from experience that Moira ran a lot deeper and kinder than her flash and glitter suggested. It was no burden to sit down and sip tea and listen.
“Well, that’s that.” Moira sighed, patted the ledger and picked up her teacup. “Summer will be here before you know it.” They both laughed and rolled their eyes. In early April, summer was still a long way off. Weeks yet until the snow fully surrendered to mush, then to thin, dead puddles, finally giving way to a tentative emergence of green. Weeks and weeks of cold days and colder nights to go. Tourists might start dribbling into Alaska during the bargain shoulder season in late-April, but here in Homer they could run into a rogue snowstorm or icy morning streets even then. Now, as the grip of winter held fast, only the lengthening days hinted of the summer to come. The wind carved gray tired snowdrifts into broken mounds with ragged peaks and valleys, and cut into any exposed flesh in seconds.
Moira reached to the counter behind her and pulled a plate of chocolate cookies onto the table. “Quite something, isn’t it, Merry coming back?”
Cassandra willed her face into neutral. “Have you talked to her?”
Moira shook her head. “She called while I was out. Left a message, but not much of one. Said she’d straightened things out in Florida and was heading back north. She didn’t come right out and say it, but it sounded to me that she might be coming back for good.”
Cassandra felt Moira’s eyes on her but she didn’t look up. The tea was growing cold, but she tipped the cup to her mouth, concentrating on breathing, willing the threat of panic away.
Merry left well before Christmas, so it had been over three months. Three months and not a word, not a message, nothing. At first, Cassandra hoped each day that Merry would call. She craved Merry’s peaceful presence, her gift for quiet friendship, the way Merry would offer help but with a gentle touch. Before Merry arrived, Cassandra hadn’t realized how solitary she had become. Merry filled a void Cassandra hadn’t even known was there. The differences between them—Merry, sixteen years older, Merry running from a marriage that had become abusive and toxic while Cassandra hadn’t ever had a real romantic relationship—these differences didn’t matter once their friendship was forged. They leaned on each other, depended upon each other, in a way that was new and precious for Cassandra.
Even though Merry had said that she needed some time to straighten out the mess she’d left at home, Cassandra had expected to hear from her. Weeks passed, turning into months, with no call, no message. Cassandra had missed her every day and yearned for her return. But now everything was different.
She’d received a short message, played back only once. Merry’s cheerful voice hung in the air and left Cassandra gasping. “I’m coming back, Cass. I’ll be in Homer in about a week.” A pause. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. We’ll talk when I get to town.”
Moira picked up a cookie and nibbled at its edge. “Umm, good. You should try one. New recipe at The Twins, I think. Anyway, I ran into Nick yesterday, and he didn’t know anything about it. About Merry coming back, I mean. Hadn’t heard a thing.” She took another tiny nibble. “He looked a bit shocked. I don’t think he’s heard from her all this time, never mind them seeming pretty darn close before she left.”
The muscles in Cassandra’s face tensed and settled into the hard mask she wore to keep the world at bay. Yes, Nick and Merry had been close, all right, at least until Merry’s husband found her here in Homer and tried to make her presumed death all too real. Merry’s past, the history she had tried so hard to push away, stormed into the present when her husband tried to kill her. And they all had to cope with the shock of Rita’s death.
She shrugged, struggling to keep her expression flat
and blank, though the mention of Nick had fluttered her stomach. “It was a hard time for her.” She draped her red coat around her shoulders and stood up, pulling herself tall. “Moira, I’ve got to go. I’m loading a kiln tonight.”
Moira nodded, still eating her cookie crumb by crumb. “Sure, we’ll see her soon enough. Lots to tell on both sides, don’t you think?” Cassandra glanced up sharply and Moira grinned. “I mean Brian. Brian wasn’t around when she left. We didn’t find each other until right before Christmas, remember?”
Cassandra suppressed the urge to wrinkle her nose. Brian. What did Moira see in him? She knew Moira had been alone a long time, and Moira wasn’t the kind of woman to glory in solitude, but Brian? Brian slouched and all but cowered when anyone talked to him, but he held on a bit too tight and a little too long when he hugged hello. She’d watched his eyes slide over the backside of every woman in the room at The Twins when he thought no one was looking.
Cassandra wound her knit scarf close around her neck and opened the door, turning into the weak, waning light of the frosty afternoon. Moira was eccentric and fussy and a bit odd, but surely she deserved better than Brian.
Chapter 2
Merry dropped her duffle into the closet, hidden behind the faded madras curtain in the alcove of her gloomy room at Sweenie’s Homer Motel. She fell backwards onto the bed and closed her eyes. The lingering odor of cigarettes in the non-smoking room pricked at her nose. Her dry and scratchy eyes still ached from the long hours on the plane, first the early morning flight from Miami, then the seemingly endless layovers in Los Angeles and Seattle. She’d dialed her watch four hours back, into the Alaska time zone, but her body was yet to catch up.
Last night at the airport hotel in Anchorage had done nothing to lessen the deep fatigue of her journey. It was so late when the plane arrived, and the Anchorage airport had been nearly deserted. Her fellow passengers grabbed their bags and trotted out into the night. As the automated doors opened and closed, frigid streams of car exhaust drifted across the shiny tile floor. Her seatmate from Seattle hunched on the other side of the belt, awaiting his bags, staring at the floor, pointedly avoiding making any eye contact with her. She grimaced, feeling guilty. She supposed she could have been nicer.
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