Making Spirits Bright

by Fern Michaels

  “We weren’t supposed to be open at all,” Heidi explained, “but turns out, we never closed.”

  “You stayed up all night?”

  “Dinah kept watch over the place for a stretch while I napped.”

  Dinah. The woman who had come in late. Erica took another long slurp of hot cocoa. She felt better. “That’s yummy.”

  “Good. I’m afraid it’s going to have to stand in for your Christmas present for the moment.”

  Christmas. It was hard to believe. She thought back on all the Christmas mornings of her past—mornings of impatient waiting by the tree for the adults to get themselves out of bed so the assault on the presents could begin. She’d been such a greed-head, always hoping whatever package she opened contained joy—toys—and not something practical. Her mother had always insisted on getting her a boring piece of clothing, like a nightgown. Erica had hated the nightgowns. She’d always assumed her mom bought them to give her practice acting happy about something boring.

  When she was younger, it had never occurred to her that the biggest gift of her life was sitting a few feet away—her mom herself, who she’d always assumed would just be there. She would have given anything to be opening a boring nightgown this morning.

  She blinked away tears, adjusting as she always had to when memories of her mom snuck up on her. There was a lot of reality to adjust to this morning. She felt a brief stab at the strangeness of it, then glanced at Heidi’s smile and felt one spread across her own face. “You’re letting me stay with you for a few days—that’s a huge present.”

  Heidi burst out laughing—a shooting fountain of sound Erica remembered so well from the summer she’d stayed with them on the farm before her mother died. “Huge! You get to sleep in a chair.”

  The old woman looked over at them, smiling, and Erica noticed that behind the suitcase, there was a cat carrier. She moved instinctively toward the amber eyes staring at her through the metal grate.

  “What’s his name?” she asked the lady.

  “Scamp.”

  Erica extended her finger and let Scamp rub his nose on it. She loved animals. Which reminded her ... “Where’s Marcello?”

  “Clay and Dinah took him out on their expedition to see if there are signs of life—or electricity—back at Dinah’s apartment.” Heidi’s lips twisted. “I wonder if mine is on, too. I had hoped we could do something fun today. You know—go see Rockefeller Center and skate, show you the sights, catch a movie. But now ...”

  Erica looked around at the people propped at tables with their coffees. None of them had expected to be here, either, but most seemed resigned, if not happy, to have a warm place to hang out.

  “I don’t mind hanging out here today,” she said. “I can help out, if you tell me what to do.”

  Heidi leaned forward and gave her a grateful squeeze. “Excellent! You can be Sal today.”

  “Who’s Sal?”

  “He’s the person who usually keeps this place going.” Throughout the day at the café, people came and went. Some came and never went. Occasionally a new arrival would announce that Such-and-Such Street had electricity back, which would spark an exodus. Sometimes the people wouldn’t be back, but more often they would, looking either more grumbly or more resigned than before they’d left. Tempers flared, but then Erica would zip in and offer coffee, tea, cocoa, or cookies, or push a deck of cards at them from the shelf of games in the corner. People usually responded to a little attention, and sugary food never hurt.

  By two in the afternoon, Erica felt a little bit as if she was keeping the place going. If something needed doing, she did it. She remembered her last dismal Christmas, how the day had dragged. She had spent it thinking about her mom, no matter what she had been doing. Even holding baby Angelica for the first time had made her burst into tears. Not, as Leanne had supposed, because she was so happy to have a little sister, but because this new life made her think of the life that had been lost so recently. Maybe the Disney song was right, and life was a big circle or whatever. That idea was meant to be comforting, but her mom had been irreplaceable, and to see evidence of the world chugging along without her had broken Erica’s heart.

  Today she thought about her mom, too. A lot. She was there in the music Heidi chose—Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, and all those others Laura called geezer music— and in Cary Grant’s face when her mom’s favorite Christmas movie, The Bishop’s Wife, played on television. (Her mom would be so happy if Cary Grant really was an angel and she was up there with him!) But Erica was also reminded of her mom when she was able to do stuff for Heidi—unbending the mixer beaters that Heidi had mangled somehow, or stopping a table from wobbling, or delivering food to people who were on the edge of losing their tempers from the climate curveball life had thrown them this holiday.

  At moments, Heidi seemed overwhelmed, but Erica managed, remembering what her mom would have done in each instance. For the first time, she began to see that she was her mom—a piece of her, maybe. The circle that had upset her a year ago now seemed more like a vitamin shot to her system today, giving her confidence, making her walk taller through the café.

  Later in the afternoon, during a rare lull, Heidi pushed a sandwich in front of her. Erica appreciated the gesture, especially since she knew they were running out of cheese.

  “You okay?” Heidi asked her.

  “Better than okay.” Despite her words, Erica frowned. “I guess I should call the farm, though.” And her dad. “I have to wish them all Merry Christmas and let them yell at me some more.”

  But her dad seemed calmer today—almost jovial, actually, as if he’d sent her to Brooklyn on vacation. “Merry Christmas, wanderer. Having fun in the Big Apple?”

  “I’m working in Heidi’s café.”

  “Things don’t close for Christmas up there?” he asked.

  “I think everything’s closed except us.” She described the ice storm, the difficulties, and the scene at the Sweetgum Café.

  “Sounds like a soup kitchen for stranded yuppies,” her father said.

  “I guess it is, sort of.” Her dad probably imagined the whole city was peopled by folks that looked like the cast of Friends. She’d sort of expected that herself. And there were lots of younger adults who looked as though they’d logged serious time in coffee shops. Yet they sat calmly next to old Italian men in moth-eaten sweaters and a Russian family that was camped out at a corner table, where Wilson had gravitated, since there was another toddler to tear through the café with. The adults—young and old—played Trivial Pursuit or backgammon, or talked on cell phones to far-off relatives or friends across town, or stared at Bing Crosby on the TCM Christmas marathon.

  “Have you called Laura today?” her father asked her with a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “No reason. When you do, make sure and tell her I said Merry Christmas.”

  That was strange. When Erica called the farm, though, no one answered. Webb’s mother lived outside of Carter’s Springs, so maybe they were over there. She tried Laura’s cell phone number, but didn’t get an answer. At that moment, Wilson hit his head on the side of a table and Erica put down the phone and went over to calm him down. She didn’t think about her aunt again for another few hours, and by then Christmas was almost over.

  The first time Heidi saw Patrick that day was when he and Marcus came by with firewood they’d “found” somewhere.

  Heidi stood by Patrick as he stacked the wood next to the fireplace. “Does the NYPD consider this official business?”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. She could tell by the redness of his ears that he was freezing; maybe he’d only wanted a reason to come in from the cold. Marcus had wasted no time helping himself to hot coffee.

  Patrick glanced up at her. “You might say it falls under the umbrella of community relations.”

  “Sort of like my free cop coffee policy in reverse,” she said.

  He stood. “Is that a pol
icy? I thought you liked Marcus and me in particular.”

  She felt herself blushing. Weren’t people in their thirties supposed to be beyond that?

  He looked around, and she didn’t have to guess who he was searching for.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “We’re low on cocoa and eggs, but we should be able to make it till tomorrow on what we have.”

  “Actually, I was asking about you.” He clasped his hand around her arm. “How are you doing? This isn’t exactly the Christmas you expected.”

  “It’s better,” she said, and, strangely, she meant it. “If I was home all alone, I’d be worrying about money and having nearly killed Mrs. DiBenedetto.” She frowned. “I hope she’s okay.”

  “I’ll go see her this afternoon.”

  Heidi brightened. “Will you? Could you take her some cookies for me? I made some I think she’d like—usually she complains that my cookies have too much stuff in them or are too chewy. Evidently she mostly eats supermarket biscotti. She must have molars like jackhammers. But I think these butter cookies Erica and I made have enough crunch for Mrs. DiB.”

  Was she rambling? Patrick grinned. She was.

  Suddenly, Heidi became aware that he still had a grip on her arm. But just when she was getting used to the idea, he let go and stood back, looking around the room. “Where’s Dinah?”

  “She discovered her power was still not working, so she went over to Clay’s to clean up someplace where she wouldn’t turn into a human popsicle the moment she stepped out of the shower. That was”—Heidi glanced at, then gaped at, the wall clock—“over two hours ago! What could they be doing over there?”

  Patrick laughed.

  She shook her head. “Oh no. She’s never liked Clay. In that way, I mean.”

  “Snowstorms make strange bedfellows,” he said. “In nine months, the maternity wards will be overflowing.”

  Heidi had always heard that was true, but from what she’d witnessed at the café for the past eighteen hours, she was skeptical. There hadn’t been much turtle-dovey behavior. Mostly the couples she’d seen had been cranky—sleep deprived, cold, and overcaffeinated.

  Maybe her sampling was skewed. She couldn’t deny Clay and Dinah had been gone a suspiciously long time.

  “You ready to roll?” Marcus asked Patrick.

  Heidi loaded the guys down with muffins for themselves and the butter cookies for Mrs. DiBenedetto. “Tell her that Marcello is doing fine,” she said. “I sent him off with Dinah, so he’s probably lounging in the warmth and ...”

  “And seeing some sights he never saw at your landlady’s,” Patrick finished for her.

  Heidi laughed, but then she found herself looking into Patrick’s eyes, and thoughts of what the two of them could do alone in a warm apartment flitted through her brain. A rush of heat swept into her cheeks again, making her almost glad when Marcus dragged him away.

  It was another full hour before Dinah came back, freshly scrubbed and arm in arm with Clay. Looking at them, you would have guessed that she was as deliriously happy with the sudden change in their status as Clay obviously was. But the moment she and Heidi were alone, she grabbed Heidi’s hand and dragged her back to the storage room.

  “What am I going to do?” Panic was written all over her face, and she collapsed on a wobbly stool. “I don’t know what came over me—I think it was the lure of a functioning radiator next to a warm bed. The next thing I knew, I was looking into those moony eyes of his and thinking that he looked sort of like Edward Norton, who I’ve always found sort of cute.”

  Heidi nodded. “He does, in a way.”

  “Right—the same way I sort of look like Scarlett Jo-hansson,” Dinah said. “In other words, not at all. It’s ridiculous. What’s the matter with me? I can’t have Mr. Unattainable, so I’m hopping in bed with Mr. Overly Available, who vaguely resembles the guy from Death to Smoochy.”

  “He’s really great, and he likes you.” Unlike a certain someone Heidi could mention.

  Dinah was up and pacing now. “The worst part is, if I break it off with him, I’ll lose the best-tipping customer I have.”

  “You can’t stay in a relationship with a guy because he tips well. Why would you even consider it?”

  “Well ... it turns out he does other things well, too.” Heidi would have gotten the drift even if Dinah hadn’t arched her brows meaningfully. In fact, she could have figured it out from having seen the smile on Dinah’s face when she was looking at him as they walked in. “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is it’s Clay. The boy scout CPA who tells you to wear your mittens. Not exactly my dream man.”

  “Your dream man sounds like a jerk,” Heidi laughed. “But I’m the last person you should come to for advice—my guy compass has always been out of whack. My ex-boyfriend is in a medium security federal lockup. I should be so lucky as to find a nice concave-chested CPA from Bug Tussle to fall in love with me.” Or a cop.

  “Bog Hollow,” Dinah corrected her. “And it’s not concave, exactly. He’s one of those strong, wiry guys.”

  Erica skidded into the storeroom. The alarm in her eyes stopped Heidi’s heart. “You’d better come quick. The police are back. I think they’ve come to arrest you!”

  Heidi rushed out and found the lights from patrol cars parked outside strobing through the café’s windows. Patrick’s lips were turned down with tension. Marcus looked uncomfortable, too, and no wonder—between him and Patrick glowered Janice, Heidi’s upstairs neighbor, her face mottled red and tear-stained.

  “What have you done with my son?” she screeched.

  The blood drained out of Heidi’s face. Damn. She’d forgotten to leave a note.

  “Janice, he’s fine.” She turned to the fireplace, where Wilson was curled up asleep in the armchair, like a cat.

  Janice burst into tears and fell on Wilson with such ferocity that he woke up startled and began to cry.

  “My poor baby!”

  Heidi observed the tearful reunion with equal parts gladness and defensiveness. “Martine asked me to look after him before she went back to France—”

  Janice broke off Heidi’s sentence with a huff. “Martine! I’m going to sue her for child endangerment.”

  “I left messages for you,” Heidi continued, “but you’re a hard person to get a hold of.”

  “Nonsense! I have a dozen contact numbers.”

  “Yes, but some of them are in Africa, and you obviously weren’t there. And if you don’t check the others—”

  “Are you saying I’m negligent?” Janice snapped.

  Heidi stammered before spitting out, “N-no ...”

  “How dare you call me a bad mother!”

  “Excuse me,” Erica interrupted, Jeeves-like, slipping between Heidi and Janice with a steaming mug of coffee and a warm cinnamon scone on a plate. She held the plate close to Janice’s face. “Scone?”

  Heidi could tell the moment the whiff of cinnamon hit Janice’s olfactory nerves. Her eyes widened and she pincered a scone, inspecting it only briefly before she took a nibble. Erica was still there with coffee at the ready when she needed it. Her performance was all the evidence Heidi needed of the soothing effect of superior service.

  “Thank you,” Janice said. The act of swallowing seemed to have calmed her down where words, and the obvious well-being of her child, had failed.

  “I’m glad you can take him home now,” Heidi told Janice. “You two will still have a few hours of Christmas together.”

  A look of cold fury crossed Janice’s face, although this time it wasn’t aimed at Heidi. “But I can’t take him home. I came back all the way from Africa to discover there’s no electricity here. And our street hasn’t been plowed yet. What’s the city doing?”

  She directed this last question at Marcus, as though a police uniform made him stand-in mayor during a crisis. He kept a concerned yet placid expression on his face. “We have shelters.”

  Her eyes
flashed in horror. “I am not taking my child to a shelter. I’ll call hotels, is what I’ll do.” Janice flopped down in a chair and pulled out her cell phone.

  Patrick took Heidi aside. “You handled that well.”

  She shook her head. “Erica handled it. I wanted to shake the woman.” Still did.

  “When Marcus and I arrived at her place after she discovered Wilson missing, I worried she was going to insist we have you booked for kidnapping, even though we assured her he was here.”

  “So arrogant!” Heidi said, stewing. “And not a word of thanks for taking care of Wilson. Not that I did much, but ...”

  “Maybe when she’s calmed down a bit,” Patrick said.

  “I’m not holding my breath.”

  But, actually, she was. Because looking into Patrick’s eyes, and smelling that woodsy cologne again, made it difficult to breathe normally. Her heartbeat quickened when he was standing next to her. It was difficult to tell whether her galloping pulse could be laid at Janice’s door, or Patrick’s.

  “I saw Mrs. DiBenedetto today,” he said. “She’s feeling better—she even admitted she liked your cookies.”

  Heidi smiled. “That’s good.”

  Tension showed in Patrick’s brow as he looked down at her. “Heidi ...” he said, his voice a husky whisper, as if lowering it would provide them some kind of privacy. “About yesterday ... I felt like a jerk.”

  She swallowed.

  “That is—”

  One minute there were two of them huddled together, and, in the next instant, Marcus was between them. Heidi would have groaned with frustration at the interruption had it not been for the urgency in Marcus’s eyes. “Sorry to break this up, but we gotta fly. There’s been an incident.”