Baby It's Cold Outside Read online

Turning up his collar, Gordy headed down the drive, past the remnant of Nelson’s tree, the crushed Plymouth, hiking through the snow as he hit the road. His feet crashed through the drifts, up to his hips in places, and he worked up a sweat, his back on fire by the time he reached the marsh. Here, the snow seemed more pliable, and he tromped his way through, crushing the brittle grasses.

  The front porch protected his doorway, but he still had to head out to the barn for a shovel, kicking his way to the door, then wedging it open and sliding through. He checked in on Harriet, fed her, checked her milk bag.

  He shouldn’t have panicked. Indeed, the milker would probably have to be retired to the slaughterhouse soon. He ran his hand over her back. “Sorry, old girl.”

  He picked up a shovel, dug his way to his door, then shoved it open.

  The chill from the long-dead fire embedded the house. He longed to hear Barnabas’s bark, greeting him.

  C’mere, old boy. The memory of Nelson walked in behind Gordy, crouching beside the stone hearth, waggling the dog’s ears.

  Gordy let the memory warm him as he tromped through the house to his bedroom. He pulled open his top dresser drawer and pulled out a rectangular box, shoving it into the pocket of his flannel shirt. Then, he went to his parents’ room.

  He hadn’t disturbed it since his mother’s passing, almost ten years ago. Not that superstition stopped him; he simply hadn’t had a reason. Or time.

  He found her ring in the top bureau drawer where he’d put it after her burial. A simple band of white gold with two small diamonds, side by side. His father gave it to her on their twentieth wedding anniversary.

  Dottie could wear this ring.

  He folded it in a sock then shoved the ring into his pants pocket.

  In the kitchen, he found a burlap bag and raided his pantry. A tin of cookies, potatoes, another canned ham, some peppermints, and in his icebox he found a crate of oranges. He added five to the bag, relishing the idea of the smiles on the faces of his Storm House family.

  Family. He’d begun to think of them all as family. Jake and Violet, his children, Arnie his grandchild.

  Dottie, his wife.

  The sun had begun to sink into the horizon as he exited his house, pulling the door tight behind him. A shimmering ball of haze, the sunset spilled out cranberry and marmalade along the horizon. The wind found his nose, burned it, whistled in his ears. Already his toes felt thick, his legs numb, but he’d make it across the marsh, back to Dottie’s warm house.

  The wind chill would trap them inside tonight, but he guessed by tomorrow, everyone could return home.

  He tried to imagine Dottie’s house quiet, without the ring of Jake’s ideas, Violet’s humming as she hung Christmas ornaments, Arnie’s motoring noises. Dottie, clucking over the mess he might be making.

  He wouldn’t think about tomorrow.

  We’re happy tonight,

  Walkin’ in a winter wonderland.

  Despite the trail he’d carved earlier, the way back seemed more difficult, his breath crisp and sharp in his chest. The pain had traveled up his neck, around to his chest, almost a burning. Probably that strange cereal Jake had served them for breakfast.

  Gordy’s legs turned to anvils as he tromped past the marsh, onto the road. Sweat trickled down his back, his chest. His arm seemed to grow numb, his chest woolen, almost as if his heart had expanded to fill it. He stopped in the road, bracing his hand on the stone wall, just to rest.

  But the ache didn’t ease, his breaths coming shorter.

  He glanced up at the house. Just get inside, get home. He’d simply overexerted himself today.

  Get home. Back to Dottie.

  Home.

  He stood up, took a step, and then the fist around his chest closed and snuffed out his breath. He dropped the bag of food.

  Then Gordy pitched face first into the snow.

  Home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There were times when Violet took a square look at herself and didn’t understand her own actions. Her own mind.

  Some errant, fervent part of herself had grabbed a hold of her common sense and propelled her into Jake’s arms.

  She’d kissed the man. And, for too long of a moment, he didn’t kiss her back. Just stood there, shocked. And right then, she heard it.

  A man doesn’t like a lady to make the first move. Oh, thank you, Mother.

  Thankfully, Jake’s shock turned into a response quick enough for her to not disentangle herself and flee the room in shame

  She could still taste his touch on her lips—strong and urgent, the husky scent of smoke. Her heart hammered when she remembered the grip of his hand behind her neck, the little noise of surprise—or perhaps desire?—he’d made before Gordy reminded them that he and Arnie watched them from across the room.

  Now, Jake had escaped to the kitchen to make some sort of new concoction for Christmas, and Dottie was upstairs rummaging for something, and Violet sat in the parlor, cutting out paper snowflakes with Arnie as if she hadn’t just thrown herself at a man she’d only met two days ago.

  Although, truth be told, perhaps she’d met him four years ago. Perhaps she’d known him all along.

  Alex stole my life. No wonder she felt as if she knew him from the moment he walked in the door. It eased her guilt that much more for falling for another man only hours after finding out about Alex’s death.

  Wait. She didn’t love Jake, did she? Could she love him?

  She’d thought she loved Alex, but perhaps she’d only been in love with the hope of love.

  In fact, she’d considered nothing of romance when she began to write to him. He’d simply been a soldier, shipping off to war. They’d never exchanged anything but friendly letters. He’d even stopped writing for six months. Silence on his end as she traveled with SHEAF through war-torn Europe, witnessing so many lives destroyed, turned her hollow. She kept writing, however, because it just helped to have someone to connect to, to remind herself that someone knew she was alive and serving her country.

  Then one day, a postcard arrived. Not from Paris or London, but Minneapolis. Then Chicago and New York, New Orleans, and finally, a Christmas card.

  All sent to her from America. Cheerful greetings with just the words, “thinking of you,” and “Alex.”

  Something about the thoughtfulness of his greetings spoke to her heart.

  In a season when she’d felt forgotten, Alex’s postcards made her feel remembered.

  And, maybe she’d helped him feel…special. Alex stole my life. Maybe he needed to be someone different, someone new. Once he returned stateside, to reality, perhaps he didn’t know how to tell her the truth. Hence, the cryptic postcards.

  His lies might help her forgive Alex, also, for not hopping on a train and finding her.

  So why did Jake decide he needed to face her?

  “Make sure you hold it tight, right here in the corner, or you’ll cut off the center of the snowflake and it will fall apart.”

  “Did you make the snowflakes in the window at the library?” Arnie asked as he worked the scissors, his tongue caught between his teeth.

  “Mrs. Morgan made them,” she said.

  “She used to scare me,” Arnie said, setting down his scissors. He unfolded his snowflake. “But I didn’t really know her.”

  “That’s a beautiful snowflake,” Violet said as she cut her own. She caught his eye, lowering her voice. “Wanna know a secret?”

  He nodded.

  “She used to scare me too. But she doesn’t scare me so much anymore. I think she was just lonely.”

  “Because her son died?”

  “You know about that?”

  He nodded. “His picture is on the wall by the library with the other five men we lost.”

  Yes. Out of the entire town, they’d only lost five men. A handful of heroes out of all the men in Frost who’d fought. Violet never really considered that before. No wonder Dottie wanted to lock herself in her house. No wonder people
called her cursed.

  Violet hated the rumors now. Hated that she’d even considered them.

  But maybe you couldn’t really know a person until you spent time with them. Until you saw them look with love upon another person, until you saw them hold a terrified child on their laps, wrap him in blankets.

  Until you saw a man clutch that same child to his bare chest, enduring his cold body to save him. Until you saw his courage as he fought to breathe. Alex might have stolen the facts of Jake’s life, but he couldn’t steal Jake. Not the man he was. Not his servant’s heart, that devastating smile, those eyes that, when he turned them upon her, made her feel like she might actually be beautiful. Even when wiping grease off her face…

  He knew. Jake knew about her job.

  Had he also known that Alex stole his life? She sat back, unfolding her snowflake to see the design.

  He didn’t come here thinking he could take Alex’s place in her heart, did he?

  No…he couldn’t have known, could he? Unless Alex told him. But Jake had appeared surprised—even horrified—when she accused him of being the hero and saving Alex from the ice yesterday. No, he couldn’t have known about Alex’s lies.

  Then why the visit?

  “Let’s pin these to the window, shall we?” Violet said and took Arnie’s snowflake to the parlor window. Outside, the sun cooked the horizon, a hot ball against the gunmetal sky. She taped the snowflakes up on the glass, feeling it shake against the wind. The gusts seemed to be fewer between.

  “Put this one on the kitchen window,” Arnie said. He handed her another finished snowflake.

  “This is another pretty snowflake, Arnie.” She took it out to the kitchen. Jake was at the sink, washing dishes. He looked at her, his face lighting up. “The lights on the tree really make it festive.”

  “Did you make that treat?” She motioned to a concoction of caramel on the counter.

  He nodded. “Want a bite?” Drying his hands, he nipped off a piece and walked over to her. “Open up.”

  She grinned then opened her mouth. He dropped it in. Tangy, with a hint of salt, it made her only want more. “What is it?”

  “You like it?” He stepped closer to her, running his finger down her face, eliciting a trail of heat.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said, touching her hand to his chest. He seemed to be breathing just fine now. She dipped her finger into the well at his neck.

  He smiled. “You are so beautiful, did you know that?”

  She looked away, but he tugged her chin back.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said again. Then he kissed her. Sweetly, taking his time. He ran his thumb down the bones of her face before moving his hand again behind her neck. She relaxed into his touch, molding herself to him.

  Could she love this man after only two days? He wrapped his other arm around her and she let him deepen his kiss.

  This. This is what she’d hoped she’d find with Alex.

  Or, perhaps she only dreamed of finding it, period.

  She eased away from Jake, smiled up at him. Ran her hand down his now whiskered cheek. It didn’t matter why Jake came. Just that he was here.

  “Miss Hart, is Mr. Lindholm back yet?” Arnie ran into the room, nearly banging into her. He was holding the homemade tractor, the wheel off in his hand. “The tractor broke.”

  Violet took it. “It’s not broken, the wheel just came off. Do you have the pin?”

  He handed her a long, thin screw. She wiggled the wheel back on the screw, then into the tractor. “I need a screwdriver.”

  “I might have something,” Jake said, and opened his suitcase. Dug through his folded clothes, the brown parcel, until he unearthed a small eyeglass repair kit and handed it to her.

  But her gaze had fixed on the package he’d put on the table. An envelope from the US Army, addressed to Jacob Ramsey III. She stared at the date.

  October 1945. About the time Alex had begun to send postcards from America. She picked up the package. “What’s this?”

  It was the way Jake’s breath caught, the funny noise he made, the attempt he made to reach out and grab it back that made her pause. That sent the shard of panic through her.

  She stared at him. His face twitched, then, his eyes darted away from her. “I meant to give that to you.”

  The package bulged, the top open. “It’s letters.” She leafed through them, realization hot, like syrup through her. Her letters.

  “What is this?”

  “These are—these are the letters you sent to Alex. I thought you might want them back.”

  Oh. Except…she looked at the package, the date. “I don’t understand. Why is this package addressed to you? Over four years ago?”

  He picked up the tractor, began to fit the wheel on.

  “Jake?”

  “He died, Violet.” He pulled out the screwdriver, fitted it into the wheel, and tightened it down, not looking at her.

  “I know—”

  “No, you don’t know.” He sighed, met her eyes. Swallowed. “He died four and a half years ago, in Germany, in the battle for Berlin. They sent his belongings to me.”

  Four and a half years…she stared at the letters. “But…no, he sent me postcards. From Minneapolis and Chicago and…” She froze as the truth seeped into her, found her heart. “You sent me the postcards.”

  He handed the tractor back to Arnie. Drew in a long breath. “I never meant…I just…”

  “You read my mail.”

  He nodded. “You were so lonely. And…” He shook his head. “I never meant it to get this far. I just loved hearing about your life and your hopes and dreams—”

  “You said Alex stole your life. But you—you stole mine! These letters weren’t for you, Jake. They were private and…” She pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes burning. “You knew. You knew that I was a WAAC and worked in the motor pool and…you knew everything. About the cruel things the men said, and how—how I came home. You got my Christmas greetings and my…” Her voice turned dark. “My invitation to the dance.”

  “Violet—”

  “He’s not out there.” Arnie had taken the tractor, stepped up to the window.

  Violet couldn’t move. He knew she couldn’t dance. He knew about her father dying.

  He knew that she hadn’t had a date since returning home.

  He knew she was lonely. And on her way to spinsterhood.

  No wonder he’d jumped a train to see her.

  A real hero.

  She turned away from him.

  “Don’t, Jake. Just…stay away from me.” She clutched the letters to her chest. “I knew this was too good to be true. The sooner I can escape the lies in this storm house the better.”

  * * * * *

  Jake always believed he could fix nearly anything, but he didn’t know how to fix this. He’d wanted to make her feel better, to make her less lonely, but he’d only made Violet feel naked and vulnerable and betrayed.

  Exactly the opposite of what he’d intended.

  He stared at Violet, her words turning him cold. Stay away from me.

  Of course. What had he been thinking?

  “Do you know where he went?” Arnie said.

  Violet looked down at him, frowning. “Who?”

  “Mr. Lindholm.”

  “Gordy isn’t here?” Dottie said as she walked into the room. She held in her hand a small, wrapped box. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Arnie said. “He said he’d be right in, and that was before we made snowflakes.”

  Dottie glanced at the window then handed the box to Arnie. “Can you put this under the tree?”

  She turned to the window. Went to it to stare out. “Where could he be?”

  Arnie returned, pressed his nose against the window. “I see him! There on the wall!”

  Jake looked up, found him through the darkening window just as Gordy disappeared from view. “Did he just fall?”

  Dottie pressed her hand on the window. “Gordy?
Gordy!”

  The shadows of twilight could just be hiding him, but no, he didn’t see Gordy rise.

  “I’m going out there,” Jake said and headed to the mudroom.

  “I’m coming with you.” Violet left her package on the table and followed him.

  He shut the mudroom door behind her. “Violet—”

  “I could have lied to Alex, you know. Every letter, made my life up.”

  “Violet, I know it was wrong to read your mail, it’s just… well, he’d told me about you. He told me how much you meant to him.”

  “How I was everything to him?”

  He didn’t miss the sarcasm in her voice. He took a breath. “Violet, you’re everything to me.”

  “You don’t even know me.” She reached for her jacket.

  “I do know you. I know you’re someone who sacrifices for others, that you believe in love, that someday you’ll make an amazing mother. I know that I want to be with you.”

  “Let’s just get Gordy.” She pushed past him, out into the biting cold.

  The freeze burned his eyes, shredded his breath away as he pulled up his scarf, fought his way down the hill. “Violet!”

  “He fell down here somewhere!”

  They found him crumpled in the snow beyond the stone wall, in the road, although it seemed a sea of white. Gordy had curled into himself, his breathing shallow, his eyes pained.

  “Gordy! What’s the matter?”

  The air delivered his voice on a puff of white smoke. “I don’t know. I can’t breathe. My chest, it’s—”

  “He could be having a heart attack. Let’s get him inside.” Jake ran his hand under Gordy’s back, flung his arm over his shoulder. “Help me!”

  Violet took Gordy’s other arm. They struggled with him into the house, through the mudroom, onto the kitchen floor.

  He moaned, his cheeks whitened with the cold.

  “Gordy!” Dottie dropped to her knees beside him.

  “He needs a doctor, Dottie,” Jake said. “I think he’s having a heart attack.”

  Dottie looked up at him, at Violet. “But the cars are buried. I…”

  And thanks to him, they couldn’t get them out of the driveway anyway. But— “The sleigh. We could hook up the sleigh to the horse in the barn,” Jake said.