Baby It's Cold Outside Page 22

  “I blew it with her years ago.”

  “Yeah, you did. But apparently God’s giving you a second chance.”

  “By sending the storm?”

  Jake smiled. “And, by sending me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jake set the ring on the table. Then, he reached behind him and pulled out his wallet. “If you want to marry Dottie, Gordy, I can help with that.”

  He was pulling something from his wallet, wearing an expression Nelson wore the day he arrived on Gordy’s doorstep, his enlistment card in hand.

  Indeed. Jake flashed him an ID. His military ID.

  Gordy stared at him. “You’re a priest?”

  “A chaplain with the US Army. I’m currently on leave, but I believe I still have the power to marry you.”

  “But—but what about Violet? You lied to her. What kind of chaplain does that?”

  Jake’s smile fell. “A stupid, sinful one. One who wishes he could regret it.” Jake raked his hand through his hair. “I know I shouldn’t have read her letters, Gordy. Alex’s package came to me, and I was trying to figure out how to write his eulogy, so I read his mail, just to see who might be writing to him. She moved me, Gordy. And…” He closed his eyes, running his fingers across them before he stared at Gordy. “But I’m not sorry, and that’s the problem. I wish I could be.” His eyes were cracked, tired.

  As was his voice. “You were in war. You know how it is. Three days of rain and mindless shelling while you hide in your slit trench. I’d listen to the 88s and then the P-47s dive-bombing us, and I was the one who had to keep everyone calm. I’m pulling the wounded out of the trenches, I’m comforting the dying, then I’m handing out chocolate in foxholes. And every day, I’m watching men lose their arms, their legs, their lives, and I have no idea the condition of their souls. It’s worse watching a man bleed out—not knowing if he’s right with God, ready to meet his maker. It’s a wretched thing to watch someone who is broken of body, but worse to watch a man broken in spirit, but unable to reach out for God’s grace.”

  “That’s what broke you, wasn’t it?” Gordy said it softly, because he knew it would hurt.

  Jake met his eyes. Nodded. “Helpless. It was too much for me. I couldn’t bear not being able to save lives, and the darkness found me.” He leaned back, ran his hands on his pants.

  “I remember once, after a battle, looking up and thinking, if I could turn off the war, shut my ears to it all, the sunset could transport me away. Copper sunset silhouetting the birch trees against the indigo sky. A pale fingertip moon above as if God had given it a stamp of approval. All that beauty against so much loss. The paradox could take my breath away.”

  He looked at Gordy then. “Not unlike grace. Powerful. Unexpected. God’s salvation against the blackness of our souls.”

  “Christmas,” Gordy said softly.

  “Storm House,” Jake said. He clasped his hands together, tucked them between his knees, drew in a breath. “Once you get a taste of grace, it’s so overwhelming it can bring you to tears. Especially when you’re caught in the darkest night. Or the cruelest storm. That’s what Violet’s letters were to me. A storm house.”

  A storm house. Yes, Gordy understood that. Perhaps Dottie, the light across the marsh, had been his storm house for years.

  Jake looked at his hands. “I couldn’t help but write to her. And I couldn’t stop. But the lying ate at my soul.”

  “Which is why you came to Frost.”

  “The truth is, I was hoping that, somehow, she’d know that it wasn’t Alex but me writing to her. And that there was someone behind the postcards who truly cared. I told myself that maybe, for her, my postcards were grace too.”

  Gordy drew in a long breath. “I heard her tell you to leave.”

  Jake pressed his hands together. Nodded. “I probably should get home. I have soldiers I need to check in on at the VA hospital, broken men who are spending this holiday alone.”

  “Like Violet.”

  He looked up, and Gordy raised an eyebrow.

  “And Dottie,” Jake said slowly.

  Gordy reached out, picked up the ring. “So, Rev, what are we going to do?”

  Jake shook his head. “Violet doesn’t want me.”

  Gordy smiled. “Good grief, son, don’t you know anything about women? Go tell the nurses that I want to check out of this hotel.”

  * * * * *

  Dottie should have known it would come to an end. Of course it would, because every time she believed in something, when she starting thinking that she and God might be even, He reminded her of her sins.

  Her mistakes.

  Her losses.

  She sat on the sofa, her legs curled to herself, tucked under a quilt. She’d sat there most of the night, watching the flames flicker out and die in the hearth, listening to the blizzard blow itself out, staring at the lights of the Christmas tree.

  Watching the lone package underneath. Why hadn’t she given it to Arnie before he left? A stupid gift, really. What had she been thinking, caught up in the drama of the storm house, thinking the child would want a gift from her?

  He’d practically flown into his mother’s arms, couldn’t wait to leave her home.

  And Violet and Jake certainly hadn’t returned. Not that she expected them, really. They had their own families, their own lives.

  Lives in which she wasn’t included.

  Dottie’s stomach rumbled. She still had the ham casserole she could heat up, really celebrate the day of Christ’s birth.

  She lowered her head to her knees. Please let Gordy be okay.

  Okay, fine. She had to talk to God. Because frankly, she had no one else.

  Or…

  Mama, look what Santa brought me! Nelson came in through the mudroom, holding a package wrapped in burlap, his bright blue eyes gleaming. Dottie’s heart stopped then swelled in her throat as she watched Nelson unwrap the burlap. A boxed train set sat inside, and he pulled it out, piece by piece, barely able to contain his joy.

  Thanks, Gordy.

  Years followed, with toy soldiers, an airplane kit, a BB gun, and finally the .22. Hunting trips, driving lessons, even that time Gordy taught him to box.

  Gordy had raised Nelson too.

  The truth caught her.

  Gordy had been Nelson’s father.

  How many nights had she sat by Nelson’s bed, praying that he would grow up to be a good man.

  Gordy had taught him how.

  Gordy had taught him to be a hero. Taught him how to fight, yes, but taught him also how to be a man of honor.

  Maybe God is giving you another chance to make things right between you and Gordy.

  Dottie’s fingers went to her lips. He’d kissed her.

  Kissed her. Just like he had in the barn so long ago.

  Marry me, Dottie. You know you belong with me.

  Yes. Yes, Gordy.

  The word pulsed inside her, longing to push out. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t asked again. Didn’t matter that he never used the three words, I love you. He’d shown her every day since then.

  She had been a stubborn, prideful old woman, and she might have rattled around this too-big house—a house meant for family—for the rest of her days.

  If it weren’t for God and the blizzard and three strangers.

  She saw Arnie, then, under the tree, playing with the train set. Saw Violet dancing in handsome Jake’s arms. Saw Gordy with Arnie in his embrace, the boy sprawled against his chest.

  Her Storm House family.

  Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest. Her prayer resonated through her.

  Perhaps Jesus had arrived this Christmas. Maybe He’d arrived in the storm, in the form of three strangers who needed a home. Maybe He’d arrived in the form of a little boy, cold and hungry.

  Come, Lord Jesus, be my guest. In her life, her heart. In Storm House.

  And let these gifts… Gifts like Gordy and Violet. Like Jake… and Arnie.

  To u
s be blessed.

  Blessed—remembered, loved.

  Wasn’t that the point of Christmas?

  I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore. Her conversation with Violet drifted back to her. There’s nothing left in it for me.

  What had Violet said? Except, of course, Jesus.

  Jesus.

  All these years, she’d thought God had taken away her reason to celebrate Christmas. But Christmas gave her son back to her. Christmas delivered her the one thing the world, and the war, wanted to steal.

  Hope.

  Hope invited her in from the storm.

  Hope could keep her warm, keep out the chill of death.

  Hope protected the memories she’d locked away.

  And hope, despite the pain of it as it crept back into her life, showed her how to live, and to celebrate again. She pushed the quilt off, stood up. She had Hope in the form of the star sitting on the dining room table.

  Heading upstairs, she combed her hair, brushed her teeth with the water she’d thawed, then washed her face. Okay, she’d apply some lipstick.

  Then, Dottie rooted through her closet until she found a sweater—red. And a matching scarf to hold back her hair.

  She looked tired, but it was an improvement.

  She stood outside Nelson’s door for a moment before taking a breath and entering.

  In her memory, Arnie lay in the bed, humming “Jesus Loves Me.”

  Little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong.

  She rooted through the closet until she found Nelson’s limp duffel bag she’d stashed away after the army sent it home with his belongings.

  Then she returned downstairs, found an old creamery box from the entryway, and set it inside the duffel. In that, she loaded in the star.

  She added Arnie’s gift too. Just in case providence cast Arnie into her path.

  The sky had released the power of the storm, leaving behind a beautiful blue-skied day. Dottie bundled up, wearing not only Nelson’s coveralls and parka, but his wool rabbit hat and a pair of double-lined mittens.

  Then she ventured outside.

  The wind had died, but a nip in the air burned her eyes. She trudged over to the barn. The generator seemed to be puttering, coughing, nearly out of gas, and she found her father’s wooden skis and poles before she turned it off.

  The barn went dark, but she pulled the skis outside and strapped them onto her boots. Good thing her father had been as eccentric as people said he was.

  She stopped by the tree on the way down the hill, inspecting it, and the Plymouth crushed beneath. Yes, the tree hadn’t needed much to come down, the way the wood seemed brittle and rotted. Probably she would find another pine, plant it in the spring.

  She let a smile find her, the winter wonderland charming her as she headed toward town. The Pikes’ dog ran out to the road and followed her. Maybe she’d let herself get a dog too, like Digger, Nelson’s old beagle. Please, Mom, he’d said that year Digger arrived on her doorstep.

  She’d had Gordy to thank for that too.

  But really, she couldn’t blame him. How could she say no to Nelson?

  The memories warmed her as she skied into town, the duffel bag over her shoulder. Snowmen and caught fireflies and nights camping out in the backyard. She’d taught him to ice skate on the pond, and taken him driving in her father’s truck when he turned eight. No wonder Gordy had to take him in hand—she was probably to blame for the day he drove the old roadster into the marsh.

  Sweat piled down Dottie’s back by the time she reached the dance hall. The giant tree in the circle hung thick with snow. She took off the skis and parked them next to the building. Then she shook off the tree, stepping back before the snowfall blanketed her.

  The utility room in the rec hall had a ladder, and she pushed the door open. The chairs and tables still set up for the dance evidenced an abandoned evening. She found the ladder and dragged it out.

  Setting it against the tree, she dug the feet into the ground, retrieved the light, and started to climb.

  Oh, God, please don’t let me fall.

  The top was stiff with cold, but she managed to whittle the cone onto the top. The long cord ran fifteen feet to the bottom. She climbed down and plugged it into the receptacle with the other lights.

  Hopefully the electricity would return soon and turn the Bethlehem star from a pretty plastic and gold ornament to a shiny beacon of hope.

  She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, staring up at the light.

  Then she returned to the rec hall, strapped on her skis, and headed to the hospital.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My heart isn’t broken. It’s shattered.

  Violet’s voice thundered in Jake’s head as he squeezed inside Father O’Donnell’s sedan. He’d seen the priest in the hospital and bothered a fellow chaplain for a ride. For Gordy’s sake.

  Gordy sat in the front seat like a schoolboy, despite his feigned casual conversation with the priest.

  At least one of them would get the woman he loved.

  Eviscerated.

  Jake couldn’t scrape her voice from his brain. I didn’t just lose Alex. I lost the chance to start over, with you.

  No. No she didn’t, and that was the whole point. Jake knew her better than anyone perhaps.

  Or…wanted to.

  But, eviscerated.

  He’d never seemed to have the right words, the right actions to save lives. He should have known that he would just make things worse.

  Gordy’s voice still rang in his head. But—but what about Violet? You lied to her. What kind of chaplain does that?

  Indeed. A wretched chaplain. A chaplain who couldn’t tell the truth, let alone save souls on the battlefield.

  A chaplain who hadn’t even been able to help himself.

  I’m sorry, Lord. I know I let You down. He’d been praying that prayer for the better part of four years, even as he made his way back to the States, as he counseled veterans to hang onto their faith, their hope.

  He felt like a hypocrite.

  He’d just wanted to make a difference, to offer hope and faith in a time of darkness.

  The town had begun to dig out from the storm. Despite it being Christmas Day, Jake saw a few men emerge from the Catholic church, digging out the front walk, probably for Mass, as well as unearth the nativity scene in the front yard. A plow had churned away much of the piles of snow on the road, but only a narrow path cut through town. The snow frosted the park into a merry wonderland, rolling hills of icing, green pine trees heavy with dollops of snow.

  They drove over the stone bridge. The river had frozen solid, in mid-gurgle, frothy ice like fingers crawling upon whitened stones.

  “So all four of you bunkered in at Dottie’s place?” Father O’Brien was saying.

  “Little Arnie Shiller too. He was pretty stiff when we found him.”

  “He should probably see a doctor,” Jake said from the back seat.

  “Jake saved his life,” Gordy said.

  The priest glanced at him over his shoulder. “Where did you serve, Chaplain?”

  Jake tried not to wince at the label. But he couldn’t hide from the truth forever. “Traveled with the 4th Armored Division as they retook France.”

  “So you were in action.”

  “I didn’t carry a weapon. But yeah, I was right there, in the trenches. Mostly for morale and hauling out the wounded, but of course, we had services when we could. One day I counted over a thousand caskets. I can’t tell you how tired I got of being wet and cold.” He looked away. “I was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge and sent stateside. I lost a lung, had trench-foot and pneumonia—”

  “He nearly died,” Gordy said, glancing back at Jake.

  Something about the smile on his face made Jake’s throat fill.

  “I thought about volunteering,” O’Donnell said. “But there were plenty of wounded men—and women—who needed me here in Frost.”

  Jake stared out the
window, at droplets of melting snow tearing down the glass. “That’s also when I began to show symptoms of my childhood asthma returning. It didn’t really surface until I returned to the battlefield. They finally reassigned me to work in the VA hospitals, counseling vets. Sometimes I get through to them.”

  “And sometimes you don’t,” Father O’Brien said softly.

  “I had a man commit suicide a couple of weeks ago. I went to visit his family last week in Davenport.”

  Eviscerated. He heard it again.

  “If I was a good chaplain, I would have seen it coming. I would have known what to say. Especially since I lived through it. But I have no words to erase the pain of war. And hope seems sometimes so…fragile in the face of it.”

  “Hope, however fragile, is the one thing that keeps us from getting lost,” Father O’Brien said. “And we, as men of God, can’t stop the pain. We can only apply the comfort of God to it.”

  Except, he hadn’t exactly comforted Violet, had he?

  Jake stared out the window as Dottie’s house appeared through the spindly trees, a regal green Victorian frosted with snow. He hadn’t seen it in the daylight, really. It resembled something out of a Grimms’ fairy tale with the turret, the balconies, the gingerbread trim.

  Father O’Brien let them off at the end of the drive. “I’ll be coming back this way later. If you want a ride back into town, let me know.”

  The sun hung high in the sky, brilliant and shiny, the sky a perfect blue. Jake stopped for a moment as they trudged up the hill. It reminded him of that day in Meuse, a day off of the shelling, and the French refugees and the prisoners, when he’d held services and served communion under a camouflage canopy, hidden from the enemy’s eyes.

  Gordy opened the door to the mudroom and tramped inside.

  It felt intrusive, suddenly, to just walk in. Storm House didn’t belong to them. Or maybe it once did, but perhaps it wasn’t their storm house any longer.

  “Gordy—I think we should knock.”

  Gordy considered him then drew in a breath and knocked. “Dottie! Merry Christmas!”

  No one answered. Gordy peered in the window. “The house is dark.”

  He opened the door before Jake could stop him. “Dot?”