CHAPTER 122

IT WAS WAY too late by this time to go back up to the attic. “Did somebody blow out the lanterns,” I asked, “or should I go back up there and check?”

“They’re all out," Rebecca Jo said. “Dee and I made sure of that before we came down for the”—she grinned at Tom—“magnificent fudge.”

1. The inestimable gift of all those wonderful heirlooms in the attic. Even the completely crummy things, which make me appreciate the journals and the good hats and the good letters all the more.

2. Reebok. He’s such a dear young man, and I am so very sorry for his pain.

3. Sadie. I hope I have half her wisdom when I’m in my eighties.

4. Amanda. My heart goes out to her. I wonder if that childhood experience is one reason she’s so quiet. And why she’s such a good therapist—she understands what pain feels like.

5. Those magnificent drawings by Silas Martin, even the one of the stars. I wonder why he drew that one?

6. Even the rain—brrrrrr!—because it will melt the ice all the more quickly so all these wonderful friends can GO HOME.

7. And Bob. Always Bob.

Widelap

Softfoot

ListenLady

warm laps

this soft blanket

the bird feeder

and papers that smell old

I clicked my pen shut and clipped it onto my most recent journal entry. Then I clicked it back open and added Marmalade to my list as number eight.

Thank goodness I didn’t have to write backwards with a quill and homemade ink, although it might be fun to try sometime. After the storm was over.

Bob gathered me into his arms and Marmalade wiggled her way up from the vicinity of Bob’s knees where she’d been snoozing ...

I’d placed a cozy fleece blanket—yet one more layer—under the comforter and the other blankets so it would be right next to us. Better even than a flannel sheet.

“How was it at Matthew’s house this morning?” Bob had given us only the barest of details, but I felt sure there was more of a story.

“You know, I never thought Clara and Hubbard had much of a ...” He kissed the end of my cold nose. “Much of a connection, but she was ..." He let out a long breath. "Let’s just say I’m glad Henry was there, mainly because I ...”

Bob wasn’t usually at a loss for words. He was quiet for such a long time I thought he might have dropped off to sleep.

“I never liked Hubbard. It’s hard to express sympathy when you feel like the town will be better off without him.”

I’d never heard Bob express so much resentment, even when he’d had to arrest a murderer or two.

“Especially when Ida gets herself appointed as town chair,” I said. "Clara’s not going to like that one bit."

Bob ignored my sarcasm. "When I got there that morning, just before the paramedics, Hoss mentioned something that I’d seen but hadn’t really registered."

I propped myself up on one elbow and then almost immediately scrunched back down under the covers before I could let in any more cold air. "Are you saying Hubbard fell the night before? And spent the whole night out there exposed to the elements?"

I couldn’t see Bob’s nod in the dark room, but I felt it. "Hoss was surprised he hadn’t died from hypothermia."

"That doesn’t matter. He was lying there wet, all night, not moving, and there was quite a breeze that morning. Enough to drop anyone’s core temperature."

Why hadn’t Clara reported him missing? I finally drifted off to sleep, but my dreams weren’t pleasant at all.

RALPH HAD ALREADY CRAWLED into bed, but Ida took a minute to brush her hair. It had gotten so thin over the years, sometimes she wondered why she even bothered. “Did you know anything about Reebok’s little sister?”

Ralph grunted. “Nope. Never heard it. But why would I? He didn’t grow up here in Martinsville.”

Ida thought about the sharing that had gone on among the women in the attic. All of the women. Not just the ones who had lived all their lives in Martinsville. “I guess you wouldn’t,” she said, and settled in next to him, nestling her back against his to absorb some of his warmth.

REBECCA JO SMILED WHEN Dee pulled the quilt closer up under her chin. “Funny what a storm brings out, isn’t it?”

Dee nodded sleepily. Rebecca Jo took a last fond look at her daughter-in-law and blew out the lantern. Not technically her daughter-in-law. Not anymore. Not since Dee had divorced Barkley. Daughter of my heart, she said to herself.

Rebecca Jo put all thoughts of death and divorce and disaster out of her mind. She was here, now, safe and warm—well, warm enough. She was well fed, and surrounded by a houseful of people she liked. What more could she ask? This bed was considerably smaller than the one in the larger room—the one they’d ceded to Glaze and Tom—but that didn’t bother Rebecca Jo. She was curled up into a roll like a mealy bug anyway.

She thought about the food that would be rotten in her fridge by the time she got home.

She shivered. All that throw-up sounded awful. No wonder Reebok was still having nightmares about it.

Sleep came quickly. No nightmares for Charlie Ellis. She knew she’d wake up when Easton left the room next door, and she was ready to move fast, but either Easton was extra quiet or Charlie was extra tired. She slept through the whole night.

ESTHER ANDERSON TURNED her back politely while Amanda got into her voluminous flannel nightgown. “You and I appear to be the quietest ones in the attic.”

“That’s okay,” Amanda said. “I kind of enjoy being silent.” She eased back the blankets and slipped in, barely making a mound under the heavy covers. “Maybe it’s because of the work I do. You know, there isn’t a lot to say during a session.”

Esther thought about how peaceful she’d felt each time she’d gone to Amanda to get the cricks eased out of her back and shoulders. And hips. And neck. And her feet. Oh, the glory of a good foot massage! Amanda had explained to her once that muscles responded more to specific pressure in exactly the right places rather than just being pummeled into submission. Esther liked that image. She’d always thought gentleness was more powerful than brute strength.

“I guess it doesn’t matter whether we talk much or not,” Esther said as she sat on the edge of her twin bed to remove her thick slipper socks. She was so grateful to Biscuit for having knitted them. “The rest of the women are saying enough to fill the whole attic with words.”

Amanda smiled, and Esther’s heart felt lightened. She blew out the candle, glad she didn’t have to sleep alone. Just before she dropped off, she heard Amanda’s breath take on the unmistakable sounds of deep sleep. That was good, especially since she’d seemed so disturbed when she’d come in from feeding the birds such a short time ago.

“WHAT COLOR SWEATSHIRT will you wear tomorrow?” Easton studied Sadie from head to foot. “That bright pink really looks good on you.”

“Since I have only three tops to choose from, other than the yellow one I wore the first day, maybe I’ll just cycle back to the green one Rebecca Jo loaned me.”

Easton wound her hair up into a loose topknot and pinned it securely. “Do you think ... No. Never mind.”

“Well, I was just wondering if maybe it would be okay for me to ... to join the book club you and Rebecca Jo started?”

Sadie, who had been about to crawl into bed rocked back on her heels. “We’d be delighted to have you.”

“WHEN YOU SIGNED UP to stay at a bed and breakfast,” Melissa said, “I doubt you had this in mind."

“Oh, come on. You’ve never been stranded out of town in an ice storm without electricity before.” When Carol didn’t say anything, Melissa amended her statement. “You haven’t, have you?”

“You’d be surprised how often we lose power in Vermont. Not usually for this long, and I’ll admit I’m not living out of a suitcase when it happens. And it’s always because of a blizzard, but not an ice storm like this.”

Carol blew out the candle and settled into bed. “Quite a few of us have a closet we keep stocked with food, water, a medicine kit, candles, battery-powered lanterns, a can opener—not the electric kind—and anything else we think we might need when a blizzard settles in.”

Carol smothered a yawn. “Well, for one, I stashed a deck of cards in there, and a book of crossword puzzles. And Sudoku.”

“Yeah. It’s the sort of thing people either love or hate, but I didn’t bring anything like that with me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Melissa didn’t even try to hide her yawn. “I doubt you’ll be bored here. Not with half an attic still to explore.”

DAVE PONTIAC WATCHED Pat struggling to get into her silk pajamas without taking off her sweatshirt. It was a bother having a room that was so cold. You’d think, as rich as he was, he wouldn’t have to put up with something like this ice storm. Maybe they ought to move to Florida. That was where he’d met Pat. That conference had really been something.

He could hardly believe he’d retired. Selling out had been a hard decision. He’d insisted on some long-term perks, though. Now that he wouldn’t have to pay Hubbard any more, there’d be even more money each month. Heck, Hubbard thought he was draining the pot, but what Dave had been paying was just chicken feed. It was the principle of the thing. Why should he have to shell out good money just to keep Hubbard’s mouth shut?

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad living on a beach. He’d worked long and hard and loved every minute of it. Now, though, there was no sense retiring if you couldn’t enjoy it.

He was so caught up in visions of the house he’d build—big and sprawling, with a swimming pool and a sauna and his own private beach, and room for a pool table, too—he was hardly aware of it when Pat set out what she’d be wearing the next day, blew out the candle, and crawled into bed.

"Yeah. Let’s move to Florida. South Florida. Someplace on the Gulf. Hey! Stop that!" He didn’t like it when she put her cold feet up against his legs. He never had. And she knew it.

"What are you talking about? I listen to you. You talk all the time, and I put up with it."

"You joke about everything, and I’ve tried not to complain, but for once I’d like to carry on a real conversation with you."

"Whaddya call this? What we’re doing right now? It’s a conversation, isn’t it?"

She was silent for long enough that Dave jumped right back in. "We’re talking now, aren’t we?"

"You talk, I talk, you talk, I talk. Doesn’t matter what we’re saying, it’s still a conversation."

"You’re right, Dave. It doesn’t seem to matter what we say. I was trying to tell you about the attic, and all you could do was spout off about what you wanted to do. Florida? You never asked me. I hate the thought of all that incessant heat. And the hurricanes. And the alligators on the front porch."

"Yeah? Well let me tell you something. I’ve heard enough about that attic to last a lifetime. Every meal, that’s all you women want to talk about."

Pat turned to face him. Luckily, that took her cold feet away from him. "At least we women are doing something worthwhile up there."

"Worthwhile?" He made a conscious effort to lower the volume. "You call it worthwhile to sit around up there and gossip about stuff that happened a couple hundred years ago?"

She turned her back to him, but kept her cold feet where they belonged. On her side of the bed. "Goodnight, Homer."

HENRY PURSEY MISSED his wife. There were plenty of times she’d been gone before, times when she’d visited her sister in Ohio, but each of those times he’d been at home where he could sense her presence, smell her perfume, see the dent in her pillow. Here, in this cold room, with John Ames puttering around getting ready for bed, Irene was ... was gone. He’d called her off and on several times a day, but it wasn’t the same.

Now that he thought about it, it was kind of like the first time he’d gone away to summer church camp when he was a kid. He’d missed his dog.

He doubted Irene would enjoy being compared to Scruffy like that, but he couldn’t help it. He turned onto his side and punched his pillow into a different formation of lumps.

That was what it was. Every time he’d been called on to give solace to one of his parishioners—and there had been a lot of those times over the years—Irene had been there for him to lean on afterwards. Not lean on. She wasn’t a fence post.

Depend on. That was more like it. And share with. She was such a good listener. And she always seemed to say the right thing.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Clara was ...” He didn’t know how to say this.

“Uh.” He could tell John. John was a priest. He’d probably been in situations like this before. It wasn’t like Henry was spouting off to the general public. A minister confiding in a priest. That was okay.

“I know. The problem is, Clara wasn’t at all upset.” He thought back, trying to picture her reactions. "I guess what bothers me is that she was trying to act like she was upset.”

“You’re not surprised, are you? Think about all the responsibility she’s had since he fell. He can’t have been easy to take care of. Not with his mind gone like that.”

“You think I haven’t thought about it? I know how people sometimes feel relieved when someone dies after a long illness, but then they feel guilty about feeling relieved. That’s at least something I can address, but this? It was weird. She didn’t feel guilty at all. I’d almost swear to that.” He poked the pillow again, harder than absolutely necessary. “I couldn’t wait to get out of that house.”

John Ames climbed into his own small bed across the room and readjusted his own pillow. Silence settled around them.

Finally, the priest sighed. “You think she’s the one who pushed him off that cliff?”

Henry sighed even harder. “If she was trying to kill him, it looks like she succeeded.”

MATTHEW PUT ANOTHER log into the wood stove and wondered just how much longer they could manage here. He hated to call Bob, but he didn’t think there was enough food on hand to get them through another day. Matthew didn’t eat a lot himself. But Nick Foley could sure put away a ton. And Anita kept trying to shovel food into all of them. Hubbard was the only one who hadn’t eaten much.

Across the room, Mr. Fogarty cheeped, the sound muffled by the cover Matthew put over his cage each night.

"Don’t you worry, Mr. Fogarty. I’ll take you with me if I have to leave here."

He pulled the blanket up around his ears, but then pushed it down again. The stove was putting out enough heat that he didn’t need to worry about freezing. Before drifting off to sleep, he wondered when Nick would be coming downstairs, what Anita was grumping about—he could just barely hear their voices from upstairs, but it sure sounded like they were arguing—and how Clara was getting along, sleeping in the room where her husband had died just last night.

It didn’t bear thinking about. He turned over and tried to blank out his thoughts.

"What?" Anita Foley gaped at her husband, whose words seemed less than a question and more like an accusation. "I can’t help it if we’re running out of food," she said. "I’ve gone through every single one of Matthew’s cabinets."

"He’s been feeding us for free, Nick. For four days. It’s not like we brought a lot of food with us."

Anita thought about those few minutes before they’d left their house. She’d suggested canned goods—food that didn’t have to be cooked, just warmed up. But Nick had refused, saying it would be too heavy. And now he was complaining? Now wasn’t the moment to remind him of that, though. "We had no way of knowing the electricity would be out for this long," she said. "I think we’ve done pretty well considering."

Nick made a sound that Anita couldn’t quite interpret, but she wasn’t about to ask him about it. She pushed his big suitcase over a few inches so she could reach her carry-on. She’d need a heavier sweater for tomorrow. She was pretty sure they were going to have to move somewhere else. Biscuit and Bob’s maybe? The last thing she wanted to do was go outside, especially now that the ice was so wet and slippery. But then again, she didn’t want to starve.

Before she could think of anything to say, Nick left to go to the downstairs couch, and Anita crawled into the twin bed. She felt too angry to be cold. How dare he blame her for his own discomfort?

CLARA DELIBERATELY AVOIDED looking at the bed where Hubbard had died. She wouldn’t have to spend the night worrying about him—whether he’d get worse, whether he’d improve. Whether he’d look at her like that. Whether he’d say something else. She wouldn’t have to deal with anything now, anything except getting a good night’s sleep. She hoped she wouldn’t have to get up too many times. That bathroom across the hall was truly an inconvenience.

Even without him near by, though, Clara couldn’t stop the images from bombarding her. Hubbard standing next to his brother’s broken body all those years ago. Hubbard on one knee proposing, when Clara had always imagined Cornelius asking her to marry him. Hubbard at the altar, when it should have been Cornelius there. Hubbard at the council table, when it should have been Cornelius. Hubbard up on the cliff, just before she’d pushed him so hard. Hubbard in the hospital. Hubbard here, in this room, on that bed. Hubbard dead.