Ruth Herne - Winter's End

She’d be toasty warm someday. She’d made herself that pledge nearly two decades back, a mere child, and now the woman stood on the verge of the goal. Warmth. Hearth. Home. And flowers in abundance, blooming here and there. The kind of life she’d wished for, longed for, prayed for. Normal, by most people’s standards.

Close. So close.

Vi Twimbley’s attic apartment wasn’t the most reliable home, but the price was right. Every two weeks Kayla banked wages toward a place of her own. Her own little bungalow, well-lit, a cottage rigged out just for her. Flowers in the summer. Vines, creeping upward, covering craggy surfaces. Ornamental grasses waving in the breeze.

And maybe, just maybe, a cat.

Thursday’s dawn gave Kayla a better look at the DeHollander home. Thin light shrouded the farm, making the rough exteriors look worse against the pristine snow. What could be a pretty porch offered woebegone protection from the biting wind under peeling paint. Kayla snugged her collar close as she climbed out and surveyed her surroundings.

A sign on the nearest barn proclaimed the wonders of scientifically blended dog food and medicated chicken feed. She pursed her lips as she scanned other outbuildings.

Barns. Sheds. Grain bins. A light in a distant barn drew her attention, its glow fighting through an upper window hazed with dirt. Her gaze locked on the dingy, light-enhanced glass as her thoughts tunneled back to cold, hungry, silent nights, fed by the unreachable square of light and the chill of her limbs.

Nope. Not going there. Not now. Not ever.

She set her jaw and withdrew her gear, pushing memories aside, then strode up the shoveled walkway.

“How’re we doing today?” Kayla didn’t wait for an answer when Pete opened the door himself. His tranquil features spoke for him. She smiled, knowing his reprieve might be short-lived, but grateful for his increased comfort. “Better, I’d say.”

“Much.” The older man swept the door wide. “Come in. It’s cold out there.”

“It is,” Kayla agreed. The interior warmth enveloped her again. For an old house, this one held its heat well. Either that or the DeHollanders had massive heating bills. “That makes your entry twice as welcome.”

He smiled back, pleasing her. With the host of medicinal combinations at her disposal, there was no reason Pete DeHollander should suffer. She appraised him as she peeled off her boots. “You’ve been up and around?”

“Yup. Feels good.”

“I bet.”

Pete hesitated, then shrugged. “Can’t do much, though. Get tired easy.”

“Understandable.” Kayla slipped into her jeweled clogs and caught his glance as she straightened. “Yes, these are the shoes your son objects to.”

“Pretty,” Pete offered, his tone easy. “Your toes don’t get cold?”

Kayla laughed. “Not here. I couldn’t wear these at my place because my apartment’s like an Arctic wasteland. I double my socks to avoid frostbite.”

“Heat don’t work?”

“That’s debatable,” Kayla answered. He turned toward the kitchen. She followed. “My landlady claims it works fine, but my place is on the third level of a three unit. The hot water rises through two other families before getting to me. By then, it’s barely warm.”

“She won’t fix it?” Pete eyed her, surprised, as if wondering how such a thing could be. Huh. In Kayla’s world of never-ending landlords, Vi Twimbley ranked pretty high, though that wasn’t saying much.

“Says she can’t fix what ain’t broke,” Kayla quoted verbatim. “She offered me the second floor apartment last year, but the rent is higher. I decided I’d deal with the cold and guard my cash flow.”

“Smart girl.” Pete sank into a kitchen chair. He sighed a hint of relief, his only concession to his grave condition. Kayla drew up the chair next to him and slid a small box his way. “From the Main Street Bakery.”

“Them wafery things?” His smile made the effort to stop worthwhile.

“Yes.” Kayla laughed at his description of Rita Harriman’s tender French pastries. “Would you like coffee to go with them, Mr. D.?”

The use of his familiar nickname hiked his smile. “Yes, I would. Will you have a cup?”

“Absolutely.” Sharing the hospitality of her client families bridged a gap that could hinder care. She rose and eyed the carafe. “I’ll brew fresh, if that’s all right?”

Pete laughed. “Yes. Those dregs are the remnants of Marc’s early pot. He likes to get up and out once Jess catches the bus. And before, truth be known. You might want to make a full pot, though. No doubt he’ll be up for some before long.”

“Okay.” Reaching into the nearest cupboard, Kayla withdrew a bag of fair trade coffee and a fresh filter. The bag snagged her interest. Pretty cool. A farmer supporting other farmers on an international scale. Marc gained a point in his favor. Then she recalled his Monday morning attitude.

Make that half a point.

“How old is Jess?” Kayla asked as she measured.

“Fourteen.”

“Interesting age.”

“It is that.” Pete paused, then added, “But Jess isn’t too bad. Does us proud in school and on the farm. Like Marc, she got her mama’s brains.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short,” Kayla argued while the coffeemaker sputtered. “You seem pretty quick on the uptake, Mr. D.”

“Not like my wife.” Silence followed the assertion. He drew a deep breath, his gaze on his hands. “There was a brilliance about her.”

He missed her. Kayla understood loneliness, even in a room full of people. “How long were you married?”

“Seventeen years.”

Kayla frowned. Pete read her expression. “You aren’t from around here.”

“No.”

“Ari left about fifteen years back. Made for interesting talk.” Ouch. “A dubious honor.”

“Yes.”

“But Jess…”

“Was an infant. Rough time, all around.”

“I guess.”

“But we did all right,” the older man testified. “Between Marc and me, we did okay by Jess.”

Kayla laid a hand over his. “I’m sure you did. She’s in school?”

“Freshman at the high school.”

“Does she play any sports?” Kayla rose as she asked the question. The coffeemaker had gone silent. Feeling at home, she retrieved two hefty mugs.

“Jess rides and does horse shows,” Pete explained. “Marc trucks her and Rooster around, using time he probably should spend here.” Pete raised his gaze to the sprawling farmyards. “A farmer only gets so many good days and fine weekends, but Marc had Jess on a horse before she could walk. She rides like she was born to the saddle.”

“That’s very cool.” Kayla weighed the time frame. Summers never had enough weekends to accommodate everything slated for good weather. Work, home repair, social functions. From Pete’s depiction of Jess’s pastime, Kayla caught a glimpse of the younger DeHollander’s conflict. He was a one-man band, without the juggling monkey. Filing the information, she raised a thick-based cup into the air. “Guys’ mugs. I love ’em.”

“Nothing fancy.”

“But they hold a solid cup of joe.” Kayla flashed him a smile as she poured. “Smells good.”

“You’re not going to lecture me on the evils of caffeine?” Pete teased, pretending surprise. “What kind of nurse are you?”

“The kind that picks her battles,” Kayla retorted. She crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic jug. “Besides, I’d have to point the same finger right back at myself. You buy milk?” She turned to face him. “When you’ve got all those cows?”

“Beef cattle.”

The deep voice startled her. She turned. Marc’s flat and unfriendly expression did little to enhance his gasp-out-loud good looks, and that seemed a crying shame. For a moment she wondered if God had been distracted by some urgent need when Marc DeHollander moved to the front of the “winning personality” line, then reminded herself that blaming God was unfair. Jerks generally achieved their status on their own, and most deservedly. She arched a brow his way.