Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

“Listen, I saw Rorry Bullock today. Up at Killdeer.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d say she’s about a week away from giving birth.” I paused. “Did she remarry? Does she have a boyfriend? Why didn’t you tell me she was pregnant?”

“Oh, that doggone prayer group and their insistence on secrecy,” Marla groused. “Yes, she’s pregnant, and we’re praying for her because she doesn’t have any more money now than she did when she and Nate were living in an apartment here in Aspen Meadow.”

I asked tentatively, “And the father is … ?”

“Hah! Ask Rorry! She definitely has not remarried, I can tell you that. Anyway, I’m convinced she hasn’t come back to visit St. Luke’s because somebody would tell her she should get married before she has the baby.”

“Oh, please!”

“When do you want to get together? We could ski during the week.”

“I’ll call you. First, though, I’ll let you get some sleep. Your fatigue is making you into a cynic.”

I signed off and reread what I’d written in the computer. Satisfied that I had outlined the questions that had been troubling me, I wrapped the meat, packed up the cookies, and stored the cooled rice. It was nearly midnight. I could sleep for six hours, wake Arch to go see Todd, pack the Rover, and be on the road to Killdeer by seven. I crept upstairs and curled up next to Tom’s warm, deliciously fleshy body. I heard a soft rustling sound and peered over his shoulder. A new torrent of flakes pattered against our windows. Lit by the street lamp, the blue spruce outside our window was swathed in snow. By morning, Aspen Meadow would be blanketed, and in one week we would have a white Christmas.

I snuggled closer to Tom. I had very little besides the revolver to put under the tree for him. I resolved to look for another gift in the Killdeer shops. A little shopping trip would cheer me up after I finished with Arthur. Of course, to get to Killdeer, I would first have to shovel out the Rover.

Make that, sleep for five hours.

When my alarm shrilled at five A.M., the darkness in the house seemed impenetrable. Out the window, the spruce had vanished. How much more snow had fallen? I shivered and checked my new clock. It was one of those digital jobs with a battery that kicks in when the power goes off. Through my early morning daze, I realized that that was precisely what had happened. I shivered, then concluded that with no power, there were no streetlights, no nightlights or—more crucially—no heat. Unless it was an extended outage, the contents of my refrigerator and freezer should be fine. Still, I wondered if we could afford to move to Arizona.

“Don’t go,” Tom murmured.

“Don’t the Rockies train near Phoenix?” I asked. “When does spring training start?”

“What?”

“I’m talking about the baseball team, Tom.”

He groaned, turned over, and pulled me in for a gentle hug that melted my body’s residual stiffness from the accident. “End of February. You want to worry about sports, the Broncos are playing Kansas City tomorrow.”

“I want to have an excuse to go to Arizona, and following our baseball team’s spring training might be the excuse I’m looking for. At the moment, though, I have to pack up for my personal chef job.”

“Not yet,” he murmured into my ear. He moved his hands along my lower back. “You’re freezing, for heaven’s sake. Let me warm you up.”

After carefully moving my sore arm, I yielded happily. What was there to worry about? The food was done, and if the Rover was four-wheel drive, why bother to dig it out? Besides, I thought as I kissed Tom’s inviting mouth and rolled in closer to him, this was our favorite thing to do together, right?

Twenty minutes later, I felt much warmed and much revived. After a quick shower—there was still hot water in our tank, thank God—I toweled my wiry-wet blond curls. Maybe the ghostly effect of the two candles I’d lit in the bathroom—our flashlights had vanished sometime during the kitchen remodeling—made me appreciate all we had. Just think , I reflected as I buttoned my catering uniform, the medieval monks had it worse than this . True, they washed and dressed by cold candlelight in the morning’s wee hours, but without hot water or hotter sex, how good could they have felt when their day began?

To my surprise, Arch woke and slid from his bed without complaint. He wasn’t cold, because he’d slept in his ski clothes. That was one way around a power outage.

I handed him a candle for the bathroom and then made my way downstairs. From their lair off the dining room, Jake the bloodhound and Scout the cat began to stir. In addition to the drains, one issue that had sent the county health inspector into the ozone layer had been our family’s ownership of a dog and a cat. Per code, Tom had dutifully partitioned off a separate space in our dining room. Within this designated pet area, Tom had built a canine-feline exit to the out-of-doors. Our dining room looked like someone had stuck a large closet in it, but that was all right. Think of a pet store next to a caterer’s , I’d said to the inspector, when I called to tell him of the change. He’d snorted and hung up on me.

Now Jake the bloodhound was eager to go out and bay at the darkness, but there was no way I was letting him loose this early. Scout the cat opened a sleepy eye, rose, sashayed to the bottom windowpane abutting our front door, and cast a disparaging look at the cold, dark snow. He moved off to his food bowl and meowed loudly. There was no telling Scout it was too early for anything.

While dripping copious amounts of hot candle wax on my right hand, I managed to spoon out cat food for His Majesty. Tom pounded down the stairs. He was carrying another candle along with boots, mittens, and a heavy jacket. He was going to start a fire and clear Julian’s car of snow, he announced. While I held my candle up to the dark depths of the still-cool walk-in, Tom, whistling happily, wadded newspapers, snapped kindling, and piled up logs in the living room fireplace. By the time I had the food loaded in a Styrofoam box, my dear sweet husband had a blaze crackling. I came out to warm my numb hands and saw that he’d also filled his antique black kettle with water and hung it on the post he’d installed in the hearth while he was redoing our kitchen. Steam spiraled from the kettle.

“Listen,” he told me, “I have a meeting this morning I can’t skip. But if you can be back by four, I’ll drive Arch back down to see his dad.”

For heaven’s sake. I had forgotten it was Saturday, Arch’s regular jail-visit day. Taking Arch to see The Jerk always put me into a rotten mood, so whenever someone else offered to escort Arch on this dreaded mission, I jumped at the offer.

“Thanks, Tom. That’ll really help.”

He nodded and shuffled outside with Arch. Moments later, a sudden blaze of headlights lit the driveway and the Rover engine roared to life. Inside, a stiff wind howled down the flue. I could just make out Tom and Arch whisking what looked like ten inches of powder off the Rover. I strained to hear a faraway rumble that signaled the approach of a county snowplow.

“Ready to roll?” Tom, covered with snow, was halfway in the front door. “Got a box ready?”

“Yes, but I’ll carry it out, thanks.”

“Not with that arm, you won’t.” He stomped into the house, yanked off his boots and tossed them onto the mat, and sock-footed his way to the kitchen. Who was I to argue with a cop, especially one who was much bigger than I was?

Fifteen minutes later Arch and I sat in the Rover, travel mugs of creamy chocolate steaming between us. Tom’s makeshift version, composed of kettle-dipped water, cocoa, sugar, powdered creamer, and milk, was actually quite luscious, like a hot chocolate gelato . Of course, as my mammoth fourth-grade teacher had told us, Hunger makes the best sauce . That teacher ought to know, my mother had commented drily.