A Warmth in Winter Read Online Free PDF

he’d have given anything to know his son was a good father to those young ’uns. But he’d seen the truth with his own eyes. When he arrived at the apartment in Wells, Bobby and Brittany were both as thin as a heron’s leg. That apartment hadn’t been fit to live in, and when he saw the bruises on the little girl’s arm . . .
    He’d been right to take them. No social worker could do better for them than he could, and he’d already brought a measure of peace and comfort to their lives. So far they seemed happy to be with him, though they were still a mite shy. Poor things, Patrick had probably told them to keep quiet and out of the way, for they didn’t laugh and shout and giggle like ordinary children. In the three months they’d lived in the lighthouse, he couldn’t recall them laughing at all.
    He couldn’t recall many instances of Patrick laughing, either, but he’d spent so little time with the boy when he was young. The sea had called him away, and longliners grew closer to their crew mates than to the family waiting at home.
    He struggled to swallow over the lump in his throat and winced at the pain. Well, no wonder he had a sore throat. He’d been traipsing down to the village more often than usual, and the wind was breezin’ up.
    â€œAnd you’re getting along in years,” he chided himself, breathing through his mouth as he crossed the final steps to his own front door. “You can’t expect to feel fresh in a savagrus month like December.”
    He hesitated at the door and knocked, then grunted in satisfaction when the boy didn’t answer. Yessir, they’d corrected that habit right away. Bobby wasn’t to open the door for anyone, not even his grandfather.
    He lifted the latch and stepped inside. “I’m home,” he called, gratefully pulling off his gloves. Two ash-blond heads appeared from the space beneath his bed. Brittany’s gaze darted straight to his shopping bag. “More cookies?”
    â€œMore cookies, more milk, and a box of Froot Loops.” Salt shrugged out of his coat, then, while the children scrambled to go through his shopping bag, he moved to his rocker by the fireplace.
    He needed to sit a minute and catch his breath. Only a minute. That’s all he needed.
    Safe and warm in Portland, Annie Cuvier signed the last Christmas card with a flourish, then ran her tongue around the edge of the flap. There! Another Christmas obligation dispatched.
    After dropping her holiday cards into the outgoing mail basket, she glanced over her desktop and sighed when she saw the stack of research papers. She’d hoped to get out of the office early, but the staggering pile reminded her that tomatoes took precedence over an early dinner and a quick stop at the bookstore.
    Reaching for a folder, she opened it and stared at the printed page, willing herself to focus.
    Some of the older tried and true ornamentals descend from a collection of Madame Aglae Adanson (1775–1852) and include the rare Tomato Pomme d’Api, which looks like lady apple. Lewis Darby offers more accessible colorful miniatures such as Ochradel, Debbidel, and Chocodel . . .
    Yawning, Annie turned the page, ignoring the activity outside her window. Christmas was in full swing at the Southern Maine Technical College. Maintenance men were hanging holly and preparing for the special campus tree lighting scheduled for six o’clock on Sunday evening.
    The lovely pommes d’amour, or “apples of love” as tomatoes were once called, are most succulent when eaten when the sun is high and the weather is hot.
    That, Annie conceded, was the honest truth. Her experimental tomatoes, designed to grow in winter, looked more uncertain every day. An early winter had descended upon Heavenly Daze, and the tender plants looked more like starving victims than fruit-bearing plants. Annie had considered uprooting the remaining vegetation and