Winter's End

“Awesome. Now I don’t have to stop by at all. Thanks.” She eyed the uppermost printout and tapped a wild rose pink nail against the second name, the glossed color reminding her of summer. Sun. Sand. Flowers. “This one came back from Arizona, and this one,” her finger scaled down, “from Florida. Why would they do that?”

The simplicity of Christy’s look underscored her meaning. “To die.”

Her words rang true. Several of Kayla’s recent patients had sought the softer climes of southern states after retirement, opting away from the snow and ice. But in those final months, when fate held the winning hand, many came home, wanting the familiarity of what they knew first. Family. Friends. Church.

Back outside, the storm pelted her with slanted snow, stinging cold. Shoulders hunched, she headed to her Grand Am, its warmth a respite.

She was a Thomas Kinkade girl caught in a David Morrow canvas. Winter lovers esteemed Morrow’s work. His snow-filled landscapes offered haunting insight into the breathtaking reality of upper latitude cold. Thought-provoking. Windswept. Sometimes brutal. North Country, through and through.

Kayla preferred sprigged cottages and thatched roofs. Decorative grasses, grown in abundance. Sources of light, teeming with hope.

Winters at the forty-fifth latitude outlasted their welcome. She hadn’t given that proper consideration when she’d made the move north after graduating from the nursing program in Syracuse. Her goal then: financial, financial, financial. The Potsdam community had offered to forgive student loans and extend her a nice paycheck in exchange for years of service. The proposal sounded good to a young woman who’d struggled to make ends meet for as long as she could remember.

But now her contract was nearly up. What next? She had no idea. She put the car in gear and aimed for Route 11, her headlights battling the snow.

Numerous options lay open to an experienced nurse. She’d spend the next few months exploring them. Because her after-work life was fairly nonexistent, she’d have plenty of time.

That thought could have drawn a sigh, but she resisted the pity party. Focused, she gripped the wheel and peered through the snow, wondering how warm a person would be to be warm enough. Someday she’d find out firsthand.

Kayla wiggled her thermostat on Wednesday night, listening for the magic click that promised heat.

Nothing.

She thumped a corner of the radiator and paused, hopeful, glad she didn’t chip her polish with the useless maneuver.

The upright, ivory-painted contraption maintained its silence, barely warm. The effect across the room proved negligible. Brittle weather stripping, designed to bind the storm window to the frame, was equally ineffective. The flow of chilled air across the ice-encrusted pane made her living room frosty.

The bedroom stayed warmer. The windows in that room actually sealed. And she had a comforter she’d bought two years ago, her one concession to comfort, down-filled, thick and cushy. She’d made a duvet cover for the layered blanket, one of her first sewing projects, and she’d been proud of the careful work. Of course the piece was comprised of straight lines, intersecting, and who couldn’t sew a straight line with today’s machines? Still, it became a job well done. A new skill learned.

She faced the living room, hating her choice. Skip the hour of television she’d promised herself, or drag the comforter to the couch and shroud herself in cumbersome down fluff, the only way she’d be warm enough to enjoy the show. Moving the dinosaur-era TV to the bedroom wasn’t an option.

Grumbling, she trudged to the bedroom, dragged off the heavy throw, and retraced her steps. With care she arranged her nest and climbed in, hot chocolate steaming at her side.

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.”