Free A Warmth in Winter by Lori Copeland

encased in an insulated coat that made him look like a Pillsbury doughboy, waddled into the room and peered at his mother through the tight oval opening in the coat’s drawstring hood.
    â€œMom,” he tugged at Babette’s sleeve, “we gotta take some Tylenols to old Cap’n Gribbon. He’s sick, but it’s not mumps or chicken pops.”
    â€œSalt’s sick?” Birdie’s heart did a strange double beat in her chest. She and Salt weren’t courting, exactly, but they’d taken a walk or two in the last couple of weeks . . . walks they didn’t exactly have to take.
    Babette shot Birdie a not-so-fast look. “George Louis Graham,” she cupped her son’s chin, “you know I’ve told you not to go near the lighthouse. Cap’n Gribbon doesn’t take kindly to visitors. The man likes his privacy.”
    â€œI didn’t go up there, Mom.” Georgie’s face squinched in earnestness. “She told me he was really hot.”
    An unexpected dart of jealousy pierced Birdie’s heart. “And which she would this be?”
    Georgie turned toward her, his nose crinkling. “Brittle-knees. She was playing up near the dunes and she said old Cap’n Gribbon was hot and needed Tylenol, and then Bob said she was right and did we have any, ’cause old Salt needs help and they don’t know what to do with him ’cause he won’t eat or move or anything.”
    Birdie and Babette looked at each other, and, as was fittin’, the boy’s mother reacted first. “And who’s Bob?”
    â€œBrittle-knees’s brother, I think. Or maybe cousin. I forget. But they asked me to bring them some Tylenol ’cause four out of five doctors recommend it for their patients with fever.”
    Babette drew a deep breath, then blew out her cheeks. “Son, I want you to go stand by the door while I pay Miss Birdie. Don’t go outside; don’t leave the bakery. You and I will walk home together.”
    She pushed at the back of the boy’s puffed jacket as he turned to glance over his shoulder. “But what about old Cap’n Gribbon? He needs help.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Cap’n Gribbon is a grown man. He can take care of himself.”
    Babette gave Birdie a rueful smile as she dropped a quarter on the counter, then opened her wallet. “Honestly, that child’s imagination is going to be the death of me,” she whispered, counting out five dollar bills. “But I don’t have the heart to be too hard on him. With no other children on the island at this time of year, I can’t really blame him for creating imaginary friends.”
    Birdie laughed as she took the money. “You gotta give his imaginary friends credit for stamina if they’re playing outside on a day like today. Captain Stroble was in an hour ago, and he said the wind was blowin’ so hard his chicken had to lay the same egg five times!”
    Babette chuckled. “Well, Georgie is always keeping me guessing. So I’ll think I’ll take him home and fix his lunch. Food ought to keep him occupied for a while.”
    â€œYou’re a good mother, Babette.” Birdie slid the bag of éclairs over the counter. “At least you give the boy a chance to run and play instead of plopping him down in front of the television all day.”
    â€œWell—he does watch a bit of TV,” Babette said, turning away, “but only enough to help me keep my sanity.”
    Reaching her son, Babette spread her hand and gripped his neck—rather firmly, Birdie noticed. She grinned as the two exited beneath the jangling door, then she picked up a towel and began to wipe the counter.
    Odd, that Georgie would say Cap’n Gribbon was ill. Men like Salt never seemed to get sick. The former swordfish boat captain was as tough as shoe leather and as independent as a gypsy. She couldn’t imagine him lying abed up at the