Free A Warmth in Winter by Lori Copeland Page B

hanging in the background and turning beet red whenever anyone dared to ask her a direct question. She’d stammer, shuffling her feet and sometimes taking as long as five minutes to come up with an answer.
    Barbara looked pale and washed out this morning, Vernie decided. Why didn’t girls like her try a little harder to fix themselves up? She wasn’t a beauty, but she wasn’t unattractive, either. And her husband, Russell, was a downright handsome boy, so they didn’t exactly go together like doughnuts and coffee. But Barbara had a heart as big as Texas. Too bad in the looks department she was a floor short of lingerie.
    The phone rang and Vernie snatched it up with a free hand. “Mooseleuk’s.” She listened, then sighed. “No need to worry, Babette, this weather’s slowed everything down. The cranberries will be here in plenty of time for you to make the salad. If you bought them in Ogunquit, they wouldn’t be fresh for the Christmas party. Just hold your horses. The party is ten days away yet.”
    She held up a finger as Cleta approached. “I promise, the moment they come in I’ll send Elezar with your cranberries. You say hello to Charles for me, okay?”
    She hung up, then turned to Cleta. “Babette’s worrying her head off about cranberries.”
    â€œWell, the Christmas party wouldn’t be complete without Babette’s cranberry salad,” Cleta said. Her eyes followed Barbara, who was engrossed in a lipstick display across the room.
    Noting Cleta’s distraction, Vernie smiled. “A new cosmetics company sent me some samples. They’re trying to get women to sell their product.” She raised her voice. “Maybe that’s something you’d be interested in, Barbara— selling cosmetics. They say they pay their sales representatives real well. If you sell enough lipstick and such, they’ll give you a blue Cadillac.”
    Barbara shrugged and picked up a lipstick. “I don’t drive.”
    Vernie blew out her cheeks. Sometimes that rule about no non-emergency motor vehicles on the island was a blessing, but now it was a downright annoyance. She forced a smile. “Well, selling cosmetics still might be something to consider.”
    Barbara replaced the lid on a tube of Papaya Pink. “I don’t think so.”
    Vernie gave up. She rolled her eyes at Cleta, who giggled softly. “Nice try, Vernie. Now—how about a pound of that fresh ground coffee behind you?”
    Vernie scooped up a pound of coffee, then poured it in a bag. “Anything else?”
    â€œNo, that should do it. You’re sure that nutmeg will be here Wednesday afternoon?”
    â€œNutmeg, sugar, and cranberries. I ordered extra so we’d be sure to have enough to go around.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œDo I look addled?”
    â€œNo, but it would be a terrible shame if we got snowed in and couldn’t get nutmeg and cranberries.” Cleta peered out the window at the lowering clouds. “A real shame.”
    Vernie grimaced as she totaled Cleta’s order. A Christmas grocery shortage would be more than a shame; it would cause an insurrection among the menfolk. Winslow Wickam could out eat every man on the island when it came to Babette’s cranberry salad. At the last community Christmas party she’d had to make two punch bowls of the stuff just to keep the preacher happy.
    Twice more the phone rang—the first caller was Abner, inquiring about the supplies and reminding her that the bakery was running low on sugar, the second was Dr. Marc, who planned to host a gathering at his house after the Christmas Eve service.
    â€œI need nutmeg for the eggnog,” he said. “It’s my own special recipe. I can’t take shortcuts this year because my son, Alex, will be here.”
    â€œUnless there’s an emergency,” Vernie reminded the doctor. Unfortunately, she’d