A January Chill

He’d been there every time she had needed him. He’d treated her with every bit as much affection and warmth as he’d treated Karen, and she and Karen had often pretended they were sisters, not just cousins.

Since Karen’s death…well, since Karen’s death, Joni had often felt she needed to fill that hole in Witt’s life, and Witt had seemed to take her even more into his heart. It wasn’t that she had replaced Karen for him, but that, lacking Karen, he had lavished even more love on Joni.

She would have done just about anything for him. So why had she done this? What had compelled her, after all this time, to rock what was a very dangerous emotional boat?

Remembering her reasons now was surprisingly difficult. All she knew was that she had felt compelled, as if some shame deep within her had demanded she act. Shame at having abandoned Hardy after the accident because Witt had blamed him?

Maybe. Or maybe it was something more. But she honestly didn’t know what.

And that scared her a bit, the feeling that something was going on deep inside her that was out of her control.

Hannah came in just as Joni was layering the lasagne. “Oh, good,” she said. “I’m starved, and that’s just what I’m in the mood for.” She paused to kiss her daughter’s cheek.

“Didn’t Uncle Witt buy you lunch?” Joni’s heart had started to race with anxiety.

“Yes, of course he did. But he was so upset I couldn’t really eat.”

“What was he upset about?” She tried to ask casually, and wondered if she sounded natural. She didn’t know. All she knew was that her cheeks felt hot and her heart was pounding.

“Hardy Wingate bid on the hotel.”

“Really?” That sounded too weak. Her hands were trembling as she sprinkled Parmesan and mozzarella over the top of the lasagne. The aluminum foil rattled as she pulled it off the roll and covered the baking dish.

“Here,” said Hannah, nudging her out of the way. “Let me put that in the oven. You’re shaking.”

Joni was beginning to wish she could fall off a mountain.

“What’s the matter?” Hannah asked. “Didn’t you eat lunch?”

“I did. Sure. I’m just…shaky.” Lies. Oh, God, she hadn’t thought about all the lies she would have to tell because of what she’d done.

Hannah put the baking dish on a cookie sheet to catch any spills, then slipped it into the oven and set the timer. “You’d better go sit down,” she said to her daughter. “You don’t look well.”

Joni felt terrible, all right, but only emotionally. Shame at her duplicity was filling her. Her legs feeling weak, she went into the dining room and sat in a chair where she could watch her mother bustle around the kitchen preparing to make the garlic bread.

Hannah put the loaf of French bread on the cutting board and sliced it in two, putting half the loaf back in its plastic bag. Then she paused, her knife hovering over the bread and, without looking at Joni, said, “Why did you give Hardy that bid package?”

“Mom…” But Joni couldn’t speak, neither to tell the truth nor to prevaricate. Her heart slammed hard, and she sat mute.

Hannah turned her head and looked at her. “That’s what you did the night you said you were going to see your friend. When we had the snowstorm? Why did you do it, Joni?”

All the explanations she’d given herself when she made up her mind to draw Hardy into this were gone from her brain as if they’d never existed. Empty, anxious, shamed, she simply looked at her mother.

“I don’t suppose,” Hannah said after a moment, “that we need to tell Witt that. He’s mad enough as it is. I can’t see what good it will do to have him angry with you. What’s done is done.”

That didn’t make Joni feel any better. She watched as her mother began slicing the bread diagonally.

“I suppose,” Hannah said presently, “that you’ll give me an explanation eventually.”

When Joni finally spoke, her voice was a thick, tight croak. “I had reasons.”

Hannah nodded, putting her knife aside and going to the refrigerator for butter. “I’m sure you did, Joni. You always do.”

Joni couldn’t tell if that was a mere statement of fact or a sarcastic comment. And, honestly, she didn’t really want to know. She just wished she could remember why it had seemed so important to her to give that bid package to Hardy a week ago. And wondered why all that determination seemed to have deserted her.

Nothing more had been said by the time they began to dine. Hannah offered no information about the bids she had seen, her silence telling Joni as clearly as any words that her mother wasn’t happy with her.

Well, she hadn’t expected anyone to be happy with her. Even Hardy hadn’t been. But she didn’t like feeling cut off from her mother. Hannah’s disapproval had always cut her like a knife.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Joni put down her fork. “It’s wrong, Mom, Witt hating Hardy all these years. He didn’t kill Karen.”

“Mmm.” Hannah said no more.

Feeling almost desperate, Joni said, “Witt’s never going to heal if he keeps on hating Hardy.”

“Really.” It wasn’t a question and carried the weight of disapproval. “Have you considered that Witt is grieving in his own way?”

“It’s been twelve years!”

Hannah’s dark eyes fixed her. “Joni, do you think I miss your father any less because it’s been nearly fifteen years? Do you?”

“I…” Joni’s voice trailed off, and her eyes began to burn.

“I think,” Hannah continued, “that you’ve been arrogant. You have no right to decide when someone else’s grief should end.”

“But…” Again words escaped her.

“Grief isn’t measured by calendars. And I thought you understood people better than that, anyway. Witt’s anger at Hardy is the way he keeps himself from being torn up inside.”

Joni looked down, her throat tight and her chest aching. “Karen wouldn’t like it, Mom.”

“No, she probably wouldn’t. But Karen isn’t here, and that’s the whole problem.”

Joni couldn’t even bring herself to raise her head. She was suddenly hurting so deep inside that she didn’t know if she could bear it. “We all miss her, Mom,” she said thickly. “Including Hardy.”

Hannah sighed. “Yes,” she said presently. “We do. But opening up the wounds this way isn’t good for anyone, Joni. Not for anyone.”

She felt like a stupid child who should have known better, and somehow she couldn’t reach into herself and find the force that had compelled her to rush headlong into this situation. Couldn’t feel again the fire that had pushed her. And that left her feeling defenseless.

But still, despite that, she felt that the situation was wrong, that Witt’s anger was a poison not a cure. And that Hardy was being treated unfairly.

“Hardy was my friend, Mom,” she said finally. “He was my best friend, next to Karen. And when she died, I shouldn’t have had to lose him, too.” Then, having said all she could, she went up to her room and sat in the quiet, staring out the window at freshly falling snow.

It hurt, she thought. It still hurt like hell. And maybe that was what had compelled her to reach out to Hardy.

Because, dear God, even after twelve years, something inside her was still bleeding.

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