Winter Chill by Joanne Fluke Page A

her feet out from under the blankets. The cold air shocked her into some semblance of a wakeful state. She crawled out of bed and got into her robe.
    Marian stumbled slightly in the early morning grayness. The house was cold, chilled with the night, and she turned the thermostat up a bit. Heat was an extravagance in the far north, but she’d be damned if she’d freeze before she had her first cup of coffee.
    The linoleum floor was cold on her bare feet as she hurried across the kitchen, walking on tiptoe to minimize the discomfort. She plugged in the coffeepot and took down a cup, shivering slightly. Then she sat on a kitchen chair, feet tucked up under her robe, too uncomfortable to fall asleep but too sleepy to really wake.
    The coffee was finally ready, scalding and aromatic in her cup. She took a cautious sip and grimaced as she burned her tongue. It was Friday, the last day before Christmas vacation. And she was supposed to arrive early to organize the children’s Christmas party.
    She dressed in front of the register, letting the warm, musty furnace air blow over her body. No time for a shower. No time to do her hair. Everything had to go smoothly now, or they’d be late. Make breakfast, help Dan dress, gather up the presents for her class that she’d wrapped last night, pick up her books, find Dan’s books, remember to take the sheet music for Christmas carols, and pack the cookies she’d baked for the faculty lounge.
    Marian took a moment, one precious moment, to do absolutely nothing. She opened the back door and stood there in the frosty cold, breathing deeply. Her breath puffed out in little white clouds as she stood silent and watched the sun lengthening over the banks of plowed snow. A dog barked somewhere in the stillness. A truck rumbled by on Main Street. There was the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the distance. Everywhere in town, people were rising, getting ready for work, making breakfast and straightening bedcovers, exchanging morning greetings over cups of strong coffee. Life was good here . . . or it had once been good.

    “You’ll come, won’t you, Mrs. Larsen?” Jenny stood at the classroom door, her new pencils clutched tightly in her hand. JENNY FROM MRS. LARSEN, they proclaimed in gold lettering. Every student had five, a special Christmas present from their teacher.
    “I’ll try, honey,” Marian promised. “It all depends on how Dan feels.”
    “Mom said to make you come,” Jenny announced. “She said my daddy’d come in and carry Dan if he had to. Christmas Eve won’t be any fun without you. You always come on Christmas Eve!”
    “All right, I’ll come.” Marian couldn’t resist Jenny’s pleading. She’d talk Dan into it somehow. And if he wouldn’t be budged, she’d go by herself for a few minutes.
    “Merry Christmas!” Jenny called out, scampering down the hall. “I’m taking the bus today. My mom said it was good for me to be independent. She’s in the teachers’ lounge, waiting for you.”
     
     
    “A pack of Christmas dish towels.” Sally was stacking up her gifts, displaying them for Midge and Edith. “And here’s another pair of red and green Christmas-tree earrings. Say . . . do you gals know anyone with pierced ears?”
    “I got handkerchiefs this year,” Marian announced brightly, setting down her coffee to unfold a hideous poinsettia-printed square. “And oodles of talcum powder. I wonder if my kids are trying to give me some sort of hint.”
    “It’s the mothers.” Edith spoke with authority. “They give you whatever they got last year and didn’t want to keep.”
    Midge Carlson, the only first-year teacher in the bunch, spoke up. “I think it’s sweet. Mrs. Barnes gave me a fruitcake. There was a little note saying it was wrapped in brandy. She hoped I wouldn’t mind.”
    Marian and Sally looked at each other and laughed.
    “Keep it in your top closet for a month,” Sally advised. “Then, when things get rough around the end