Read A Crossworder's Gift for Free Online

to require a lot of cuddling … flannel nightie or no.”
    â€œHead-to-foot cuddling …” came the chilly words. “… flannel nightie, wool socks or no.” She reached out a mittened hand, took Rosco’s gloved one, looked up, and again tugged her scarf loose. “Here we are—just like the directions said. Wordsworth House …” She cocked her head. “It looks identical to the photo in the brochure, except for the flowers in the window boxes, and the striped awnings—”
    â€œWhich may have something to do with the subzero temperature—”
    â€œWise guy,” Belle said, but she was smiling. “What a romantic hideaway.”
    They paused beneath the placard announcing the bed and breakfast— WORDSWORTH HOUSE. Were it not for that single and discrete sign swinging above the sidewalk, the building might have been easily mistaken for what it once was: a private home. Lace curtains hung in each window, allowing the golden, interior light to spread outward into the snowy street; vases of magenta and yellow Persian lilies stood on polished wood tables set before entry-level windows deeply recessed within the gray stone blocks of the facade. The picture created was both welcoming and formal: an old stone house built to retain the warmth of fireplaces and cooking stoves, built to attest to a certain affluence and place in the city’s long history, built, quite obviously, with pride.
    â€œPerfect,” Belle sighed.
    â€œExcept for the cold,” Rosco rejoined.
    â€œWhich is precisely why we’re going inside.”
    As they entered, the antique wood floorboards creaked in sudden discord and a bell jangled loudly, announcing the arrival of new guests, while a compact young woman appeared, hurrying down the two steps that led to the foyer. As she walked, she rubbed her hands on an apron dusted with flour. “Tomorrow morning’s bread—I hope … Welcome, or as we say in Montréal’s Vieux Port — Bienvenue . I’m Helene Armée. I’m your host.” She gave a laugh that was as brisk and energetic as she. Like her gestures and her gait, her congenial air had a pragmatic efficiency. Helene was clearly not a person to waste time. “No, I didn’t invent the name to suit my career.”
    In response to Rosco and Belle’s perplexed glances, she added a pleasant: “Armée in French means a military army—or a crowd, a host of people. I am the other kind of host.” Helene glanced at a guest register lying open on a writing desk at the foot of the stairs. “And you must be Belle Graham and Rosco Polycrates … I am pronouncing the name ‘Polycrates’ correctly?” Helene gave the surname its appropriate four syllables. “Greek, I think, yes?”
    â€œGreek-American,” Rosco answered.
    â€œYou are a mixture—like me. Like many of us here in Canada. Like our language here in the city. French and English on our street signs, in all our shops and restaurants. You can order in both languages; the waiters and waitresses respond in kind.” Supporting that statement, Helene’s accent commingled France and Great Britain; her clothes also reflected a dual heritage: a chic French skirt, a cableknit cardigan in Scottish heather tones, dark brown hair cut in feathery, Parisian bangs. “I’ve put you on the third floor in the front if that’s acceptable. From your windows you have a view of the harbor. It’s very pretty at night, especially now with the Festival of Lights on exhibit, and spotlights on the waterfront.”
    â€œFestival of Lights?” Rosco asked.
    â€œFestival Montréal en Lumiere … It’s quite a show, or shows, I should say. There are venues all over the city, though the principal attractions are at the Place des Arts —that’s where our performing arts center is located.”
    Helene Armée led the way