The Winter Lodge by Susan Wiggs

neighbors, if it’s working.”
    “It’s not your fault, Jen.”
    She thought of the tin box filled with irreplaceable documents and writings on onionskin paper.
    Gone now, forever. She felt as though she’d lost her grandmother all over again. Trying to hold herself together, she studied the fireplace, picturing the Christmases they’d shared in this house. She hadn’t used the fireplace since before her grandmother had died.
    Gram used to get so cold, she claimed only a cheery fire in the hearth could warm her. “I used to wrap her up like a kolache,” Jenny said, thinking aloud about how she and Gram had giggled as Jenny tucked layer after layer of crocheted afghan around the frail little body. “But she just kept shivering and I couldn’t get her to stop.” Then her face was tucked against Rourke’s shoulder, and it hurt to pull in a breath of air, the effort scraping her lungs.
    She felt an awkward pat on the back. Rourke probably hadn’t counted on finding his arms full of female despair this morning. Rumor had it he knew exactly what to do with a woman, but she suspected the rumors applied to sexy, attractive, willing women. That was the only type he ever dated, as far as she could tell. Not that she was keeping track, but it was hard to ignore. More frequently than she cared to admit, she’d spotted him taking some stacked bimbo to the train station to get the early train to the city.
    “…go outside,” Rourke was saying in her ear. “We can do this another time.”
    “No.” She straightened up, pulled herself together, even forced a brave smile. What sort of person was she, thinking like that under these circumstances? She gave him a gentle slug on the upper arm, which seemed to be made of solid rock. “Excellent shoulder to cry on, Chief.”
    He joined her obvious attempt to lighten things up. “To protect and serve. Says so right on my badge.”
    She faced the fire investigator, brushing at her cheeks. “Sorry. I guess I needed a breakdown break.”
    “I understand, miss. The loss of a home is a major trauma. We advise an evaluation with a counselor as soon as possible.” He handed her a business card. “Dr. Barrett in Kingston comes highly recommended. Main thing is, don’t make any major decisions for a while. Take it slow.”
    She slipped the card into her back pocket. It was amazing that she could slip anything into that pocket. The borrowed jeans were constricting her in places she didn’t know she had. The tour continued and somehow she managed to hold it together despite the enormity of her loss. In less than a month, she’
    d lost Gram, and now the house where she had lived every day of her life.
    The official determination had yet to be made, but both the investigator and even the suspicious insurance adjuster seemed to agree that the fire had started in the crawlspace of the attic. Very likely faulty wiring had been the cause. The Sniffer had detected no accelerant and there were no obvious signs of deliberate mischief.
    “What next?” she asked the adjuster, exhausted after the tour of the ruins. She wondered if this was what the aftermath of battle was like, picking over the remains of something that had been whole and alive, vibrant with houseplants, family photos on the walls, mementos of milestones and gifts exchanged for birthdays and Christmases, one-of-a-kind keepsakes like handwritten recipes and old letters.
    The adjuster pointed out her computer, which lay amid a pile of ugly, scorched upholstery with batting that burst out of the melted holes like entrails.
    “That your laptop?” he asked.
    “Yes.” It was closed, the top blistered.
    “We can have a technician check it out. The hard drive might have survived.”
    Doubtful, though. He didn’t say so, but she could read it in his face. All her data was gone—
    WordPerfect files, financial records, photo albums, addresses, e-mail, the bakery’s QuickBooks. Her book project. She kept backups, but stored them