Witch Cradle by Kathleen Hills

her robe, but had none of the droopy-eyed look that usually lasted for at least an hour after rising. As he entered, she folded the letter she’d been writing and popped it into an envelope, smoothing down the flap with her knuckles. A flowered handkerchief was balled into the hand. She kept her face turned away while she unfurled it and blew her nose.
    â€œThat should appease the snow gods for a few hours.” McIntire looked at the clock and wondered if alcohol could legitimately be included in elevenses. “Guibard went by earlier. He was on his way to Thorsen’s. He thinks Mia’s broken her leg.”
    The tactic worked. Leonie’s eyes widened and the atlas slid to her knees. “A broken leg! What happened? How on earth will they ever manage?”
    â€œNick should be able to handle things.”
    â€œThat man couldn’t boil an egg. He was helpless as a newborn…ninny even before he got sick. Anything that gets done in the house or the garden is up to Mia.”
    â€œMaybe this will force him to finally grow up.” They’d never live to see that day. “Otherwise, I guess they’ll have to get somebody to come in and help.”
    â€œI can’t see either one of them wanting to do that.”
    McIntire couldn’t see it either. Mia guarded her privacy, and the first help Nick would accept would be from those carrying his casket.
    Leonie bit her thumbnail. “I’d better get over to see what I can do.”
    â€œYou might want to wait a little while. If her leg is broken, Guibard might be still there.”
    â€œIt’s almost eleven. They’ll be wanting their dinner soon.”
    â€œHe said it happened a few hours ago. They probably haven’t had breakfast yet.”
    With a look of stark horror, Leonie wheeled out of the room and galloped up the stairs. She was back, in a blue sweater and tweed slacks, pulling on her coat and kerchief, before the steam was off McIntire’s glasses. She opened the refrigerator, pushing aside the pan of icicles to frown at the four brown eggs in a bowl. “We may have to begin buying eggs.” The refrigerator thudded shut. She grabbed a loaf from the breadbox. If Leonie was going to minister to Mia Thorsen’s needs in a satisfactory fashion, she was going to have to
stop
buying bread. Mia would never settle for anything less than homemade, and that meant made in her own home. McIntire didn’t tell his wife that.
    The sudden jangling sounded as foreign as if they’d spent the last four days on the moon. McIntire uttered a groan to commemorate the end of ninety-six hours of blissful isolation. A month ago it would have reflected his true feelings, but in mid-January he craved outside contact more than he was willing to admit. Leonie’s broad smile indicated that she had no such reservations. The transformation in his wife was worth the rude jolt into the twentieth century.
    â€œAt long last!” She made a leap for the phone. After a short conversation over what newsworthy activities St. Adele High’s science classes might have been up to, she beckoned to McIntire, blew him a kiss, and headed for the door.
    Pelto hadn’t wasted much time in finding what McIntire wanted to know, and didn’t waste any now on pleasantries. “As you thought,” he said, “the people you mentioned didn’t show up.”
    McIntire put his hand on his wife’s arm as she reached for the doorknob.
    â€œDid your fath—”
    â€œThey didn’t turn up at the headquarters in New York. The person I spoke to wasn’t there at the time. He doesn’t know if they just changed their minds or if they missed the boat and might have gone later.”
    The person I spoke to
. Odd way to refer to Dear Old Dad. “Did he follow it up? Try to find out what happened?”
    â€œHe left the organization about that time.”
    â€œTheir belongings had already been