“Well, I’m glad you’re here; that machine ain’t too familiar,” Pete admitted. “You did show me, and I could figure out whatever I couldn’t remember, but I’d rather trade you; I’ll muck out the stalls as clean an’ fresh as can be, while you take care of these ladies in the dairy. Deal?”
“Deal,” Steve agreed. Nearly ten minutes of shoveling had been more than enough for him; not having to change out the bedding in the stalls was a very welcome offer. “Don’t forget, we’ll need to gather the eggs in the henhouse, which is through that door over there…”
“AND THE YEAR AFTER THAT, WE WERE TRAVELING IN THE Bahamas,” Bella related as the others finished laughing, “so those lavi-lavi turned out quite useful as makeshift sarongs, but I’ll never stop teasing Mike about having to wear what we think of as a skirt over his trousers!”
“It’s a good thing I can enjoy a laugh at my own expense,” Mike warned her, passing along the bowl of fried potatoes they were sharing at the dinner table, “or I’d have to retaliate with the tale of you and the fresh coconut halves you wore for a hula dancer’s top at that costume party that one Christmas Eve two years ago. It turns out she’s allergic to fresh coconut milk,” he confided to the others. “But only when it’s allowed to dry on her skin.”
“That was me,” Cassie interjected, lifting her finger while Joey and Pete eyed her speculatively. “Not Bella. And that is too painful a subject to discuss at the dinner ta—”
The lights went out, stopping the chatter around the long oak table. With the cessation of speech came an awareness of the cessation of the furnace that had been blowing its heat in a subtle background whoosh, easily missed until it went missing. They could hear the wind still blowing outside, and the hiss of snow on the upper half of the windows, since it had drifted and covered the lower half already. It was a poignant moment, dark and quiet. Then Steve scraped back his chair, clearing his throat.
“If everyone will stay here, I’ll go get a flashlight and some candles, then start up the generator once we can see.”
Bella’s voice broke the quiet following the footsteps of his cautious exit. “Well. At least we finished our supper first. And with the snow halfway up the house, it should help to insulate us against some of the cold outside.”
“Coconut halves, huh?” Dave’s voice asked archly. Something whapped a moment later, making him yelp. “You tossed a bun at me!”
“You’re still in your seat, and I have a very long memory,” Cassie quipped back. She giggled after a moment. “This is turning out to be a very special holiday, that’s for sure!”
Steve came back with the glowing beam of a flashlight in one hand, a pair of candelabras in the other, and a plastic sack swinging from his arm. “Well, I suppose candlelit meals could be considered ‘ambience.’ We’ll have you lit in a jiffy so you don’t bump around; then I’ll get the generator going. Rachel, if you can get the votive holders off the sideboard there, in case they need to get to the bathroom before the lights are back on; I’ve got the candles for ’em here.”
It didn’t take long to set up the candles in their holders, nor to light them. Steve waited long enough for Rachel to get started on illuminating the room, then took himself and a jacket upstairs. The exhaust chimney for the generator was hooked up to a long, tall stovepipe with a sharp, conical peak for a roof. It was designed to take several feet of snow on the lean-to roof and still be able to vent, but with the snow still coming down, Steve didn’t quite trust it to remain clear.
Grabbing a broom from the upstairs closet, he made his way to the covered balcony, which overlooked the mudroom and lean-to below. Snow had stacked up at a fairly steep angle to the balcony railing. More snow fell, glittering as it swirled into the glow of the flashlight he set on the wrought-iron chair in the corner, pointing it out into the snow. As beautiful as the flakes were to watch, they were interfering with his employment; he had guests to keep warm.
Balancing carefully, he climbed high enough to check the snow on the lower roof. It was within a foot or two of the top of the pipe. Poking at the snow with his broom, Steve tried to dislodge it. For a moment, nothing moved, then a good chunk of it broke off and slithered down the sloped surface, taking more and more snow with it. It splattered somewhere below, falling from most of the roof in a rough wedge shape, warning him that he would probably have to shovel the chunks out of the trench to the barn, but it did clear the lean-to roof nicely around the exhaust pipe.
The last thing they needed was to asphyxiate on diesel fumes, after all. Sweeping the snow from his feet, he picked up the flashlight again, returned inside, hung the broom in the closet again, and headed back downstairs, dusting the snow from his short locks. Inside the dining room, he could hear the others playing some sort of game, and paused to check on them. Mike was explaining that the book-sized box in his hands, wrapped in something white printed with golden bells and ribbons on its paper, was a Guessing Box game; they could shake the box, tilt it, turn it, even weigh it, and each person would write down on a piece of paper what they thought was inside the box. Whoever guessed right would win a bar of Swiss chocolate.
It was the perfect dinner game to play in the dim glow of candlelight. Wishing he could join them, since he knew Rachel loved Swiss chocolate, Steve continued on to the mudroom. It was chilly enough, so he kept on the jacket…because if the mudroom was chilly, the lean-to was positively freezing. Crossing to the generator, he played the flashlight over it, checked the gas gauge, and followed the instructions to start it.
Nothing happened.
Frowning, Steve tried again. Nothing happened. He unscrewed the tank cover, checked to make sure it had diesel inside, closed the cap tightly, pressed all the right buttons, pulled on the lever, and…Nothing happened.
Frustrated, he turned away before he could smack the machine. A house full of paying guests, and he couldn’t get the generator to work. This was not good. One problem at a time, one solution at a time, he reminded himself. Of course, the problem is I don’t know much about fixing engines. Milking machines, yes. Generator machines—wait…
Walking back into the house, he poked his head into the dining room. Everyone was still eating and playing the game; the box was now in Joey’s hands, and he was making a show of carefully tipping it just so, to see at what angle the object inside would either roll or slide.
“Dave? You work on engines, right?”
“Yeah,” Dave admitted, lowering his cup of cider. “What’s up?”
“I, ah, can’t get the generator to start,” Steve forced himself to admit. “Maybe, if you took a look at it…”
Shrugging, the youth abandoned the dining table. Borrowing a jacket in the mudroom, he followed Steve into the lean-to. He, too, tried the buttons and the lever, checked the tank, tapped the gauge, then checked over the cables. Digging around on the tool bench in one corner, he came back with a screwdriver and removed the engine cover, checking it over. It didn’t take long for him to figure out the problem.
“Here it is. It’s the spark plugs. They’re all corroded,” the dark-haired youth stated, removing each one for a closer inspection.
“Ah. Well, can they be cleaned up?” Steve asked him. “With some soda pop or something?”
Dave examined each plug, then shook his head. “I doubt it. When was the last time you had this thing serviced?”
“Um…” Steve hated to say, “Never,” but the younger man got the message.
“We’re screwed,” he stated bluntly, handing Steve the ruined plug.
“Now, wait a minute,” a familiar, accented voice stated from the doorway. They both turned and blinked at Bella, who was holding a lit votive candle in a blue glass holder. “Do you mean to tell me, young man, that you work on car engines all the time, as you told us earlier this afternoon, and you don’t have any spare parts in your truck?”