Buddy!” Birdie gaped in surprise. “Why, you look so distinguished!”
Buddy Franklin stood before her in black tails, a white shirt, and a red satin cape. His long face gleamed in a bright spotlight, and beyond the edge of the stage, she could hear a spattering of anticipatory applause.
“They’re waiting,” he said, winking at her. “And you look pretty foxy yourself.”
Birdie blushed. “Aw, go on.”
“No, Birdie, you are a vision of loveliness, a comet of cuteness, a shooting star from Saturn.” He paused as the orchestra music swelled. “You look just like . . . whatever.”
While she watched, Buddy swept past her, his red cape flashing as he began a routine with moves like Fred Astaire.
Birdie blinked. She didn’t know Buddy could dance. When did he learn to waltz like that?
As the audience went wild, she turned, a little surprised to find herself in the wings of a stage. She glanced down as a feather rose in the heat of the lights and tickled her nose.
Why was she wearing a red feather boa?
Just then, Bea walked up in black fishnets, a sequined bodysuit, and a three-foot tall collar of ostrich feathers. “Out of the way, Sister,” Bea said, pushing her aside. “It’s showtime!”
While Birdie watched in horror, Sister sashayed into the spotlight, joined at center stage by Vernie Bidderman, who wore a similar outfit of sequins, feathers, fishnets, and combat boots. As the crowd surged to their feet, Vernie and Bea linked arms and began a high kick that would have put the New York Rockettes to shame.
As Birdie clung to the curtains for support, a man in the audience tossed a long-stemmed rose onto the stage. Bea dove forward, gave him a wink, then placed it in her mouth, never missing a beat.
From the side of the stage, Buddy tapped his cane and called, “Step right up, ladies and gents, to see the brightest lights and the prettiest girls east of Las Vegas!”
Birdie bolted upright, abruptly coming awake as sweat dripped from her forehead. She opened her eyes, blinking the nightmare from her field of vision. The aromas of mincemeat and pumpkin pies drifted from the kitchen and reminded her who and where she was.
Feeling lightheaded, she exhaled in relief. Bea was up early, stuffing the turkey, setting hot rolls out to rise, and baking the traditional pies.
The familiar sounds and smells of a holiday morning should have brought her a sense of joy and well-being, but Birdie couldn’t forget that these were dark days indeed. Her friends and neighbors were peeved at her, and Olympia’s loss lay heavy on her mind. Edmund was gone, and Birdie supposed she’d never bake another apple strudel without thinking of the banker with the kind heart.
Edmund loved apple strudel. His eyes would brighten and he’d give her a jaunty wink whenever she offered him one of the flaky delicacies. “Birdie,” he’d say in that gentle voice, “you make the best strudel in the State of Maine.”
“Edmund Shots, you’re a smooth talker if ever I saw one,” Birdie would tease back. They’d share a good laugh and then Edmund would make a pretense of searching his pockets for change to pay her. Birdie never charged Edmund for strudel. The look of sheer ecstasy that transformed his face as he devoured the warm pastry was compensation enough.
In later years, after Edmund developed diabetes, Birdie and Abner concocted a slightly-revised version of strudel using artificial sweetener and a less fatty crust. Though Edmund loved the original strudel best, he ate the new version with relish and appreciation, tempering his praise only slightly: “Birdie, you make the best cardboard-crust apple strudel in the State of Maine!”
Chuckling at the memory, she swiped at tears dropping from her eyes. “I hope you’re eating all the strudel you want right now, Edmund. Save a piece for me.”
Curling tighter under her blankets, she entertained the thought of staying in her pajamas all day. Could a body do that on Thanksgiving? Bea could attend the church service, and when she got home they could eat a quiet dinner with Abner. Later they could play a few games of dominoes: chicken foot or mexican train. She wouldn’t have to face anyone today or see irritation in her neighbors’ eyes.
Oh, they would get over it, as Grandma Bitts used to say, but every time they looked toward the ferry office and saw a new mountain of mail sacks, they’d grumble her name.
Never mind that she didn’t start that silly e-mail. She’d encouraged Bea to answer the first letter, and she’d been foolhardy enough to send money to a little girl who asked for it. Now only heaven knew what trouble tomorrow would bring.
Swallowing, she realized her throat was sore. Stress, cold wind, and bad weather had taken their toll.
She threw the covers back, then padded into the bathroom. Switching the light on, she opened her mouth and peered at her throat in the medicine cabinet mirror.
Red as a turkey’s wattle.
Drats.
When she walked into the kitchen a moment later, Bea, still in her terry-cloth bathrobe and hair curlers, glanced up. Dropping the baster, she eyed Birdie with a calculating look. “You look a little streaked this morning, Sister.” Birdie opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out. Swallowing, she tried again, but nothing but a rusty squeak escaped her lips.
“Oh, my,” Bea said, clucking. After shoving the roaster back into the oven, she shut the door and beckoned to Birdie. “Come with me.”
Birdie shook her head, realizing too late the torture Bea had in mind.
Throat swabbing—the purest form of inhumanity.
For a moment they slapped at each other like little girls, then Bea latched onto Birdie’s hand and dragged her through the hallway and into her bathroom. Amidst retching and many emphatic stamps of her foot, Birdie endured the archaic treatment of having her throat swabbed with Mercurochrome. When it was over, she went back to her bedroom and dropped to the quilts for a moment, wondering why she couldn’t just suck on a throat lozenge like anybody else.
Islanders were already pouring into Heavenly Daze Community Church by the time Bea and Birdie finally arrived.
Few scowls were evident this morning; only friendly faces met the Wester sisters as they climbed the steps. Birdie greeted her neighbors with a closed-lip smile, praying her teeth hadn’t been permanently stained from the Mercurochrome.
“Sister’s sick this morning,” Bea announced to no one in particular as she planted herself on the piano bench.
Standing at the pulpit, Micah lifted an inquisitive brow in Birdie’s direction. Shrugging, she pointed to her throat.
“She’s lost her voice,” Bea announced, rapidly flipping through the hymnal on the piano. She looked up, fixing the song leader in a direct gaze. “I’m not in the mood for traditional hymns today. Since this is a holiday, I thought something special might be in order, so let’s start with 289 instead of 217, then sing 276 before 137, followed by 310 before we move right on to 452.”
Frantically trying to keep up, Micah flipped through the pages and scribbled changes on the bulletin. Leaving Bea, Birdie hurried to find a seat in the rapidly-filling church.
Somehow, Micah adapted to the change of program. The song service was uplifting, and Birdie felt her heart rejoice as an assortment of voices rattled the rafters on a cold, sunshiny Thanksgiving morning on the island of Heavenly Daze. Thundering praises vibrated against the windows as they sang praises to the great I Am, the Exalted Jesus Christ, King of all kings and Lord of all lords.
Unable to sing over her aching throat, Birdie enjoyed listening. The powerful hymns washed over her, assuring her of God’s love and filling her with a heady elation she sorely needed.
Beside her, Vernie Bidderman belted out the old hymns in her husky alto, occasionally clapping her coarse, work-worn hands in disjointed rhythm.
Across the aisle, Mike and Dana Klackenbush sat beside Babette and Charles Graham, two young couples with their whole lives ahead of them. Young Georgie scribbled on a notepad, occasionally reaching over to filch a breath mint out of his mother’s purse. Babette and Charles smiled adoringly at their son’s antics, then looked at each other as if they shared a secret.
Birdie lifted a brow, wondering what it was.
She was a little surprised to see Olympia and Annie in church, but there they were, in the center of the de Cuvier pew just ahead of her. As the music swelled, Olympia reached out to hold Annie’s hand, and something in the gesture twisted at Birdie’s heart. And something seemed odd—as a rule, Caleb sat with the island’s other single men at the back of the church, but this morning Zuriel, Yakov, Abner, and Elezar sat on the de Cuvier pew, almost as if forming a protective shield around the mourning women. “Thank you,” Birdie whispered, knowing they couldn’t hear, but feeling grateful all the same.
She felt Edmund’s presence as surely as if he sat in the pew next to Olympia. How wonderful to know that for those in Christ, partings like these were but brief absences.
Buddy Maxwell, wearing his usual muddy boots, sat toward the front, and that was a miracle in itself. Dana must have bribed him into attending. The Lansdowns and the Higgs sat next to Edith Wickam, while Dr. Marc sat at the end of the pew. Captain Stroble had even come to church this morning.
Oh dear! Birdie slid lower in her seat as the significance of his presence hit her. Surely he hadn’t come to deliver more mail—not on Thanksgiving!
She lowered her gaze, then felt herself flushing even more deeply, rattled by a sudden self-awareness. She’d been scanning the audience and taking a mental roll call because . . . she was looking for Salt!
Thank the Lord, he hadn’t come. She’d die if he caught her looking for him.
When the last amen died away, Pastor Wickam rose from his chair and walked to the pulpit. The middle-aged minister wore fall colors—a handsome brown tweed coat with a buttercup yellow shirt set off with a cinnamon and yellow striped tie. Birdie made a mental note to congratulate Edith on her splendid job of dressing him for the occasion.
After reaching up to smooth his mostly nonexistent hair, he opened his sermon notes, glancing up only briefly when Micah quietly moved to sit on the de Cuvier pew.
Birdie had to smile when she saw the pastor’s automatic head patting gesture. Winslow had come a long way since his fascination with hair. These days he wore his bald spot like a badge of honor, openly declaring that vanity and preoccupation with shedding follicles was a waste of good time. A couple of weeks ago when Birdie caught him in the mercantile, he flashed a grin and told her he’d discovered certain advantages to going bald: one, he could comb his hair with a washrag, and two, with just a little more hair loss, he would look like he had a continual halo ’round his head.
And that, Winslow had humbly confessed, was exactly the effect he wanted.
Pastor Wickam stood silently for a moment, gazing out at his flock. Then slowly he closed his Bible and opened his eyes. “For a moment, we’re going to talk about the life of Edmund Shots de Cuvier. Saturday we’ll gather once again and ask the question, ‘Death, where is thy sting?’ Olympia has lost a mate of forty years; Annie, a beloved uncle. All of us have lost a friend; the world, a great benefactor. Edmund will be missed.”
Olympia sniffed audibly, and from the other side of the room Birdie saw the flutter of tissues being pulled from pockets and purses. She lifted her own handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
“Which brings me to my topic for this special Thanksgiving service. We all suffer from emotions, whether from irritation or grouchiness or depression. The events of the past few days have shown me how quick we are to show emotion, but how reluctant we are to show true compassion and love.
“Some of us here this morning,” Winslow continued, “have been blessed beyond our wildest expectations. And some of us are hurting.”
The congregation shifted and shuffled. Birdie felt a collective movement of heads turning to look toward Olympia and Annie.
Winslow paused, apparently sorting his thoughts. Birdie tightened her grip on her handkerchief. Long pauses weren’t Pastor Wickam’s style; he usually plunged headlong into his message, well aware that pies were cooling and potatoes waiting to be mashed for the holiday dinner.
After a long moment, he lifted his gaze and looked directly at Birdie. “Some people here today are hurting, and, may God forgive us, we are the source of that pain.”
Voices whispered, eyes lowered. Birdie could have heard a pin drop as the meaning of Pastor’s words penetrated hearts and souls.
Next to Birdie, Vernie shifted, then a rough hand reached out to cover hers. Without a word, she gave Birdie’s hand a gentle squeeze.
The pastor’s gaze remained on Birdie. “Birdie, we are your family, too, and I fear we have lost sight of that fact. What you did last week by helping that little girl was a Christlike thing to do. I’ve thought about it often, and I’ve been ashamed of my own response.” A blush ran like a shadow over his cheeks. “In our selfishness, we tend to cling to what we think is ours—the island, the budget, the wonderful peace and privacy we enjoy here in Heavenly Daze. Often we don’t want to share. We want to be God’s people, but we want to be left alone—”
“Preacher?”
Every eye swung to the front pew, where Floyd Lansdown had just stood.
Birdie stirred uneasily in her seat. No one ever interrupted the message, not even if the sermon stepped on a few toes.
Pastor Wickam’s face went blank with shock. “Is there something you wanted to add, Floyd?”
“Not add,” Floyd said. “Maybe correct.”
Winslow smiled. “Why not? This is the day for sharing.”
Floyd turned slightly to face the congregation. “It’s not that we didn’t want to help that family,” he said, casting a quick look at Cleta. “All of us saw the need, but what about the furnace? That old thing’s about to go. If we took money from the furnace fund to help the Akermans, then when the furnace died we wouldn’t have one red cent to fix it.”
From the piano bench, Bea piped up. “The money for that family came from me and Birdie. For heaven’s sake, why is everyone making such a big deal out of one letter? This is Thanksgiving. Let’s forgive and forget and get on with the service.” She turned to her hymnal, flipping heatedly through the pages. “The way some of you have been treating Birdie is a crime. She did what she felt was right, and that’s the end of it.” She paused, snapping the hymnal closed, then dropped it to her lap and crossed her arms.
Vernie waved her hand. “What about the grant money we received from Rex Hartwell? Have we spent all of that?”
Floyd shrugged. “Not all of it—we put that new roof on and made some foundation repairs. There’s a little left, but we haven’t bought a dishwasher for the parsonage yet.”
Edith Wickam timidly lifted her hand. “I don’t need a dishwasher,” she said, looking at her husband. Emboldened by his smile, she shifted and looked out at the congregation. “I’ve been doing dishes by hand for years and it hasn’t hurt me a bit.”
Floyd shoved at his glasses. “The point is, we’ve stretched what we have until it’s screaming for mercy. Most of us don’t like saying no any more than Birdie, but we don’t have the means to help others. Apart from the Gettys and Gates of the world, who does?”
Words bubbled in Birdie’s throat, but pain stopped them short. She grinned, suddenly grateful for the laryngitis. God was allowing her to listen for a change.
“Money is always a concern with a small congregation,” Winslow admitted. “But how we treat each other shouldn’t be.”
“Money may not be a pleasant subject, but it is a necessity,” Vernie pointed out.
“That’s the truth!” Cleta stood. “We don’t mean to be callous, Pastor, but the Lord expects us to plan ahead and save for a rainy day. Too many folks spend without thinking, then suddenly they’re down and out looking for help.”
Several in the congregation amen’d the sentiment.
Cleta lifted a warning finger. “What if another emergency comes up—maybe someone gets sick and can’t take care of himself, or they raise the church insurance premium? What’ll we do then? We’ll have no emergency funds whatsoever if we start trying to answer all those angel letters. Don’t we need to think of our welfare first? We can’t take care of everyone. We’re not God.”
“That’s right, preacher!” Floyd nodded with such force his glasses slipped from his nose.
“May I speak?” Dr. Marc stood up and folded his hands. “Speaking for myself, I know that in a case of unforeseen illness I would care for the patient without any regard for compensation.”
Cleta wagged her finger at him. “You do that anyway, Dr. Marc, and we’re beholden, but what about medicine and special treatment? You can’t cover it all. Medical expenses these days can run into the millions.”
“Then we couldn’t help, regardless,” Dr. Marc gently pointed out. “My point is that I’d do what I could. We should all do what we can.”
As Abner rose to his feet, heads rotated to watch him. Pastor Wickam inclined his head toward the baker. “You have something to add, Abner?”
“Thank you, Pastor.” Abner’s gaze moved over the congregation. “Brothers and sisters, I urge you to think. When has God ever failed to meet even one of our urgent needs?”
Silence fell over the room. Pointed looks were exchanged, then eyes lowered.
“Really,” Abner pressed. “Who among us has been deserted by God when we most needed him?”
Silence reigned in the sanctuary. No one offered a rebuke.
Closing his eyes, Abner softly recited: “Doesn’t life consist of more than food and clothing? Look at the birds. They don’t need to plant or harvest or put food in barns because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are more valuable to him than they are. Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not. . . . Look at the lilies and how they grow. They don’t work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are.” He opened his eyes, focusing on Floyd. “And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won’t he more surely care for you?”
Clearing his throat, Floyd dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. “It’s not the same,” he mumbled.
“Ah, but it is. We must trust God to care for our needs. Anything less is a lack of faith, and those who come to God must believe, for without faith it is impossible to please him.”
As Abner sat down, Birdie saw Yakov lean close. “Thank you, brother,” he said, his whisper reaching her ear. “That was a most appropriate response.”
Grinning shyly, Abner dropped his head. “Wish I had thought of it first.”
Pastor Wickam cleared his throat in the microphone, redirecting the congregation’s attention to the front. “Many of you know that I like to take long walks along the shore,” he said, a smile ruffling his mouth. “Yesterday morning, while I gazed out at the sea, God spoke to me. Oh, he didn’t adopt a booming voice and literally say, ‘Winslow, I want you to take this message to my people.’ But I felt his presence. I heard his voice in the soft wind, and I heard him speak to my heart. He said, ‘Everything I permit has a purpose.’”
Winslow looked out at his people, the light of conviction in his eyes. “And then it came to me—perhaps our loving, personal God has singled out Heavenly Daze to give help and hope to a dark world.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch. “I know about the e-mail chain letter going around,” he said. “At first I was like most of you, annoyed to think that such a silly thing would inconvenience us, then I applied the Lord’s word to my heart and remembered what he told me: Everything he permits has a purpose. And then I asked myself, ‘What if God has decided to allow us to serve him in a way most Christians only dream about?’ How often do we say, ‘Oh Lord, here I am, use me,’ but we never expect him to actually take us up on our offer? Oh, we might volunteer to usher, serve communion, or teach Sunday school, and those are all valuable services to God. But what if he wants more from us who live in Heavenly Daze?”
Annie Cuvier raised her hand. “What do you mean, more? Are you suggesting God has singled out Heavenly Daze to deal with all the world’s problems? With all due respect, Pastor, that’s impossible.”
Winslow gave her a patient nod. “I was thinking that perhaps God has singled us out to care.”
“Care?” Vernie echoed.
“To be a voice of encouragement where there is none, to offer hope to those who have reached the end of their rope.”
That sobering thought lingered with Birdie long after Winslow finished his sermon and the worshipers filed past Olympia and Annie to offer hugs and heartfelt condolences.
And as she walked home with Bea, she asked herself if it could be true: Had God actually anointed Heavenly Daze to be a beacon of hope? The idea seemed ludicrous; that sort of thing didn’t happen in today’s world.
Or did it?
As Birdie took the golden brown turkey out of the oven, she considered the challenge the pastor had given them. God worked in mysterious ways, so could the angel letters be part of his plan for the town?
One thing was certain—Pastor Wickam’s challenge to care had been immediately answered.
Bea raised her voice above the whirl of the mixer. “I caught everyone, I think. They’ll all be at Olympia’s house by one o’clock.
“Good,” Birdie said absently. “Good for all of us to pitch in and care.”
Today, at least, Heavenly Daze would live up to its reputation.
The house was quiet, so deathly quiet.
Sitting in the warm kitchen nook, Olympia was staring out at the sea when the chime of the doorbell shattered the stillness.
As the doorbell pealed again, Caleb shuffled from the stove to answer it. Glancing toward her, he softly mused, “Wonder who that could be?”
Olympia shook her head. Everyone from church had gone home to gather with family.
Cruel death was no respecter of holidays.
The smell of baking ham drifted from the oven, but Olympia had no appetite. Caleb was trying to maintain the de Cuvier holiday tradition, but today seemed surreal. She thought of Edmund lying in the funeral home—no, Edmund was with God, but his body lay in the cold funeral home. And his mother, Edie—though the old woman had been informed of her son’s death, Olympia knew she needed to go personally to the nursing home. She’d go tomorrow. She couldn’t possibly summon the strength for such a somber trip today.
She heard the creak of the front door, then the sound of voices. Floyd Lansdown’s bass growl rose above Mike Klackenbush’s husky baritone. And was that Vernie Bidderman’s gravelly alto?
Rising from her seat, Olympia ventured into the hallway. A virtual mob filled her foyer and front porch, and everyone carried a dish. Her eyes skipped from bowl to platter, spying cranberries, pumpkin pies, mashed potatoes, and gravy.
Birdie was struggling under the weight of the biggest turkey Olympia had ever seen!
Babette Graham smiled, holding up a bowl of pistachio salad, Olympia’s personal favorite. That little scamp Georgie carried a plastic-wrapped blueberry gingerbread loaf in one hand and a rolled-up parchment in the other.
Speechless, the matriarch of Frenchmen’s Fairest stared at her neighbors. They should have been home celebrating around their own hearths, but here they were. Edith stepped up to embrace her. Holding her close, she whispered, “Your family has come to share Thanksgiving with you, Olympia.”
Overwhelmed, she could only point toward the dining room, where an empty table waited to receive a feast. She stared in stupefaction as Barbara and Russell, Birdie and Bea, Edith and Winslow, Cleta and Floyd, Babette, Georgie, and Charles, Dr. Marc, Vernie, and all the Smiths—Yakov, Micah, Abner, Zuriel, Elezar—trooped into the room. Buddy Franklin brought up the rear, red-faced and bearing a large basket of yeast rolls. For once, Olympia noted, he was wearing shoes instead of boots.
Water welled in her eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks. Annie came up beside her, her young eyes bright with unshed tears.
Turning to Olympia, Annie smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful, Aunt Olympia? I never expected this.” She reached out to catch Babette Graham’s hand. “Thank you so much.”
Standing quite still, Olympia heard her pride break. It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a toothpick. But the brokenness healed immediately as love washed over her like a tide of rich, warm honey.
“See?” Caleb whispered at her ear. “Miracles do happen.”
Swiping self-consciously at her wet cheeks, Olympia eased Caleb aside to throw open the door of Frenchmen’s Fairest to the late arrivals: Captain Stroble, Butch, and Tallulah, all three of whom stood panting on the porch.
“Come on in,” she whispered, smiling. “Anyone and everyone is welcome in our home.”
As Babette moved down the groaning dining room table, Charles stepped into the space at her side and slipped an arm about her waist. “Congratulations, Madame Graham,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “I don’t know how you convinced him to paint again, but I just saw Georgie give Olympia a puffin painting.”
Babette gaped at him. “Really? But I thought he would never—”
“Apparently he changed his mind.” Charles picked up a plate and fork, then scooped up a slice of Babette’s blueberry gingerbread. “I think it’s his way of comforting the lady.”
Babette thought for a moment, then moved down the line. Amazing that Georgie had begun to paint again. And more amazing that what her son wouldn’t do for money, he would do for a friend.
A huge meal usually calls for a huge nap. As Birdie and Bea gathered the coats and empty dishes, she heard the men talking about football games and afternoon hibernation.
She wouldn’t mind a little snooze herself.
It was late afternoon before she, Bea, and Abner met in the bakery with several of the latest sacks of mail. Each of them sat at a separate table, deciding to read and sort the letters before answering them. Some petitions required prayer, others action. If nothing else, the trio decided, they could pray over the requests, even those without return addresses. At least they’d be able to know they’d done something to ease the problem represented in each letter.
Shortly after six, Captain Stroble popped into the bakery to see how their work was progressing. Because of the holiday, he’d received no more mail, but he made a point of shuddering when he mentioned what he feared the next day would bring.
By seven, there were papers piled on the counter, behind the register, and on every table. The industrial-sized mixing bowl held the urgent requests, most involving money or a miracle, neither of which Birdie, Bea, or Abner could provide. Cures for cancer and pleas for mortgage money were automatically dropped in the mixer.
The bread pans in the empty display case held the more trivial requests—for new bicycles and video games, new dresses for mommy, new golf clubs for daddy.
Birdie thought some of the letters would be funny if not for the obvious sincerity of the author:
Dear Angel,
My daddy got all his hair burned off lighting the bar-b-q. Can you make my daddy’s hair grow back ’cause Mommy says he looks like a crazed cue ball.
Others were heartrending:
Dear Angel,
Can you please tell God we need money? Grandma is very sick and Momma says she needs to go somewhere where somebody can take good care of her. Momma wants to take care of her, but she has to work since Daddy died and we don’t have anyone to take care of us anymore. Grandma needs to be at a nurse’s home, but we don’t have enough money to put her there so she stays alone here in the house all day while I go to school and Momma works at a macaroni and cheese factory. Grandma cries a lot and says she’s nothing but a bird den, then Momma starts crying and says no, no, that’s not true.
I don’t understand because Grandma don’t attract birds, not that I can see, but she thinks she’s a lot of trouble for Momma. Grandma Yance smells funny sometimes, but I love her and she isn’t too much trouble. So please, Angel, talk to God about Grandma. She doesn’t want to be a bird den, she just don’t want to bother anybody.
Birdie’s back ached and her shoulders burned with strain as the minute hand slowly swept the clock. More than once she had to stop reading to wipe away unexpected tears.
The clock had just struck the half-hour when Birdie heard a rap on the front door. She looked up to see a mob at the front door.
“My lands, they’ve come to string us up,” she warned, glancing at Bea. “They’ve forgotten every word Pastor said this morning.”
“Hush, Birdie.” Bea went to unlock the door. “Give ’em a chance.”
In a moment, the Lansdowns, the Higgs, the Wickams, the Klackenbushes, the Grahams and Georgie, Buddy Franklin, Vernie Bidderman, and even Annie and Olympia de Cuvier had filled the room, their faces whipped red by the wind and holiday atmosphere.
Lowering the letter in her hand, Birdie stared at them in astonishment. “The bakery’s closed,” she called above the excited chatter. “If you’re looking for dessert, well, we don’t have any tonight.”
“We’re not here to buy anything.” Cleta straddled a pile of mail bags, crossing her beefy arms.
Stiffening, Birdie braced for criticism. This had to be a lynch mob.
They had all come to tell her, “I told you so.” They’d looked in the window and seen this blizzard of mail, and now they wanted to assure her that she’d ruined the island’s reputation forever.
Well, maybe they were right.
She opened her mouth, about to speak, but just then Abner and the Smith fellas came in through the bakery kitchen.
Caleb, Micah, Yakov, Zuriel, Elezar, and Abner stood behind the counter, their arms crossed, their presence almost overpowering.
Birdie’s heart sank. Had they come to fuss at her, too?
As the front door opened again, Dr. Marc squeezed in, accompanied by a gust of chilly air.
The room quieted as Birdie’s gaze moved from family to family. What could she say? Heavenly Daze might never again be the peaceful island they’d grown to love, and all because Bea and Birdie had taken it upon themselves to answer a few little letters.
Cleta jabbed Floyd.
Clearing his throat, he met Birdie’s questioning eyes. “We’ve come to help.”
Birdie’s jaw dropped. Had she heard right?
Nodding, Cleta spoke up. “Tell us what we need to do, and we’ll do it.”
“But”—Birdie glanced at the piles of mail—“there’s so much, and it’s likely to keep coming no matter what we do.”
“Ayuh.” Floyd nodded. “We know.”
Pastor Wickam threaded his way to the counter. “We’re here to help, Birdie. We were wrong to question an unselfish act. We ask your forgiveness and hope you’ll grant it.” He gave her a heartfelt smile. “Now, where would you like us to start?”
A rise of sudden emotion blocked Birdie’s sore throat. They weren’t here to fuss; they were here to help. Amazing.
Annie shouldered her way through the crowd. Stooping to give Birdie a hug, in a loud voice she said, “I think what you did was wonderful.”
“No use wasting time.” Dr. Marc hefted a sack of mail to his shoulder. “Dana, you and Mike, Buddy, Babette, Charles, and Georgie can help me. Caleb, Micah, Yakov, Elezar, and Zuriel can work with Abner. The rest of you pair off and keep those sacks moving!”
The bakery erupted in a beehive of activity as everyone assumed battle stations. Bea explained the way Birdie had organized the requests, and Abner passed out empty bread trays to hold more letters. With lightning efficiency, envelopes were opened, read, and passed down the line.
Birdie and Bea ferried the requests to the proper staging area where Cleta and Vernie marked urgent on the most pressing and set them aside for Pastor Wickam to consider. With pen and paper in hand, Edith and Olympia sat at a table and wrote three heartfelt sentences across the bottom of the more simple requests: “Your letter was received. We prayed for you. God loves you.” On a few others, they added: “Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you.”
Dana Klackenbush pulled out of the assembly line long enough to tell Birdie: “We can use the Kid Kare Center for overflow. The bakery can’t hold all this mail, and Georgie will be my only student until spring. I can use the classroom for an operations center.”
“God bless you.” Overcome with gratitude, Birdie hugged Dana, nearly forcing her to drop an armload of envelopes.
The young woman grinned. “Oh, he has, Birdie. He has.”
The town worked late into the night, sorting letters, answering each missive with the simple message. Neither Birdie nor the residents of Heavenly Daze knew how long they could keep up the pace, but for as long as God had a purpose, she reckoned they could come up with a plan.
With a little luck and an e-mail blitz to point out that Heavenly Daze was only a simple town inhabited by simple people, perhaps the angel mail would slow and the island would gradually settle back into a normal routine.
As Birdie served coffee and day-old doughnuts to her friends and neighbors, her heart overflowed with gratitude and love. This Thanksgiving in Heavenly Daze had been one to remember. Only one thing could have made it more perfect: Salt Gribbon’s attendance at church, the dinner, and this impromptu gathering.
Outside the bakery, snow had begun to drift down, white bits of light shining in the golden glow from the windows. Pressing her nose against the frosted glass, Birdie thought of Salt and wondered if he were watching the snowfall. Poor, lonely man . . .
She swallowed the despair that rose in her throat. The old skipper had come a long way in the past month, and who could say what the future held for him? After all, wasn’t December the month for miracles?
Smiling at the thought of taking him a chocolate Christmas yule log, she turned and lifted the coffeepot. “Who’s ready for a fresh cup?”