Trailing a frosty breath vapor up Main Street, postmistress Beatrice Coughlin huddled into her jacket and pressed harder on the pedal of her golf cart. Cold wind mixed with rain and snow swept from a pewter-colored sky. Maine winters could be a right down fright—pure misery for mail carriers and meter readers.
Wheeling the cart around the corner, Bea groaned when she felt the vehicle’s right back wheel hit a pothole.
Ruts.
Heavy fall rains had turned the entire island into one big rut. If recent precipitation was a reliable forecast of the coming winter, she was going to be a gormy cuss by January, for certain.
Springing from the cart, she bent into the wind, peeking at the trapped back wheel. Wind whipped her flannel scarf and stung the tip of her nose.
Delays, delays. She still had to deliver a handful of encouragement cards for Edmund de Cuvier and the usual bills for the Grahams before she could seek shelter and a warm fire.
She glanced up, blinking snow out of her eyes. She might be a senior citizen with legs that felt remarkably like two rusted rain gutters, but she could walk the rest of her mail route if need be. She couldn’t, however, leave the cart sitting at this cockeyed angle. Floyd Lansdown was likely to take his cart out for a quick trip to the bakery, and if he’d been fool enough to forget his glasses (not unusual for Floyd), he was bound to smack straight into her vehicle.
Bea looked up to see Buddy Franklin rounding the corner in long, purposeful strides. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “Look what the wind blew in.”
The flaps of a fluorescent orange cap hugged Buddy’s angular face and accented the wiry goatee sprouting from his youthful chin. Maxwell Franklin, known to the islanders as Buddy, was as friendly as a six-week-old pup and often as irritating. Buddy lived with his sister Dana Klackenbush at the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center. Unlike Buddy, Dana worked hard and took pride in her accomplishments while Buddy drifted from project to project with no real purpose. After coming to Heavenly Daze last year broke and down on his luck, he was managing the Lobster Pot during tourist season. Rumor was he was trying to buy the restaurant and turn it into a taco establishment. Bea shuddered at the thought. A taco hut in Heavenly Daze? Who’d ever heard the likes?
“Hey, Bea.” Buddy approached in the whirling snow, hands buried in his heavy down jacket. On a coatless day, Buddy’s arms revealed evidence of his stint in the navy. His multicolored tattoos (Mother, Kiss My Biscuits, and Don’t Take Bilge from Nobody!) ran the length of his spindly arms. Buddy had apparently intended to make a career of the navy, but after one week at sea he was shipped home, green as a gourd. A doctor said the sea and Buddy would never get along. He was landlocked for the remainder of his duty and took an early out.
“Morning, Buddy.” After giving the young man a curt nod, Bea shifted her gaze to the stuck wheel.
Dark chocolate brown eyes shaded by heavy brows followed her gaze. Buddy studied the wheel as if it were a novelty instead of a usual occurrence this time of year. Then: “Are you stuck?”
Bea narrowed her eyes at the boy, thinking about what her sister Birdie would say in response to such a silly question: A mind is a terrible thing to waste.
Bea shoved the cynical words to the back of her mind. “Ayuh. Stuck.”
Buddy’s eyes moved to the opposite side of the cart, as if the answer to her predicament lay along the axle between the airborne wheel and the one in the rut. Finally he said, “Want me to go get Abner?”
“Abner’s baking pastry.” She sighed, resigned to the inevitable. “How about you helping?”
Buddy looked up, blank faced. “Me?”
“You.” Bea motioned to the back of the cart. “It’s a little cart. A lift and a push will get me going.”
Buddy shrugged, his face pale against the dark color of his jacket. “Whatever.” He stepped around her, then slid behind the wheel.
Crossing her arms, Bea waited. Did he expect her to push and him to drive? Apparently.
He glanced up, one eyebrow shooting almost to his hairline.
Bea glared at him. “You push; I’ll drive.”
Shrugging, he meekly got out. “Whatever.”
Bea settled behind the wheel, keeping an eye on Buddy as he sauntered to the back of the cart. Adjusting his gloves, he pulled the collar of his coat tighter, then bent to tie his boot.
Bea drummed her gloved fingers on the steering wheel. Spitting snow was pelting the golf cart, and her bones ached when she thought of home. Right now Birdie was probably brewing hot tea to go with the cherry Danish Abner was sliding out of the oven.
Straightening, Buddy fished in his back pocket for a handkerchief. Bea watched as he blew his nose, wiped his chin, then wadded the hankie into his back pocket.
“About ready,” he said.
She nodded, huddling deeper into her coat, aware that about was the operative word. Closing her eyes, she mentally conjured up sunshine and balmy breezes, even though warm weather in Heavenly Daze meant she’d spend more time renting bicycles to tourists than dispensing stamps and postage. But she lived a comfortable life and had ever since returning to the island all those years ago.
Had Frank been dead fifteen years now? She opened one eye to do the math, then shut it again when the wind blew snow into her face. After her husband’s death, Birdie had insisted that Bea come home and work at the small post office and handle the bicycle and binocular rentals. Binoculars didn’t do so well this past summer season, but Birdie kept insisting they were a sound investment. Abner thought portable beach cabanas might be more profitable, but what did a pastry chef know about tourists?
Bea’s lips curved in a smile at the thought of Abner Smith. The man had proved to be a godsend to both her and Birdie. He’d come to the island—well, she didn’t know exactly when he’d arrived, but he’d been there long enough that people no longer referred to him as an off-islander. The small man, whom tourists frequently mistook for Dustin Hoffman (albeit a Hoffman with a spare tire around his middle), worked tirelessly. Whether Birdie asked him to decorate a cake, cut out gingerbread, or bake dog biscuits, he never complained. In fact, Bea had never known him to say a bad word about anybody. For two women getting on in years, Abner Smith was a real blessing— though Birdie didn’t admit to aging a-tall.
“Shake a leg, Buddy. My old bones can’t take much of this weather,” Bea called. “It’s blowin’ fit to make a rabbit cry.”
The young man unwrapped a piece of gum, frowning when the wind snatched the paper and sent it spiraling toward the ferry. As he leaned forward to take off in hot pursuit, Bea stretched across the cart and snagged the hem of his coat.
Their eyes met. “The cart, Buddy. Push.” She leaned forward. “Now.”
He nodded.
After releasing him, Bea turned the key and heard the electric motor spring to life. Finally, Buddy was in position. He hunched forward, ready for action, his hands on the back bumper.
“When I give it the juice, you push!” Bea yelled over her shoulder.
Shoving his hands in his coat pocket, Buddy straightened and squinted at her. “What?”
“Get your hands back on the cart! When I give it the juice, you push!”
“Seems to me,” he spoke slowly, as if carefully considering each word, “I ought to lift first. You’re in a hole, Bea, and the only way to get something out of a hole is to pull it out.”
“Fine. Then pull.”
He screwed his face up into a human question mark. “Maybe we should make that a lift? I’d pull that tire out, but the cart’s sitting on top of it and in the way—”
“Lift, push, pull, whatever! Just do something.”
“You don’t have to holler.” Sulking, Buddy bent again, placing both hands on the rear fender.
Seizing the moment, Bea eased her foot down on the accelerator, then glanced over her shoulder to see the young man straining, eyes bulging, pushing for all he was worth. The cart rocked back and forth, spewing a wide arc of mud-colored snow pellets and splattering Buddy from head to foot.
Backwash rained down on the metal roof as the old cart endeavored to break loose. Surely it needed only a bit more power—
Slamming her foot down, Bea gave it all she had. The cart sprang forward, free at last, but Buddy Franklin must not have been expecting success. From her rearview mirror Bea saw him teeter off balance for an instant, arms wildly flailing, before falling face first in the mud.
The cart jumped the curb, took out one of the Grahams’ shrubs, then returned to the pavement. After throwing a shouted thanks over her shoulder, Bea yelled, “Stop by the bakery and tell Abner I said to give you a hot Danish!”
Still sitting in the mud, Buddy Franklin straightened and stared after her with a dazed expression.
Shaking her head, Bea returned her gaze to the road. “Whatever,” she said, grinning as she headed north on Ferry Road.
Plink.
Sitting at the worn desk in her kitchen, Babette Graham lifted her gaze and stared at the ceiling. Snow had been falling outside her window for half an hour, and that long awaited plink assured her that her containment system was working. The snow had melted upon her tin roof, dripped down the broken seams, seeped through the rotten wood, flowed along the attic rafters, traversed her bedroom from ceiling to floor, found the lowest spot in her worn pine planks, insinuated itself through the space between the upstairs and downstairs, then landed in her kitchen bucket. Mindless molecules of water were lining up to obey the law of gravity and follow the paths of least resistance.
She stood to check the pail’s position. Another drop, hanging in the dead center of the brown spot on the kitchen ceiling, launched and landed squarely in the center of the bucket. Plink. She sighed heavily. With no other visual aid than her own house, she could teach a physical science class. Gravity, erosion, entropy, degeneration—in any given room she could illustrate a law of science at work.
Sinking back into her chair, she made a mental note to towel off her bedroom floor when the snow stopped. She used to keep a roasting pan upstairs, but quickly discovered that she had more ceiling drips than pots. Fortunately, the second-story floor had only two low spots, and as water tended to flow downhill, she could catch it with one pail on the first floor—two, if a storm arose or the spring sun decided to melt an entire winter’s snow in one afternoon.
Plink.
She closed her eyes and steeled herself to the realization that things would get worse before they got better. This was only the first of November, and the big storms wouldn’t hit the island until January or February. By then she’d either have the roof repaired . . . or she’d have to invest in an entire battalion of buckets.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and considered the two letters on her desk. Both were estimates from roofers in Ogunquit, and both bids had come in at over $10,000. “You can’t slap just any kind of roof on these old houses, lady,” one of the men had told her. “You gotta stay in character with the history of the house, and you gotta be artistic about it. ’Specially since this place is an art gallery.”
“Trouble is,” Babette murmured, setting the bids aside, “we’re an art gallery only six months out of the year. And we barely make enough in those months to carry us through the winter, so how am I going to pay for an artistic new roof that doesn’t leak?”
Her gaze shifted to a single business card propped against her pencil mug. Handyman Roofing, headquartered in Kennebunk, had not yet responded with a bid. The nice man who came out had measured and squinted and scribbled on a notepad, then touched the brim of his hat and said he’d get back to her.
She hadn’t heard a thing from him, but at this point, maybe no news was good news. As long as he dawdled, she could hope for a miracle . . . an affordable estimate.
The teakettle on the stove began to rumble, so Babette stood and moved to the cabinet where she kept the mugs. She hated to think the worst of her fellowman, but she suspected the first roofer had come to Heavenly Daze, eyeballed her historic house, and spied the expensive paintings in the gallery showroom. Given her surroundings, he’d assumed she and her husband were rich, when nothing could be further from the truth. He estimated her new roof would cost $15,000.
When the second roofer arrived, she made a point of confessing that she didn’t own the gallery paintings—she’d only taken them in on consignment. He figured she could replace her roof for $12,000.
When Babette met the third roofer, she managed to casually mention that she and her husband had inherited the house—and they were supporting an active five-year-old who would almost certainly need braces in a few years. As he left, she apologized for not offering him a cup of hot tea. She was out of sugar, she had said, and with sugar prices at the mercantile being what they were . . .
She frowned at the fellow’s business card. Maybe she had overplayed the sugar thing. Maybe he wouldn’t get back to her at all. Maybe none of her conniving mattered. Even if the last guy came back with a bid of two thousand dollars, that would require two thousand dollars they didn’t have.
Plink.
Click, click, click, zing!
She glanced toward the staircase, then bit her lip. The clicking sounds came from Charles’s manual typewriter, so apparently he had finished priming his creative pump and was ready to continue his work on the Great American Masterpiece II. He had finished his first GAM last winter, and that ponderous tome was still making the rounds of New York publishing houses—or so Charles hoped. Last April he’d sent it out to a dozen publishers, a handful of agents, and his favorite novelist, Stellar Cross. At last count, replies from two publishers, an agent, and Mr. Cross were still pending.
Babette never asked what the rejection letters said. But from the expression on Charles’s face, she knew the news wasn’t good.
Plink, plunk!
Click, click, clickity, click.
At least the house was musical. Shaking her head, Babette poured hot water into a mug, dropped in a tea bag from the canister, then crossed her arms, letting the fragrant tea steep.
The house actually seemed quiet at times like these when Georgie was at kindergarten. He attended the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, run by Dana Klackenbush, and was Dana’s only student in the off-season. Because Dana’s schedule was relaxed, Babette never quite knew when her son would burst through the door and noisily announce his return.
She moved to the desk with her tea, then picked up her pen and studied the bill at the top of the heap. Coastal Gas wanted $300 this month, and she’d only budgeted $275. That meant she’d have to siphon twenty-five dollars from another account, probably clothing, if they were to make it through the winter. Of course . . . her gaze fell upon the envelope stamped Heavenly Daze Community Church. Since the beginning of their marriage, she and Charles had made tithing a regular practice, giving the first 10 percent of their income to support their church. She could hold back the tithe check to avoid dipping into her clothing account . . .
Plunk, plink!
. . . but the church had to pay Coastal Gas, too. And wouldn’t that be like doubting that God would provide? She’d heard too many sermons about God blessing those who obediently gave the first tenth of their income to hedge on tithing now. And in the entire ten years of their marriage, though they’d often been broke, they had never gone without food, clothing, or a roof over their heads. God had been faithful.
Click, clickity-click, click, click, zing.
Charles’s typing picked up as Babette pulled out the checkbook. She wished he’d try to write something salable like articles or news features, but he seemed set on toppling Stellar Cross from the bestseller lists. She’d hinted that he should paint in the winter, for his popular seascapes always sold for a nice profit, but Charles insisted that summer was for painting and winter for writing. She’d muttered that he ought to invest as much energy into caring for the house and the business providing a roof over their heads, but he pointed out that organization was her gift, not his, and he produced enough during the tourist season to deserve a break during the winter months.
She found herself unhappily dissatisfied as she wrote out the gas check. She loved her husband, truly she did, but living with an artistic personality could drive a woman crazy. Charles didn’t exactly howl at the moon, but his occasional fits of melancholy and his live-and-let-live philosophy often forced her to shoulder the burdens of budget and child rearing and . . . roofing.
Plink.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
She grimaced at the sound of paper being torn from the typewriter. If she were to climb the stairs and enter the spare bedroom, she knew she’d find Charles surrounded by crumpled wads of typing paper, a few reference books, and at least six Stellar Cross novels, all standing upright with the glossy author photos facing Charles at his typewriter. “For inspiration,” he had told her when she first noticed this odd arrangement. “Stellar and I are kindred spirits. With his help and support, I’m going to make it.”
Babette had wisely refrained from pointing out that Stellar Cross had never written or spoken to Charles . . . and she had also bitten her tongue when Charles insisted on sending a copy of his first manuscript to the best-selling novelist.
“Five pounds of paper wasted,” she muttered, ripping the Coastal Gas check from the checkbook. “Cross won’t read it. He probably won’t even open it.”
Charles, of course, couldn’t see the impudence in his action. He never minded taking chances in his art—he painted big paintings, he wrote big books, and he dreamed big dreams.
If only he didn’t want to spend big bucks.
Just last night he’d been hinting that they could use a computer. “Just think of all we could do with it,” he’d said, bringing a computer magazine to bed—not her idea of romantic bedtime reading. “You could advertise my paintings online. You could set up an auction page for the gallery. And Georgie could use the Internet for research—”
“Georgie is five years old!”
“Age doesn’t matter.” Charles propped his elbow on his pillow, then settled his head on his hand as he waved the magazine before her bored gaze. “You can find anything on the Web. Art supplies, books, recipes, information—”
“If I need the Internet, I can always go down to the mercantile.” Babette crossed her arms and glared at him. “Vernie said I could use her computer anytime, so we don’t need one.”
“I could write faster on a computer.” Charles’s voice took on a dreamy tone, and his heavily-lashed eyes went soft. “I could write better. I could sell my book more easily, maybe even e-publish it.”
“I don’t want to hear a list of coulds,” Babette answered, her patience evaporating. “I need to hear wills. I will write faster; I will sell my book. We need to survive the winter, Charles, and we don’t have money to waste on luxury electronics. So unless you can come up with a surefire moneymaker, you can forget the computer.”
After that pronouncement she had turned over and closed her eyes, a little ashamed of how harshly she’d spoken to him. Charles was a wonderful husband and father— a little too preoccupied sometimes to be practical, but he’d never said a harsh word to her or Georgie.
She had apologized the next morning but couldn’t resist following up her confession with a warning: “We only cleared enough to make it through the winter, Charles. We can’t be spending money on extras. There is no financial safety cushion this year.”
Plunk.
No cushion even for a new roof.
A sudden clattering at the front porch interrupted Babette’s musings. She rose and hurried through the hallway, then caught a glimpse of Olympia de Cuvier’s mounded hair through the window in the door. Olympia, owner and resident of the town’s stateliest house, Frenchman’s Fairest, stood on the porch, her hand firmly wrapped around Georgie’s upper arm.
Was the child out of school already?
Bracing herself for the inevitable, Babette opened the door and forced a smile. “Olympia! I didn’t expect to see you out in the snow—”
“I wouldn’t be out in the weather if not for this young hooligan,” Olympia interrupted, jabbing a finger into Georgie’s puffy blue jacket. “Caught him about to throw a ball into Annie’s garden. We can’t have that, you know.”
Olympia’s bony, sharply-angled face wore the remnant of a flush. “Annie would be absolutely devastated if she came home to find her tomatoes injured. The good Lord knows we’ve had enough troubles with that tomato patch.”
Babette reached out and pulled her son away from the older woman’s stabbing finger. Everyone on the island knew that Olympia and her niece, Annie, had squabbled on account of Annie’s experimental tomatoes, and the truce they’d declared was fragile at best. No one would have dared harm those spindly plants, for they were the reason Annie came home every weekend to visit Frenchman’s Fairest.
“I’m sure Georgie didn’t intend to hurt the tomatoes, Olympia.” Babette’s tone strengthened as she looked down at her son. “Did you, Georgie?”
“No, Mom.” His face was a picture of innocence. “I was playing ball with Tallulah. I threw the ball; she brought it back. I threw it again, and she brought it back. I was about to throw it again—”
Babette clapped her hand over his mouth. “I get the picture.” Shifting her gaze to her angry neighbor, she softened her tone. Olympia had been cut of stern and sturdy cloth, but it wasn’t like her to fuss openly. The stress of caring for her terminally-ill husband, Edmund, must be getting to her.
“I can promise this won’t happen again, Olympia,” Babette said, trying her best to be compassionate. “Georgie will not be allowed out to play for the rest of today or tomorrow. And when he can play outside again, I will give him strict instructions never to play near your house.”
“Mmmmmmmm!”
Babette smiled, glad her hand muffled Georgie’s protest.
Some of the anger seemed to leave Olympia’s face. “I don’t know that I’d go that far, Babette,” she said, tugging on the heavy knitted collar at her neck. “We like the boy. Tallulah adores him, and I don’t have much time to play with her these days, with Edmund being so sick and all.”
Her faint smile held a touch of sadness when she met Babette’s gaze. “Just be sure he minds the tomato patch, okay? Those experimental tomatoes will have a hard enough time with the snow.”
Babette reached out and squeezed her neighbor’s wrist. “I understand, Olympia. And I’ll take care of Georgie. You take care of yourself, okay?”
Olympia nodded, then turned and moved down the porch stairs with much less energy, Babette suspected, than she’d expended escorting Georgie from her house.
After drawing her son inside, Babette closed the door and knelt to take off his heavy jacket.
“I didn’t mean to hurt the tomatoes, Mom,” he said, his teeth chattering despite the warmth of the clanging radiator beneath the foyer window. “But Tallulah kept leading me that way. First she wanted crullers, and when I didn’t have any, she went under the house and brought out her ball and asked me to throw it, so I did, then she brought it back but told me to go ’round to the front of the house, so I did, and then we went to visit Blaze in the barn, but Caleb said to stay back ’cause old horses might kick a kid, so Tallulah and I went back ’round to the front, where Dr. Marc saw me and said hi and then gave me a lollipop but said ask your mother, but I said my mom didn’t care so I ate the lollipop and gave Tallulah a lick, but she said she liked crullers better.”
Despite her irritation, Babette laughed when he paused to draw a breath. Though children poured onto Heavenly Daze in the summer tourist season, in the winter months her poor son was the only child on the island. No wonder his best playmates were the local dogs and horses.
“You.” She tousled his brown hair. “You’re the light of my life and the root of my gray hairs.”
His face crinkled into a questioning expression. “Whaddya mean, Mom? Your hair’s not gray.”
“It’s getting there,” she said, standing. “Give it time.” Placing her hands on his shoulders, she turned him toward the stairs. “Up to your room, young man, and no more playing outside today. I’ll be up to talk to you later.”
Birdie Wester shivered as the back door opened and a gust of chilly wind blew into the room.
“Mercy!” Bea said, coming in. “I’d swear the wind’s kicking up a line storm if I didn’t know better.” She stomped snow off her feet, then slammed the door, eyeing the steaming teapot on the stove as she stripped off her gloves.
Smiling, Birdie looked up, knitting needles poised in midair. “It isn’t fit for man or beast out there today. You must be frozen.”
“Like a popsicle.” Bea took off her coat, then moved into the kitchen.
“Get the mail delivered?”
“Ayuh.” Bea lifted a cup from the cabinet, then poured a cup of tea. “Got stuck in that rut on the corner of Main and Ferry. Floyd needs to do something about that hazard before I blow another tire.” After unwinding her scarf, she gravitated toward the fire with a cup of steaming liquid.
Birdie sighed, settling deeper into the comfy recliner. Thank goodness her job kept her indoors.
The sisters’ living quarters adjoined the bakery, and their home was considered one of the coziest in Heavenly Daze. After Frank Coughlin’s death, when Bea came to live with Birdie, the sisters had built an addition onto the back of the house, increasing the square footage to nine hundred square feet—more than enough for two little ladies and a small business.
A Kodiak wood stove kept the rear sitting room as warm as toast. The bedrooms in the center of the building got a little cool during January, but Birdie added another blanket to her bed and made out quite well. And in the early morning, when Abner fired up the big oven on the other side of her bedroom wall, Birdie would stretch out and breathe in the delicious scents of baking bread and pastry . . . what a glorious way to wake up!
The kitchen, a tiled space between the sitting room and the bedrooms, was tiny by most standards, but it held everything the sisters needed: a large white Tappan gas range, a wooden table with four chairs, and a dependable Whirlpool refrigerator. Bea brought her microwave when she came, but the sisters didn’t use it for much other than warming leftovers and making popcorn. Birdie liked her coffee perked, her tea steeped, and her meat cooked with real heat. Bea had fussed at first, having developed an unusual dependency on the appliance, but she’d adapted nicely to doing things Birdie’s way. It took just one question—“ What if that radioactive stuff leaked out?”—and Bea had agreed to use the microwave sparingly. One could never be too careful.
A slant-roofed back porch separated the house from the wild emptiness of the northern end of the island. The sisters’ washer and dryer sat on the covered back porch, along with a fifty pound sack of birdseed, salt for melting ice, and an assortment of muddy boots and galoshes.
“There’s cream in the refrigerator,” Birdie said. She bit off a piece of thread, then tied it.
Bea glanced at the empty plate in the center of the kitchen table. Ordinarily, it would have been filled with two of Abner’s finest pastries.
“Abner running late this morning?” Bea asked.
“Ayuh.” Birdie got out of the recliner and adjusted the lace draperies in the sitting area. This was her favorite room in the house. Flanked on three sides by six windows, the space featured two La-Z-Boy recliners, a polished cherry end table with a trailing philodendron, and a floor lamp positioned so Bea could read and Birdie could do handiwork. Her current project, knitted dishrags, spilled out of a basket by her chair.
Across from the chairs stood an entertainment center they’d ordered from Sears and put together themselves— now that was a day to remember. They’d spent the better part of an afternoon down on all fours, trying to figure what went where. All those bolts and screws and instructions— why, it’d take a Harvard graduate to understand them.
The best thing about their small abode, however, had to be the delicious scents that continually filled the living quarters. Now the aromas of cherry filling and flaky pastry wafted from the front of the building. Bea sniffed the air. “Smells like those cherry Danish are about ready.”
Straightening a lacy tieback, Birdie turned from the window and proceeded toward the hallway that led to the bakery kitchen. Folks claimed Abner had a gift when it came to baking. Birdie liked to say that the good Lord gave Abner a golden rolling pin.
Bea trailed Birdie into the bakery, sniffing with appreciation. The cheerful baker was taking a large pan out of the oven, exchanging small talk over the counter with Vernie Bidderman. The tall, raw-boned owner of Mooseleuk Mercantile, swathed head to foot in a man’s overcoat and green earflap cap, greeted Birdie and Bea with a nod and went on yakking.
“Did I tell you I got the new Web site up and running? Selling pure Maine maple syrup—got four more orders just this morning.”
“Is that right?” Abner smiled, transferring Danish onto cooling racks with a steel spatula. “That’s good to hear, Vernie. Selling many candles?”
“A few—expect sales to pick up any day now with the holidays coming on.”
“Vernie Bidderman, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Birdie scolded, tying an apron around her trim waist. “Everybody takes the easy way out these days. Internet this, Internet that. Why, if we keep working with computers our children will forget how to use a book. Can’t people buy syrup and candles at the grocery store?”
“Not if they want pure Maine syrup and Bidderman candles—unless they live around these parts,” Vernie answered, grinning.
Birdie bit her tongue. Criticism rolled off Vernie like water off a duck’s back. Especially criticism about the Internet. Vernie loved the World Wide Web. Wasn’t a finer sales vehicle around, she was quick to tell anyone who questioned her preoccupation with cyberspace.
All a waste of good time, Birdie contended. Didn’t people use libraries anymore?
“I don’t know anything about computers,” Bea began, but her words trailed away when the front door opened and Salt Gribbon blew into the bakery.
Birdie felt her heart skip a beat when the curmudgeon stamped his feet in the sudden ringing silence. Snow lay in white skiffs on the sea captain’s navy pea coat. Salt, a gaunt man not especially known for cordiality, scowled at Bea and Vernie as he shuffled to the counter. Lowering her gaze, Birdie put her hands to work lining a display tray with paper doilies.
Abner set the spatula aside. “Morning, Cap’n.”
“Ayuh.” Gribbon’s eyes scanned the display counter. Salt Gribbon, retired swordfish boat captain of the Salvatore 2, had long since lost the desire to prove anything to anyone. In his late-sixties, Birdie supposed, he lived alone in the lighthouse and still cut a vibrant figure—vibrant enough to make her hands tremble.
Abner leaned across the counter. “What can I get you today? The Danish are nice and hot.”
Gribbon’s eyes lifted and focused squarely on Birdie. “A loaf of rye and two dozen molasses cookies.”
Excusing herself, Birdie stepped to the end of the display case, out of Abner’s way. Her heart did a silly flutter and she flushed. If a crusty old sea goat could do this to her, she needed to get out more.
“A loaf of rye and two dozen molasses cookies coming right up.” Abner reached for a bag.
With his gaze fixed on Birdie—she could feel it across the room—Gribbon inclined his head in her direction. “She can get it.”
Birdie’s lips firmed when Bea shot her a narrow warning look. Lifting a brow to confirm she wasn’t about to get Salt Gribbon’s rye, she nodded curtly.
Never mind that her cheeks were burning.
“No trouble for me to grab the order.” Smiling, Abner sacked twenty-four saucer-size molasses cookies, adding three extra for good measure.
The old sea captain’s eyes followed Birdie’s movements as she struggled to separate the paper doilies. Heat suffused her neck, and she toyed with the idea of cracking the window to cool things off a bit.
“I want her to get the bread.”
Apparently sensing an approaching clash, Vernie crowded closer to the counter. “I’ll take a dozen of those cherry Danish, Abner. And a half-dozen bear claws—they’re fresh, aren’t they?”
Abner smiled. “All our pastry is fresh, Vernie.”
Gribbon’s steely voice cut though the conversation. “I want Birdie Wester to get my bread.”
Every eye swiveled back to the sea captain, who appeared to brace himself for an oncoming gale.
Gribbon captured Birdie’s irritated gaze.
“One loaf of rye,” he repeated.
Silence hung over the room. Though she didn’t dare lower her eyes, Birdie knew Bea and Vernie were exchanging glances and probably wondering if it’d be wise to move toward the nearest exit.
Gribbon stared at Birdie as if he were determined to win the contest of wills. She could stand here and stare all day, or she could give up and let him move on—
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, dropping the doilies on the tray. “One loaf of rye.” For one stubborn old goat.
Moving toward the bread case, she removed a brown loaf and wrapped it in plastic, avoiding Bea’s aggravated look. “Anything else, Cap’n?”
Vernie eyed the old captain with a stringent glance. “There’ve been some complaints about rock throwing from tourists visiting the lighthouse. You know anything about that?”
Ignoring the question, Gribbon continued to stare at Birdie.
“You’re going to have to stop throwing rocks, Cap’n.” Vernie picked up her order and dropped her money on the counter. “People will think there’s a bunch of heathens living around here.”
A muscle moved at Gribbon’s jaw. “People need to stay away from my place.”
“It’s not your place—it’s a historical monument owned by the city. Your job is to take care of it, not to scare people off.”
Without so much as a ripple of concern, Gribbon calmly opened his coat buttons and pulled out a book. Melted snow dripped from his white beard as he handed it to Birdie.
Birdie perused the title. “Curious George?”
Gribbon nodded. “Bought it at Graham’s yard sale last month. Is it fittin’ reading?”
“Ayuh. It’s a classic, excellent for children and adults, too.” Birdie thumbed through the pages, refreshing her memory. Curious George was an adorable little monkey, adopted by a man from the city and treated to all sorts of adventures . . .
Nodding, Gribbon took the book from her hands and wedged it between his blue flannel shirt and pea coat. “Thought you might know, seeing how you’re a librarian.”
Birdie felt her cheeks burn in a blush. “That was years ago, Cap’n, before I retired and bought the bakery. I have nothing to do with books anymore other than to enjoy hours of reading.”
Apparently satisfied with the information, Gribbon picked up his bag of cookies and bread. Before leaving, he looked up, his eyes locking with Birdie’s. “You bake good bread.”
Birdie clasped her hands to her cheeks in an effort to hide what had to be a pronounced flush. “You go on now, get along.”
Surprisingly, he obeyed. Buttoning his coat, he turned and nodded. The front door closed behind him a moment later.
Birdie stepped quickly aside when Bea butted between her and the counter, wielding a spray bottle and paper towels. Bea said nothing but made reproachful clucking sounds as she set about cleaning the counter. Bea had never had a kind word to say about the old skipper and frequently accused him of being a salty craw that gave the town a bad name. But Birdie found him fascinating. There had to be a book in that man’s life, a very interesting book.
Vernie hustled to the door, opened it, and leaned out to shout, “No more rock throwing! I mean it! We can replace you.”
“No, we can’t,” Birdie corrected under her breath. “No one wants to live at that Godforsaken point and stare at the sea all day.” Raising her voice, she called, “Shut the door, Vernie, you’re lettin’ all the heat out.”
Vernie took her leave of the sisters, too, muttering something about selling rye bread on the Internet, and for a moment silence reigned in the bakery.
But not for long. “I declare, Birdie.” Bea moved to the window and craned her neck. “That man’s got a crush on you.”
Warmth flooded Birdie’s neck and pooled at the base of her throat. “Bea, you’re getting addled. Go on, now. Get away from the window.”
Tight-lipped, Bea squirted cleaner on a windowpane, mumbling under her breath. Birdie could have sworn Bea was jealous, but she had no cause to be. Birdie had no designs on that man, none whatsoever. Their relationship, if she could be so bold as to call it that, was based on mutual respect and a sort of grudging admiration.
“Why do you suppose he had that children’s book?” Bea asked, swiping at the glass. “A man his age, buying Curious George ? Who ever heard of such a thing?” She scrubbed a resistant fingerprint, squeak, squeak against the glass.
Birdie shrugged. “Maybe he wants to read it.”
“Read? Ha!” Squeak. “I bet he can’t read.”
“He can, too!”
“Can not.”
“By the way, Bea,” Abner called from the baking area, “there’s another piece of mail waiting for you.”
Bea rolled her eyes. “I have to go out again?”
“It’s general delivery.”
Straightening, Bea absently touched her hair as she moved away from the window. “I declare, there’s no rest for the weary.”
Abner came forward, wiping his hands on his apron. “Captain Stroble overlooked a piece that must’ve fallen out of a mail tray. He dropped it off when he stopped in for coffee and doughnuts. Said he thought you might want to see to it right away.”
Birdie had been about to arrange the freshly baked Danish on the display tray, but she glanced up at this news. “Could be important, Bea.”
“Probably Publishers Clearing House wanting to know where to deliver my million dollars. Thank you, Abner.”
Setting her cleaning bottle aside, Bea pulled her shawl from the front hook and hurried next door to the post office.
Grateful for a moment in which to compose her thoughts about Salt Gribbon, Birdie went back to her work.
A few minutes before noon, Bea wandered back into the bakery and held up a letter. “Would you look at this?”
Setting aside a large pot she’d just washed, Birdie wiped her hands on her apron. “Who’s the letter for?”
A frown hovered between Bea’s brows. “An angel.”
Birdie laughed. “Around here?”
From where he was working in the pantry, Abner coughed.
Bea held up a creased sheet of notebook paper. “Listen to this:
Dear Angel,
My name is Lewis, and I visited your island with my mommy and daddy this summer. I liked your houses and the pretty trees and plants that grow there. I like the saltwater taffy, too. It tastes good but pulled my front tooth out, but that’s OK. Mom said I was gonna lose it anyway.
I can’t write very good yet, Angel, so Mom is writing this letter for me. I am very sick. I have something called leukemia and I have to take medicine that makes me very tired and makes all my hair fall out. I hope I will get better, but Mama says that is up to the Lord. Mama says the Lord is your boss. Could you please ask him to make me well?
I would like to have a new bicycle for Christmas and if I don’t get well I won’t feel like riding it much. Mama says God can do all things. Is this true? If this is right, please ask God to make me well. I don’t like being tired and sick all the time. And while you’re talking to God, will you tell him I want a red bicycle, not a blue one? I have a blue truck and a blue tractor and a blue ball. I don’t want a blue bicycle.
Thank you very much, Angel.
Lewis Anthony Morris, five years old
“Ah, the poor tyke,” Birdie murmured, her throat aching with regret. “Wonder what makes him think angels are living here?”
“Heavenly Daze,” Abner supplied. Birdie turned in surprise. He must have come out of the pantry while Bea read the letter. Now his eyes were dark with concern. “The child associates the island with the Father.”
“That, and the fact that the tour guides get a little carried away when they take people through Frenchman’s Folly—er, Fairest.” Birdie shook her head. “I’ve heard that they’re telling people that Jacques de Cuvier called down continual angelic protection for the town.”
Bea blanched in astonishment. “Olympia lets them say that?”
“Olympia,” Birdie lowered her voice, “will let them say anything as long as it makes Jacques de Cuvier look like a saint. Besides, the story adds a touch of color, and that’s what brings the tourists back again and again. You can’t knock local color.”
Shaking her head, Bea folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. “Well, I’d like to answer this letter, but I can’t allow the boy to think an angel is writing to him. What would you do, Birdie?”
Birdie waved her hand in confusion. “Why, I don’t know. I suppose I’d thank him for writing and tell him that our prayers are with him and his family . . . but that seems like so little.” She paused and looked at Abner. “I wonder how the post office handles letters sent to Santa Claus?” Birdie slanted a brow in Abner’s direction. “Have any ideas?”
Abner shook his head and moved toward the counter where he’d been mixing up a batch of sugar cookies. “Considering the island’s name, I’m surprised there haven’t been more letters of the same nature. It doesn’t help that the tourist brochures call this a little bit of heaven on earth.”
“If they stayed here a week, they’d know that isn’t true,” Bea said. She paused thoughtfully. “I suppose I could write and say I’m an angel assistant . . .” Frowning, she looked at Birdie, then Abner. “Would that be a lie?”
Abner smiled as he poured sugar into his mixing bowl. “You are an angel’s assistant, Bea. Haven’t you heard?”
“Right, and I’m Miss America, too.” Dismissing his lighthearted banter with a smile, Bea turned to Birdie. “I certainly can’t promise the child a red bicycle or good health, but I can promise to speak to the Lord about his problem.”
Birdie nodded. “That would be nice, Bea. And assure the mother that lots of angel assistants on Heavenly Daze will be praying for her son.”
Birdie felt a sense of rightness as she turned away and wiped the counter over the display case. In a way, all God’s children were assistants, so Bea’s answer to little Lewis’s letter seemed appropriate.
Besides, autumn days were long and often uneventful, so praying for five-year-old Lewis Anthony Morris would give Bea something to do.
What harm could come from it?