After rising with the sun, Annie dressed in a sweater and jeans, then pulled on her slicker and headed out to the beach with Tallulah. No one was stirring at the dock at this early hour, but the lights gleamed from Birdie’s Bakery, where Abner Smith would be piping out doughnuts in preparation for the morning coffee crowd.
Tallulah paused at the intersection of Ferry Road and Main Street, then whimpered softly.
“You don’t want to go with me to the beach?”
The dog dropped onto her belly, then brought both paws over her nose. The adorable action tore at Annie’s heart. What was going to happen to Tallulah? For sure the old dog wouldn’t relish living in Annie’s apartment with her cat. After the freedom of Heavenly Daze, apartment life would seem like prison to the outgoing terrier.
“Too cold, huh? Okay, girl, run along to see Abner. He just might have a treat for you.”
Tallulah didn’t need to be told twice. She rose and trotted off at a brisk clip, leaving Annie alone. She gazed wistfully after the dog—why was it that her aunt’s dog had no trouble making decisions, while she couldn’t even decide when she should return to Portland?
She had not slept during the night, but tossed and turned for what felt like an eternity. Stretched out on her right side, she convinced herself to sell Frenchman’s Fairest; when she turned onto her left side, she thought she should keep the house no matter what. Rolling onto her belly, with her face buried in her arms, she worried about Olympia floating all the way to England; flat on her back and staring at the ceiling, she tried to imagine Olympia in heaven, contentedly playing a harp.
How was a woman supposed to find balance in life?
She looked up as a bell jangled in the morning silence—Abner was opening the bakery door to let Tallulah in. He looked up and waved at Annie; stiffly, she pulled her hand from her pocket and returned the greeting.
What was it with the Smith men? Nothing ever ruffled them. And whenever you had a problem, you could count on one of the Smith guys to send you straight to the heavenly throne room for help.
She felt a twinge of guilt as she walked toward the beach. She’d been fretting and worrying for days, but hadn’t honestly offered her petition to the Lord.
Alone on the beach, she huddled inside her overcoat and trudged over the damp sand. The southwestern shore offered the only sandy beach on Heavenly Daze, for the northern and eastern coasts were too rocky to allow for easy walking. But the windward side had been worn smooth over the years, and she liked the way the wet sand shifted ever so slightly beneath her rubber boots, then held firm. It was a good place for thinking . . . and even better for praying.
“Dear God,” she lifted her eyes to the cloudy skies above the watery horizon, “if ever I needed advice and guidance, I need it now. I don’t know what to do, and thinking only makes me more confused. My head tells me to do one thing, but my heart tells me to do something else.”
Her head was telling her to sell the house and take the money. With a decent sales price for the estate she could make sure Caleb had enough to buy a little place in Ogunquit then search for Olympia, bury her next to Edmund, and buy a really nice monument for both of them. Olympia had displayed a fondness for monuments, evidenced most particularly by the bronze marker on the lawn of Frenchman’s Fairest. Practically every building on the island had some historic significance, but Olympia had been the only resident who felt compelled to erect a sign on her property.
So selling the house would be a good thing.
On the other hand, what would Dr. Marc do if she sold the house? Olympia and Edmund had offered their detached guest cottage to serve as the island doctor’s residence and office, but the new owner of Frenchman’s Fairest might have other ideas for the building. That would leave Dr. Marc without a place to live and work, and Heavenly Daze without a clinic.
She frowned, then shook the notion away. The town would have to take care of itself. Birdie would be getting married soon, so perhaps Dr. Marc could move in with Beatrice.
The thought brought a smile to Annie’s chapped lips. Bea would up and faint before she’d even entertain the idea of living with a man, even platonically, so Dr. Marc would have to move in with Cleta and Floyd and set up an office in one of their guest rooms. That’d undoubtedly cut into their income during tourist season, but if Barbara and Russell moved out, the doctor could have their rooms—
If Barb and Russ ever moved out.
Annie stared out at the sea, trying to imagine her life without the people of Heavenly Daze. She knew the islanders as well as she knew the inside of her palm. Though life might take the girl off the island, she doubted it could ever take the island out of the girl.
Shivering, she hunched lower in her jacket as the wind whipped over the beach. New York was a wonderful place to visit, Portland was nice and clean, but could she live away from the sea? And the appeal of Heavenly Daze involved far more than sea and shore, for it had always been the nest to which she flew home to rest. Life without that nest would be like living in a house with no bedroom.
So she should keep the house. But how was she supposed to pay for its maintenance? Her teacher’s salary barely kept her afloat in Portland. The Durpee Seed Company bonus for which she’d been working would never materialize now that her tomatoes had proven inedible.
She could take a second job, but there was no work to be found on the island in winter, and only the Lobster Pot required extra employees in the summer. If she worked two jobs in Portland, she’d never have time to visit Heavenly Daze and enjoy the property she was desperately striving to keep.
Weary of the internal debate, she blew out a frosty breath, then turned toward home. The idea of keeping Frenchman’s Fairest was highly impractical. The house needed work, Aunt Olympia needed a proper burial, Caleb needed a retirement fund, and Dr. Marc—she felt her heart twist—he needed a property owner who would let him remain in the guest cottage and could afford to maintain it.
Thoughts of the doctor brought a rueful smile to her face. Why was A.J. so reluctant to visit the island? She knew of no rift between him and his father; each always spoke highly of the other. Annie had watched them carefully at Christmas, and both men had truly enjoyed each other’s company. But Dr. Marc was always making excuses for A.J., saying Alex was a busy and successful neurosurgeon . . .
How successful could you be if you were too busy for friends and family? Annie frowned as another thought struck—she was A.J.’s girlfriend, yet he had barely made the funeral of her closest living relative. If she occupied such a low place on his priority list now, what would life be like when they’d been married twenty years?
Her freewheeling friends would laugh off such worries. She ought to marry A.J., they’d say, and quit working altogether. As a surgeon’s wife she could entertain and socialize and host benefits for charitable causes. She could travel and mingle with celebrities; she could have a fine apartment in Manhattan and a weekend house in the Hamptons. Closing her eyes, she could visualize the house A.J. would want—a spacious, wide-windowed mansion painted in creams and beiges, with towering ivory statues in the living room and white furs on the bedroom floor.
Her eyes flew open. Try as she might, she couldn’t imagine Birdie and Bea inside that house. Vernie, with her boots and leather aviator’s cap, would be as out of place as a bucket under a bull. Caleb would be a nervous wreck in such a fine home, and Aunt Olympia’s precious rose teacups would look like cast off bric-a-brac in a modern stainless steel kitchen.
Why, even she wouldn’t feel at home in such a place. In the last few days she hadn’t felt at home anywhere but in Olympia’s parlor. The tattered lace curtains at the window, crackling logs in the fireplace, and the worn sofa before the bookcases refreshed her senses in a way her Portland apartment never could. A.J. would find Olympia’s parlor provincial and plain, but the room would suit a man like . . Dr. Marc.
Turning up the beach she began to retrace her steps, moving along the southern slope of the island and the path to the ferry dock. For beyond the trail lay Frenchman’s Fairest and the carriage house, where she knew she’d find the man she sought.
“Why, Annie!” Marc started to smile at his unexpected visitor, then thought the better of it. The young woman wore a troubled expression, and the cold had stolen all the color from her cheeks. “Are you feeling all right?”
“No—I mean yes. I’m not sick, but I’d like to talk to you.”
He opened the door wider. “Come on in. Since this isn’t a medical call, we’ll go back to the keeping room.”
He led the way past his examination room and book-lined office to his private quarters, a comfortable space at the back of the cottage. His sofa bed, now neatly tidied up, lined the wall, while in the center of the room a black woodstove squatted on a brick hearth and radiated with pleasant heat.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, stepping forward to tug at her coat. “I’ll hang up your coat and get you something warm to drink.”
Annie closed her eyes as he lifted the coat from her shoulders, and he had a feeling she was looking for someone to lift her troubles as well. The poor girl had endured a lot in the last few days.
“Have you been out walking?” he asked, moving to a small cabinet to the right of the doorway. The counter, equipped with microwave, coffeemaker, sink, and hotplate, served admirably as a kitchen since he rarely had guests.
Annie sank onto the sofa, then held her hands toward the stove. “Ayuh. I needed to get out of the house to think.”
“You must be frozen to the bone. I’ll make you a cup of hot tea—”
“Don’t go to any bother. The heat feels nice.”
“It’s no bother, Annie. I’ll have a cup, too.”
Leaving her to enjoy the quiet, he pulled two mugs from the cabinet, then filled them with water and set them in the microwave. He punched on the power for three minutes.
Drumming his nails on the counter, he squinted at the oven and decided that these were the longest three minutes he’d passed in his lifetime. Annie had to be bored silly, and with every passing moment he wondered why she’d shown up at his door. Caleb was her confidant and Dana Klackenbush more her age . . .
What was she doing here? And why did he suddenly feel as flustered as a schoolboy? His cheeks were burning, which meant he was blushing, and Annie was too observant not to notice.
Finally the oven beeped. He removed the mugs, burning his fingers in the process, then left the cups to steam on the counter while he bent to look in a cabinet and pretended to rummage for tea bags.
He had to calm down. He drew in a deep breath, trying to lower his blood pressure and restore his usual color. The young woman who sat across the room might well be his daughter-in-law one day, so there was no reason for him to feel awkward and self-conscious. Besides, she looked like she could use a friend, and he’d been her friend long before Alex noticed her exceptional qualities.
When he was certain his pulse had returned to its normal rhythm, he stood, caught her worried gaze, and smiled. “What’s on your mind, hon?”
Maybe the word hon broke the dam, or perhaps it was the directness of the question, but tears overtook Annie with a sudden ferocity that surprised him. She threw herself into a mound of sofa pillows, sobbing as if her world had shattered, and the sound of her despair tore at Marc’s heart.
He took two steps forward, then hesitated. What should he do? Stand and watch her weep, or offer the comfort of a shoulder to cry on?
He grimaced, annoyed that he was even debating the question. If Cleta were weeping, or Birdie, he wouldn’t think twice about hurrying forward to comfort them.
Drawing a deep breath, he crossed the room and sat beside her. “There, now.” He gently touched her shoulder, and that was all the encouragement she needed to seek the shelter of his arms.
“Dr. Marc, I’m so confused!”
He slipped one arm around her, pulling her head to his chest. “It’s okay, dear, things are going to be just fine.”
“It’s . . . the house.” She sniffed against his sweater. “And Aunt Olympia. I have so many choices, so many obligations. And I don’t know who to ask for advice now that Aunt Olympia and Uncle Edmund are gone.”
His hand, moving as if it had a mind of its own, smoothed her wind-whipped hair. “You have Caleb. He’s always given trustworthy advice.”
She shook her head. “I can’t ask him about this because he told me he’s leaving. By the end of the month, he said. He’s going off to work someplace else, and I’m afraid it’s because Aunt Olympia wasn’t able to provide for him. I wish I could afford to pay him, but I can’t, and I think he doesn’t want me to feel obligated—”
“Maybe he wants to work.”
She sobbed again. “Who in their right mind wants to work at his age? I don’t know what to do.”
Marc lifted a brow, then asked a delicate question: “Have you talked to A.J?”
The head against his sweater wobbled up and down. “A.J. says I should sell the house and move to New York. He doesn’t really like Heavenly Daze.”
Marc chuckled dryly. “That comes as no surprise.”
She lifted her bleary eyes. “Well, I don’t really like New York. It’s a nice place to visit, but I don’t think I could ever live there.”
Marc let his hand fall on the back of the sofa as the world went silent around them. If this were a casual conversation he would murmur some inane comment and move on, but this didn’t feel like a casual conversation. And the longer he looked into Annie’s sorrowful eyes, the more his heart yearned for something he had no business considering, much less imagining . . .
Abruptly, he pulled away and stood. “I promised you tea, didn’t I?”
“You did . . . but I don’t really need it.”
“I do.”
He strode toward the kitchen, where the two mugs waited on the counter, cooler now, but still useful for keeping his hands busy.
Was that a note of disappointment he heard in her voice just now? Could she be feeling . . . no, she couldn’t. Annie was young enough to be his daughter. Her entire lifetime stretched before her. He was a retired doctor living on Heavenly Daze because he’d tired of the rat race. He had moved here after his wife’s death, content to spend the rest of his life serving other people . . . alone.
He didn’t want to love again. He certainly didn’t expect to love again.
And he would not love again. He would rejoice for his son, knowing that Alex had found a woman of whom he was almost worthy.
He unwrapped two teabags and dropped one into each mug. “Sugar?”
“Ayuh. Two teaspoons, please.”
He smiled. “I like a girl who’s not afraid of a few empty calories. You take risks.”
“No, I don’t.” She stood and came toward him, her eyes wide pools of appeal. “I’m scared to death, Dr. Marc. Afraid I’ll make the wrong decision. If I sell the house and leave Heavenly Daze, I’m afraid I’ll lose a part of myself. I used to think that part wasn’t important, but lately I’ve come to realize it matters . . . a lot.”
“Then don’t sell the house.” He said this with more conviction than was appropriate for an impartial advisor, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“But if I don’t sell the house, how am I supposed to take care of it? I live and work in Portland, and my annual salary can’t handle my living expenses and the cost of maintaining this house, too.”
He pulled a teabag from the first cup. “I could help, Annie. Your Aunt always let me stay here as a service, but I could pay rent. In fact, I insist upon it—”
“No.” A blush burned through her pallor. “I couldn’t take money from you, especially not after all you’ve done for the town. But I could do a lot with the proceeds from the house. For one thing, I could hire a boat to search for Olympia, then bury her properly.”
He handed her the mug. “Assuming you could find the casket—which is a long shot—why on earth would you think Olympia cares about being properly buried?”
Annie blinked. “Aunt Olympia always cared about doing the proper thing.”
“But what makes you think she’s concerned about such things now?”
The question seemed to strike home. “I . . . well, maybe she doesn’t. But surely everybody else does. I can only imagine what Vernie and Cleta are saying about me for leaving Olympia to swim with the fishes—”
He laughed softly. “They’re not mobsters, dear, and you heard them at the funeral. They think there’s a certain poetic justice in the way Olympia went out.”
“But Olympia would hate to know they were laughing at her.”
“They’re not laughing at her—I’d bet my last dollar they’re laughing with her.”
Leaning on the counter, she quietly sipped her tea.
Her silence gave him courage. “Your confusion isn’t stemming from the house, Annie, and I think you know that. You’re confused about letting go. Are you ready to let go of Heavenly Daze and move to New York with Alex?”
Surprise blossomed on her face. “Do you want me to move to New York with Alex?”
“I want you to be happy, Annie.”
“Really?” She lowered her mug and looked away, apparently considering the question, and Marc purposely turned his attention to a painting on the wall, afraid to read her thoughts in her eyes. By all that was right and honorable he ought to push her out of the nest and send her off to New York. One day his son would thank him. Maybe he and Annie would come to visit, bringing his grandchildren with them. The trade-off would be worth it, because life on Heavenly Daze without frequent visits from Annie would be dark and dull.
Did he want a delightful daughter-in-law to cherish forever, or—his heart shrank from shaping the question— did he want Annie for himself?
“You’ll have to choose,” he said, his voice sounding strangled as he stirred sugar into his tea. And as he took the first sip, he glanced into the dark brew and saw a coward reflected there—a man so afraid of his feelings he was willing to let a young woman make choices for him.
By 11:00 AM, the island women were seated in the church sanctuary, cleaning supplies scattered among them. Because the church was too small to hire a cleaning service— and because there were none to be had—the women had always agreed to spend the first Thursday of every month polishing the old pews and dusting the antique woodwork.
Edith had arrived first, to unlock the door and set out the cleaning supplies. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet as the other women arrived—they probably thought she was mourning Olympia. Truth was, she did miss Olympia something fierce, but her silence resulted from the fact that she was trying to plan a strategy for coping with the ladies’ lunch that would follow their cleaning session. Each woman always brought a dish, usually a casserole or salad, and after an hour of scrubbing they’d go down to the basement to eat. Trouble was, Edith didn’t have a clue how she would survive the hour.
The only day she’d managed successfully was her first day of “Last Meals.” The second day, when she’d tried to starve herself, had ended in disaster after her meltdown at the funeral dinner. Yesterday she had tried to diet by eating only half of what she usually ate, but the previous day’s starvation had triggered some sort of gorging mechanism and she’d stuffed herself like a hog.
This morning she had risen with new determination— she would arm herself with the low-fat diet plan. She would eat no more than twenty grams of fat per day, thank you very much, so for breakfast she had eaten a low-fat fruit bar that tasted like strawberry-flavored cardboard and three packages of gummy worms. Delicious— and not a smidgen of fat in a single worm.
But how was she supposed to be successful when faced with a table loaded with casseroles and salads, none of which would have labels?
Walking among the pews, searching for errant scraps of paper and old bulletins, she pondered the question and half-listened to the other women’s conversation.
Cleta sat on the first pew, mending an altar cloth, her head bobbing toward the women around her. “Nobody asked my opinion, but I think Crazy Odell ought to have his neck wrung like a chicken.”
“No one can predict a rogue wave, Cleta.” Vernie Bidderman, bent over the communion table, paused from dusting long enough to add her two cents.
“Has the Coast Guard seen her?” Bea asked.
Barbara Higgs lifted her head from where she was mending an altar cloth. “Russell said some fishermen spotted a big floating box around Boothbay Harbor, but they weren’t able to catch her. The Coast Guard’s still keeping an eye out, though.”
“I wonder what Annie will do with the house?” Birdie stopped pushing the dust mop down the aisle and stared into space. “Heavenly Daze won’t be the same without a de Cuvier in Frenchman’s Folly.”
“Just goes to show life is fragile,” Babette called from the back of the church, where she was spritzing the windows with cleaner. “And we should live each day as if it were our last.”
“Anyone talk to Annie lately?” Bea called from the piano. “She puts on her best face when I deliver the mail, but you have to wonder. Poor thing—losing both aunt and uncle in such a short time.”
“Annie’s doing well—that girl has spunk.” Vernie rubbed a spot on the altar table until it squeaked. “I stopped by Frenchmen’s Folly last night, and Annie said she and Caleb have a real peace about Olympia’s passing. I think she’s still a little unnerved about Olympia’s voyage, though.”
A nervous titter erupted, then faded.
By noon the women had made their way down to the basement and the kitchen. Edith felt her eyes water when she beheld the day’s feast: Babette’s cheesy chive potatoes, Vernie’s shrimp scampi, Birdie’s hot yeast rolls, Cleta’s strawberry-rhubarb pie.
Thursday morning cleaning was a diet ambush, pure and simple.
Edith took a spoonful of everything, resigning herself to the fact that she’d chosen a bad day to count fat grams. She’d start again, and she’d be downright religious about her diet . . . tomorrow.
She ate slowly, watching Dana and Babette pack the food away and envying their metabolism. Both women were as slender as flower stems. Barbara Higgs had a little more meat on her bones, but nothing serious. Edith had once been slim, but the older she got, the harder it was to shed extra pounds. She closed her eyes and bit into a hot roll. My, Birdie could make bread.
“I don’t know about you, but I can’t seem to get enough to eat these days,” Vernie complained. She dished up a second helping of cheesy chive potatoes.
“Oh, you’re just in love,” Cleta teased.
Color infused Vernie’s cheeks, but everyone in town knew her husband, Stanley, had taken to courting her like a man with nothing to lose. Stanley Bidderman, who’d gone missing for twenty years, had returned to the island in December and declared his intention to win Vernie’s heart again.
Throughout the months of December and January the townsfolk had waited to see if Vernie would take Stanley back. She had, after considerable soul-searching. Judging by the bloom in Vernie’s cheeks these days, Stanley’s efforts to woo his wife had been a success.
Vernie wasn’t the only woman with roses in her cheeks. After years of being alone, Birdie Wester had fallen hard for the town curmudgeon, Salt Gribbon, and their wedding was only weeks away.
Dana must have followed Edith’s thoughts, for she was grinning at the bride-to-be. “Found a wedding dress yet, Birdie?”
Birdie swallowed a bite of scampi before answering. “Ayuh. Ordered one from the Sears catalog.”
Bea rolled her eyes.
“From a catalog?” Babette dropped her jaw. “Why, Birdie, I would have been happy to go shopping with you. Half the fun is trying on a lot of different wedding gowns.”
“I know you would, Babette, but I don’t want to make a fuss.”
“But it’s your wedding day,” Barbara protested. “If that isn’t a time for fuss, I don’t know what is.”
“I’m sure the wedding itself will be all the fuss Salt can stand.” Birdie chuckled as she buttered another roll. “You ought to see the cake Abner is proposing—six layers, with butter cream frosting and fresh raspberry filling.”
Edith wiped drool from her mind.
Bea snorted. “Raspberries give me a rash.”
Birdie smiled. “Abner knows that, sister—he’s going to make a special cake for you—one without filling.”
Edith stared at Dana’s pistachio salad, mentally calculating the ingredients—Cool Whip wasn’t too bad fat-wise, especially if it was the nonfat variety. The nuts, however, were terribly high in fat—but it was good fat, wasn’t it? The pineapple was okay, no fat. Ditto for the marshmallows. But the pistachio pudding . . . the fat content depended on what kind of milk Dana had used.
Edith reached for the bowl, then plopped a teaspoon full onto her paper plate. Okay, so she’d blown the low-fat diet, but maybe she could work it off. She did have a “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” videotape gathering dust in the cabinet.
“Does it seem odd to anyone other than me that we’re carrying on as if nothing has happened?” Babette lowered her fork as her eyes went misty. “Olympia is barely cold and here we are joking about cakes and weddings.”
“Life goes on, Babette,” Edith gently reminded her. “Not even Olympia would want us to sit around mourning for days. She certainly wouldn’t want Birdie and Salt to delay their wedding. She was looking forward to it.”
Babette sighed. “I know. But sometimes it seems like the world barely notices when a person leaves it.”
“People notice,” Birdie insisted. “Every life touches some other life, so people notice. Never doubt that.”
On the short walk home, Edith wondered if any of the women had noticed her halfhearted attempt to eat less than usual. Probably not, because on her arm she carried a basket loaded with rolls, a container of cheesy chive potatoes, and pistachio pudding. The women always insisted on giving her their leftovers, but their generosity was doing Edith no favors.
She berated herself for her lack of willpower. Until lately she had thought of herself as a woman with a strong will and loads of common sense. Today, for instance, she could have eaten a small serving of scampi and a big bowl of plain salad. She could have skipped the rolls, the potatoes, and the two servings of pistachio salad, but she had eaten like a glutton—because of that blasted low-fat diet plan.
It was too difficult, too much trouble.
She had to find another plan, and she would. Right after supper.
Feeling better if not lighter, Edith felt her confidence begin to return. Why, she could stay on a diet as well or better than the next woman. Tonight she would sit down with her magazines and study the latest dieting advice. And tomorrow, she’d be perfect.
She would have to be careful, however, because Winslow thought diets were all silly fads. Plus, he seemed oblivious to the extra pounds she carried.
Edith stamped her feet with renewed energy on the front porch steps. Tonight she’d prepare a sensible dinner so Winslow wouldn’t suspect a thing. Then she’d help him eat the last of the leftovers, and tomorrow she’d begin again with a clean slate.
Tomorrow, she’d be resolute.
Over dinner, Edith slowly ate her sensible meal (chicken and broccoli and leftovers), then lowered her fork and looked at her husband. “How was your day, dear?”
“Hmm?” He glanced up from a steno pad on the table, then dropped his eyes to his notes.
“What did you do today?”
Winslow usually shared his activities during supper, but tonight he seemed more interested in his notes than in her. Edith knew Olympia’s sudden death had affected him, but would it hurt him to make a personal contribution to the conversation?
Sighing, she stood to pour herself another cup of decaf coffee.
Her movement must have signaled something to her absent husband, for he turned a page on his notepad and spoke: “I think I am going to leave Obadiah and center on Nahum for the next twelve weeks. I think my flock is ready for a bit of a change.”
Edith groaned. Only the most dedicated Christian could make it through twelve weeks of Nahum without keeling over.
Sinking back into her chair, she changed the subject. “When did you schedule Birdie and Salt for premarital counseling?”
He peered at his notes over the edge of his glasses. “Hmm . . . first of next month.”
Edith tore open two packages of aspartame and dumped the contents into her cup. “Birdie ordered her dress from the Sears catalog.”
“That’s nice.”
She stirred the coffee so forcefully her spoon threatened to break the glass. Winslow was on autopilot. She sipped from her coffee cup, then said, “The color is orange, the bodice is cut to the navel, and the dress is backless.”
“That’s nice, sweetie.” He looked up, his eyes blank orbs, then squinted at her. “Did you say orange?”
“Never mind, Win.”
Sighing, she took her coffee and walked into the living room, then stepped out onto the front porch. The sun had set an hour before, and lights lit the porches of houses down the street. Across the road, the Grahams would be gathered around the table with Georgie, and just past the church, Cleta, Floyd, Russell, and Barbara would be sitting down to a dinner of crab cakes and potatoes. Cleta had mentioned her dinner plans at lunch, and Edith’s mouth had watered at the menu.
What was wrong with her? Instead of learning to live without food, she seemed to be obsessing over it!
Shivering, she took another sip of her coffee. The liquid warmed her throat and brought heat to her cheeks, which were already beginning to feel the effects of the cold.
In the distance a harbor buoy clanged through lowering fog. Edith bit back tears as she stood alone in the darkness, thinking about all the happy times she and Winslow had experienced. God had blessed her with health, meaningful friendships, and a loving and devoted husband. So why was she standing here feeling miserable?
Because she was overweight. Because the last couple of days had proved she had absolutely no self-control. She had always considered herself a leader among the women; in the last three days she had learned she had no backbone at all. She couldn’t even stand up to her own foolish desires for food.
Arming herself with resolve, she went back into the house. She reached under the coffee table for the latest issue of Good Housekeeping, then spied a provocative headline: I lost thirty pounds in one month eating meat and potatoes, and you can, too!
She opened the magazine and ran her finger down the table of contents, searching for the article.
“Edith?”
She glanced up to see Winslow silhouetted in the doorway.
“Honey, are you all right?” He crossed the room and sat beside her on the sofa. When he spotted the betraying shimmer of tears in her eyes, his expression softened. “Is something bothering you?”
Edith longed to confess everything, for Winslow would undoubtedly assure her she was fine, he loved her, she didn’t need to worry about her weight. But he saw her every day, and he hadn’t noticed how she had changed over the years. Furthermore, he deserved to have a wife who looked pretty by his side.
Sliding into his arms, Edith rested her head on his solid shoulder, then crinkled her nose. He smelled of shrimp and butter.
“I’m feeling a little melancholy tonight, Win. Nothing serious.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. But thanks for asking.”
She was sure, for tomorrow would bring another day and a fresh start. Armed with this article in Good Housekeeping, she’d meet her eating opportunities with courage and resolve. She would win the war against excess pounds one day at a time.
“I adore you, Edith Wickam.” Winslow dropped a kiss on her forehead before he stood and walked back to the kitchen where his notes waited.
“I adore you, too, Win,” she whispered. “Enough to make you proud of me again.”
“Honey? Where’d you put the new toothpaste?”
“Under the sink, Win.” Edith wound the clock and set it on the bed stand. Winslow’s and Stanley’s recent remodeling job had resulted in a spacious new area beneath the sink to store supplies from the hall closet. She wouldn’t wish the remodeling process on her worst enemy, but the results were pretty and added a much-needed update to the parsonage.
She picked up her Bible as Winslow continued to rattle around in the adjoining bathroom. Closing her eyes, she rested the open book across her breast and sighed, trying to summon enough concentration to read a few Scriptures.
An image from a TV commercial blazed on the backs of her eyelids. A giant taco, designed to tantalize, was practically pornographic in the way it drew attention to the crispy shell, thick shredded cheese, tiny bits of tangy tomato. Never had a picture been more carefully designed to arouse the lust of the flesh—
Opening her eyes, she blinked the image away. What was wrong with her? She had never been this fixated on food before. She had resolved to eat less, but somehow her brain had translated that into a food preoccupation. . . .
The bed sagged as Winslow sat down and pulled off his slippers. Removing his glasses, he placed them on the nightstand, and then rolled under the covers.
“Ahh.” He snuggled beneath the electric blanket’s warmth. “I’ll be glad when spring comes.”
Edith nodded. “Me, too. Can’t wait to see my crocus and hyacinths along the front porch.”
Too bad she couldn’t eat her spring flowers—they were undoubtedly low calorie.
She smiled when she heard Winslow sigh contentedly. Within minutes he would be asleep.
Lifting the Bible, she tried to concentrate on a verse from Ecclesiastes:
While still seeking wisdom, I clutched at foolishness. In this way, I hoped to experience the only happiness most people find during their brief life in this world.
Why did people insist on reaching for foolish things when they knew wisdom was better? Why did she?
Winslow’s voice startled her.
“Something is bothering you tonight, Edith. What is it?”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She shook her head as she snagged a tissue from the box on the nightstand.
“It’s just . . . everything,” she said, hating the way her voice trembled. “Olympia and Bea and Annie—it’s a time of change, and change isn’t easy.”
She fell quiet, hoping Winslow would accept her answer at face value. Everyone’s emotions had been close to the surface all week, but the reason for her tears went far deeper. She was indulging in her own private pity party because she wasn’t as thin as she used to be.
Win’s voice drew her back. “Edith?”
Closing the Bible, she shut her eyes. “It’s nothing, Win. Nothing important, just . . . foolishness.”
“It’s the diet thing, isn’t it?” His voice held a note of reservation; she knew he disliked diets, always said they never worked. All things in moderation, he believed, but Edith didn’t have time for moderation with Birdie’s wedding less than two months away. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
She opened her eyes and turned to face him. “I have to lose two dress sizes by the end of next month, Win. Otherwise I have nothing to wear to Birdie’s wedding.” She reached out to run her hand along his cheek. “I know you don’t approve of diets, but I’m asking you to be a little tolerant so I can reach my goal.”
“Edith.” Sighing, he stroked her arm. “Why do women agonize about their weight?”
She shrugged. “We just do.”
Winslow nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, then. I will try to understand your desire to lose a few pounds, but only if you consult Dr. Marc and do exactly as he says. I don’t want you going on one of those fad diets and making yourself sick.”
“Why should I see Dr. Marc? When I had my physical last year he said I was as healthy as a horse.” Not the most flattering diagnosis, but welcome nevertheless.
“Dr. Marc will recommend a sound program. I trust him.”
And he didn’t trust her? Edith pulled away, a little hurt, but Winslow didn’t understand. Besides, she knew what Dr. Marc would say: Eat according to the food pyramid, exercise, take it slow and easy. Sound advice, sure, but too slow if she was going to wear her peach dress for Birdie’s wedding.
When she didn’t answer, Win nudged her. “Do I have your promise?”
“Uh hum.” Edith felt an urgent need to change the subject. “Can you turn the blanket down, hon? My side is getting too warm.”
“Sure.” He turned the dial down a notch, then snuggled closer to her side. “I love you like you are, Edith.”
“I know, Win.” She patted his hand, feeling only a little guilty. She might have to fudge a bit to get around Win’s wishes, but she’d be careful. Men just didn’t understand. They lost weight quicker than women, they kept it off easier, and they didn’t suffer from hormonal rages that made them want to eat everything in sight, particularly if it was made of chocolate. . . .
She’d go see Dr. Marc if it’d make Winslow feel better, then she’d do whatever it took to get the weight off. And when she stood by Winslow’s side, mixing with guests at Birdie’s wedding reception, she’d be the picture of elegant grace in peach and silver. . . .
Simply lovely.