Just before the church service was to begin on Sunday morning, Edith looked up from her pew and saw Winslow gesturing to her from behind the piano. Sliding out of her seat, she hurried to him. “What is it, Win?”
His face twisted in a pained expression as he held his stomach. “That cabbage is repeating on me something awful. Do you have any more of those pills?”
Edith shook her head. She’d taken the last two Gas-X tablets five minutes ago. The cabbage soup diet was working—her scale had rewarded her with a two-pound loss this morning—but the dreadful side effects had made her anxious. For the past two days both she and Winslow had popped Beano like jellybeans, but problems still periodically . . . erupted.
“I’m sorry, Win, but I don’t have—”
With uncharacteristic abruptness, he interrupted her thought. “Then ask Vernie to open the mercantile and get me some before I have to preach.”
Edith had never seen her husband so upset. She bit her lower lip and turned to search the congregation, then spotted Vernie and Stanley coming through the back door. “Hold on,” she muttered. “Stay calm and I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Hurry, please. The service begins in less than ten minutes and I’ll be dangerous without that medicine. If Beatrice gets a whiff of the results of your cabbage soup, you’ll have to play the piano this morning.”
Edith hurried up the aisle, smiling quick greetings to the assembling church members. She grabbed Vernie’s arm just as the mercantile owner was about to sit down.
“Quick, Vernie. Winslow needs something from the store.”
Vernie glanced at Stanley. “Can it wait?”
Edith tugged the woman out of the pew. “No time for questions. The service starts in a few minutes.”
“What in the world?”
“Just hurry, will you?”
Sprinting down the steps, Edith led the way across the church lawn, where melting snow covered the ground in patches. “Edith, this is crazy,” Vernie panted. “What’s the hurry?”
“No time for questions. Run!”
When they reached the store, Vernie fumbled with the key in the lock. Impatient, Edith commandeered the keys and unlocked the door, then pushed her way into the shop. Behind her, Vernie shouted, “What? What does Winslow need?”
Edith bolted for the apothecary counter and scanned the shelves. Thank the Lord, she saw Gas-X and Beano. She grabbed a package of each, then turned and ran for the door.
“I’ll pay you later,” she called. “Thanks!”
Rooted to the spot, Vernie blinked. “Winslow has the rumbles? That’s your big emergency?”
Bea was pounding out the last chorus of “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” when Edith rushed back into the sanctuary. Heads turned as a blast of wind from the open door fluttered the hymnals. Relief flooded Winslow’s face when Edith calmly walked down the center aisle and approached the altar. He accepted a small packet from her, then slipped it into his pocket. Apparently oblivious to everything, Micah kept waving his arms, leading the congregation in song.
By the time the tinkling piano had faded to silence, the pastor had popped three orange gel tabs into his mouth. After Micah’s brief prayer, Winslow strode confidently to the pulpit.
Back in her pew, Edith exhaled in relief. No more cabbage soup; it wasn’t fair to Winslow.
And her heart couldn’t take the strain.
Coming out of church, Edith drew her collar tighter. Her head ached, and all weekend she’d felt like she was coming down with something. The cabbage soup diet offered plenty of food, just not the kind Edith was used to eating. She found herself craving foods with crunch, and throughout Winslow’s sermon she had fantasized about her favorite noisy foods, beginning at the start of the alphabet: apples, bacon, Cracker Jack . . . by the time she got to the Ps (pretzels, pistachios, pickles, peanut brittle, and Pringles), Winslow had begun the benediction.
The balmy weather had held over the weekend— temperatures remained in the thirties, leaving the islanders with nothing to complain about but unnaturally sunny skies. Winslow stood in the vestibule to shake hands with the departing congregation, and Edith took her place by his side, still running foods through her mind.
She was listing the crunchy Ss (snickerdoodles, sugar snap beans), when Floyd cornered Winslow and started in again about the ferry.
“I hear it’s supposed to be finished at the York Harbor marina sometime tomorrow, Pastor. You want to ride with me up to York to bring her home? I’ve got a fisherman picking me up at the dock, 10 AM sharp.”
Winslow squinted at the mayor. “Does that mean I’ll have to ride back with you, um, driving the ferry?”
“Of course. But if your wife needs a run into Ogunquit, I’d be happy to take you both along.”
Winslow’s shoulders slumped as he glanced at Edith. “You need a run into Ogunquit?”
She knew he was hoping she’d say no, but she did have a mile-long list of low-calorie foods she wanted to investigate. “I’d love to go to Ogunquit tomorrow,” she said, slipping her arm through Winslow’s. “And I’d be honored to ride with Floyd as ferry captain.”
Visibly pleased, the mayor grinned at her. “Cleta and I would be tickled if you and Pastor could join us for supper Wednesday night.”
Winslow caught Edith’s eye again. “Dear? Do you have other plans?”
Edith winced inwardly. Eating out would be murder on her diet, but Winslow enjoyed spending time with his church members. She’d just have to find a way to make it through.
She nodded and forced a smile. “That would be nice, Floyd. Ask Cleta what I can bring.”
“Just bring yourself, that’s treat enough.”
She looked away as Floyd moved on down the church steps, calling for his wife. Cleta would probably make her famous spaghetti and garlic bread—and Edith adored spaghetti and garlic bread.
Her head was beginning to pound when Bea emerged from the church and glanced toward the lighthouse. “Has anyone seen Birdie?”
Edith shook her head.
Winslow took Bea’s hand. “I was meaning to ask where Birdie went during the sermon. I hope she isn’t ill.”
The postmistress frowned. “When Salt and the kids didn’t show up by the time you started preaching, Birdie ran up to the lighthouse to check on them.” Bea peered toward the north end of the island. “I wonder if something’s wrong. Brittany or Bobby could’ve taken sick during the night. You know how she loves to take care of those kids.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Babette said, rocking from side to side as her son Georgie dragged her through the crowd. “But I’d be happy to send Charles up there to see about things.”
“Mom!”
Vernie, who stood between Bea and the wall, effectively halted Georgie’s progress.
“I can’t get out! Vernie’s big ole caboose is in the way!”
Babette calmly clapped a hand over her son’s mouth and lifted a brow. “Sorry, Vernie,” she said, ignoring the boy squirming in her grasp. “We’re working on his manners.”
Edith gave the frazzled mother a sympathetic look. Babette and Charles had not yet made a public announcement about her pregnancy; perhaps they were still in shock. Edith could only pray the Lord would send them a quiet, sweet little girl to provide balance in their home.
Vernie scowled at Georgie, who promptly scowled back. Babette dragged her son toward Charles, who stood in the center of the church, talking to Zuriel Smith, the potter who lived in their guest cottage.
Edith closed her eyes in relief that Georgie had not veered her way and commented on her caboose.
One thing was certain—if she ate another bowl of soup, she’d probably never listen to another of Winslow’s sermons without drooling. Twenty minutes of food fantasy accompanied by a lesson on the Minor Prophets had undoubtedly ingrained a Pavlovian psychological response that nothing but New York Cheesecake and butter-brushed lobster could erase.
So—this afternoon they would throw out the leftover cabbage soup and go on a scavenger hunt in the pantry. And as soon as Floyd got the ferry running, she’d go into Ogunquit, attend a Pound Pinchers meeting, and raid the grocery for some of those pre-packaged diet foods. The portions were rabbit-sized, but that was okay. Anything was better than endless cabbage soup.
And, though her mind could be playing tricks on her, she was almost certain she was losing weight. No one could see anything in the tent dresses she favored for church, but her underwear wasn’t cutting into her thighs like it usually did. . . .
Could anything feel better than that?
From the sidewalk, Babette yelled for their attention. “Look—isn’t that Birdie coming?”
Edith joined the others craning their necks. Birdie was approaching in her golf cart, driving like a maniac as she swerved to avoid potholes.
Wheeling the cart into the churchyard, Birdie came to a quick stop, then waved her hand. “Where’s Dr. Marc? And Pastor?”
Winslow hurried out of the vestibule. “I’m here, Birdie.”
Edith brought her hand to her chest as Dr. Marc, who’d been talking to Caleb and Stanley Bidderman, hurried toward the golf cart.
“There’s a problem at the lighthouse. It’s Salt.” Birdie’s eyes were like two burnt holes in a blanket, dark with fear and worry. “I need you to come quick.”
Neither man hesitated. Dr. Marc swung into the passenger seat next to Birdie, while Winslow climbed on the back bench and hung on to a post.
“Micah!” Dr. Marc’s voice rang with authority. “My medical bag is by the front door of the clinic. Will you bring it?”
Micah Smith nodded, then sprinted around the corner of the church. Edith took two steps forward, curious to see if the man would run all the way to the clinic, but when she looked at the space between the church and the B&B, the gardener had disappeared.
She whistled in appreciation. That fellow was fast.
While the townspeople gaped, Birdie wheeled the cart around and drove back to the lighthouse full throttle, the pastor’s head bobbing from the back bench. As they pulled away, comments erupted from various sources.
“What in the world?”
“Must be a problem.”
“Did she say Salt or one of the kids?”
“Salt.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“His heart, do you think?”
“You never know. The man is seventy.”
Forgetting food for the moment, Edith took off for the lighthouse at a fast walk. Win might need her help. She half walked, half jogged to Puffin Cove, pausing twice to catch her breath.
If this didn’t count as aerobic exercise, she didn’t know what would.
When she reached the lighthouse, she rapped on the open door, then stepped inside. Winslow, Birdie, and Dr. Marc were bent over a cot where Salt sat with his hand cupped to his forehead. Edith looked for the children, then spied Bobby and Brittany sitting in beanbag chairs, their eyes wide and worried.
“Stop all this fussin’,” the old sea captain grumbled. “Just had a little dizzy spell. Nothing to get upset about.”
Micah came in behind Edith, carrying Dr. Marc’s medical bag. After handing the bag to the doctor, he went and sat between the kids.
Dr. Marc gave the old sea captain a kindly smile. “Feeling better now, Salt?”
The old man met the doctor’s eyes, and even from a distance Edith could see fear in them. “Got up to pour a cup of coffee. The room spun and down I went.”
The doctor unbuttoned Salt’s shirt, then pressed a stethoscope to his chest. “Have you been taking your blood pressure medicine?”
Salt nodded. “I don’t think it’s my blood pressure.”
“Oh, Salt.” Birdie stood to the side, a wet washcloth in her hand and a helpless look on her face.
Dr. Marc lifted his head and gently addressed his audience. “If you would all be so kind as to wait at the kitchen table, I’ll be able to give Captain Gribbon a brief examination.”
“Just a little dizzy spell,” Salt insisted. “Nothing to get all fussed up about.”
Birdie reached out to touch his hand. “I’ll be right over there if you need anything.”
Edith moved toward the kitchen table, understanding completely. Marc needed room to work, and he didn’t need Salt reading the fear on their faces.
Brittany peered up at Edith with earnest blue eyes. “Is the grandfather sick?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, dear.” Edith patted the young girl’s head. “Dr. Marc will take good care of him.”
Brittany nodded gravely. “Maybe he needs HRT—but people who have a prior history of strokes, cancer, or liver damage must talk to their doctors before commencing treatment.”
Edith glanced down. “You watch a lot of television, don’t you, dear?”
“Not anymore,” Bobby interrupted. “The grandfather’s TV only gets one channel.”
Edith sighed and drew the little girl closer. HRT indeed. Whatever ailed Salt, she was certain he did not require hormone replacement therapy.
Fifteen minutes passed before Dr. Marc stood and closed his medical bag. Birdie hurried to the captain’s side. “Is everything all right?”
Salt nodded. “Right as rain. Like I said, a little dizzy spell.”
Dr. Marc snapped his black bag. “I’m not sure what caused the episode. Salt, I’d like you to come to my office tomorrow so we can run a few tests. I don’t think it’s anything serious, but there’s no harm in being sure. Besides, it’s been a while since your last physical, hasn’t it?”
Salt grudgingly acknowledged that it had been.
“Then we’ll kill two birds with one stone. Come down to the clinic tomorrow. I’ll run a few tests, check you over, and have you home by lunchtime. Birdie can look after the kids while you’re out.”
“Ayuh, I can.” Birdie clucked over her fiancé, drawing an afghan around his shoulders. “I’ll fix you a bowl of soup before I go—you must be starved.”
Soup? Edith pressed a hand to her stomach. The thought of soup, particularly if it contained cabbage, made her ill.
“No soup.” Salt dismissed the offer. “Give me something I can sink my teeth into—maybe some corned beef ?”
Edith looked away as her mouth began to water. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be wrestling a sick old man for first-bite rights to his sandwich.
“Win?” She stood. “I think it’s time we should head back.”
At 4:30 on Sunday afternoon, Edith wandered into her kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and gazed critically at the contents. Every drop of the cabbage soup had been poured down the disposal. Fortunately, her refrigerator contained several items that fit beautifully into the Pound Pinchers Plan. What she didn’t have, she could pick up in Ogunquit tomorrow.
After the excitement at the lighthouse, she had come home and gone through her cookbook collection. Sure enough, she had a Pound Pinchers cookbook she’d picked up at Wal-Mart, and the editors had explained the entire program in the first few pages.
The sensible eating plan centered on the idea of points and portions; she could eat virtually anything she wanted within her permitted points per day. After looking over a few suggested menus, she saw that she could manage pretty well—she could eat all her favorite foods, even a few high-calorie treats, as long as she remembered to cut back somewhere else.
In addition to cookbooks and prepackaged foods, Pound Pinchers also encouraged “losers” to attend group meetings. Edith riffled through the cookbook and thought the plan made sense. Eating sensibly, drinking six to eight glasses of water, getting reasonable exercise—even Dr. Marc would approve.
But the day’s excitement had stirred up her appetite, and by three o’clock she had eaten twenty-six points—the most a woman of her height could manage and still remain on the plan.
Trouble was, she was still hungry.
And a bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup was calling her name.
Moments later Winslow glanced up when she walked into the den. His pleasant expression shifted to disbelief. “Edith! You have a chocolate moustache!”
“I do not!” She hurriedly swiped her sleeve across her mouth, then picked up her knitting needles. Winslow dropped his head, a grin creasing the corners of his mouth.
Before she could begin a row, the doorbell chimed. Winslow got up, nearly tripping over the recliner footrest. “I’ll get it.”
A moment later he returned to the den, Birdie Wester in tow. As he helped her out of her coat, Birdie cast Edith an apologetic look. “Sorry to barge in on a Sunday afternoon.”
“It’s no trouble, Birdie.” She stood and gave the woman a welcoming smile. “How is Salt?”
“Resting comfortably, thank you. But we’ve been talking . . . and that’s why I’m here.”
Winslow gestured toward the worn sofa against the wall. “Have a seat, Birdie, and tell us what’s on your mind.”
The bride-to-be sank to the couch and clasped her hands together. For a long moment she said nothing, then she released a long sigh and looked up. “Life is uncertain, Pastor.”
“Ayuh,” Winslow agreed. “It’s a vapor, here one minute and gone the next.”
“Ayuh.”
Edith went to sit beside her friend. Taking Birdie’s hand, she rubbed warmth back into the blue-veined fingers. “You seemed worried. Are you afraid Dr. Marc was wrong about Salt’s spell not being serious?”
“No, Salt trusts the doctor.” Birdie smiled, tears brightening her eyes. “It’s only that Salt and I have just found each other . . . at our ages, you know . . . and life is short, so we have to seize every minute.”
Winslow smiled. “You don’t have to worry, Birdie. The
Lord numbers our days and holds our hearts. If the Lord wills, you and Salt could have years together. And you’ll always have eternity.”
“Olympia thought she had years, too.” Birdie’s voice held a note of panic. “And look what happened to her! Besides, I’ll have to share Salt in eternity, and I want him all to myself for a while. Selfish, I know.”
Edith shook her head. “I know what you mean, hon.” She smiled at her pastor-husband. “Sometimes it’s hard to share the man you love.”
Winslow ran his finger down the arm of his recliner. “It was Olympia’s time to go. But Salt’s a strong man; I’m sure he’ll come through this little dizzy spell like the captain he is.”
“Maybe.” Clearing her throat, Birdie brushed wetness from her eyes. “That’s why I’ve stopped by. Salt and I have decided to move the wedding up.”
Edith’s stomach hit the floor. Move the wedding up? They couldn’t! She was nowhere near fitting into that dress!
Winslow laughed. “Well, that’s fine. There’s not a soul on the island who would begrudge you a moment of happiness.” While Edith stared at him in horror, he reached for his appointment book and flipped through the pages. “Let’s see. When were you thinking, Birdie?”
“Maybe . . . the twenty-eighth?”
Winslow nodded. “The twenty-eighth of March? That’s already your date.”
“The twenty-eighth of this month,” Birdie corrected.
He looked up. “You mean—next week? That gives you only eleven days to prepare.”
Birdie nodded. “We talked it over, and we don’t see any reason to wait. Other than Patrick, everybody is already here. The ferry should be operating by then, in case there are any guests from Ogunquit. Sears should be sending my dress any day, and Abner can bake the wedding cake on a few hours’ notice.”
Edith gazed at her guest in astonishment. “But . . what about Salt’s health?”
“Doesn’t matter to me. The vows say ‘in sickness and in health,’ don’t they?”
Scribbling in his notebook, Winslow paused. “The twenty-eighth is a Thursday.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s when Patrick finishes his sixty days at that treatment facility he entered, so that’s the soonest he can come home.” Birdie set her chin. “Salt and I want all the time we can get together.”
“Birdie, dear, there’s no need for such urgency,” Edith soothed. “Eleven days is hardly enough time to arrange flowers and make rice bags and address the invitations—”
“Hang the flowers—hang the bouquet, even. I’ll carry my mother’s Bible and we’ll tuck the money we save into our savings account. I’ll ask Vernie if I can borrow some of her ferns to set around the front of the church, and I know Micah can come up with something for flowers.” The bakery owner sent Winslow a steely glance. “The twenty-eighth, Pastor. One week from this coming Thursday.”
One week from Thursday. The words echoed in Edith’s brain like a death sentence.
Winslow nodded. “If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what we want. Thanks for being flexible and all.”
Nodding, Birdie got up. She stood for a moment, not speaking, until Winslow peered at her above the rims of his glasses. “Something else, Birdie?”
“No,” she said, turning toward the door. “Just dreadin’ the thought of telling Bea about the change.”