On Wednesday, Edith phoned Floyd as soon as the grandfather clock struck eight. Would he mind taking the ferry to Ogunquit this morning? She had an emergency she had to take care of in town.
She could almost see Floyd’s skeptical expression, but he promised to meet her on the dock in twenty minutes. Grateful, Edith hung up the phone, then slipped on her dark coat, scarf and sunglasses. Winslow was singing in the shower, so he wouldn’t hear her slip away. Soon he’d dress and go to his study to work on his sermon; with a little luck it’d be lunchtime before he noticed she’d gone out.
She left the house and hurried to the public restrooms. Only two shakes remained in the cardboard box— two out of twenty-four.
My heaven. Had she really drunk twenty shakes since yesterday?
She popped the top of a strawberry can and drained the contents like a lobsterman guzzling beer. As she exhaled a contented sigh, she looked at the can and lifted a brow.
Funny, how they’d gone from being “not bad” to “delicious” in the space of a few hours.
Fortified by another dose of fake food, she tied the scarf under her chin and set out for the ferry.
An hour later she stood in the Ogunquit grocery, watching the clerk ring up another two dozen drinks. The young woman behind the cash register eyed the cans as she ran them through the scanner. “Are these any good?”
Edith couldn’t lie. “They’re delicious, but I get a little hungry on them.”
The woman laughed. “I don’t see how you could. Didn’t you buy a case yesterday?”
Her cheeks burning, Edith searched for her checkbook. “I’m concerned the weather will turn bad and I might not get back over for awhile.” She paid for her purchase and picked up the box.
This time she didn’t possess the energy for pride. When Floyd offered to take the box from her at the dock, she handed it over without a word. He scowled as he shifted it to his hip. “What have you got in here? Lead?”
Edith didn’t answer; she trudged into the cabin, then sank to the seat and stared straight ahead. She ought to be feeling great—according to her calculations, yesterday she’d ingested five thousand calories. She ought to have energy to spare, so why did she feel so listless and unsatisfied?
Maybe the wedding was to blame, or the emotional rollercoaster she’d been riding this month with Olympia’s funeral and Birdie’s wedding coming so close together. Maybe the problem was Win’s lack of sympathy . . . and the fact that he had lost weight on her diet without even trying.
Life wasn’t fair, and it certainly didn’t make sense.
After safely docking at Heavenly Daze (he was getting the hang of it and had timed this landing perfectly), Floyd Lansdown watched Edith trudge up the hill with her heavy box. Rubbing his whiskered chin, he glanced down at Butch, who had boarded the boat when they landed.
“I don’t know, old boy, but I think that woman’s in trouble.”
Butch whined, his tail wagging, until Floyd fished a doggie treat out of a canister Stroble kept at the helm. He tossed the cookie to Butch, then leaned on the wheel and stared at Edith’s retreating figure. “I ain’t one for buttin’ in anybody’s business, you understand, but I am a mite concerned for the preacher’s wife.”
Butch crunched the biscuit, showering crumbs on the fiberglass floor.
Floyd squinted as the pastor’s wife moved past the parsonage and kept walking. Where in tarnation was she taking that load? To the bathrooms? He pulled back, his dignity affronted, and Edith disappeared through a brick doorway. Why, those were public restrooms, not community lockers. Nobody used ’em in winter, so she wasn’t doing any harm, but if everybody decided to hide their goodies in the bathroom, they’d have a real mess come tourist season.
Floyd pulled his pipe from his pocket, then thrust it between his teeth. He usually minded his own business; didn’t like to stir the waters, but he could spot trouble a mile away—in this instance, fifty yards off.
Something had to be done. Edith hadn’t looked herself this morning, and it was a sure bet Pastor Winslow didn’t know about her gallivantin’ around in a Jackie O disguise.
As mayor of Heavenly Daze, he had an obligation to look after his constituents.
Ayuh.
He did.
Strains of the “Wedding March” drifted from the church as Floyd climbed the hill just before dusk. He’d meant to visit the pastor as soon as possible, but then Babette and Dana had wanted to run over to Ogunquit to shop. After he had taken them over, Stanley had called and asked if he could ride with Floyd just to get out of the house— Vernie was getting anxious about her wedding solo, and Stanley was afraid of getting his head bit off.
So Stanley had come over and they’d taken the ferry to pick up Babette and Dana, but he was no further than half-way across when Cleta had called him back to pick her up because she had to get her dress from the dry cleaners . . . and so it went. Before he knew it, the day had faded away, and he’d lost count of how many times he’d piloted the ferry to Ogunquit and back.
No wonder Stroble insisted upon only three ferry runs per day in the off-season.
Shadows were settling beneath the trees as he trudged toward the church, but lights glowed in the old building’s stained-glass windows.
He opened the door and walked through the vestibule, where painted portraits of Captain Jacques de Cuvier and Winslow Wickam peered down at him. In the sanctuary beyond, Salt and Birdie, Bobbie and Brittany, Cleta and Stanley stood at the front. Vernie sat on the front pew, across from Bea at the ivories.
Floyd lingered in the doorway, figuring Cleta would have his head if he interrupted the rehearsal. Bea caught sight of him, though, and slipped away from the piano.
“Floyd?” she asked, approaching. “What are you doing here this late in the day?”
Floyd shrugged and clasped his hands. “I’m here to talk to the pastor.”
Bea’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s about the ferry, it can wait. He’s busy.”
Floyd bristled. “It’s not about the ferry. And I’m perfectly willing to wait.”
Her hand rose to her hip. “Then what is it about?
We’re in the middle of a rehearsal.”
He crossed his arms. “None of your business, Beatrice. You just go about your piano playing and leave me in peace. This thing can’t take much longer, so I’ll sit here and wait.”
“Hmmpf.” Bea whirled away and went back to her piano bench, but not before pecking the pastor on the shoulder and jerking her thumb toward Floyd. Winslow nodded, murmured a few more things to Salt and Birdie, then held up his hands and announced that he’d see them all tomorrow at four o’clock.
Leaving the wedding party to gab about last-minute details, the pastor excused himself and proceeded down the aisle. He greeted Floyd with a smile. “Something up, Floyd?”
The mayor twisted the brim of his captain’s hat. “Maybe—but we ought to talk in private.”
Floyd glanced around. The church had no office, only the sanctuary and the fellowship hall.
“Shall we go to the parsonage?” Winslow asked.
Floyd hesitated. “Maybe the fellowship hall would be better.”
Winslow gave him a curious look, but said nothing as he led Floyd toward the stairs.
A few minutes later they sat at a long folding table. Winslow’s eyes shone with frank curiosity. “Tell me what’s on your mind, friend.”
Floyd scratched the edge of his thumbnail. “I know something I think you ought to know—but I don’t want you thinking that I’m sticking my nose in where it don’t belong.”
The pastor leaned back in his chair. “I won’t think that. And I’m here to offer assistance if one of our people needs it. So—” he leaned closer—“who needs help?”
“Edith.”
Winslow smile faded. “My Edith?”
“Ayuh. I think she’s in trouble.”
Winslow paled, coming halfway out of his seat. “What do you mean, trouble? Is she sick?” He glanced toward the door as if he might have to make a hasty exit.
“I think she will be if she keeps this up.”
As Winslow stared in disbelief, Floyd told the story of Edith’s grocery trips and her surreptitious deposits in the public restrooms. “I know that box was full of meal replacement drinks because I recognized one of the cans. Barbara drinks those things ever now and then. They don’t seem to do her a lick of good.”
Winslow sank back into his chair. “Edith wouldn’t do anything so foolhardy—she promised me she would lose weight sensibly.”
“Aw, Pastor, you know women and their weight. None of ’em are sensible when it comes to dieting. But I thought you ought to know your wife was looking a mite streaked this morning.” Slapping his hands on his thighs, Floyd stood up. “Well, I’ve got to be getting home. Cleta’s making goulash tonight.”
Obviously preoccupied with the bombshell he had just dropped, Winslow nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Floyd paused before heading out the side door. “Don’t mean to cause trouble between you and your missus— just thought you ought to know. There’s been enough excitement around here lately.”
“Indeed,” Winslow murmured. “Far too much.”
Winslow had intended to go straight home and talk to Edith, but Bea caught him in the sanctuary. After he had spent twenty minutes artfully dodging questions about what Floyd had wanted (Heavens! He couldn’t have this story known around town!), the postmistress changed gears and began to talk about how much she’d miss Birdie after the wedding.
In those words Winslow recognized the ring of truth, so for thirty minutes he sat quietly on the front pew while Bea poured out her heart. “I know I shouldn’t feel this way, Pastor,” she finished, “but I can’t help it.”
That’s when Abner Smith appeared. Standing quietly at the back of the sanctuary, he walked forward when Bea began to wind down, then slipped onto the pew and took her hand.
“Miss Bea, it’s getting late. Birdie sent me to walk you home.”
Bea turned wide eyes upon him. “Birdie was worried about me?”
“Of course.” Abner smiled when he met Winslow’s gaze. “Birdie will always worry about you. You’re her sister, and no one can take your place—no more than anyone can take your place in the family of God.”
Bea’s face softened in the church’s golden lights. “That’s a lovely thought, Abner.”
The baker smiled, then lifted Bea to her feet. “Come on home where it’s warm. The temperature’s falling outside, and Birdie doesn’t want you coming down with a cold.”
A little of the glow went out of Bea’s face. “She doesn’t want me taking sick before the wedding, you mean.”
Abner shook his head. “She didn’t mention the wedding. She was only thinking about you.”
Winslow sat quietly as the baker and the postmistress exited the church. The interaction had been simple and casual, but he had the feeling he’d just witnessed a sort of miracle. All the townsfolk had been trying to convince Bea that she wouldn’t miss Birdie . . . when what Bea yearned to hear was that Birdie still loved her.
So simple.
He frowned at the memory of his conversation with Floyd. Things wouldn’t be so simple at his house. Edith had been sneaking around on him, and it wasn’t like her to be deceitful. Other than the occasional Christmas or birthday present, he couldn’t think of a single time she’d purposely hidden something from him.
When Winslow finally let himself into the parsonage, he noticed Edith had left the lamp in the kitchen burning. A foil-wrapped plate sat on the counter, with a note: Here’s your dinner, Win. I ate earlier.
Sure she did.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He and Edith had agreed never to confront each other in the heat of anger, and right now Winslow felt more irritated with his wife than he had ever been. Fad diets were dangerous, and she had promised not to do anything foolish. She had promised him and Dr. Marc, yet she had thought nothing of breaking those promises.
I’m not hungry, Win.
I guess the diet is working! My appetite is finally manageable.
Manageable, my foot! She’d been following every fad under the sun—cabbage soup and high protein, wieners and bananas. He could kick himself for his blindness. He should have noticed her bizarre eating patterns, but Salt’s wedding and Olympia’s death had distracted him.
Goaded by the realization, he moved into the hall. “Edith!”
No answer. He moved through the dark hall, then passed the guest bedroom. He should cool down before confronting her. Quarreling would upset her, but maybe she needed to be upset. Maybe she needed to see just how foolish she’d become.
The door to their bedroom was closed. He stood in the hall, his palms pressed to the wood, and slowly lowered his forehead to the painted surface. What if he lost Edith? He’d heard of people dying of heart attacks from taking too many diet pills and not drinking enough water. The human body was strong and usually adaptable, but it didn’t take much to throw it off kilter.
If he lost Edith . . . he couldn’t finish the thought. Their little town had lost too many people lately, and he’d suffered along with those folks. But losing Edith would be like losing half his body. She was his rock; his soul mate. She was the first thing he reached for each morning, and the last person he asked God to bless every night.
He opened the door a crack and peered inside the bedroom’s dark interior. When his eyes adjusted, he glimpsed her tousled hair upon the pillow, her form beneath the mounded comforter.
She was either sleeping like the dead—unusual for Edith—or she’d heard him come home and was pretending to sleep.
Deceiving him again.
Wheeling on the ball of his foot, he marched back to the guest room and slammed the door behind him. She must have heard that, but still he heard no movement from the master bedroom.
He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes, then grabbed a handful of the lacy decorator pillows on the bed and flung them to the floor.
Not once in the winding length of their marriage had he and Edith gone to bed mad at one another.
Tonight would be the exception.