E dith had just tied the scarf under her chin Thursday morning when Winslow stepped into the kitchen wearing nothing but long underwear and an angry expression. He stared at her for a moment, then took a deep breath. “What’s with the disguise, Edith?”
She stammered before his hot gaze. “N-n-nothing, Win. I was just going out for a bit of air.”
“Don’t lie to me. I know about the diet shakes in the restroom. I know you’ve been following fad diets when you promised you would eat sensibly.”
Edith felt the room sway around her. Reaching out for the back of a chair, she met her husband’s gaze. His face was hotter than a burnt boot.
“Now, Win—”
“Edith Wickam!” He slammed his hand down on the kitchen table “I have never been so angry with you.” His mottled face flushed a deeper shade.
As her stomach gnawed at her backbone, Edith went on the defensive. “Who told you about my shakes? Floyd— it had to be big-mouthed Floyd!”
“He’s concerned about you, Edith! As am I!”
“He’s a gossip! Tell something to that basket, and it’s all over town!”
“You’re calling our mayor and good friend a gossip? You’ve lost your mind, woman.”
“Have not.” She drew herself up to her full height and smiled. “And I’ve lost weight. This morning I got into that peach dress—and it looks great. So now I’m done. It’s over.”
Winslow obviously didn’t appreciate her proclamation of victory. “It’s far from over, Edith. You lied to me.”
She felt her smile fade as she looked at him. He was right about that—she had ignored his wishes and warnings and done as she pleased.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, recognizing the pain of betrayal in his eyes. “I thought it’d make you happy.”
His eyes widened. “You thought risking your health would make me happy?”
“No, of course not. I love you, Winslow. I thought being slim would make you proud of me.”
His eyes locked with hers as a muscle worked in his jaw. Edith wanted to fly into his arms and kiss away the hurt she had caused, but his expression had not softened.
She tried another tactic. “Please, Win, let’s not argue on Birdie’s wedding day. Tomorrow I promise I’ll investigate Pound Pinchers and get myself back on a reasonable eating program.”
“You don’t have the willpower. You didn’t last on that program two days, did you?”
“I have willpower. You wait, and I’ll show you.” She reached out to touch him and he drew back. The gesture broke her heart. “Win . . . don’t be mad. I did it for you.”
“Oh, yeah? So you won’t mind if I take those cans you stashed in the restroom?”
For a moment her spirit rebelled—those were her cans, bought and paid for, and she’d gone through a lot of trouble to transport them—but then she saw the look in Winslow’s eye and knew he wouldn’t budge.
“Go ahead.” She waved as if the diet shakes meant nothing to her. “Take them. Drink them. Serve them at the wedding reception. I don’t care.”
Winslow’s head dipped in an abrupt nod. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
She stood, hands on her hips, as he moved toward the front door, then abruptly doubled back toward their bedroom, probably remembering that he wasn’t dressed.
She turned toward the sink and clutched the edge of the counter, anger and grief welling within her. Why couldn’t a man think like a woman? Why couldn’t he understand how and why she’d suffered?
She found no answers in the heavy silence, no comfort but the sight of the cookies tucked behind the dish drainer. Sobbing, Edith turned on the faucet, then took out three cookies, chewing and spitting them under the water as tears rained down her cheeks.
She’d show Winslow. If he wanted to see willpower, she’d give him willpower. He had taken her diet shakes, so today she’d eat nothing until the wedding reception. There she’d look like a dream in her peach dress, and everyone in town would be pea green with envy.
At noon, Edith opened the parsonage door and peered left and right for a sign of her husband. Winslow hadn’t come home since their blowup this morning, and he usually appeared promptly at 11:30 for his lunch.
Not that she’d be eating lunch today—she was going to take a shower and head over to the church to help the ladies decorate, then come home, do her hair, and slip into her peach dress.
With no sign of her husband, she closed the door, then padded to her bedroom. The peach dress, freshly pressed, hung on the back of the bedroom door, ready for the wedding celebration.
She took a moment to finger the silver-spangled lace that would adorn her throat in a few hours. She had never worked so hard for a dress, so wearing it would be extra-special. Once he saw her in it, Winslow would understand.
She moved into the bathroom, then turned on the faucets full force. Golden sunlight streamed through the tiny window and spangled the new floor, and tears swelled to her eyes when she thought of all the work Win and Stanley had put into this room last month. They had suffered, too, through the remodeling, but the result was worth it. Wasn’t her diet the same kind of thing?
As steam began to mist the mirror, Edith slipped out of her robe and stepped into the warm stream. The pressure of the water on her neck and shoulders felt wonderful, easing away worries and tenseness. She tilted her head back and felt rivulets stream through her hair, rinsing away the thick shampoo she’d applied.
This shower had been a good idea—she felt hopeful again. And presiding over today’s nuptials would remind Winslow of the preciousness and sanctity of marriage. After the wedding, they’d come home and make up. They’d never been able to stay mad after a tiff.
She stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and slipped into her robe. As she picked up her toothbrush, her hand began to tremble so that the brush slipped from between her fingers.
“Clumsy,” she murmured, bending to pick up the toothbrush. The room spun as she bent forward, and she saw the pretty new floor rising up to meet her when suddenly the world went black.
“You didn’t eat a bite of your lunch,” Cleta berated the pastor as he stood at the kitchen window, peering toward the church. He saw no sign of Edith, but surely she’d be along soon. No matter how upset she was with him, she wouldn’t back out on her promise to help with the wedding decorations.
From across the room, Cleta continued to nag at him. “You’re liable to keel over in a faint during the ceremony, Winslow, and won’t that be a fine how-de-do? You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.” Winslow had never spent a more wretched morning. He missed Edith, missed the security of knowing they were in tune with each other.
Cleta cleared the lunch dishes off the table. “Winslow, I don’t know why you decided to eat lunch with us today, but I’ve a hunch all’s not well between you and your missus. So take it from me—you need to go home and make things right. You look like a sick goat, and Birdie won’t want a goat presiding over her wedding ceremony.”
At the mention of the ceremony, Winslow glanced down at his shirt. He’d picked up his suit coat and trousers as he went out the door, but he’d forgotten to grab a tie. And until Edith left the house, the parsonage was anything but neutral territory.
He turned to the table, where Floyd was sipping a cup of hot coffee, fortifying himself, he said, for his last ferry run before the wedding.
“Floyd, can you run over to the parsonage and get me a tie? There’s a nice black one hanging from the hook on the back of the bedroom door.” His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “You’ll need to pick up my electric razor, too.”
Floyd shot Winslow a look filled with meaning, then nodded. “Ayuh. I can.”
At least Floyd understood what was going on.
In the cooler light of hindsight, Winslow realized he’d been hard on Edith this morning. He shouldn’t have been so angry; after all, he knew what it was like to look in the mirror and be unsatisfied with the reflection. A few months ago he’d undergone a similar crisis, but he’d been preoccupied with hair, not weight.
Maybe his own insecurities had fueled his anger this morning. In any case, he’d come down hard on his wife when she most needed understanding and sympathy. He’d go home and apologize as soon as he saw her begin to bend a little.
Cleta dropped a pot into the dishwasher, then slammed the door. “Floyd, sit down and enjoy your coffee. I’ll go get the tie and razor. Unless I miss my guess, Edith could use a sympathetic ear about now.”
Winslow threw Cleta a grateful smile as she moved toward the back door. “Tell her . . . tell her I’m sorry I was so harsh this morning, okay? And I’ll see her at the wedding.”
Cleta paused, her hand on the knob. “You could go tell her yourself.”
Winslow shook his head. “Not yet. She’s got to meet me halfway.”
Cleta opened the door, sending a blast of frigid air into the cozy kitchen. “Hold your horses, fellers, I’ll be back in a jiff.”
Not yet. Edith shook her head as she fell deeper into darkness. She couldn’t die yet; she had to apologize to Winslow. She blinked and opened her eyes, but saw nothing but distant pinpricks of light.
Good grief, was she having a near-death experience? Surely not! She hadn’t been stupid enough to really do damage . . . or had she?
Gradually the darkness faded. Edith rubbed her head—a miracle she hadn’t hit it on the bathroom counter during her fall—and looked around. What she saw made her mouth go dry.
She was in a large room with white walls and gleaming stainless steel fixtures. A shriveled, blue human body lay on what looked like an operating table across the room, and her heart froze when she recognized the sleeping face— Hers. The body was hers, but if not for the shrunken facial features she would never have recognized it. Someone had cleanly cut down the chest and opened it like a book, two walls of flesh lay neatly on the left and right, leaving the bloody chest cavity open and exposed.
An autopsy?
“I am dead!” The words flew off her tongue—if she still had one—then the sound of gentle laughter filled her ears. She looked up to see a tall man standing before her, a surgeon, from the look of him. He had long white hair, tied neatly in a ponytail, and he wore a spotless surgical gown and plastic gloves. The eyes above his mask were smiling down at her.
“Where am I?” she squeaked.
The man tugged on his mask, then smiled. “You’re dreaming.”
“I’m not dead?”
He shook his head. “It’s not your time.”
“Then what—” she pointed to the dissected body on the table—“is that?”
“Ah.” He glanced toward the body and smiled. “That is a visual aid. A lesson the Father wants you to learn.”
A lesson? Edith stared at the stranger in bewilderment, then bit back a scream as his hand approached, growing larger and larger. The hand kept coming until it loomed over her, as big as a house, then it closed around something and lifted, sending her off-balance.
“Look,” the stranger said, moving to a mirror. “Look at your true self, Edith.”
She looked. And in the mirror she saw the surgeon reflected, shining and bright, and in his hand he carried a lidded glass jar in which a tiny light gleamed.
Shock caused words to wedge in her throat. She was . . . Tinkerbell?
“No,” he said, apparently reading her thoughts. “You’re looking at your soul, through which the light of Christ shines. This is the eternal part of you, the part that can travel from an earthly plane to the spiritual.”
“I am dead,” she whispered, “and you’re taking me to heaven.”
The man laughed. “I would not lie to you, Edith. The Father does not deceive his children.”
Instantly, a dart of guilt pierced her soul, and the light in the glass jar dimmed slightly. She had deceived Winslow . . . oh, may God forgive her!
“He will and he has,” the surgeon continued, returning her to the shelf or whatever her bottle had been resting upon when she awakened. “He forgives you because he loves you. And now he wants you to walk with knowledge.”
In a weak voice she barely recognized as her own, Edith whispered, “I want to.”
“Good.” The surgeon nodded, then tugged his mask into place like a thousand doctors she’d seen on TV. He moved to a stainless steel tray on a stand and lifted out a pinkish organ the size of his fist. Edith remembered enough biology to recognize it immediately—a human heart.
He held it up. “Do you know what this is?”
Edith nodded.
“Would you like me to place it in your body?”
Stunned by the question, she looked at him. “Well, of course.”
“Then I will. But tell me first—do you trust the Father to care for it? Or would you rather regulate its beating yourself?”
Regulate it? What good would that do? Was this man implying that a heart attack lay in her near future and maybe she should take control to keep it beating . . . no, surely not.
“How can I control it? I have to sleep, and I couldn’t possibly regulate my heart while I’m sleeping.”
“So you’ll let the Father be responsible for your heart?”
She squirmed, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Sure.”
The surgeon turned, then lowered the heart into the body. She couldn’t see the working of his hands, but after a minute the limbs had plumped with life. They were still blue, but they no longer had that shrunken look.
The surgeon swiveled toward the tray and lifted out two shapes Edith immediately recognized as lungs.
“Would you like your body to have these?”
“Of course,” she muttered.
“Would you like to control them, or will you yield their control to the Father?”
Edith released a sour laugh. “He designed them, didn’t he? I’d be a fool to try to work them myself.”
“You are a quick learner.” The surgeon dropped the lungs into the body cavity, fiddled a moment, then stepped back and nodded in satisfaction when the body pinkened with oxygen-rich blood.
Edith smiled in relief. The body looked healthier now, rosy and pink. Surely this was the end— But no. The surgeon turned to the tray once again, and lifted out another fleshy object, this one shaped vaguely like a half-moon.
“Recognize this?”
Understanding flashed through Edith like a thunderbolt. “Ayuh.”
“Good. Do you want it?”
“I’d be dead without it.”
“True. Now—do you want to control it, or do you want to trust the Creator’s design?”
Indignation flashed through her. “That’s easier said than done! It’s not easy to control your stomach when you’re at a party, or a buffet, or traveling—”
“The stomach does not go out of control during those times—on those occasions I suggest you address the hands that wield the fork, or the tongue that lusts after flavor.” He held up the stomach again, lifting it higher. “I ask you—do you want to control it, or do you trust the One who designed it?”
Edith closed her eyes. “I don’t know how to control it. But I don’t know how to let God take charge, either.”
“Do you worry about your lungs?”
“No.”
“If you are holding your breath, what happens after a while?”
She thought a moment. “Your lungs burn.”
He nodded. “Even so, if you neglect your stomach, after a while it will tell you it is empty. If you eat too much, it will complain because it is overfull.” The surgeon’s dark eyes softened. “The Father’s way is simple. His yoke is easy, and his burden is light.”
Edith remained silent as his words froze in her brain. He was right—God’s ways were always simple, always the best, always liberating. For the last month she had been following one set of man-made rules after the other, stuffing her stomach with things it did not want, much less need . . . and she’d remained unsatisfied.
“I’m so stupid,” she said.
“No.” The surgeon lowered the stomach. “You have been swayed by the wisdom of the world, the lust of the eyes, the lust of the flesh, and the pride of life. Repent of those things, and all will be well.”
She closed her eyes as the truth resonated in her spirit. The lust of the eyes—hadn’t that peach dress enticed her? The lust of the flesh—she had eaten because she wanted food; she had drunk thousands of calories of diet shakes because she craved flavor. The pride of life—she had wanted to look good for Winslow, yes, but mostly she had wanted to look good.
She had coveted praise and attention. And she had wanted to accomplish her goals on her own.
Such independent pride wounded the heart of God.
Again the gleaming surgeon held up the stomach. “Do you want this?”
She nodded.
“And do you want to control it?”
“No,” she whispered. “But I want to be healthy.”
“The creator designed your body to be self-regulating. Trust him.”
He held the stomach aloft, his brows silently lifting the unanswered question, and finally Edith nodded. “I’ll trust him.”
And with that promise, the stainless steel table upon which her body rested began to glow. Edith bowed her head as the truth struck her—that was no table, but an altar. She had wrested control of her body from God, preferring to rule it herself, when all she was and possessed rightfully belong to God.
As she wept, beloved and familiar phrases filled her head:
And so, dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to give your bodies to God. Let them be a living and holy sacrifice. . . .
Don’t worry about everyday life—whether you have enough food to eat or clothes to wear. And don’t worry about food—what to eat and drink. Don’t worry whether God will provide it for you. These things dominate the thoughts of most people, but your Father already knows your needs. He will give you all you need from day to day if you make the Kingdom of God your primary concern.
“I will,” she whispered, lifting her gaze to the brightness hovering above her. “I will trust you, Father, body and soul.”
Cleta stepped to the parsonage door and knocked. No sound from within the small house, but Edith had to be home.
She walked to the living room window and peered inside. Nothing moved, but a light shone from the bedroom. Edith was home, then, probably running the hair dryer and hadn’t heard the knock. Might as well go on in and do a bit of neighborin’ while she fetched Winslow’s tie.
“Edith!” she called cheerily, half-hoping she’d get the scoop about the couple’s spat while she was running her errand. She walked into the house, crossed the living room, and moved down the hall, noticing the rumpled bed in the guest room.
She rapped on the open bedroom door. “Edith? You taking a shower?”
Silence from the bedroom and no sign of Edith, but the bathroom light was on, too. Stepping around the corner, Cleta opened the bathroom door wider—and gasped when she saw Edith Wickam lying unconscious on the bathroom floor, wet-haired and wearing nothing but a gaping bathrobe.
“Oh, spit!”
She lunged inside the room and placed two fingertips on Edith’s throat. She knew less than nothing about such things, but this is what they always did on TV.
She felt nothing but cold and clammy skin. Cleta leapt to her feet and sprinted through the house, yelling as she ran past the church. Rounding the corner, she nearly tangled with Tallulah, out on her afternoon walk.
Yip!
“Sorry, Tallulah. Emergency!” she panted as her Nikes pelted the sidewalk.
Yipping in excitement, Tallulah raced by Cleta’s side, keeping pace as the woman ran toward the medical clinic at Frenchman’s Fairest.
Cleta and Tallulah flew around the corner to find Dr. Marc talking to Annie at the gate. “Come quick!” Cleta bellowed. “Edith Wickam just dropped dead.”
“What?”
Cleta waved her hands helplessly. “She’s cold and wet and on the floor. Hurry!”
The doctor raced inside for his medical bag, then ran ahead of her toward the parsonage. Cleta followed, then halted at the church, bending low to clasp her knees as her lungs burned for air.
“You . . . go . . . on,” she panted, knowing he couldn’t hear her. “I’ll . . . get Winslow.”
An hour later, Winslow paced his living room floor as Dr. Marc examined Edith in the bedroom. Birdie, Salt, Floyd, Annie, and Cleta sat on the long sofa, all of them silently keeping vigil with pinched faces.
Dr. Marc stepped out of the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him. Smiling at Winslow, he closed his medical bag. “She’s fine, Pastor. She fainted. Probably the result of her dieting and fasting today.”
Winslow slumped into the only empty chair. “She was fasting?”
Dr. Marc nodded. “Fasting, done properly, isn’t harmful, but Edith wasn’t doing anything by the book. But she’s seen the error of her ways, and she’d like to talk to you.”
Winslow sprang out of his chair, gave the doctor a grateful hug, then ran into the bedroom.
The wintry shadows of late afternoon had settled across the bed when Winslow stepped into the room. He had expected to find Edith resting, but she was sitting on the edge of the mattress, mascara wand in hand. She halted when she saw him, then lowered the mascara brush.
“Win.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I feel like such a fool. You won’t believe what I’ve learned today.”
He sank onto the bed next to her. “What?”
She swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her robe. “I had this crazy vision—but it wasn’t crazy, if you know what I mean. I was in this strange hospital, but I wasn’t in my body.”
Concerned, Winslow pressed his palm to her forehead.
“Win!” Laughing, she caught his hand and held it. “I’m fine, I’m not delirious. I won’t bore you with the details, but I learned this—I’m not going to diet anymore, ever. I’m going to trust God with my body and stop trying to micromanage it. I may never wear the size I wore as a young girl, but that’s okay—I’m not a young girl anymore.”
Winslow slipped his free hand around her shoulder and brought her close. “I was hard on you this morning, honey. I’m sorry.”
“I was a fool, Win—hardheaded and proud. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”
She lifted her watery eyes to meet his. “How are our anxious bride and groom? I feel terrible causing all this commotion on their wedding day.”
Winslow checked his watch. “Everything’s still on schedule—or it will be when I step into the living room and tell them you’re okay.”
He smiled at his bride, and the peaceful look on her face moved something at the core of his soul. He reached out, tenderly grasping her chin, and was about to kiss her trembling eyelids when a wail from the living room chilled his blood.
Edith’s eyes flew open. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.” Winslow stood. “But maybe we should check.”
Holding Edith’s hand, they moved into the living room. Birdie and Salt had left to prepare for the ceremony, but Caleb had come up the road to join the gathering. Trouble was, apparently he hadn’t brought good news. Annie was weeping, and Dr. Marc had his arm around her shoulder, trying his best to comfort her.
He threw Winslow a look of male helplessness.
“I’m so sorry, Annie,” Caleb was saying. “She doesn’t usually get into closets.”
Winslow’s gaze shifted to the old butler. He held a bit of purple fluff over his arm, and after a minute Winslow realized he was staring at the remains of a dress. An expensive one, if a man could judge by the amount of fluff and sequins attached.
“Tallulah,” Caleb whispered, when Winslow caught his eye. “She got into the closet and started tugging on the chiffon. Next thing I knew, she’d pulled it off the hanger and had herself a rip-snorting time in all this fabric.”
“It’s my only nice dress,” Annie wailed, burying her face in Dr. Marc’s chest. “I don’t have anything else with me.”
Edith stepped forward and gently turned the weeping girl to face her. “Wait here,” she said, the sweetness of her smile making Winslow’s heart pound in a double beat. “Don’t move.”
She stepped into the bedroom, and when she came out a moment later, an elegant peach dress, lacy and sparkling, hung over her arm.
“I think this is just your size,” she said, placing the garment on Annie’s arm.
A look of sheer wonder bloomed on the girl’s face. “Oh, Edith! I couldn’t! This is so pretty, you should wear it—”
Edith stepped back and slipped her arm around Winslow’s waist. “It’s for you, Annie. I think it’s been meant for you all along.”
At three o’clock, with an hour until the wedding of the year, Annie checked her reflection in the mirror one final time. The peach dress did wonders for her complexion, and the dress fit like a glove. She had promised Edith that she’d serve at the reception table; it seemed only right that she’d be doing a favor for the woman who’d stepped in and given so generously to her.
The day had been a busy one, and she and Marc had not had a chance to speak about personal things since their meeting in the kitchen. Though Marc had seemed to welcome her news about staying in Heavenly Daze, Annie feared she had said too much, too soon. But words were like feathers flung into the wind; once spoken, they could not be called back. Marc now knew how she felt . . . the next move would have to be his.
She heard a creak outside her door and glanced up to see Caleb walking down the hall, a cordless telephone in his hand. She frowned at the phone, “Does that thing work? I thought the batteries were dead.”
A guilty look flitted over the butler’s face as he halted in mid-step. “I replaced them.”
“Why?”
“Well—”
The word had scarcely left his lips when the phone rang. Annie stared at it, her mind whirling, as Caleb smiled. “I brought it so you wouldn’t miss this call.”
He handed her the phone, then paused. “Annie?”
“Hmm?”
“The Lord will not leave you comfortless.”
She shook her head as the phone rang again. It could wait, the important thing was Caleb slipping into bizarre mode again. “What do you mean?”
“I plan to see Olympia very soon. And I will give her your love.”
An eel of fear wriggled in Annie’s belly. What was he talking about? He was elderly, but healthy. Surely he wasn’t thinking about death.
She forced a light laugh. “Caleb, you’re going to live thirty more years.”
“I’m going to live forever, Annie. But before I leave, I want to tell you something.”
The phone rang; she ignored it. “What?”
“Don’t worry about Olympia’s body. The Lord has heard your prayers, and he knows the intent of your heart. I can assure you of this—Missy no longer cares about such trivial things. Now—” he nodded toward the phone. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
Staring at him in bewilderment, Annie pressed the talk button. “Hello?”
The caller identified herself as Nancy Lipps, from the Nu-Skin Beauty Company.
“I’m sorry,” Annie said, watching Caleb in the mirror as she reached for a tube of lipstick. “I really don’t have time to hear a sales pitch.”
Nancy Lipps laughed. “I’m not a telephone solicitor, Ms. Cuvier. I’m the vice president in charge of product development.”
Annie’s hand froze in midair. “And why are you calling me?”
“You may have heard about a new line of cosmetics that use foods as principal ingredients. All-natural makeup is very hot right now—cucumber eye soothers, banana fade creams, lemon hair rinses.”
Annie glanced at the mirror. She could use the cucumber eye soother right now; her eyes were still bleary from weeping over the destruction of her favorite dress.
“I’ve read something about them.”
“Good. Since you’re in a hurry, I’ll get right to the point. We read about your new hybrid in Tomato Monthly, and one of our researchers obtained one of the plants from your college lab.”
Annie snorted. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lipps, but those tomatoes were a colossal failure. They’re inedible.”
“We don’t want to eat them, Ms. Cuvier. They have an unusually high acid content, high enough to exfoliate the skin but not so high as to be harmful. Your tomato will be the perfect primary ingredient for our new all-natural facial peel.”
Annie’s jaw dropped. “You want to use my plants—”
“We want to buy the patent from you so we can have exclusive use of your hybrid. No one else will be able to grow them, of course, but we’ll mass-produce them in our greenhouses and manufacture the peel in our laboratories. I’m sure you’re not ready to discuss details at this moment, but have your lawyer contact ours. I believe negotiations will begin with a number in the high six-figure category.”
Annie clutched the edge of the antique vanity. Six figures? Why . . . that was hundreds of thousands of dollars!
“My lawyer,” she whispered, thinking of Edmund Junior. “Certainly, I’ll have him contact you Monday morning, if that’s okay.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Ms. Cuvier. We’re very excited about this product.”
Annie hung up the phone, then braced herself against the edge of the vanity. Money . . . from one of her experiments! Why, she’d be able to repair the house, live in it, even restore it to its former grandeur! With that kind of money in the bank, she could live on the island and conduct other experiments on Heavenly Daze. Marc could keep his clinic in the guesthouse, and she could use the barn for her greenhouse. And Caleb could stay—
She looked up, eager to share her news, but the butler had slipped away.
“Caleb?” She stood and ran to the door, then took the stairs two at a time. She checked the kitchen, the parlor, the dining room, but the butler had vanished. His bedroom was as neat as a pin, the sheets stripped from the mattress and the closet . . . empty.
“Caleb!”
Running through the foyer, Annie threw open the front door and scanned the porch. No sign of the butler anywhere, not in the yard, on the street, or even at the dock. He might be in town, but Annie had a sinking feeling he had kept his word and left the island.
Caleb had never broken a promise.
Annie tucked the last silk flower into her hair and smoothed her peach dress, then descended the stairs . . . and saw Marc standing in the foyer.
“I wondered,” he turned at the sound of her steps, “if you would allow me to escort you to the wedding.”
Her heart in her throat, she nodded. “If you really want to.”
He smiled up at her. “I do.”
Her heart warming, she went to the bottom of the stairs, then reached for her coat on the hook by the door.
“Allow me.” Marc pulled the coat down, then held it open for Annie. “You look beautiful. Peach is your color.”
“Thank you.”
“But you also look a little sad.”
“I am. Caleb’s gone—he slipped out this afternoon, without even saying good-bye.” Her voice wavered, and she drew a deep breath to steady it. “I can’t believe he’d leave like that.”
“Annie.” Marc’s voice was gentle. “He’s been saying good-bye for weeks. You just didn’t want to listen.”
Pressing her lips together, she nodded. “People have been telling me things all my life. . . . I’m not the best listener.”
“Then hear this.” He turned her to face him, his hands resting squarely on her shoulders. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t rather have me as a father figure in your life? We are quite a few years apart, you know. We are at different places in life, and as dear as you are to me . . . well, I want what’s best for you.”
Lifting her chin, she met his gaze head-on. “I’ve had three fathers, Marc—my dad, Uncle Edmund, and Caleb, in his way. I don’t need a father now—I need a partner, a companion, and a friend. I need someone who loves Heavenly Daze as much as I do, someone who will be happy to make a life here.” She stepped closer to whisper in his ear. “I think you might be that man. Is that wrong?”
With a suddenness that surprised her, he drew her into his arms. When they kissed, it seemed to her as if she had finally and completely come home.
After a long moment, their lips parted. Still they stood together, foreheads barely touching, breathing each other’s breath.
“Is that wrong?” His voice went hoarse. “Let’s proceed carefully, and see where the Lord leads.”
With Marc trailing behind her, Annie slipped into a row and found herself sitting next to Babette Graham. “The church looks lovely,” she said, gazing at the orchid-studded ferns around the platform. Floral sprays, sprinkled with ribbon roses, adorned the end of each pew.
Babette nodded. “Yes, it is beautiful . . . and I’m pregnant.”
Annie blinked. “Wow! Congratulations!”
Babette nodded slowly, not taking her eyes from the flower-strewn altar. “I’m still adjusting to the idea.” A blush brightened her cheeks. “You’re the first person I’ve told, besides Charles, of course. I guess I’m testing the water, trying to get folks’ reactions.”
Annie folded her arms, not sure how to respond. “Well—change isn’t easy. But all in all—” she glanced at Marc—“I think change is a good thing.”
At four o’clock, the lights in the church dimmed. Sniffling conspicuously, Bea began to play the introduction to the old song, Because.
Wearing an orchid the size of New Jersey, Vernie clumped to the front and began to sing in a warbling alto:
“Because you come to me,
With naught save love.
And hold my hand and lift mine eyes above,
A wider world of hope and joy I see—
Because . . . you come to me.”
Leaning forward in the pew, Annie caught sight of Stanley on the other side of the church. His gaze was fixed upon Vernie, and a wide smile lit his face.
Annie smothered a grin. Not every man would be proud of a rectangular woman singing in a purple dress and Army boots, but Stanley obviously was. Such was the power of love.
As Vernie sang, Pastor Winslow and Salt Gribbon walked out of the small room behind the piano. Stiffly, somberly, they moved to the front of the church and stood before the communion table. Salt kept his eyes fixed upon the swinging doors of the vestibule, but Annie saw the pastor cast a fond glance at Edith, who sat in her customary place on the second pew.
After two verses and a grand finale complete with high note and uplifted hand, Vernie sat next to Stanley, then threw a strong arm around his shoulders. Annie covered her mouth to suppress a giggle as Bea began to play the Wedding March.
Annie snuggled into the curve of Marc’s arm as Cleta came down the aisle, followed almost immediately by Salt’s grandchildren, Bobby and Brittany. The little girl grinned as she sprinkled orchid petals over the wooden floor, but Bobby marched with grave solemnity, his attention riveted on a pair of gold rings gleaming on his pillow.
“They let Bobby carry the rings?” Annie whispered.
“Those are gold plastic rings. Birdie glued ’em to the satin.” Marc’s breath tickled her ear. “The real rings are in Winslow’s pocket.”
Annie smiled. Weddings had always delighted her— there was something mysterious about the love that drew two people together.
Something mysterious and wonderful.
Edith felt her pulse quicken when Bea thundered out the dah da-ta-da that signaled the entrance of the bride. With the other guests, she stood and turned toward the back of the church, noticing for the first time that Patrick Gribbon had made it home just in time for his father’s wedding. Still wearing his overcoat, he stood near the entrance with Floyd, who carried his captain’s cap.
Bless Floyd’s heart, he had taken time out of this frantic afternoon to make one last ferry run. Edith caught the mayor’s eye and winked to show she bore him no hard feelings for sharing her secret with Winslow.
Floyd Lansdown was a good man and a true friend, while her husband—she turned to admire the man she had married—well, just thinking of Win set warm kernels of happiness a-popping in the center of her heart.
She smiled as Abner Smith came forward with Birdie on his arm. Before them, trotting like two well-behaved ponies, Tallulah and Butch pranced down the aisle, their necks adorned with floppy purple ribbons.
While everyone else automatically turned to look at the bride, Marc couldn’t resist facing forward to study Salt Gribbon. The old fellow had lived the life of a recluse until only a few weeks ago, then God had sent a woman to enrich his life.
Birdie Wester had done Salt a world of good. His eyes sparkled with health, his outlook had greatly improved, and he carried himself with more vigor than Marc had noted in months. Furthermore, he couldn’t remember the last time Salt had threatened visitors to the lighthouse with blasts of lima beans and rock salt.
Yes, love could be good for body and soul . . . even an aging body and a weary soul. He still found it difficult to believe that God might intend for him to find love with a young woman nearly half his age, but, as Caleb would say, the Lord worked in mysterious ways. . . .
Feeling Annie nudge his ribs, he obediently turned to look at Birdie.
In years of ministry, Winslow had seen his fair share of brides, but none could match the degree of radiance shining from Birdie Wester’s face. That good woman had spent her life serving the Lord and her fellow man, and God had been pleased to bless her with a man who would treasure her throughout life and into eternity.
Could any woman ask for more?
Well, perhaps Edith could. She could ask for more patience from him, more understanding.
He looked to his wife, then felt his mouth go dry. Even in an ordinary church dress, she shone with an aura of peace and contentment.
He was a blessed man.
Knowing that a minister ought to pay some attention to the bride, Winslow shifted his gaze from Edith to Birdie. Wearing a knee-length ivory dress with a full skirt, she came down the aisle carrying her mother’s Bible beneath a spray of delicate purple flowers. Wisps of white hair framed her face, and as Abner tenderly placed her small hand in Salt’s rough palm, Winslow couldn’t help but think of a delicate flower growing in the shade of a weathered oak.
When every eye turned to him, he lifted his little black book. “Dearly beloved,” he began, “we are gathered here today in the presence of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony. If there be anyone here who would object to these proceedings, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
“Heavens, Preacher, don’t stop now!” Vernie called from the third row. “Time’s a wastin’!”
Winslow bit his lip as the congregation roared in laughter, then he winked at the bride and smiled at the groom. If he didn’t hurry, Salt might pass out. The old gentleman had gone as white as a sheet.
“Marriage is an honorable estate,” Winslow continued, quickening his pace, “instituted by God and blessed by our Savior by his presence at the wedding in Galilee.”
Marriage! Salt felt a shiver go up his spine as the word echoed in the sanctuary. The seamen under his command would have laughed at the notion of Captain Gribbon marrying at age seventy, but no one could deny the simple truth—he loved Birdie Wester. He wanted to spend the rest of his days, no matter how many or how few, in the light of her smile.
God had been good to show him that man was not meant to be alone. God had been merciful to send a partner as strong and loving as Birdie.
Birdie felt her stomach sway when Pastor Winslow looked at her. She’d been doing fine by concentrating on her slow steps and thinking about the significance of the Bible in her hand, but now the pastor was talking right to her, personally.
“Do you, Birdie Wester, take Captain Salt Gribbon to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Birdie felt the pressure of dozens of eyes as she turned to meet Salt’s blue-eyed gaze. From her place at the piano, Bea blew her nose with a honking sound.
Birdie couldn’t resist a grin. Welcome, Salt, she told her groom with her eyes, to my family, to my work, to my bed, to my heart.
“I do,” she whispered.
The pastor turned to her groom. “Do you, Salt, take Birdie to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
His love’s eyes shone bright with tears. “I do.”
Winslow Wickam beamed a mega-watt smile over the congregation. “Then by the power vested in me by the State of Maine, I am thrilled to pronounce you husband and wife.”
Then, while the people of Heavenly Daze rose to their feet in applause, the man she had always known as ol’ Captain Gribbon drew her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly in front of God, her fellow residents, and who knew what else? Maybe even a smattering of angels.
After the wedding, the entire town celebrated in the church basement. Patrick Gribbon stood with his father, his children, and his father’s beautiful new bride as Dana Klackenbush snapped pictures.
Annie noticed that Georgie Graham had been diverted from swiping icing off the wedding cake by special candy-sprinkled cupcakes Abner had baked just for the children. Georgie sat at a small table with Bobby, Brittany, and Zuriel, who was entertaining the children with stories of Daniel in the lion’s den.
“He tells that story with so much detail,” Marc said, leading Annie toward the punch bowl, “you would think he’d been there himself.”
Bea, who carried a box of tissues and still occasionally blew her nose, ate cake under Abner’s protective gaze. Across the table from them, Barbara and Russell Higgs were busy telling Mike Klackenbush and Buddy Franklin about the apartment they’d found in Ogunquit. “The rent’s really reasonable,” Barbara was saying. “And there’s room for growth . . . if and when the Lord decides to bless us.”
Annie clapped with the others when, right after Birdie cut the wedding cake, Babette Graham admitted that yes, she was pregnant. Cleta immediately threw an arm around her daughter, Barbara, and then, with tear-bright eyes, she congratulated Babette and wished her well.
“And I hear,” Edith said, whirling around to face Annie, “that you’re not selling Frenchman’s Fairest after all. You’re staying with us?”
Annie felt her cheeks warm as she faced the townspeople she had loved for so many years. “Yes, I’m coming home,” she said, accepting the glass of punch Marc placed in her hand. “Where else could I possibly find neighbors like you?”
After Annie and Marc had toasted the happy bride and groom with Vernie’s cranberry punch, Abner brought over a thin young man with sandy hair.
“Annie,” Abner said, “I’d like to present Lionel Smith, fresh from service in England.”
Smiling, Annie extended her hand. “What sort of service are you in, Lionel?”
“Whatever needs to be done,” he said, clicking his heels together in an old-fashioned bow.
Annie stared at him thoughtfully. She wasn’t sure when the fellow had arrived, but he could have come on the ferry with Patrick Gribbon. “What brings you to Heavenly Daze? Friend of the bride or groom?”
“Friend of Abner Smith,” he said, glancing at Birdie’s assistant. I’m looking for a place of service, and I understand you might have a position open. I’ve had experience as a butler, and I hear yours has just accepted a new post.”
Annie glanced at Marc. She’d never thought about employing another butler. Caleb had been a part of the family, but butlers were more a part of Olympia’s generation than hers.
“I’m not sure I’ll need a butler.” She shrugged slightly. “I’d like to think I can handle my own cooking and cleaning.”
The young man gave her a broad smile. “Did I mention I’m also handy with a hammer, caulking gun, and paintbrush? I’ve also a gift with plants.” He pressed one hand to his chest. “I hope that doesn’t seem immodest, but the Lord has given me a unique gift with growing things. I don’t really expect wages, but if you’ll allow me to putter in your soil, I’d appreciate the opportunity to serve. I’ve a particular fondness for growing zucchini—”
“You’re hired.” Grinning, Annie lifted her glass. “First house off the dock, your room will be on the first floor, next to the kitchen. Welcome to Heavenly Daze.”
The young man lifted his glass, too. “Thank you. Such a blessed place . . . already I feel at home.”
“I know what you mean.” Annie let her gaze rove over the dear faces of all those who called the island home. “I know this isn’t heaaven, but sometimes I think this town is the next-best thing.”