The Island of Heavenly Daze (9 page)

A pair of freewheeling gulls squawked overhead, bringing Edith out of her reverie. The horde of tourists had dissipated, so she crossed the street and stepped into the mercantile, then bent to pick up one of the straw shopping baskets stacked by the door. Immediately to her right, a group of preadolescent girls huddled around Vernie's cat, a thirty-seven-pound black-and-white freak of nature named MaGoo. MaGoo drew as much attention as Vernie's wares, and the soft kitty treats offered by tourists (and sold at thirty-five cents per bag) insured his longstanding claim to the title of Maine's Heaviest Living Cat.

Edith looked up, ready to greet Vernie, but she stood behind the wooden counter, her head bowed in conversation with Beatrice Coughlin. Not wanting to interrupt, Edith moved into one of the aisles and studied the various jars of saltwater taffy. This sweet treat came in over a dozen different flavors, and she had never tried it. Perhaps it was time she did.

A memory ruffled through her mind like wind on water. In those frugal first years of marriage, occasionally Winslow would bring her a small gift. He never called it a gift or a present, because he knew she'd protest any extravagance. And so he would bring her some little thing and call it a “happy.” And no matter what it was—a flower, a candy bar wrapped in ribbon, or a small book—the thought always did lift her spirits.

Edith ran her hand over the candy jars, overcome by the sense that Winslow could use a happy right now. He'd been preoccupied for the last several days, and nothing she said or did seemed to break the spell of whatever dark thoughts had clouded his usually sunny outlook.

But Winslow wasn't much of a candy person. He preferred salty snacks to sweet, so perhaps she could find something over in the aisle where Vernie kept peanuts and potato chips.

Edith had no sooner entered that aisle than she heard her name.

“Of course, we're taking pains not to tell Pastor or Edith Wickam,” Bea was telling Vernie, “but Rex Hartwell will be coming in on the last Sunday of the month.”

“Will he preach?” Vernie asked.

“No, he's just here to look around. But he's supposed to meet with Cleta and her committee before he leaves. Then we'll have his final answer.”

“Oh, Bea.” Edith flinched as Vernie slapped the counter. “This is so exciting! We haven't heard this much good news since . . . well, since we called Reverend Wickam!”

“But we've got to keep it quiet.” Beatrice lowered her voice to a stage whisper that carried easily over the row of peanuts and pretzels. “We haven't yet decided how to tell Pastor Wickam.”

“I won't say a word.”

From her hiding place, Edith flinched as though an electric spark had jumped over the aisle to sting her. Though she had no idea what Vernie and Bea were talking about, their conversation made it quite clear that she wasn't supposed to know. Her abrupt appearance would embarrass all three of them.

As her heart pounded hard enough to be heard a yard away, Edith lifted the shopping basket up over her head, then crouched down and backed down the aisle toward the thermal underwear. When she was certain that neither Vernie nor Bea had left the counter, she skirted the rear of the store and hustled up the candy aisle, startling a visiting couple who were deliberating over the display of Necco wafers.

“Excuse me,” Edith whispered, ducking as she passed them.

Still holding the straw basket over her head, she fled through the open doors and crossed the porch, then hurried away, pausing at the last moment to listen to her conscience. Before leaving, she hooked Vernie's shopping basket over the antique hitching post at the edge of the property.

Vernie's gossip might have made Edith an eavesdropper and worrier, but she would not allow it to make her a thief.

Edith felt a weight lift off her shoulders as she crossed the threshold of her own home. Though it was clear from Vernie's conversation that Winslow didn't know everything going on with Cleta and her church committee, he was bound to know about Rex Hartwell.

At least she hoped he did. She didn't want to be the one to tell him.

“Winslow?” Pulling her sweater from her shoulders, she dropped it over the back of a chair, then moved through the house. Winslow usually spent his mornings at home, so he had to be here, but the room he used as a study was empty, as was their bedroom.

But the bathroom door was closed. And locked.

Edith drew back her hand, perplexed. In all the winding length of their marriage, she could never recall Winslow locking the bathroom door.

Her feeling of uneasiness suddenly turned into a deeper and much more immediate fear. What was wrong? He had cancer; he was dying; he had heard terrible news and couldn't bear to share it with her—

No. This was a small town, and gossip traveled as fast as a wink. He had heard what she heard, and he had locked himself in the bathroom rather than face her. Hadn't she seen him coming from the post office with a package? So he had encountered Bea this morning, and she might have let something slip. Even if she'd only hinted at trouble, that hint had been enough to preoccupy Winslow enough that he didn't notice his own wife walking on the other side of the street . . .

“Winslow!” She pounded on the door. “Win, I need to speak with you. Please, honey, don't shut me out.”

Pressing her hands to the smooth wood, she sighed in relief when she heard a footstep, then a metallic squeak as the old-fashioned skeleton key turned in the lock. As the door opened she flung herself into his arms.

“Honey,” she whispered, resting her cheek on his chest, “I'm with you. I don't know what's going on, but I know we're going to be okay. Whatever is happening in your life, God will take care of us. He knows what's best, and he's in control no matter what that church committee has going on—''

“You know about the church committee?” His voice sounded muffled, strange.

Edith nodded, not lifting her head. “Yes. I overheard Bea talking to Vernie at the mercantile. They didn't see me. I didn't catch much of their conversation, but I heard something about Rex Hartwell—'' A strangled sound came from Winslow's throat.

“Who is he, Win?” she asked, holding him tighter.

“He's a preacher.” Winslow's voice dissolved into a thready whisper. “And he's coming here. At the end of the month. To look us over.”

“Well, honey, that doesn't mean—'' Edith fell silent, searching for some explanation besides the obvious one. Why would a church committee invite an outside preacher if not to look over the congregation in view of a future call?

“Well, I don't know what it means.” She patted his back in a gesture of reassurance, then lifted her head. “But I know—''

The remaining words caught in her throat as she stared upward. A sudden chill climbed the staircase of her spine as she stared at the man she thought she knew, then she backed out of his embrace, her hands lifting.

Winslow took a step toward her. “Honey, it won't hurt you.”

“Just—just give me a minute.” Edith blinked, then took another half-step back and bumped against the bureau, hurting her hip. Tomorrow she'd have a bruise, but now all she could do was stare at the black thing atop Winslow's head.

“What—where—'' she stammered, one finger pointing at the dark mass crowding her husband's forehead.

“I ordered it from an 800 number,” Winslow said, stepping out of the bathroom. He paused in front of the mirror above his chest of drawers, then tugged at the hair above his ears, making the entire patch of hair move . . . as if it were alive.

Edith closed her eyes and resisted a shudder. She wanted to be a supportive wife. Being supportive meant she should be understanding, that she should bite her tongue and say nothing. After all, Winslow hadn't criticized her when she frosted her hair with a solution that turned her curls green, nor had he chastised her when she spent $49.99 on a silly exercise gizmo guaranteed to melt away her double chin.

With an effort, she opened her eyes and caught him staring at her in the mirror. He was studying her face with considerable absorption, and Edith realized that she held her husband's heart in her hands.

“Winslow.” Gathering her courage, she stepped forward, then reached out and playfully hooked her index finger over his belt. “Honey, I don't know why you thought you needed a toupee, but I'm here to tell you that you're a handsome man without one. I love you just the way you are.”

Winslow's gaze shifted to his own reflection. “But is this so terrible?” He adjusted the Hair again, pulling it back, away from his brows. “It's human hair, you know. And you can apply these little sticky tapes to hold it in place—''

“Honey.” Edith turned him to face her. “You don't need fake hair. You're a real man, Winslow, one hundred percent genuine male. Everybody thinks you're handsome, just as you are.”

He lifted one eyebrow, suggesting in marital shorthand that he would not be snowed. “You didn't answer my question. Is this toupee so terrible?”

Edith bit her lower lip, realizing that this time her opinion didn't matter. She could tell him that she liked his bald head until the cows came home, but he wouldn't believe her because she had promised to love him no matter what.

Sighing, she took a step back and evaluated her husband with a pragmatic eye. “It's not terrible. It looks okay—but it was a shock when I first saw you. I wasn't expecting it.”

“But you could get used to it?”

“I could get used to anything, hon, but—'' She raked her nails through her hair in frustration. “Winslow, trust me, you don't need a wig.”

“I want to look younger.”

“Why? Fifty-two's not old. You're mature. You've worked hard and learned a lot.”

“But Rex Hartwell is young and handsome.”

The words hung in the silence between them, invisible yet strong, and in a breathless instant of insight Edith understood. She stepped back, withholding the useless words that would only complicate the matter. Winslow would have to learn this lesson on his own. He had heard the town gossip, and he had been wounded past the point of rational thought. He would fight back however he could, and in that, at least, she could take comfort. His was a gentle spirit, and at least he had chosen to resist. On another day, he might have chosen to quit.

She forced her lips to part in a curved, still smile. “I think you look very handsome,” she said, deliberately injecting a playful note into her voice. “Come Sunday morning the folks here will wonder who on earth has invaded their pulpit.”

“I'm going to make a few changes,” Winslow said, picking up a comb from the dresser. He touched it to the toupee, then gave a practice swipe at a silken strand. “Try some new things with my sermons, maybe some visual aids. And I'm going to visit every parishioner on the island, see if there's anything I've done to offend. If I've done something wrong, I'm going to make it right.”

“I can't imagine you offending anyone.” Edith gentled her tone. “But I'm sure you'll be doing the right thing, as long as you pray about it. Just be sure you have a peace from God before you go changing things, okay?”

He didn't answer, but continued pulling the comb through his Hair, as fascinated by his reflection as a farmer poring over the latest Burpee's seed catalog.

Chapter Six

W
ell, well, what have we here? An angel?”

Doctor Marcus Hayes smiled down at the golden-haired cherub on his front stoop. “And what might I do for you today, young lady?”

The eight-year-old, who was missing her two front teeth, flashed a shy grin before clearing her throat. Rolling her eyes upward, she focused on the welcome sign above the doctor's door. “I am selling Boy Scout popcorn.” She paused as if she'd forgotten an important part, sighed, and started over.

“I am selling packages of Boy Scout popcorn.” She broke into nervous giggles, covering her mouth with her free hand, shifting to her opposite foot. “No.” Drawing a deep breath, she started over. “I'm taking ordersth for Boy Scout popcorn. Do you want to buy some?”

“Boy Scout popcorn? Shouldn't you be selling Girl Scout cookies or Campfire Girl cookies?”

Shaking her head with a little giggle, the girl assessed him with sunbonnet blue eyes. “I'm helping my brudder.” Her tongue absently played with the gap between her teeth.

“Oh.” Doctor Marc nodded as if he suddenly got it.

“That's very nice of you.”

“He wants to win a prize.”

“Ah.” The doctor nodded again. “You don't live here on the island, do you?”

She shook her head. “I rode the ferry over.”

“Does your mother know what you're doing?”

She rolled her eyes. “I'm thselling popcorn, thsilly! She sent me!”

The doctor smiled. “Of course.”

The little girl rummaged in the box she was trying to balance on one knee and came up with a somewhat rumpled order form. She read mechanically. “This delicious popcorn is a bargain. And the money goes to help young boys all across America achieve their dreams. And become tomorrow's leaders.”