Hearts at Home (6 page)

Edith pursed her lips. He hadn't heard a word she'd said.

“Win?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you think I'm getting fat?”

“Of course, hon. Fine idea.”

She bit down on the inside of her lip, realizing she'd get no response as long as he was studying. Unless her words had registered and he really
did
think she was packing on the pounds.

Was she? In January alone she'd attended Dana Klackenbush's poetry reception, eaten two healthy hunks of Russell Higgs's birthday cake, and attended three potlucks after Sunday morning services. The huge community meals were taking a toll on her waistline. Edith could eat her weight in fried clams—and this morning that would be no small feat. She investigated her gaping robe again, then shook her head. Why, she must have put on fifteen pounds since Christmas! She'd been meaning to get a new pair of bathroom scales; the old ones weighed ten pounds heavy and she could never bring herself to step on the nuisance. But mercy, she'd gotten lax about watching her diet. She'd eaten everything in sight at Christmas time, and since then she'd enjoyed a bowl of kettle corn every night and a candy bar every afternoon when her energy flagged. . . .

Winslow had eaten right along with her. In fact, half the time
he
brought the bowl of popcorn to bed, where they munched while watching the evening news. Trouble was, he didn't seem to care about the soft paunch at his middle.

Shooting her husband a glare, she nudged his foot with the toe of her slipper. “Winslow!”

He glanced up, a bite of waffle halfway to his mouth. “What did I do?”

“Am I getting fat?”

His gaze flicked away, then he rammed the waffle into his mouth and chewed for an unwarranted length of time, his eyes darting about the room as if the answer might be found on the kitchen cabinet, the cherry-patterned wallpaper, or the two Teflon cake pans sitting on top of the counter.

Guilt assailed Edith as she waited for an answer. She
was
gaining weight, and sweet Win was too much of a gentleman to tell her the truth. As tears stung her eyes, she dropped her gaze and stared at a mound of sausage floating in a sea of maple syrup on her plate.

Finally, when she could have heard a mosquito sneeze, her husband cleared his throat and casually shuffled his note cards. “Aren't we all gaining weight? I noticed my trousers were a little tight this morning.”

She eyed him sternly. “We're not talking about your trousers. We're talking about me.”

Winslow picked up his note cards. “Edith, if you weighed three hundred pounds, I'd love you.”

Edith's jaw dropped. She'd noticed a little extra padding around her middle, but she couldn't see herself the way he could. “You think I've gained
that
much?”

Horror filled Winslow's eyes as he reached for her hand. “Of course I don't think you weigh three hundred pounds. You asked if I thought . . . well, I only meant to assure you that I love you no matter what the scales indicate. You will always look lovely to me and, um—”

He was saved by a knock on the back door.

Winslow pushed back from the table and glanced at the clock. “Who could be calling before seven on a Sunday morning?”

Edith pulled the edges of her robe together as a tide of gooseflesh raced up each arm. Good news hardly ever arrived after midnight or before dawn.

Winslow opened the door, flashing a worried smile to Olympia de Cuvier's butler. “Caleb!”

“Sorry to bother you, Pastor, but I saw your light in the window, so I figured it was okay to come.”

Winslow stepped back to make way for the older man. “Of course, come in. Edith and I were having breakfast. Can we get you a cup of coffee?”

The man who for years had been Olympia's confidant and companion moved into the house with an unusual grave dignity. Edith rose from the table. Something was seriously wrong.

“Did Annie get home all right?” she asked.

Caleb nodded. “She arrived late yesterday afternoon.”

Winslow closed the door, shutting out the frosty air. “I imagine Olympia was glad to see her.”

“She was—and now she's gone home.”

“Annie's already gone back? What'd they do, have another argument?”

“No argument—and Olympia's the one who's home. She joined the Lord last night, a few minutes after eleven.”

Edith brought her hand to her mouth. Though serious, Caleb seemed perfectly at peace, even content. But perhaps the man was still in shock.

“I need to get to the church,” the butler said, tightening the scarf around his neck. “I'm meeting with some of the others for prayer before the service begins. But I knew you'd want to know about Olympia as soon as possible.”

Edith's hand slipped and clutched the collar of her robe. Dear goodness. What more could go wrong at Frenchman's Fairest? Annie must be suffering terribly. After losing her uncle in October and now, Olympia. . . .

Winslow looked at Edith; Edith could do nothing but nod. A lifetime of pastoral emergencies had taught her to expect the unexpected.

Winslow reached for his Bible and coat, but Caleb's outstretched hand stopped him. “There's no need to come now, Pastor, you have a service to prepare for. Besides, Miss Annie's asleep. But if you'd be so kind as to announce Missy's home-going in the service, I'll minister to those at the house until you can come.”

“I'll come—” Winslow's voice cracked—“this afternoon, soon as I can.”

“That'd be fine.” Caleb moved toward the door. “Thank you, Pastor, for shepherding this flock. Your work meant a great deal to Missy.”

Edith stood in the middle of the parsonage kitchen, stunned, as Winslow closed the back door.

Olympia, dead?

Surely this was a bad dream from which she would awaken soon.

For the first time in recent months, Annie woke on a Sunday morning in Heavenly Daze and decided not to go to church. Caleb would inform the townsfolk of Olympia's unexpected passing. Except, knowing Caleb, he wouldn't use those words to describe her death—he'd probably say the morning had brought cause for celebration, because Olympia de Cuvier had been called to heaven, where she was enjoying fellowship with Jesus, her beloved Edmund, and all those who had gone before.

Caleb could paint the darkest night sunshiny yellow.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Annie braced her arms on the mattress and focused her bleary eyes on an odd object beside her bed. The object proved to be Tallulah, curled in a scruffy ball. The sight of the dog sent guilt surging through Annie's bloodstream. Dr. Marc had ousted the poor pet from Olympia's room, yet her bed and all her doggie toys were in there. . . .

“Tallulah?” The dog woke, her ears twitching as she lifted her head. “You okay, girl?”

In answer, the terrier stood on wobbly legs, then gave her tail a tentative wiggle.

“Come on, sweetie.” Annie lowered her feet, shivering as the kiss of the cool wood raised goose bumps on her legs. Despite the clang and hiss of the old radiators, a chill lay upon the floor.

After pulling on a pair of thick wool socks, she wrapped herself in the old chenille robe hanging from an iron hook on the back of the door. Whistling for Tallulah, she moved carefully down the slippery wooden stairs and went into the kitchen. Evidence of Caleb's ministrations abounded—a plate of Danish lay under a glass dome on the counter, and a pot of coffee steamed beneath the gurgling coffeemaker.

Her eyes moved to a note on the refrigerator:
Am going
early to speak to the pastor, then to pray with my brothers. Will tell the church of Olympia's glorious home-going. Love
and prayers, Caleb.

Stumping forward on legs that felt heavy, Annie moved to the pantry, then sprinkled a handful of diet dog kibble in Tallulah's dish. The dog sniffed at it, took one bite, then looked at Annie and purposefully spat it out.

Annie snorted. “I don't blame you, girl, but there's no way I'm giving you one of these pastries. Olympia would kill me.”

Tallulah cocked her head as if to say,
Never mind, I'm
not hungry either.
Annie moved to the coffee pot, pulled a mug from the cabinet, and poured herself a cup. She had no appetite—who could eat with a shell-shocked heart, a dead woman upstairs, and a houseful of worries to consider?—but the coffee might jumpstart her addled brain.

After a few slow sips of the fragrant liquid, she moved to the little desk in the kitchen and pulled the old rotary phone closer. Calls, she had to make calls. People needed to know what had happened, and she ought to be the one to tell them. Edmund Junior, Olympia's only child, lived in Boston. Annie had few fond feelings for her cousin, for though he was a celebrated trial lawyer, and Olympia had always praised him, the man had barely made it home for his own father's funeral. He had come to Heavenly Daze only a few minutes before the ceremony and left ten minutes later, with scarcely more than a hug for his grieving mother.

Still, she needed to call him. And Effie, Edmund's 103-year-old mother, who lived in a nursing home in Ogunquit. And A.J., of course.

She made the most difficult call first, waking Edmund Junior from a sound Sunday morning sleep with the news that his mother had passed away. “When's the funeral?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“Some time Tuesday, I think. We're still confirming arrangements.”

“Call my secretary with the exact time, and I'll be there. I expect I'm the executor of the will?”

“I—I have no idea,” Annie stammered. “I'll have to ask Caleb. I don't know anything about Aunt Olympia's business affairs.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Edmund Junior grunted softly, then mumbled goodbye and hung up.

Annie left a message for Effie with the supervisor at the nursing home. “I expect Mrs. Shots will be both sad and relieved,” the nurse said dryly. “She complained about Mrs. de Cuvier something fierce, but I think she looked forward to Olympia's visits because each one gave her something new to complain about.”

“We don't expect her to come to the funeral,” Annie hastened to add, knowing the old woman couldn't handle the trip in February's frigid weather. “Just let her know, okay?”

Finally, she called A.J. He answered on the third ring, his voice low and heavy, but she could hear a smile in it when he said her name. “Annie. I was beginning to think you'd fallen off the face of the planet.”

“Sorry for not checking in last night. I was going to call you after I went up to bed, but then I found Aunt Olympia—” She bit her lip as fresh tears stung her eyes. “Oh, A.J., Aunt Olympia died, and it was awful! Your dad came as quick as he could, but he couldn't do anything to help.”

“Where is Dad now?”

“He's either upstairs or in the guest house, but I expect him to walk in any minute. The funeral home is sending a boat this morning to pick her up, and he said he'd handle all that for me.”

He sighed into the phone. “That island—I don't know how those people can stand to be so far removed from everything and everyone. If she'd had access to a proper hospital—”

“No—your dad said even a hospital wouldn't have helped. He thinks there was too much damage to her heart.”

“We'll never know, will we?”

Annie grimaced, wishing A.J. were here. If he were, he'd know from the look on her face that he'd hit a sore spot. Guilt still roared within her, so debating the manner of Olympia's death wasn't going to help.

“The funeral will be Tuesday,” she said, changing the subject. “Can you come?”

“I'll check my surgery schedule.” Warmth flooded back into his voice. “Dad would be happy if I could buzz up there.”

“Sure, take the plane. I'll get Odell to bring you over from the landing.”

He laughed. “The crazy old coot in the rattletrap boat? I'm not sure I want to risk a winter crossing with him.”

Annie wrapped the phone cord around her hand and studied the ceiling. A.J. hadn't minded risking a winter crossing with Odell at Christmas . . . but maybe that particular visit had frightened him more than he wanted to admit.

She sighed. “That crazy old coot is all we have right now. Captain Stroble's on vacation and his boat's in dry dock for maintenance.”

He laughed. “All right, then. You take care of yourself and I'll try my best to see you Tuesday.”

Annie nodded wordlessly, then slowly dropped the heavy receiver onto the phone. Leaning forward, she propped her elbows on the desk and pressed her hands to her face as old feelings of abandonment surfaced, threatening to drag her down into a chasm of memory and loss, the remnants of her childhood.

Why did A.J.'s hesitation bother her so much? He was a doctor and in great demand. She'd be foolish and unrealistic to think he'd be able to drop everything to comfort her in her time of distress. Besides, she was a strong and modern woman; why should she
need
comforting? She had always taken great pains to let her friends know she didn't need a man to make her life complete, nor did she want to be coddled. Her relationships were two-way streets; she expected to give and take, then take and give.

Still . . . something in her yearned to curl up in a man's strong arms, feel his lips brush against her hair. She would give anything to know someone was supporting her as she tried to make good decisions about the funeral, but instead it seemed as though every aspect of this undertaking was destined to fall upon her shoulders.

She heard a creak from the back porch steps, then hurried to swipe a tear from her cheek. A moment later Dr. Marc came into the kitchen, rubbing his bare hands together. He hesitated when he saw her sitting by the phone.

“Sorry, Annie. I should have knocked. But I saw Caleb on his way to the church—”

She shook her head. “You don't have to knock. You're like family.”