Hearts at Home (11 page)

Annie shook her head. Russell had taken the
Barbara Jean
out just after Odell's rescue, but Olympia had drifted out to sea with the current, and the encroaching darkness had made a search impossible.

“I'm sorry, Annie,” Russell had said, shifting uneasily on the porch after his return. “But I can't see anything on a cloudy night like this. We'd best wait until morning, then call the Coast Guard. Or maybe one of the other lobster-men will spot her when they head out in the morning.”

Annie had returned to the kitchen to give Dr. Marc and Caleb the bad news. “What am I supposed to do now? I can't just forget about her—what would people think? But how on earth are we supposed to find her? The currents could have carried her anywhere. And if the casket hits the rocks up on the coast, it could sink. Then we'll
never
find her.”

“Shh, dear, don't fret yourself.” Dr. Marc had stepped closer, pressing her head to his shoulder, and Annie had closed her eyes, relishing the comfort of a kind touch. Dr. Marc was a godsend; she would have lost her head if not for his clear thinking. He had known how to care for Odell; he had sent the other townspeople home to spare Annie from a barrage of comments, and by asking her to help him care for Odell, he had kept her from brooding about Olympia . . . and A.J.

But even he hadn't been able to keep sad reality at bay forever.

“A doctor's life is busy,” he had said when she lifted her head. “I'm sure Alex had a good reason for not coming.”

“He always does.” She had forced a smile. “But though he promised to come for the funeral, I don't know how he's going to get here. Without Odell's boat—”

“Alex is resourceful; he always has been. I'm sure he'll think of something, Annie.”

She had drifted off to sleep with that promise ringing in her ears, but those words seemed unrealistic in the gray morning light seeping beneath her window shade. Heavenly Daze had been blessed with an unseasonably warm winter, but a cloudbank had moved in to cover the morning sun, and the wind rattling the window held the promise of snow in its breath.

Quickly dressing in jeans, wool socks, and a sweater, she padded down the stairs and into the kitchen. Caleb, Dr. Marc, and Odell were sitting at the table, and Odell had the telephone pressed to his ear. When Caleb caught Annie's eye, he pointed to the empty place at his right hand, then gestured toward the big bowl of oatmeal steaming in the center of the table.

“I thought you'd be down soon,” Caleb whispered, placing a clean bowl and spoon on her placemat. “Eat up, dear one. You'll need your strength today.”

Nodding gratefully, she sank into the chair, then scooped up a dipperful of the hot oatmeal and plopped it into her bowl.

Lifting a brow, she nodded toward Odell. “Who's he talking to?”

Dr. Marc grinned. “His granddaughter. We called her after the accident, of course, and she was relieved to hear he was okay. Now it sounds like her relief has passed into anger.”

Annie shook her head.

Across the table, Odell averted his eyes and held the phone an inch from his ear. Every once in a while he'd open his mouth as if to argue a point, then his mouth would close as his granddaughter squawked from the receiver. Annie looked down at her bowl and tried not to laugh. It was comical, the way his mouth opened and closed like a hooked fish . . . but there was nothing funny about Aunt Olympia floating to France.

She dropped her head to her hand as a somber thought slammed into her. “Dr. Marc?”

“Um?”

Not wanting to upset Caleb, she lowered her voice. “There's no way we're going to find Aunt Olympia in time for the funeral, is there?”

His lips smiled, but his eyes did not. “Short of an absolute miracle, I don't think so. But you can still have the memorial service. You don't need a body to celebrate someone's life.”

She leaned closer. “There's a good chance I'm not even going to find her for a springtime internment, isn't there?”

He coughed into his hand and stared down at his coffee cup, then whispered, “You're probably right. Sea people tend to let things rest. I doubt, for instance, if anyone will bother to raise the
Sally
. From what I've gathered from Odell, the little bit of insurance he carried on the boat won't cover the salvage expenses. His granddaughter wants him to let the boat lie.”

“On the bottom?”

“Ayuh. It'll make a nice artificial reef. If no one spots the casket in a day or two, you might want to consider it a burial at sea.”

Annie leaned back in her chair, then slowly lifted a spoonful of oatmeal to her mouth. Pretending Olympia had gone down with the Sally would be the easiest thing to do, but her conscience wouldn't allow it. What would Edmund Junior think? He'd be horrified when he heard what had happened to his mother's remains. She'd be lucky if he didn't threaten to sue her for dereliction of duty or something.

And what of Olympia herself ? She had carefully planned her funeral, reserved her plot next to Edmund, requested the boys' choir. Annie couldn't put her aunt to rest without fulfilling at least one of the woman's wishes. . . .

She leaned toward the doctor again. “Dr. Marc?”

“Um?”

“I've got to find her.”

He took a sip of his coffee, smiled at Caleb, then bent his head to whisper in her ear. “We'll talk about it later, dear. You have a big day ahead of you.”

“But—”

“Don't worry, Annie. Caleb called the Coast Guard, and they've promised to call us if anyone reports an offshore casket. At this point, there's nothing more we can do.”

Fat, wet flakes of snow began to fall from the soft gray sky on Tuesday afternoon. Marc brushed the snowflakes from the shoulders of his dark coat, then shifted uneasily as he entered the church behind Floyd Lansdown. Six pallbearers, all shivering in their black suits with no overcoats, had lined up in the churchyard without a casket between them. Edith had insisted they behave as if the dearly departed were present, so the six men pasted on grave expressions and moved down the church aisle carrying nothing. To the right of the communion table, a hastily painted portrait of Olympia de Cuvier stared out at them with a slightly accusing expression.

Marc breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the front, then he slipped into the family pew with Annie. A.J. sat next to her (thank the Lord, he had found a lob-sterman in Wells who had agreed to bring him over), while Edmund Junior, clad in an expensive cashmere topcoat, sat at the end of the pew with Caleb. Whisked in by helicopter, he had arrived barely fifteen minutes before the service was scheduled to begin. Bobby Gribbon and Georgie Graham had nearly swooned with excitement to see the chopper landing at the northern end of the island, but the noise had frightened little Brittany. Now she sat in the pew with Salt, barricading herself behind her grandfather's burly forearm as if she feared the helicopter visitor might sweep her up and carry her away.

Marc glanced down the pew to peek at Olympia's son. Edmund Junior seemed calm, but he kept swiping at his red nose with his handkerchief. Marc privately believed the man was suffering more from the cold weather than from any remorse about his mother's passing. If the man had cared for Olympia so much, why hadn't he taken the time to write, call, or visit? Upon arriving at the house, he had scarcely said two words to Annie before asking to see his mother's will and personal papers. He now carried a copy of the will in the pocket of his topcoat.

Marc settled back in the pew and drew a deep breath. However cold-hearted Edmund Junior might be, he didn't appear to be ill-mannered enough to open the will and peer at its pages during the memorial service. After the service, of course, he might harass Annie.

Marc made a mental note to stay close enough to help, should Annie need a hand.

Music by the Vienna Boys' Choir had filled the church during the processional; now Beatrice Coughlin sat at the piano, a small microphone on a stand next to her. At a nod from Edith, acting as funeral director, Bea tapped the microphone twice, then ran her fingers over the keys in a rippling arpeggio.

“O think of the home over there,” she sang, her voice warbling over the sound system,

“By the side of the river of light,
Where the saints, all immortal and fair,
Are robed in their garments of white.”

“Mama,” Georgie Graham's voice rang out, “why are the saints wearing their bathrobes?”

Ignoring him, Bea sang on.

“O think of the friends over there,
Who before us the journey have trod,
Of the songs that they breathe on the air,
In their home in the palace of God.”

Marc glanced at Georgie, but Babette had anticipated the break in the song. In perfect time to the music, she clapped her hand over his mouth until Bea began the final verse.

“My Savior is now over there,
There my kin and friends are at rest,
Then away from my sorrow and care,
Let me fly to the land of the blest.”

Marc drew a deep breath, taking comfort from the lyrics of the old hymn. His dear wife, Alex's mother, had been dwelling in the palace of God for nearly ten years. He still missed her, particularly when he worried about Alex . . . but now that Alex had found Annie, he would worry less.

Annie Cuvier was a fine young woman, the best of Olympia and Edmund combined into one lovely personality. Like Edmund, she loved to give, devoting herself completely to causes ranging from tomatoes to homeless animals. Olympia had spent many hours telling Marc about Annie's childhood—how the girl befriended wounded birds she found on the beach; how one summer she had adopted a puffin family and wept for hours when one of the babies died. Olympia could not understand that part of Annie—the mistress of Frenchman's Fairest had been a fine person, but she'd definitely been more of a cold prickly than a warm fuzzy. Yet Annie had brought warmth and happiness to Olympia in the last few months, and the place wouldn't be the same without her youthful enthusiasm.

He felt his heart sink. He would miss Olympia because she had been a generous landlady and a faithful friend. He would also miss her because her passing meant Annie had no more reasons to visit the island. With no tomatoes, aunt, or uncle to draw her home, Annie would most likely remain in Portland with her work.

There remained, however, the matter of Olympia's bequest. He wasn't sure what the woman was thinking when she left Frenchman's Fairest to Annie; despite what she said in her letter, she may have intended to snub her son rather than endow her niece. But one thing was certain— Annie had no use for a house. As a young woman, she would want a home of her own with a husband like A.J. as its master. Together they would have strong, intelligent children. The prospect of having Annie as a daughter-in-law should have filled Marc's heart with joy . . .

So why didn't it?

With A.J.'s firm hand on her elbow, Annie dabbed at her eyes and watched as Beatrice ripped out one final arpeggio.

When Bea had finished, Caleb stood. Annie felt the room grow quiet as movement and sniffling ceased. Everyone wondered what the old butler would say, for he had known Olympia better than anyone except Edmund.

The man's bright eyes swept the room. “Now, dear brothers and sisters, I want you to know what has happened to Olympia so you will not be full of sorrow like people who have no hope.” His soft brown eyes crinkled as he smiled. “For since you believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, you also believe that when the Lord comes, God will bring back with Him all the Christians who have died, including Olympia. I can tell you this directly from the Lord: You who are still living when the Lord returns will not rise to meet him ahead of those who are in their graves. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout, with the call of the archangel, and with the trumpet call of God. first, all the Christians who have died will rise from their graves. Then, together with them, you who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air and remain with Him forever. So comfort and encourage each other with these words.”

A murmur of “ayuhs” and “amens” rippled through the room as Caleb took his seat. Then Pastor Wickam stood and walked to the pulpit.

“I do not think I can add anything to the words of comfort Caleb Smith has shared with us,” he said, gripping the edges of the pulpit. “But perhaps some of you would like to share a
brief ”
—he glanced at Floyd Lansdown, who had a tendency to be long-winded in community meet-ings—“ tribute to our dear friend Olympia.”

The women on the other side of the church looked at each other, then Dana Klackenbush stood. “Alst I know,” she said, holding tight to the back of the pew in front of her, “is whenever I wanted to know what a lady should do in any given situation, I would ask myself, ‘What would Olympia do?' And then I had my answer. She was the classiest lady on the island, and I was honored to call her my friend.”

Floyd waved his hand. “Hear, hear!”

Ignoring Floyd, the pastor nodded at Birdie Wester.

“Thank you, Pastor.” Pulling herself from the space beneath Salt Gribbon's arm, Birdie rose to her full height of five feet and a few centimeters, then drew a deep breath. “Olympia had her share of struggles, but she bore them like a stalwart Christian. I never heard her complain about personal things, not even when her only son couldn't seem to find the time to pay her a visit—”

“Sister!”

Birdie halted in midsentence, then looked down at her hissing sibling. She squared her shoulders as if she planned to continue her diatribe against Edmund Junior, then apparently thought the better of it when Salt Gribbon reached out and gripped her elbow.

“Well,” she said, the touch of her man's hand obviously settling her down, “Olympia was a class act, true. And when I see her in heaven, I'll be sure to tell her so. I'm only sorry we didn't get to do more neighborin' here on the island.”