Hearts at Home (16 page)

Marc lifted a brow, then asked a delicate question: “Have you talked to A.J?”

The head against his sweater wobbled up and down. “A.J. says I should sell the house and move to New York. He doesn't really like Heavenly Daze.”

Marc chuckled dryly. “That comes as no surprise.”

She lifted her bleary eyes. “Well, I don't really like New York. It's a nice place to visit, but I don't think I could ever live there.”

Marc let his hand fall on the back of the sofa as the world went silent around them. If this were a casual conversation he would murmur some inane comment and move on, but this didn't feel like a casual conversation. And the longer he looked into Annie's sorrowful eyes, the more his heart yearned for something he had no business considering, much less imagining . . .

Abruptly, he pulled away and stood. “I promised you tea, didn't I?”

“You did . . . but I don't really need it.”

“I do.”

He strode toward the kitchen, where the two mugs waited on the counter, cooler now, but still useful for keeping his hands busy.

Was that a note of disappointment he heard in her voice just now? Could she be feeling . . . no, she couldn't. Annie was young enough to be his daughter. Her entire lifetime stretched before her. He was a retired doctor living on Heavenly Daze because he'd tired of the rat race. He had moved here after his wife's death, content to spend the rest of his life serving other people . . . alone.

He didn't want to love again. He certainly didn't expect to love again.

And he would not love again. He would rejoice for his son, knowing that Alex had found a woman of whom he was
almost
worthy.

He unwrapped two teabags and dropped one into each mug. “Sugar?”

“Ayuh. Two teaspoons, please.”

He smiled. “I like a girl who's not afraid of a few empty calories. You take risks.”

“No, I don't.” She stood and came toward him, her eyes wide pools of appeal. “I'm scared to death, Dr. Marc. Afraid I'll make the wrong decision. If I sell the house and leave Heavenly Daze, I'm afraid I'll lose a part of myself. I used to think that part wasn't important, but lately I've come to realize it matters . . . a lot.”

“Then don't sell the house.” He said this with more conviction than was appropriate for an impartial advisor, but she didn't seem to notice.

“But if I don't sell the house, how am I supposed to take care of it? I live and work in Portland, and my annual salary can't handle my living expenses and the cost of maintaining this house, too.”

He pulled a teabag from the first cup. “I could help, Annie. Your Aunt always let me stay here as a service, but I could pay rent. In fact, I insist upon it—”

“No.” A blush burned through her pallor. “I couldn't take money from you, especially not after all you've done for the town. But I could do a lot with the proceeds from the house. For one thing, I could hire a boat to search for Olympia, then bury her properly.”

He handed her the mug. “Assuming you could find the casket—which is a long shot—why on earth would you think Olympia cares about being properly buried?”

Annie blinked. “Aunt Olympia always cared about doing the proper thing.”

“But what makes you think she's concerned about such things now?”

The question seemed to strike home. “I . . . well, maybe she doesn't. But surely everybody else does. I can only imagine what Vernie and Cleta are saying about me for leaving Olympia to swim with the fishes—”

He laughed softly. “They're not mobsters, dear, and you heard them at the funeral. They think there's a certain poetic justice in the way Olympia went out.”

“But Olympia would hate to know they were laughing at her.”

“They're not laughing at her—I'd bet my last dollar they're laughing
with
her.”

Leaning on the counter, she quietly sipped her tea.

Her silence gave him courage. “Your confusion isn't stemming from the house, Annie, and I think you know that. You're confused about letting go. Are you ready to let go of Heavenly Daze and move to New York with Alex?”

Surprise blossomed on her face. “Do you want me to move to New York with Alex?”

“I want you to be happy, Annie.”

“Really?” She lowered her mug and looked away, apparently considering the question, and Marc purposely turned his attention to a painting on the wall, afraid to read her thoughts in her eyes. By all that was right and honorable he ought to push her out of the nest and send her off to New York. One day his son would thank him. Maybe he and Annie would come to visit, bringing his grandchildren with them. The trade-off would be worth it, because life on Heavenly Daze without frequent visits from Annie would be dark and dull.

Did he want a delightful daughter-in-law to cherish forever, or—his heart shrank from shaping the question— did he want Annie for himself?

“You'll have to choose,” he said, his voice sounding strangled as he stirred sugar into his tea. And as he took the first sip, he glanced into the dark brew and saw a coward reflected there—a man so afraid of his feelings he was willing to let a young woman make choices for him.

By 11:00 AM, the island women were seated in the church sanctuary, cleaning supplies scattered among them. Because the church was too small to hire a cleaning service— and because there were none to be had—the women had always agreed to spend the first Thursday of every month polishing the old pews and dusting the antique woodwork.

Edith had arrived first, to unlock the door and set out the cleaning supplies. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet as the other women arrived—they probably thought she was mourning Olympia. Truth was, she did miss Olympia something fierce, but her silence resulted from the fact that she was trying to plan a strategy for coping with the ladies' lunch that would follow their cleaning session. Each woman always brought a dish, usually a casserole or salad, and after an hour of scrubbing they'd go down to the basement to eat. Trouble was, Edith didn't have a clue how she would survive the hour.

The only day she'd managed successfully was her first day of “Last Meals.” The second day, when she'd tried to starve herself, had ended in disaster after her meltdown at the funeral dinner. Yesterday she had tried to diet by eating only half of what she usually ate, but the previous day's starvation had triggered some sort of gorging mechanism and she'd stuffed herself like a hog.

This morning she had risen with new determination— she would arm herself with the low-fat diet plan. She would eat no more than twenty grams of fat per day, thank you very much, so for breakfast she had eaten a low-fat fruit bar that tasted like strawberry-flavored cardboard and three packages of gummy worms. Delicious— and not a smidgen of fat in a single worm.

But how was she supposed to be successful when faced with a table loaded with casseroles and salads, none of which would have
labels?

Walking among the pews, searching for errant scraps of paper and old bulletins, she pondered the question and half-listened to the other women's conversation.

Cleta sat on the first pew, mending an altar cloth, her head bobbing toward the women around her. “Nobody asked my opinion, but I think Crazy Odell ought to have his neck wrung like a chicken.”

“No one can predict a rogue wave, Cleta.” Vernie Bidderman, bent over the communion table, paused from dusting long enough to add her two cents.

“Has the Coast Guard seen her?” Bea asked.

Barbara Higgs lifted her head from where she was mending an altar cloth. “Russell said some fishermen spotted a big floating box around Boothbay Harbor, but they weren't able to catch her. The Coast Guard's still keeping an eye out, though.”

“I wonder what Annie will do with the house?” Birdie stopped pushing the dust mop down the aisle and stared into space. “Heavenly Daze won't be the same without a de Cuvier in Frenchman's Folly.”

“Just goes to show life is fragile,” Babette called from the back of the church, where she was spritzing the windows with cleaner. “And we should live each day as if it were our last.”

“Anyone talk to Annie lately?” Bea called from the piano. “She puts on her best face when I deliver the mail, but you have to wonder. Poor thing—losing both aunt and uncle in such a short time.”

“Annie's doing well—that girl has spunk.” Vernie rubbed a spot on the altar table until it squeaked. “I stopped by Frenchmen's Folly last night, and Annie said she and Caleb have a real peace about Olympia's passing. I think she's still a little unnerved about Olympia's
voyage,
though.”

A nervous titter erupted, then faded.

By noon the women had made their way down to the basement and the kitchen. Edith felt her eyes water when she beheld the day's feast: Babette's cheesy chive potatoes, Vernie's shrimp scampi, Birdie's hot yeast rolls, Cleta's strawberry-rhubarb pie.

Thursday morning cleaning was a diet ambush, pure and simple.

Edith took a spoonful of everything, resigning herself to the fact that she'd chosen a bad day to count fat grams. She'd start again, and she'd be downright religious about her diet . . . tomorrow.

She ate slowly, watching Dana and Babette pack the food away and envying their metabolism. Both women were as slender as flower stems. Barbara Higgs had a little more meat on her bones, but nothing serious. Edith had once been slim, but the older she got, the harder it was to shed extra pounds. She closed her eyes and bit into a hot roll. My, Birdie could make bread.

“I don't know about you, but I can't seem to get enough to eat these days,” Vernie complained. She dished up a second helping of cheesy chive potatoes.

“Oh, you're just in love,” Cleta teased.

Color infused Vernie's cheeks, but everyone in town knew her husband, Stanley, had taken to courting her like a man with nothing to lose. Stanley Bidderman, who'd gone missing for twenty years, had returned to the island in December and declared his intention to win Vernie's heart again.

Throughout the months of December and January the townsfolk had waited to see if Vernie would take Stanley back. She had, after considerable soul-searching. Judging by the bloom in Vernie's cheeks these days, Stanley's efforts to woo his wife had been a success.

Vernie wasn't the only woman with roses in her cheeks. After years of being alone, Birdie Wester had fallen hard for the town curmudgeon, Salt Gribbon, and their wedding was only weeks away.

Dana must have followed Edith's thoughts, for she was grinning at the bride-to-be. “Found a wedding dress yet, Birdie?”

Birdie swallowed a bite of scampi before answering. “Ayuh. Ordered one from the Sears catalog.”

Bea rolled her eyes.

“From a catalog?” Babette dropped her jaw. “Why, Birdie, I would have been happy to go shopping with you. Half the fun is trying on a lot of different wedding gowns.”

“I know you would, Babette, but I don't want to make a fuss.”

“But it's your
wedding
day,” Barbara protested. “If that isn't a time for fuss, I don't know what is.”

“I'm sure the wedding itself will be all the fuss Salt can stand.” Birdie chuckled as she buttered another roll. “You ought to see the cake Abner is proposing—six layers, with butter cream frosting and fresh raspberry filling.”

Edith wiped drool from her mind.

Bea snorted. “Raspberries give me a rash.”

Birdie smiled. “Abner knows that, sister—he's going to make a special cake for you—one without filling.”

Edith stared at Dana's pistachio salad, mentally calculating the ingredients—Cool Whip wasn't too bad fat-wise, especially if it was the nonfat variety. The nuts, however, were terribly high in fat—but it was good fat, wasn't it? The pineapple was okay, no fat. Ditto for the marshmallows. But the pistachio pudding . . . the fat content depended on what kind of milk Dana had used.

Edith reached for the bowl, then plopped a teaspoon full onto her paper plate. Okay, so she'd blown the low-fat diet, but maybe she could work it off. She did have a “Sweatin' to the Oldies” videotape gathering dust in the cabinet.

“Does it seem odd to anyone other than me that we're carrying on as if nothing has happened?” Babette lowered her fork as her eyes went misty. “Olympia is barely cold and here we are joking about cakes and weddings.”

“Life goes on, Babette,” Edith gently reminded her. “Not even Olympia would want us to sit around mourning for days. She certainly wouldn't want Birdie and Salt to delay their wedding. She was looking forward to it.”

Babette sighed. “I know. But sometimes it seems like the world barely notices when a person leaves it.”

“People notice,” Birdie insisted. “Every life touches some other life, so people notice. Never doubt that.”

On the short walk home, Edith wondered if any of the women had noticed her halfhearted attempt to eat less than usual. Probably not, because on her arm she carried a basket loaded with rolls, a container of cheesy chive potatoes, and pistachio pudding. The women always insisted on giving her their leftovers, but their generosity was doing Edith no favors.

She berated herself for her lack of willpower. Until lately she had thought of herself as a woman with a strong will and loads of common sense. Today, for instance, she could have eaten a small serving of scampi and a big bowl of plain salad. She could have skipped the rolls, the potatoes, and the two servings of pistachio salad, but she had eaten like a glutton—because of that blasted low-fat diet plan.

It was too difficult, too much trouble.

She had to find another plan, and she would. Right after supper.

Feeling better if not lighter, Edith felt her confidence begin to return. Why, she could stay on a diet as well or better than the next woman. Tonight she would sit down with her magazines and study the latest dieting advice. And tomorrow, she'd be perfect.