Hearts at Home (18 page)

Everything she touched ended in disaster, and A.J. would soon learn that she couldn't accomplish anything worthwhile. He'd never understand her failures. He was the proverbial golden child who succeeded in everything he undertook. She had no doubt he had graduated at the head of his class and was probably the best neurosurgeon in New York, well on his way to running a hospital or two. . . .

What had ever made her think he'd be interested in someone like her?

The phone at her elbow rang. Wearily, she lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Annie? It's Edmund.”

For an instant her frazzled brain wondered if Uncle Edmund had found a way to phone from heaven, then she remembered her cousin. “Edmund! Are you in Boston?”

“Yes.” She heard a smile in his voice. “Listen, I don't know if you've already made a decision about Mom's house, but if you're thinking about selling, I think I may have found a buyer. A partner in my law firm is interested in opening a maritime museum, and he thinks Heavenly Daze might be just the place for it. My mother's house would be perfect.”

Annie crinkled her nose, trying to imagine Frenchman's Fairest as an institution. “Would he live there?”

“Of course not, the place is practically uninhabitable. The museum would be open only during tourist season. He'd hire someone to manage it, of course, and they'd probably live in the guest cottage.”

So Dr. Marc would have to leave. And Caleb.

She drew a deep breath. “I haven't actually decided to sell, Edmund, but it's nice to know someone is interested.”

“I think he'll pay up to two hundred thousand for the place. No more, because we both know it needs extensive repairs.”

“I know.”

“So—can I tell him you'll think about it?”

“I'll think about it. And Edmund?”

“Yes?”

“Are you upset, you know, about not getting the house? I didn't know Olympia was going to leave it to me. I wouldn't want you thinking I asked for it.”

He laughed. “I wouldn't have that money pit if you paid me to take it. I'm only recommending it to my friend because I know he won't be operating in the off-season, so he won't have to replace the furnace and insulate all those leaky windows.”

Annie sighed. “Thanks for calling. I'll let you know.”

She hung up, then propped her chin on her hand. Edmund had given her another reason to sell, a good one. Two hundred thousand dollars would go a long way to settle Caleb in a condo and put a proper monument on Olympia's grave, occupied or not. With that kind of money she could build a little medical clinic for Dr. Marc on Ferry Road, perhaps down by the Lobster Pot. There might even be enough left over to replace her rattling car. . . .

She slammed her hand to the desk. This ought to be a simple decision, so why wasn't it? She ought to be able to line up the pros and cons of selling and staying and make a definitive decision, yet something in her refused to approach that point.

She needed someone to help her think clearly, but A.J. was no help at all. The last time she'd spoken to him, he'd become almost irritated with her because she couldn't— wouldn't—dismiss Heavenly Daze without a second thought.

Her thoughts drifted toward Dr. Marc. Of all the people she knew on Heavenly Daze, he understood her situation best. But she couldn't call him . . . she had bothered him enough.

Chapter Nine

T
wo days after promising her husband she'd see the physician, Edith sat in Dr. Marc's office and flipped through a magazine.

Yesterday she'd tried the meat-and-potatoes diet written up in
Good Housekeeping
. It felt strange to eat sausage and potatoes for breakfast, and stranger still to have a huge slice of pot roast with a baked potato for lunch. Win hadn't minded the supper of pork loin and potatoes, but by eight o'clock, when she fixed a plate of beef and potatoes for the required before-bed snack, Edith had figured out why this diet worked—the dieter grew so tired of beef and potatoes by the second day that he or she simply stopped eating . . . or quit.

Edith was ready to quit and move on to something else. The magazine in the doctor's office had no diets to offer, though it did have a dozen glossy pictures of decadent desserts: chocolate pound cake; strawberry souf-flés, and a crème brûlée that looked good enough to die for. . . .

When she heard Dr. Marc and Babette Graham coming down the hallway, she set the magazine aside. Her interest shifted into concern when she saw that Babette was as white as snow.

“Hi, Babette.”

The younger woman didn't even look up. She nodded in a sort of daze, then pulled her coat from the hook by the door and slipped it on.

“Take your vitamins,” Dr. Marc said, his attention focused on Babette. “Remember—this is a very important time.”

“Ayuh.” Babette spoke in an absent voice.

“And come see me again in a couple of weeks.”

“Ayuh.” Wearing the bewildered look of a sleepwalker, Babette opened the front door and stepped outside.

When the door had closed, Edith jerked her thumb toward the porch. “Is she—”

“I'm going to count on your discretion,” Dr. Marc said, grinning. “I think she and Charles should make the announcement.”

“Oh, my.” Edith winced in sympathy for the young woman. Every mother welcomed children, but Babette already had Georgie, and that boy was a handful.

She nodded to the doctor. “Don't worry. As a pastor's wife, I'm used to zipping my lip.”

“Thanks.” His friendly expression shifted to a look of concern. “I hope you're not having the same, um, symptoms.”

She laughed. “Oh, no. My problem is nothing a little willpower can't fix. For the record, I didn't want to bother you with this, but I promised Winslow.”

The doctor laughed. “Come on back, then, and let's talk.”

As nervous as a cat, she followed him into the small examining room. She didn't want the entire town to know she was dieting, but the doctor was a trustworthy person. He wouldn't spill the . . . She groaned as an image of deep, rich, molasses-covered Boston baked beans rose in her mind.

“Now, then.” The doctor leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “How can I help you?”

Clearing her throat, Edith stared at her folded hands. “I've been thinking about taking off a few pounds. Winslow wanted me to consult you first.”

Lifting one finger to his chin, the doctor studied her. “A diet, huh? Clothes feeling a little too tight?”

She managed a tolerant smile.

“Well, I suppose most of us could afford to drop some excess weight. In the winter, we Mainers tend to be like the animals—we overeat, put on extra padding, then go through a spring shed.” He grinned at her. “Don't worry, you won't be the only islander watching what they eat.”

He picked up a folder and shuffled through the papers inside. “We did blood work a few months ago, cholesterol's fine . . . triglycerides are only slightly elevated.” He glanced up, smiling. “I see no reason why you can't limit your intake of food for a few weeks—as long as you don't get carried away and go for the skin-and-bones look.”

Edith had no intention of turning herself into Calista Flockhart. “So I can lose fifteen, maybe twenty pounds?”

Dr. Marc frowned. “Twenty? You'd be shivering come next winter, Edith. For your frame, that's a lot of weight to lose.”

She shrugged. “Twenty would give me a little leeway. Summer is right around the corner and I always gain weight in summer—you know how those ice cream socials can get out of hand.”

He laughed, patting his midsection. “Do I ever.”

“Good.” She sighed, feeling better now that she had his blessing. “I won't take up any more of your time. Winslow is such a worry wart.”

The doctor led the way out of the exam room. “Remember now—no fad diets. Eat sensibly. Lots of fresh fruits—”

“—and vegetables,” Edith finished. “I know the routine, Doc.”

“But do you
follow
the routine?” He paused, turning to face her. “I mean it, Edith. You're not as young as you once were—none of us are. Teenagers can get away with fad diets, but we older folks can't. Dropping weight takes time, if done properly. You didn't gain the weight overnight, and you shouldn't take it off overnight. I recommend a program like Pound Pinchers—anything that offers group support. In fact, I believe there's a Pound Pinchers meeting every Thursday morning in Ogunquit.”

The island women usually cleaned or quilted on Thursday mornings, and Edith didn't want to miss the fellowship. Besides, she didn't need to have her hand held through a diet. She was a grown woman, and she could manage most anything.

“Eighteen hundred calories a day should be about right for you,” the doctor went on “Enjoy a piece of cake or a scoop of ice cream once a week. The body craves variety, so don't deprive yourself of everything you like.”

Oh, no. She hated to admit it, but a single taste of a forbidden food meant certain suicide for her diet. She would have to go cold turkey and eat none of her favorites until the weight was gone. The thought of the peach dress in the closet bolstered her confidence.

She could do it. She'd count calories, stop eating after eighteen hundred calories a day, and eat whatever she liked . . . except her red flag foods. Toss in a few fast walks around the island, and she'd be shipshape in no time.

“Thank you, Dr. Marc. I'll be fine.”

She left the office feeling lighter in mind, if not in body. By the time Birdie's and Salt's wedding rolled around she would be slim and trim once again.

Delicious aromas drifted from the bakery as she crossed Ferry Road—Abner was making crullers. Her eyes searched the street for Tallulah, then an unexpected thought struck her.

What would become of Tallulah now that Edmund and Olympia were gone?

Chapter Ten

I
sn't this invigorating?” Clad in a sweat suit, tennis shoes, and matching wrist and ankle weights, Edith swung her arms like pistons and plowed ahead, her legs pumping to the rhythm of a rhyme she'd invented:

One, two, three, four! You can do a little more!
Five, six, seven, eight! Come on, girl, and lose this
weight!

Twenty paces behind, Winslow followed, his bald head gleaming with sweat despite the chilly temperature. “Hold up, Edith.” Puffing, he bent to tie his shoelace.

Not willing to stop moving, Edith doubled back to walk in a circle around him. She was two days into the eighteen-hundred-calorie-a-day-diet-and-exercise plan, and she hadn't lost a pound. Or a half a pound.

Or an inch.

Which convinced her that if she could maintain her pace, surely tomorrow she'd wake up and find that the fat globules on her hips had decided to melt away in the night.

Winslow straightened and shot her a grin. “Okay. Lead on, woman!”

Edith took off, quickening her pace, but she hadn't gone twenty steps when she spied a rock. Suddenly weary, she dropped to it, then rested her hands on her bent knees and hung her head.

Something had gone wrong. Her
energy
globules had decided to melt away; the fat was hanging on.

Waves lapped the shoreline, and the morning sun gleamed silver on the water and streaked the lighthouse with golden rays. On any other day she would have reveled in the sight, but today defeat colored her perceptions.

She stared at the water as Winslow approached. “It's no use. I'm starving myself and getting nowhere. We're going home and I'm making pancakes.”

“Now, Edith.” Win dropped to the rock beside her, his eyes dark with compassion. “You know losing weight is not an easy process.”

“Easy for you to say.” She turned envious eyes on him. “How much have you lost in the past couple of days?”

He wouldn't meet her gaze. “That doesn't matter, does it? I wasn't really trying.”

Her eyes pierced him. “How much, Win?”

“Two pounds—but Edith, everyone's metabolism is different.”

“Ayuh. And mine is out of order.” She raked a hand through her windblown hair. She had
religiously
stuck to Dr. Marc's regimen—she'd given up all snacks and desserts and eaten nothing but healthy foods for the last two days. But the new scales she had purchased from the mercantile refused to budge.

Why didn't she just give up and wear sackcloth to Birdie's wedding?

Giving in was far easier than suffering. She hadn't slept last night; experiencing hunger pangs, she had gotten up and roamed the house, finally finding the willpower to munch on carrot sticks instead of Pringles. All this extra exercise had done something to make her hungrier, and low-fat, low-calorie food just didn't seem to satisfy. . . .

She dropped her face into her hands. “I'm such a wimp about this. I want to be thin, but I can't seem to find the strength to turn that want into reality.”

Winslow slipped an arm around her shoulder. “You're making too much of this, Edith. What's the harm if you can't wear that peach dress to Birdie's wedding? You have other dresses.”

“None that are elegant!! None that make me feel pretty!”

As Winslow stared at her in bewilderment, Edith shook her head. Men didn't understand. A man could be fifty pounds overweight and people would smile and say that his wife must certainly be a good cook. A woman, on the other hand, would be ridiculed if she began to put on a few pounds. Let a movie star begin to look maternal and suddenly she became fodder for the late-night TV shows.

When did society become so fat-phobic? Fashion magazines promoted anorexia and emaciation, television ads featured actresses who boasted about wearing a size zero.

Zero?
A zero was nothing but skin, bones, and hair!

Why was life so unfair? She had never worried about her weight until lately. As a young girl she'd been blessed with an active life and a fully functioning metabolism, now she lived at a slower pace and enjoyed a simpler life. Why should her body punish her for taking it easy? And why was it so hard to eat less when half the world went to bed hungry every night?