Hearts at Home (19 page)

Until she'd begun this diet, Edith couldn't remember the last time she'd honestly been hungry. Oh, there were times when she saw a delicious dish and wanted to try a bite, but it had been years since her stomach had actually growled with hunger. Last night, however, it had growled plenty, and the feeling wasn't pleasant.

Sighing, she reached up and patted her husband's face. “I think I'm ready to walk home now.”

“Good. We'll get those pounds off!” Winslow gave her an encouraging squeeze and a brief kiss before he sprang up, punching the air like Rocky Balboa gone amuck. She eyed him with a sour smile and rose slowly. Of course he felt optimistic; he'd lost weight without even trying.

Later, while Winslow showered, Edith called Dr. Marc.

“Dr. Marc? I'm sorry; I hope I didn't interrupt you.”

“No, Edith. Is something wrong?”

“I'm hungry—starving. I've drunk three glasses of water and eaten all my allotted breakfast calories. Since the only calorie-free thing in my kitchen at the moment is my sink, I'm thinking of eating it.”

His chuckle did nothing to ease her frustration. “Have an extra piece of toast, Edith, and deduct the calories at lunch.”

If she did that, she'd be eating the stove by three.

“Remember, slow weight loss is better than fast.”

“But I haven't dropped an ounce in two days. I've walked both mornings, and I've stuck to my allotted calories.”

“Well, losing weight isn't easy.”

“Winslow's lost two pounds.”

“Good for him! And soon you'll start to see those numbers drop. Now have another piece of toast, maybe some extra fruit, then find something to do that will keep your mind off food.”

Edith made a face at the phone, then hung up. Something to do? Well—she glanced around the kitchen. She did have to go to the Mecantile to pick up a few things. Thank the Lord, Vernie had stocked up for winter . . . and she had a computer.

Ten minutes later, Edith had walked down to the mercantile and asked Vernie if she could borrow the computer for a moment.

“I just need to look something up on the Internet,” she explained. “I would have gone over to use Charles Graham's machine, but since I was coming here anyway . . .”

Vernie flapped a hand in her direction. “Go right ahead, hon, and give me that shopping list. Abner and I will get started on your basket.”

Grateful that Vernie wouldn't be reading over her shoulder, Edith sat at the computer desk, then opened the Internet browser. Moving to
www.google.com
,
she typed “weight loss” as her search term.

The results filled the screen almost instantly, and her eyes crossed when she realized there were thousands of reference pages. “Would you like to narrow the search?” asked Google.

“You bet . . . along with my hips.”

She typed “kinds of diets,” then sat back as a list of diets filled the screen.

After tapping the site for the cabbage soup diet, she read:
Eat as much of the soup as you want and you'll feel full,
but be prepared . . . some flatulence could occur.

Cabbage soup? She liked cabbage, and so did Winslow. She liked soup; nothing was better in winter.

She closed her eyes, imagining herself in the peach dress in record time. Cabbage was roughage, so she could fill up on this stuff, never be hungry, and eat practically nothing in the process.

She studied the screen to check the ingredients: cabbage, onions, tomatoes, bouillon, onion soup mix, and tomato juice. Nothing harmful. And hadn't Dr. Marc recommended lots of vegetables? And the diet wasn't only soup—each day offered other foods, too: potatoes, fruit juice, and other vegetables. One day a week, she could even eat beef.

Setting her jaw, she clicked the print icon. When the page had printed, she hollered for Abner to make sure he had at least three nice cabbages in her basket.

She had no sooner staggered through the parsonage doorway with her groceries when she spied Winslow in the living room. Grinning, he held out a bouquet of red roses. “Happy Valentine's Day, honey.”

“Oh!” Dropping her shopping bag by the door, she hurried across the room to give him a hug. “Thank you so much! I'd forgotten what day it was.”

He placed the flowers in her arms, then kissed her lightly. “And in addition,” he picked up a beribboned satin box from the coffee table, “sweets for the sweet.”

Edith's face fell. He had brought a box of her favorite lemon drops . . . and she had decided to begin the cabbage soup diet tomorrow.

Win must have noticed her lack of enthusiasm. “I know you're trying to lose weight, but one every now and then wouldn't hurt, would it?”

Poor, dear Winslow. He had no idea how hard it was for her to give up sweets . . . but his intentions were good. Smiling, she accepted the candy. She'd do something with it later—either roll every last piece in wet salt or offer the box to Tallulah.

“Thank you, Win. And for your Valentine's Day gift, I'm going to fix the best dinner you've had all week— chicken fried steak, candied sweet potatoes, rolls, and gravy.”

When his eyes lit up, she knew she couldn't have dreamed up a more appreciated gift.

Chapter Eleven

M
arc gave Barbara Higgs a reassuring smile, then moved toward the door. “You're doing fine, Barbara, and everything seems to indicate your surgery was a success. When you think you and Russell have succeeded in conceiving, you come talk to me again. We want your baby to be as healthy as he or she can be.”

Barbara's cheeks brightened as she glanced down at her hands. “Russell and I don't know how to thank you, Dr. Marc.”

“You just take care of yourself. Go ahead and get dressed, and put your mind at ease. Everything is in the Lord's hands now.”

Leaving her alone in the exam room to change clothes, Marc retreated to his office to jot a few notes in her file. Barbara and Russell Higgs had been trying to conceive a child for some time, and last month he'd discovered that Barbara suffered from endometriosis. Surgery had taken care of the problem, so now the matter of children rested in the Lord's hands.

He made his notes, then closed the chart and blew out his cheeks. The townsfolk seemed healthy enough now— Vernie had bounced back from the flu; Stanley, Floyd, and Winslow had recovered from Annie's tomatoes.

A smile crossed his face. Goodness, how he missed her. The big house next door seemed to grow colder and lonelier with each passing month, with Edmund being promoted to heaven in November and Olympia following soon after. Caleb was the only resident now, and Marc wondered how the old man kept from going stir crazy in the creaky old house. But if Annie lived there, the place would hum with activity even on the frostiest winter day. . . .

Why couldn't Alex see that his young woman
needed
Heavenly Daze? Couldn't he see that the spirit of the island fueled her vitality? Like the prodigal, Annie had wandered from home, but the island and its people kept drawing her back.

He heard the jangle of the bell over the front door and mentally noted that Barbara had departed. A moment later he flinched when his thoughts were interrupted by a rusty greeting: “Dr. Marc?”

He turned to see Caleb standing in the office doorway, his cap in his hand. “Caleb! How be you today?”

The old butler waved his hand. “Never better, Dr.Marc, just a little lonesome. Wondered if you might be ready for a coffee break?”

“I'd love one.” Leaving Barbara's chart on his desk, Marc stood and led the way to his private quarters. “Did you see Barbara Higgs as you came in?”

“Ayuh. Wearing a big smile, she was.”

“We're hoping she'll be expecting soon. She and Russell are ready to start a family.”

Caleb flashed an easy, relaxed smile with a good deal of confidence behind it. “The Father has heard their prayers. But Babette Graham is the one carrying new life.”

“She told you, did she?” Marc motioned toward a chair as he moved to the counter where his coffeemaker steamed with a fresh pot.

The old butler shook his head. “No, I have not spoken to Babette.”

“Charles, then?”

Caleb smiled. “No.”

Mark grinned. “So you saw her looking shell-shocked and put two and two together.”

“No.” Caleb folded his hands. “I have been entrusted to give you an important message. Babette is carrying not one new life, but three, and it is important that you be aware of this as soon as possible. When her time is fulfilled, she must be near a hospital.”

Mark stared in silence, caught off guard by the sudden vibrancy of the old man's voice. Caleb did not often make such pronouncements, though he often made the occasional odd remark. . . .

The butler was staring at him, waiting for a response.

“Three babies.” Marc met his gaze. “Triplets.”

Caleb nodded. “I have been chosen to tell you because I am leaving. So you must keep careful watch on our Babette.”

Marc cracked a smile and gestured toward the chair again. “Are you becoming psychic in your old age, Caleb? Bringing me messages from the future?”

“No.” Caleb moved toward the chair. “I am merely obeying the Lord's command.”

Marc turned toward his coffeepot as his thoughts whirled. Caleb's remark was harmless enough, and time would certainly tell if he was right. Babette was not far enough along to tell much through an ultrasound, but he could certainly recommend that she get one as soon as the ferry was running again. . . .

As for Caleb . . . he took a deep breath as he opened a cabinet in search of coffee mugs. He'd keep the butler's bizarre remark to himself and watch the old man a little more carefully over the next few days. If he was losing touch with reality, he'd make other slips.

“So,” Caleb sank into the chair, “have you heard from Annie since she returned to Portland?”

Jarred by the mention of Annie's name, Marc gave a half-guilty start. “Why, no.”

Caleb gave him a knowing smile. “I thought she might be calling you—I know she respects you tremendously. And something tells me the flame between her and A.J. has cooled a bit.”

“Has it?” Marc busied himself with the coffeepot and mugs, grateful for something to do with his hands. “Alex could not do better than Annie when it comes time to choose a wife.”

“Perhaps Annie was never meant for A.J.”

Marc shrugged. “What is it they say? Every pot has its lid. Annie will find someone soon enough.”

“Perhaps she already has. But it'd be a real shame if her someone is too reluctant to declare his feelings.”

Marc's hands froze, and for a long moment he dared not look up. When he did lift his eyes, he saw no trace of mischief in Caleb's gentle smile.

“That,” he agreed, taking a mug to the older man, “would be a shame.”

Caleb accepted the coffee. “Why are you so afraid, Marc? The Lord knows your heart and your intentions toward our Annie.”

Stunned, Marc sank into the adjacent chair. Caleb had always been intuitive, and this time he had hit the nail on the head. No sense in trying to deny it.

Marc lifted his own mug. “How can he know my intentions? I'm not sure of them myself.”

“You've been distracted by concern for your son.”

“Alex is a better partner for Annie. They are closer in age.”

Caleb waved a hand in dismissal. “Age matters little once a man or woman reaches maturity. Look at Edmund and Olympia—they were twenty years apart, yet no two human souls were more closely knit.”

“Still . . . it doesn't seem right for me to think of Annie that way. She's so young.”

“She's nearly thirty.”

“She has her entire life ahead of her.”

“How do you know how long a life will be? She may live only ten more years, you may live another forty. Why not love and serve the Lord together for as long as you can?”

Marc cast the butler a quizzical look. “Caleb, sometimes you make no sense at all.”

“Sometimes I make all the sense in the world.”

“Today is not one of those times. Besides,” he shrugged, “I'm not the marrying sort.”

“You once were.”

“Those days are past. My wife is gone and I've grown accustomed to being alone.”

“It is not good for man to be alone. And two are better than one, for they have a good reward for their labor.”

“I'm ancient, Caleb.”

“You're a youngster.”

“I'm nearly sixty.”

“A mere child.”

Marc laughed. “You talk like you're a hundred years old.”

“More like ten thousand, but I lost count some time ago.”

Marc made a mental note—odd remark number two from Caleb. Three if you counted the butler's assertion that he ought to pursue Annie.

He balanced his coffee cup on his palm. “Caleb, I don't know what's gotten into you, but I've always appreciated a good joke. That's what you're doing, right? Having a good joke at my expense?”

In answer, Caleb lifted his mug and smiled.

Winslow stared at the bowl of steaming soup in front of him. “What's in it?”

“Cabbage.” Edith sat down wearily. The soup was delicious, but this would be her fourth bowl since two o'clock.

Winslow picked up his spoon and proceeded to eat. “How was your day, dear?”

“Fine.”

He cast a longing glance toward the bread and butter on the counter.

She nodded. “You can have bread—all you want. I'll stick with the soup.” She forced another swallow of the red liquid. “I'm not very hungry.”

Winslow slathered butter on a slice of white bread, then dipped it in his soup bowl. He chatted for a few moments about an old friend from seminary, then gave Edith a wink. “Salt stopped by the church this afternoon, and I'd say he's a happy man. Fairly busting to get this wedding planned.”