Hearts at Home (21 page)

“Just a little dizzy spell,” Salt insisted. “Nothing to get all fussed up about.”

Birdie reached out to touch his hand. “I'll be right over there if you need anything.”

Edith moved toward the kitchen table, understanding completely. Marc needed room to work, and he didn't need Salt reading the fear on their faces.

Brittany peered up at Edith with earnest blue eyes. “Is the grandfather sick?”

“I'm sure he'll be fine, dear.” Edith patted the young girl's head. “Dr. Marc will take good care of him.”

Brittany nodded gravely. “Maybe he needs HRT—but people who have a prior history of strokes, cancer, or liver damage must talk to their doctors before commencing treatment.”

Edith glanced down. “You watch a lot of television, don't you, dear?”

“Not anymore,” Bobby interrupted. “The grandfather's TV only gets one channel.”

Edith sighed and drew the little girl closer. HRT indeed. Whatever ailed Salt, she was certain he did not require hormone replacement therapy.

Fifteen minutes passed before Dr. Marc stood and closed his medical bag. Birdie hurried to the captain's side. “Is everything all right?”

Salt nodded. “Right as rain. Like I said, a little dizzy spell.”

Dr. Marc snapped his black bag. “I'm not sure what caused the episode. Salt, I'd like you to come to my office tomorrow so we can run a few tests. I don't think it's anything serious, but there's no harm in being sure. Besides, it's been a while since your last physical, hasn't it?”

Salt grudgingly acknowledged that it had been.

“Then we'll kill two birds with one stone. Come down to the clinic tomorrow. I'll run a few tests, check you over, and have you home by lunchtime. Birdie can look after the kids while you're out.”

“Ayuh, I can.” Birdie clucked over her fiancé, drawing an afghan around his shoulders. “I'll fix you a bowl of soup before I go—you must be starved.”

Soup? Edith pressed a hand to her stomach. The thought of soup, particularly if it contained cabbage, made her ill.

“No soup.” Salt dismissed the offer. “Give me something I can sink my teeth into—maybe some corned beef ?”

Edith looked away as her mouth began to water. If she wasn't careful, she'd be wrestling a sick old man for first-bite rights to his sandwich.

“Win?” She stood. “I think it's time we should head back.”

At 4:30 on Sunday afternoon, Edith wandered into her kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and gazed critically at the contents. Every drop of the cabbage soup had been poured down the disposal. Fortunately, her refrigerator contained several items that fit beautifully into the Pound Pinchers Plan. What she didn't have, she could pick up in Ogunquit tomorrow.

After the excitement at the lighthouse, she had come home and gone through her cookbook collection. Sure enough, she had a Pound Pinchers cookbook she'd picked up at Wal-Mart, and the editors had explained the entire program in the first few pages.

The sensible eating plan centered on the idea of points and portions; she could eat virtually anything she wanted within her permitted points per day. After looking over a few suggested menus, she saw that she could manage pretty well—she could eat all her favorite foods, even a few high-calorie treats, as long as she remembered to cut back somewhere else.

In addition to cookbooks and prepackaged foods, Pound Pinchers also encouraged “losers” to attend group meetings. Edith riffled through the cookbook and thought the plan made sense. Eating sensibly, drinking six to eight glasses of water, getting reasonable exercise—even Dr. Marc would approve.

But the day's excitement had stirred up her appetite, and by three o'clock she had eaten twenty-six points—the most a woman of her height could manage and still remain on the plan.

Trouble was, she was still hungry.

And a bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup was calling her name.

Moments later Winslow glanced up when she walked into the den. His pleasant expression shifted to disbelief. “Edith! You have a chocolate moustache!”

“I do not!” She hurriedly swiped her sleeve across her mouth, then picked up her knitting needles. Winslow dropped his head, a grin creasing the corners of his mouth.

Before she could begin a row, the doorbell chimed. Winslow got up, nearly tripping over the recliner footrest. “I'll get it.”

A moment later he returned to the den, Birdie Wester in tow. As he helped her out of her coat, Birdie cast Edith an apologetic look. “Sorry to barge in on a Sunday afternoon.”

“It's no trouble, Birdie.” She stood and gave the woman a welcoming smile. “How is Salt?”

“Resting comfortably, thank you. But we've been talking . . . and that's why I'm here.”

Winslow gestured toward the worn sofa against the wall. “Have a seat, Birdie, and tell us what's on your mind.”

The bride-to-be sank to the couch and clasped her hands together. For a long moment she said nothing, then she released a long sigh and looked up. “Life is uncertain, Pastor.”

“Ayuh,” Winslow agreed. “It's a vapor, here one minute and gone the next.”

“Ayuh.”

Edith went to sit beside her friend. Taking Birdie's hand, she rubbed warmth back into the blue-veined fingers. “You seemed worried. Are you afraid Dr. Marc was wrong about Salt's spell not being serious?”

“No, Salt trusts the doctor.” Birdie smiled, tears brightening her eyes. “It's only that Salt and I have just found each other . . . at our ages, you know . . . and life is short, so we have to seize every minute.”

Winslow smiled. “You don't have to worry, Birdie. The

Lord numbers our days and holds our hearts. If the Lord wills, you and Salt could have years together. And you'll always have eternity.”

“Olympia thought she had years, too.” Birdie's voice held a note of panic. “And look what happened to her! Besides, I'll have to share Salt in eternity, and I want him all to myself for a while. Selfish, I know.”

Edith shook her head. “I know what you mean, hon.” She smiled at her pastor-husband. “Sometimes it's hard to share the man you love.”

Winslow ran his finger down the arm of his recliner. “It was Olympia's time to go. But Salt's a strong man; I'm sure he'll come through this little dizzy spell like the captain he is.”

“Maybe.” Clearing her throat, Birdie brushed wetness from her eyes. “That's why I've stopped by. Salt and I have decided to move the wedding up.”

Edith's stomach hit the floor. Move the wedding up? They couldn't! She was nowhere near fitting into that dress!

Winslow laughed. “Well, that's fine. There's not a soul on the island who would begrudge you a moment of happiness.” While Edith stared at him in horror, he reached for his appointment book and flipped through the pages. “Let's see. When were you thinking, Birdie?”

“Maybe . . . the twenty-eighth?”

Winslow nodded. “The twenty-eighth of March? That's already your date.”

“The twenty-eighth of
this
month,” Birdie corrected.

He looked up. “You mean—next week? That gives you only eleven days to prepare.”

Birdie nodded. “We talked it over, and we don't see any reason to wait. Other than Patrick, everybody is already here. The ferry should be operating by then, in case there are any guests from Ogunquit. Sears should be sending my dress any day, and Abner can bake the wedding cake on a few hours' notice.”

Edith gazed at her guest in astonishment. “But . . what about Salt's health?”

“Doesn't matter to me. The vows say ‘in sickness and in health,' don't they?”

Scribbling in his notebook, Winslow paused. “The twenty-eighth is a Thursday.”

“Doesn't matter. That's when Patrick finishes his sixty days at that treatment facility he entered, so that's the soonest he can come home.” Birdie set her chin. “Salt and I want all the time we can get together.”

“Birdie, dear, there's no need for such urgency,” Edith soothed. “Eleven days is hardly enough time to arrange flowers and make rice bags and address the invitations—”

“Hang the flowers—hang the bouquet, even. I'll carry my mother's Bible and we'll tuck the money we save into our savings account. I'll ask Vernie if I can borrow some of her ferns to set around the front of the church, and I know Micah can come up with something for flowers.” The bakery owner sent Winslow a steely glance. “The twenty-eighth, Pastor. One week from this coming Thursday.”

One week from Thursday
. The words echoed in Edith's brain like a death sentence.

Winslow nodded. “If that's what you want.”

“That's what we want. Thanks for being flexible and all.”

Nodding, Birdie got up. She stood for a moment, not speaking, until Winslow peered at her above the rims of his glasses. “Something else, Birdie?”

“No,” she said, turning toward the door. “Just dreadin' the thought of telling Bea about the change.”

Chapter Thirteen

O
n Monday morning, Edith's new bathroom scales registered a half-pound loss. Eight pathetic ounces after a weekend of pinching points.

Edith stepped off the gadget and toweled dry. Pound Pinchers would have to wait. Birdie's decision to move the wedding up a full month called for drastic measures.

“Win?” She stuck her head through the bathroom doorway as she rolled deodorant under her arms.

“Yes, dear?”

“Any idea what the weather will be like today?”

She heard the volume of the TV increase as Win checked the weather report.

“High of thirty-five, low twelve degrees.”

She shivered at the thought of standing on the cold dock while they waited for Floyd's friend to pick them up. The ferry ride wouldn't be much warmer, but she really needed to get into Ogunquit.

She snapped the deodorant lid on the container and set it back in the medicine chest. “You almost ready?”

Winslow was still in his pajamas when she stepped out of the bathroom. He gave her a quizzical look. “What's your hurry?”

“I just don't want to miss Floyd, that's all. And I need things.”

“Can't you get the things at the mercantile?”

“Vernie doesn't carry everything I need.”

Winslow sighed, then headed toward the shower. “I'll be ready in five minutes.” Edith moved to her bureau, then peered into the mirror. “While we're in Ogunquit, want to eat lunch at Hamilton's?”

“Can you eat there and stay on your diet?”

“Sure.” Edith picked up a bottle of Revlon Golden Glow foundation and dotted a few drops on her face. She could eat almost anywhere on the diet she planned to follow today. She'd been reading about the high protein regime, and she loved meat, eggs, and cheese. She'd have to avoid carbohydrates—too bad, because she also loved bread—but the freedom to have real whipped cream on fresh strawberries would be a nice consolation.

Who couldn't stick to that diet? According to what she'd read, her excess weight would melt away when her body's internal furnace mechanism fried her fat cells into oblivion. Besides, she wouldn't have to stay on it forever. After Birdie's wedding, she'd switch to Pound Pinchers and eat sensibly.

The trip to Ogunquit went more smoothly than she'd hoped. Floyd's friend, a lobsterman from York, met them at the Heavenly Daze dock promptly at ten and didn't even hesitate when Edith asked if he'd mind dropping her at Perkins Cove before heading up to York Harbor. Cleta, she noticed, had somehow begged out of the excursion, and poor Winslow felt he had to stay with Floyd on the ride to the marina and home again.

She kissed her husband on the cheek at Perkins Cove, then hopped out of the boat and moved to the pay phone to call a taxi.

Two hours later, after a pleasant morning of browsing the grocery store, Winslow tapped her on the shoulder.

She grinned at him. “You survived!”

“Barely.” Winslow wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “Seriously, Floyd is a better pilot than I would have imagined. I think he's been reading up on it or something. The trip went without a hitch.”

Edith glanced at her watch. “Do we have time for lunch, or will Floyd want to hurry back to the island?”

“Floyd's having a ball driving that boat. He's already headed back to the island, but he said I should just call him when we want to return. He'll come out and pick us up.”

Edith shook her head. “He may get sick of operating the ferry on that basis.”

Winslow chuckled. “Stroble will be back in two weeks, dear. I don't think Floyd will grow tired of his new toy in two weeks.”

Leaving the groceries to chill on a sidewalk bench, Edith and Winslow entered Hamilton's Family Restaurant. With greedy eyes Edith eyed the menu, then ordered a large hamburger patty, a mound of cottage cheese, and coffee laced with heavy cream.

At the end of the meal, Winslow leaned back in the booth and narrowed his gaze.

She glanced up, wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “What?”

“All that was on your diet?”

“It is—and so is strawberries and whipped cream. Want some?” She motioned for the waitress. The nicest thing about the high-protein diet was that she didn't feel starved, so she wouldn't zing out of control in midafternoon.

Must have something to do with that internal furnace mechanism.

Whatever it was, more power to it.

Chapter Fourteen

W
ednesday night at the Lansdowns', Edith sat at the dining table and eyed the bowl of green beans and the steaming platter of spaghetti and meatballs next to it. According to the high-protein diet, she could eat a meatball (maybe two, if there were extra) and a little salad. No pasta, no sauce, and not one bean.

When she glanced at the buffet, where Cleta and Barbara had set out two fragrant loaves of homemade garlic bread, a scolding voice in her brain chanted, “No refined carbohydrates, no sugar, white rice, white bread, or crackers.”