Hearts at Home (7 page)

His dark blue eyes searched her face. “Sleep well?”

She released a bitter laugh. “Did you?”

He gave her a rueful smile as he moved toward the coffee pot. “I've had better nights.”

He took down a mug and poured a cup of coffee, then leaned against the counter and took a sip. His brow lifted when he spied Olympia's open address book.

“Did you call the off-islanders?”

“Ayuh.” She cleared her throat. “Edmund Junior, Effie Shots, and A.J., of course. He said he'll try to make it Tuesday.”

An unusually blank expression settled onto the doctor's face. “Pastor Winslow will tell the townspeople at church. Better brace yourself—I have the feeling they'll come storming over here as soon as he dismisses the service.”

“I know they will.” Annie pushed back her chair and stood, then raked a hand through her hair and forced a laugh. “I'd better take a shower and get dressed. If I don't clean up Birdie will be declaring I look a mite streaked, and Cleta will be asking me to spend the night at the B&B so she can keep me under observation.”

Dr. Marc chuckled, but his eyes were serious above his smile. “Before you go up, Annie, I have something I need to show you.”

Hearing the somber tone in his voice, Annie slowly sat back down. The doctor walked to the desk, then opened a drawer and lif ted out the Ogunquit telephone directory. Beneath the phone book's faded plastic cover, she glimpsed an envelope.

Dr. Marc pulled out the letter, which bore Annie's name, and tapped it against his open palm. “Olympia wrote this just after Edmund died, when she filed a revised copy of her will. She told me about it and said I should give it to you . . . whenever the need should arise.”

Everything went silent within Annie as she accepted the envelope. “Did she know . . . this would happen?”

Dr. Marc leaned against the wall. “She had no idea when the end would come, but no one lives forever. She believed in being prepared.”

With trembling fingers, Annie ripped off the end of the envelope and pulled out the folded page. Inside was a note written in Olympia's refined, spidery script:

My dearest Annie:

I know we have not always seen eye-to-eye, my girl, but you should know this—heaven knows I never wished Ruth Ann and Ferrell any harm, but God brought good from grief when he brought you to us so many years ago. You have been the daughter I was never able to have, and you have brought me more joy than a dozen sons.

Edmund Junior does not need anything from me—indeed, I suspect he wants nothing from me, nothing I would value, anyway. That's the trouble with young folk today—they yearn more for money than things that matter. Edmund cares only for cold cash, so that's what he'll receive as the beneficiary of my life insurance policy. He doesn't need the money, but if he gets it, he will feel less inclined to contest my will, in which I have declared that my home and everything in it belongs to you.

I don't know why you care so much for the old
stuff in this house, but I'm glad you do. What's left
is yours, dear, every last bit of it.

Frenchman's Fairest is more than an old
house—it is a heritage and a home. I leave it to
you, Annie, in the full hope that you will fill it
with as much love as I have known within its
walls. May the Lord, who has always watched over
Heavenly Daze with special care, hold you in the
palm of his hand until we are reunited in eternity.

With all my love,
Olympia

“I never cared for the stuff—I cared about her.” Lowering the page, Annie met the doctor's gaze. “She told me she planned to leave the house to me, but I thought she was just rambling. I mean, it's not like we could agree on anything for more than fifteen minutes, so I was sure she'd change her mind.”

“She didn't. And it suddenly occurs to me that I should treat you with more respect—you're my new landlady.”

Annie brought her hand to her cheek. In her younger years she had dreamed of being a thousand things, but never a property owner.

The doctor arched his brows into twin triangles. “Her letter may sound strange to you, but Olympia shared her reasoning with me. As much as she loved Edmund Junior, she knew he had made a life in Boston. Since leaving Heavenly Daze, he has never looked back. You, on the other hand, have begun to turn your heart toward home. Olympia thought you had begun to understand how deeply you are connected to the island.”

Annie stared at him as a tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her. “But I don't belong to the island! I live in Portland! I
don't
have time to maintain this house and give tours like Aunt Olympia did.”

Dr. Marc dropped his hand to her shoulder. “Calm down, hon; don't get yourself worked up. Take a few days, get past the funeral, and settle things with Edmund Junior. Tourist season doesn't begin until late April, so you have a few months to decide if you want to stay.”

“If I don't stay . . . what on earth am I supposed to do with the house? The heating bill alone would drain my bank account. I know it was draining Aunt Olympia's. But Caleb still lives here, and you-”

“You could always sell.”

“Sell . . . the house?” Annie blinked. “I couldn't. Aunt Olympia would die if I even-” She caught herself. “I mean, Aunt Olympia wouldn't want me to sell. What did she say? It's my heritage.”

Sighing, the doctor sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “Olympia made her wishes clear, but there are no stipulations attached to the will, Annie. The house is yours to do with as you think best. If you really don't think you can handle it—well, Olympia might not have approved, but in the end she would agree that you shouldn't keep an obligation that will strangle you financially.” He gave her a small smile. “I only hope the new owner will allow me to continue using the guest cottage for a medical clinic.”

Annie stared down into her coffee cup, where the brew had gone cold. “Maybe I could rent the house to someone, but sell it? Who on earth would want it?”

“I think you'd be surprised at the market for older, well-kept homes. I also think you'll be surprised at how expensive a house like this would be to spruce up for selling. Your instincts about the heating bill were right, and you've probably noticed that the exterior is sorely in need of painting and caulking. The windows leak, so do the sinks, and the electrical system needs updating.”

Annie closed her eyes. “Why would Olympia leave me a house I can't afford? Her decision makes no sense at all. Edmund Junior has money. He could fix up the house and spend his summers here, then go back to Boston after the tourist season.”

“Olympia wanted you to have everything she owned. The furniture, the bank account—it's all yours.”

She shot him a quick glance. “And Edmund Junior is the executor of the will?”

Dr. Marc shook his head. “I am. I know where every cent of your aunt's money is, and I know where it's supposed to go. That's the good news. The bad news is there's less than two hundred dollars in her bank account. Olympia was living on Social Security and Edmund's pension. Now both of those will stop.”

“But I thought she was okay. I thought Uncle Edmund's life insurance was covering her expenses—”

“The proceeds of your uncle's life insurance went to cover his medical bills and funeral expenses.” Dr. Marc's lips thinned. “I'm sure Olympia was too proud to tell you. She didn't want you to worry about her.”

Breathing deeply, Annie lowered her head into her hand. This was too much to absorb in one sitting. She loved Heavenly Daze, but in her teenage years the island had seemed hopelessly isolated and outdated. She'd fled Frenchman's Fairest after her high school graduation, and until a few months ago she had tried to avoid the place whenever possible.

But last October life had begun to teach her that maturity meant taking time to appreciate those who had opened their hearts and home to you . . . even when you didn't appreciate them.

Now she would own that home, a lovely, antique house that was—

“An albatross,” she murmured.

Dr. Marc frowned. “What?”

“That poem—the one about the sailor with the bad luck bird around his neck. I wonder if this is how he felt.”

Leaving the doctor in the kitchen, Annie stood and moved wearily toward the stairs.

Edith wasn't certain how, but news of Olympia's passing had spread over the island like a grassfire. The parsonage phone had her on the run even before church. Vernie Bidderman called—could she do anything? Wasn't it awful? Who would be next?

Cheerful thought. Edith sighed as she hung up the receiver.

Cleta Lansdown called a minute later, beside herself with grief: “I just talked to Olympia after supper last night. She wanted to know if I had a certain fat quarter she favored. I told her that I did have the fabric and I'd drop it by after church this afternoon.” Edith listened as emotion choked the woman's throat. “I've said such hateful things about Olympia—”

“Olympia wasn't an easy woman to love,” Edith said, taking pains to keep her voice low and soothing. “We have all had unkind thoughts, but Olympia is at peace with us now, and I know she'd want us to rest easy about her.”

“I don't know—I wish I had apologized for some of the things I've said over the years. Now it's too late. Micah always says we should live each day as if it were our last one, but I never realized how right he was till now.” Cleta's voice dissolved into sobs.

Hanging up a moment later, Edith realized that she had not been voicing meaningless platitudes. Olympia had been both friend and foe to every woman on the island at some point. She'd had a tongue sharper than a serpent's fang and a will as stubborn as stone. But her absence would leave a gaping hole in every islander's heart.

Edith wandered into the bedroom and opened her closet door. The full-cut corduroy dress she'd planned to wear to church lay on the bed, but what would she wear to the funeral? Undoubtedly there'd be a few off-islanders present, maybe even some folk who had never met her. Olympia's son was a hotshot Boston lawyer, and maybe he'd bring his wife. Edith would need to look good for Winslow's sake.

She stood before the rack of dresses, her gaze flitting over them until her eyes fell upon a black size eight—the stuff of distant memories. She'd paid more for that one garment than her monthly food budget at the time, but Winslow had insisted she buy the dress for a pastor's banquet they had attended. She had looked nice that night, thin and svelte, and Winslow hadn't been able to take his eyes off her.

But she'd ingested buckets of clam chowder since then, and nothing but her shapeless winter dresses and stretch pants seemed to fit anymore. However, there was a nice dark blue suit in the back, a fuzzy wool coat and skirt that might do for the funeral. . . .

She took the suit off the hanger, then shrugged her way out of her robe and nightgown. A moment later she eyed her image in the mirror and frowned in frustration. The button on the waistband wouldn't fasten, and the fabric formed horizontal pleats across her abdomen. Tugging the skirt from her hips, she reached for another outfit.

And another.

The third, a skirt with an elastic waistband and a boxy jacket, ended up in a pile on the floor.

Standing amid a heap of discarded clothing, Edith realized she didn't have a single dressy outfit that fit. If she couldn't find something to wear to Olympia's funeral, what in the world was she supposed to do about Salt's and Birdie's wedding? The social event of the year was still eight weeks away, but the lovely peach dress she had wanted to wear was form-fitted and two sizes smaller than what she wore now. Worn only once to a teahouse in Boston, the Leslie Faye designer dress had silver-edged peach lace at the bodice, a tulip hemline, and a delicate rhinestone-studded bow at the hip. . . .

If she tried to wear that dress now, that bow would look like decoration atop a sack of lumpy potatoes.

Defeated and dejected, she sank to the side of the bed and bawled.

Caleb stood on the porch, carefully playing the part of dignified butler as guests flooded into Frenchman's Fairest. Maintaining a somber expression on this victorious occasion was one of the most difficult tasks he'd ever performed; fortunately, the sad faces of the islanders reminded him to be gentle and sympathetic. Though the reality of Olympia's home going made Caleb want to crow with delight, he'd be less than loving if he allowed his joy to splash out on the shocked mourners around him.

He had risen early to clean the house and prepare finger foods for the crowd he knew would descend that afternoon. Olympia's silver gleamed from the sideboard, candles glowed on the dining room table, and the aromatic scents of pumpkin bread and coffee wafted from the kitchen.

Olympia would be pleased.

A motorboat from the funeral home had arrived at eleven to pick up Olympia's mortal shell, so Annie was truthfully able to refuse the ladies who wanted to go up to Olympia's room and weep over the woman who had been both the thorn in their flesh and the keeper of social order for so many years.

Caleb had never been able to understand the human attachment to fleshly vessels, but after living inside a mortal body for many years, he had begun to understand the reason for their limited perspective.

Inside the parlor, a group of women had gathered around Annie. “Alst I know,” Birdie said, her eyes red from weeping, “is Olympia de Cuvier always spoke plainly. If she hated your outfit, she'd come out and say so.”

“Course she'd say so
nicely,”
Bea added. “In that cultured way of hers. But she never left you wondering what side of the fence she stood on.”

“She had a heart the size of Texas,” Vernie said, coming into the room with a plate of sausage balls. “Too bad her purse was the size of Rhode Island. The woman was as close as the bark on a tree with her money—a right admirable thing, in my opinion.”