Hearts at Home (5 page)

Again, she felt Caleb's touch. “Someone here would like to meet you.”

Olympia turned to see another man, tall and white-haired, but full of life. His eyes snapped as he stepped forward to embrace her in love. “Olympia! I've heard many things about you, and I've seen you offer worthy service in the name of the Lord. I am pleased to have you as a descendant.”

She gaped at the stranger. “And you are . . .”

He bowed slightly. “On earth I was a humble sea captain. I am the Lord's servant, Jacques de Cuvier.”

If she'd had a mortal body, Olympia knew she would have fainted.

“We have so much to tell you.”

Dazed, Olympia swiveled as someone else spoke. “Mama?”

Her mother, who'd been in heaven over fifty years, stepped forward, light sparkling in her eyes. “I know it was hard for you to be parted from me when you were so young, but you were never far from my thoughts. I have watched you so many times over the course of your life. I've prayed for you in your struggles, hoping you would lean on the Spirit for understanding rather than fight your way through your trials.”

Olympia felt her spirit sink. “You watched . . . everything I did?”

Her father laughed. “Not everything. In his wisdom, the Spirit shields us from certain sights. We are not omniscient, after all. But we saw your tribulations and your victories. Occasionally we saw your failures.”

“But we did not despair for you,” her mother quickly added. “For we knew the Lord would use your failure to teach you and mature you. And those were the occasions we saw you grow, dear one.”

Olympia sighed. “I'm afraid I still have a lot to learn.”

Edmund chuckled. “Of course you do, and you will have many opportunities to learn and serve. What do you think we do up here, sit on clouds and play harps?”

As the others threw back their heads and made the heavens ring with laughter, Olympia shifted her gaze to the glowing temple on the horizon. “There is only one thing I want to do now,” she said. “I want to sit at the feet of Jesus and drink in his beauty.”

Edmund stepped forward, offering her his shimmering hand. “Come, my love. Let us worship together once again.”

Annie drew Olympia's inert form into her arms, then pressed her fingertips to her aunt's slender throat. She could not find a pulse, but the flesh was warm, so perhaps there was time to save her.

“Caleb!” she screamed, startling the dog. “Come quick!”

A moment later the old man appeared, his eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

“It's Aunt Olympia! She's—I think she's in real trouble. Can you get Dr. Marc? Can we get her to the hospital?”

“Do not fear, Annie. I'll get the doctor.”

The man's eerie calm rattled her; she could have sworn he was more concerned for her than for the woman on the floor. Annie bent closer to her aunt, holding her tight as if she could compel the spirit of life to remain in the room, to return to this frail frame.

What on earth could have happened? Olympia hadn't been eating, so she couldn't have choked. If she'd had a stroke, surely she would still be breathing . . .

The swift answer came on the wings of reason, followed by memories of Caleb's constant admonitions: No butter, no red meat, Missy, watch the salt intake, try and get some regular exercise. . . .

Olympia must have had a heart attack.

But now? She'd never heard anything about Olympia having a heart condition. If she'd had a problem, Dr. Marc should have been more vigilant, he should have come into the house and forced Olympia to eat right and take her pills or whatever. She could be so stubborn, and never more than when she wanted to eat as she pleased.

A few minutes later she heard heavy pounding on the stairs, then Dr. Marc appeared in the doorway, his doctor's bag in hand. He had been in bed, for he wore a chenille robe over striped flannel pajamas.

Annie couldn't speak. Thankfully, she didn't have to, for the doctor dropped to his knees and knelt over the body.

Annie scooted back to the wall, then looked up to find Caleb watching her. She turned away, but continued to feel the gentle pressure of his gaze as he began to pray. “Father,” his words were a warm whisper in the room, “be with Annie now and comfort her heart. Help her be strong at this time, and let your peace surround her.”

Annie lowered her lashes in gratitude, then opened one eye as a thought struck: Why wasn't Caleb praying for Olympia?

Dr. Marc pressed his fingers to Olympia's neck, then laid her flat on the floor. After checking her heart with his stethoscope, he slowly pulled it from his ears.

“I'm sorry, Annie.” He glanced at the clock on the bureau, his face grim. “Time of death is eleven-thirty PM. That's what we'll write on the death certificate, but I'd guess she's been gone fifteen minutes or more.”

Annie pressed her hand to her chest, where her own heart was pounding like a trip hammer. “You can't—can't you do CPR or something and bring her back?”

He shook his head. “I'm afraid not.” He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. “If, as I suspect, her heart failed, she would have first experienced a sense of confusion, then lost consciousness and fallen. From that point she entered the state of terminal apnea when her breathing stopped, then she passed into the agonal state— at which point we might have been able to revive her if we were in a hospital. Brain death followed within minutes.”

“So I could have saved her if I'd rushed up here when I heard her fall?”

He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “No, honey. A massive heart attack would damage her heart, and nothing short of emergency surgery and a possible heart transplant could make her well again. Olympia and I have talked about this sort of thing, and she didn't want to be resuscitated in a situation like this. She knew she was at risk for heart trouble, and she was ready for whatever came. She missed Edmund, you see.”

Tears, hot and angry, spilled over Annie's cheeks. “But that's not fair! Why didn't she watch her diet more closely? I know she missed Edmund, but she still had me. We were just beginning to understand each other.”

She fell into his arms, one fist weakly pounding his chest as a torrent of words and emotions poured out. “I needed her. Who else do I have, if not her? I know she missed Edmund, but I needed her, too. I don't have anybody else, Dr. Marc, not anybody.”

His gentle hand fell on her head and smoothed her hair. “Shh, Annie, I know it's hard.”

“She is home now.” Caleb's voice rang with conviction. “She's with Edmund and her loved ones, and together they are rejoicing in the presence of the Lord.”

“Oh, Caleb.” Straightening, Annie swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “You make it sound so real.”

“It
is
real, honey. More real than anything in this room.”

Annie sniffed, wishing she could believe him. She wanted to believe, but sometimes heaven seemed like a fairy tale invented to ease children's fears about death and what lies beyond. . . .

She would face the unknown alone now.

“I never knew,” she repeated, turning to the doctor, “that her heart condition was so serious.”

“She didn't have a serious problem, but unfortunately sometimes these things are unpredictable, particularly in women.” The doctor frowned as he glanced at Olympia's still form. “You could request an autopsy.”

Annie considered a moment, then shook her head. “No. If you say it was a heart attack, I trust you.”

“I'll call her doctor in Ogunquit. And the funeral home, if you want me to handle that part of . . . the arrangements.”

Annie leaned her elbow on the stool by Olympia's dressing table. She had never planned a funeral. Uncle Edmund had slipped away after a long illness, and he and Aunt Olympia had preplanned his funeral and everything associated with it.

She suddenly realized she didn't have the faintest idea where to begin what must come next.

“Would you do that?” Her eyes fixed upon the doctor's face. “The same funeral home that took care of Uncle Edmund would know what to do.”

Dr. Marc nodded. “They're good people. If they pick up the body tomorrow morning, I'm sure they can return her Monday for a viewing. You can talk to Pastor Winslow about a funeral on Tuesday.” He frowned. “Olympia would want to be buried next to Edmund, but I'm pretty sure the ground is too frozen to be broken with shovels. We'll have to get someone to bring in a backhoe, and that might take a while, given that Captain Stroble's on vacation. We'll probably have to send Olympia back to the morgue until the machine can be brought over.”

Annie clapped her hand over her mouth, mortified by the thought of her aunt lying in a refrigerated drawer while they tried to track down a backhoe to break through the frozen ground. Olympia would roll over in her grave . . . if they ever managed to get her into one.

“Aunt Olympia, as you know, was very . . .
refined.”
Annie gave the doctor a careful smile, certain he could read between the lines. “She would want everything to be handled in just the right way. The right flowers, the right music, the perfect mix of ceremony and sentiment—”

“She wrote a letter with her wishes, and left it with her will.” Caleb scratched his head. “Seems to me she wanted the boys' choir from that Episcopal church in Wells to sing at her funeral.”

“Whatever she wanted, we'll have to get.” Annie lifted her chin, determined to take charge of the ceremony and her own emotions. “We'll announce her passing tomorrow at church, and then—”

She clutched at the doctor's arm as a sudden thought struck her. “Good grief, Dr. Marc, could my tomatoes have killed her? You said they made her sick, and that happened only a couple of weeks ago. If they weakened her immune system or something—”

“Annie.” The doctor placed his hand over hers. “Don't do this. It's normal to blame ourselves when something like this happens, but none of this was your fault. Olympia had a history of high blood pressure and elevated cholesterol. I'm almost certain an autopsy would show that her heart simply gave out. It was her time.”

“The Lord called her.” A smile lit Caleb's face as he crossed his arms. “She was happy to go home. You should have seen her face when she knelt before the throne.”

Annie frowned. The old butler had to be delirious with grief. The bond between him and Olympia had been deep and strong.

“You go on to bed now.” Dr. Marc spoke in a firm and final voice. “Caleb and I will take care of Olympia tonight. You need to get your rest.”

Nodding slowly, Annie pulled her hand free of Dr. Marc's grasp, then stood and walked toward the door, patting Caleb's shoulder as she passed.

The men were probably right in saying she shouldn't feel guilty. But if she'd gone up to bed with Olympia, or if she'd flown upstairs when she heard that thump—would Olympia be alive now?

“Thank you,” she called, turning to glance at the two men in her aunt's bedroom. “Thank you for . . . everything.”

She pressed her lips together to stifle a sob, then moved toward her old bedroom, knowing she wouldn't sleep.

Chapter Two

Y
awning, Edith Wickam shuffled to the kitchen stove in her housecoat and slippers. The plastic thermometer affixed to the outside of the kitchen window registered a relatively pleasant eighteen degrees, but temperatures would probably reach the low thirties by afternoon. They'd have a nice day for church services once the sun came up.

Sounds of Winslow's gargling trickled from the newly remodeled bathroom, followed by the soft hum of an electric Gillette.

Ambling from the stove to the refrigerator for butter and cream, Edith set Jimmy Dean sausage to sizzling in a skillet, then dropped a couple of frozen waffles into the toaster. She slid the pitcher of maple syrup into the microwave and punched a minute and thirty seconds, then tightened the rope sash on her housecoat as the oven hummed.

Goodness—why wasn't her robe closing? A full half inch of her nightgown peeked from beneath the edges of her robe—a half inch of nightgown she had never noticed before. Had her robe decided to shrink after five years? Didn't seem likely, but still. . . .

She was wondering if her clothes dryer had begun a program of selective shrinkage when Winslow sailed through the kitchen doorway and dropped his usual perfunctory kiss on her forehead. His aim was off this morning; the kiss landed on the bridge of her nose.

“Good morning, my love.”

“Morning, Win. Sit down, breakfast is ready.”

Winslow dropped into a kitchen chair, his eyes glued to the note cards in his hand. Edith didn't mind—she was used to Winslow's customary practice of studying his sermon notes over Sunday breakfast. The edges of her robe opened wider as she dished up waffles and sausage.

A moment later she sat down and reached for Winslow's free hand. “Bless this food, Lord,” Winslow intoned. “Let us ever be mindful of your love and care. Amen.”

Edith got up for the syrup still in the microwave as Winslow lathered butter on his waffle, his eyes intent upon the note cards now on his placemat. Edith sighed as she set the syrup on the table. After so many years of marriage to a pastor she'd learned not to expect stimulating breakfast conversation on Sunday, but a few observations would be nice:
Beautiful morning, Edith. Great breakfast,
honey!

She poured two steaming cups of coffee, and then set the glass carafe on the table. She slid into her chair, then stared down at the bright red of her nightgown. Two inches were now showing, two inches of fabric she'd never noticed before this morning.

She turned to peer at her husband. “Do you think I'm getting fat?”

Biting into a piece of sausage, Winslow nodded absently, his eyes trained on his sermon notes. Chewing, he reached for his coffee cup, then took a sip.