The Island of Heavenly Daze (12 page)

A moment later she left the bedroom and covered the short distance to Edmund's room. He and Aunt Olympia hadn't shared a bedroom in over twenty years, but until now it had never occurred to Annie to wonder why. Olympia had her failings, but her affection for Edmund was not one of them. She loved and cared for her husband with a mother hen's devotion. According to Aunt Olympia's version of the family history, her father had viewed their twenty-year age difference with alarm, but Olympia stood her ground and insisted upon marrying Edmund Shots. Sometimes Annie thought that Edmund and Caleb were the only two people on earth Olympia cared about.

Rapping softly, Annie opened the oak entrance and peered inside Captain Jacques de Cuvier's bedroom. Framed by three rectangular casement windows, Edmund was lying in a hospital bed. An open window allowed the sea breeze to freshen the sickroom. The gentle slap, slap, slap of waves lapping the rocky shoreline had lulled Annie to sleep many a night.

“Uncle Edmund?”

The wasted figure in the bed stirred, lifting a feeble hand.

Annie entered the room and softly closed the door behind her. “It's me. Annie.”

The old man turned his head on the starched pillow, his pain-glazed eyes searching for her.

Swallowing against a sudden lump squeezing her throat, she crept toward the bed, feeling as if she wanted to run and hide from what she was about to witness.

Annie was stunned by Edmund's appearance. Bone cancer had ravaged his body so thoroughly that Annie barely recognized the once handsome, distinguished-looking man she had always loved. A shock of yellow-white hair ringed a pink balding spot on top of his head. His skin stretched tautly over a skeletal frame, and his sunken eyelids flickered briefly, searching hers for hope. Any hope, however small.

But she could offer no hope. And then in those dark eyes she saw defeat, hopelessness, and frustration, a resigned soul murmuring for relief.

“I'm home, Uncle Edmund,” she whispered. “I'm sorry it's been so long.”

Trying to grasp her hand, he babbled soft, incoherent phrases that reduced Annie to a nodding, tearful observer, compassionate but helpless to ease his pain.

“I know, Uncle Edmund. I know.”

As he closed his eyes, she rested her head on his forehead and held him, remembering the times he had held her and comforted her fears. The Christmases she'd helped him put up the tree, the frosty nights she'd gone caroling with him while Olympia hid behind the parlor curtains and watched. Edmund Junior had graduated and left the island before Annie arrived, so had it not been for Uncle Edmund and Caleb, she would have died of loneliness in this house. How could a man as sensitive and caring as Edmund love Olympia, a woman as cold and opposite in temperament as the east is from the west?

“I know I haven't written as often as I should have. Or called.”

She closed her eyes, recalling all the times she'd meant to phone and didn't. Until this moment she hadn't realized how she'd made Edmund pay for Olympia's mistakes.

“I might not have written or called as often as I should, but you were in my thoughts.”

She bent low, whispering toward his ear. “I love you very much. And I've tried very hard to love Aunt Olympia. If only . . . if only once she had told me that she was proud of me, or that she cared what happened to me . . .”

For a split second, Edmund opened his eyes as if to indicate that he heard. Then his lids fluttered and closed.

Cradling his wasted frame, Annie gently rocked him back and forth until she felt peace slacken his body.

Easing his head back onto the pillow, she tenderly soothed a lock of faded hair off his forehead, arranging it the way he would have. He had been a proud man, a loving uncle, and a devoted husband. Since learning of his illness, there hadn't been a day she hadn't thought about him and how his absence would leave a hole in her heart.

If God loves his children, why does he allow them to suffer like this?

Tears blinded her as she left the room a moment later. In the hallway, she collided head-on with Caleb.

His features softened in concern as he shifted the load of clean linens to his opposite arm. “I know it's difficult to see him this way.”

Annie allowed the tears to fall unchecked. “I don't understand why, Caleb.”

“It isn't meant for us to understand; God only asks that we trust him.”

Trust. Faith had always been second nature for Caleb, but it was harder for her. Trust in what? A God who had taken her parents prematurely? A loving Father who put her in Olympia's care and then forgot about her?

Maybe Caleb could explain why Uncle Edmund was dying and Aunt Olympia was still as healthy as a horse. Then again maybe he couldn't. Answers had been far and few between in her life, and the next few days would undoubtedly strengthen her conviction that God had forgotten Annie Cuvier.

Chapter Eight

T
he house felt sad and heavy.

Creeping down the stairs, Tallulah went to the kitchen, then nosed the back door open and squeeeeeezed through.

Heavenly kibbles, that crack was getting smaller every day!

Darting around the house, she hurriedly buried a bone in the pile of black dirt behind the carriage shed, then trotted off down the drive.

Pausing, she carefully looked both ways.

Three months ago that spoiled Georgie Graham had shot around the corner on his bicycle, bowling her head over heels. She had rolled for what seemed like ten minutes before she came to a halt, bottom-side up in Olympia's lilac bush.

The accident left her with a permanent scar above her right eye, not to mention stiff joints that bothered her even now. There'd be no more of that, thank you.

Her gaze rotated right, then left.

Confident that she was out of harm's way, she trotted on, but Georgie shot around the corner. Eyes wide, Tallulah bolted for the ditch.

The boy streaked by, yelling, “Get outta my way, you stupid canine!”

Canine indeed. She got up and shook off the panic of the near miss. Setting out in a leisurely waddle, she trotted toward the dock where, if her internal clock could be trusted, the early morning ferry was waiting.

What a glorious day for an outing! The fall breeze was just cool enough to fend off any flies or bugs, and strong enough to bring the enticing aroma of fish to tickle her nostrils.

She reached the landing and enjoyed the sound of her toenails rhythmically clicking against the heavy steel gangplank. Click click, click click, click click. Captain Stroble glanced up from the clipboard he was studying when he saw her rounding the corner.

The handsome gentleman removed a pipe from his mouth and tapped the bowl. “Morning, Tallulah.”

Oh . . . she really liked this fellow. Cute. And he smelled good, like fish and the sea. Giving him her friendliest wiggle, she kept on trucking. If she dallied, Butch the Bulldog would grab the sweet spot at the rail.

Her eyes widened when she saw Butchie coming down Ferry Road a moment later. The Klackenbushes' bulldog was running at top speed, dodging Birdie and Bea who were trying to make up for their extra ten minutes in bed by rushing to the ferry for a Saturday shopping trip to Ogunquit.

Realizing she'd won, Tallulah snagged her position at the front of the boat and waited.

Butch barreled around the dock, his big old body sliding sideways. When he spotted Tallulah, his heavy jaw dropped and his tail drooped, but a moment later he sauntered up at a leisurely trot, looking like he'd intended to be fashionably late. Tallulah barely acknowledged his good-morning sniff.

Tough luck, Butchie. Early bird gets the worm. Or, in this case, the best vantage point for spotting fish. She settled back on her haunches and prepared for launch.

The ship's big engines revved, then the boat slowly eased back from the dock.

Staring at the water, Tallulah located a small halibut playing next to the boat. She lifted her head with a low woof, her ears pricked to attention. She found the first fish! Size didn't matter. Tallulah enjoyed the hunt.

Lunging at her apparently indifferent prey, she barked and whirled, her nails clicking on the deck like castanets. Wearing his sourpuss face, Butch crouched near the railing, but his disgruntled mood didn't faze Tallulah. Intimidating fish was the highlight of her day. Sure, the fish pretended not to notice, but that was all part of the game.

After a few moments, Tallulah left Butch to the fish watching and cocked her head upward, letting her long ears flap in the breeze. Life was good. It was Saturday, it was sunny, and Annie was home after all these years. The thought of her old friend's return made the trip to Ogunquit even more enjoyable.

The ride across the inlet was all too brief. Before Tallulah knew it, she heard the telltale scrape of metal against wood. Captain Stroble docked the ship and lowered the gangplank, Tallulah's signal to disembark.

Trotting past Butch, she lifted her chin. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to beat a de Cuvier.

Making good time, she set out on her customary route. First stop, the bakery at Perkins Cove. Mr. Baker Man was waiting with a nice, fresh, utterly delicious cruller in his huge hand.

Tallulah had to perform an assortment of corny tricks—sitting up, rolling over, and fetching—but the energy expenditure was worth the prize. This morning's performance garnered her two crullers. Yum! The sweets would probably give her a bellyache, but they sure tasted good on the way down.

Next she visited the deli, where someone had thrown away a perfectly good salami sandwich and a fat slice of dill pickle. She nosed around, easing the sandwich away from the foul pickle. Yuck, she thought, sniffing the bitter slab of green. How could humans eat such a thing?

She moseyed about Ogunquit, visiting here and there with old friends, mostly of the human variety, until she heard the ferry's warning whistle.

Trotting back down the hill, she consoled herself with the thought that it would be time for lunch when she got back. And on Saturdays, Olympia slept late and ordered a lunch of bacon and eggs and buttered toast . . . and Caleb was very generous with leftovers.

Two crullers, half a salami sandwich, and a piece of discarded saltwater taffy played racquetball in her stomach.

Well, she might skip lunch today. For some reason, she just wasn't hungry.

The sun beat Annie out of bed Saturday morning, but the mild Atlantic air blowing through her window promised a beautiful day for planting.

After going downstairs, she microwaved a cup of herbal tea and absently loosened the dirt around the tomato plants Caleb had kept in the kitchen overnight. She couldn't wait to get her project into the ground. She had devoted an entire year of her life to developing a new hybrid that would grow in inclement weather and coastal conditions. She was close to achieving the near perfect tomato: a large, bright red fruit with succulent flavor and a firm texture. The new hybrid had already exceeded her headiest expectations in a controlled growing environment, but anything could grow in a greenhouse. She desperately needed one growing season in Heavenly Daze's sandy, salty soil to convince her colleagues the tomato was, well, downright heavenly. If the plant performed half as well as she expected, the hybrid would be approved by the United States Horticultural Department. Aunt Olympia and the world would be forced to acknowledge Annie's achievement.

With dreams of fame dancing in her head, she wedged the last of a bagel into her mouth, picked up the box of plants, and went outside.

She got down on her hands and knees and began scratching out a patch of dirt in Aunt Olympia's withered vegetable garden. It was six weeks too late to harvest the last of the summer tomatoes; the old fruit hung in shriveled clumps on withering vines. But this hybrid was designed to thrive in both warm and cool climates. The average garden enthusiast could put his plants in the ground by early fall and still enjoy the fruits of his labors through November while his next-door neighbor buys hothouse tomatoes from the grocery store.

Crouched on all fours, Annie edged along the plot of spaded dirt, spacing the plants eight inches apart. When her knees gave out, she stood up and bent over, working her way along the rows. She knew she must be quite a sight with her hindquarters pointing straight up, but Olympia and Caleb hadn't yet ventured out . . .

“Hello. You must be Annie.”

She froze when she heard the deep, masculine inquiry. Color crept up her cheeks and spread across her face. Whirling, she straightened and absently dusted dirt off the back of her jeans.

The rich baritone belonged to a distinguished older gentleman who stood by the garden holding a weed whacker.

“Sorry to startle you.” Smiling, he extended a gloved right hand. “I'm Marcus Hayes. I rent the guesthouse from your aunt. And uncle.”

Annie glanced at the guest quarters behind the main house. Painted in taupe and teal just like Frenchman's Folly, it was nonetheless a homey cottage, perfect for a single man. The remains of the season's roses trailed along a cone-shaped trellis by the front door.