The Island of Heavenly Daze (17 page)

Annie winced a moment later when an upstairs door banged shut.

“You look like you could use that cup of hot chocolate now.”

Startled, Annie whirled around to see Caleb standing at the stove, calmly pouring milk into a pan. She wasn't aware that he had come into the room.

Shivering like a wet pup, she nodded, answering between clattering teeth. “Hot . . . chocolate would . . . be nice, right after . . . I get out of these . . . wet clothes.”

Caleb nodded, his smile as reassuring and warm as the pan of chocolate he was stirring. “You do that, child. I'll wait for you.”

As Annie turned to leave, his voice stopped her. “Annie?”

She turned, her lips quivering. “Yes?”

Stirring the chocolate, he said softly, “What your aunt was trying to say is that she loves you very much. She was frightened half out of her mind when she thought you might be in danger.”

Tears swam to Annie's eyes. Olympia's words hadn't sounded as if they had been spoken in love.

She sniffed, envying Caleb his ability to understand. He saw Olympia's faults and forgave them. Why couldn't she?

He looked into her eyes, as if he understood her deepest feelings. “Peace begins with acceptance.”

Tipping the pan, he poured two cups of steaming hot cocoa. The rich, chocolate aroma filled the kitchen. “Now run along, child. You can take the cocoa with you.”

She took the cup he offered. “Thank you,” she whispered, love for this wonderful man warming the very core of her heart.

“You're very welcome, Annie.” He winked, and for a moment he looked like a young man. “Tomorrow will be a brighter day.”

Chapter Eleven

T
hey that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.”

Olympia closed her Bible, her attention drifting to the ocean. Another Sunday morning, and Edmund still lingered in the land of the living.

It had been a rough night. Many times Edmund had gasped for breath, and Olympia had wondered what sort of God would allow him to continue living in this fragile shell. But who could question God? Like her father, the Almighty tolerated no rebellion or impertinence. Her task was to obey, to accept, and to follow his will . . . as best she could.

Rain-washed air gently lifted the lace curtain at the open window. She focused on the oaks, ablaze with crimson, orange, and vibrant golds. How could anything be so lovely? And the mums—they were exceptionally beautiful this year. She must take Effie a bouquet on her next visit to the nursing home.

Edmund's mother was 103 now. Her health was surprisingly good for her age; she still had her mind and spoke it more often than necessary. Olympia didn't know how the nurses could put up with Effie's sass. She was rude, demanding, and downright bitter that the Lord hadn't brought her home years ago.

Ironic. Edmund wanted to live and Effie was desperate to die. Olympia would never understand why God refused the mother and claimed the son.

Her mind skipped back to the embarrassing incident between her and Effie last Monday. Such a spectacle that woman made! Effie had deliberately goaded Olympia into a verbal shouting match in the hallway. The commotion got out of hand and one of the nurses had to stop giving meds and wheel Effie back to her room.

“Olympia!” Effie turned and yelled over her shoulder. “You send my picture to Willard Scott, you hear? I'm a hundred and three years old! I want my picture on one of those jelly jars!”

Jelly jar indeed. What would the local women say if they saw the mother-in-law of a de Cuvier on a jelly jar? If Olympia ever got that old and cantankerous she hoped someone would just lock her in the cellar.

But aren't you that sharp with Annie?

“Certainly not,” Olympia murmured, pushing the voice of conscience aside. Aware she'd spoken aloud, she glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone heard. There was no one in the room except her and Edmund.

Reaching for the sponge, she gently bathed Edmund's face and forehead. Many mornings she'd prayed by her husband's bedside for some sign that he was improving, but each day he grew steadily weaker. Lately she would lean close to his chest to make sure he was still breathing.

“There, now. Isn't that better?”

No response.

She laid the sponge back in the basin. Stifling a yawn, she reached to hold Edmund's hand. It wasn't the lack of sleep that left her feeling drained this morning, although after practically having to drag Annie back in the house she'd had trouble drifting off again. If only the girl would allow Olympia some say in her life. After all, she had raised, clothed, and defended the girl for eleven long years. She wasn't asking too much.

Or was she?

“Oh, Edmund,” she whispered, “I lost my temper with her again.”

But Edmund couldn't answer. She would have to fight this battle alone. That harsh truth brought bitter tears to her eyes.

Leaving her husband's side, she moved to the window. An oil tanker slowly plowed its way through the Atlantic, its bulk riding heavy in the choppy waters.

She shouldn't have spoken so harshly to Annie; she should have voiced her fears more kindly. She was never one to sugarcoat words, Annie knew that, but she could temper her quick tongue. She'd tried, the good Lord knew how hard she tried to be what Annie wanted, but she'd failed.

Last night Olympia hadn't known what to think when she heard Annie's slippers slapping the carpet as if she were being chased by the devil himself. Startled from a deep sleep, she'd feared an intruder had broken into the house. Her immediate thought had been for Annie's safety.

Odd, how thoughts of Annie had popped into her mind before Edmund and Caleb. Most likely it was a residual effect from the years she'd lain awake listening for Annie's key in the lock. She'd spent hours staring at the ceiling, waiting to hear that telltale click and the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs. Only when Annie's bedroom door closed could she relax and fall asleep.

Never did Annie show gratitude for those nights of lost sleep. Sometimes, in fact, it seemed that she blamed Edmund and Olympia for her parents' deaths.

Last night when she had awakened to the sound of wind and the sight of jagged lightning, her thoughts had catapulted back to the night of the accident. Her brother and Ruth Ann were coming to visit, something Ferrell rarely did after he married. Olympia had been so excited; she and Caleb had cleaned for days in anticipation. Olympia and Ferrell had been close as children, but the older they grew, the less frequently they saw one another.

The night Ferrell's Cessna went down he was within five hundred yards of the Ogunquit landing strip.

Even after twenty years, recalling the loss made Olympia's stomach knot. That awful night the small plane had bounced around in a pelting storm. The weather had changed quickly; Ferrell wasn't licensed for instrument landings.

Later, a friend at the airport told her about Ferrell's frantic distress calls: “I can't see the runway—where's the runway, Ruth Ann?”

Thoughts of those last few tragic moments of their lives haunted Olympia still.

Ferrell and Ruth Ann lay in watery graves for more than three days before the Coast Guard located the wreckage.

The couple left behind a frightened seven-year-old who cried night and day for her mommy and daddy.

Upon notification of the deaths, it had taken Edmund two days to locate Annie. The child had been left with friends, the Trivetts, in Boston.

Of course Annie hadn't known Edmund and Olympia when they came to claim her; how could she? Ruth Ann had never permitted her to know Ferrell's family. Years before in a phone conversation, Ruth Ann had accused Olympia of interfering when she simply spoke her mind and tried to tell her sister-in-law how a child should be raised. As a result, Ruth Ann punished both Annie and Olympia in the cruelest of ways.

Instead of bringing Annie with them to visit, Ruth Ann had left the child with strangers—a family Ruth Ann knew from her work at a congressman's office.

For months after Annie came to live with them, Edmund and Olympia sat up many a night, trying to soothe the child's nightmares. Annie had been inconsolable. Her seven-year-old mind could not understand why her parents were not coming back.

Raising a child who failed to warm to her new surroundings hadn't been easy. Annie and Olympia's relationship had been full of clashes from the very start—they argued over clothing, food preferences, allowances, and Annie's friends.

Annie graduated high school in Ogunquit on a Friday evening and left for Portland that same night. The Trivetts took her into their home, and by the following week Simon Trivett had arranged for Annie to receive a scholarship to Harvard, plus room and board. Annie didn't even have the common decency to permit Olympia to fund her education. To this day it was Simon Trivett, not Olympia, who took credit for Annie's education. As far as Olympia knew, Annie had yet to touch a penny of the inheritance resulting from her parents' death. She was a stubborn, undisciplined, will-o'-the-wisp. Ruth Ann all over again.

Like Ferrell, Annie only visited Heavenly Daze sporadically. Eventually the visits trickled to obligatory time— Thanksgiving and Christmas—then only Christmas, then . . . nothing. Olympia didn't kid herself—if it wasn't for Edmund's illness, Annie wouldn't be here now.

The distance between the two women was now a yawning chasm, and when Annie had stepped off that ferry, old wounds reopened in Olympia's heart. Annie had often accused her of having ice water in her veins, an observation meant to hurt, and oh, how it did. She had devoted her life to Ferrell's daughter; she had reared Annie, nursed the child's cuts and scrapes, and dressed her according to the de Cuvier standard.

And how had Annie repaid her efforts? With insults and thinly veiled innuendos that Olympia had never loved her at all. But of course she loved her! Wasn't the girl her own flesh and blood?

Where was logic in this world?

Whining, Tallulah moseyed over and stood by Olympia.

“Sometimes I think you love me more,” Olympia whispered.

The dog looked at her with a comforting gaze.

“She wants me to say ‘I love you' all the time, just like that,” Olympia said, absently stroking the dog's head. “She's a sentimental ninny, just like Ruth Ann. Such a fuss, always hugging on Caleb and Edmund. Thank heaven she doesn't try to hug on me.”

A hug, however . . . might occasionally be nice. It wouldn't cost Annie anything.

Tallulah raised her head and answered with a tiny whine. Often Olympia swore the dog understood every word and intuited every thought. Sometimes, Tallulah was the only one who could understand, being the only other female resident of Frenchman's Fairest.

Olympia took comfort from her pet. Even the dog knew she was loved; there was no need to keep repeating the sentiment over and over, like a needle on a warped phonograph. Both Edmund and Edmund Junior knew she loved them, and they loved her in return, though Edmund Junior didn't make it home very often. Why didn't Annie?

She sighed, scratching one final time behind Tallulah's left ear before she turned to straighten Edmund's light blanket. All this mawkish reminiscing was going to make her late for church services.

Her heart sank. Later, after church, she had to endure Edith's tea. Olympia dreaded such gatherings because they meant more heartaches. She had neither the time nor the inclination to socialize like some of the women on the island. Looking after Edmund's needs, keeping her home afloat, and visiting Effie twice a month more than took care of her spare time. But still—as a person of importance in the community, she needed to go and keep up appearances.

“Off to face the hounds, old girl.”

Tallulah cocked one ear in puzzlement.

“No offense,” Olympia added.

She went downstairs and put on her coat. Caleb stuck his head through the kitchen doorway. “Off to church?”

“Ayuh. And Caleb?”

“Ayuh?”

“I plan to be home for supper tonight.”

“But what about the afternoon tea?”

“I'll go, but I'm not staying long. I'll be home in time for supper.”

“But, Missy—”

Her censuring glance may have silenced Caleb's protest, but he wasn't giving up. “Then I'll bake something for you to take. Maybe some nice lemon bars? The women seemed to enjoy those last year. I overheard Cleta Lansdown say they were the best she'd ever eaten.”

Olympia stuck a small black hat on her head. “I'll not be taking anything this year. I'll not be staying long enough to eat, so I don't see why I should have to feed everyone else. There's no use wasting all that flour, lemon, and sugar. Last year food went to waste.”

“Oh, Missy. You must take something,” Caleb protested. “The other women—'' “I'm not concerned about the other women.” She rammed a hatpin into place. “I'm only going to keep up appearances. A de Cuvier will not turn down a social invitation, no matter how rotten society treats her.”

“But if you eat—''

“One cookie. That's all I plan to eat. One tiny crumb. I'm sure one crumb will never be missed.”

Caleb's face fell. “But—”

“That's all, Caleb. You're going to make me late for services.”

He sighed heavily. “I'll bring the carriage around.”

“No need. I'll be walking. Overtaxing the horse will only make him hungry.”

Before the servant could launch into a sermon defending the horse's right to eat, she slipped out the door.

Her eyes widened at the sight that met her. Annie, wearing a dress, hose, and heels, was tiptoeing through the soggy garden lifting pots off the tomato plants.

Why would she get so dressed up to garden?

She opened her mouth to ask, then snapped it shut and set off for the short walk. She would have asked Annie to accompany her, but the last thing she wanted on this glorious Lord's morning was to rehash last night.