The Island of Heavenly Daze (22 page)

“Not a bit. I'm looking forward to those ripe tomatoes for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I wouldn't plan the menu around them yet,” Annie paused, studying the plants. “Make sure they have the proper amount of water, stake them when they begin to grow, pull out any stray weeds, and make a note of any problems you spot, like fungus or bugs. And measure their height every two days. I'll need to do a graph of their growth progress and compare it to the control group in the greenhouse.”

Caleb nodded. “I believe I can do that. And you'll be back every few weeks to check on the plants' progress, right?”

Annie looked away. For a minute she thought about telling him she'd be home for Thanksgiving, but decided against it. Why should she keep tormenting her aunt with her presence?

She sighed. “I'm not coming back, Caleb. I've planted them. My part is done. All you have to do is tell me if they produce.”

“You're not coming back? Annie,” he cleared his throat, “your uncle will be passing on soon. Are you saying that you're not coming back for the funeral?”

For the first time in her life Annie saw disapproval in Caleb's eyes.

“I know I'm taking the coward's way out, but what good could I do for Uncle Edmund after he's gone?” She signed. “I'll be back for the funeral. But after that, I just don't know.”

“But your aunt—”

“My aunt is fine. She's never needed me. She never needs anybody.” She smiled. “We've had a couple of laughs, but I'm not sure how long this truce will hold. When Uncle Edmund is gone, so is my life here, and I hope you understand. You've been so good to me—you're in all my happy memories of Heavenly Daze.”

His eyes filled with infinite distress. “Your aunt needs you, Annie. She loves you. I wish you could accept that.”

“She doesn't, Caleb, and—watch out!” She gently pulled him forward when he stepped back onto one of the plants, crushing it.

“Oh, clumsy me!”

Dropping to her knees, Annie tried to save the seedling, but the stem had broken in half.

“I'm sorry, Annie.”

“Accidents happen; don't worry about it.” Straightening, she dusted her hands. “So, you will take care of the plants for me? I'll call twice a week and we'll—''

She gasped when his size eleven boot squashed a second plant. In his quest to correct his misstep, the right boot connected with a third plant.

“Oh, what a klutz I've become!”

Horrified, Annie dropped to her knees, anxiously assessing the damage. She'd never dreamed Caleb was so awkward! His old age was affecting him more than she would have thought. She'd gone from thirty plants to only twenty-seven in less than three minutes . . .

“What can I say?” Caleb viewed the carnage, his face a mask of contrition. “But don't worry, I'll be careful in the future. Your plants are safe—”

“Caleb!” Annie reached out and jerked him back a fourth time, barely preventing another casualty.

“Oh dear. Thank you. That would have been most unfortunate.”

Getting to her feet, Annie gently nudged him away from the tomato patch. Would there be any plants left to produce after a week?

“You go on back to Portland and don't worry about a thing, Annie. I'll be in the patch every morning and every evening. You can count on me.”

“On second thought,” she walked him toward the house, “the plants are my responsibility.” When he turned to toss a wistful look over his shoulder, she kept him steadily moving forward. “Maybe I could make it home once a month.”

“Now, don't you worry about a thing. I'll be happy to take care of them. You're much too busy to—” Caleb stopped, frowning. “Now, what did you say I had to write down?”

Annie met his solemn gaze. Could Caleb be that forgetful?

“I'll tell you what,” she said. “How about you water them and keep the bugs away. I'll take care of the rest on the weekends.”

“Every weekend? But you said you weren't ever coming back—''

“I know what I said, but if it has to be every weekend . . .” She didn't want to come back. The moment those plants produced fruit she would be gone for good, but until then she had no choice but to see her experiment to completion.

They stopped at the back steps, and Caleb's soulful eyes met hers. “Well, if you think it's best. They're your plants.”

Patting his shoulder, she opened the screen door and went inside.

Chapter Fifteen

T
allulah was in a hurry, one big hurry. She'd been out to the lighthouse to see if Salt had a treat, then that Vernie Bidderman nearly made a puppy pancake of her with that infernal motor scooter! It had taken Tallulah two hours just to get up the courage to venture off the porch again. Searching for that stupid missing lamb bone had taken another thirty minutes. She'd even gotten up earlier than usual because she knew she wanted to find that bone. She'd buried it exactly where she'd buried the others, but for the life of her, she couldn't find it. Good thing the ferry ran more than once on weekday mornings. She was gonna be late.

Sprinting past the church toward home, she barely heard the loud gonnnng from the bell tower. She spotted Winslow Wickam coming out of the parsonage and quickened her pace. Maybe the nice pastor had a biscuit or a bit of bacon for her. Even a trace of that heavenly bacony scent on his hand would tide her over until she could get to the Ogunquit bakery.

Winslow waved, calling out a friendly greeting as she approached.

“Morning, Tallulah!”

Her eyes worriedly searched his empty hands, disappointment replacing her optimism. Cats! Oatmeal morning.

The affable minister jogged to the gate and proceeded to unlatch it as Tallulah sailed on by. No meat, no time to waste.

“Hey,” Pastor called as she trotted down the sidewalk, “where's the fire? And what's that stuck in your whiskers?”

Tallulah ignored him. She was a mite messy from her morning dig, but such things couldn't be helped.

As much as Tallulah would have loved to stop and visit at the B&B, she didn't dare, not if she wanted that sweet spot on the ferry. If she knew Butch—and she did— he was already hightailing it to the landing, his big clumsy paws kicking up dirt in his frenzy to beat her.

She streaked through the intersection of Main and Ferry and sprinted past the white fence surrounding her own home.

Caleb lifted his head and yelled something at her, but she didn't catch it. No time to stop and chat. Any other morning she'd take time to spend a few minutes with the jolly fellow, but not this morning. His ear scratches were good, but those crullers were killers.

She was getting winded, but she couldn't let up. Down the hill she ran, both ears tuned for the ferry's warning bell. Just a little further, just a little further, only a little further. Move it, ol' girl, move it.

Saliva dripped from her jaws as she sucked drafts of air into her lungs, her legs pumping like pistons.

Maybe she ought to slack off those crullers for a few days—not completely quit, though; she couldn't stand the thought of never biting into that flaky goodness again. Oh no, she was way too fond of crullers to go cold turkey.

Waaaay too fond.

But she could cut down. Her collar was fitting tighter these days and she might have gained a pound or two. Yeah. After today, she'd make the trip only on . . . days ending in
y.

She ran faster, her nails clicking against the sidewalk.

TOOOOOOOOOOOOT.

Longhaired cats! The warning bell.

Topping the hill, she covered the last few yards in a heart-pumping finale. The whistle sounded a final time and she strained for all she was worth, lunging for the gangplank, her belly sliding the last thirty feet to safety. Then she just lay there, wheezing.

It took a full minute to catch her breath. She stood and turned around in time to see Butch flying down the hill, his pink tongue dripping spit, his long legs giving it all they had.

But the big bulldog didn't have enough.

Hee hee hee hee hee.

Plopping down at the edge of the gangplank, Tallulah smugly waited for the sound of the revving engines to blot out Butchie's anguished wails.

Nobody likes a cry puppy, Butch. Try to remember that.

As the big boat pulled away, she perched on her haunches and watched the bulldog's lone figure getting smaller and smaller. Figuring there was no hurry now, she waited until the sulking pooch blended into the shoreline. One of the nice deck hands walked past, absently scratching her behind the ears.

Ohoooooooooh. Wowser! Her hind leg beat a staccato thrum on the metal deck. He could do that all day!

Without Butch around to hog all the attention, the ride across the inlet promised to be exceptionally pleasant.

“You've got something in your whiskers, Tallulah.” The worker bent down to check, then muttered “Ick” and walked away, shaking his head.

Tallulah didn't care that her whiskers were dirty. She could have a bath anytime.

The fish were plentiful this morning, swimming closer to the boat than usual. Butch was really missing something.

By the time Tallulah finished her dancing and prancing to attract the fish, she left the boat feeling a lot more optimistic about those extra pounds. Shoot, she was as limber as ever, and with all that exercise she could hold three crullers this morning. Her mouth watered just thinking about the sugary treat.

After reaching the bakery, she paused beside the back door, then reared up on the screen and scratched. Mr. Baker Man came right out, his beefy arms piled high with metal trays.

Her hungry eyes followed him as he proceeded to dump a whole tray of two-day-old sweets in the big green dumpster. Several rolls spilled onto the ground, a virtual doughnut paradise.

Grinning, the friendly ex-marine set the trays aside and stooped down to ruffle Tallulah's ears. She stood still, respectfully enduring the humiliating ritual. What was it with people? Always ruffling ears! Whatever happened to the fine art of plain old petting?

“What you got caught there?” He checked, then whistled under his breath. “Looks like you've been digging where you shouldn't be. You're in trouble, girl.”

Trouble? Cocking her head, Tallulah stared at him. Why? She hadn't done anything wrong.

“Go on, eat your fill, but remember, there's a lot of calories there. You're going to have to cut back. You're gettin' fat.”

About to partake, Tallulah froze, unable to believe her ears. Fat? Dropping the cheese Danish, she glared at him.

“Go on, dig in!” he said merrily.

Fat, is it?

How dare he invite her to eat her fill, then insult her? What was this?

“Go on, eat up, girl.”

Sure, and gain five pounds? Her suspicions were true after all! Slowly backing away, she eased toward the screen door. She'd come back another time, when this guy wasn't so quick to offend.

He laughed. “What's wrong? Did I hurt your feelings?”

She wouldn't dignify that with an answer. She might be carrying a few extra pounds, but what gentleman pointed that out to a lady?

Lifting her nose, she whirled and trotted off.

Mr. Baker Man stood up, laughing harder, his loud donkey bray bouncing off the sides of the buildings.

Hee ha Hee ha Hee ha!

“Don't be mad, Tallulah,” he called. “I could shed a few pounds myself. Look at it this way—there's more of us to love!”

He broke up at that, like he'd said something Jay Leno would pay good money for. Very funny. Tallulah wasn't the least bit amused.

The whole episode put a damper on what had started out to be a fun day.

Her appetite flat, she bypassed the deli dumpster and didn't look twice at the empty ice cream cartons stacked in back of the Perkins Cove Snack Shoppe. That Blueberry Marvel was murder on the hips. From now on, nothing but fat free yogurt would pass her lips until the extra pounds melted off.

She sat in the bright sun waiting for the ferry. On the ride back across the cove, she slumped against the railing, glumly staring at a big redfish playing near the helm of the ship. Who cared? She was depressed.

Butch was waiting for her; his dark eyes openly accusing as she left the ferry and trudged slowly homeward. Oh, he was dying to say something, but she wasn't in the mood to listen. She plodded up the hill, occasionally stopping to catch her breath.

Did he think she was fat?

Was he staring at her this very minute thinking,
Wide
load coming through?

Well, Butchie Boy, she glanced back over her shoulder and sneered, you're no portrait of good looks yourself. Had a look at those wrinkles under your eyes?

Ten minutes later she ambled around the corner of Frenchman's Fairest. Home at last. She perked up somewhat when she spotted Annie loading a piece of luggage into the back of Olympia's carriage. Oh. She had nearly forgotten that Annie was leaving today.

Wagging her tail, Tallulah approached, her heavy mood lifting. Annie was always nice to her. She would never say Tallulah was fat.

She paused at Annie's feet, her tail whipping the air. A nice, friendly pat would be just the thing to cure Tallulah's weight loss blues.

Glancing down, Annie spotted her and smiled as she hefted a suitcase onto the seat. “Hi, Tallulah. Been down to the bakery for your cruller?”

Well. Did the whole world know her weakness? And what was Annie trying to say?

Annie knelt down to stroke her head. Ah. That was better.

“You be a good doggie, Tallulah.”

Her body felt like melted butter. She couldn't control the wiggles that started at her tail and shook her until her ears jiggled.
I will, Annie. I love you.

“Looks like I'll be seeing you more often than—” Her voice broke off as she leaned closer, peering at the dog's mouth.

Tallulah froze. Cruller breath? She licked, shaking her head. Not possible; she hadn't eaten one.