The Island of Heavenly Daze (26 page)

Winslow suspected that Beatrice might have something against him, for she was on Cleta's church committee and known to be pro-Hartwell. She seemed receptive to Winslow's call, however. Maybe she had fallen under the charm of the Hair. Birdie was more forthright—“What brings you down here, Pastor?”—but when Winslow explained that he was simply trying to stay in touch with his parishioners, she plied him with doughnuts and enough coffee to supply an entire office of H&R Block agents on April 14.

In an effort to win Beatrice's loyalty, Winslow assured her that librarians were dear to his heart, for his own sainted mother had worked for the Boston College Law Library. Beaming like a new mother, Beatrice then asked if Winslow would like to hear a dramatic reading from Edgar Allan Poe. “I don't get to do as much reading as I used to when I served as a librarian,” she said, demurely dropping her gaze to her lap, “but if you have some time to spare, Pastor . . .”

What could he do? As Birdie leaned her elbows on the bakery counter and winked at Winslow, Beatrice pulled a lace handkerchief from her bosom and proceeded to wave it above Winslow's head, visibly punctuating the syllables as she quoted a stanza of Edgar Allan Poe's poem “The Bells”:

Hear the sledges with the bells—

SIL-ver bells!

What a world of MER-riment their melody foretells!

How they TINK-le, TINK-le, TINK-le,

In the icy air of night!

While the stars that over SPRINK-le

All the heavens, seem to TWINK-le

With a crystalline delight;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells

From the JING-ling and the TINK-ling of the bells . . .

By the time he left the bakery (after buying a baker's dozen of Birdie's best crullers), Winslow felt as though he walked home in a syncopated rhythm—to the TOOTing and the HOOTing of the foghorns.

Winslow spent Tuesday at Frenchman's Fairest. As Doctor Marc explained, the ailing banker was slipping further away with every passing day. “The thing about disease,” Marcus said as Winslow sat by Edmund's bedside, “is that whatever is inside a man tends to come out when pressure is applied. His faith makes him a joy to care for—he has never complained. Edmund was always a godly gentleman.”

“I remember that about him,” Winslow said, pressing his hands together as he studied the lined face above the edge of the blanket. “Edmund de Cuvier loved God with all his heart.”

“He still does, Pastor.” A faint note of rebuke lined Caleb's voice. “He still does.”

Winslow prayed for Edmund, then wrapped his hand around the sleeping man's palm. Edmund did not open his eyes, but for a moment Winslow was certain he felt the older man's hand tighten around his own.

The mood was definitely more lively downstairs. Tallulah had found the bag of crullers Winslow dropped by the door, and her shaggy face was covered with chocolate icing by the time he discovered the dog.

“Horrors,” Olympia moaned, bringing both hands to her cheeks when she surveyed the mess on her oriental carpet. “That will have to be cleaned. And that dog will have to eat nothing but low-calorie dog food for a month.”

Winslow exited before Olympia decided to put him on a diet.

He earmarked Wednesday morning for the Lansdowns. To win favor with Cleta and Floyd, he took one of Edith's blueberry pies to the B&B, then grinned in satisfaction when Cleta carried on as if he'd given her the moon. He said a quick hello to Barbara, the Lansdowns' shy daughter, and tried not to look too disappointed when he learned that Russell had already gone out in the lobster boat.

“That's a shame, for sure,” he said, settling back in the antique rocker in the Lansdowns' front parlor. “I was hoping we might convince Russell to join us at church on Sunday.”

Barbara blushed. “Doubtful,” she said.

“Don't you worry about Russell,” Cleta said, waving her hand as if the matter were of no consequence. “Just because he's not with you in body doesn't mean he's not with you in spirit. A man can get mighty close to God out there on the ocean, especially if a storm whips up.”

Floyd Lansdown leaned forward and tapped the bowl of his pipe into an ashtray. “Or if a fire breaks out in town. Did I ever tell you, Pastor, about the restaurant fire that broke out a few years back? Put me in the hospital for two days, it did.”

Winslow pressed his lips together. He'd heard the story about twenty times, nineteen times from Floyd himself, but the man never tired of telling it. But if he had to hear it again to keep the Lansdowns in his corner, well—

Lifting his hand, Winslow glanced at Barbara as if a sudden idea had just occurred to him. “Before your father tells his story, Barbara, I've been meaning to ask you something.”

“Me?” The tip of Barbara's nose went pink—probably the result of so much direct attention from a Hair guy. Come to think of it, Russell's hairline was receding fast.

“Yes, you.” Winslow leaned toward her, relieved as much by Floyd's willingness to drop the fire story as by Barbara's answer. The poor girl was usually so shy that she ran from any attempt at conversation at all.

“I was wondering,” Winslow lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “if you and Russell might be thinking of starting a family. We can always use new blood on the island, you know, and there's not a person in Heavenly Daze who wouldn't love to hear the pitter-patter of little feet. After all, Georgie Graham is almost six now . . .”

A deep, painful red washed up Barbara's throat and into her face, as sudden as a brush fire. “Oh!” she cried, then she stood and ran out of the parlor. As her footsteps thundered from the wooden staircase, Winslow turned his bewildered gaze to her parents.

“You know that's a touchy subject,” Cleta said, lifting a knowing brow. “Best leave that alone.”

“Ayuh.” Floyd thumbed another wad of tobacco into his pipe, then pointed it, stem forward, at Winslow. “But we were talking about the fire, weren't we, Pastor? You new folk wouldn't understand how serious the situation was that day . . .”

Winslow rested his chin in his palm, politely nodding in all the appropriate places.

New folk. He and Edith had watched over thirty- seven hundred sunsets on Heavenly Daze, and yet they were still considered new folk.

On Wednesday afternoon, Winslow took a half-dozen boxes of Ritz crackers to the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, owned and operated by Mike and Dana Klackenbush. While they had no children of their own, Mike and Dana seemed to love caring for others'. Georgie Graham was a permanent student at the Kid Kare Center, as were assorted children dropped off by visiting parents who would rather let their children play in a supervised environment than run wild along the docks and in the art gallery.

On Thursday morning Winslow visited the Grahams. For two hours he sat and listened as Babette explained how difficult it was to make a living in the field of creative arts. To show how deeply he was moved by her plight, Winslow pulled out his checkbook and emptied his account to purchase a painting of puffins playing beside the lighthouse at Puffin Cove.

He didn't try to bargain, and he didn't complain about the high price. He didn't even whimper when Georgie, advancing like a demon on two wheels, ran over his foot with his bicycle.

Edith might complain about his extravagance, he realized as he carried the painting home, but if they found themselves unemployed and back on the mainland in a couple of months, at least they'd have a nice memento of Heavenly Daze.

On Thursday afternoon he visited Vernie Bidderman at the mercantile and used his credit card to buy twenty pounds of saltwater taffy—which he personally despised— and stooped to pet the monstrous MaGoo, who had always treated him with personal disdain.

By Friday morning, there remained only one residence he hadn't visited, and Winslow thought the odds of winning Salt Gribbon's loyalty were about as long as a Lenten sermon. He took a bag of saltwater taffy, though, and when the old curmudgeon wouldn't come down from the top of the lighthouse to greet his visitor, Winslow left it on Salt's doorstep with a note that said, “Hope to see you in church Sunday.”

Then Winslow walked home, certain that he had done all that was humanly possible to reach out and touch the families of his church. He had begun to work on himself, and he had done his part to work on them.

Now he would enter the next phase of his program: He would work on his sermons.

On Saturday evening, while the dancing fire lit the living room with a cozy golden light, Edith sat on the sofa and idly patted the empty cushion beside her. She and Winslow used to cuddle on this couch on chilly autumn nights like this one, but tonight Winslow sat in the wing chair before the television. She didn't think he had heard her come into the room, so intent was he upon some show on the history channel.

But it was time for a real heart-to-heart. The entire town was buzzing about his new toupee, and more than one person had asked her if he was visiting every house on the island just to show it off.

“Oh, I don't think so,” she had sputtered to Dana Klackenbush, whom Winslow had visited on Wednesday. “He's not a vain man.”

He wasn't vain, but he had been thrown off-balance, and she couldn't blame him. With a new preacher coming to town—a younger and more handsome minister, by all accounts—she could understand why Winslow was rattled. But he had nothing to fear. If all these people cared about was youth and good looks, well, they were welcome to Reverend Rex Hartwell, whoever he was. They might not realize what a treasure they had in Winslow Wickam, but Edith knew, and it was her job to keep him happy and confident.

“Winslow,” she began, making an effort to keep her voice light and soothing, “I'm feeling a little lonely over here by myself. Want to sit with me and watch the fire?”

Winslow cut her a quick glance. “Um, nothing much. It's just a special on the Holy Land.”

Edith felt one corner of her mouth twist. He hadn't heard a word she'd said, but at least his brain had registered the sound of her voice.

“Honey,” she crooned, leaning toward him. “That show looks as dry as dust. Turn it off. Come stretch out on the couch—I'll rub your back if you want me to.”

“Visuals,” Winslow said, with a significant lifting of his brows. “That's it. This show is interesting because it has visuals! I have visuals, a whole box of 'em.”

Before Edith could utter another word, Winslow sprang from his chair and moved toward the bookshelf along the wall. “Where'd we put those slides we bought in the Holy Land?” he asked, tossing the question over his shoulder as he knelt to examine the bottom shelves. “Palestine, Masada, Jerusalem—you know the ones I mean.”

Edith sighed. “They're on that shelf, dear. Right next to the box of family shots.”

“And the projector—oh, here it is. A little dusty, but it'll work. I can have Floyd Lansdown operate it—no, that'll distract. I'll use the clicker myself, and preach from . . . the center of the aisle.”

He turned toward her, his face shining as though someone had just lit a flame inside him. “That'll be different! Floyd won't be able to sleep through a multimedia slide sermon with me breathing right down his neck!”

Edith drew a breath, about to agree, but then Winslow turned and crouched on all fours, tossing books and shoving boxes aside as he rummaged through years of family memories. As he picked up a shoebox filled with priceless Christmas memories, Edith leaped from the couch and dove across the floor, catching it just as Winslow sent it scooting over the polished hardwood.

“Honey,” she whimpered, drawing the box to the safety of her bosom, “be a little careful with the other things. They're irreplaceable.”

Winslow seemed not to hear. He had turned again and was sitting cross-legged beside the bookshelves, a small yellow box in his hand. She recognized it immediately— rather than take pictures in the Holy Land, he had insisted on purchasing a box of professional slides that depicted all the major tourist sites and a few that lay beyond the reach of the ordinary tour group.

“Eureka!” he breathed, holding the box to eye level. “I have found it! Now, where's that little thingamajig?”

Wordlessly, Edith fished the plastic viewer out of her box, then planted it on his palm.

“Thanks, hon,” he said, without a backward glance. He struggled to pull himself up, then returned to his wing chair, slide box and viewer in hand. “This is gonna be great. I can accent the text on Habakkuk's second complaint with pictures of ancient Jerusalem and the desert while I talk about the Chaldeans . . .”

While the television droned in the background, Winslow began pulling slides from the yellow box, popping them into the handheld viewer, and peering at them as intently as any jeweler ever studied a diamond under his loupe. Images that met with his approval were tossed into the center ring of the projector; others were returned to the yellow box.