The Island of Heavenly Daze (29 page)

From the back of the church, Gavriel watched the pastor grow pale, then pull the plug on the slide projector. As Winslow woodenly made his way back to the pulpit, Gavriel thoughtfully flipped the lights back on, then glanced across the room to check on Edith Wickam. That lady sat like a stone, not moving. Lot's wife had looked more animated after she became a pillar of salt.

Gavriel slipped into the last pew, then crossed his arms and tried not to smile. Winslow would assume the slide was a mistake, of course . . . and in human terms, it was. But all things worked according to good for the children of God, and God's hand would be evident even in this . . . if Winslow could find the courage to look for it.

Somehow Winslow made it through the sermon, though a permanent flush burned his cheeks and he did not look up once after resuming his place behind the pulpit. And as Micah led the benediction and the parting hymn, Gavriel looked at the pastor's stricken face and figured the man was thinking about bolting for the safety of the parsonage. But, to his credit, Winslow stalked to the front door and assumed his usual position, ready to shake hands with departing parishioners.

As the church members filed out, Gavriel lingered in the cool shadows of the vestibule to hear their parting comments. “Well, Pastor,” Birdie Wester chirped, “I can't say that I've had this much fun in church in a long time!”

Mike Klackenbush slapped Winslow on the back in a conspiratorial he-man sort of way, and Babette Graham didn't seem to mind that she'd had to cover her son's eyes for a sizeable part of the sermon. “Really illuminating, Pastor,” she said, her eyes gleaming with respect. “I didn't know pastors and their wives were allowed . . . you know, to be regular people.”

Not everyone was supportive, though. Olympia de Cuvier, trailed by her grinning niece, sailed through the doorway without a word to the pastor or Edith, and Barbara Higgs scurried past with lowered eyes, her cheeks as red as cherries. Buddy Franklin, Dana Klackenbush's tattooed brother, gave the minister's wife what could only be described as a lecherous wink.

When the last parishioner had left, Gavriel came out of the church and extended his hand to Winslow. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said, searching the pastor's eyes. “I know you were embarrassed, but I'm sure the episode will soon be forgotten.”

The pastor dropped his hand and stared over Gavriel's shoulder. “I'm doomed,” he said simply, his face crumpling with unhappiness. “If I had any doubts that my days were numbered, well, today settled everything.”

“All human days are numbered,” Gavriel pointed out, smiling. “But heaven awaits.”

Winslow smiled, too, but with a distracted, inward look. “Well, I did my best. That's all God expects me to do.”

“Is it?” Gavriel let the question hang for a moment, then leaned closer to whisper in the pastor's ear. “I thought the Lord said something about daily taking up your cross. And not turning back.”

Winslow stared at Gavriel with the surprised look of a man who has just been knocked down by an unexpected wave, then he nodded. “You're right, of course. I can't give up. I have been called to do a job here, and I won't quit. They'll have to vote me out first.”

“Keep moving forward, Pastor,” Gavriel urged. “And don't surrender. People are looking to you for guidance.”

Winslow's gaze shifted and thawed as he looked toward the town. “You're right, of course. I shall start fresh tomorrow morning, beginning with Cleta Lansdown and her church committee. I'll apologize for today's confusion and promise to do my best to lead these people—''

“No, Pastor.” Gavriel placed his hand on Winslow's shoulder. “Don't start tomorrow, and don't start with Cleta Lansdown.” He turned Winslow so he could see his wife's stiff figure moving toward the parsonage. “You must start today and with that dear lady.”

Mechanically placing one foot in front of the other, Edith walked home. She could feel her senses recovering from that horrible moment in which her brain went numb with mortification. Anger was the emotion quickest to recover.

What had Winslow been thinking? But that was the trouble—he wasn't thinking these days. He was reacting in knee-jerk fashion, leaping from the frying pan into the fire. And soon he'd find himself in really dangerous waters. The church people had been tickled today—well, most of them—but if Winslow wasn't careful he could do some real damage. The gospel of Jesus Christ was beautiful in its simplicity, but if Winslow insisted upon dressing it up in spangles and gadgetry, the message might be lost.

“Yoo hoo, Edith!” Babette Graham waved from her porch swing. Charles sat by her side, which was unusual, for the Grahams were usually inside at dinner by this time on a Sunday afternoon.

“Enjoyed the service this morning,” Charles called, a note of laughter in his voice. “Didn't know you and the pastor were so frisky.”

Edith smiled through clenched teeth and kept walking. She had nearly reached her own blessed porch when she heard the slap of footsteps over the sidewalk and the sound of Winslow's panting. She hesitated on the cobbled path that led to their front door, but didn't turn.

“Edith, honey,” he touched her arm, “I want to apologize.”

“It's fine, Win. It was a mistake.” Slowly, she turned to confront him. “Anyone could have made a mistake, right?”

“Right.” Winslow stepped in front of her, blocking her path. A faint line appeared between his brows as he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Honey—''

“Not here.” She kept her voice low, but inclined her head toward the buildings across the street. Half of the church was eating Sunday dinner at the Lobster Pot, and Charles and Babette Graham were still sitting on their porch swing, undoubtedly watching the drama before them with great interest.

“Yes, here.” Winslow's grip on her shoulders tightened, and beneath that ridiculous toupee his eyes shone with determination. “I embarrassed you publicly, and so I want to apology here, with everyone watching. I'm not sure how that picture got into the slide carousel, but I'm terribly sorry. I promise it will never happen again.”

She stared at him, her heart sinking with swift disappointment. Why couldn't he understand? It wasn't the picture— she ought to blame herself for that, because she'd taken that slide to him while he was sorting through his Holy Land pictures. No, what galled her was what people were thinking . . . and how far their thoughts were from the truth. Winslow used to be fun and frisky . . . now he seemed tired and unimaginative. Habukkuk was a great sermon series five years ago, but why was he repeating it? Slides were a wonderful idea, but why did he insist upon using pictures someone else had taken? Even the hair on his head had sprung from someone else's design. Winslow had given up on himself and seemed intent upon being anyone but who he was.

But she couldn't explain this to him. She'd tried, on the day he first put on that stupid hairpiece, and her words had been ignored. On several occasions she'd hinted that a sermon from the New Testament might be nice for a change, but he'd laughed and said that no one could ever get enough of the Minor Prophets.

She looked up at him now, her determination returning as her heart pumped outrage through her veins. “Yes, they can, Win,” she said, permitting herself a withering stare. “They can, and they are! Sick to death, I tell you!”

“What?” Her husband's face screwed up into a human question mark. “What are you talking about?”

Still mindful of the people watching from across the way, Edith lowered her voice and stepped out of his grasp. “Nothing you'd care anything about.”

“Wait, Edith.” Winslow sat on the front porch steps, blocking her path, then caught her hand in his. “I do care, honey. Tell me what's on your heart. I really want to know.”

For a moment Edith considered going around to the back door and leaving him to his thoughts, but the saving grace of second thought restrained her. This was her husband, the man she loved. And when she married him, she had known that she pledged her life in service to him as he served the body of Christ.

“Winslow,” she said, her gaze clouding with tears, “why are you trying so hard to be someone you're not? These people love you as you are. They love your bald head, they love your teaching, and they even love the Minor Prophets. If you chose to teach a series on the New Testament books, or even on Christian families, I'm sure they'd love that, too.”

Uncertainty crept into Winslow's expression as his hand tightened around hers. “Honey, I'm only trying to give them what they want. You know about Rex Hartwell . . . so you've got to understand why I'm doing these things. The rest of the world is changing. The big churches are using screens and video clips and praise teams and orchestras. We don't have any of those things, but I want our folks to feel that we're just as up-to-date as the big churches in Portland and Boston and Atlanta.”

“We don't have to be up-to-date like the big churches.” Edith squeezed his hand. “Heavenly Daze is quaint houses and small-town charm, so relax, Winslow. Just be the pastor God called you to be. That's all you need to do.”

Winslow threaded his fingers through hers. “You know,” he said, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “I'd be willing to take off my toupee for an hour, if—''

Her skin prickled pleasurably at his touch. “If what?”

“If you could find that little red nightie.”

Struggling to speak over the lump that had risen in her throat, Edith said, “I know exactly where it is.”

And then, in full view of the folks on Ferry Road, Winslow turned his face into her palm and kissed it. She reciprocated by hugging his hairy head to her breast, then she turned and called out to the Grahams on their porch.

“You folks can go on inside now. Me and Win got some business together.”

Winslow's eyes widened in shock. “Why, Edith!”

“Fish or cut bait, Win,” she said, pulling him toward the door. “I'm just trying to live up to my new reputation.”

Chapter Twenty

M
onday morning dawned crisp and clear, a picture perfect autumn day. Winslow leaned over to kiss Edith's shoulder, then sprang out of bed and jogged down the stairs for a cup of caffeine.

While the automatic coffee maker dripped in a syncopated rhythm, Winslow pulled his Bible toward him and flipped to the thin ribbon that marked his daily Scripture reading. As he read from the prophet Isaiah, a familiar portion practically jumped out at him: “‘My thoughts are completely different from yours,' says the Lord. ‘And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.'”

How true that was! Yesterday he had thought that his career on the island of Heavenly Daze was finished, but Edith's picture—and their public reconciliation scene— seemed to boost his popularity on the island. Last night he'd gone down to the ferry landing to pick up an early edition of the Portland newspaper. Russell Higgs, Charles Graham, and Doctor Marc were waiting there, too, and after a round of waggling eyebrows and shoulder punches, Winslow gathered that the men definitely approved of his marital relationship.

“I was gonna ask where I could get Babette an outfit like your wife's,” Charles said, digging his elbow into Winslow's ribs.

“Well,” Doctor Marc cleared his throat, “being a single man, I don't think it's appropriate for me to comment on what we saw in church yesterday. But I must say, Reverend,” his face split into a wide grin, “you certainly have livened things up around here. And we're grateful.”

To which Russell Higgs added a heartfelt, “Yessir!”

Winslow had been warmed by their praise, and hopeful that Russell might finally see fit to warm a church pew. If Russell Higgs came to church, Cleta's committee would have to admit that Winslow's new techniques had been effective . . . despite the slip-ups.