The Island of Heavenly Daze (32 page)

On Thursday afternoon Winslow was the first customer to appear after the ferry brought the mail. Beatrice Coughlin's wide forehead seamed with a frown when she saw the pastor standing at the half-door of her tiny post office. “Hold your horses, Pastor; I haven't had time to sort the mail yet.”

“I won't trouble you, Bea,” Winslow answered, leaning over the wooden sill that served as a counter. “But I can see my package. It's right there, in the second bag.”

A shadow of annoyance crossed Bea's face. “Two bags of mail,” she grumbled softly, shuffling toward the gray sacks the ferry master had just delivered. “People wanting favors from angels.” She snorted. “You seen any halos around here lately, Pastor?”

Winslow pointed again to the second sack, where he could see the protruding end of a cardboard box. “If you'd be so kind as to get that parcel for me. You can keep the regular mail; I'll call for it later.”

Gingerly, Bea undid the clasp on the mail sack, then pulled the box out. “Pretty big,” she remarked, sliding it over the floor.

“Yes.” Winslow felt a surge of impatience. “I'd like to take it now.”

Bea grunted to lift the package. “Not as heavy as I thought.”

“Ten pounds, is all. Could I have—”

“From Portland? A theatrical company?” A smile gathered up the powdered wrinkles at her mouth. “You putting on a play, Pastor?”

Winslow tried to smile in return, but the corners of his mouth only flinched in impatience. “It's just a little production— a surprise for Edith. So—”

“'Bout as big as a bread box, but only ten pounds.” Bea slipped her hands beneath the package as if testing its weight, then looked at Winslow with one brow lifted. “A makeup kit? The late Mr. Coughlin, you know, directed our community theater in Portland.”

“I believe I've heard that.” Winslow abandoned all dignity and hung over the wooden sill, both hands reaching for the box. “May I have my package, please? I'd like to open it before Christmas.”

“Well.” Bea flushed to the roots of her curly white hair. “If you're in a hurry, all you had to do was say so.”

She took two steps, dropped the box onto Winslow's palms, then wheeled and moved toward her desk.

“Thank you,” Winslow called to her stiff back. “I'll look forward to seeing you on Sunday.”

Tucking the box under his arm, he turned and nearly bumped into Cleta Lansdown.

“Well, Pastor,” she said, her gaze lifting to Winslow's hairline. “Haven't seen you in a few days.”

Winslow waved and took a step forward, hoping she'd realize he was in a hurry. “Good to see you.”

“Got your hair back in place, I see.”

He took another step. “Yes, I did. Thanks for your help with that.”

“Any time.”

Winslow turned away and took another step, ready to run for the church— “Pastor, wait!”

Winslow stutter-stepped, then halted. Cleta's voice was like iron when she used that tone; ignoring her was unthinkable.

Slowly, he turned to face her. “Yes?”

Cleta's eyes were bright with speculation, her smile half sly. “Pastor, I don't know if you've ever heard of Rex Hartwell, but he's affiliated with the Maine Council of Independent Churches, and he's going to be worshiping with us Sunday morning. Of course, he'll stay at the B&B on Saturday night.”

What was he supposed to do, cheer? Winslow pasted on a look of pleased indifference.

“That's fine, Cleta.”

“Well—” Her bony hand shot out and gripped his wrist. “The committee and I were wondering if you would allow him to say a few words at the conclusion of the service. He is such a charming man and a wonderful orator.” Her gaze drifted from Winslow's face to the package under his arm, then her pleading expression morphed into one of curiosity. “Big box, Pastor. Have you been ordering books again?”

“No and no, Cleta.” Winslow shook off her hand, then turned so that she couldn't read the return address on his package. “I have some special things planned for Sunday, and I'm afraid there won't be any extra time for Reverend Hartwell.”

“But, Pastor—”

“I'm sorry.”

Without giving her time to argue, Winslow lowered his head into the rising wind and took off for the church.

“Well,” Cleta said, opening the half-door and moving into the post office, “that certainly did not go well.”

Beatrice nodded, her wide eyes bearing evidence that she'd heard the entire conversation. “The preacher had a regular bee in his bonnet this morning,” she said, absently running her fingertip over the single black whisker that grew from her chin.

Cleta stared for a moment at the whisker, then shook off her fascination and returned to the subject at hand. “Well, if he won't give us time, we'll just have to take time. After you finish playing the closing hymn, Bea, you keep right on playing something soft, and I'll take that as my cue to get up and introduce Reverend Hartwell. Then he can speak his piece and tell us whether or not we'll get the grant.”

Bea leaned her elbow on her desk. “Eighteen thousand dollars,” she said, her voice dreamy. “You know, if there's any left over, I think the parsonage could use a bit of sprucing up. Just the other day Edith was saying that the refrigerator is twenty years old . . . and I know she would like a dishwasher.”

“That'd be nice. Maybe I'll ask for more money.” Cleta leaned against the open mailbox cubicles and studied the preacher's retreating figure. “I used to think Edith Wickam was a godly woman, but now I think she's a verifiable saint. Can you imagine living with a man like that?”

“Jumpier than a June bug,” Bea agreed. “'Specially lately. I can't imagine what's got into him, but he's been awful snappish these past few days.”

Cleta's mouth quirked with humor. “Maybe he's taping that hair too tight.”

Chapter Twenty-three

O
n the fourth Sunday in October, at one minute until service time, Edith strode through the churchyard and into the vestibule without greeting a single soul. Pausing to pick up a bulletin, she glanced up to look at Winslow's picture . . . and saw that it was gone.

Her body stiffened in shock. Were they so eager to be rid of Winslow that they had already removed his portrait? What kind of people were these? She thought she knew them, but apparently spiteful natures hid under those smiles.

She drew a long, quivering breath, controlling the anger that shook her, then pushed her way through the swinging door. Keeping her eyes fixed to the cross on the wooden pulpit, she walked to her usual pew, took her seat, and smoothed her dress.

She didn't know what the day would bring forth, but every nerve in her body assured her that today would be important. Winslow had been more secretive in the last three days than he'd ever been in his life, and everyone in town knew that Rex Hartwell had arrived yesterday on the ferry. Last night the Lansdowns had hosted a big dinner for him at the B&B, but Winslow had insisted that Edith decline their invitation.

“I can't go out on a Saturday night—that's my sermon preparation time,” he'd told her. “So call Cleta back and give her our regrets. We'll have to meet Reverend Hartwell after the service.”

Trembling with impotent rage, Edith clutched her Bible. Cleta probably never meant for her and Winslow to come to dinner. The invitation had been a meaningless gesture, because surely Cleta knew that Winslow would need that night to prepare for Sunday.

Keeping her body facing forward, Edith turned her head as much as she dared and swiveled her eyes toward the other side of the church. Floyd and Cleta sat in their usual places, and between them sat a tall, dark-haired gentleman that had to be the eminent Reverend Hartwell.

How could they bring him to church before Winslow had even been asked to leave? Such cruelty was inconceivable. It was . . . like a philandering husband flaunting his young and pretty fiancée before his tired and not-yet-divorced wife.

Worse still, the church was as crowded as she had ever seen it. All the usual folks were present, and she'd even caught a glimpse of Russell Higgs on her way in. After all of Winslow's visits, it had taken Rex Hartwell's arrival to get that lobsterman to church!

As Micah Smith asked the congregation to stand and bow their heads for an opening prayer, Edith broke every childhood rule and used the occasion to stare at the stranger. Even with his head bowed, she could see that Rex Hartwell was everything her husband wasn't—wide-shouldered and athletic-looking, with a full head of glossy hair.

Like Absalom of the Bible. She sniffed as she bowed her head. Rex Hartwell was probably as proud as David's son, too, and that pride would be his downfall. In no time at all, he'd be caught up in town politics and gossip. Cleta and Vernie and Bea would snare him just like that tree caught Absalom's hair and left him dangling like a fish on a hook.

“Would you please turn to hymn number 253? The pastor has specifically requested that we sing ‘Blest Be the Tie.'”

Micah's sweet voice broke into Edith's bitter thoughts. In an instant of repentance she confessed her cattiness, then pulled the hymnal from the rack.

“Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love . . .”

The words floated over the congregation, bringing a bittersweet flood of memories to Edith's heart. How loving this church family had been when she and Winslow arrived ten years ago! Bea and Birdie and Cleta had taken her into their homes and hearts, and she had felt supremely welcomed. But now that they wanted her gone, no one had bothered to say a word of farewell . . .

“The fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.”

Kindred minds? Nothing could be further from the truth. For over a month, probably longer, the church committee had been keeping secrets from her and Winslow, and those secrets would surely tear them apart . . . beginning today, from the looks of things.

“When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain . . .”

They would never know the pain she and Winslow were feeling. Did they think that pastors and their wives weren't human? That they didn't have a fair share of insecurity? That men of God didn't need affirmation and encouragement now and then? Preachers weren't supposed to be holier-than-usual; they were supposed to be shepherds and servants. But this stubborn, blind flock was about to send its shepherd on his way without so much as a fare-thee-well . . .

“But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.”

Joined in heart? Not likely. She had never felt more estranged from her friends. Even though she had been keeping herself aloof in the light of recent developments, still, no one had bothered to knock on her door and ask if something was wrong. No, they hadn't come to inquire about her because they knew they were about to cast her out. They'd come to her tea and eaten her scones, but they hadn't invited her out.

Micah closed his hymnal and placed it on the pulpit. “As Beatrice plays our offertory special,” he said, smiling at the congregation, “I'll be helping the pastor set up a few things at the front of the church. Don't let us interrupt your worship.”

Edith lifted her chin. As if anyone here intended to worship God today! They had come for only one reason— to get a glimpse of Reverend Rex Hartwell as he looked them over.

Micah stepped away from the pulpit as Beatrice began to play, and the first tinkling notes of “My Jesus, I Love Thee” smote Edith's conscience. As her blood ran thick with guilt, she bowed her head and prayed . . . for real.

Father, I don't know what to do with all this hurt . . . and
these troubling thoughts. Please make our way clear today . . .
and help Winslow. If I'm hurting like this, I know he has to be
feeling even more pain.

Winslow bit his lip as he and Micah rolled the silver serving cart from the side storage room to the front of the church. Micah stood the stereo speakers near the communion table, one on each side, while Winslow pulled the black box from the lowest shelf of the serving cart. Crouching on the floor in front of the first pew, Winslow placed the box on the floor, plugged it into the wall socket, then flipped the power switch. He gave a final inspection to the lapel mike on his tie, then gave the power pack at his belt a reassuring pat.