The Island of Heavenly Daze (5 page)

“Fifty-two,” Winslow whispered, hearing his own voice as if it came from far away.

Buddy shrugged. “Fifty-two, sixty-five, whatever. Congrats, anyway.”

Dana Klackenbush, a willowy blonde who was in her late twenties and trying hard to stay there, sashayed forward and took his hand with a smile. “Look, Pastor.” She pointed to the portrait with a manicured fingernail. “See how the light shines from your head? It almost looks like a halo. Isn't that cool?”

Winslow stepped forward and peered down at the portrait. The artist had mixed white paint into the gray background, creating the illusion of a halo . . . or light reflecting off his head. A bald head, a smooth and shiny pate as bare as a baby's behind.

He stared at the portrait in a paralysis of astonishment. He shaved his face every morning, combed his hair, and dressed in front of a mirror. Why, then, hadn't he noticed that he had gone as bald as a kneecap?

Edith Wickam felt the trilling of an inner alarm bell as she watched her husband's face. Winslow's expression was locked in neutral, but his jaws wobbled in the way they always did when he was repressing a deep-seated and unpleasant emotion.

“Interesting,” he murmured, staring downward as Dana Klackenbush gushed over the portrait. Thank the Lord, Edith thought, they could stash it in the attic when they got home. He would have to remind Edith to pull it down whenever they hosted a church function, but at least he wouldn't have to look at it every day.

After a moment Winslow swallowed, then turned to give a stiff smile to the people who lingered in the aisle. “Thank you very much, folks. I can't wait to take this home.”

“Oh no, Pastor.” Cleta stepped forward and snapped her birdlike fingers around his wrist. “This painting's not for the parsonage; it's for the vestibule. It's going to hang with the portrait of Captain Jacques de Cuvier, the founder of Heavenly Daze.”

Edith heard Winslow's quick intake of breath. “The vestibule?”

“Of
course,
the vestibule.”

Winslow shook his head. “But none of the other wonderful pastors of this church have their pictures hanging in the vestibule. I just don't think it would be fair if you put my picture up there with the esteemed founder of this church—''

Edith quickly stepped forward. “Cleta, we'd love to find a place for this in our home. Winslow might not enjoy looking at himself every day, but I would. I think it's a wonderful likeness.”

“I'm sorry.” Cleta spoke in a flat and final tone. “But the church member who donated funds for the portrait specifically stipulated that it had to hang in the vestibule. We wanted to honor him for ten years of service, so that's the way it has to be.”

“But no one else—'' Winslow sputtered.

“No one else has lasted ten years,” Cleta finished. “You're it.”

Edith sighed heavily. The money had probably come from Olympia de Cuvier, and that lady was used to getting her way. But Olympia didn't know how stubborn Winslow could be . . . or how insecure.

“I'm afraid,” he told Cleta, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, “that such a painting will appear . . . too ostentatious and vain. Please. Make an appeal to the donor for me. It can hang in the vestibule after I'm gone.”

“Now what would be the sense in that?” Cleta's face fell, she waved her hand as if she could dismiss the matter with a simple gesture. “Now, you two had better get down to the fellowship hall and cut that cake. Georgie Graham is going to drive everybody nuts until you get there!”

Realizing that she'd overestimated her husband's enthusiasm for the gift, Edith slipped her arm through Winslow's and led him toward the stairs.

When the last paper cup had been tossed away and the last crumb sent home with the Grahams, Cleta gave the basement a final look, then climbed the stairs and found her husband in the graveled parking lot. Floyd sat behind the wheel of their canopied golf cart, the Sunday sports section in his hand.

“I'm ready to go,” she said, sliding onto the seat beside him. “If you can tear yourself away from the paper, that is.”

The newsprint rustled in response, and after a long moment Floyd lowered the paper and folded it away. “Can't blame a man for trying to keep up with things,” he said, tossing the sports section onto the backseat. “Paper just came in on the ferry.”

Cleta folded her arms as the golf cart lurched to life. “I don't mind you reading the paper. But on a day as important as today, I'd think you'd want to talk about the preacher.”

Floyd lifted a brow as he pressed on the accelerator. “Whaddya want me to say?”

Cleta shrugged. “Maybe that we did a good job? That the pastor liked his gift?”

“I don't know that he liked it much.” Floyd rubbed the stubble of his beard as he steered the cart down Ferry Road, then took a sharp turn into the alley behind their home, the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast. “Seems to me he was a little put off by it.”

“How,” Cleta asked, her stare drilling into her husband, “can a man be put off by the sight of his own face? His wife provided the photo we gave the artist. And it's not like Winslow Wickam is unattractive. It'd be one thing if he were as ugly as a gargoyle, maybe you wouldn't want that hanging in your church, but the pastor is a fine little fellow, dignified and clean and honest-looking—“

“All the same, if he had his druthers, I think he'd druther have a book or something.” Floyd pulled the cart into the shade and turned the key. “You asked my opinion, so there it is.”

“Well.” Cleta fell silent, then shifted her gaze back to her husband. “He won't be put off by what we have planned for the end of the month. Reverend Rex Hartwell is coming from Portland with big news. I'm praying that some things will be changing around here.”

Floyd gave her an uncertain look. “Are you sure we'll be approved for that grant?”

“Ayuh.” Cleta nodded. “We'll prove that Heavenly Daze Church deserves that grant if I have to personally visit every home and drag the slug-a-beds out of bed by their ears.”

Floyd slipped out of the cart and gravitated toward the back door, sniffing the air as he went. “Smells like a good roast, Mother. So stop your squawking and let's get dinner on the table.”

Cleta followed, refusing to let her husband dampen her good mood. “Ayuh, Floyd, hold your horses. I'm coming.”

Chapter Three

L
eaving the parsonage and the flickering warmth of Edith's cinnamon-scented candles in the windows, Winslow skirted the field bordering the cemetery and walked toward the sea. The sky, already dark over the ocean, was still lit by deep orange and red and purple streaks in the west.

Ignoring the encroaching darkness, Winslow lengthened his stride through the swishing grass until he reached the rock-strewn rim that marked the eastern edge of the island. Unsuitable as a tourist beach, this rough leeward shore undoubtedly looked much as it had two hundred years ago when Jacques de Cuvier and his cronies settled the town.

Upon reaching the rocks where walking became difficult, Winslow turned and moved along the perimeter of the cemetery. The oldest graves were situated here, and Jacques de Cuvier's occupied one of the loftiest locations.

Winslow paused a moment before Jacques's worn headstone, then, in a burst of irreverence, turned and sat on the granite slab. Olympia de Cuvier would faint if she saw him sitting cross-legged upon the sainted sea captain's final resting place, but somehow Winslow didn't think Jacques would mind.

Shifting to face the sea, he rubbed his hands over his arms and stared out at the rolling surf. What would old Jacques think if he were to walk among today's residents of Heavenly Daze? Would he marvel at the electric golf carts and satellite dishes, or would he mourn the passing of the polished lanterns shedding soft yellow light on the cobblestone streets? If he were to walk into the church, would he rejoice to see that a faithful remnant remained, or would he regret that the little church had not grown? Though the population of Heavenly Daze swelled during the summer season as tourists flocked to visit the charming shops, the residential population had remained much the same from one generation to another.

The cool evening air, as astringent as alcohol, washed over his head and shivered the bare skin. Hunching forward in his jacket, Winslow glanced over his shoulder toward the cluster of houses located along the intersection of the island's two roads. The sun had nearly finished its course across the sky, but hadn't yet reached the Maine shore, barely visible in the distance. On the island, lights had begun to shine from each house, and he imagined that from the air Heavenly Daze would take on the shape of a silvery cross blazing out of dense darkness. The porch lights of Frenchman's Folly, home to the de Cuviers, would form the top of the cross that extended from the island's southwestern shore to its midpoint, where a solitary street lamp burned outside the fire/police station, the only municipal building on the island. The lights of Birdie's Bakery on the west and the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center on the east would create the crossbar.

The island had been marked, probably inadvertently, with the sign of the cross, as had Winslow's life. He had been reared in a Christian home, taught to serve God at an early age, and he had always loved to study the Bible. After college he entered seminary with lofty dreams and high aspirations; he graduated with every intention of becoming the next Billy Graham. Then he accepted the call of his first church, and his dreams shrank into the shadows, eclipsed by painful realities and the hard lessons of life. How could he win the world for Jesus when he couldn't even convince a congregation of fifty people to cooperate with each other?

Each time he accepted a new pastoral call he began his work with enthusiasm and prayerful dreams; each time he boxed up his books and commentaries he vowed that the next church would be different, but it never was. In North Carolina and Georgia and Boston and Vermont, church people were the same . . . and so was he.

Time and time again, he had failed. The word tasted sour, but at least it was honest. He'd never really been honest with himself until today. He had moved from church to church, not because God had called him to be a leapfrogging servant, but because he had repeatedly grown weary of contention and longed for a clean slate.

When the notion of leading a stubborn flock became completely unbearable, he retreated into the safety of academia. Teaching was far less stressful than pastoring, and a professor's job was nine to five, with occasional late hours required for faculty events and grading papers.

Winslow let his hands fall to his knees as he lowered his gaze to the chilly slab beneath him. A man didn't often have an opportunity to survey his life from a detached perspective, but his church had given him that opportunity today. When he stared at that portrait in the gilded frame, for the first time he saw the small, weary eyes, the double chin, the uncertain, lopsided smile. The man in that portrait clutched the Bible to his chest as though it were a shield designed to hold life at bay, and his bald head sug- gested aloof intellectualism, a man afraid to risk human contact. Even the cut of his suit seemed unnaturally conservative and restrained.

He recognized the picture, of course—Edith had obviously given them a copy of the photo he'd had taken in Boston. But the man who filled the Heavenly Daze pulpit each week was the same man, mired in a rut as old as Methuselah.

Winslow lifted his eyes to the heavens, where night had spread her sable wings over the Atlantic. “What am I to do, God? I don't like the person I saw in that picture.”

Far out at sea, bright arteries of lightning pulsed in the swollen sky, followed by a low throb of thunder. Winslow waited a moment, hoping to hear the inner voice that had urged him to action on other occasions of his life, but he heard only the wind, the waves, and the distant sound of approaching rain.