Sighing, she dropped the book. Was she ready to forgive? Not now, surely, but maybe when she felt a little stronger.
Right now she felt as though she needed to sleep for a nice, long time—like maybe a week.
Chapter Eighteen
As a black-and-white puffin flew overhead, Bobby squinted, then gasped as the bird dove into the water, as fearless as an Olympic diver. Eager to see if the puffin would surface, Bobby ran to the rocks, ignoring Brittany’s breathless cries to wait.
From here, at the northernmost point of the island, he could see cream colored lines of surf rolling in across the rocky beach. The grandfather said they could not swim here even in summer, for the rocks were sharp and the currents treacherous. That’s why the lighthouse stood atop the hill, to warn sailors away. “Don’t you be thinking about getting into the water anywhere,” the grandfather told him right after he and Britt arrived on Heavenly Daze. “I’m not as young as I once was, and I can’t be jumpin’ in to save you all the livelong day.”
Shading his eyes with his hand, Bobby scanned the sea, hoping for a sign of the diving puffin. Several of the small birds bobbed on the surface, apparently at ease in the cold water. They didn’t worry about rocks or currents.
For a moment Bobby wished he were a puffin. They were funny little birds, but good swimmers as well as fliers. If he were a puffin, he could fly home to his daddy and make sure everything was okay, then he could swim back to the lighthouse so the grandfather wouldn’t be lonely. He’d spend Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays with his daddy, and live at the lighthouse on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturdays—
He stopped to count on his fingers. What to do with Sunday?
Brittany clambered over the rocks and stood below him, her nose making a funny little squeak with each breath.
“Grandfather will be mad if he sees you up there,”
she warned. Her nose whistled as she inhaled. “He’ll make us come in. If you make him mad, you might get smacked.”
“The grandfather doesn’t smack.”
“Well, then . . . he might send us back.”
Bobby froze, his outstretched hand before his eyes. This was another of Brittany’s fibs; she was just talking. But what would happen if the grandfather got mad? Would he send them back? Bobby didn’t want to go—at least, not to stay. He wanted to check on Daddy, that was all.
But if climbing on the rocks could make the grandfather mad enough to send them back—
“I’ll come down,” he said, squatting. He sat on his bottom, then slid over the ice-glazed rock, feeling the cold through the slick surface of his snowsuit.
He landed smoothly, his sneakers hitting the sand with a soft thud, and when he lifted his eyes, he saw that they were no longer alone. Britt turned, peering out of her hood, then she saw, too. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”
Though a powder blue snowsuit encased the boy standing before them from head to toe, it wasn’t hard to recognize Georgie Graham’s round cheeks and sparkling brown eyes. The grin, too, was familiar, except now a gap appeared in what had been a perfect row of stumpy white teeth.
Brittany noticed the difference right away. “You lost a tooth,” she said, pointing to the space in Georgie’s smile.
“I know.” Georgie’s grin widened. “Got a quarter for it from the tooth angel.”
Britt giggled. “The tooth angel? That’s silly. It’s a tooth fairy! I see him on TV all the time.”
Georgie shook his head. “Uh-uh. Zuriel told me all about the tooth angel who lives on Heavenly Daze. Since God knows when even a puffin falls to the ground, he certainly knows when a boy loses a tooth. So at night, when a boy is fast asleep, the tooth angel will slip in and leave a quarter under his pillow.”
“That’s not right.” Brittany spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “I saw the tooth fairy on TV. He’s a little man with a bald head, and he wears a tutu and walks around telling people they aren’t brushing good enough—”
“Hush, Britt.” For no reason he could name, Bobby lost patience with his sister. “That’s TV, and TV is not real life. Heavenly Daze is real, so if Georgie says there’s a tooth angel, there must be.”
“I gots the quarter to prove it.” Georgie’s mittened hand reached into his pocket, then extracted a shiny coin.
Bobby and Brittany stepped closer and stared at the money, then Bobby nodded. “That’s proof, all right. I believe you.” He looked at his sister. “I never got nothing from the tooth fairy.”
Britt pointed to the backpack hanging from Georgie’s shoulders. “Whatcha got in the sack?”
“My paints.” Georgie shifted the bag and held it before his chest. “I have a tablet, watercolors, some brushes, and some crackers. Goldfish.”
Brittany gave Georgie a smile that proved she’d forgiven him for being right about the tooth angel. “I love goldfish crackers.”
Georgie nodded. “We can sit somewhere and eat while we paint. But not here—it’s too cold.”
He turned and looked toward the lighthouse, but Bobby shook his head. “We’re not supposed to bring anybody inside.”
Georgie pointed toward the town. “Then there.”
Britt shook her head. “We’re not supposed to go into town, either. We’re a secret.”
“You don’t have to go into town.” Georgie hefted his backpack across his shoulder and took a confident step forward. “There’s the bathroom, and no one ever goes there in the winter. But there’s a place to sit on the sidewalk, and a roof, and no one will bother us.”
Bobby looked at Brittany for a moment. He remembered the brick building that housed the public rest rooms. It stood right next to the lobster restaurant and across from the fire station. But there were no fires, and the restaurant was closed, so even though the bathrooms were in town, they were still far enough out that the grandfather shouldn’t mind . . .
“Let’s go,” Bobby said, leading the way.
Chapter Nineteen
Jooooooy to the worrrrrrld, the Lord is coooooome.”
Birdie made a face as she poured flour into the mixing bowl. Abner’s song might be a joyful noise, but it was still noise. The baker couldn’t carry a tune in the proverbial bucket.
“Abner,” she called, checking her recipe book. “Did we use up that entire tin of nutmeg already? I’m making Saint James Puddings for Christmas gifts, but I’ll need nutmeg.”
Abner stopped singing long enough to give her a frown. “I thought we got plenty when Vernie’s order finally came in.”
“Well, the new tin is empty, and I’m almost out of cloves, too. Better call Vernie and tell her we need more— I’m going to need allspice, too, for these puddings.”
Birdie blew her bangs out of her eyes and wiped her hand on her apron. The recipe for Saint James Pudding came straight from the 1896 Fannie Farmer Cookbook, and she’d been gifting her neighbors with the traditional puddings, neatly packaged in buttered one-pound baking powder boxes, for nearly thirty years. She’d thought her troubles were over when Vernie’s supplies came in on Wednesday, but apparently she hadn’t ordered enough. Either that, or Abner had gone spice-happy in the last few days.
“Joy to Vernie Bidderman,” she muttered, closing the recipe book with an emphatic snap. “This time the spices had better come quick, or nobody on Heavenly Daze is going to get their Christmas pudding from Birdie’s Bakery.”
Abner opened his mouth, probably about to utter one of his consistently optimistic proverbs, but the jangling of the bell cut him off. Birdie walked toward the counter, grateful for the interruption. Sometimes she didn’t feel like being optimistic and cheery. Today she felt more like Scrooge—one who’d be happy to steal some nutmeg, if she could only find it.
Babette Graham had entered the store, and she greeted Birdie with a worried frown. “How be you,” she said, setting her macramé purse on the counter. “I’m glad you’re in.”
“We’re always in when the weather’s this cold,” Abner joked, energetically rolling
out a piecrust.
Birdie ignored him. “Are you wanting some doughnuts, Babette? Wait—I think we have some of those fried apple pies your Charles is so fond of.”
“I’ll take a couple,” Babette said offhandedly, her pretty mouth set in a frown. “But I really wanted to talk to you.”
Her tone sent a tremor up Birdie’s spine. “Nothing wrong at your house, I hope?”
Babette tilted her head. “That’s what I’d like to know. I’m a little worried.”
Birdie glanced at Abner, who winked and lifted his hands from the rolling pin long enough to make a go-on motion. Birdie nodded.
“Let me pour us both a cup of cider,” she said, moving toward the stove where a saucepan simmered. “Abner keeps a pot warm for occasions like this. We’ll sit out there at the chairs and you can tell me all about it.”
Babette sighed and moved toward one of the tables at the front of the store, shedding her coat as she went. Birdie ladled cider into two china teacups, then placed them on saucers and carried them out to the table.
Babette had pulled a sheaf of folded papers from her purse. Now she stared at them as if the source of the world’s trouble lay revealed on those pages.
Slipping into the chair across from Babette, Birdie eyed the papers. “What do you have there? The mortgage?”
Babette smiled and shook her head. “Nothing so grown up, I’m afraid. Look at these—they’re paintings of Georgie’s.”
Bemused, Birdie took the pictures and unfolded them. The tempura paint cracked as she bent the page, and the mingled scents of paint and paper reminded her of long-ago mornings in Sunday school, when she and Bea had painted pictures of Calvary and Sunshine Mountain . . .
These paintings, she noticed, were of puffins. That was nothing unusual, because Georgie had always displayed a fondness for the birds. So why was Babette disturbed?
Birdie lay the three sheets on the table, then spread her hands over them to keep the bent pages from returning to their folded shape. “Three puffin paintings,” she said, wondering what Babette had seen in them. “So—Georgie’s exhibiting a penchant for puffins again?” She lowered her head to meet Babette’s troubled gaze. “Is that bad news? I know the boy gave you fits last month, but I thought you all were past that trouble by now.”
“It’s not the paintings that concern me—well, not in particular. Look at them, Birdie. Look how different they are.”
Birdie looked again. They were different, she supposed, though to her one child’s painting looked pretty much like another’s. Each featured a blue sky, a black-and-white bird, and rolling ocean waves. One of the paintings was more detailed, it seemed, and one appeared brighter than the others.
Then she saw it. One painting had been initialed with Georgie’s customary G; the other two were signed with a B.
She crinkled a brow.
“You see?” Babette leaned closer and pointed to the B in one picture. “I asked Georgie why he put a B on this picture, and he said he didn’t paint it.”
A warning spasm gripped Birdie’s throat. “If he didn’t paint it,” she forced the words out, “then who did?”
“A boy named Bob.” Babette’s voice went as flat as Abner’s singing. “And the other one was painted by a girl named Brittle-knees. Remember? His imaginary playmates.”
Birdie took a deep breath and felt bands of tightness in her chest. “Well,” she began, staring at the Bs at the bottom of each painting, “there’s no real harm in having imaginary playmates, is there? I’m no expert on child rearing, but it seems to me that creativity is a healthy thing, especially when a child is the only little boy living on this island—”
Her throat closed; she couldn’t go on. But Babette seemed not to notice her reluctance.
“I’m so frightened, Birdie! What if this is a sign of multiple personalities? What will I do if one night he tells me that he’s Bob? Or Brittle-knees?” She groaned and pressed her hand to her face. “Merciful heavens, what if my little boy starts to believe he’s a girl?”
“Really, Babette.” Birdie forced a laugh, though to her ears the noise sounded more like a sob. She glanced at Abner, who had stopped rolling out dough in order to watch.
“Babette, don’t carry on like this.” She patted the younger woman’s free hand. “Your son is many things, but he’s not mentally ill. He’s a normal little boy, with a healthy imagination and a great sense of fun.”
“He’s never lied to me like this before.” Babette wiped tears from the wells of her eyes. “I mean, sure, he’s lied to get out of trouble, but alst I had to do was look at him and he’d break down and confess. But I’ve been giving him, you know, that look all morning, and he still insists Bob and Brittle-knees painted these pictures.”
Glancing at Abner, Birdie patted Babette’s hand again. “Does he, um, say anything else about these friends of his?”
“Oh, yeah.” Babette’s tears began to flow in earnest. “He says they wear pumpkin outfits and live in the lighthouse. And once they spent the night under Cap’n Gribbon’s boat, until a tall man with long white hair rescued them. And they came from over the sea, they don’t have a mommy, and their favorite food is Werther’s Originals.” She lifted her teary eyes. “Honestly, Birdie, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to punish my boy for lying, but I don’t see what other choice I have. If he keeps telling these whoppers—”
“Maybe they’re not whoppers.” Birdie pressed her lips together, then forced a smile. “I mean—if they’re real to him, maybe they’re . . . really real.” She shrugged. “After all, dear, when you were a child, didn’t you believe in moonlight and magic and the monster under your bed? No matter what anyone told you, you still knew—”
Snorting, Babette gave Birdie a look of utter disbelief. “Surely you’re not saying I should promote belief in monsters and fairy tales.”
Birdie shrugged. “I’m saying that maybe you’re making a tempest in a teapot over something that isn’t really hurtful. And maybe one day you’ll discover that these children were real . . . at least real to Georgie.”
Babette pulled a tissue from her pocket, then blew her nose. “I don’t know”—she dabbed at the end of her nose with the tissue—“but this boy is breaking my heart. I constantly worry about parenting him, about doing the right thing. If I’m this worried when he’s almost six, what am I going to do when he’s sixteen?”
Birdie gave her a smile. “Honey, I think you grow into the job.”
The sun had come out from behind the clouds by the time Birdie, Bea, and Abner finished lunch in the sisters’ living quarters. While Bea and Abner speculated about the reasons for Stanley Bidderman’s sudden reappearance, Birdie stood and put away the casserole. She had no more than a passing interest in Stanley Bidderman, who was still abed at the B&B and still unable to obtain an audience with his estranged wife.
Birdie was thinking about taking a drive up to the lighthouse . . . even though the town was also buzzing about her frequent trips to the end of the island. The other day she’d caught Abner checking the tires on the golf cart—he said she’d been putting so many miles on the vehicle that he worried for her safety.
After stacking her dishes in the sink, Bea moved to her desk in the keeping room to begin answering the latest stack of angel mail. Standing, Abner tied his apron behind his back and gave Birdie a sly smile.
“Goin’ out this afternoon?” His dark eyes glinted with humor. “I can handle the baking, so you don’t need to worry about a thing.”
Though she’d been about to walk to the coatrack, Birdie halted in midstep. “Where would I be going?”
Abner grinned. “Well, I figure Cap’n Gribbon must be running low on rye bread by now. And I have some snicker doodles that will go to waste if nobody eats ’em. Seems to me the captain might find some use for a dozen snicker doodles.”
A thousand questions whirled in Birdie’s brain as she stared at him. There he went again, smiling like he knew Salt’s secret. Was the baker a
mind reader, or had she let something slip?
“Well,”—she reached out and took her coat from the rack—“maybe I will drive on up to the lighthouse and see how the captain’s getting on. So if you want to put together a care package for him, that’d be right nice. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”
Winking at her, Abner whirled and moved toward the bakery, humming an off-key rendition of “Silent Night.”
After slipping into her coat, Birdie stepped into the hall bathroom, then ran her fingers through her silver hair. She pulled a protective lipstick from the medicine cabinet and ran it over her lips, then paused and stared at her reflection.
What was she doing? She was too old to be thinking about impressing a man, and too inexperienced to be thinking about children. Her work at the Ogunquit library had exposed her to young ones, but she’d done little more than read to them and remind them to shush when they grew too excited. She didn’t know a thing about comforting kids with skinned knees . . . or healing broken young hearts. And those children at the lighthouse had to be hurting inside, the poor things. Salt was a good man, but he’d taken them away from their father. Sure, he had reason, but was even a bad daddy better than no daddy at all?
She pressed her fingertips to the mirror and shivered at the chill of the glass. Bea thought Birdie was infatuated with Salt, and maybe she was, a little, but she was far more concerned about Bobby and Brittany. Those kids had never known a mother, if Salt’s story could be trusted, and their exile up at Puffin Cove couldn’t be good for them, especially at Christmas.
But what could she do? She’d tried to convince Salt that the townsfolk could be trusted, but he didn’t believe her. She’d begged him to let her involve Bea, whose heart was tender, but he’d insisted that the postmistress encountered too many people on a daily basis and therefore couldn’t keep a secret. She’d tried to make a case for involving the pastor and his wife, or Babette and Charles, but to each entreaty Salt turned a deaf ear.
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