by Angela Hunt
She exhaled slowly, releasing the tension that always crept into her shoulders when she remembered those days. Yes, she had met beautiful Christian people who truly loved each other and the Lord, but her memories of their gentle spirits had been overwhelmed by the complainers.
The Bible college position had brought sweet relief to their marriage and family. While Winslow taught theology based on the books of the Minor Prophets, they saw their son, Francis, through high school and sent him away to college.
She smiled at the thought of their only son. Francis had never been a problem, not even at fifteen when he got it into his head that God wanted him to sell all the family possessions and give the money to the poor. She had come home from the hospital to an empty living room, then stood in astounded silence as Francis explained where—and why—the furniture had gone. “If you want to be perfect,” Francis reminded her, “Jesus said to go and sell all you have and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. So I gave all of our furniture to Goodwill.”
Edith had inclined her head in thought, then calmly suggested that since they no longer possessed anything, they fit the definition of poor. So would Francis mind if she called the Goodwill people and arranged to have some of the furniture brought back?
After a moment of consideration, Francis saw her point, but for the rest of that year he slept on a bare floor, having decided that God and Goodwill should keep his headboard, mattress, and box spring. Edith had privately agonized that the boy would do permanent damage to his spine, but he seemed to adapt to the floor. Even now, as a graduate student at the Harvard Divinity School, he slept on a mattress as firm as Plymouth Rock.
“O Lord our Rock,” Winslow read, bringing Edith back to the present, “you have decreed the rise of these Babylonians to punish and correct us for our terrible sins.”
Edith smothered a yawn and skimmed the page until she found the proper place. She glanced at her watch— only fifteen minutes more, then Winslow would begin his conclusions, and Cleta Lansdown would slip out of the pew to fetch Winslow’s gift. The church committee had let Edith in on the secret, of course, and Edith couldn’t stop a gremlin of pride from rearing its head at the thought of how she had pretended ignorance about the entire matter. Cleta and Beatrice had been quite complimentary of Edith’s tact, and they had appreciated the skillful way in which she sneaked Winslow’s photograph out of the frame on the parlor coffee table. Winslow hadn’t noticed that the picture was missing, but it wasn’t like him to notice such small things.
Edith’s thoughts filtered back to the day they’d had that picture taken. Three years ago, on a whim, they had gone to Boston and decided to have a professional photograph made. Winslow had looked so handsome in his dark gray suit—that suit always accented his blue eyes and pale skin. He just looked like a man of God in that photo—straight and true, with his worn leather Bible tucked into the bend of his arm. The slight parentheses around his mouth gave him a look of righteous resolve, and his wide forehead spoke of intelligence and insight. Winslow looked every inch a preacher in that picture, and Edith had been pleased to hand it to the ladies for delivery to the portrait artist.
Her mouth curling in a fond smile, Edith lifted her gaze and regarded her husband. She knew the picture would serve because Winslow hadn’t changed much in the last three years. He carried a couple of extra pounds over his belt, of course, and a new series of laugh lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. He had lost a bit more hair, but what man of his age hadn’t? His complexion was a shade paler, perhaps, because he didn’t spend as much time outdoors as he used to, but other than in those small ways, Winslow hadn’t changed at all. He was still the same committed man who had come to Heavenly Daze, still the affectionate husband who had married her over twenty-five years before. Winslow Waldo Wickam was a great man, as steady as a lighthouse in a storm.
And he would adore his anniversary present.
Wrapped in a silken cocoon of anticipation, Edith Wickam hugged her Bible to her breast and anticipated her husband’s closing words.
Chapter Two
Cleta Lansdown crossed her legs for the tenth time and elbowed her husband. Of all days for Floyd to fall asleep in church! He knew today was a special anniversary for their tiny church family, and last night he’d gone to bed at eight o’clock so he’d be sure to be good and rested. But, as he’d explained to Cleta over and over, there was just something about Winslow Wickam’s soft monotone that made Floyd feel as sleepy as a foundered pup.
Cleta nudged her husband again, applying steady pressure to his ribs until he lifted his head and glared at her. She looked away and smiled. The glare meant nothing; it was his habitual waking-up expression.
While Pastor Wickam continued to outline the purpose and theme of Habukkuk, Cleta ran through a mental checklist of her own. The anniversary cake had been delivered this morning, brought over from Birdie’s Bakery by Abner Smith. The paper cups and napkins stood on a small card table in the basement fellowship hall, and Abner had assured her that a nice cake slicer lay on the table next to the cake.
They couldn’t be scrambling for a knife at the last minute. Last month, during Edith Winslow’s birthday party, no one could find a knife and so they’d ended up cutting the cake with a folded church bulletin. Edith lifted a brow at that, but what could she say? At least the cake tasted good.
Cleta clicked off the items on her fingertips: cake, cups, napkins, knife. Mike Klackenbush had generously agreed to bring his CD player and some soft gospel music to play in the background, and Vernie Bidderman had donated some yellow and blue crepe-paper streamers to drape over the exposed pipes in the basement ceiling.
Sighing in relief, Cleta closed her hand. She had been personally in charge of only one thing, and that item now stood in a corner of the ladies’ room. Carefully wrapped and sealed against splatters and splashes from the sink, the large rectangular package would soon be opened . . . and everyone would assume that Winslow Wickam’s anniversary gift was complete.
They wouldn’t know, though, that the best was yet to come. Five years before, Pastor Wickam had submitted a request to the Maine Council of Independent Churches for additional funds to repair their aging church building.
Months went by without an answer, and the pastor eventually abandoned his request. He and the elders kept the old building in repair by slapping tar on the leaky roof, but Cleta knew those repairs were temporary at best.
In the past few weeks she had burned up the telephone lines to Portland, speaking to an assortment of clerks and bureaucrats until she finally found someone who would listen to her plea. Reverend Rex Hartwell, comptroller of the Maine Council of Independent Churches, had agreed to visit the Heavenly Daze Community Church on the last Sunday of the month. If, he told Cleta, he found a church as active and needy as she described, he would personally guarantee a grant for $18,000—enough to put a new roof on the church and fix the sagging front porch steps.
A blush of pleasure rose to Cleta’s cheeks as she considered the possibility of presenting her pastor with that surprise. The offerings of their tiny congregation could barely support the Wickams, so they could never afford to make major repairs to the church building without help from an outside agency. But theirs was a great church, though small, and nearly all its members were dedicated. In fact, every person on the island attended regularly except Edmund de Cuvier, who was ill; Russell Higgs, who was thickheaded; and old Salt Gribbon, who was just plain odd. Even Lobster Pot manager Buddy Franklin, whose tattoos made him look as heathen as a savage, came to church every Sunday morning . . . probably because church attendance was the price his sister set for his room and board.
Cleta made a mental note to visit Russell Higgs and Old Man Gribbon. If she had to bribe them both to attend church on the last Sunday in October, she would. She’d do whatever it took to have a full house on that Sunday morning. She would impress Reverend Rex Hartwell and win that grant for their beloved pastor.
“May God go with you till we meet again.”
Finishing his sermon with his traditional blessing, Winslow stepped out of the way so Micah could come up to sing the benediction. Before Micah could come, however, Cleta Lansdown and Vernie Bidderman stood from their respective pews. Cleta flashed a broad smile as she moved up the aisle.
“Wait just a minute, Pastor,” she called, lifting her skinny arm as she came forward. “We have something for you and your missus.”
Winslow lowered his glasses and looked out over the rims toward his wife. Edith stood there, her Bible in her hands and the shimmer of tears in her eyes. Winslow held out his hand and motioned to her.
As Edith made her way to the platform, Cleta turned in front of the communion table and faced the congregation. “Good morning, folks,” she said, peering out from beneath a mound of sternly curled beige hair, “I reckon you all know today is a special day. It’s the first Sunday in October, and ten years to the week that we welcomed Pastor and Edith Wickam to Heavenly Daze.”
As Cleta paused for a moment, Winslow looked around to see what she might be waiting for. Quiet filled the sanctuary—Micah stood to the side, respectfully at attention, and Beatrice sat at the piano, her head turned toward the back of the church—ah, therein lay a clue, for Vernie had disappeared through the vestibule.
The swinging doors opened, then Vernie reappeared, her arms filled with a huge rectangular object wrapped in brown paper.
Cleta turned and flashed a grin over her shoulder. “If you and the missus would come down here, Pastor,” she said, gesturing toward Vernie, “we have a gift for you.”
Winslow felt the intensity of the congregation’s collective gaze as he moved down the steps and toward Cleta. This couldn’t be a golf cart or motor scooter, but perhaps they had pooled their resources and bought him and Edith a piece of investment art. After all, the de Cuviers reportedly had money, and Olympia had fine tastes.
An unexpected shiver of excitement zipped through his bloodstream as he took the package from Vernie. Lately Francis had been encouraging him to set some money aside for investments of jewelry or stocks or art, but on a meager pastor’s salary there had never been money left over for those kinds of things . . .
“Goodness,” he said, grinning at Edith. “It’s heavy.”
Edith looked at him with a smile hidden in her eyes, and suddenly he understood—she knew what it was, and she was thrilled.
Winslow felt his breath being suddenly whipped away. Oh, my. What have they done? He had often commented on his love for the paintings of Maine artist Andrew Wyeth, and those sold for a fortune. Winslow Homer was another personal favorite, and Homer painted seascapes. Any of his paintings would be a natural gift for any pastor who had poured ten years of his life into a congregation on a Maine island . . .
“Win.” Edith’s soft voice broke into his thoughts. “Honey, they want you to open it.”
Winslow swallowed, feeling his cheeks blaze as though they’d been seared by a flame. “Of course,” he said, rolling his eyes toward Cleta as the congregation laughed. “And I’d better hurry if you ladies are going to make it home in time to pull your pot roasts out of the oven.”
“We can’t go home without eating the cake!” Five-year-old Georgie Graham’s voice echoed through the sanctuary. “There’s punch, too!”
“My, my,” Winslow said, smiling at Georgie while he struggled to pull the paper away. “A wonderful gift and refreshments, too.”
An anticipatory shiver rippled through his arms as he caught sight of a gilded frame. Beneath the frame, he saw part of an oil-covered canvas and a rich gray color . . .
An original. They sprang for an original. After a decent interval, this one painting could fund his retirement. In one stroke, these people had eradicated the problems arising from the fact that he had never owned a home, never built up equity, and never funded a retirement plan.
“My dear people.” A lump rose in his throat as he looked out over the congregation and Edith knelt to remove the rest of the paper from the painting’s surface. “You will never know how much this means to me. I love art. Of all the things you could have given me, this gift touches me in ways you will never understand—’’ Floyd Lansdown stood in the pew and pointed toward the painting at Winslow’s side. “But, Pastor, you haven’t even looked at the picture yet.”
Winslow smiled in the calm strength of knowledge. “I’m sure I’ll like it. I know that anything these ladies could pick out will suit me perfectly—’’
He lowered his gaze, then took a wincing little breath. The picture, which Edith had completely freed from its brown paper cocoon, was a portrait . . . of him. A grinning, glaring, goofy portrait of Winslow Wickam clutching his Bible in a pious pose, a painting that would mean nothing to anyone but his wife . . . or his mother.
“Oh, my,” he whispered, the shock of discovery slamming into him.
Cleta Lansdown clapped her hands in glee. “He’s surprised! Did you ever think we would see the day when Pastor Wickam was speechless?”
Winslow remained where he was, rooted to the spot like a witness to a fatal accident. The sanctuary erupted in applause and congratulations, and people streamed from their pews to take a closer look at the monstrosity. As Winslow stood in gaping horror, snatches of conversations flew past him:
“Look, Mama, his head’s shining!”
“Hush, Georgie. That’s the light hitting his bald spot.”
Floyd Lansdown grabbed Winslow’s hand and pumped it. “Looks just like you, Pastor, only younger.”
With a twinkle in her eye, Birdie Wester nudged him on the shoulder. “Pastor, how’d you get so good-looking?”
“Congratulations, dude.” Buddy Franklin, a Heavenly Daze prodigal who had recently come back to live with his sister and brother-in-law, slapped Winslow’s numb hand in an approximation of a high-five. “Ten years in one place? Man, I get bummed out just thinking about that. But I hear time goes fast when you’re old, and you’re what— sixty-five?”
“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!”