by Angela Hunt
If God loves his children, why does he allow them to suffer like this?
Tears blinded her as she left the room a moment later. In the hallway, she collided head-on with Caleb.
His features softened in concern as he shifted the load of clean linens to his opposite arm. “I know it’s difficult to see him this way.”
Annie allowed the tears to fall unchecked. “I don’t understand why, Caleb.”
“It isn’t meant for us to understand; God only asks that we trust him.”
Trust. Faith had always been second nature for Caleb, but it was harder for her. Trust in what? A God who had taken her parents prematurely? A loving Father who put her in Olympia’s care and then forgot about her?
Maybe Caleb could explain why Uncle Edmund was dying and Aunt Olympia was still as healthy as a horse. Then again maybe he couldn’t. Answers had been far and few between in her life, and the next few days would undoubtedly strengthen her conviction that God had forgotten Annie Cuvier.
Chapter Eight
The house felt sad and heavy.
Creeping down the stairs, Tallulah went to the kitchen, then nosed the back door open and squeeeeeezed through.
Heavenly kibbles, that crack was getting smaller every day!
Darting around the house, she hurriedly buried a bone in the pile of black dirt behind the carriage shed, then trotted off down the drive.
Pausing, she carefully looked both ways.
Three months ago that spoiled Georgie Graham had shot around the corner on his bicycle, bowling her head over heels. She had rolled for what seemed like ten minutes before she came to a halt, bottom-side up in Olympia’s lilac bush.
The accident left her with a permanent scar above her right eye, not to mention stiff joints that bothered her even now. There’d be no more of that, thank you.
Her gaze rotated right, then left.
Confident that she was out of harm’s way, she trotted on, but Georgie shot around the corner. Eyes wide, Tallulah bolted for the ditch.
The boy streaked by, yelling, “Get outta my way, you stupid canine!”
Canine indeed. She got up and shook off the panic of the near miss. Setting out in a leisurely waddle, she trotted toward the dock where, if her internal clock could be trusted, the early morning ferry was waiting.
What a glorious day for an outing! The fall breeze was just cool enough to fend off any flies or bugs, and strong enough to bring the enticing aroma of fish to tickle her nostrils.
She reached the landing and enjoyed the sound of her toenails rhythmically clicking against the heavy steel gangplank. Click click, click click, click click. Captain Stroble glanced up from the clipboard he was studying when he saw her rounding the corner.
The handsome gentleman removed a pipe from his mouth and tapped the bowl. “Morning, Tallulah.”
Oh . . . she really liked this fellow. Cute. And he smelled good, like fish and the sea. Giving him her friendliest wiggle, she kept on trucking. If she dallied, Butch the Bulldog would grab the sweet spot at the rail.
Her eyes widened when she saw Butchie coming down Ferry Road a moment later. The Klackenbushes’ bulldog was running at top speed, dodging Birdie and Bea who were trying to make up for their extra ten minutes in bed by rushing to the ferry for a Saturday shopping trip to Ogunquit.
Realizing she’d won, Tallulah snagged her position at the front of the boat and waited.
Butch barreled around the dock, his big old body sliding sideways. When he spotted Tallulah, his heavy jaw dropped and his tail drooped, but a moment later he sauntered up at a leisurely trot, looking like he’d intended to be fashionably late. Tallulah barely acknowledged his good-morning sniff.
Tough luck, Butchie. Early bird gets the worm. Or, in this case, the best vantage point for spotting fish. She settled back on her haunches and prepared for launch.
The ship’s big engines revved, then the boat slowly eased back from the dock.
Staring at the water, Tallulah located a small halibut playing next to the boat. She lifted her head with a low woof, her ears pricked to attention. She found the first fish! Size didn’t matter. Tallulah enjoyed the hunt.
Lunging at her apparently indifferent prey, she barked and whirled, her nails clicking on the deck like castanets. Wearing his sourpuss face, Butch crouched near the railing, but his disgruntled mood didn’t faze Tallulah. Intimidating fish was the highlight of her day. Sure, the fish pretended not to notice, but that was all part of the game.
After a few moments, Tallulah left Butch to the fish watching and cocked her head upward, letting her long ears flap in the breeze. Life was good. It was Saturday, it was sunny, and Annie was home after all these years. The thought of her old friend’s return made the trip to Ogunquit even more enjoyable.
The ride across the inlet was all too brief. Before Tallulah knew it, she heard the telltale scrape of metal against wood. Captain Stroble docked the ship and lowered the gangplank, Tallulah’s signal to disembark.
Trotting past Butch, she lifted her chin. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to beat a de Cuvier.
Making good time, she set out on her customary route. First stop, the bakery at Perkins Cove. Mr. Baker Man was waiting with a nice, fresh, utterly delicious cruller in his huge hand.
Tallulah had to perform an assortment of corny tricks—sitting up, rolling over, and fetching—but the energy expenditure was worth the prize. This morning’s performance garnered her two crullers. Yum! The sweets would probably give her a bellyache, but they sure tasted good on the way down.
Next she visited the deli, where someone had thrown away a perfectly good salami sandwich and a fat slice of dill pickle. She nosed around, easing the sandwich away from the foul pickle. Yuck, she thought, sniffing the bitter slab of green. How could humans eat such a thing?
She moseyed about Ogunquit, visiting here and there with old friends, mostly of the human variety, until she heard the ferry’s warning whistle.
Trotting back down the hill, she consoled herself with the thought that it would be time for lunch when she got back. And on Saturdays, Olympia slept late and ordered a lunch of bacon and eggs and buttered toast . . . and Caleb was very generous with leftovers.
Two crullers, half a salami sandwich, and a piece of discarded saltwater taffy played racquetball in her stomach.
Well, she might skip lunch today. For some reason, she just wasn’t hungry.
The sun beat Annie out of bed Saturday morning, but the mild Atlantic air blowing through her window promised a beautiful day for planting.
After going downstairs, she microwaved a cup of herbal tea and absently loosened the dirt around the tomato plants Caleb had kept in the kitchen overnight. She couldn’t wait to get her project into the ground. She had devoted an entire year of her life to developing a new hybrid that would grow in inclement weather and coastal conditions. She was close to achieving the near perfect tomato: a large, bright red fruit with succulent flavor and a firm texture. The new hybrid had already exceeded her headiest expectations in a controlled growing environment, but anything could grow in a greenhouse. She desperately needed one growing season in Heavenly Daze’s sandy, salty soil to convince her colleagues the tomato was, well, downright heavenly. If the plant performed half as well as she expected, the hybrid would be approved by the United States Horticultural Department. Aunt Olympia and the world would be forced to acknowledge Annie’s achievement.
With dreams of fame dancing in her head, she wedged the last of a bagel into her mouth, picked up the box of plants, and went outside.
She got down on her hands and knees and began scratching out a patch of dirt in Aunt Olympia’s withered vegetable garden. It was six weeks too late to harvest the last of the summer tomatoes; the old fruit hung in shriveled clumps on withering vines. But this hybrid was designed to thrive in both warm and cool climates. The average garden enthusiast could put his plants in the ground by early fall and still enjoy the fruits of his labors through Nov
ember while his next-door neighbor buys hothouse tomatoes from the grocery store.
Crouched on all fours, Annie edged along the plot of spaded dirt, spacing the plants eight inches apart. When her knees gave out, she stood up and bent over, working her way along the rows. She knew she must be quite a sight with her hindquarters pointing straight up, but Olympia and Caleb hadn’t yet ventured out . . .
“Hello. You must be Annie.”
She froze when she heard the deep, masculine inquiry. Color crept up her cheeks and spread across her face. Whirling, she straightened and absently dusted dirt off the back of her jeans.
The rich baritone belonged to a distinguished older gentleman who stood by the garden holding a weed whacker.
“Sorry to startle you.” Smiling, he extended a gloved right hand. “I’m Marcus Hayes. I rent the guesthouse from your aunt. And uncle.”
Annie glanced at the guest quarters behind the main house. Painted in taupe and teal just like Frenchman’s Folly, it was nonetheless a homey cottage, perfect for a single man. The remains of the season’s roses trailed along a cone-shaped trellis by the front door.
She gave him a tentative smile. “Are you here for the tourist season?”
“I’m the island doctor.”
“Oh.” She wiped her hands on her thighs again to make sure they were clean. “I’m Annie Cuvier. Nice to meet you, Doctor.”
The doctor lifted a brow. “Not de Cuvier?”
“Not for my dad. He thought de Cuvier sounded . . . pretentious.”
“Well, unpretentious Annie, the pleasure is mine.” The two shook hands.
Annie glanced toward the kitchen. Times really must be hard for Olympia to let a total stranger live so close to her precious home. “I didn’t realize Aunt Olympia rented that place out.”
The doctor’s eyes appraised his quarters with an agreeable smile. “I’m a lucky man. The cottage is comfortable, and spacious enough to suit my needs.” His friendly gaze turned to the spindly plants. “Gardening so late in the year?”
Annie explained her project.
“Tomatoes that will grow and produce in a cold climate? That’s quite a feat, young lady.”
“That’s what my colleagues say. The test plants have done well in controlled studies, but this fall will be the proof of the pudding.”
“Then you plan to spend some time in Heavenly Daze?”
Annie turned, studying the rows of tomatoes. “I’m leaving Monday. I’ll ask Caleb to oversee the project and report the results to me. I thought about raising the plants on the rooftop of my walk-up in Portland, but Portland isn’t as exposed as Heavenly Daze. This place is perfect.” She frowned slightly. “For the plants, at least.”
“Well, I’m sure Caleb will be delighted to help you,” the doctor said. “A finer man I’ve never met—he’s practically too good to be true.” He hesitated. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”
“Thanks.” Annie smiled and knelt to continue her planting. “I do need to get these in.”
“How is your uncle this morning?”
Annie pictured the wasted man lying upstairs and sighed. “Not so well, I’m afraid.”
The doctor’s features sobered. “Cancer is an ugly thing to witness, especially in the later stages.”
She handed him a stack of empty containers, which he accepted without comment. “Are you Uncle Edmund’s doctor?” she asked.
“Actually, I’m not. I retired from my practice and moved to the island nearly seven years ago. I have a few pieces of equipment here—an X-ray machine and a small lab for routine blood work and emergencies. I’ve kept my license up-to-date, so I can give flu shots and prescribe medications. Mostly I stitch a few cuts and lance a boil here and there.”
He moved with Annie down the row, taking another container from her hand and adding it to the stack he carried. “Anything more serious than minor first aid I refer to Ogunquit doctors. But I’m in daily contact with your uncle’s doctor, and I administer his morphine.” His eyes softened. “I can assure you that he is as comfortable as medically possible.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m sure Aunt Olympia is grateful.”
Annie looked in her box and found it empty—all thirty tomato plants were in the ground. Surprised that the work had gone so quickly, she stood up to meet the eyes of her new friend.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked.
“Certainly. What’s on your mind?”
She slipped her hands in her pockets and lowered her gaze. “Is there anything I can do, financially I mean, to help pay you for your services? I have this feeling that my aunt and uncle are a little strapped for—’’
“I don’t charge for my services, Annie. I could never repay all that I’ve been given, and helping these island folk is the least I can do.”
Annie blushed. “Well. The world could use a few more souls like you. Is there any other way I can repay you?” She grinned. “How about in tomato currency?”
He smiled slyly. “Actually, I can think of something you can do for me. You’re single, right?”
Annie cocked her head, eyeing him warily. Had she misread what she interpreted as common kindness? Was he coming on to her?
“Yes,” she said slowly, “I am single, but I’m not really looking.”
The doctor took his turn to blush. “Oh my goodness, I guess I should clarify that inquiry. I was thinking of my son. He’s about your age, and single, too—”
Holding up her hand, Annie laughed. “Thank you, Doctor, but I’m perfectly happy with my marital status at the moment.”
He broke into good-natured laughter. “Well, shame on me for trying to play matchmaker. Where are my manners?”
“No apologies necessary.” Annie scooped up a handful of dirt and patted it around the base of a plant. “How much does your son make in a year?”
The doctor’s smile faded. “His salary?”
Snickering, Annie continued with the absurd defense she adopted when well-meaning friends tried to marry her off.
“Actually, I suppose that’s rude of me. What kind of a car does he drive? Porsche? BMW? I love Mercedes. Black ones. I favor convertibles, but honestly, that wouldn’t be a deciding factor.” Sitting back on her heels, she grinned at the startled doctor. “But salary definitely has the edge.”
A chuckle escaped the older man. “Touché, young lady. Touché.”
“Seriously, Doctor,” Annie said, removing her gloves with her teeth, “if your son is anything like you, any woman would be delighted to go out with him. I’m not in the market for romantic adventures.” She pointed to the three new rows of plants, the only company she had time for these days. “Between the plants and my job, I’m lucky I have the energy to breathe, much less date. When these little fellas start producing fruit,” she lovingly patted a plant, “then I’ll think about relationships.”
“So you’re saying there’s a chance?” the doctor teased.
“Come away from that window, Caleb. She’s twenty-eight years old and she doesn’t need a chaperone.”
Caleb let the curtain drop and turned back to his pan of bacon. “You’re too hard on her, Missy. She’s a good girl.”
“She isn’t a girl, Caleb, and you’re too soft on her. I can see why the good Lord never saw fit to give you children. You’d spoil them shamelessly.”
“Perhaps. But isn’t that a little bit of what children are for?”
Olympia humphed, then continued to rummage through the stack of mail on the kitchen table. Sunlight streamed through the window by the breakfast nook, brightening the cozy cubicle. When her stomach grumbled impatiently, Caleb pretended not to notice.
Suddenly the pile of mail dropped to the table with a heavy slap. Caleb turned, fork suspended in midair. Olympia’s chair squeaked across the floor as she got up, then, a moment later, papers rustled from the parlor.
The daily scavenger hunt. She’d come in and out of the kitchen at least two more times before she’d stoop to asking
for his help.
“May I help you?” he asked, cutting the game short as she came back into the kitchen.
Mumbling under her breath, Olympia squinted at the cabinets. “I can’t find my glasses.”
The servant discreetly brought his hand to his throat, then nodded toward the gold chain hanging around her neck.
“Oh . . . fiddle. Who put those there?” Sighing, Olympia perched her glasses on her nose and sat down, reaching for the morning paper. “Getting old is no fun.”
Caleb chuckled. In earthly time he topped her by a few years. The gray in his hair was growing more pronounced, his hearing was slipping, and he had to put on his glasses just to find his slippers beside the bed. His back ached, and last week Doctor Marc informed him that he had fallen arches.
But he couldn’t complain. That was part of the arrangement, all part of God’s plan. The seven resident angels couldn’t live in immortal bodies without attracting unwanted and unwarranted attention to themselves, so their bodies aged just like humans’. In the fullness of time, when it pleased the Lord, the angel was called up to the third heaven and allowed to renew himself before returning once again to his place of service.
In more than two hundred years, no Heavenly Daze human had ever realized that they were surrounded by living, breathing miracles of love and grace.
After arranging two soft-boiled eggs, one strip of turkey bacon, one slice of unbuttered wheat toast, and a dollop of blueberry jam on Olympia’s chipped china, Caleb served her brunch.
“That looks very nice, Caleb. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Missy.” He picked up a silver percolator and poured a cup of steaming black coffee, to which he added one teaspoon of skim milk and a half-teaspoon of sugar, not exactly how she liked it.
He set the coffee before her. “You have an appointment for your yearly checkup this afternoon.”
“I’m not going.”