The Island of Heavenly Daze

by Angela Hunt

  “No, Pastor.” Gavriel placed his hand on Winslow’s shoulder. “Don’t start tomorrow, and don’t start with Cleta Lansdown.” He turned Winslow so he could see his wife’s stiff figure moving toward the parsonage. “You must start today and with that dear lady.”

  Mechanically placing one foot in front of the other, Edith walked home. She could feel her senses recovering from that horrible moment in which her brain went numb with mortification. Anger was the emotion quickest to recover.

  What had Winslow been thinking? But that was the trouble—he wasn’t thinking these days. He was reacting in knee-jerk fashion, leaping from the frying pan into the fire. And soon he’d find himself in really dangerous waters. The church people had been tickled today—well, most of them—but if Winslow wasn’t careful he could do some real damage. The gospel of Jesus Christ was beautiful in its simplicity, but if Winslow insisted upon dressing it up in spangles and gadgetry, the message might be lost.

  “Yoo hoo, Edith!” Babette Graham waved from her porch swing. Charles sat by her side, which was unusual, for the Grahams were usually inside at dinner by this time on a Sunday afternoon.

  “Enjoyed the service this morning,” Charles called, a note of laughter in his voice. “Didn’t know you and the pastor were so frisky.”

  Edith smiled through clenched teeth and kept walking. She had nearly reached her own blessed porch when she heard the slap of footsteps over the sidewalk and the sound of Winslow’s panting. She hesitated on the cobbled path that led to their front door, but didn’t turn.

  “Edith, honey,” he touched her arm, “I want to apologize.”

  “It’s fine, Win. It was a mistake.” Slowly, she turned to confront him. “Anyone could have made a mistake, right?”

  “Right.” Winslow stepped in front of her, blocking her path. A faint line appeared between his brows as he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Honey—’’

  “Not here.” She kept her voice low, but inclined her head toward the buildings across the street. Half of the church was eating Sunday dinner at the Lobster Pot, and Charles and Babette Graham were still sitting on their porch swing, undoubtedly watching the drama before them with great interest.

  “Yes, here.” Winslow’s grip on her shoulders tightened, and beneath that ridiculous toupee his eyes shone with determination. “I embarrassed you publicly, and so I want to apology here, with everyone watching. I’m not sure how that picture got into the slide carousel, but I’m terribly sorry. I promise it will never happen again.”

  She stared at him, her heart sinking with swift disappointment. Why couldn’t he understand? It wasn’t the picture— she ought to blame herself for that, because she’d taken that slide to him while he was sorting through his Holy Land pictures. No, what galled her was what people were thinking . . . and how far their thoughts were from the truth. Winslow used to be fun and frisky . . . now he seemed tired and unimaginative. Habukkuk was a great sermon series five years ago, but why was he repeating it? Slides were a wonderful idea, but why did he insist upon using pictures someone else had taken? Even the hair on his head had sprung from someone else’s design. Winslow had given up on himself and seemed intent upon being anyone but who he was.

  But she couldn’t explain this to him. She’d tried, on the day he first put on that stupid hairpiece, and her words had been ignored. On several occasions she’d hinted that a sermon from the New Testament might be nice for a change, but he’d laughed and said that no one could ever get enough of the Minor Prophets.

  She looked up at him now, her determination returning as her heart pumped outrage through her veins. “Yes, they can, Win,” she said, permitting herself a withering stare. “They can, and they are! Sick to death, I tell you!”

  “What?” Her husband’s face screwed up into a human question mark. “What are you talking about?”

  Still mindful of the people watching from across the way, Edith lowered her voice and stepped out of his grasp. “Nothing you’d care anything about.”

  “Wait, Edith.” Winslow sat on the front porch steps, blocking her path, then caught her hand in his. “I do care, honey. Tell me what’s on your heart. I really want to know.”

  For a moment Edith considered going around to the back door and leaving him to his thoughts, but the saving grace of second thought restrained her. This was her husband, the man she loved. And when she married him, she had known that she pledged her life in service to him as he served the body of Christ.

  “Winslow,” she said, her gaze clouding with tears, “why are you trying so hard to be someone you’re not? These people love you as you are. They love your bald head, they love your teaching, and they even love the Minor Prophets. If you chose to teach a series on the New Testament books, or even on Christian families, I’m sure they’d love that, too.”

  Uncertainty crept into Winslow’s expression as his hand tightened around hers. “Honey, I’m only trying to give them what they want. You know about Rex Hartwell . . . so you’ve got to understand why I’m doing these things. The rest of the world is changing. The big churches are using screens and video clips and praise teams and orchestras. We don’t have any of those things, but I want our folks to feel that we’re just as up-to-date as the big churches in Portland and Boston and Atlanta.”

  “We don’t have to be up-to-date like the big churches.” Edith squeezed his hand. “Heavenly Daze is quaint houses and small-town charm, so relax, Winslow. Just be the pastor God called you to be. That’s all you need to do.”

  Winslow threaded his fingers through hers. “You know,” he said, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “I’d be willing to take off my toupee for an hour, if—’’

  Her skin prickled pleasurably at his touch. “If what?”

  “If you could find that little red nightie.”

  Struggling to speak over the lump that had risen in her throat, Edith said, “I know exactly where it is.”

  And then, in full view of the folks on Ferry Road, Winslow turned his face into her palm and kissed it. She reciprocated by hugging his hairy head to her breast, then she turned and called out to the Grahams on their porch.

  “You folks can go on inside now. Me and Win got some business together.”

  Winslow’s eyes widened in shock. “Why, Edith!”

  “Fish or cut bait, Win,” she said, pulling him toward the door. “I’m just trying to live up to my new reputation.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday morning dawned crisp and clear, a picture perfect autumn day. Winslow leaned over to kiss Edith’s shoulder, then sprang out of bed and jogged down the stairs for a cup of caffeine.

  While the automatic coffee maker dripped in a syncopated rhythm, Winslow pulled his Bible toward him and flipped to the thin ribbon that marked his daily Scripture reading. As he read from the prophet Isaiah, a familiar portion practically jumped out at him: “‘My thoughts are completely different from yours,’ says the Lord. ‘And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.’”

  How true that was! Yesterday he had thought that his career on the island of Heavenly Daze was finished, but Edith’s picture—and their public reconciliation scene— seemed to boost his popularity on the island. Last night he’d gone down to the ferry landing to pick up an early edition of the Portland newspaper. Russell Higgs, Charles Graham, and Doctor Marc were waiting there, too, and after a round of waggling eyebrows and shoulder punches, Winslow gathered that the men definitely approved of his marital relationship.

  “I was gonna ask where I could get Babette an outfit like your wife’s,” Charles said, digging his elbow into Winslow’s ribs.

  “Well,” Doctor Marc cleared his throat, “being a single man, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to comment on what we saw in church yesterday. But I must say, Reverend,” his face split into a wide grin, “you certainly have livened things up around here. And we’re grateful.”

  To which Russell Higgs added a heartfelt, “Yessir!”

&nb
sp; Winslow had been warmed by their praise, and hopeful that Russell might finally see fit to warm a church pew. If Russell Higgs came to church, Cleta’s committee would have to admit that Winslow’s new techniques had been effective . . . despite the slip-ups.

  Though he felt good about his relationship with the men, one question continued to nag at him—was Rex Hartwell still coming to church next week? No one on Cleta’s committee had mentioned it to him, so there was always a possibility that they had decided to call off their search for a new pastor.

  But he had to be certain. And since he wasn’t supposed to know anything, the only way to be sure was to snoop around town and see what information he could pick up.

  Winslow’s lips puckered with annoyance as he crossed the kitchen to the coffeepot. You’d think they’d have the decency to confront him if they’d been unhappy with his work. After all, confrontation was the scriptural thing to do. If they were unhappy with his preaching or any aspect of his ministry, they should have come to him. When people aren’t honest about their feelings, misunderstandings run rampant and people always get hurt.

  He poured a cup of coffee, then inhaled the deep, rich scent. A doughnut would be good with this . . . and Birdie’s Bakery had the only doughnuts in town. And while he was there, he could pick up a couple of extra crullers for Tallulah, since he needed to pay another visit to Olympia de Cuvier. Of all the people in church yesterday, he had a sure and certain feeling that Olympia was the most offended. A peace offering for Tallulah might be just the thing he needed.

  Winslow took a sip of the coffee, then tiptoed upstairs for a quick shower . . . and his Hair.

  An hour later, Winslow crouched outside the open window of Birdie’s Bakery, hidden from any passersby on Main Street by a stand of wild blueberry bushes. Birdie had been pleasant when she waited on him, and even the strait-laced Beatrice had cracked a smile when he complimented her on her spirited hymn playing of the day before.

  After buying two glazed doughnuts for himself and a box of day-old crullers for Tallulah, Winslow lingered at a table, eating one doughnut and sipping on a second cup of coffee while he waited. Sure enough, as regular as sunrise, Cleta Lansdown entered the bakery at precisely nine.

  “Halloo, Birdie,” she called, turning her back to Winslow as she hung her coat on the hook by the door. “And to think I was almost late for—’’ She turned, spied Winslow at the table, and clapped her mouth shut.

  Winslow cleared his throat rather than release the chuckle that rose from within him. Cleta and Birdie’s Monday morning gossip sessions were famous all over the island, and the leading topic of most Mondays was Sunday morning church.

  “Morning, Cleta,” Winslow had said, tossing his empty foam cup into the trash. He gathered his second doughnut and the bag of crullers. “Don’t let me stop you two ladies from visiting. I was just on my way out.”

  Which he was. And now, safe in the knowledge that two of the town’s foremost gossips had been primed and readied for release, he crouched outside Birdie’s open window and nibbled on his doughnut, listening for those familiar voices.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  “My, oh my,” Birdie said, her words accented by the scrape of a chair across the floor. “Did you ever see anything like what happened in church yesterday?”

  “Upon my life, never,” Cleta answered. “I nearly fell through the floor, really. First I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but one look at Edith Wickam convinced me I was seeing right. That poor woman looked like she was about to wizzle up and disappear.”

  “I thought I was gonna bust a gut, I was trying so hard not to laugh. The look on her face—”

  “And on his!”

  A chorus of giggles followed these comments, and Winslow frowned for the duration. After the laugh-fest passed through stages of spasmodic squeaks, table thumping, and crowing whoops, the women finally found their voices.

  “Which reminds me,” Birdie said, her voice still carrying the echo of a giggle, “did you have any trouble finding Parker Thomas?”

  “It wasn’t easy, but I found him.” Cleta’s voice sobered. “He’s willing to come and do the filling-in. I told him he’d have to do it on the Q.T., as we don’t want Pastor to know.”

  “Is the timing right? I know we want him here the same time as Rex Hartwell—”

  “It’ll work out if I have to take the ferry over and bring him back myself. We were lucky to get him, bein’ that he’s in such demand, but he’s agreed to come. I just reminded him about Rex Hartwell and all the business we could throw his way if this goes well.”

  Leaning against the house, Winslow felt as though he had swallowed a brick with his doughnut. A weight pressed uncomfortably against his breastbone, slowing his heart and his thoughts.

  Who was Parker Thomas, and why did Cleta want to bring him to Heavenly Daze? The name rang a bell in Winslow’s memory, so Thomas was probably a preacher in the Maine ministerial fellowship. Obviously, if he was coming to fill in, he had to be an itinerant preacher, one of those who filled the pulpit when a regular minister was sick or out of town.

  Winslow felt a coldness in his belly, as if his coffee had contained big chunks of ice. He wasn’t sick, and he wasn’t planning to go out of town. So the peace he’d been enjoying was false, because the church committee had obviously made plans. They were going to ask him to leave without a church vote, and this Parker Thomas would fill in until Rex Hartwell decided whether or not to take the position.

  Disappointment struck like a blow to his stomach. The doughnut in Winslow’s hand seemed suddenly tasteless, so he tossed it away. From out of nowhere, a gull swooped down and landed on the grass, then bit off a hunk of the pastry and flew off.

  Winslow watched, uncaring, as another gull descended, then another. The air suddenly filled with wheeling, squawking, gulping gulls, and he realized that the location of his hiding place was about to be broadcast . . .

  “Did you hear something, Birdie?”

  “Oh, my.” Winslow ripped open the bag of crullers and pulled one out, pinching off a piece and tossing it to a gull hovering over his head. “Here. Shoo. Take it and go.”

  “It’s just gulls, Cleta. Must have found something out there. Now, anyway, about Parker Thomas . . .”

  Winslow strained to hear, but the shrill cry of the gulls drowned out the women’s voices. Frantic with the fear he’d be discovered, Winslow tore the last of the cruller into crumbs, then tossed the sticky mess into the air.

  “Is it snowing out there?” a man asked.

  As the gulls dive-bombed the area in gluttonous avarice, Winslow pressed his back against the building. The male voice belonged to Abner Smith, Birdie’s assistant, and he had to be standing right next to the window.

  “Of course it’s not snowing; it’s just gulls,” Birdie called. “Did you get those gingerbread men out of the oven? They need to go in the display case.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  Winslow melted in relief as the man’s footsteps died away, then another gull descended and hung in the air just above his head, chattering like a lunatic chimpanzee. Winslow glared at the creature and hugged the bag of crullers to his chest. “No,” he drawled, eyeing the gull with a steely gaze. “I need these for the dog, and there’s no way you’re getting them.”

  Then, without a word of warning, the gull swooped forward, his sharp beak aimed directly for Winslow’s head. Gasping in horror as scenes from Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds, flashed through his brain, Winslow covered his face and ducked, only to feel a sharp tug on his scalp.

  “My lands, would you look at that?” Birdie’s voice floated from the bakery an instant later. “Look at that gull yonder! What’s he carrying, a squirrel?”

  “Never knew a gull to eat squirrels,” Cleta mused, her voice coming closer. “Never knew them to eat anything but fish and bread and such.”

  Cowering beneath the window sill, Winslow peeked through his fingers and confirmed wha
t his senses had told him—the gull had taken his toupee. Some of the cruller must have lodged in his hair, and the dumb bird couldn’t tell a wig from a pastry.

  “Look there,” Birdie said, her voice now coming from just on the other side of the window, “he’s dropping that squirrel right back into that pine tree. Right thoughtful of him, isn’t it?”

  “Odd, that.” Bemusement filled Cleta’s voice. “Never seen a squirrel that bushy.”

  “Before yesterday I’d never seen a preacher’s wife in a skimpy nightgown either, especially not in church!”

  Sighing heavily, Winslow sank to the ground and crossed his arms, waiting for the women to finish their gabfest.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Summoned by the ringing of the telephone, Edith dropped her lipstick into her cosmetics drawer and stepped out of the bathroom. Moving quickly to the bedroom, she picked up the extension. “Hello?”

  “Edith, this is Vernie. How be you this morning?”

  “I’m fine, Vernie.” Though she still had a house to clean and dinner to plan, Edith forced a smile into her voice. Vernie wouldn’t have called without a reason.

  “Um, Edith—I was calling about Pastor.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll have time to see you today, Vernie. I think he was planning on spending a few hours with Edmund de Cuvier—”

  “I don’t want to see him.” Vernie’s voice went flat and dry. “I see him now, and that’s why I’m calling.”

  Biting her lip, Edith sank to the edge of the bed. “You see . . . Winslow?”

  “I’m standing here in the Mercantile, looking out my western window. And yes, I see your husband squattin’ by the bakery window with a bag in his hand. Oh—and he’s bald again. Head’s as bare as a bullfrog’s belly.”

  Edith closed her eyes and clutched the phone cord. “You don’t say.”

  “Do you want me to go over and help him up?”

  “Is he hurt?”