A Perfect Love

by Lori Copeland

  A Perfect Love

  Heavenly Daze Book Four

  LORI COPELAND

  ANGELA HUNT

  © 2000 by Lori Copeland and Angela E. Hunt

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other— except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Published in association with Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Scripture quotations in this book are from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, organizations, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Copeland, Lori.

  A perfect love / Lori Copeland and Angela Hunt.

  p. cm. — (Heavenly Daze series)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8499-4343-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-59554-552-7 (mass market)

  I. Hunt, Angela Elwell, 1957– II. Title.

  PS3553.06336 P47 2002

  813'.54—dc21 2002023466

  Printed in the United States of America

  08 09 10 11 12 QW 5 4 3 2 1

  O perfect Love, all human thought transcending,

  Lowly we kneel in prayer before thy throne,

  That theirs may be the love which knows no ending,

  Whom thou forevermore dost join in one.

  O perfect Life, be thou their full assurance,

  Of tender charity and steadfast faith,

  Of patient hope and quiet, brave endurance,

  With childlike trust that fears nor pain nor death.

  Grant them the joy which brightens earthly sorrow;

  Grant them the peace which calms all earthly strife,

  And to life’s day the glorious unknown morrow

  That dawns upon eternal love and life.

  —DOROTHY FRANCES BLOMFIELD GURNEY,

  1883

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Prologue

  Winter, the locals tell each other, is the measure of a man, and January is the month by which we measure all others. By the turn of the year, the summercaters have long been gone, the leaf people have vanished, and the island’s few Christmas visitors have returned to their business on the mainland. By January, winter has settled onto the coastal towns too: The tourist shops have closed, the streetcars have ceased their trolling, and the bed-and-breakfast owners have drained their pipes, boarded their windows, and flown to Florida. The Heavenly Daze folks, however, don’t leave. It’s as if the idea never occurred to them.

  By January the lobstermen, like our own Russell Higgs, have stacked their traps and piled their buoys. Like brightly colored bowling pins, the buoys lie scattered over the brown lawns, waiting for play to commence. On some days Russell will gather a few traps and venture onto the sea, for fishing is a year-round operation here, but January, his wife, Barbara, reminds him, is just as apt for repairin’ as it is for lobsterin’.

  Heavenly Daze, the locals say, is some different in winter. After observing more than two hundred of the coldest seasons on this little island, I can attest to their observation. In winter the island is quiet, more subdued. The light fades from the day by 4 PM, and gone is the sparkle that gilded the summer ocean. Sea smoke covers the water now, shifting over the surface like lace over a worn gray blanket.

  Welcome back to our little island off the coast of Maine. If you’ve never had the blessing of visiting Heavenly Daze, you should know that many years ago, a child of God known as Jacques de Cuvier begged the Lord to safeguard the inhabitants of this blessed place. In answer to that loving prayer, the Lord dispatched me and six others of the angelic host. Our mission is quite simple: We protect and serve those who live in the seven original buildings on the island of Heavenly Daze.

  I am Gavriel, captain of this small company, and I guard the church. Occasionally I don human flesh and visit my angelic brothers—Micah, Abner, Caleb, Yakov, Zuriel, and Elezar—but most of the time I observe quietly and relay messages from the Throne of the Most High. The human inhabitants of our island, you see, don’t realize that the curtain separating the earthly and spiritual realms is more like gossamer than iron, and everything that happens on Heavenly Daze is dear to the heart of the Lord God. He, of course, is dearly concerned with everything happening everywhere, but after spending more than two hundred earth years on this same stretch of soil, I must admit that I take a particular interest in this island and its people.

  I know the glory of God fills the universe, and entire nations of people sing his praises. But to me nothing sounds as sweet as the crackling winter voices of the people in our little town.

  Come join us for a jubilant January on the island of Heavenly Daze.

  —Gavriel

  Chapter One

  Feels more like mud season than winter out there. My skin’s not even stickin’ to the windowpane.” Cleta Lansdown, coproprietor of the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast, pulled her palm away from the dark window to scoop up a pair of eggs-over-medium from a layer of hot bacon grease, then slid them onto a paper towel–covered plate. Her family—husband, Floyd; daughter, Barbara; and son-in-law, Russell—sat behind her in varying degrees of alertness.

  Four AM, and every last one of them except Russell should be in bed. But Barbara got up because her husband, a lobsterman, liked to be on the water at sunrise, and he insisted that she keep him company before going out. So Cleta got up because when Barbara was half-asleep she couldn’t boil water, let alone cook, and Floyd got up because he couldn’t resist the aroma of bacon in a frying pan.

  Barbara yawned and reached for a piece of toast. A snarled cowlick poked through a layer of plastic green rollers on her head. Cleta eyed her daughter worriedly. The girl looked tensed up this morning. She’d always had a delicate constitution—never been like other girls her age. But Barbara wasn’t a child any longer; she’d be twenty-three next month. Twenty-three. Where had the years gone? Why, it seemed like only yesterday that Cleta had carried a tiny, pink-faced bundle up the front steps of the Bed and Breakfast with Floyd holding tightly to her arm. It had taken thirty-six hours to bring their child into the world, and it seemed as if only thirty-six minutes had passed until she was grown . . .

  With one eye cracked open, Barbara slathered butter on her toast. She looked at Russell, her husband of three years. “Pass the jam.”

  Russell grunted, his unshaven features dark as a drunken sea merchant on his first night home. “Better lay off the
sweets, hon. You’ll lose your girly figure—”

  “Just pass me the jam, Russell.” Barbara threw him one of her “or-else” looks. Or was that the dry-up-or-I’ll-smack-the-snot-out-of-you glare? Cleta shook her head. She’d lost track. Barbara was full of moods lately.

  Setting the plate of eggs in front of Floyd, Cleta cautioned him to eat only one. “They’re full of cholesterol,” she warned.

  Through his thick glasses, Floyd eyed the forbidden fare before his gaze shifted back to her. “Then why are you cooking them for me?”

  “Just hush up and eat.”

  Obediently Floyd picked up his fork and pulled one egg onto his plate, then cut into the runny yolk. “Don’t know why we can’t have some of those fancy dishes you make for the summer complaints. Caramel-apple French toast, egg casserole, orange muffins.” He stared at the piece of burnt toast he was holding. “Some of that nice granola with dried fruit and nuts would be good about now—”

  “You’re a nut.” Cleta sat down at the table and reached for the cream pitcher. She glanced at her daughter. “What’s wrong, Doodles? Aren’t you feeling well this morning?”

  “Mother.” Barbara glared at Cleta, blueberry jam rim- ming her tremulous upper lip. She slammed her hand on the table, splashing coffee from Floyd’s cup onto the green Formica. “Don’t call me Doodles. How many times do I have to remind you that I’m a grown woman?”

  “Well, don’t get your Fruit of the Looms in a bunch!” Floyd growled, reaching for a napkin to mop up the spill. Cleta dashed cream in her cup and stirred, trying to keep quiet. She’d called Barbara “Doodles” from the day she was born. So had everybody else on the island, until Barbara announced she was an adult and had outgrown the silly name.

  Pffff.

  Adult?

  Twenty-three was still wet behind the ears.

  But she’d zip her lip, because Floyd hated it when she and Barbara quarreled during a meal—and that happened more than Cleta cared to think about. Barbara was cranky as all get-out lately.

  Stirring her coffee, Cleta frowned and glanced at her son-in-law. Had he and Barbara been quarreling again? She’d overheard them yelling at each other a few times, but usually the trouble blew over within an hour. Cleta tried not to interfere in her daughter’s marriage, and she’d warned Floyd to stay out of the kids’ problems. But it wasn’t easy. Once or twice she’d forgotten her place and jumped right into the middle of a fray, but that was Barbara’s fault. The girl wouldn’t stand up for herself, and although Russell was a good boy, he wasn’t perfect—in fact, he was downright inconsiderate of Barbara at times. He could be thickheaded, and had a tendency to put work before the Lord, usually preferring a seat on the water to one in the church on Sunday morning. He was as independent as a hog on ice. A true lobsterman.

  Need she say more?

  He had no reason to complain. Lobstering had never been better, so he had nothing to fly off the handle about. Old-timers swore they couldn’t remember a year with a higher yield—last year Maine lobstermen trapped a record 56.7 million pounds—almost twenty million pounds more than the one hundred–year average. Russell bragged that on a typical day he had kept only one in every eight to ten of the orange and green mottled tail-snapping beauties in his trap. Though limited to eight hundred traps, Russell made a handsome living, but Cleta didn’t know what the kids did with their money. Russell often talked about getting one of those new Ford double-cab diesels, but since automobiles weren’t allowed on the island, Russell admitted he wouldn’t have much use for such a vehicle. He’d have to leave it at the ferry landing in Ogunquit, and too much funny stuff went on over there in the summer . . . he’d likely venture across one day and find his truck vandalized or something.

  Other than Russell’s traps, his clothes, and his boat— the Barbara Jean, a three-year-old, thirty-foot double-wedge hull with a single inboard diesel—he owned nothing. The fiberglass boat, purchased last year from a Portland lobster-man’s widow, had nice, low hours with a small forward cabin and windshield, open-decked cockpit aft, and up-to-date equipment, including radar, VHF radio, and a depth sounder. The rig sure beat the little dory his great grandpa Higgs worked out of in the late eighteenth century.

  Russell and Barbara used to talk about getting their own place when they had children, but children seemed to be a touchy subject these days. The fact that Russell and Barbara remained childless after three years was downright baffling, since Floyd often threatened to turn the water hose on the pair when he caught them smoochin’ in the parlor like a couple of heathens. He also referred to Russell as the “resident mooch” until Cleta made him stop.

  The boy had been improving, though. Since the Christmas Eve service, a wonderful time of sharing for the entire town, Russell seemed to be looking at church in a new light, and the next Sunday found him perched in the family pew, where a God-fearing man should be. Cleta had been praying for such a change, and it warmed her heart to see the boy mature a little.

  She enjoyed the kids living upstairs. She loved spending time with her only child, and she and Barbara had always been close. The house seemed as empty as a storm cellar on a sunny day without her, and Barbara wasn’t well, no matter what Russell said. She was delicate—always had been. Men didn’t understand delicacy in a woman, but a mother did. Especially Cleta, who’d had her fair share of ailments without the comfort of a mama’s hand. Her own mother had been as cold as kraut; Cleta couldn’t remember ever receiving a hug from the severe New England woman.

  Cleta’s closest friend, Vernie Bidderman, owner of Mooseleuk Mercantile, got right peeved with Cleta when she compared her raising to Barbara’s. Vernie accused Cleta of not cutting the apron strings, an accusation that couldn’t be any more off the mark. A parent had every right to worry about her child, and a parental obligation to be concerned. Cleta wasn’t going to be like her mother and not give a fig about her child’s welfare.

  “Bull.” The last time they’d had this conversation— last week or so—Vernie had crossed her arms and stared down her nose at Cleta. “We’ve been friends since before you conceived Barbara and I’m telling you it’s time to give up. You can’t continue to direct, control, and interfere in your daughter’s life.”

  “As if I would!”

  “You would. You do.”

  “Why, that’s a big fat lie, Veronica Bidderman!” Cleta slammed the bag of sugar she was about to buy onto the counter. If Vernie was going to be ornery, she’d go to Ogunquit for her supplies.

  “It’s the truth, Cleta.” Vernie picked up the sugar and set it back on the shelf. “You’ll never give up criticizing and trying to run that girl’s life until you’re made to stop.”

  Words bubbled up like lava from a volcano. “Barbara’s my child. What would you know about children?”

  Cleta felt the sting of guilt after that remark, knowing the barb went deep. Stanley Bidderman, Vernie’s husband, had run off twenty years ago and only returned last month. His untimely departure had left both Biddermans childless and resentful.

  “You’re only jealous of how close Barbara and I are,” said Cleta.

  Vernie took a deep breath. “I won’t deny that I would have loved to have a daughter. But though I don’t, I still have eyes, and I see a suffocating parent who doesn’t know it’s time to turn loose. It’s time, Cleta. Let your daughter go.”

  Cleta choked on the words that rose in her throat. Why, Vernie had some nerve! Cleta and Floyd were only helping the kids get a good start. What parent wouldn’t do the same? And she and Floyd were certainly willing and able. Why, during the winter they would rattle around in their old house like clothespins in a milk bottle without Russell and Barbara.

  Vernie sniffed. “Barbara’s a grown woman.”

  “And your definition of a grown woman is—?”

  Vernie crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Anyone old enough to get married and vote should be responsible enough to pay their own rent. Russell makes more than you and Floyd, Cleta.
Face the truth—you’re keeping the kids dependent because you don’t think they’re capable of handling difficulty if it comes along. But running interference for Barbara will stunt her ability to figure things out on her own. And Russell—well, I’m surprised Russell’s put up with you as long as he has. If he wasn’t such a good boy he would have walked out two years ago.”

  Cleta’s face flamed. “Walked out! On Barbara?” She sputtered. “Thank you very much, but I’ll do my shopping in Ogunquit this week. Nobody there is going to tell me how to raise my child.”

  Vernie shook her head. “Shop wherever you like, Cleta, but you’d best listen to me before it’s too late. Set your child free. Offer Barbara the opportunity to meet life on its own terms before she turns on you.”

  Cleta studied the shopkeeper from lowered lids. “You’ve been ordering those psychology books on the Internet again, haven’t you?”

  Vernie eyed her sternly. “Cleta.”

  “What?”

  “Learn to knit or something, but butt out of Barbara’s and Russell’s life.”

  Vernie’s stinging censure still rang in Cleta’s ears. Well, Cleta had all she could handle without taking up knitting, thank you very much. She was a proud businesswoman who kept her guests happy and satisfied. During the tourist season she rose every day before dawn to bake sausage-and-egg casseroles, slice fresh fruit, and supply hot muffins warm from the oven. She brewed expensive flavored coffees like crème brûlée and tiramisu, and served her gourmet muffins in lined wicker baskets with sweet churned butter. Such niceties kept the guests returning to the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast and the inn operating in the black.

  Knitting, indeed.

  She’d leave that up to Birdie Wester, and Cleta would see to her own doings whether it suited Vernie or not.

  Clearing her thoughts, Cleta picked up the plate of bacon and waved it under Barbara’s nose. “You’re eating like a bird this morning. Have some meat.”

  She watched, pleased, as Barbara sleepily pulled four pieces onto her plate.