Mike set the tray on the dock, then turned to accept another load of whatever the captain had to offer. “I’m selling quite a bit in my eBay business.”
“That’s obvious. I’ve never seen so much mail from you folks.”
“But it’s so frustrating sometimes! We have to use a phone connection, and I’m always getting bumped off. Either Dana will pick up the extension and mess things up, or sometimes I get bumped off for no reason at all—at least, no reason I can figure. And it takes forever to upload the digital pictures of my art prints.”
“I used to think pictures took a long time too.” Stroble handed Mike another mail tray, this one only half-full. “But then Mazie signed us up to get one of those cable modems. It’s amazing. In two minutes I can download stuff that used to take two hours on the phone line.”
Mike nearly dropped the mail into the drink.
“Careful there,” Stroble admonished. “People tend to get a little upset when their mail is waterlogged.”
“A cable modem? Ogunquit has cable modems?”
Stroble nodded. “Came in about three months ago, I guess. Anyone with television cable can get them.”
Mike felt his heart sink. While Heavenly Daze had been able to get quite a few modern conveniences, the island still had no cars, no fast-food restaurants, and no cable. The Lansdowns had a satellite dish, but he and Dana didn’t have that luxury.
“Man,” he moaned. “I’d give anything for a cable connection. Dana’s always griping that the computer takes up too much of my time, but if I had cable, I could cut my online time in half.”
Stroble paused. “Hmm . . . I hate to suggest this. Might be taken as a bit presumptuous.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, my granddaughter just moved into the old Miller place on Shore Road. She’s got a cable connection. And she’s having a little trouble making ends meet, having just bought the house and all, so she might be willing to sorta rent her computer if you wanted to use it for a couple of hours each morning while she’s at work.”
“Really?” Mike grinned. “Why, that’d be perfect! Can I call her?”
“Sure. Gimme a second.”
Stroble stepped into the cabin for a minute, then returned with a name and number written on a slip of paper. “Give her a call tonight, after five. She’s a nurse, so she sometimes keeps odd hours, but keep calling until you get her. And if she wants to know who you are, just tell her that her grandpa recommended you.”
Mike slipped the paper into his pocket. “Thanks, Captain.” As he reached for the last box the captain had pulled from the cabin, Buddy suddenly sprang to life.
“That one’s mine,” he called, leaping over mail trays as he sprinted toward the boat. “It’s got my name on it, right?”
Tilting his head, Stroble read the label. “Mr. Buddy Franklin, Main Street, Heavenly Daze.”
Mike frowned as he studied the blue and white Federal Express package. Did this have something to do with Buddy’s loan? Probably not—the bank had said it’d take at least six weeks to process his application.
“You be careful with that,” the captain called as Buddy grabbed the box and turned toward home. “I had to sign for it at the dock, so if whatever you ordered is dead—”
Mike made a face. “Dead?”
The captain looked at him. “Ayuh. The box had one of those live-animal stickers on it.”
Mike scratched his head. “Live animals?”
Stroble chuckled. “Who in Florida would be sending your brother-in-law a live animal?”
Mike shrugged. “Beats me.”
Unless Buddy had ordered some kind of nonlocal lobster to use in a cooking experiment, he couldn’t imagine what the fellow was up to.
Inside his room, Buddy gently peeled away the tape on the package, then lifted the cardboard flaps. Inside he found a smaller ventilated box. The sound of soft scratchings made Buddy’s heart rate increase.
He lifted out the inner box and held it up to the light. Through a mesh screen he saw his sugar glider—a smallish creature about the size of a squirrel, but with a thinner tail, a boldly painted face, and huge dark eyes.
“Hi, guy,” Buddy whispered. “Welcome home.”
And then . . . the animal barked. Buddy gaped in astonishment, then grinned. Carefully lowering the box to his bed, he rummaged among the torn paper and found a bag of food, a book, and a note.
Hi, Buddy:
I have sent you a female joey, twelve weeks old and ready for training. I think you and this little girl will get along very well.
The Ziploc bag in this box contains food for your joey—she will need a diet of at least 25 percent protein, and this food is a perfectly balanced mixture. If you like, you can catch grasshoppers and other bugs for your glider; bugs are high in protein, as are mealworms, crickets, and eggs. Your joey will also have a sweet tooth, but that doesn’t mean you can give her candy! You can give her sugar cubes, pecans, and a tiny dish of applesauce occasionally. They also like monkey biscuits; I feed my gliders a monkey biscuit every night.
Have fun with your glider! Do not be alarmed by the sounds they make. Gliders make many different sounds, but when they bark they are looking for another glider. Come when she barks, and your pet will soon learn to bark for your attention.
Thank you! E-mail me if you have any questions!
Rozella Jones
Running his hand through the remaining shredded paper, Buddy found the soft pouch Rozella had promised to send. He set it on his bed next to the animal in the box, then piled all the shredded paper on the floor of the birdcage. With the bedding in place, he inserted the wheel he’d bought at the mercantile and hung the water bottle. Then he filled the little glass dish with a small handful of the food and set it on the floor of the cage. He hung the pouch on a bent wire on the wall of the cage, leaving the mouth open so the animal could curl inside. Finally he took the ventilated box, opened one end, and held it next to the door of the birdcage. By tilting the box and calling in a solicitous tone, Buddy managed to slide his little glider into her new home.
The joey landed amid a pile of torn newspaper, and then blinked and stared at Buddy with wide eyes. She made another sound—an indescribable noise that reminded Buddy of an electric pencil sharpener—and then hustled to the ceramic bowl, where she proceeded to eat her dinner with dainty paws.
Buddy sat in his only chair and leaned forward, entranced. Propping his elbows on his knees, he rested his chin on his hand and whispered to his new pet. “You need a name, don’t you? I’ve been trying to think of one all day, but I wanted to see you first. Now I think I’ll call you Roxy.”
Roxy made no reply, but kept nibbling at the little bits of dried fruit and something that looked like cereal. Buddy looked through the box again, hoping Rozella had tossed in one of those monkey biscuits, but there was nothing else. He’d have to ask Elezar if the mercantile could order a box.
Settling down again, Buddy watched the little animal eat and drink and eat some more. He would have been happy to sit there all day, if the door to his apartment hadn’t rattled . . .
He sprang to his feet, alarm bells clanging in his brain, then rushed to block the door with his body. Peeking through the opening, he saw Dana on the porch, a bewildered look on her face.
“Whatddya want?” he asked.
“Can I come in? I’d like to ask you about something.”
He stepped out into the cold, pulling the door closed behind him. “Let’s talk outside. I’ve got a fire going and don’t want to let the heat out.”
“That’s why you should invite me in.”
“Naw—my room’s a mess.”
“Like that’s something unusual.” The corner of Dana’s mouth drooped, but she wasn’t the type to waste words. “Buddy,” she lowered her gaze, “you remember how Dad was always writing poems?”
He nodded, wondering where this conversation was headed. Their father had died when they were teenagers, so she was digging up anci
ent history. “Ayuh. I guess I remember.”
“Well, I’m no good with words, no good at all. And it seems a shame to waste Dad’s talent, don’t you think?”
Buddy nodded again, then leaned against the door frame, just in case she decided to make a dash for the door.
“Buddy,” she pulled a crumpled sheet of yellow paper from the pocket of her jeans, “I found this while I was emptying your trash.”
His racing thoughts came to a dead halt. She held his poem, the one he’d written while thinking about Roxy.
“I think it’s a good poem, Buddy, and it shouldn’t be wasted. So I was thinking maybe I could send it to this guy I knew in high school. He’s having a poetry contest, and while I can’t promise you’ll win, I’m sure he’d enjoy seeing it. So . . . can I send it? Please?” She looked up at him, her lashes fluttering.
For a moment the question didn’t register. Buddy was still mentally reciting the poem, making sure nothing in the verse would give his secret away, and Dana was asking him—what? To let her send the piece into some stick-in-the-mud poetry guy?
“I don’t care what you do with it.” He waved her away. “It’s nothing.”
She beamed. “Thanks, Buddy.”
“And sis?”
“Ayuh?”
“Don’t empty my trash anymore. I’ll do it myself. You shouldn’t have to come in here at all.”
For a moment surprise blossomed on her face, then she sent him a smile of pure sunshine. “I always knew you’d grow up and start taking responsibility.” She reached out to pat his cheek. “Alst I can say is, may God bless her.”
His heart skipped in a double beat. “Her who?”
“Don’t worry—your secret is safe with me.” Again with the cheek patting. “As long as you treat this young lady with respect, you’ll get no complaints from me.”
As Buddy’s thoughts roiled in confusion, Dana leaned closer. “By the way, where does she live?”
“She?”
“Don’t be coy with me, Buddy. I know you were e-mailing a girl the other night.”
Understanding dawned. “Oh, Rozella. She lives in Florida.”
Dana nodded. “Nice place. Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll invite you down for a visit soon. Florida sunshine sounds a boatload better than the State of Maine in February, doesn’t it?”
While Buddy mutely agreed, Dana turned and took three steps, then spun on the ball of her tennis-shoed foot. “By the way, are you going to let me cook that lobster?”
He stared. “What lobster?”
“The one you got from Fed Ex today. Mike said he thought you must have ordered a Florida lobster or something, maybe to experiment a little for the restaurant?”
“Oh . . . no.” He lifted his hand and waved it toward the sea. “You can’t cook it. It’s gone.”
“Buddy Franklin, you old softie.” She spoke in a tone of great disappointment, but still she smiled. “What, was it too small for you? Well, I hope it enjoys its freedom before Russell catches it in one of his traps.”
Leaving Buddy alone and bewildered, Dana turned and walked back into the house, his poem fluttering in her hand.
From the path on the other side of the carriage house, Yakov halted when he heard voices. Leaning against the building, he closed his eyes and listened to the conversation between Dana and Buddy. When he heard the crunch of Dana’s retreating footsteps, he slid down the wall and folded his hands in meditation.
Change was afoot in the Klackenbush household, bringing the inevitable tension, and he hadn’t yet been able to put his finger on the source of the trouble. Since Christmas Dana had often seemed moody and depressed, and Mike was far too wrapped up in his Internet business to notice. Yakov tried to help with the business as much as he could, but the more they accomplished, the more Mike wanted to expand. And Buddy . . . Yakov didn’t know if Buddy was capable of feeling tension, but lately the young man had definitely been more alert than usual.
Ayuh, something was stirring in the Klackenbush home, and he wanted to be prepared to minister through it.
He made a mental note to ask Gavriel for advice at the next angel meeting.
Dana leaned against the door frame of the dining room, where Mike’s business papers and computer now occupied most of the table. “Mike,” she said, noticing the way the monitor gently lit his handsome face, “the weather’s beautiful. You want to go over to Ogunquit and take in a movie? If there’s nothing good playing there we could go over to the Cineplex in Wells, spend the night in one of those little inns, and come back in the morning . . .”
Mike didn’t even look up. “Sorry, hon, but I’ve got thirty e-mails to answer before I can think about relaxing.”
Dana lingered a moment more, then back stepped away from the door. Mike didn’t seem to want to do anything these days, and it was all the Internet’s fault! Whoever invented the thing ought to be chained to a chair and flogged with computer cords.
Moving to the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee, then pulled out the copy of Buddy’s poem. After gathering an envelope, paper, and a pen from her bill-paying drawer, she settled at the table and began to recopy the poem in her own handwriting. As Basil’s magazine photograph watched approvingly, she tasted the words on her tongue and found that she liked the verse better each time she read it.
When she had finished copying the poem, she pulled out a sheet of her finest stationery and wrote “Dear Basil” in the most casual script she could manage with a pounding pulse.
Hello! I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but we went to Wells High School together. I’m now owner/manager of the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center on Heavenly Daze. I enjoy my work very much.
It was good to see your picture in Northeastern Living magazine. I’ve enclosed a poem for your contest—not because I think it will win, but because I just wanted to share it.
Hope you’re doing well!
Best,
Dana (Franklin) Klackenbush
Dana paused before folding the pages. She hadn’t mentioned anything about Mike, but did she have to mention her husband in every single conversation? Of course not! She wasn’t trying to start something with Basil Caldwell; she only wanted to say hello. And that’s all she had said, nothing more and nothing less.
“It’s only a friendly letter and a poem,” she muttered, folding the two pages together. “If Basil likes it, maybe I can encourage Buddy to pursue poetry instead of that ridiculous Lobsters R Us idea. Besides, if he’s going to get serious about this girl in Florida, he’ll have to get serious about making a living, too.”
She addressed the letter, affixed a stamp, then propped it against the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table. Tomorrow she’d walk it down to Bea’s post office and then . . . probably nothing would happen.
Nothing at all.
Yakov came in from the workroom and stomped his boots on the doormat as she finished cleaning her kitchen. “All done out there?” she asked, pouring the rest of the coffee into the sink.
“A full day’s work, no doubt,” Yakov answered, rubbing his hands in the warmth of the room. Dana felt a twinge of guilt at the sight—the only heat in the workroom came through the vents in the particleboard wall separating the workspace from Buddy’s apartment. He had a freestanding woodstove, but he rarely lit a fire during the day. No wonder Yakov’s cheeks were red with cold.
“You want some hot cocoa?” she offered, moving to the cupboard. “I could fix some in a jiffy. You look a little frozen.”
“I am fine,” Yakov answered, walking toward the stairs. “But many thanks for the kind offer.”
Dana felt a twinge of envy as she watched him take the back stairs up to his room. Why could some people be content living simple lives while others had to constantly be and do? Though he was close to the other Smith men on the island, Yakov apparently had no family. And while he was an invaluable help to her and Mike, he never seemed to need anything. She fed him and housed him, yet she had the d
istinct feeling that if she ever forgot to give him his breakfast or lunch, he’d keep right on working, never asking or reminding her of what he lacked.
Did his heart ever yearn for something more, some . . . connectedness? She used to feel connected to Mike, but now the computer had come between them. As a child, she had been close to Buddy, but now he seemed a million miles away.
Feeling irritable and listless, Dana wiped her hands on a dishtowel, and then carried her thoughts upstairs to bed.
Chapter Seven
The first thing you need to know about gliders,” Buddy read aloud the next morning, “is that they are susceptible to chills, which may lead to pneumonia, so you must keep them warm. The ideal temperature for young joeys is around ninety degrees Fahrenheit. At night, you may wish to put a heating pad into the cage, but keep it set on low. Make sure it doesn’t cover the entire floor, so your glider can escape the heat if the temperature gets too high. You don’t want to cook your new pet!”
Buddy glanced over at the cage. Just as Rozella had predicted, Roxy had crawled into the hanging pouch. Was she warm enough? He didn’t have a heating pad, and on Heavenly Daze it would be hard to heat any room to ninety degrees in January.
Dropping the book, Buddy glanced over at his woodstove. The remaining stumps of last night’s logs glowed softly through the tempered glass window, and he usually left the fire alone in the daytime. But if he was going to keep Roxy warm, he’d have to keep it blazing constantly. A constant fire would require more wood from the woodpile, and Dana would be sure to notice if he took much more than usual. She had bought two cords of wood back in October, figuring that amount would see them through the winter. She and Mike had a furnace in the big house, of course, but she liked to build a fire at night when they relaxed in their bedroom. The carriage house woodstove, however, was Buddy’s only source of heat . . . and now it was Roxy’s, as well.
A Perfect Love Page 13