A Perfect Love

by Lori Copeland

  “I’m sure he’ll be proud of you. Now—” Basil leaned toward her— “I was thinking we could hold a small ceremony on Heavenly Daze, complete with the press, though only heaven knows how I’ll get them out on the water in late January. We’ll have a brief presentation, award the prize to you—”

  “Oh! Did my poem win?”

  He laughed. “Of course, I thought you knew.”

  “No, I thought . . .” Her words trailed away. Actually, she thought they were having lunch as old friends. But Buddy would be delighted to know that one of his castoff poems had won such an illustrious contest.

  “ . . . and you can say a few words to your friends and neighbors,” Basil was saying. “Of course, we’ll want to print the poem in our next edition of Northeastern Living.”

  Dana felt her smile droop, and he noticed her less-than-happy expression instantly. “Is something wrong?”

  “When would you want to do this?”

  Basil reached into his tweed jacket and pulled out an electronic appointment book. “Next week would be best. We’ll need to do it soon if we’re to make our deadline for the March issue. How about Wednesday, the thirtieth?”

  “Well . . .” Biting her lip, Dana weighed the odds of persuading Buddy to appear at an awards ceremony. Slim to none, she figured. Any man who felt exposed sitting on the back pew at church would flee a flashy awards ceremony like a felon. They’d be lucky if they saw him again before the spring thaw.

  Unless, of course, Buddy thought the ceremony was being held to honor someone else . . . like his sister. Then he might be persuaded to attend.

  “Basil,” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I didn’t write that poem.”

  He stroked his clipped beard. “You didn’t?”

  “No. And the person who did—well, let’s just say he’s a bit shy, so I don’t want you to say anything to anyone about his identity. Just come, do whatever you want to do with the ceremony, and when everything’s in place, I’ll step forward and unmask the actual poet.” She arranged her features in an expression of deep concern. “I’m afraid everything will be ruined if word gets out beforehand.”

  Basil leaned back in his chair, a calculating look on his face. “The real poet is shy, you say.”

  “Ayuh.”

  “And maybe her family wouldn’t approve of her dabbling in poetry.”

  “Well . . . if that’s what you want to say, OK. It’s not exactly true, though.”

  “Of course it’s not.” Basil inclined his head in a sympathetic gesture, then reached out and patted Dana’s hand. “Fear not, little lady, your secret is safe with me. We’ll proceed, but we’ll not release the poet’s identity until the day of the ceremony. It’s the least I can do for a poetic genius.”

  “Thank you. And the thirtieth is fine. We’ll look forward to it.” Giving him a smile of pure relief, Dana unfolded her napkin as the waiter arrived with two steaming bowls of clam chowder.

  Basil watched wordlessly as Dana devoured her soup like a woman who hadn’t had a restaurant-cooked meal in months. Imagine, a poet of her talent having to write on the sly! Her husband must be some kind of a brute to make Dana recoil from public praise. She probably figured that if she could get him to the ceremony, the significance of the award would dignify her poetry and earn her work a smidgen of respect.

  He picked up his spoon, ladled up a bite of the rich chowder, and blew on it while looking at his attractive companion. Dana Franklin had always been shy, he recalled. As a young girl, round blue eyes and long hair had dominated her face, and he could still remember her sitting in a biology classroom, her lips slightly parted as he tried to sell those silly red carnations. She’d been but a child then, but the woman sitting across from him was a lovely rose in full blossom.

  And a poet! Who’d have imagined the Franklin family had a single sensitive soul among them! He remembered Buddy, the long-legged, gangly kid who’d played soccer in the youth leagues. Thick as a post and dull as mud, Buddy Franklin had the personality of an oil gusher: dark and unrefined. Reading between the lines of what Dana had said today, Basil sensed that Buddy hadn’t done anything to clean up his act during the years between high school and the present.

  The husband was an unknown factor, but he had to be some kind of loser if he’d found it necessary to retreat to Heavenly Daze. Basil remembered reading an article about the island several years ago—the writer had described the island as a charming collection of old houses and old people. Any young man who chose to exile himself there had to be a fool . . . and the way Dana smiled when he promised to keep her secret proved it.

  He sampled the chowder, then nodded his approval as Dana caught his eye. Perhaps, if this husband didn’t appreciate his wife’s talents, Dana would see what a jerk she had married. Perhaps she’d be willing to leave Heavenly Daze in search of greener pastures . . . and a more supportive spouse.

  One never knew.

  After lunch, Dana said farewell to Basil, who walked her to the ferry landing, then drove away in a late-model BMW equipped with snow chains. Dana checked her watch. The ferry wouldn’t head back to Heavenly Daze until six, so unless she could catch a ride with a passing fisherman, she could either stand outside and freeze or see if Captain Stroble minded a little company in his office.

  She tapped on the window, then grinned when he motioned her into the warmth of his small space. “Hello, Dana,” he said, creaking the seat of his stool as he swiveled to face her. “Did you know your hubby was just here?”

  Dana barely managed to mask her surprise. “Oh . . . of course. Mike must have caught a ride.”

  “Ayuh, he did. With Russell Higgs.”

  In an effort to appear casual, Dana walked toward the small space heater and lifted her hands to warm them. “Did Mike happen to say where he was headed? I’ve got to do a little shopping before you take the ferry back over, but I don’t want to go to the market if that’s where he was going.”

  “He didn’t say much of anything. Just sat here, looking out the window, then he called a cab. I think he was going to Jodi’s.”

  Dana stared. “Jodi Standish?”

  “Ayuh. That seems to be working out real fine. I’m glad I hooked those two up.”

  “You . . . hooked my husband up with Jodi Standish?”

  The captain’s brows drew downward in a frown. “And what was wrong with that? They both had needs . . . and I figured I could help ’em out. Jodi’s a fine girl, one of the best.”

  Numb with shock, Dana staggered to the window. Was the entire world aligned against her? Captain Stroble, whom she’d always considered a friend, had set her husband up with a husband stealer . . . and was bragging about it?

  But maybe the captain didn’t know Jodi was a husband stealer. Maybe he thought Mike’s involvement with that woman was completely innocent . . . but he hadn’t heard Mike’s guilty whispering on the phone. He hadn’t lived with her distant, distracted husband these last few weeks.

  Maybe what she was experiencing was paranoia run amuck. But she could check things out while she was here. If her husband was having an affair, she’d have to see the proof with her own eyes.

  “It’s some stuffy in here.” Afraid the old captain would see the tears brimming in her eyes, she gestured out the window without looking at him. “Do you still have your bicycle out back? Since you’re not going to take the ferry back for a while, seems to me the least you could do is let me borrow your bike. I promise I’ll have it back before six.”

  Captain Stroble laughed. “I haven’t ridden that bike since summer, but you’re welcome to it. It’s parked between the hedge and the building.”

  “Thanks.” Dana slipped out of the office and found the old Schwinn bicycle exactly where the captain had said it would be. A cab would have been easier, and she wouldn’t really have minded paying the fare, but the sound of an approaching car might tip Mike and his lady friend off, and Dana wanted to catch them by surprise. One chance encounter would
finally settle her doubts and prove her point.

  Her teeth chattering, she looped her purse over a handlebar, then straddled the center bar. Riding a bike over ice in a dress and long coat wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world, but she’d manage. Fortunately, the dress and coat were long enough to protect her from the wind, but not so long that the fabric would get caught in the chain.

  Gritting her teeth, she pushed off and pedaled over the wet parking lot. The front tire was low, though not exactly flat, and required a great deal of straining . . .

  Then she came to the hill. Dana lowered her head and stood on the pedals, propelling the bike up the incline by the sheer force of her will.

  Right. Left. Right. Left. Right.

  Pedaling became easier as she left Perkins Cove and settled onto a flat stretch of Shore Road, but by the time she found the Standish woman’s name on a mailbox, Dana had worked up a July sweat beneath her clothes.

  Puffing from exertion, she dropped the bike onto the sidewalk, then ducked behind a broad oak tree in the front lawn. Jodi Standish’s house was downright cozy, yellow clapboard walls trimmed with blue shutters and a bright white door. A cheery Christmas wreath still hung on the front window, and red vinyl ribbons adorned the two porch pillars like stripes on a candy cane.

  Hunching into her coat, Dana darted down the length of the empty driveway, then plastered herself to the side of the house. She hunkered beside a window, through which she could see a pair of lace curtains edging the glass. If she could only elevate herself a little, she could peek inside.

  She looked around. The flower bed was bare, strewn with winter mulch and half a dozen empty clay flowerpots. Picking up two of the pots, Dana stood them upside down beneath the window, then planted one foot on each and crouched. She placed her fingertips on the sill, then slowly raised her head to peek through the window.

  Her effort paid off. The space beyond was a dining room, where a lovely antique table stood draped in a lace cloth. Beyond the dining room she could see the entrance hallway, and beyond that another room, where she could see just a sliver of Mike’s head. He appeared to be sitting in a chair, his head nodding at something she couldn’t see . . .

  As one of the flowerpots suddenly crumbled beneath her weight, Dana shrieked and tumbled into the mulch.

  “Gevalt!” She didn’t know what the word meant, but Yakov always said it when he was surprised by the unexpected, and it felt appropriate now.

  Afraid she had drawn Mike’s attention, she skittered to the back of the house and crouched behind a scraggly boxwood hedge. While she hid there, inhaling the scent of spoiling garbage from the plastic bags stacked on the porch, she glanced toward the detached garage. Miss Standish’s car—probably a Lexus, or maybe a Porsche—had to be tucked inside, safe and warm, while she, Mike’s lawful wife, had been reduced to sneaking around on a nearly flat-tired bicycle and squatting over dingy snowdrifts.

  A creaking sound split the air. For a moment Dana was tempted to forget everything and run, but the noise came from the front of the house. After a moment of trepidation, she inched forward and turned the corner, then crouched by a skeletal mass of winter-bare shrubbery near the front porch. Mike stood by the door, his attention on the lock. He was struggling to turn a key, and after a moment he pulled it free, then bent to slide it under the welcome mat.

  He had this woman’s key. Or at least knew where she kept it.

  How close were he and Jodi Standish?

  Her heart sinking, Dana waited until a cab appeared and Mike jogged toward it, his jacket collar high around his ears. He paid no attention to the bike on the sidewalk, but pointed the driver toward Perkins Cove.

  As the cab pulled away, Dana picked herself up and trudged to the bike, then hoisted her leg over it and wearily began to pedal back to the ferry office.

  Was her marriage in such dire straits that even Captain Stroble had decided to point Mike toward greener pastures? The idea made no sense, but nothing in her life had made sense lately.

  Nothing at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On Sunday night, at the angels’ regular weekly meeting, Yakov took his place at the table and smiled a welcome to his brothers. Gavriel was present and in fine form, his long white hair glowing with reflected glory. Kindness radiated from the lines around his mouth, and wisdom shone in his eyes. His height commanded the attention of every angel in the room, but for all his power, Gavriel’s soul was gentle, bent to serve and minister to the angelic squadron he supervised. True leaders, he often reminded the others, were servants first.

  Gavriel called the meeting to order, then stood and offered a word of encouragement for his brothers:

  ”The LORD has made the heavens his throne;

  from there he rules over everything.

  Praise the LORD, you angels of his,

  you mighty creatures who carry out his plans,

  listening for each of his commands.

  Yes, praise the LORD, you armies of angels who serve

  him and do his will!

  Praise the LORD, everything he has created, everywhere

  in his kingdom.

  As for me—I, too, will praise the LORD.”

  Yakov loved all his angel brothers, but he held a special respect for Gavriel, who had ministered to the people of Heavenly Daze longer than any of the others. A human might have been jealous of Gavriel’s unique position, but when one’s will was completely wedded to the Father’s, jealousy was impossible. Yakov could no more envy Gavriel than he could tell a lie.

  Gavriel had been able to remain in service on the island because he appeared so rarely. While the others inhabited bodies of flesh that appeared to age and suffer various mortal weakness (Abner kept complaining that his body was too prone to growth around the waistline), Gavriel’s physical manifestation most closely resembled the angels’ supernatural bodies.

  Yakov had never minded inhabiting mortal flesh. It was merely a shell, and though it wrinkled and sagged and sometimes grew hair in the most inconvenient places (last week, he’d found long hairs growing in his ears!), it could not diminish his strength, his intellect, or his willingness to serve the Lord.

  In order to keep the human population from marveling that some residents seemed immune to death, the Father allowed the angels to rotate off the island after a certain span of human years. They did not die, of course, for angels are eternal. When they had finished their task, they simply said their farewells and left the island, usually on the ferry or another boat, and ascended to the third heaven from a secluded spot on the mainland. Their mortal bodies vaporized into the dust and water from which they’d been created, and within hours, a new angel would appear at the angel-less house and offer his services to the inhabitants. Never in two hundred years had an angel been refused.

  Immediately following Jacques de Cuvier’s prayer, Yakov had served in the Klackenbush house as a manservant to a retired sea captain. Fifty years later he was recalled to the halls of heaven, and as time on earth passed he found himself ministering to the saints in China, Africa, and England. In the second Great War, Yakov sorrowed as evil swept over much of the earth, cutting short the mortal lives of so many of God’s chosen people. The Almighty sent him to minister in Holland, where he sought to alleviate suffering and bring comfort according to the will of the sovereign Lord. It was in Holland that he picked up the Yiddish language and a unique admiration for the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

  During that dark time, when so many people feared that God had deserted his people, Yakov realized the significance of what the Lord had spoken to his prophet Isaiah: “I form the light and create darkness, bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the Lord, do all these things.” The Almighty God, Yakov learned, was not only more powerful than any evildoer, but he could take the worst evil and use it for the highest good.

  Because one evil man had murdered so many of Abraham’s descendants, other men rallied around their cause and established the state
called Israel. And now, as God moved men and nations according to his sovereign plan for the ages, Yakov was thrilled to be ministering again in the small community known as Heavenly Daze.

  For God’s boundless love was never intended only for nations and kings, but for men, women, and children. The spiritual growth of Dana Klackenbush was as important to the Almighty God as the spiritual growth of a president, and millions of angels watched and waited for news of Buddy Franklin’s salvation.

  As the wind whistled around the windows of the Heavenly Daze church basement, Gavriel paused for a special announcement. “The Father has told me that next month, one of you will be transferring to another branch of service.”

  Yakov felt a stirring in his soul. As much as he loved his duty on Heavenly Daze, the thought of serving the Lord Almighty in another venue sent a thrill shivering down his mortal spine.

  The angels looked at each other, each one silently asking, “Will it be you?”

  Yakov looked at Gavriel. “No further word?”

  The angel captain shook his head. “Nothing yet. The Lord will reveal His will in His timing.”

  After another round of musical praise, the angels relaxed for refreshment and their weekly reports. Gavriel paused before Yakov, a tray of pizza rolls in his hand. “I thought you might like these, brother. They’re a nice change from our usual dinner.”

  Yakov picked up one of the snacks and held it to the light. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem quite as filling as the round pizza pie.”

  “Take two,” Gavriel suggested. “I can make more.”

  “I think,” Zuriel called from his place at the table, “that pepperoni pizza is our favorite. It’s warm, it fills the belly, and Abner can bring the dough from the bakery.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Abner added, taking one of the bite-size treats from the tray. “Birdie never minds me taking a pinch of dough, though she would never believe how such a little bit manages to expand to feed seven hungry angels.”

  The others laughed, and Yakov knew they were all remembering how the Lord fed over five thousand men with two loaves of bread and five fishes. They had watched that miracle from the balconies of heaven, but it wasn’t the last time they had witnessed miracles of provision.