Hearts at Home

by Lori Copeland

  When his eyes lit up, she knew she couldn’t have dreamed up a more appreciated gift.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marc gave Barbara Higgs a reassuring smile, then moved toward the door. “You’re doing fine, Barbara, and everything seems to indicate your surgery was a success. When you think you and Russell have succeeded in conceiving, you come talk to me again. We want your baby to be as healthy as he or she can be.”

  Barbara’s cheeks brightened as she glanced down at her hands. “Russell and I don’t know how to thank you, Dr. Marc.”

  “You just take care of yourself. Go ahead and get dressed, and put your mind at ease. Everything is in the Lord’s hands now.”

  Leaving her alone in the exam room to change clothes, Marc retreated to his office to jot a few notes in her file. Barbara and Russell Higgs had been trying to conceive a child for some time, and last month he’d discovered that Barbara suffered from endometriosis. Surgery had taken care of the problem, so now the matter of children rested in the Lord’s hands.

  He made his notes, then closed the chart and blew out his cheeks. The townsfolk seemed healthy enough now— Vernie had bounced back from the flu; Stanley, Floyd, and Winslow had recovered from Annie’s tomatoes.

  A smile crossed his face. Goodness, how he missed her. The big house next door seemed to grow colder and lonelier with each passing month, with Edmund being promoted to heaven in November and Olympia following soon after. Caleb was the only resident now, and Marc wondered how the old man kept from going stir crazy in the creaky old house. But if Annie lived there, the place would hum with activity even on the frostiest winter day… .

  Why couldn’t Alex see that his young woman needed Heavenly Daze? Couldn’t he see that the spirit of the island fueled her vitality? Like the prodigal, Annie had wandered from home, but the island and its people kept drawing her back.

  He heard the jangle of the bell over the front door and mentally noted that Barbara had departed. A moment later he flinched when his thoughts were interrupted by a rusty greeting: “Dr. Marc?”

  He turned to see Caleb standing in the office doorway, his cap in his hand. “Caleb! How be you today?”

  The old butler waved his hand. “Never better, Dr.Marc, just a little lonesome. Wondered if you might be ready for a coffee break?”

  “I’d love one.” Leaving Barbara’s chart on his desk, Marc stood and led the way to his private quarters. “Did you see Barbara Higgs as you came in?”

  “Ayuh. Wearing a big smile, she was.”

  “We’re hoping she’ll be expecting soon. She and Russell are ready to start a family.”

  Caleb flashed an easy, relaxed smile with a good deal of confidence behind it. “The Father has heard their prayers. But Babette Graham is the one carrying new life.”

  “She told you, did she?” Marc motioned toward a chair as he moved to the counter where his coffeemaker steamed with a fresh pot.

  The old butler shook his head. “No, I have not spoken to Babette.”

  “Charles, then?”

  Caleb smiled. “No.”

  Mark grinned. “So you saw her looking shell-shocked and put two and two together.”

  “No.” Caleb folded his hands. “I have been entrusted to give you an important message. Babette is carrying not one new life, but three, and it is important that you be aware of this as soon as possible. When her time is fulfilled, she must be near a hospital.”

  Mark stared in silence, caught off guard by the sudden vibrancy of the old man’s voice. Caleb did not often make such pronouncements, though he often made the occasional odd remark… .

  The butler was staring at him, waiting for a response.

  “Three babies.” Marc met his gaze. “Triplets.”

  Caleb nodded. “I have been chosen to tell you because I am leaving. So you must keep careful watch on our Babette.”

  Marc cracked a smile and gestured toward the chair again. “Are you becoming psychic in your old age, Caleb? Bringing me messages from the future?”

  “No.” Caleb moved toward the chair. “I am merely obeying the Lord’s command.”

  Marc turned toward his coffeepot as his thoughts whirled. Caleb’s remark was harmless enough, and time would certainly tell if he was right. Babette was not far enough along to tell much through an ultrasound, but he could certainly recommend that she get one as soon as the ferry was running again… .

  As for Caleb … he took a deep breath as he opened a cabinet in search of coffee mugs. He’d keep the butler’s bizarre remark to himself and watch the old man a little more carefully over the next few days. If he was losing touch with reality, he’d make other slips.

  “So,” Caleb sank into the chair, “have you heard from Annie since she returned to Portland?”

  Jarred by the mention of Annie’s name, Marc gave a half-guilty start. “Why, no.”

  Caleb gave him a knowing smile. “I thought she might be calling you—I know she respects you tremendously. And something tells me the flame between her and A.J. has cooled a bit.”

  “Has it?” Marc busied himself with the coffeepot and mugs, grateful for something to do with his hands. “Alex could not do better than Annie when it comes time to choose a wife.”

  “Perhaps Annie was never meant for A.J.”

  Marc shrugged. “What is it they say? Every pot has its lid. Annie will find someone soon enough.”

  “Perhaps she already has. But it’d be a real shame if her someone is too reluctant to declare his feelings.”

  Marc’s hands froze, and for a long moment he dared not look up. When he did lift his eyes, he saw no trace of mischief in Caleb’s gentle smile.

  “That,” he agreed, taking a mug to the older man, “would be a shame.”

  Caleb accepted the coffee. “Why are you so afraid, Marc? The Lord knows your heart and your intentions toward our Annie.”

  Stunned, Marc sank into the adjacent chair. Caleb had always been intuitive, and this time he had hit the nail on the head. No sense in trying to deny it.

  Marc lifted his own mug. “How can he know my intentions? I’m not sure of them myself.”

  “You’ve been distracted by concern for your son.”

  “Alex is a better partner for Annie. They are closer in age.”

  Caleb waved a hand in dismissal. “Age matters little once a man or woman reaches maturity. Look at Edmund and Olympia—they were twenty years apart, yet no two human souls were more closely knit.”

  “Still … it doesn’t seem right for me to think of Annie that way. She’s so young.”

  “She’s nearly thirty.”

  “She has her entire life ahead of her.”

  “How do you know how long a life will be? She may live only ten more years, you may live another forty. Why not love and serve the Lord together for as long as you can?”

  Marc cast the butler a quizzical look. “Caleb, sometimes you make no sense at all.”

  “Sometimes I make all the sense in the world.”

  “Today is not one of those times. Besides,” he shrugged, “I’m not the marrying sort.”

  “You once were.”

  “Those days are past. My wife is gone and I’ve grown accustomed to being alone.”

  “It is not good for man to be alone. And two are better than one, for they have a good reward for their labor.”

  “I’m ancient, Caleb.”

  “You’re a youngster.”

  “I’m nearly sixty.”

  “A mere child.”

  Marc laughed. “You talk like you’re a hundred years old.”

  “More like ten thousand, but I lost count some time ago.”

  Marc made a mental note—odd remark number two from Caleb. Three if you counted the butler’s assertion that he ought to pursue Annie.

  He balanced his coffee cup on his palm. “Caleb, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I’ve always appreciated a good joke. That’s what you’re doing, right? Having a good joke at my expense?”
/>   In answer, Caleb lifted his mug and smiled.

  Winslow stared at the bowl of steaming soup in front of him. “What’s in it?”

  “Cabbage.” Edith sat down wearily. The soup was delicious, but this would be her fourth bowl since two o’clock.

  Winslow picked up his spoon and proceeded to eat. “How was your day, dear?”

  “Fine.”

  He cast a longing glance toward the bread and butter on the counter.

  She nodded. “You can have bread—all you want. I’ll stick with the soup.” She forced another swallow of the red liquid. “I’m not very hungry.”

  Winslow slathered butter on a slice of white bread, then dipped it in his soup bowl. He chatted for a few moments about an old friend from seminary, then gave Edith a wink. “Salt stopped by the church this afternoon, and I’d say he’s a happy man. Fairly busting to get this wedding planned.”

  “I would imagine Birdie is excited, too.”

  “Ayuh. This soup is great, hon. I love cabbage.”

  Edith parked her chin in her palm and watched him spoon up the dregs. “I’m glad you like it. We’ll be eating a lot of it in the next few days.”

  “Great.” He held up his empty bowl. “I’ll take another helping, please.”

  After dinner, when Winslow had wandered into the den to watch the evening news, she cleaned the kitchen and poured leftover soup into Tupperware containers. Her stomach felt bloated with cabbage and onions. She was full, no doubt, but she felt far from satisfied.

  She was craving bread.

  With butter.

  She would have welcomed a hunk of leather to chew on. Something, anything, that wasn’t soup.

  She spied a package of cookies behind the dish drainer. Winslow must have left them there; the man never put anything back in its proper place.

  She walked toward the cookies, reached for them, then drew her hand back. No. She couldn’t eat them. She’d come this far, suffered an entire day of soup. If she ate a cookie now, she’d ruin whatever magical things the fat-burning soup molecules were doing in her body. They’d have to stop burning her fat to burn the invading cookie… .

  But what if she didn’t eat the cookie? What if she just sort of enjoyed it?

  After glancing over her shoulder to be sure Winslow hadn’t left the den, she turned on the kitchen faucet. As a stream of cold water gurgled down the drain, she took a cookie from the package and placed it in her mouth, chewing slowly.

  Ah … crunchy. And sweet. And completely, utterly delicious.

  She savored the cookie for a full moment, then deliberately, daintily spat the cookie into the sink. The running water swirled it into the disposal.

  Edith reached for another.

  After chewing three—and not swallowing a single bite—she flipped on the disposal switch and listened as the last evidence of her weakness rumbled down the drain.

  Chapter Twelve

  Just before the church service was to begin on Sunday morning, Edith looked up from her pew and saw Winslow gesturing to her from behind the piano. Sliding out of her seat, she hurried to him. “What is it, Win?”

  His face twisted in a pained expression as he held his stomach. “That cabbage is repeating on me something awful. Do you have any more of those pills?”

  Edith shook her head. She’d taken the last two Gas-X tablets five minutes ago. The cabbage soup diet was working—her scale had rewarded her with a two-pound loss this morning—but the dreadful side effects had made her anxious. For the past two days both she and Winslow had popped Beano like jellybeans, but problems still periodically … erupted.

  “I’m sorry, Win, but I don’t have—”

  With uncharacteristic abruptness, he interrupted her thought. “Then ask Vernie to open the mercantile and get me some before I have to preach.”

  Edith had never seen her husband so upset. She bit her lower lip and turned to search the congregation, then spotted Vernie and Stanley coming through the back door. “Hold on,” she muttered. “Stay calm and I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Hurry, please. The service begins in less than ten minutes and I’ll be dangerous without that medicine. If Beatrice gets a whiff of the results of your cabbage soup, you’ll have to play the piano this morning.”

  Edith hurried up the aisle, smiling quick greetings to the assembling church members. She grabbed Vernie’s arm just as the mercantile owner was about to sit down.

  “Quick, Vernie. Winslow needs something from the store.”

  Vernie glanced at Stanley. “Can it wait?”

  Edith tugged the woman out of the pew. “No time for questions. The service starts in a few minutes.”

  “What in the world?”

  “Just hurry, will you?”

  Sprinting down the steps, Edith led the way across the church lawn, where melting snow covered the ground in patches. “Edith, this is crazy,” Vernie panted. “What’s the hurry?”

  “No time for questions. Run!”

  When they reached the store, Vernie fumbled with the key in the lock. Impatient, Edith commandeered the keys and unlocked the door, then pushed her way into the shop. Behind her, Vernie shouted, “What? What does Winslow need?”

  Edith bolted for the apothecary counter and scanned the shelves. Thank the Lord, she saw Gas-X and Beano. She grabbed a package of each, then turned and ran for the door.

  “I’ll pay you later,” she called. “Thanks!”

  Rooted to the spot, Vernie blinked. “Winslow has the rumbles? That’s your big emergency?”

  Bea was pounding out the last chorus of “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” when Edith rushed back into the sanctuary. Heads turned as a blast of wind from the open door fluttered the hymnals. Relief flooded Winslow’s face when Edith calmly walked down the center aisle and approached the altar. He accepted a small packet from her, then slipped it into his pocket. Apparently oblivious to everything, Micah kept waving his arms, leading the congregation in song.

  By the time the tinkling piano had faded to silence, the pastor had popped three orange gel tabs into his mouth. After Micah’s brief prayer, Winslow strode confidently to the pulpit.

  Back in her pew, Edith exhaled in relief. No more cabbage soup; it wasn’t fair to Winslow.

  And her heart couldn’t take the strain.

  Coming out of church, Edith drew her collar tighter. Her head ached, and all weekend she’d felt like she was coming down with something. The cabbage soup diet offered plenty of food, just not the kind Edith was used to eating. She found herself craving foods with crunch, and throughout Winslow’s sermon she had fantasized about her favorite noisy foods, beginning at the start of the alphabet: apples, bacon, Cracker Jack … by the time she got to the Ps (pretzels, pistachios, pickles, peanut brittle, and Pringles), Winslow had begun the benediction.

  The balmy weather had held over the weekend— temperatures remained in the thirties, leaving the islanders with nothing to complain about but unnaturally sunny skies. Winslow stood in the vestibule to shake hands with the departing congregation, and Edith took her place by his side, still running foods through her mind.

  She was listing the crunchy Ss (snickerdoodles, sugar snap beans), when Floyd cornered Winslow and started in again about the ferry.

  “I hear it’s supposed to be finished at the York Harbor marina sometime tomorrow, Pastor. You want to ride with me up to York to bring her home? I’ve got a fisherman picking me up at the dock, 10 AM sharp.”

  Winslow squinted at the mayor. “Does that mean I’ll have to ride back with you, um, driving the ferry?”

  “Of course. But if your wife needs a run into Ogunquit, I’d be happy to take you both along.”

  Winslow’s shoulders slumped as he glanced at Edith. “You need a run into Ogunquit?”

  She knew he was hoping she’d say no, but she did have a mile-long list of low-calorie foods she wanted to investigate. “I’d love to go to Ogunquit tomorrow,” she said, slipping her arm through Winslow’s. “And
I’d be honored to ride with Floyd as ferry captain.”

  Visibly pleased, the mayor grinned at her. “Cleta and I would be tickled if you and Pastor could join us for supper Wednesday night.”

  Winslow caught Edith’s eye again. “Dear? Do you have other plans?”

  Edith winced inwardly. Eating out would be murder on her diet, but Winslow enjoyed spending time with his church members. She’d just have to find a way to make it through.

  She nodded and forced a smile. “That would be nice, Floyd. Ask Cleta what I can bring.”

  “Just bring yourself, that’s treat enough.”

  She looked away as Floyd moved on down the church steps, calling for his wife. Cleta would probably make her famous spaghetti and garlic bread—and Edith adored spaghetti and garlic bread.

  Her head was beginning to pound when Bea emerged from the church and glanced toward the lighthouse. “Has anyone seen Birdie?”

  Edith shook her head.

  Winslow took Bea’s hand. “I was meaning to ask where Birdie went during the sermon. I hope she isn’t ill.”

  The postmistress frowned. “When Salt and the kids didn’t show up by the time you started preaching, Birdie ran up to the lighthouse to check on them.” Bea peered toward the north end of the island. “I wonder if something’s wrong. Brittany or Bobby could’ve taken sick during the night. You know how she loves to take care of those kids.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Babette said, rocking from side to side as her son Georgie dragged her through the crowd. “But I’d be happy to send Charles up there to see about things.”

  “Mom!”

  Vernie, who stood between Bea and the wall, effectively halted Georgie’s progress.

  “I can’t get out! Vernie’s big ole caboose is in the way!”

  Babette calmly clapped a hand over her son’s mouth and lifted a brow. “Sorry, Vernie,” she said, ignoring the boy squirming in her grasp. “We’re working on his manners.”

  Edith gave the frazzled mother a sympathetic look. Babette and Charles had not yet made a public announcement about her pregnancy; perhaps they were still in shock. Edith could only pray the Lord would send them a quiet, sweet little girl to provide balance in their home.