A Perfect Love (16 page)

Coming closer, she peered into the empty depths of the huge cage. “What in the world?” She glanced around the apartment, but saw nothing out of order. Buddy's bed was an unmade mess, as usual, and the fire in the wood-stove had been banked to a low glow through the tempered glass. His bureau stood as cluttered as always, with half the drawers cockeyed, and decorated with a pair of underwear and two socks hanging over the rim of an open drawer.

Why in the world would Buddy want to put her birdcage in his room? Was he missing her parakeet? He'd never paid it much attention, except, of course, for the time she asked him to clean the cage and he left the door open. Two hours later the bird had vanished, and then they found him, the victim of an attempted dive into the goldfish bowl . . .

Surely Buddy wasn't feeling guilty about that. The parakeet was ancient history, so what was he thinking about now?

Her mind drifted back to an arts-and-crafts show she and Buddy had visited in the fall. A dealer from Wells had specialized in old birdcages filled with arrangements of silk flowers and driftwood. So maybe Buddy was feeling artistic . . . maybe even noodling on the idea of making something for her. The idea brought a small niggling of pleasure, but it still seemed incredible. If he'd wanted to make something, he could have kept it in the workroom . . . unless he didn't want to get in Mike's and Yakov's way.

She scratched her head, then shrugged and reached outside the door to bring in her utility-sized garbage bag. Buddy was an enigma, and even though the same blood flowed in their veins, she had never been able to figure him out. She had never understood why he joined the Navy when he got seasick in the bathtub, nor had she been able to comprehend why he'd found it necessary to tattoo himself. No one else in their family had a tattoo, yet Buddy sported three of them, two on his right arm and one on his left. Dana knew the preacher cringed every time Buddy helped pass the offering plate in short sleeves. All those tattoos somehow seemed out of place in church.

She dumped Buddy's trash can into the garbage bag, then bent to pick up a crumpled sheet
of paper that had obviously missed the mark. She held it for a moment, thinking of the birdcage, then sat on the bed and smoothed out the wrinkles. In Buddy's distinctive blocky handwriting she read:

My joy cannot be contained in words or song or
expression—

Letters, juxtaposed puzzles, are rife with discretion,
But boundless joy, the rarest fruit of my heart,
Is far more an elixir of life than mere art.
Two black velvet eyes, a tip-tilted gaze
Have launched me round this sphere in a daze.
My heart doth pound in rapturous beat,
Because your love makes my poor life complete.

She lowered the page, her thoughts racing in a thousand different directions. Buddy . . . was in love! But with whom? He couldn't be in love with anyone on the island; everyone here was married, too old for him, or distinctly not interested. And this wasn't the poem of a man suffering from unrequited love . . . this man had hope! That could only mean he had written this for someone he'd met recently.

She pressed her hand to her lips, trying to remember if any eligible single women had visited the island in the last few weeks. Annie Cuvier had come for Christmas, but she'd been fixated on the doctor's son throughout her visit. Besides, Annie was too brainy for Buddy—he had depths to his personality, but few people took the time to explore them. Most people assumed he was as dull as he was slow to speak, but Buddy had always had a gift for the written word, like their father, so if he'd been writing someone . . .

She snapped her fingers as a memory surfaced. Last night Buddy had been writing some woman on the computer! He'd been pretty intense about it, too, and at least a couple of messages had zipped back and forth in the short time Dana was calling Buddy to dinner.

She pressed both hands to her face, then laughed aloud. Buddy had found a girl through the Internet!

Mike would be glad to hear it—unless, of course, Buddy decided to marry and bring his wife to live in the cramped carriage house. But that wasn't likely to happen. No self-respecting woman would agree to that; she'd want Buddy to live in her town and be married in her church . . .

Dana smoothed the page and read the words again. Not a bad poem, actually, though apparently Buddy hadn't liked it enough to keep it. He must have written another one to e-mail his female friend . . . so he wouldn't mind if Dana used this one.

Her thoughts skittered back to the photograph of Basil Caldwell and the announcement of his poetry contest. Why not enter this poem? It wouldn't win, not with all the wannabe Robert Frosts in the Maine woods, but it'd give her an excuse to paper clip a little note to Basil on the entry form. She'd write something cheery—“Saw your picture, you look good, stay in touch!” If she sent in a poem, he'd have to acknowledge her entry, wouldn't he? So he just might drop her a little note in return, and from his message she'd be able to tell if he remembered her at all.

Humming in anticipation, Dana folded Buddy's poem, slipped it into her jeans pocket, and then dragged the trash bag back outside.

With a bag filled with mailing tubes slung over his shoulder, Mike approached the ferry landing shortly after noon, then stared when he saw his brother-in-law seated on the bench.

“Hey, Buddy,” he called, dropping the heavy bag to the dock. “You going to Ogunquit?”

Buddy glanced at Mike for a moment, then returned his gaze to the watery horizon. “No.”

Mike quirked a brow, but apparently Buddy didn't want to embroider his response. That was his way. He rarely said more than twenty words at a time to anyone but Dana.

Sinking to the opposite end of the bench, Mike slipped his hands into his pockets and turned his face toward the sun. “Can't believe this weather we're having. Feels more like October than January.”

Silence from Buddy, then, “Whatever.”

Mike pressed on. “Yakov and I had a dozen auctions close yesterday. Someone paid eighty-five dollars for a sixteen-by-twenty canvas print of Van Gogh's
Starry Night.”

One of Buddy's shoulders rose in a shrug.

“And I sold thirty-five of those eight-by-ten canvases, each for at least twenty bucks. Can you believe it? I think they cost me about a dollar each. Of course they cost the printer about fifty cents, so it's not like we're ripping anybody off—”

“What about Van Gogh?”

“Huh?”

“Aren't you ripping him off?”

Mike blinked at the unexpected question. “Well . . . he's dead, Buddy. Been gone a long time, so I don't expect he cares much about royalties.”

They lifted their heads in unison as the gleaming ferryboat appeared on the horizon. Captain Stroble's ship came forward steadily, her bow slashing through the wind-whipped waves. Mike felt his pulse quicken as it always did when the ferryboat drew near. A body never knew what surprises it would bring, for Captain Stroble brought the mail, packages from various shipping companies, and visitors, of course, though off-islanders were rare in January.

Grabbing the strap of his canvas bag, Mike stood and waved at the ferry. Five minutes later, the boat pulled up to the dock. Captain Stroble's deck hand threw out a bowline as thick as Mike's wrist. Catching it, he slipped the end of it around a mooring cleat, then walked down the dock and grinned at the captain.

“Good afternoon to you, sir! I've got a bag of mail for you.”

Captain Stroble, his tanned face flushed, thrust his head out of the cabin and grinned at Mike over his beard. “How be you, Mike? I'll be happy to take your mail, as long as it has Miss Bea's stamp of approval.”

“Miss Bea's already put postage on all these.” Mike swung the canvas bag over the narrow space between the boat and the dock. “I thought I'd spare her the trouble of hauling all my mail down here.”

“And that's right thoughtful of you.” Stroble caught the bag, then nodded toward Buddy, still sitting on the bench. “What's your brother-in-law up to?”

Mike gave the captain a one-sided smile. “I have no idea. But if he's got to do nothing, I suppose this is as good a place as any to do it.”

Stroble lowered his voice. “I hate to say it, Mike, but he looks a little squamish.”

Mike leaned closer. “He's not sick; Dana thinks he's in love. She says he met a girl on the Internet.”

One of the captain's bushy white brows shot up. “Really? I wouldn't know much about such things. I have a computer, but I try to stay out of those chat rooms.”

“You have a computer?” Mike tilted his head. “I never would have thought you were the computer type.”

“Ayuh.” Stroble stepped into the cabin and came out with a tray of mail, which he handed to Mike. “I love my machine. I use it to e-mail all the grandkids, and they send me pictures taken with one of those new digitized cameras. Plus, Mazie and I used the Web to find the perfect hotel for our Florida vacation.” He winked. “We leave the first week of February.”

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.