Grace in Autumn (33 page)

Fortified by coffee and free doughnuts, Buddy Franklin delivered nine more bags of mail throughout the morning.

Shortly after the noon ferry arrived, he returned to the bakery with bad news.

Twenty-one additional sacks had just landed on the dock. And Captain Stroble sent word that future deliveries would be deposited at the ferry office. The citizens of Heavenly Daze would have to transport and deliver the mail from that point. In other words, Birdie deduced, the captain's bad back was acting up.

Vernie came in around one o'clock to deliver Birdie's and Bea's turkey. The mostly-thawed bird had to be stored in the refrigerator, she warned, as if Birdie had never cooked a turkey in her life.

As Abner took charge of the poultry, Vernie moved to the window and shook her head. “Terrible thing about Edmund,” she said, her voice dropping to a desolate tone. “I suppose you've heard by now.”

Birdie hurried to the window. “I hadn't heard. Did he pass?”

“Last night, apparently. I haven't heard the whole story, but I know Pastor Wickam's been over there this morning. And I saw them carry the body out a while ago.”

Turning, Birdie caught Abner's eye. After wiping his hands on a towel, Abner removed his apron. “If it's okay with you, Birdie, I'll go see if Caleb needs anything.”

He returned later, his eyes gleaming with compassion as he told Birdie, Bea, and Vernie that Edmund had passed away in his sleep.

“Oh, my,” Birdie murmured, wiping at sudden tears. “He was a good man.”

“Ayuh,” Abner seconded, “he's always trusted in the Lord for his strength.”

Without another word, Birdie and Bea slipped into their apartment, and emerged a few moments later in visiting clothes. Abner had guessed their intentions, for he handed three wrapped loaves of focaccia for Birdie to take to the family.

The sisters walked across the island in silence, then knocked at Frenchman's Fairest. When a red-eyed Annie opened the door, Birdie extended her arms. The young girl fell into her embrace, openly weeping.

“Thank you for coming.” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Aunt Olympia needs friends right now.”

Smoothing Annie's back, Birdie nodded. “We'll do all we can to help her through this.”

They stayed only briefly, for many people were coming and going. In the midst of hushed conversations about the funeral, Birdie heard someone say that Olympia had asked that the services be held Saturday in Heavenly Daze. The island was Edmund's home, so Pastor Wickam would perform the eulogy and Edmund would be buried in the cemetery behind the church. It seemed only right, somehow, for Edmund to take his place beside Jacques de Cuvier and the other sea captains who had spent their last days on the island.

Before they left, Olympia embraced Birdie and Bea on the porch, holding onto the women for support. For the first time in years, Birdie sensed genuine appreciation from the island's female curmudgeon.

“Thank you for coming,” Olympia whispered. For the briefest moment she broke down, her frail body shaking as she openly wept into a handkerchief. Birdie patted her back, understanding that Olympia needed to allow the months of pent-up emotion to escape. When the wave of despair passed, she leaned weakly against Birdie for strength.

Birdie held Olympia tight. “If you need anything—”

“Yes, anything,” Bea echoed. “Anything a-tall, Olympia. We want to help you through the next few months.”

Olympia straightened and pulled out of the embrace. “I'll be fine. Annie's here, and I have Tallulah and Caleb.”

Wiping her eyes, Olympia turned to greet the Klackenbushes, who were coming up the walk with a covered pie plate.

“Bea, we saw all that mail piled on the dock,” Dana said as she came up the path. “Where in the world is it coming from?”

Birdie stiffened, knowing this was not the time or place to discuss such things.

“Bea and I will take care of the mail, Dana.” After a final wave to Olympia, she descended the steps, pulling Bea with her. Across the street she spotted Zuriel walking to the dock with Georgie Graham.

As the two sisters rode back to the bakery, Birdie prayed that Olympia would have strength for the dark days ahead. She'd never been a wife, so she couldn't really imagine all a widow might feel, but she'd stood by her sister when Frank Coughlin died.

Life was so brief, so temporary. Like a fragile vapor, a soul passed from earth to eternity in the blink of an eye. Edmund de Cuvier was a Christian, so now he was enjoying heaven, but that comfort didn't lessen the fact that others would mourn.

And tomorrow was Thanksgiving.

The holiday would be celebrated in Heavenly Daze as it was in homes across America. Grateful hearts would gather around bountiful tables and give thanks for blessings large and small.

But for Olympia and Annie, it would be a day of mourning. There would be no roasting turkey at Frenchman's Fairest, no fragrant aroma of pumpkin pies, no air of celebration.

Only an empty house filled with memories of happier days.

Chapter Thirteen

B
uddy!” Birdie gaped in surprise. “Why, you look so distinguished!”

Buddy Franklin stood before her in black tails, a white shirt, and a red satin cape. His long face gleamed in a bright spotlight, and beyond the edge of the stage, she could hear a spattering of anticipatory applause.

“They're waiting,” he said, winking at her. “And you look pretty foxy yourself.”

Birdie blushed. “Aw, go on.”

“No, Birdie, you are a vision of loveliness, a comet of cuteness, a shooting star from Saturn.” He paused as the orchestra music swelled. “You look just like . . . whatever.”

While she watched, Buddy swept past her, his red cape flashing as he began a routine with moves like Fred Astaire.

Birdie blinked. She didn't know Buddy could dance. When did he learn to waltz like that?

As the audience went wild, she turned, a little surprised to find herself in the wings of a stage. She glanced down as a feather rose in the heat of the lights and tickled her nose.

Why was she wearing a red feather boa?

Just then, Bea walked up in black fishnets, a sequined bodysuit, and a three-foot tall collar of ostrich feathers. “Out of the way, Sister,” Bea said, pushing her aside. “It's showtime!”

While Birdie watched in horror, Sister sashayed into the spotlight, joined at center stage by Vernie Bidderman, who wore a similar outfit of sequins, feathers, fishnets, and combat boots. As the crowd surged to their feet, Vernie and Bea linked arms and began a high kick that would have put the New York Rockettes to shame.

As Birdie clung to the curtains for support, a man in the audience tossed a long-stemmed rose onto the stage. Bea dove forward, gave him a wink, then placed it in her mouth, never missing a beat.

From the side of the stage, Buddy tapped his cane and called, “Step right up, ladies and gents, to see the brightest lights and the prettiest girls east of Las Vegas!”

Birdie bolted upright, abruptly coming awake as sweat dripped from her forehead. She opened her eyes, blinking the nightmare from her field of vision. The aromas of mincemeat and pumpkin pies drifted from the kitchen and reminded her who and where she was.

Feeling lightheaded, she exhaled in relief. Bea was up early, stuffing the turkey, setting hot rolls out to rise, and baking the traditional pies.

The familiar sounds and smells of a holiday morning should have brought her a sense of joy and well-being, but Birdie couldn't forget that these were dark days indeed. Her friends and neighbors were peeved at her, and Olympia's loss lay heavy on her mind. Edmund was gone, and Birdie supposed she'd never bake another apple strudel without thinking of the banker with the kind heart.

Edmund loved apple strudel. His eyes would brighten and he'd give her a jaunty wink whenever she offered him one of the flaky delicacies. “Birdie,” he'd say in that gentle voice, “you make the best strudel in the State of Maine.”

“Edmund Shots, you're a smooth talker if ever I saw one,” Birdie would tease back. They'd share a good laugh and then Edmund would make a pretense of searching his pockets for change to pay her. Birdie never charged Edmund for strudel. The look of sheer ecstasy that transformed his face as he devoured the warm pastry was compensation enough.

In later years, after Edmund developed diabetes, Birdie and Abner concocted a slightly-revised version of strudel using artificial sweetener and a less fatty crust. Though Edmund loved the original strudel best, he ate the new version with relish and appreciation, tempering his praise only slightly: “Birdie, you make the best cardboard-crust apple strudel in the State of Maine!”

Chuckling at the memory, she swiped at tears dropping from her eyes. “I hope you're eating all the strudel you want right now, Edmund. Save a piece for me.”

Curling tighter under her blankets, she entertained the thought of staying in her pajamas all day. Could a body do that on Thanksgiving? Bea could attend the church service, and when she got home they could eat a quiet dinner with Abner. Later they could play a few games of dominoes: chicken foot or mexican train. She wouldn't have to face anyone today or see irritation in her neighbors' eyes.

Oh, they would get over it, as Grandma Bitts used to say, but every time they looked toward the ferry office and saw a new mountain of mail sacks, they'd grumble her name.

Never mind that she didn't start that silly e-mail. She'd encouraged Bea to answer the first letter, and she'd been foolhardy enough to send money to a little girl who asked for it. Now only heaven knew what trouble tomorrow would bring.

Swallowing, she realized her throat was sore. Stress, cold wind, and bad weather had taken their toll.

She threw the covers back, then padded into the bathroom. Switching the light on, she opened her mouth and peered at her throat in the medicine cabinet mirror.

Red as a turkey's wattle.

Drats.

When she walked into the kitchen a moment later, Bea, still in her terry-cloth bathrobe and hair curlers, glanced up. Dropping the baster, she eyed Birdie with a calculating look. “You look a little streaked this morning, Sister.” Birdie opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out. Swallowing, she tried again, but nothing but a rusty squeak escaped her lips.

“Oh, my,” Bea said, clucking. After shoving the roaster back into the oven, she shut the door and beckoned to Birdie. “Come with me.”

Birdie shook her head, realizing too late the torture Bea had in mind.

Throat swabbing—the purest form of inhumanity.

For a moment they slapped at each other like little girls, then Bea latched onto Birdie's hand and dragged her through the hallway and into her bathroom. Amidst retching and many emphatic stamps of her foot, Birdie endured the archaic treatment of having her throat swabbed with Mercurochrome. When it was over, she went back to her bedroom and dropped to the quilts for a moment, wondering why she couldn't just suck on a throat lozenge like anybody else.

Islanders were already pouring into Heavenly Daze Community Church by the time Bea and Birdie finally arrived.

Few scowls were evident this morning; only friendly faces met the Wester sisters as they climbed the steps. Birdie greeted her neighbors with a closed-lip smile, praying her teeth hadn't been permanently stained from the Mercurochrome.

“Sister's sick this morning,” Bea announced to no one in particular as she planted herself on the piano bench.

Standing at the pulpit, Micah lifted an inquisitive brow in Birdie's direction. Shrugging, she pointed to her throat.

“She's lost her voice,” Bea announced, rapidly flipping through the hymnal on the piano. She looked up, fixing the song leader in a direct gaze. “I'm not in the mood for traditional hymns today. Since this is a holiday, I thought something special might be in order, so let's start with 289 instead of 217, then sing 276 before 137, followed by 310 before we move right on to 452.”

Frantically trying to keep up, Micah flipped through the pages and scribbled changes on the bulletin. Leaving Bea, Birdie hurried to find a seat in the rapidly-filling church.

Somehow, Micah adapted to the change of program. The song service was uplifting, and Birdie felt her heart rejoice as an assortment of voices rattled the rafters on a cold, sunshiny Thanksgiving morning on the island of Heavenly Daze. Thundering praises vibrated against the windows as they sang praises to the great I Am, the Exalted Jesus Christ, King of all kings and Lord of all lords.

Unable to sing over her aching throat, Birdie enjoyed listening. The powerful hymns washed over her, assuring her of God's love and filling her with a heady elation she sorely needed.

Beside her, Vernie Bidderman belted out the old hymns in her husky alto, occasionally clapping her coarse, work-worn hands in disjointed rhythm.

Across the aisle, Mike and Dana Klackenbush sat beside Babette and Charles Graham, two young couples with their whole lives ahead of them. Young Georgie scribbled on a notepad, occasionally reaching over to filch a breath mint out of his mother's purse. Babette and Charles smiled adoringly at their son's antics, then looked at each other as if they shared a secret.