Hearts at Home (13 page)

Edith sometimes wondered if the Smith men didn't share more than a last name. When trouble arose, as it inevitably did, the gardener, the baker, the shopkeeper, the potter, the handyman, and the butler hovered over the townsfolk as though they were precious and irreplaceable pieces of Dresden china.

True saints,
Edith had decided. The Smith men were as saintly as anyone she'd ever known. And right now she could use a bit of saintliness to help with her diet.

Yesterday had been a breeze. After her delicious Last Breakfast, she had enjoyed a Last Lunch of all her favorites—cheesecake from the freezer, leftovers from the fridge, plus three slices of a chocolate chess pie she whipped up between Bea's visit and Olympia's voyage.

After going with Winslow to make sure Odell was safe and sound at Frenchman's Fairest, she couldn't help but notice the delicious finger foods Caleb had arranged on the dining room table . . . so she'd indulged every whim, figuring that she'd count this meal as her Last Afternoon Snack. And last night at dinner, though she felt so stuffed she could barely breathe, she had served a pizza loaded with every topping imaginable and topped off the meal with the rest of the chocolate chess pie.

Sick and bloated, in bed that night she had held her stomach and resolved that the Diet had begun. Tomorrow, Tuesday, would be the beginning of the rest of her life as a thinner person.

She'd done fairly well at breakfast. Still full from the night before, she had downed a cup of black coffee and nibbled on a single remaining crust from the chocolate chess pie. For lunch she had forced herself to eat a salad, no dressing at all, and consoled herself with the thought that evening would bring a smorgasbord of foods after Olympia's funeral. With so much food available, she'd certainly be able to find some low-calorie goodies.

She'd found goodies, all right—but hardly any were low-calorie. She had ignored Birdie's high-calorie meat-loaves, Babette's pot roast swimming in brown gravy, and Vernie's crispy fried clams, choosing instead a small green salad with vinegar and oil dressing. But while everyone around her talked and ate and ate and talked, Edith still felt unsatisfied . . . downright hungry. She'd thought she'd feel too sad to eat today, but apparently her appetite didn't feel the least bit melancholy.

Slipping away from Winslow and the table conversation, she sauntered up to the dessert table and spied one of Abner's coconut cream cakes. No one had cut it yet, and since she had nothing else to do with her hands . . .

Gingerly, she picked up a knife and sliced the cake into thick wedges. It felt good to help, and as the pastor's wife, it was her
duty
to do these things. Just like it was her duty to clean that glop of icing off the blade before it fell and made a mess on the floor.

Tracing the stainless steel with her fingertip, she swiped away the offending icing and, with no trash can handy, disposed of the mess by eating it. She closed her eyes as droplets of powered sugar and vanilla exploded in a taste sensation on her tongue.
Oh my.
Abner had used cream of coconut again. . . .

After a surreptitious glance to make sure no one was looking, she scooped another glob of icing off the rim of the plate. She savored the sweetness on her tongue, then licked her fingertip. No harm done. This was only a taste— a wee bit. It wasn't like she was eating a slice. Not that a slice would hurt her, either, after all she'd done without today.

Wielding the cake cutter like an expert swordsman, she lifted out a slice of the cake and dropped it on a plate. She was just about to reach for a fork when Floyd approached, a plate of long neck clams, roast beef, and green bean casserole in his hands.

A wave of guilt assailed her. Cheeks burning, she offered the cake to the mayor. “Dessert, Floyd?”

“Ayuh—that coconut looks wicked.”

“It is.”

She shoved it at him.

He caught the offering against his best suit, trying to balance the plate in his left hand with the dessert she'd just thrust upon him. Grabbing for napkins, Edith dropped a fistful on top of his cake, then apologized. “Sorry, Floyd.

I'm a little distracted today.”

He gave her a puzzled look, then moved toward the table where most of the men were discussing the weather. Edith leaned against the plaster wall and forced herself to take a deep breath. She had to focus. To concentrate. Anybody could diet, all you had to do was put mind over matter.

But not everybody was dumb enough to begin a starvation diet on the day of a good friend's funeral and a churchwide buffet. And her cheeks and neck were flaming, which might mean she was about to have a hot flash in the middle of all this—

She broke into a sweat, her hand groping for a folding chair.

Birdie stopped before her, a steaming dish of macaroni and cheese in her hand. “Edith, dear—” her high voice shot through the assorted conversations like an arrow— “you look like you're feeling squamish. Are you coming down with a bug?”

All eyes turned in Edith's direction.

“I'm fine,” she stammered, clumsily opening the folding chair. “I just need to sit a spell.”

Winslow stood and threaded his way through the chairs. “You okay, Edith? What's wrong?”

Embarrassed, she brushed his concern aside. “I got a little too warm, Win—it's so hot in here. Could you adjust the thermostat?”

“Sure.” He grinned at Floyd, flashing a silent message—
you gotta tolerate these women and their hot flashes
— then he paused by Babette Graham, who was wearing a sweater and didn't seem at all warm.

“You comfortable, Babette?” Winslow asked. “How does the temperature feel to you?”

Babette Graham was nibbling on a plate loaded with food, including three desserts and a biscuit dripping with honey butter. Babette Graham had never spent an hour worrying about her weight, her cholesterol, or her blood pressure, and she was far too young to be entering menopause.

So why in the world was Winslow asking
her
about the temperature?

Edith opened her mouth and screeched before her mind knew what her tongue was doing: “Just
check
the dad blame thermostat, will you, Mr. Man?”

A silence, thick as molasses, enveloped the room.

Winslow's eyes bulged as he slowly backed toward the thermostat. “I'll check it right away.”

Edith lowered her gaze in horror. Nausea roiled in her stomach as her head swam. What had she done? She had never spoken like that to Winslow even in private, yet she had just flipped a breaker right here in front of the entire town!

Dropping her face in her hands, she ardently wished that the ground would open up and swallow her like it did the grumbling Israelites in the wilderness.

Birdie flitted back to her side, waving for assistance. “Abner! Edith's not herself, she needs help. Let's get her home and put her to bed. Poor thing, all this stress and everything . . .”

Flaming with shame, Edith allowed the baker to take her arm and lift her from her chair. Walking toward the stairs, she kept her eyes downcast. No one spoke, not a single fork rattled. If she stayed to eat she'd probably feel better in five minutes, but she couldn't let these people know she was faint and grumpy because of a
diet
.

At the parsonage, she smiled and thanked Abner. “Go lie down,” he said, his fingertips brushing the small of her back as he guided her into the house. “I'll make you something to eat.” He cocked his head. “Perhaps a nice chicken broth? Something light.”

She sent him a grateful smile. “That'd be nice, Abner. Thank you.”

While he went to the kitchen, she walked into her bedroom and dropped to the mattress, pulling a crocheted afghan over her shoulders. She was trembling now, her muscles complaining about a lack of fuel.

A bowl of chicken broth wouldn't satisfy her body for long, but after Abner had gone home, perhaps she could find a cookie in the kitchen.

Darkness stole over the island with a chilly peace, turning the new-fallen snow deep blue. Floyd and Cleta Lansdown sat in the keeping room of the bed-and-breakfast, enjoying the rare silence of a house without guests or children. Barbara and Russell had gone to the Klackenbush's to watch a video.

Floyd sank into his favorite chair and folded his hands across his belly, his eyes on the dancing flames in the wood-stove. After a good dinner and a solemn occasion like a funeral, a man valued peace and the security of his home.

“Nice service,” Cleta said, her knitting needles clicking to the rhythm of the Perry Como record playing on the stereo. “Olympia would have loved it.”

Floyd grunted. “Ayuh, it was some nice. But nearly a disaster.”

Cleta dropped her knitting. “I
do
hope you're not going to say you wanted to pull her through town on the fire truck.”

“No—but firing up the siren in her honor would have been a grand gesture.”

“Forget it, Floyd.” She resumed her knitting. “So— what was the near-disaster?”

“No public transportation.” Floyd propped his feet on the ottoman and nodded at his toes. “I tell you, Cleta, this town needs to operate its own ferry boat. Why, just look at what happened. The doctor's son barely made it, and Olympia's own boy had to hire a helicopter.”

“We can't afford a ferry, Floyd. With so few families on the island, how are we supposed to buy a boat? Besides, there's no one to run it. We're all busy with other things.”

Floyd shrugged and stretched his toes closer to the stove. Cleta wouldn't like what he was about to propose, but he wasn't so henpecked that he couldn't venture an idea she didn't like every once in a while.

“I'm not too busy. You and Barbara handle the B&B just fine.”

“Noooooo. Barbara's going to move as soon as she gets pregnant, so I'll be here alone. No way am I going to let you spend all your time on the water.”

“But what are we supposed to do? Look at us now— Captain Stroble's off on vacation for a month and the
Sally's
gone down. How are we supposed to get around?”

“I don't know, dear.” Cleta turned the knitting in her lap. “But I'm not going to worry about it. We can always call in a chopper if there's a medical emergency.”

“Who's talking about medical emergencies? What about things like grocery shopping?”

“You can shop at the mercantile.”

“But Vernie refuses to carry my brand of potato chips. Am I expected to live the next four weeks without chive and cheddar kettle-cooked, double-salted chips?” He shook his head, worrying the tip of his pipe between his teeth. “I'll row to Ogunquit in Russell's dory before that happens.”

Cleta snorted. “Right. The day you row to Ogunquit is the day I sprout wings and fly. Besides, all that salt is bad for your blood pressure. Maybe you're not supposed to have chive and cheddar kettle-cooked, double-salted chips.”

Grunting, Floyd returned his gaze to the flames. “We need our own ferry; don't need to be dependent on Stroble. He's reliable, but what if he was to get laid up for a spell? That would leave us in a real bind now that Odell's out of commission.” He scratched his head. “Wonder who's using Stroble's boat now?”

“I heard it was at some marina for painting and hull-scraping.”

“Still . . . does that take four weeks?”

Cleta shrugged. “You're asking the wrong person. Russell might know.”

Floyd fingered the stubble at his neck. Careful now, this would be a critical point . . .

“I think I'll give the cap'n a call.”

“In Floridy? Why, that's a long-distance call; it'd cost a fortune. And why would you want to bother the poor man while he and Mazie are trying to relax a little?”

“I'm calling.” Pushing himself out of the easy chair, Floyd set his feet on the floor. “Now where did Stroble say they were staying?”

“I declare.” Cleta dropped her knitting again. “Can't this wait until we go to Wal-Mart and get one of those long-distance calling cards? You can buy cards that'll let you talk for four cents a minute—”

“I don't want to wait for Wal-Mart. This here is important town business. Where was Stroble staying?”

She sent him a glare that would have frosted a lesser man's toenails. “Well, I never.”

“That's the truth—never without giving me grief.”

Cleta heaved a sigh. “He was staying at the Sand-something Inn on Captiva Island.”

“Sand what?”

“I don't know. Sandpiper, Sand Dollar, Sandman. Sand-dinglefuzzie, for all I know.”

Half an hour later Floyd had located the captain and his wife at the Sand and Surf Inn. He grinned when the captain came on the line. “STROBLE?”

“Ayuh—is that you, Lansdown?”

“AYUH. CAN'T TALK BUT A MINUTE 'CAUSE IT'S LONG DISTANCE, YOU KNOW.” He shot Cleta a smug look.

“Why are you yelling, Floyd? You having trouble with your ears?”

“NO—BUT IT'S LONG DISTANCE.”

“I can hear you fine. Is there a problem at home?”

Floyd blew out his cheeks. Seemed unnatural to speak regular to somebody at the other end of the country.

“We have a little problem. Odell sank the
Sally
yesterday— it's a long story and I can't take the time to repeat it—but I was wondering if you'd give Odell permission to operate the ferry once it's done bein' overhauled?”

“Odell Butcher? Are you
nuts?”

Floyd had always thought of himself as persuasive, but few men were as stubborn as Captain Stroble. “Now don't be hard-nosed about this,” he said, injecting a smile into his voice. “With the
Sally
sinking we're stranded here. Russell's lobsterin' most every day now, and he's not available to ferry us back and forth. Odell's a little strange, but he's dependable.”

“He sank his boat, didn't he? Besides, my insurance wouldn't put Crazy Odell on as a driver. He's too old.”