Hearts at Home (20 page)

“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

J
ust 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.

Vernie scowled at Georgie, who promptly scowled back. Babette dragged her son toward Charles, who stood in the center of the church, talking to Zuriel Smith, the potter who lived in their guest cottage.

Edith closed her eyes in relief that Georgie had not veered her way and commented on
her
caboose.

One thing was certain—if she ate another bowl of soup, she'd probably never listen to another of Winslow's sermons without drooling. Twenty minutes of food fantasy accompanied by a lesson on the Minor Prophets had undoubtedly ingrained a Pavlovian psychological response that nothing but New York Cheesecake and butter-brushed lobster could erase.

So—this afternoon they would throw out the leftover cabbage soup and go on a scavenger hunt in the pantry. And as soon as Floyd got the ferry running, she'd go into Ogunquit, attend a Pound Pinchers meeting, and raid the grocery for some of those pre-packaged diet foods. The portions were rabbit-sized, but that was okay. Anything was better than endless cabbage soup.

And, though her mind could be playing tricks on her, she was almost certain she was losing weight. No one could see anything in the tent dresses she favored for church, but her underwear wasn't cutting into her thighs like it usually did. . . .

Could anything feel better than that?

From the sidewalk, Babette yelled for their attention. “Look—isn't that Birdie coming?”

Edith joined the others craning their necks. Birdie was approaching in her golf cart, driving like a maniac as she swerved to avoid potholes.

Wheeling the cart into the churchyard, Birdie came to a quick stop, then waved her hand. “Where's Dr. Marc? And Pastor?”

Winslow hurried out of the vestibule. “I'm here, Birdie.”

Edith brought her hand to her chest as Dr. Marc, who'd been talking to Caleb and Stanley Bidderman, hurried toward the golf cart.

“There's a problem at the lighthouse. It's Salt.” Birdie's eyes were like two burnt holes in a blanket, dark with fear and worry. “I need you to come quick.”

Neither man hesitated. Dr. Marc swung into the passenger seat next to Birdie, while Winslow climbed on the back bench and hung on to a post.

“Micah!” Dr. Marc's voice rang with authority. “My medical bag is by the front door of the clinic. Will you bring it?”

Micah Smith nodded, then sprinted around the corner of the church. Edith took two steps forward, curious to see if the man would run all the way to the clinic, but when she looked at the space between the church and the B&B, the gardener had disappeared.

She whistled in appreciation. That fellow was
fast
.

While the townspeople gaped, Birdie wheeled the cart around and drove back to the lighthouse full throttle, the pastor's head bobbing from the back bench. As they pulled away, comments erupted from various sources.

“What in the world?”

“Must be a problem.”

“Did she say Salt or one of the kids?”

“Salt.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“His heart, do you think?”

“You never know. The man
is
seventy.”

Forgetting food for the moment, Edith took off for the lighthouse at a fast walk. Win might need her help. She half walked, half jogged to Puffin Cove, pausing twice to catch her breath.

If this didn't count as aerobic exercise, she didn't know what would.

When she reached the lighthouse, she rapped on the open door, then stepped inside. Winslow, Birdie, and Dr. Marc were bent over a cot where Salt sat with his hand cupped to his forehead. Edith looked for the children, then spied Bobby and Brittany sitting in beanbag chairs, their eyes wide and worried.

“Stop all this fussin',” the old sea captain grumbled. “Just had a little dizzy spell. Nothing to get upset about.”

Micah came in behind Edith, carrying Dr. Marc's medical bag. After handing the bag to the doctor, he went and sat between the kids.

Dr. Marc gave the old sea captain a kindly smile. “Feeling better now, Salt?”

The old man met the doctor's eyes, and even from a distance Edith could see fear in them. “Got up to pour a cup of coffee. The room spun and down I went.”

The doctor unbuttoned Salt's shirt, then pressed a stethoscope to his chest. “Have you been taking your blood pressure medicine?”

Salt nodded. “I don't think it's my blood pressure.”

“Oh, Salt.” Birdie stood to the side, a wet washcloth in her hand and a helpless look on her face.

Dr. Marc lifted his head and gently addressed his audience. “If you would all be so kind as to wait at the kitchen table, I'll be able to give Captain Gribbon a brief examination.”