Hearts at Home (27 page)

No wonder Stroble insisted upon only three ferry runs per day in the off-season.

Shadows were settling beneath the trees as he trudged toward the church, but lights glowed in the old building's stained-glass windows.

He opened the door and walked through the vestibule, where painted portraits of Captain Jacques de Cuvier and Winslow Wickam peered down at him. In the sanctuary beyond, Salt and Birdie, Bobbie and Brittany, Cleta and Stanley stood at the front. Vernie sat on the front pew, across from Bea at the ivories.

Floyd lingered in the doorway, figuring Cleta would have his head if he interrupted the rehearsal. Bea caught sight of him, though, and slipped away from the piano.

“Floyd?” she asked, approaching. “What are you doing here this late in the day?”

Floyd shrugged and clasped his hands. “I'm here to talk to the pastor.”

Bea's eyes narrowed. “If it's about the ferry, it can wait. He's busy.”

Floyd bristled. “It's not about the ferry
.
And I'm perfectly willing to wait.”

Her hand rose to her hip. “Then what
is
it about?

We're in the middle of a rehearsal.”

He crossed his arms. “None of your business, Beatrice. You just go about your piano playing and leave me in peace. This thing can't take much longer, so I'll sit here and wait.”

“Hmmpf.” Bea whirled away and went back to her piano bench, but not before pecking the pastor on the shoulder and jerking her thumb toward Floyd. Winslow nodded, murmured a few more things to Salt and Birdie, then held up his hands and announced that he'd see them all tomorrow at four o'clock.

Leaving the wedding party to gab about last-minute details, the pastor excused himself and proceeded down the aisle. He greeted Floyd with a smile. “Something up, Floyd?”

The mayor twisted the brim of his captain's hat. “Maybe—but we ought to talk in private.”

Floyd glanced around. The church had no office, only the sanctuary and the fellowship hall.

“Shall we go to the parsonage?” Winslow asked.

Floyd hesitated. “Maybe the fellowship hall would be better.”

Winslow gave him a curious look, but said nothing as he led Floyd toward the stairs.

A few minutes later they sat at a long folding table. Winslow's eyes shone with frank curiosity. “Tell me what's on your mind, friend.”

Floyd scratched the edge of his thumbnail. “I know something I think you ought to know—but I don't want you thinking that I'm sticking my nose in where it don't belong.”

The pastor leaned back in his chair. “I won't think that. And I'm here to offer assistance if one of our people needs it. So—” he leaned closer—“who needs help?”

“Edith.”

Winslow smile faded.
“My
Edith?”

“Ayuh. I think she's in trouble.”

Winslow paled, coming halfway out of his seat. “What do you mean, trouble? Is she sick?” He glanced toward the door as if he might have to make a hasty exit.

“I think she will be if she keeps this up.”

As Winslow stared in disbelief, Floyd told the story of Edith's grocery trips and her surreptitious deposits in the public restrooms. “I know that box was full of meal replacement drinks because I recognized one of the cans. Barbara drinks those things ever now and then. They don't seem to do her a lick of good.”

Winslow sank back into his chair. “Edith wouldn't do anything so foolhardy—she promised me she would lose weight sensibly.”

“Aw, Pastor, you know women and their weight. None of 'em are sensible when it comes to dieting. But I thought you ought to know your wife was looking a mite streaked this morning.” Slapping his hands on his thighs, Floyd stood up. “Well, I've got to be getting home. Cleta's making goulash tonight.”

Obviously preoccupied with the bombshell he had just dropped, Winslow nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Floyd paused before heading out the side door. “Don't mean to cause trouble between you and your missus— just thought you ought to know. There's been enough excitement around here lately.”

“Indeed,” Winslow murmured. “Far too much.”

Winslow had intended to go straight home and talk to Edith, but Bea caught him in the sanctuary. After he had spent twenty minutes artfully dodging questions about what Floyd had wanted (Heavens! He couldn't have this story known around town!), the postmistress changed gears and began to talk about how much she'd miss Birdie after the wedding.

In those words Winslow recognized the ring of truth, so for thirty minutes he sat quietly on the front pew while Bea poured out her heart. “I know I shouldn't feel this way, Pastor,” she finished, “but I can't help it.”

That's when Abner Smith appeared. Standing quietly at the back of the sanctuary, he walked forward when Bea began to wind down, then slipped onto the pew and took her hand.

“Miss Bea, it's getting late. Birdie sent me to walk you home.”

Bea turned wide eyes upon him. “Birdie was worried about me?”

“Of course.” Abner smiled when he met Winslow's gaze. “Birdie will always worry about you. You're her sister, and no one can take your place—no more than anyone can take your place in the family of God.”

Bea's face softened in the church's golden lights. “That's a lovely thought, Abner.”

The baker smiled, then lifted Bea to her feet. “Come on home where it's warm. The temperature's falling outside, and Birdie doesn't want you coming down with a cold.”

A little of the glow went out of Bea's face. “She doesn't want me taking sick before the wedding, you mean.”

Abner shook his head. “She didn't mention the wedding. She was only thinking about you.”

Winslow sat quietly as the baker and the postmistress exited the church. The interaction had been simple and casual, but he had the feeling he'd just witnessed a sort of miracle. All the townsfolk had been trying to convince Bea that she wouldn't miss Birdie . . . when what Bea yearned to hear was that Birdie still loved her.

So simple.

He frowned at the memory of his conversation with Floyd. Things wouldn't be so simple at his house. Edith had been sneaking around on him, and it wasn't like her to be deceitful. Other than the occasional Christmas or birthday present, he couldn't think of a single time she'd purposely hidden something from him.

When Winslow finally let himself into the parsonage, he noticed Edith had left the lamp in the kitchen burning. A foil-wrapped plate sat on the counter, with a note:
Here's
your dinner, Win. I ate earlier.

Sure she did.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He and Edith had agreed never to confront each other in the heat of anger, and right now Winslow felt more irritated with his wife than he had ever been. Fad diets were dangerous, and she had promised not to do anything foolish. She had promised him and Dr. Marc, yet she had thought nothing of breaking those promises.

I'm not hungry, Win.

I guess the diet is working! My appetite is finally manageable.

Manageable, my foot! She'd been following every fad under the sun—cabbage soup and high protein, wieners and bananas. He could kick himself for his blindness. He should have noticed her bizarre eating patterns, but Salt's wedding and Olympia's death had distracted him.

Goaded by the realization, he moved into the hall. “Edith!”

No answer. He moved through the dark hall, then passed the guest bedroom. He should cool down before confronting her. Quarreling would upset her, but maybe she needed to be upset. Maybe she needed to see just how foolish she'd become.

The door to their bedroom was closed. He stood in the hall, his palms pressed to the wood, and slowly lowered his forehead to the painted surface. What if he lost Edith? He'd heard of people dying of heart attacks from taking too many diet pills and not drinking enough water. The human body was strong and usually adaptable, but it didn't take much to throw it off kilter.

If he lost Edith . . . he couldn't finish the thought. Their little town had lost too many people lately, and he'd suffered along with those folks. But losing Edith would be like losing half his body. She was his rock; his soul mate. She was the first thing he reached for each morning, and the last person he asked God to bless every night.

He opened the door a crack and peered inside the bedroom's dark interior. When his eyes adjusted, he glimpsed her tousled hair upon the pillow, her form beneath the mounded comforter.

She was either sleeping like the dead—unusual for Edith—or she'd heard him come home and was pretending to sleep.

Deceiving him again.

Wheeling on the ball of his foot, he marched back to the guest room and slammed the door behind him. She must have heard
that,
but still he heard no movement from the master bedroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes, then grabbed a handful of the lacy decorator pillows on the bed and flung them to the floor.

Not once in the winding length of their marriage had he and Edith gone to bed mad at one another.

Tonight would be the exception.

Chapter Twenty-one

E
dith had just tied the scarf under her chin Thursday morning when Winslow stepped into the kitchen wearing nothing but long underwear and an angry expression. He stared at her for a moment, then took a deep breath. “What's with the disguise, Edith?”

She stammered before his hot gaze. “N-n-nothing, Win. I was just going out for a bit of air.”

“Don't lie to me. I know about the diet shakes in the restroom. I know you've been following fad diets when you promised you would eat sensibly.”

Edith felt the room sway around her. Reaching out for the back of a chair, she met her husband's gaze. His face was hotter than a burnt boot.

“Now, Win—”

“Edith Wickam!” He slammed his hand down on the kitchen table “I have
never
been so angry with you.” His mottled face flushed a deeper shade.

As her stomach gnawed at her backbone, Edith went on the defensive. “Who told you about my shakes? Floyd— it had to be big-mouthed Floyd!”

“He's concerned about you, Edith! As am I!”

“He's a gossip! Tell something to that basket, and it's all over town!”

“You're calling our mayor and good friend a gossip? You've lost your
mind,
woman.”

“Have not.” She drew herself up to her full height and smiled. “And I've lost weight. This morning I got into that peach dress—and it looks great. So now I'm done. It's over.”

Winslow obviously didn't appreciate her proclamation of victory. “It's far from over, Edith. You lied to me.”

She felt her smile fade as she looked at him. He was right about that—she had ignored his wishes and warnings and done as she pleased.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, recognizing the pain of betrayal in his eyes. “I thought it'd make you happy.”

His eyes widened. “You thought risking your health would make me
happy?”

“No, of course not. I love you, Winslow. I thought being slim would make you proud of me.”

His eyes locked with hers as a muscle worked in his jaw. Edith wanted to fly into his arms and kiss away the hurt she had caused, but his expression had not softened.

She tried another tactic. “Please, Win, let's not argue on Birdie's wedding day. Tomorrow I promise I'll investigate Pound Pinchers and get myself back on a reasonable eating program.”

“You don't have the willpower. You didn't last on that program two days, did you?”

“I have willpower. You wait, and I'll show you.” She reached out to touch him and he drew back. The gesture broke her heart. “Win . . . don't be mad. I did it for you.”

“Oh, yeah? So you won't mind if I take those cans you stashed in the restroom?”

For a moment her spirit rebelled—those were
her
cans, bought and paid for, and she'd gone through a lot of trouble to transport them—but then she saw the look in Winslow's eye and knew he wouldn't budge.

“Go ahead.” She waved as if the diet shakes meant nothing to her. “Take them. Drink them. Serve them at the wedding reception. I don't care.”

Winslow's head dipped in an abrupt nod. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

She stood, hands on her hips, as he moved toward the front door, then abruptly doubled back toward their bedroom, probably remembering that he wasn't dressed.

She turned toward the sink and clutched the edge of the counter, anger and grief welling within her. Why couldn't a man think like a woman? Why couldn't he understand how and
why
she'd suffered?

She found no answers in the heavy silence, no comfort but the sight of the cookies tucked behind the dish drainer. Sobbing, Edith turned on the faucet, then took out three cookies, chewing and spitting them under the water as tears rained down her cheeks.

She'd show Winslow. If he wanted to see willpower, she'd give him willpower. He had taken her diet shakes, so today she'd eat
nothing
until the wedding reception. There she'd look like a dream in her peach dress, and everyone in town would be pea green with envy.

At noon, Edith opened the parsonage door and peered left and right for a sign of her husband. Winslow hadn't come home since their blowup this morning, and he usually appeared promptly at 11:30 for his lunch.

Not that she'd be eating lunch today—she was going to take a shower and head over to the church to help the ladies decorate, then come home, do her hair, and slip into her peach dress.

With no sign of her husband, she closed the door, then padded to her bedroom. The peach dress, freshly pressed, hung on the back of the bedroom door, ready for the wedding celebration.

She took a moment to finger the silver-spangled lace that would adorn her throat in a few hours. She had never worked so hard for a dress, so wearing it would be extra-special. Once he saw her in it, Winslow would understand.