The Island of Heavenly Daze (13 page)

She gave him a tentative smile. “Are you here for the tourist season?”

“I'm the island doctor.”

“Oh.” She wiped her hands on her thighs again to make sure they were clean. “I'm Annie Cuvier. Nice to meet you, Doctor.”

The doctor lifted a brow. “Not
de
Cuvier?”

“Not for my dad. He thought de Cuvier sounded . . . pretentious.”

“Well, unpretentious Annie, the pleasure is mine.” The two shook hands.

Annie glanced toward the kitchen. Times really must be hard for Olympia to let a total stranger live so close to her precious home. “I didn't realize Aunt Olympia rented that place out.”

The doctor's eyes appraised his quarters with an agreeable smile. “I'm a lucky man. The cottage is comfortable, and spacious enough to suit my needs.” His friendly gaze turned to the spindly plants. “Gardening so late in the year?”

Annie explained her project.

“Tomatoes that will grow and produce in a cold climate? That's quite a feat, young lady.”

“That's what my colleagues say. The test plants have done well in controlled studies, but this fall will be the proof of the pudding.”

“Then you plan to spend some time in Heavenly Daze?”

Annie turned, studying the rows of tomatoes. “I'm leaving Monday. I'll ask Caleb to oversee the project and report the results to me. I thought about raising the plants on the rooftop of my walk-up in Portland, but Portland isn't as exposed as Heavenly Daze. This place is perfect.” She frowned slightly. “For the plants, at least.”

“Well, I'm sure Caleb will be delighted to help you,” the doctor said. “A finer man I've never met—he's practically too good to be true.” He hesitated. “Don't let me keep you from your work.”

“Thanks.” Annie smiled and knelt to continue her planting. “I do need to get these in.”

“How is your uncle this morning?”

Annie pictured the wasted man lying upstairs and sighed. “Not so well, I'm afraid.”

The doctor's features sobered. “Cancer is an ugly thing to witness, especially in the later stages.”

She handed him a stack of empty containers, which he accepted without comment. “Are you Uncle Edmund's doctor?” she asked.

“Actually, I'm not. I retired from my practice and moved to the island nearly seven years ago. I have a few pieces of equipment here—an X-ray machine and a small lab for routine blood work and emergencies. I've kept my license up-to-date, so I can give flu shots and prescribe medications. Mostly I stitch a few cuts and lance a boil here and there.”

He moved with Annie down the row, taking another container from her hand and adding it to the stack he carried. “Anything more serious than minor first aid I refer to Ogunquit doctors. But I'm in daily contact with your uncle's doctor, and I administer his morphine.” His eyes softened. “I can assure you that he is as comfortable as medically possible.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I'm sure Aunt Olympia is grateful.”

Annie looked in her box and found it empty—all thirty tomato plants were in the ground. Surprised that the work had gone so quickly, she stood up to meet the eyes of her new friend.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Certainly. What's on your mind?”

She slipped her hands in her pockets and lowered her gaze. “Is there anything I can do, financially I mean, to help pay you for your services? I have this feeling that my aunt and uncle are a little strapped for—''

“I don't charge for my services, Annie. I could never repay all that I've been given, and helping these island folk is the least I can do.”

Annie blushed. “Well. The world could use a few more souls like you. Is there any other way I can repay you?” She grinned. “How about in tomato currency?”

He smiled slyly. “Actually, I can think of something you can do for me. You're single, right?”

Annie cocked her head, eyeing him warily. Had she misread what she interpreted as common kindness? Was he coming on to her?

“Yes,” she said slowly, “I am single, but I'm not really looking.”

The doctor took his turn to blush. “Oh my goodness, I guess I should clarify that inquiry. I was thinking of my son. He's about your age, and single, too—”

Holding up her hand, Annie laughed. “Thank you, Doctor, but I'm perfectly happy with my marital status at the moment.”

He broke into good-natured laughter. “Well, shame on me for trying to play matchmaker. Where are my manners?”

“No apologies necessary.” Annie scooped up a handful of dirt and patted it around the base of a plant. “How much does your son make in a year?”

The doctor's smile faded. “His salary?”

Snickering, Annie continued with the absurd defense she adopted when well-meaning friends tried to marry her off.

“Actually, I suppose that's rude of me. What kind of a car does he drive? Porsche? BMW? I love Mercedes. Black ones. I favor convertibles, but honestly, that wouldn't be a deciding factor.” Sitting back on her heels, she grinned at the startled doctor. “But salary definitely has the edge.”

A chuckle escaped the older man. “Touché, young lady. Touché.”

“Seriously, Doctor,” Annie said, removing her gloves with her teeth, “if your son is anything like you, any woman would be delighted to go out with him. I'm not in the market for romantic adventures.” She pointed to the three new rows of plants, the only company she had time for these days. “Between the plants and my job, I'm lucky I have the energy to breathe, much less date. When these little fellas start producing fruit,” she lovingly patted a plant, “then I'll think about relationships.”

“So you're saying there's a chance?” the doctor teased.

“Come away from that window, Caleb. She's twenty-eight years old and she doesn't need a chaperone.”

Caleb let the curtain drop and turned back to his pan of bacon. “You're too hard on her, Missy. She's a good girl.”

“She isn't a girl, Caleb, and you're too soft on her. I can see why the good Lord never saw fit to give you children. You'd spoil them shamelessly.”

“Perhaps. But isn't that a little bit of what children are for?”

Olympia humphed, then continued to rummage through the stack of mail on the kitchen table. Sunlight streamed through the window by the breakfast nook, brightening the cozy cubicle. When her stomach grumbled impatiently, Caleb pretended not to notice.

Suddenly the pile of mail dropped to the table with a heavy slap. Caleb turned, fork suspended in midair. Olympia's chair squeaked across the floor as she got up, then, a moment later, papers rustled from the parlor.

The daily scavenger hunt. She'd come in and out of the kitchen at least two more times before she'd stoop to asking for his help.

“May I help you?” he asked, cutting the game short as she came back into the kitchen.

Mumbling under her breath, Olympia squinted at the cabinets. “I can't find my glasses.”

The servant discreetly brought his hand to his throat, then nodded toward the gold chain hanging around her neck.

“Oh . . . fiddle. Who put those there?” Sighing, Olympia perched her glasses on her nose and sat down, reaching for the morning paper. “Getting old is no fun.”

Caleb chuckled. In earthly time he topped her by a few years. The gray in his hair was growing more pronounced, his hearing was slipping, and he had to put on his glasses just to find his slippers beside the bed. His back ached, and last week Doctor Marc informed him that he had fallen arches.

But he couldn't complain. That was part of the arrangement, all part of God's plan. The seven resident angels couldn't live in immortal bodies without attracting unwanted and unwarranted attention to themselves, so their bodies aged just like humans'. In the fullness of time, when it pleased the Lord, the angel was called up to the third heaven and allowed to renew himself before returning once again to his place of service.

In more than two hundred years, no Heavenly Daze human had ever realized that they were surrounded by living, breathing miracles of love and grace.

After arranging two soft-boiled eggs, one strip of turkey bacon, one slice of unbuttered wheat toast, and a dollop of blueberry jam on Olympia's chipped china, Caleb served her brunch.

“That looks very nice, Caleb. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Missy.” He picked up a silver percolator and poured a cup of steaming black coffee, to which he added one teaspoon of skim milk and a half-teaspoon of sugar, not exactly how she liked it.

He set the coffee before her. “You have an appointment for your yearly checkup this afternoon.”

“I'm not going.”

Caleb continued as if he hadn't heard. “I'll ask Annie to go with you. It'll give you two ladies time to catch up on all the news.”

“What news? Nothing ever happens in Heavenly Daze, and Annie won't tell me anything that goes on in Portland.” Olympia shook out the financial section. “I suppose I wouldn't want to know if she did. No telling what kind of trouble that girl gets into in that big city.”

“She couldn't be in much trouble,” Caleb reasoned. “She's busy with her job.”

“Ayuh, so she says. Busy, busy, busy. That's what's wrong with young people today, always busy. I was busy when I was Annie's age, but that didn't excuse me from family responsibilities. I was able to pick up a phone and call; I could write a letter once a week. That's what's wrong with young people today—''

Caleb gently interrupted her. “Eat, Missy, before it gets cold.”

“I'm not going to the doctor,” she repeated. “This is Saturday. There isn't a doctor worth his salt working on Saturday anymore. In my day, they worked when they were needed, none of this—'' “Now, Missy, you know you must. And if Doctor Merritt is willing to give of his time on Saturdays to offer free senior physicals, the least you can do is give him someone to see.” He freshened her coffee. “I'm thinking pork chops for supper. Does that sound good to you?”

“Hamburgers,” Olympia corrected.

“Now, Missy, the doctor says—''

“No red meat,” she mocked. “Honestly, Caleb. Doctor Merritt will have me soon eating cardboard and water.”

“See?” He smiled with genuine tolerance. “Aren't my world-famous pork chops better than cardboard and water? Pork is a white meat.”

“Hummmpt. World-famous? Last time we had pork chops they were tough and half raw. You'll give us all worms. But if I can't have red meat, I want lots of gravy—maybe some of those nice parsley potatoes and string beans.”

“Certainly. It would be my pleasure.”

When had he ever served undercooked pork? Never, but when Olympia was in one of her moods . . .

Convinced he'd diverted the conversation, he set a plate aside for Annie, then asked, “Have you heard how Cleta's church project is coming along?”

“I wouldn't know. No one tells me a blooming thing.” Olympia riffled through the paper, tossing the Ogunquit section to the floor.

Caleb smiled as he thought of the Heavenly Daze minister. All of the angels had noticed that the portrait seemed to shock him, though none of them could say why. Gavriel thought Pastor Wickam might be sensitive about losing his hair, though Caleb couldn't imagine why any human would care about a mere physical shell when the spirit was so much more important.

“I wonder if they'll keep the portrait where it is?”

Caleb had assumed that the portrait placement would be a simple matter, but Gavriel had expressed concern about possible dissension in the church body. Guided by Doctor Marc (who had quietly funded the purchase of the portrait), Micah had hung the frame next to the picture of Jacques de Cuvier, but Birdie Wester and Beatrice Coughlin thought it would be more appropriate to hang Pastor Wickam's portrait opposite the painting of Captain de Cuvier.

Actually, Olympia would be the best judge of such matters, but because of her increasing rudeness to the other island ladies, few would consult Olympia these days. Pity.

With an affectionate sidelong glance, he admired his charge. If only she knew she was appreciated . . . these difficult days would be easier.

If only she would hold her sharp tongue.

He sighed. Olympia's harshness kept everyone at arm's length, and poor Annie, the one who needed Olympia's approval most, would certainly never come back to the island once Edmund was finally promoted.

Olympia lowered the paper to stare at her half-eaten meal. “There's no butter on my toast. Caleb, you know I enjoy butter on my toast.”

“You aren't allowed butter. Doctor Marc says your cholesterol is a bit high.”

“Well, what does he know? Honestly. You'd think since he lived in my guesthouse he'd be more considerate.”

“Now, Missy. Doctor Marc pays you handsomely for the use of the cottage. Have you forgotten?”