A Perfect Love (15 page)

He scratched through the last line, knowing it didn't fit. But what did? Sweet little feet? That rhymed, but didn't seem lofty enough. Tiny little treat? No, nothing little. The love he would feel for his new companion would be anything but small. It would be huge, expansive—

“Ah!” He pressed the pencil to the paper again. “My heart doth pound in rapturous beat, because your love makes my poor life complete.”

There. Satisfied with his poem, he read it aloud three times, then ripped the page off the legal pad, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it toward the garbage can. He had memorized it, and tomorrow night, when his little pet snuggled safely in its pouch against his chest, he would whisper it through the night.

Snatching the sleeping mask off her eyes, Cleta bolted upright up in bed. The fluorescent hands of the bedside clock stood at one o'clock. She tensed, listening to a rumble and creaking that could only be
someone rushing up her stairs at ninety miles to nothing.

Beside her, Floyd stirred. “Eh? What's going on?”

“Shush, I don't know—go back to sleep. Must be Winslow using the bathroom. But you'd think a body would try to be a little quieter when using someone else's toilet in the middle of the night.”

“Sounds like a herd of buffalo.” Floyd rolled over, and a minute later a snore rolled from his mouth.

Land almighty. Sinking back to her pillow, Cleta snapped her eye mask back into place.

An hour and a half later, Cleta met Barbara at the kitchen window, blinking heavy eyes as they watched a weakened Winslow shuffle away across the graveled church parking lot, the ties of his bathrobe flapping, his hairy legs stuffed in corduroy house shoes as he shuffled toward the parsonage. Meanwhile, upstairs, the pipes sang as a toilet flushed in another part of the house—her own bedroom, Cleta guessed, from the sound of it. If so, this was the fourth time Floyd had made an urgent trip to the necessary room.

“What is going on?” Barbara asked. “Who keeps slamming the doors?”

“Land, I don't know. Something must have upset their stomachs. Just go back to bed, hon.”

Cleta tried to follow her own advice, but at three-thirty, Floyd reared out of bed and lunged toward the bathroom, nearly tripping in flight. The door slammed, jarring the old house.

Cleta sat up. “Floyd?”

A few minutes later he emerged, one hand pressed to his abdomen. “Stomach feels a little queasy—” He dropped off to sleep before he finished the complaint.

The man could sleep through the Second Coming.

Cleta was awakened—well, the whole household was awakened—four more times before she gave up and got dressed just before dawn. Out of curiosity, she peered out a western window toward the mercantile, and through the darkness saw a light burning on the third floor.

So—either Stanley had taken to sleeping with a light on, or he'd been up and down all night, too.

She staggered into the kitchen and flipped on the light, feeling as if she'd been caught in a wringer. She'd never spent a more miserable night. She plugged in the coffeemaker, then padded through the foyer. When she opened the front door, a whiff of chilly air slapped her in the face.

Colder than yesterday, a mite. The unexpected thaw couldn't last much longer.

Winslow Wickam was lucky. If he had ruined his bathroom a week or two later, he'd be running around in the dark in weather cold enough to freeze two dry rags together.

She bent down to pick up the paper. The dedicated newspaper boat servicing all the Maine islands ran in all weather but a full gale, and Cleta marveled that anybody could function in full dark. Must be a special kind of person to thrive before 5 AM; she had never gotten the hang of it.

Her hand closed around the morning news, then she went back into the house, letting the door close behind her.

Chapter Six

A
little after sunup, Micah rounded the corner of the B&B and found Stanley Bidderman hunched in the porch swing and swathed in blankets. The man looked as pale as parchment.

Concerned, the gardener climbed the steps, eying the sick man. “Stanley?”

“A . . . yuh.” He stuttered the greeting over chattering teeth.

“Goodness, man, why are you sitting out here at this time of the morning?”

Stanley hung his head. “Vernie said I was keeping her up, so I left. I . . . I can't afford to have her mad at me, not now.”

“Are you ill?”

The man nodded. “Must have been something I ate— that Po' Boy sandwich or something.” He shuddered. “I can still taste the kraut.”

“Come over to my place. I'll fix you some coffee and you can get warm.”

Micah helped Stanley up from the swing and steered him across the porch and down the steps. A few moments later they were sitting at the gardener's kitchen table watching the sun gild the morning sky.

Micah poured hot water into a cup and added a spoonful of honey and a tea bag. While the drink steeped, the two men talked. Stanley told the gardener about Vernie and all the years they'd been apart. He said he'd been fool- ish to leave. He'd gone searching for a rose when he had an orchid in his own backyard.

Micah listened, slowly stirring his tea as Stanley poured out his heart. “I'm afraid too much time has passed,” Stanley finished. “I realized my mistake too late.”

“You fear she will never forgive you?”

He nodded. “She says she forgives me, but forgetting is another matter altogether. My failure will always be in her mind, and I can't do anything to erase it. She's made a life for herself, a good life, and she doesn't need me in it.” He looked away, and Micah studied his profile. Stanley's features were pasty and drawn in the early morning light.

Stanley whispered, as though he were speaking more to himself than to Micah. “Vernie's rough on the exterior, but she has a heart of gold. I was a fool. I didn't appreciate her before.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

Stanley closed his eyes. “I've made more than my share.”

Micah set his spoon on the table. “Do you believe in God, Stanley?”

Stanley tilted his head. “I suppose so. As a child I believed in lots of things, including God, but faith became harder when I grew up. Sometimes I wonder if it's all a myth. One thing I know for sure—God has no reason to believe in me.”

Micah lifted a brow. “His grace is not sufficient to cover all your mistakes?”

Stanley shook his head. “I sound like an atheist, don't I? I know we're not to rely on feelings, but sometimes emotions are alst I have left. I feel so bad about my mistakes that I can't believe God would have me.”

Micah rested his hand on the man's shoulder. “We are given free will, Stanley, so it's not surprising that men make wrong choices. Every man, woman, and child makes mistakes. Only through grace are humans restored to fellowship with God.” His gaze met Stanley's and held it captive. “Grace is a marvelous thing.”

“Say again?”

“If men were to rely only on their own efforts to reach heaven, they really would be in a pickle, wouldn't they?”

The mention of food seemed to make Stanley grow paler. He clutched at the edge of the table, then leaned forward, his face twisted in an expression of pained concentration. “May I?”

The angel pointed. “It's that way.”

Lurching from his chair, Stanley disappeared down the hall, then slammed the bathroom door.

Micah chuckled in quiet sympathy, then leaned back in his chair, sipped his coffee, and lifted his gaze to the window. The day outside was glorious, another testament to the Father's grace and mercy. The citizens of Heavenly Daze ought to have been buried in snow and ice by now, yet few of them had stopped to consider that God had allowed them a respite. Fewer still had thought to wonder why. The good weather was a gift, pure and simple. Just like grace.

Micah smiled as his thoughts returned to Stanley Bidderman. God's grace was more than sufficient to cover sin, but a mortal man's mistakes often rose up to haunt him. Stanley and Vernie had wasted many years, and they would waste even more if they continued to look back instead of moving forward. Cleta was also looking back—longing for the days when her daughter had been truly dependent. That sincere woman needed to cut
the strings that bound her to the past and seek God's will for her future.

What was it about humankind that made them yearn for the opposite of God's good plan for them? God had given them two weeks of splendid weather; they muttered about the snow and ice to come. They complained about loneliness, then spent their time in activities that corrupted the soul and proved insatiably addictive. Two years ago Cleta had become hooked on soap operas, and that addiction had nearly cost her the friendship of every woman on the island. And though she knew the danger of daytime drama addiction, still she allowed her daughter to watch the silly shows, knowing that the habit kept Barbara close to home.

Humans squandered things of eternal value and hoarded worthless, temporary baubles. They wept buckets over silly fictional movies, and found it difficult to sustain a dull ache for the terrible tragedies of real people's lives. They found ten minutes of prayer tedious, yet wasted hours surfing the World Wide Web and watching television.

They yearned for God, but the God they sought was a safe, grandfatherly deity who would send them good weather and keep them safe as they went about their daily business. Few of them realized that the God they cajoled in prayer wasn't grandfatherly at all, and he was certainly not safe. The sovereign God of heaven and earth was a consuming fire, and his overriding purpose for men and women was not safety or comfort, but holiness . . .

Micah's heart softened as he prayed for Barbara and Russell, two dear children who struggled to find and follow the Lord's will. God had promised to provide and care for them, but presently they were choosing to live a safe life rather than an obedient one. Barbara had allowed fear to blind and bind her, and that same fear would prevent her from discovering all the blessings God had allotted for her.

Micah shook his head.

His dear charges, the occupants of the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast, had much to learn about walking in faith and light.

Trying to appear as though he hadn't a care in the world, Buddy Franklin whistled as he stepped into the mercantile, then checked his watch. High noon, and no sign yet of the ferry or a Federal Express package. Fortunately, the temperature was above freezing, so his sweet little sugar glider wouldn't freeze his stripes off if he were stuck in a truck somewhere in Ogunquit.

“Can I help you, Buddy?” This from Elezar, who stepped out from behind the counter.

“Um, ayuh. Whatever.” Buddy looked around for Vernie, then sighed in relief when he didn't see her. Seemed like that woman knew everything that went on in Heavenly Daze, and Buddy didn't want word of his special pet getting out—at least not yet. He'd have to judge Dana's mood before he could let her know about his new addition, and he knew he'd have to get through at least a couple of months with her not knowing before he'd be able to prove he could have a pet without bothering her in the least.

Elezar craned his neck to look around Buddy. “Butchie didn't come with you this morning?”

“Naw. Butchie stayed home.” Buddy stepped closer to the store clerk and lowered his voice. “I need something, you see, and I don't want Vernie knowing about it. My sister, either.”

Elezar's eyes crinkled at the corners. “I can keep a secret, Buddy.”

“Good.” Buddy edged closer. “I'm looking for a little bottle, the kind of thing you'd hang in a hamster's cage.”

Elezar nodded. “I think you're in luck. We have a few pet supplies in a drawer in the back, and seems to me we got in a few hamster-type things back when Georgie Graham was talking about gerbils.”

He turned and walked toward the rear of the store. “You thinking about getting a hamster, Buddy?”

Buddy followed the clerk. “No.”

“Well, then.” Stooping, Elezar bent before a dusty shelf and pulled out a box. “Here we have an assortment of small rodent toys—a little ceramic dish for food, a wheel, and—ayuh, here's a water bottle.”

Eyeing the toys, Buddy said, “If I get some of those things, you promise you won't say anything to Vernie?”

Elezar shook his head. “She won't even know they're gone until someone else comes in here looking for them. The odds of that are pretty slim.”

“OK.” Buddy pointed to the box. “I'll take the little dish, the bottle, and . . . well, ayuh, give me the wheel too. I don't know if I'll need it, but you never know.”

Elezar lifted a dark brow. “Not a hamster, huh? Thinking of getting a gerbil?”

“Um, no.”

“A mouse?”

“No.”

Elezar made a face. “Don't tell me you're getting a rat!”

Buddy managed a grin. “No.”

Elezar's smile faded. “Don't tell me you've already caught a rat.”

Buddy shook his head. “No, and I gotta go, OK?”

Elezar stood. “Shall I put this on Dana's tab?”

Buddy was about to nod, then realized that certainly wouldn't work. Dana examined her receipts with an eagle eye. “No, I'll pay cash.”

Elezar's eyes widened to the point that Buddy feared they'd fall out of his head, then he grinned and led the way to the counter. Buddy forked over the money quickly, lest Vernie come down the stairs and catch him in a cash transaction, then he stuffed his purchases inside his coat and left the mercantile, whistling as casually as he could.

Still cloaked in a residual fog of Bad Mood, Dana knocked on the door to Buddy's apartment, then grunted in relief when he didn't answer. Pushing the door open with her hip, she stepped into the room, then blinked in amazement when she saw her birdcage, nicely cleaned, standing in the corner.