A Perfect Love (18 page)

Dana dropped her copy of the morning newspaper as Mike entered the kitchen dressed in dark jeans, a flannel shirt, and his nicest down jacket. The outfit was some different from the tattered sweatshirt and sweatpants he usually wore to work at the computer.

She lifted a brow. “Going somewhere?”

Mike moved to the coffeepot without looking at her. “Thought I'd go over to Ogunquit—Russell said he'd drop me over there when he heads out this morning.”

Dana glanced at the clock—nine o'clock. With the ferry's restricted winter schedule, if Mike didn't return on the noon ferry she wouldn't see him until six-thirty, well past dark.

She swallowed the sudden rise of anxiety in her throat. “Will you be back for lunch?”

“Should be. Do you need anything from town?”

Dana shook her head.

“OK, then.” Mike brought his steaming coffee mug to the table, dropped in two teaspoonfuls of sugar, then paused to kiss the top of her head. “Catch you later. If I don't make the noon ferry, I'll try to hitch a ride with another boat.”

She gulped as he left the kitchen, then she leaned sideways to peer around the wall and watch him in the hallway. He paused at the door, picked up a bulging manila folder, then stepped out into the cold.

Groaning, Dana straightened in her chair and lifted her coffee mug. Some bit of mischief was afoot, had to be, and folks said the wife was always the last to know. Last night she'd come downstairs and paused outside the dining room while Mike was supposed to be working on his auctions, but he wasn't on the computer. He was on the phone, speaking in low tones, and employing that self-conscious, hyperpolite voice he always used when he talked to a woman. He had laughed softly, and she'd caught the words, “I'm Mike,” and “tomorrow morning?” Then he had murmured several things she didn't catch before he closed with, “Thanks so much. Can't wait till tomorrow.”

Now the pieces settled into place with an almost-audible click. Like Buddy, Mike had met someone on the Internet. Except Mike's someone lived nearby, maybe even in Ogunquit, and he was on his way to meet her.

Pushing back from the table, Dana ran to the front door and threw it open, then stepped out onto the porch. Mike was already at the dock, greeting Russell Higgs as his dory bobbed next to the dock. The
Barbara Jean
was anchored at a distance, out of the ferry's way.

“Mike!” she called, but the rising wind snatched her words and carried them in the opposite direction. She thought about running to the dock after him, but what would that do, besides give her neighbors something to gossip about? If he wanted to go meet some woman in Ogunquit . . .

She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. Maybe this was innocent, harmless. After all, she knew her husband, and Mike was as constant and faithful as a flowing river . . . but sometimes rivers dried up.

Closing her eyes to trap the sudden rush of tears, Dana turned and walked back into the house. Yakov was standing in the kitchen when she returned, so she moved woodenly past him toward the laundry room, not wanting him to see her quivering chin.

“Shalom aleichem,” he called cheerily.

Unable to speak, Dana waved at him over her shoulder, then closed the laundry-room door. Pulling a load of dirty clothes from the hamper, she dropped them at her feet, then reached for one of Mike's dark T-shirts and used it to blow her nose.

Served him right.

She stuffed the shirt into the washer, then picked up his jeans. “What's wrong with me?” she whispered, bewildered by the currents of jealousy and fear raging through her. Mike had been working too hard, true, but he'd never given her any reason to think he was interested in another woman. How could he have time for an affair? He scarcely made time for his wife!

Then, searching for stray change, she thrust her hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a slip of paper bearing a name and number: Jodi Standish, 555-4983, 321 Shore Road.

Shore Road was in Ogunquit. Jodi, spelled with an
i,
was a woman's name.

Weeping in earnest now, Dana sank into the pile of dirty laundry and watered it with her tears.

In the mercantile, Vernie rose from a crouch, her knees protesting. She turned to Elezar. “It's driving me nuts. Why in the world did Olympia need five cans of black olives? Is she having a party? She hasn't said anything, and I haven't gotten an invitation—”

“Vernie,”
Elezar said, his voice patient and calm. “Caleb hasn't mentioned a party, and I'm sure he would have if that were the case.”

“Then why in the world would an older woman need five cans of black olives? They're not rich in hormones, for heaven's sake.”

Elezar shook his head. “Maybe she just doesn't want to run out of black olives. If I may remind you, you ran out of nutmeg last month. Perhaps Olympia has learned the value of stockpiling.”

Vernie made a face. “Is there an olive shortage?”

At that moment the bell above the door jangled. Vernie shifted her attention to her new customer, and grinned as Floyd approached.

“Floyd, you know anything about black olives?”

“Naw, can't say I do. They give me heartburn.” He shucked off his gloves and dropped them on the counter. “Been over to the parsonage, even though I'm feelin' a mite queasy. That place looks like a bomb hit it.”

Vernie leaned forward. “Do tell!”

Floyd chuckled. “Well, the bathroom's destroyed, but you knew that. And it seems that the boys tried to replas-ter the hole in the wall, and they tracked plaster dust all through Edith's parlor and dining room. Then they dripped wet plaster—they got the mix a little too runny, to my way of thinkin'—and it ran down into the baseboards. Then one of those geniuses poured the runny mix into the sink, thinkin' Edith wouldn't notice, and it done set up and blocked all their pipes. Now they don't even have sink water. Edith is fit to be tied; she's sleepin' in the guest bedroom. And those baseboards are stuck to the wall tighter than a tongue to a frozen pump handle, and those guys are still feeling sick, to boot! They run in there just long enough to mess something up worse, then they have to trot over to our place for an emergency bathroom run—”

“Sounds like you could use some prayer,” Elezar offered.

“Ayuh, 'cause it'll take a gall-durned miracle to get that place back in operation. Cleta says I should just take over, but—” he winked at Vernie, “it's been too much fun watching 'em tear things up.”

“Floyd,” Vernie scolded. “That's not very Christian. Those people are hurtin'.”

Floyd giggled. “Ain't it the truth?”

All three heads turned as the doorbells jangled again. Buddy Franklin came through the doorway and stood, staring at all three of them with an open mouth.

The silence lengthened.

“Mornin', Buddy,” Vernie said. “Something I can do for you?”

Buddy cleared his throat. “I'll just browse for a minute.”

Vernie rolled her eyes. Under her breath, she muttered, “Watch him—he's going to go back there and read all those Superman comics before Georgie gets a shot at 'em.”

Elezar jerked his head toward the back of the room. “I'll go see if I can help him.”

Vernie and Floyd chatted about the amazing weather for a minute, then Elezar reappeared with Buddy in tow.

“Um,” the corner of Elezar's mouth twitched, a sure sign he was trying not to laugh. “Buddy has an unusual request. He asked me to order them, but I told him you placed all the orders.”

Vernie looked straight at Buddy. “What can I do ya for, Buddy?”

The lanky young man scratched at his neck. “Um, I need a box.”

“A box of what?”

“Biscuits.”

“Biscuits? They come in a can. Unless you want Bisquick, which comes in a box—”

His face brightened. “Do monkeys eat it?”

Vernie looked at Floyd. “Well, that's a matter of opinion. But I'm guessin' they don't.” She turned back to Buddy. “You have a monkey?”

“Nope. But I want monkey biscuits. A box of 'em.”

Vernie looked at Elezar. “Smell his breath, please.”

Elezar grinned. “He's sober, Vernie.”

“I want monkey biscuits.” The boy's eyes flashed with the most fire she'd ever seen in them.

“Why,” she choked, “do you want monkey biscuits?”

He paused. “I like 'em.”

“Do tell!” She gaped at Elezar. “Are you sure they
make
monkey biscuits?”

“I know they do,” Buddy replied, pulling himself to his full six feet and something inches. “And I want you to order a box for me. Please.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the mercantile, his head held high. Vernie, Floyd, and Elezar stared after him, waiting a full thirty seconds before breaking into hysterical gales of laughter.

Wiping her eyes, Vernie said, “That's the funniest thing I've ever heard.”

Elezar caught her wrist. “You are going to order them, aren't you?”

“Why should I?”

“Because it's a legitimate request.”

She coughed out another laugh, then nodded. “Ayuh. All right, gentlemen. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go try and find a monkey bakery.”

After lunch, Buddy stacked the last of his gathered driftwood against the wall, and then shoved another log into the firebox. The driftwood, bleached dry by the sun and wind, burned hot and bright, and heat poured from the woodstove. Roxy had awakened from her nap, and now her chocolate-brown eyes peered above the rim of the pouch, watching him.

“Good afternoon,” Buddy called, shrugging out of his flannel shirt as perspiration beaded on his forehead. “Did you have a nice nap?”

The little animal rose up further, then propped her dainty hands on the edge of her pouch, delighting Buddy. Moving slowly so he wouldn't frighten her, Buddy reached into the cage and unhooked the string, then lifted it out. Roxy retreated into the bag as it swung through the air, but she didn't protest when he slipped the long string around his neck and let the pouch dangle before his chest.

Wearing the pouch like a necklace, he moved to the mirror propped on his dresser. “Look there,” he said, pointing to the mirror. “You and me, Roxy. What a team we make.”

And lo and behold if the little creature didn't pop up to look, and seem fascinated by its reflection. Roxy's catlike ears twitched toward the mirror, and her black eyes widened in what looked like surprise. Buddy watched, grinning, until the animal looked away, then he gingerly walked to his bed and stretched out, letting the small bag settle against his chest.

For the next hour, as Roxy gained the courage to venture out of her fabric nest and pad around on his undershirt-clad chest, Buddy folded his hands behind his head and sang all the sea songs he could recall from his childhood and Navy days.

Back in the house, Dana went about her housekeeping and vacillated between hope and despair. Ayuh, Mike was seeing another woman; no, there had to be a good reason for his odd visit to Ogunquit.

Then an idea struck her.

Moving into the computer room, she picked up the telephone extension on the dining room table. She'd never been tempted to spy on her husband, but Babette Graham had once taught her a little trick that might come in handy now. By punching in a certain code, Babette had said, you could make your phone redial the last number that had been dialed on that particular extension.

Dana picked up the slim receiver and stared at it. Never before had a phone felt like an instrument of betrayal. After all, she didn't know that Mike had
called this Jodi person. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe that slip of paper with her number was left over from some old job or something. Maybe Jodi Standish was a little old lady who needed her house painted. Dana didn't know that he'd been talking to Jodi last night while he was whispering in this room, but there was one way to know for certain . . .

She punched in the three-digit code, then held the receiver to her ear. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and no one picked up. Then an answering machine came on the line: “Hi, this is Jodi, and I can't come to the phone.” She giggled. “You know what to do. Beep, you're on.”

Dana hung up before the phone could beep.

Mike had called this Jodi person, who didn't sound at all like a grandmother. She didn't even sound married. She sounded young and beautiful and flirtatious.

No wonder Mike had been whispering.

A long, cold twilight with frost in its breath had begun to envelop the island before Yakov's curiosity got the best of him. He'd been packaging art prints in the workroom for several hours, and through the thin wall and heating vents he'd heard Buddy giggling, singing, and crooning in a low voice.

Yakov feared for the man's sanity.

After slapping on the last mailing label, he pulled on his coat, stepped out of the workroom, and walked around to the door of Buddy's apartment. He knocked, then heard a muffled, “Just a minute.” A full three minutes later, Buddy stepped out onto the stoop and closed the door behind him.

Yakov dropped his jaw. The thermometer on the back porch read twenty degrees, but Dana's brother wore cutoff denim shorts, a sweaty tank top, and absolutely nothing else. Yakov's gaze fell. Buddy Franklin had hairy legs, as hairy as Esau's. Who'd have guessed?

He blinked. Angels weren't often surprised by the sons of men, but this—

He lifted his gaze to meet Buddy's. “It is twenty degrees.”

“Ayuh.” Buddy wiped a film of sweat from his brow, then jerked his thumb toward the door. “It's about ninety in there.”

“Why?” Yakov tried to peer into the apartment, but Buddy blocked the window with his lanky body.

Buddy shivered suddenly. “I, um, did it for you, man. Dana said you were freezing in the workroom, since there's no heat. Well—you were warm today, weren't you?”