A Perfect Love (25 page)

Reading it for the fortieth time, Dana wiped tears from her eyes and pressed the book to her chest. Why couldn't men write verses like that anymore? Why couldn't today's men even quote verses like that?

The sweetest thing Mike said to her these days was, “Great dinner, hon,” just before kissing her on the top of the head and rushing back into the dining room to check his eBay auctions. Sometimes he murmured an “I love you,” before falling asleep, but Dana wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to his computer.

On Thursday, Dana washed and curled her hair, dressed in one of her nicest dresses, then slipped into her warmest coat, gloves, and boots. Mike was out in the workroom when she left the house for the short walk to the ferry, and as Captain
Stroble steered the boat through the feather-white sea toward Ogunquit, she tried not to think of her husband at all.

One thought rode uppermost in her mind: She'd bet her last dollar that Basil Caldwell would understand her passion for Robert Herrick.

Waving his hand, Mike sprinted to the dock, but the ferry had already pulled away. He shouted, hoping to draw Stroble's attention, but the captain had the roar of the engine in his ears. Mike was left standing alone on the shore.

Russell Higgs stood on the rocks, one hand in his pocket and a crooked smile on his face. “You're gonna catch it when you get home,” he said, grinning. “Looks like your wife left without you.”

Mike stared at Russell. “Dana was on the ferry?”

“Ayuh. She was all dolled up, so I thought you two were going out together or something. But, like I said, if you've missed her, you're gonna catch it—”

“Russell . . . you weren't needin' to run over to the shore, now, were you?”

“I might.” Russell grinned. “For the price of a hot cider on a cold day like this, I might be talked into a run at Perkins Cove.”

“What are we waitin' on, then?”

Dana felt her heart leap into her throat when she spied Basil Caldwell. The Oarweed restaurant lay just across the parking lot from the ferry landing, and the wind was whipping across the empty space something fierce. The asphalt under her feet was wet with melted snow, and large drifts, piled high by the plow, bordered the area like a frozen fence. But there Basil stood, waiting in the cold wind like a perfect gentleman, looking every inch as prosperous and handsome as his magazine picture.

She hurried across the frigid parking lot, her hands in her pockets and her heart fluttering.

“Dana Franklin,” he said, coming forward to take her gloved hand. “You haven't changed a bit.”

Despite the weather, she felt warmth flood her cheeks. “It's Dana Klackenbush now, and I'm afraid more than the name has changed since I left high school.”

“You still look like a girl of eighteen.”

“That's kind of you, Basil—but I've got to say, you've changed quite a bit. You look much more . . . mature.”

Drop-dead gorgeous, she wanted to say, but didn't.

“Nice of you to say ‘mature,' instead of ‘old.'”

“You're decades away from old.”

“Now you're being kind.”

Dana stood there, her hand in his, wondering at the miracle of it all. Here she was, standing in front of one of the area's best restaurants, with a handsome man who wore a scarf and overcoat (cashmere, from the looks of it) instead of an overstuffed down jacket and flannel-lined jeans.

“Let's not stand out here and freeze,” Basil said, leading her toward the entrance ramp. “There's a blazing fire inside, and I've already reserved the best table.”

Speechless with amazement, Dana could only nod and follow.

As the
Barbara Jean
pulled up to the dock, Mike saw his wife and a strange man walk into the Oarweed.

“That's Dana goin' there, isn't it?” Russell asked, pointing toward the pair. “But who's that other fellow?”

Darned if he knew. But Mike couldn't let on.

“An old friend,” he said, leaping from the boat to the dock. He touched the brim of his cap and waved at Russell. “Thanks for the lift. I'll buy you that hot cider next time we're at the mercantile.”

“Ayuh,” Russell answered, then he threw the throttle into reverse and turned the
Barbara Jean
back out to sea.

Though more than a dozen boats bobbed in the harbor at Perkins Cove, a quiet hush covered the place like a down quilt. Summer sun and balmy breezes brought out the locals and tourists alike, but though the sun shone bright today, the wind cut like a sharp knife through Mike's tattered coat. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he ducked into the wind and jogged toward the restaurant. Upon reaching the ramp, he stopped.

What was he doing? What would Dana think if he burst in and demanded to know what was going on? In three years of marriage she had never given him a moment's worry. He trusted her with his heart, his life, and his checkbook . . . so why shouldn't he trust her in the Oarweed?

Because she'd been awfully distant the last few days . . . and unusually preoccupied. And Mike, who'd always been able to read her like a book, hadn't a clue what had filled her thoughts lately.

Moving away from the ramp, he walked to one of the restaurant windows. Knowing he looked the fool, he bent an evergreen branch on a nearby shrub until it covered his face, then peered through the greenery into the restaurant.

The man, whoever he was, was taking Dana's coat from her shoulders. The sight of his wife in a dress stole Mike's breath—why, she hadn't worn a dress since last fall, and today wasn't even a Sunday! It was a doggone nice dress, too, one that emphasized her creamy complexion and accented her curves . . .

The branch cracked in his hand, snapping Mike to attention. He pulled back, looking askance at the broken greenery, then dropped the branch to the ground and strode away from the restaurant. No sense in getting in trouble with the folks at the Oarweed for manhandlin' their shrubbery . . . and if there was one thing he didn't want, it was to cause a scene in a public place.

He walked toward the ferry office, dazed and shaken, trying to remember why he'd wanted to come to Ogunquit in the first place. Oh, ayuh—he needed another hour, at least, to wrap up his last twenty auctions of the week, and things went so much faster when he used Jodi's cable modem. No question about it, Captain Stroble's granddaughter had been a godsend. The favor she'd done him was worth far more than the five bucks he left on her keyboard every time he visited. Someday, if he ever met her, Mike had half a mind to give her a hug.

The sight of Captain Stroble's ferry office drew Mike like a magnet. Might as well go inside to warm up and calm down. He'd have to call a cab anyway, unless he wanted to walk all the way to Shore Road. Any other month he wouldn't have minded, but January was a terrible time to walk a far piece in the State of Maine.

After taking their orders, the waiter reclaimed the menus and moved away. Beneath the table, Dana rubbed her hands together and reminded herself to act calm no matter how giggly she felt on the inside. Basil Caldwell, after all, was only an old friend from high school, and she was a married woman. Not happily married at the moment, but this unhappiness would pass . . . wouldn't it?

Now she looked into Basil Caldwell's blue eyes and tried to keep the conversation centered on business. “I want to talk to you about the poem.” She squeezed her hands together. “I think I should tell you how I found it—”

“I'd rather talk about you.” As Basil smiled, a mouthful of teeth glistened like a row of polished pearls. “What have you been up to since high school?”

“Not much,” Dana said, distracted by the change of subject. “After graduation, I worked for a while in Wells, then went to college and majored in elementary education. That's where I met Mike, my husband. He bought a house on Heavenly Daze, we got married, and I moved to the island. We've been there three years now, and I run a daycare center during the tourist season. I also run the Heavenly Daze school, and I have three students. We're in the midst of our winter break, but we'll resume classes in April. Then I suspect life will get real busy again when the folks from away start visiting.”

Aware that she was babbling, Dana clamped her mouth shut and reached for her water goblet.

Basil lifted his glass in a salute. “That's an unusual
schedule. Most people vacation in the summer.”

Dana shrugged. “It fits us. The Grahams—their son Georgie is one of my students—need someone to watch him during tourist season, so we hold classes all summer and take our long break in the winter. As long as we're in session 180 days, nobody much cares when we have school.”

Basil sipped from his glass, then asked, “You still have family around here?”

“My dad died years ago, and Mom passed away right after I got married.” Dana lowered her gaze. “My brother, Buddy, traveled around, did odd jobs, spent some time in the Navy, and then came home. Since my parents' house had been sold, he moved in with me and Mike.”

“Is that . . . agreeable?”

Dana made a face. “Mike and I don't mind, because Buddy lives in the carriage house. If Buddy minds—well, I'm never quite sure what Buddy's thinking.” She leaned forward. “That's why I was so surprised about the poem.”

“I'm sure he'll be proud of you. Now—” Basil leaned toward her— “I was thinking we could hold a small ceremony on Heavenly Daze, complete with the press, though only heaven knows how I'll get them out on the water in late January. We'll have a brief presentation, award the prize to you—”

“Oh! Did my poem win?”

He laughed. “Of course, I thought you knew.”

“No, I thought . . .” Her words trailed away. Actually, she thought they were having lunch as old friends. But Buddy would be delighted to know that one of his castoff poems had won such an illustrious contest.

“ . . . and you can say a few words to your friends and neighbors,” Basil was saying. “Of course, we'll want to print the poem in our next edition of
Northeastern Living
.”

Dana felt her smile droop, and he noticed her less-than-happy expression instantly. “Is something wrong?”

“When would you want to do this?”

Basil reached into his tweed jacket and pulled out an electronic appointment book. “Next week would be best. We'll need to do it soon if we're to make our deadline for the March issue. How about Wednesday, the thirtieth?”

“Well . . .” Biting her lip, Dana weighed the odds of persuading Buddy to appear at an awards ceremony. Slim to none, she figured. Any man who felt exposed sitting on the back pew at church would flee a flashy awards ceremony like a felon. They'd be lucky if they saw him again before the spring thaw.

Unless, of course, Buddy thought the ceremony was being held to honor someone else . . . like his sister. Then he might be persuaded to attend.

“Basil,” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I didn't write that poem.”

He stroked his clipped beard. “You didn't?”

“No. And the person who did—well, let's just say he's a bit shy, so I don't want you to say anything to anyone about his identity. Just come, do whatever you want to do with the ceremony, and when everything's in place, I'll step forward and unmask the actual poet.” She arranged her features in an expression of deep concern. “I'm afraid everything will be ruined if word gets out beforehand.”

Basil leaned back in his chair, a calculating look on his face. “The real poet is shy, you say.”

“Ayuh.”

“And maybe her family wouldn't approve of her dabbling in poetry.”

“Well . . . if that's what you want to say, OK. It's not exactly true, though.”

“Of course it's not.” Basil inclined his head in a sympathetic gesture, then reached out and patted Dana's hand. “Fear not, little lady, your secret is safe with me. We'll proceed, but we'll not release the poet's identity until the day of the ceremony. It's the least I can do for a poetic genius.”

“Thank you. And the thirtieth is fine. We'll look forward to it.” Giving him a smile of pure relief, Dana unfolded her napkin as the waiter arrived with two steaming bowls of clam chowder.

Basil watched wordlessly as Dana devoured her soup like a woman who hadn't had a restaurant-cooked meal in months. Imagine, a poet of her talent having to write on the sly! Her husband must be some kind of a brute to make Dana recoil from public praise. She probably figured that if she could get him to the ceremony, the significance of the award would dignify her poetry and earn her work a smidgen of respect.

He picked up his spoon, ladled up a bite of the rich chowder, and blew on it while looking at his attractive companion. Dana Franklin had always been shy, he recalled. As a young girl, round blue eyes and long hair had dominated her face, and he could still remember her sitting in a biology classroom, her lips slightly parted as he tried to sell those silly red carnations. She'd been but a child then, but the woman sitting across from him was a lovely rose in full blossom.

And a poet! Who'd have imagined the Franklin family had a single sensitive soul among them! He remembered Buddy, the long-legged, gangly kid who'd played soccer in the youth leagues. Thick as a post and dull as mud, Buddy Franklin had the personality of an oil gusher: dark and unrefined. Reading between the lines of what Dana had said today, Basil sensed that Buddy hadn't done anything to clean up his act during the years between high school and the present.

The husband was an unknown factor, but he had to be some kind of loser if he'd found it necessary to retreat to Heavenly Daze. Basil remembered reading an article about the island several years ago—the writer had described the island as a charming collection of old houses and old people. Any young man who chose to exile himself there had to be a fool . . . and the way Dana smiled when he promised to keep her secret proved it.