A Perfect Love (29 page)

“I hope you appreciate this,” he told Roxy as he stood shivering in his coat. He opened the firebox of the stove, slid the logs onto the glowing coals, then tossed a couple of fire-starter cones on top of the logs. Finally, after the flick of a match, the pine cones burst into flame. Buddy waited until the bark of the logs began to crackle before he shut and sealed the door.

The warmth was welcome, but the smell of wood smoke did nothing to camouflage the sugar-glider stink. Hugging his knees, Buddy made a face, then did some quick computations. A thorough cage cleaning would require him to open and close the door several times, and with the temperature already so low, he couldn't risk Roxy taking a chill.

He searched his room for a moment, then found the little mesh-and-cardboard box under his bed. Taking the pouch from the cage wall, he dropped it through the little doorway, then set the temporary pet carrier on top of the warming wood stove.

There. Roxy would have the warmest spot in the room while he cleaned, and with any luck, he'd be rid of the stinking mess before Dana's intellectual friends descended upon the house. She had expressly told Buddy she wanted him to attend some one o'clock shindig she was throwing, followed by a spectacular lunch buffet. Buddy didn't care much for high-society shindigs, but the buffet sounded promising.

He yawned, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of sleepiness, and then crawled toward his bed. The rumpled pillow and thick comforter looked inviting, but as he lifted himself off the floor a wave of stink assaulted him right between the eyes, knocking the sleepiness clean out of him.

Maybe he'd clean the cage first and catch a nap later.

Sitting up in bed, Mike listened to Dana banging pots and pans downstairs, then he looked at the clock. Nine o'clock. He'd slept half the morning and Dana hadn't even popped in to see if he was sick or something.

He bent his knees and lowered his head, trying to cast off the lingering fog of sleep. He hadn't rested well; he felt as though he had tossed and turned half the night. A lady in Florida had received the wrong print, and it'd taken him until after midnight to sort out the difficulty. Then he had to send a conciliatory e-mail and promise to set things right, then he'd worried that she would post negative feedback on eBay, ruining his perfect record.

He shook his head in dismay. Not that Dana cared about any of this. His wife was all keyed up about Basil Caldwell and his snooty friends; she'd talked of nothing else for days. She hadn't bothered to discover that he, her husband, had earned his purple star. The purple star on eBay proved at least five hundred people agreed that he was a fair, honest, and efficient merchant, but Dana hadn't bothered to notice, or even ask why he had been putting little purple stars on his mailing labels. Worst of all, he had a sneaking suspicion she wouldn't even appreciate all that a purple star meant.

A man was what he did for a living, and for the first time in his twenty-nine years, Mike felt he had found his niche . . . and his wife didn't have a clue. And what did it profit a man if he sold every last item in his warehouse at 1,000 percent profit and lost his own wife?

Reluctantly leaving the warm cocoon of his bed, Mike rose and slipped into a pair of jeans and his most comfortable sweatshirt, then jammed his feet into his fur-lined moccasins and crept downstairs. Habit nearly drew him to the computer in the dining room, but he resisted the impulse. Pulling his coat from a hook by the door, he shrugged his way into it, then fitted a knitted cap over his tousled hair and strode out the front door.

The day that opened before him offered the intriguing combination of a frigid wind and a warm sun—rather like his wife's mood of the last few days. Dana smiled at the prospect of her party, and frowned at the sight of her husband. Cold waves practically radiated from her, and Mike had instinctively withdrawn, preferring the friendly enthusiasm of his customers to the frosty attitude of his wife.

He didn't know what had happened between them— all he knew was for the first time in his marriage he needed help. Ordinarily he'd have asked Yakov for advice, but now he needed the kind of advice only a married man could give.

Last night's snow still dusted the ground, crunching beneath his moccasins as he skimmed the lawn between his house and the Lansdowns'. He ducked into his coat and lengthened his stride as he crossed the graveled church parking lot. The wind whistled around the steeple and rattled the clapboards, but Mike didn't even look up. A moment later he was climbing the porch steps of the parsonage.

Edith Wickam didn't seem at all surprised to see him. Dressed in a quilted robe with a kerchief over her curlers, she opened the door and nodded pleasantly. “Winslow's out back,” she said, leading Mike through the living room and into the kitchen. Wearing a secretive smile, she pointed to the back door. “He's right out there; you can't miss him.”

Mike stepped back out into the cold. “Hello, Pastor.”

Winslow nodded, then pointed to a black grill standing on a slab of concrete. “Got a pair of turkeys in there. I figure they'll be ready by one o'clock if they don't freeze first.” He forced a laugh, then pointed back toward the stairs. “Come inside, Mike. We'd have to be daft to stand out here and talk. I thought you might be dropping by.”

“You did?”

“Ayuh. But let's get warm before we discuss it, shall we?”

A few minutes later,
after Edith had served two steaming cups of apple cider and discreetly disappeared, Winslow drew a deep breath and folded his hands on the kitchen table. “Tell me what's on your mind, son.”

“It's Dana.” Mike fingered the rim of his mug as he sorted his thoughts. “I always thought we had a good marriage, but lately she's been like ice . . . and it has nothing to do with the weather. I saw her in Ogunquit having lunch with that Basil Caldwell fellow last week, and though I know he's just an old friend from high school, well, it still felt strange to look through the restaurant window and see them in there together.”

“It may have been completely innocent, Mike. Did you ask her about it?”

“Pastor, she wore a dress.”

Winslow whistled softly. “In January? That's something.”

Mike nodded. “That's what I thought. I didn't ask her about it because she told us all about it at dinner. Basil Caldwell is having some kind of poetry contest, and somehow Dana got mixed up in it. And she's all worked up about him coming over this afternoon—honestly, I've never seen her so excited. Meanwhile, I'm busting my buns trying to make a living for us, and she acts like she doesn't give a flip.”

Winslow lowered his hands. “I don't mean to be intrusive, Mike, but remind me—you guys live mostly off her trust fund, right?”

Mike felt heat creeping up his neck. “Hers and Buddy's, ayuh. But Buddy's money goes mostly to pay off his debts, and most of ours goes to pay for the house— these antique houses are expensive to maintain, you know.”

The corner of the pastor's mouth dipped in a chagrined smile. “Oh, I know. My thirty-dollar border idea has mushroomed into a four-thousand-dollar renovation.”

Mike plunged ahead. “But this month I earned a purple star on eBay, and for the first time I think I'll be able to bring in a monthly amount equal to her trust fund income. So I finally feel like I'm doing something, being the man—”

Winslow lifted a hand. “Hasn't Dana always made you feel like an equal partner?”

“Ayuh, sure. She's never said anything bad, you know, and she does appreciate all the work I did to get the house in shape.” He felt himself flushing again. “I don't mean to brag, Pastor, 'cause Yakov helps a lot, too. He seems to know where everything should be, even where the pipes are hidden in the walls. But Dana runs the school, and that's what our house is—the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center. So, in a way, I feel like we are all about her money, her business—”

“But you're her husband, her partner.”

“Ayuh, pastor, but a man is what he does, and until recently I've never found any work I really enjoyed. But now I'm an official Internet merchant . . . and Dana doesn't seem to care.”

Winslow silently stroked his chin between his thumb and index finger. Finally he said, “This Internet business of yours—you doing any of it in Ogunquit?”

Mike blinked. “Ogunquit? No. I mean, yes. I sell on the World Wide Web, which means I ship to all kinds of places, but yeah, I have been going to Ogunquit a few times a week. Captain Stroble's granddaughter has a high-speed cable modem, and I use it while she's at work. It shaves a couple of hours off every workday . . . hours I had hoped to spend with Dana.”

Winslow closed his eyes and nodded, a knowing smile crossing his face. “Mike, I am quite certain this situation is not as desperate as it seems. What you and Dana need is a good heart-to-heart talk. It sounds like you've both been too wrapped up in your own little worlds to connect with each other.”

“But she—”

“Listen to me, son. The Bible says we shouldn't let the sun go down on our wrath. That's another way of saying you shouldn't let the day end without clearing the lines of communication. You need to talk to your wife openly and honestly; the sooner, the better.”

“But she's expecting a houseful of company today! The entire town's coming for lunch, so when am I supposed to—”

“You're the man of the house, Mike. You make time for your wife.”

Roaming the island in search of enough driftwood to see him through another night, Buddy climbed over the rocks near Puffin Cove and tried to keep his thoughts centered on his task. Overhead, the sun was as weak as yesterday's dreams, and the rising wind chafed at his cheeks. But he couldn't turn back yet.

Fact: Roxy needed warmth. Fact: Roxy was his pet, and he loved her. Fact: In the coldest month of the year, he had purchased a desert animal to live in one of the coldest places in America, so he'd have to become extremely creative before spring blew in and warmed up the island. This meant he might have to confess what he'd done, pay for some extra firewood, and endure a week or so of Dana rolling her eyes at his stupidity.

But he wasn't the only person on Heavenly Daze who'd flirted with folly. Why, he'd just passed Pastor Wickam's house, and everybody was still yakking about how silly he'd been when he went through the toupee phase last October. And the entire island was laughing about his recent bathroom debacle. And Charles Graham, who fancied himself the Great American Novelist, had learned the hard way that sometimes dreams were best reserved for sleeping. And Annie Cuvier, that brainy girl, why, there wasn't a soul on the island now willing to come within a mile of a sandwich made with her miracle tomatoes. In every house on this island, someone had done something silly, so why did he feel like the only one with an albatross around his neck?

Standing at the top of a black granite boulder, he looked across the island's sand dunes and saw the boarded-up Lobster Pot. That was another dream, a far-flung one at best, and he had about as much chance of buying the restaurant as he had at winning Miss America. Success didn't come easily to the Buddy Franklins of this world, and sometimes it didn't come at all.

Why were some people born winners and others losers? Why were some people fast and others slow? Why were some people born beautiful and others so homely people averted their eyes rather than look them in the face? Did God decree who got what? If so, why was the Lord so ticked off at the losers and outcasts?

Tilting his head back, Buddy lifted his gaze to the overcast sky. “What have I ever done to you?” he called, his voice ringing across the empty rocks. “How could you hate me before I was even born?”

From where he stood beside the church steeple, Gavriel heard the cry of a soul in distress. His supernatural eyes fixed on the source, and instantly his heart leaped at the opportunity to minister.

“Show me, Father,” he prayed, keeping his eyes on Buddy Franklin. “Show me what to do.”

Then the answer came. This job would not fall to Yakov, for the sight of a familiar face would only silence Buddy's cry. This was not the time for a supernatural vision, for Buddy would not be able to accept it. This was a time for speaking in the way Buddy understood.

Moving at the speed of light, in invisible supernatural form Gavriel swooped from the rooftop and planted his feet on the rocks beside Buddy. Without using audible words, Gavriel bent down and whispered in Buddy's ear: “Your cry has been heard. Pull out the paper and pencil in your pocket.”

For a moment Buddy hesitated, then he obeyed. As his eyes watered in the stinging wind, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a stubby pencil from the Pitch and Putt golf course in Wells and a long grocery receipt from the mercantile.

“Now sit,” Gavriel whispered again, “and write the words I will speak to you.”

After settling onto the rock, Buddy pressed the pencil to the paper and began to write.

Dana stopped drumming her nails on the mantel long enough to check her watch. Twelve-fifteen, and no Buddy. Basil and his crew would arrive at any moment, and she'd told her neighbors to be at her house by
twelve-thirty. She had planned to serve punch and cookies while people mingled until one, then they'd hold the ceremony and surprise the entire town with Buddy's brilliance.

But where was the boy?

She moved to the stairs and tilted her face upward. “Yakov!” Something in her cringed at the whiny sound of her voice, but she couldn't help it. Mike's trusty assistant had been upstairs in his room all morning, not lifting a finger to assist. She had baked three cakes, tossed a fruit salad, baked two loaves of shredded wheat bread, and put a huge pot of hot cider on the stove to simmer—and she'd done everything herself.

A moment later Yakov appeared at the head of the stairs. “Ayuh?”

“What are you doing up there? I need your help.”