A Perfect Love (30 page)

The slender man nodded as he jogged down the steps. “Sorry, Dana. I was praying for your event this afternoon.”

Dana looked away, her face growing hot as guilt smote her. How could she be irritated with a man who'd been praying for her? But right now she needed help with feet on it, not wings.

Yakov touched her shoulder and gave her an open and eager smile. “How can I help?”

She raked a hand through her hair. “I need Buddy. I don't know where he is, and it's really important that he be here when Basil Caldwell arrives.”

A shadow of concern flitted through Yakov's dark eyes. “Buddy is not here?”

“No. I went to the carriage house and knocked on his door, but he didn't answer and the door was locked. He wasn't in the workroom, either.”

“Has Mike seen him?”

“Mike has made himself scarce, too.” Dana bit her lip, trying to curb her desperation. “If you find either one of them, you can wring their necks for me—after the ceremony. I'm so frustrated with both of them I could scream. I wanted Mike to rearrange the furniture so there's an open space in the front of the classroom.”

Without even stopping to grab his coat, Yakov moved toward the front door. “I'll send someone to help, then I will find Buddy. Don't you worry.”

Before she could say another word, he left the house. Through the window, she saw him moving across the front porch, his tread so light he barely creaked the old floorboards.

Dana had one cogent thought before she hurried back to the kitchen: All the men in her life had proved utterly undependable on the day she needed them most.

Sitting on the rocks with his head resting on his bent knees, Buddy opened his eyes when he heard the soft scrunch of shoes against the scree on the rocks. Yakov stood beside him wearing only a sweatshirt and jeans, yet the man didn't even shiver.

“Your sister is quite concerned about you.” A smile hovered in Yakov's eyes. “She is a little frantic about this afternoon's hoo-ha.”

The sun seemed suddenly bright; Buddy shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked up to meet the other man's gaze. “Whatever.”

“You are not concerned about your sister?”

“Dana's always a little frantic.”

Yakov shrugged. “She will be OK now. I summoned Caleb, Zuriel, Elezar, Micah, and Abner to help her. But you, boychik, are my responsibility.”

Laughing, Buddy turned his gaze out to sea. “I'm nobody's responsibility, Yakov-my-man. Nobody wants me hanging around their neck, especially not Dana.”

“You are wrong. She loves you very much.”

Slowly, Buddy shook his head. “I don't think so. She's only trying to be responsible. She and Mike probably wish I'd clear out and let them get on with their lives. Truth is, Dana's been covering for me ever since grade school. She kept the other kids from picking on me when we rode the bus home from Wells; she helped me finish the math papers I never could finish. And now she's tired. I see it in her eyes.”

The silence between them stretched for a moment, then Yakov slipped his hands in his pockets and nodded toward the slip of paper tucked beneath Buddy's boot. “What is that you have there?”

“This? It's junk. Just a cash-register receipt.”

“Somehow I think it is something more.”

Shrugging, Buddy pulled the paper free. “Ayuh, maybe it's something. Maybe it's nothing. It's just some stuff that came to me a few minutes ago. Sometimes I have thoughts, you know, and I like to write them down. But they never amount to anything.”

He lifted his hand until the paper caught the breeze and fluttered toward the ocean like the tail of a kite. He released the paper, watched it do a loop-de-loop in a sudden updraft and disappear into a white mist hovering above the water.

“I have not seen your little pet today,” Yakov said, his eyes crinkling with concern. “How is the little creature?”

“Roxy's fine.” Reminded of his former task, Buddy stood and brushed sand from the back of his jeans. “I was out here trying to get some wood, but I think I've picked this part of the beach clean. I had to clean out her cage this morning, so I built the fire up nice and high so the cold air from the door wouldn't bother her—”

He stopped suddenly. The breeze carried a scent from the south end of the island, the definite aroma of roasting meat.

“Buddy,” Yakov's eyes narrowed in concentration, “where did you leave Roxy?”

Buddy's stomach dropped as he met Yakov's gaze. Hoarsely he whispered, “On top of the woodstove. Where a hot fire was burning.”

“Hot enough to bake—”

Buddy didn't wait to hear the end of the sentence. He took off at a sprint, running for home.

Dana was on her way to the carriage house when Buddy tore around the corner, followed an instant later by Yakov.

“No!” Buddy roared, digging in his pocket for his key. He fumbled with the lock, then thrust his head into his apartment. He turned an instant later, his long face flushed. “Not here!” He stared at Yakov. “Not roasted. Gone!”

Yakov seemed to find meaning in this gibberish. “Then where?”

“Don't know! But Butch—”

Yakov shook his head. “Surely he would not.”

“How do we know? He likes to catch squirrels!”

Dana propped her hands on her hips. “Yakov,” she injected a note of steel into her voice. “Tell me, this instant, who you are talking about. Who's gone?”

“My pet,” Buddy interrupted, lifting his hands in a don't-shoot pose. “I have a pet. It's a sugar glider, a little animal that looks something like a squirrel. But she has to stay warm, and I needed wood, so I put her on the wood-stove, and I was afraid she was roasting, but now she's gone—”

Dana pressed her hand to her forehead. “I don't care about a runaway squirrel. I have some very important people on their way from the ferry right now. I need you to make yourself presentable and come into the schoolroom for the ceremony. It'll only take a few minutes, then we'll have a late lunch. OK?”

Buddy grimaced as though she had struck him across the face. “But Roxy could freeze! She has to stay warm!”

“Animals have a sixth sense about these things; she's probably curled up in a warm place somewhere. After the party, we'll help you look for her, OK?” Softening her tone, she walked forward and placed a hand against her brother's chest. “I don't mean to sound insensitive. I guess it's OK for you to have a pet as long as I don't have to take care of it. But I don't have time
right now to stop and look for a rodent.”

“A marsupial,” Buddy answered, his voice flat. “She would carry her babies in a pouch, like a kangaroo.”

“And possums,” Yakov added. “Possums come from the same family.”

Dana resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Whatever. Just get yourselves cleaned up and come inside, will you? Don't disappoint me, either of you, or I'll make sure you never forget it.”

Buddy opened his mouth as if he'd protest again, but something in her eyes must have convinced him she meant business. He clamped his mouth shut, went back into his apartment, and slammed the door.

Half an hour later, Dana sat on the front row of her classroom, staring at the blackboard and Basil Caldwell's imposing figure. The other chairs, most of them kid-sized, had been filled by the citizens of Heavenly Daze, for Basil had not been able to find any members of the media willing to brave the ferry ride across the frigid feather white waters. Instead of a photographer, Basil had brought a camera, which Vernie Bidderman now held, her lips flattened in a frown as she peered through the viewfinder.

“If I take the picture,” she was asking Basil in a none-too-subtle stage whisper, “will they put my name in the magazine? I always did want to get my name in
Northeastern Living
. Since I sell it at the mercantile, seems only fair.”

Ignoring Vernie, Basil stood with his hands folded and his head lowered, an almost reverent posture, but Dana knew he was only killing time. Mike had finally arrived— and taken a seat on the far side of the room—and so had Yakov. They were waiting for Buddy, but Yakov assured Dana her brother was on his way.

While they waited, Dana scanned the room. Barbara Higgs was still in the hospital, and Russell was with her, but Bea, Vernie, Olympia, Charles, Babette, Dr. Marc, and Cleta occupied kiddie chairs in the front row while Salt, Floyd, Stanley, Yakov and Mike lounged on two of the kid-sized tables behind the chairs. Birdie, who wore a pretty wool dress with a low-cut lace collar, sat primly beside Salt, now her official beau. The Smith men, with the exception of Yakov, had stationed themselves in the doorway between the schoolroom and the bountiful buffet spread on the kitchen table. (Dana had mentally cursed the computer a hundred times as she set out the food—the buffet would have looked a hundred times better in her formal dining room, but nooooooooo, Mike had to put his beloved computer on her grandmother's antique dining table.)

Bobby, Brittany, and Georgie were occupying themselves by coloring puffin pictures at the table right behind Dana's seat, while Winslow and Edith Wickam oversaw their efforts from another kiddie table. Winslow had winked at Dana when he came in, and while she wasn't sure what the wink meant, she took comfort from it. Perhaps something good would yet come out of this disastrous day.

Her heart settled to a more normal rhythm when the clunk of heavy boots announced Buddy's presence in the classroom. From the disheveled look of his clothes and hair, and the streak of soot across his cheek, she knew he hadn't taken time to clean up, but had kept looking for that creature. By the defeated look on his face, she surmised that he hadn't found it.

Maybe her surprise would take the sting out of his loss.

Sighing in relief, she nodded to Basil, who had agreed to wait for Buddy only when she explained that the ceremony would mean nothing without her entire family present.

“If we may begin,” Basil said, lifting a brow in Dana's direction, “we are gathered here today on behalf of
Northeastern Living
to recognize a superb new talent. A talent that has been long buried, long ignored—”

He grimaced as Vernie flashed the camera in his face.

“Um,” Basil widened his eyes in an apparent effort to focus, “as I was saying, we are here to recognize a new talent. A few weeks ago, you see,
Northeastern Living
decided to run a poetry contest. Poetry, as you know, is the language of the gods—”

“Really?”

Dana lowered her head onto her hand when she recognized the voice. Why was Yakov interrupting?

“There is only one God and one mediator who can reconcile God and people,” Yakov said, looking around the room. “He is the man Christ Jesus.”

Winslow Wickam and several of the Smith men applauded.

Dana looked at Basil and made a little hurry-up motion with her hand.

Basil tipped his chin back and studied Yakov through lowered lids. “May I continue?”

“Please do.” Yakov resumed his seat.

“As I was saying,” Basil said, pressing his hand to his chest, “imagine my surprise when one entry proved to be not only from Heavenly Daze, but from a woman of my previous acquaintance, Dana Franklin Klackenbush.”

Dana felt her cheeks burn as her neighbors, in unison, applauded lightly.

Vernie advanced with her weapon. “Say cheese, Dana!”

The camera flashed.

Blinding spots clouded Dana's vision as Basil continued. “I'd like to read the poem Dana sent us, but before I do, let me assure you that we found it deserving of our highest honor. We have declared it the first prize winner!”

“What's the prize?” Georgie Graham sang out.

Babette Graham perked up. “Does she win money?”

“She wins—” Basil paused for dramatic effect. “Ten free copies of
Northeastern Living!”

Dana felt her hopes fall. She hadn't been expecting much, but a cash prize would have done a lot to encourage Buddy.

“Well, there never has been any money in poetry.” Charles Graham nodded sagely. “Fine art, yes. Novels can be lucrative. But poetry, never.”

“Ten copies is barely enough for all of us,” Birdie groused. “Cheap magazine.”

Basil cleared his throat. “And now, if I may read the poem.”

With a great flourish, he pulled a sheet of paper from a leather portfolio. After settling a pair of half-glasses on the end of his nose, he tipped his head back and began to read:

“My joy cannot be contained in words or song or
expression.

Letters, juxtaposed puzzles, are rife with discretion,
But boundless joy, the rarest fruit of my heart,
Is far more an elixir of life than mere art.”

From the back of the room, Buddy began to chant with Basil:

“Two black velvet eyes, a tip-tilted gaze,
Have launched me round this sphere in a daze.”

Basil stopped reading, obviously annoyed, and Buddy finished the poem.

“My heart doth pound in rapturous beat
Because your love makes my poor life complete.”

As Basil frowned, Dana stood and turned to face her brother. “I told Basil the poem wasn't mine, Buddy. I knew you'd never send your poem to a magazine, even though you're a good poet.”

“A darn good poet,” Floyd seconded, slapping his knee for emphasis.

“A love poem,” Birdie said, her hand at her throat. “Gets me all choked up.”

Bea leaned forward to see around Cleta and narrowed her eyes at Buddy. “What woman inspired your poem, Buddy? Somebody you met on that Internet?”

Buddy shook his head. “It wasn't a woman at all. It was—”

Basil Caldwell exploded without waiting to hear Buddy's explanation. “Impossible!” he roared. He glared around the room, his face darkening dangerously. “I don't know what you folks think you're pulling here, but I will not let a major magazine like
Northeastern Living
be shanghaied by local yokels. I know Buddy Franklin; I grew up with him. And there was never anyone
on God's earth less poetic, less intelligent, and less inclined to the sensitivities a true poet must possess—”