A Perfect Love Page 14

Buddy chewed on the inside of his lip, thinking. He’d have to slip out and collect some driftwood to augment his stores. A log here and there would help, and maybe Dana wouldn’t notice that her firewood was disappearing at twice the usual rate. He’d look for bugs, too, but the cold weather of December had probably cleared the island of any creepy-crawlies a glider would enjoy.

  “Hey, Roxy.” Leaning forward, he tapped the wire of the cage. “You awake in there?”

  A soft chattering sound answered his call, and Buddy sat back in his chair, pleased. The little critter had learned to recognize his voice, and though she’d kept him awake half the night with her barking and chittering, they were bonding.

  “I’m gonna go get some wood,” he said, pushing himself up. “You sleep tight in there, and I’ll soon have this room nice and toasty.”

  The little pouch swung gently, and though he couldn’t see through the soft material, Buddy could almost imagine that Roxy had lifted a delicate paw and waved him out the door.

  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 he
r 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?”

  Yakov nodded. He had been warmer than usual, but he’d been so distracted by the sounds coming from Buddy’s apartment he barely noticed.

  “So . . . that’s all right, huh?” Buddy grinned, then ran his hands over his noodlelike arms. “Gotta go. It’s cold out here with nothin’ on.”

  Yakov lifted his hand to protest, but Buddy opened the door. He would have slipped back into his apartment without another word, but Yakov planted one of his boots in the opening. Sometimes a guardian angel had to exercise a little force on behalf of his charge . . .

  “Buddy, you do not have to roast yourself on my account,” he said, insinuating his shoulder into the narrow space. “When it is cold outside, the prudent thing to do is put clothes on. That’s why I dress warmly for the workroom.”

  “Now you won’t have to wear so many clothes,” Buddy said, maintaining a steady pressure on the door. “Don’t see how you can paste labels wearing gloves, anyhow.”

  Yakov didn’t budge. “Buddy,” he insisted, squeezing his face into the crack between the wall and
the door, “I have been concerned about you all day—”

  That’s when the bed moved. Not the bed exactly, Yakov saw when he focused his gaze, but a small brown pouch on the bed. It looked like the sort of bag a boy carried marbles in, but this pouch was writhing as if it contained something alive—

  “Oy!” With the barest touch of supernatural strength, Yakov shoved the door away, then stepped into the room and slid into a squat beside the bed. He fingered his chin and stared at the squirming fabric bag. “Buddy, what have you got there?”

  Suddenly belligerent, Buddy slammed the door. “I got a pet,” he said, crossing his arms. “But don’t tell Dana, ’cause she said I couldn’t have one. But that’s not fair, because she has that mangy bulldog.”

  Yakov tilted his head. “You think I should tell Dana about a thing like this . . . thing?” He rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin, then pointed to the bed. “What is that, anyway?”

  Buddy relaxed, his arms drooping to his side. “You promise you won’t tell?”

  “It is not my place to tell about such a thing. You are a grown man, and responsible for your own actions.”

  “That’s what I keep saying.”

  “If you want to tell Dana, that would be a good thing, but it will have to be your choice.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good thing, but ayuh, it’s my decision. I’ll tell when and if I’m good and ready.”

  “So.” Yakov stared at the pouch. “Are you going to tell me, or shall we play twenty questions?”

  “It’s Roxy.”

  Yakov shook his head. “In all of creation, I’ve never heard of a roxy.”

  “That’s her name. She’s a sugar glider.”

  Yakov frowned. “The little marsupial native to Australia?”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “I am familiar with all the Lord’s creations. But a sugar glider—here? In winter?”

  “I know.” Buddy’s face fell. “The lady who sold her to me didn’t know I live in an igloo.”

  “This is not exactly an igloo.” Yakov spread his hands, indicating the space around them. “But you will have to keep the fire blazing. I do not think your Roxy will handle the cold very well.”