A Perfect Love Read online

  Micah’s image played in her mind like a movie, his words echoing along a quiet soundtrack: Perfect love casts out fear, Barbara, and if you have Jesus, you have perfect love.

  A few minutes later Russell returned with a large glass of soda and a Dagwood sandwich on a plate piled high with corn chips. He sat down in his TV chair, arranged his plate and drink, then turned and reached for the classified ads.

  “Russell?”

  His eyes were intent on the newspaper. “Hmm?”

  “I want a baby.”

  “Uh huh. Let me finish my snack, then we’ll talk.” He took a large bite of his sandwich.

  Barbara crawled out from beneath the covers and perched on the edge of the bed, then propped her elbows on her knees and stared at him.

  He glanced up, holding up a wedge of sandwich. “Want a bite?”

  “No, thank you. I’m going to find Mom, OK?”

  He quirked a brow, then smiled. “OK.”

  Downstairs, Barbara searched the living room, then peeked into her parents’ bedroom. Floyd lay in bed propped up on a stack of pillows watching Emergency 911, but Mom was nowhere in sight.

  She found Cleta in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of hot tea. Barbara sat down next to her.

  Cleta looked up. “Want a cup of tea?”

  “No. I want a baby, Mom.”

  Cleta snorted. “Best talk to your husband about that.”

  “I want to talk to you about it.” She reached for Cleta’s hand. “I love you, Mom, and I love Russell. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to share in my decision about seeing Dr. Marc, but as hard as it’s going to be for you to accept this, I’m a married woman now. My first allegiance is to my husband. Even the Bible says a man must leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two are united into one.”

  “The Bible says the man leaves,” Cleta argued. “It doesn’t say anything about the woman—”

  “It works both ways, Mom. Besides, in Bible times, the groom always went to fetch the bride away from her home. Pastor Winslow mentions that often when he talks about the Minor Prophets.”

  Tears swelled to Cleta’s eyes. She dropped her head. “I’ve been acting like an old fool.”

  Barbara leaned in to hug her. “You’ve been acting like a mother who has suddenly realized her daughter isn’t a baby anymore. I don’t know how that feels, Mom, but I will someday, if God gives us a daughter. I’d like to be your baby forever, but I can’t. It’s time I grew up and faced my own responsibilities. I need to discover what kind of woman God wants me to be.”

  She softened her voice. “I’ll always need and want you, Mom. Nothing will ever change that.” Holding out her hand, she motioned for Cleta to take hers. “Come on. We’re going to start right now thinking more about the future than the past. The best is yet to come—isn’t that what they say? The Bible says perfect love casts out fear . . . and we know Christ’s perfect love, so the future can’t harm us.”

  She leaned over and kissed Cleta’s cheek. “Now—I’m going upstairs to talk to my husband, then I’m calling Dr. Marc. If the Lord wills, I’m going to have that surgery as soon as possible.”

  Cleta patted her hand, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Go ahead, honey.”

  Russell looked up when Barbara came back into the room. “Come here, hon,” she said, pointing to the phone. “You’ll want to hear this conversation.”

  Russell frowned. “Who are you calling at this hour?”

  Barbara picked up the phone and punched in the number. The phone rang once. Twice. On the third ring, Dr. Marc answered.

  “Sorry to disturb you so late, Dr. Marc.”

  “Barbara?” The doctor chuckled. “You haven’t disturbed me. I’ve been expecting your call.”

  She sighed in relief. “You have?”

  “You bet. I knew a lovely young couple like you and Russell would eventually be eager to discover the joys and agonies of parenthood. And I can assure you, a child is more precious than gold. Of course, your gold will be refined in those teenage years . . .”

  Barbara laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. She grinned at Russell and squeezed his hand.

  “So—you want me to schedule the surgery?”

  “Yes, please. As soon as possible.”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll call Dr. Comeaux tomorrow morning.”

  She hung up, then looked at her husband. Russell stood beside her, an incredulous look on his face.

  “What changed your mind?” he whispered.

  “You,” she said, stepping into the circle of his arms. “And God. And Micah. And perfect love. I’m beginning to realize I have everything I need, and not a single reason to be afraid of the unknown.”

  Nuzzling her neck, Russell said, “You watched ‘A Baby Story,’ didn’t you?”

  Her throat was too clogged with emotion to respond.

  He laughed. “That’s all right. I always cry when I watch that stupid thing.”

  She giggled at the thought of her big, tough lobster-man watching “A Baby Story.” And crying!

  Holding each other tight, they swayed in each other’s arms. Barbara closed her eyes, relishing the moment. Tomorrow, no matter what it brought, was going to be bright. Tomorrow would be better for her parents too. Life brought change with every turn of the hourglass, but the important things remained. Love was forever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Thursday, the twenty-fourth, a special package arrived at the mercantile. Vernie pulled it from the wrapper, then weighed it on her palms. Land o’ Goshen, there really was such a thing as monkey biscuits!

  Tucking the container under her arm, she lowered her head and charged back to the storeroom, then slammed the door. Deftly lifting the edge of the plastic container with a fingernail, she pulled out one of the round nuggets and sniffed it.

  Didn’t smell like much.

  She read the label. “Contains dehulled soybean meal, corn flour, ground soybean hulls, ground oats, corn gluten meal, fructose, soybean oil, and added calcium.”

  Nothing that’d hurt a body . . . even Buddy Franklin.

  Her eyes darted toward the door. She concentrated, listening for sounds. Elezar was cleaning behind the counter, so he wouldn’t be likely to snoop if she wanted to give these things a nibble . . .

  She brought the nugget to her lips. Texture was OK. She touched the tip of her tongue to its dusty surface. Hmm. Not bad, but a little grassy for her taste.

  She put it between her teeth, preparing to bite down—

  The door flew open. Startled, her tongue shot forward, launching the monkey biscuit across the room. It hit the window, rattled the pane, then ricocheted toward the door, landing with a solid plop in Elezar’s extended palm.

  The clerk gazed at the unidentified flying object. “What in the world?”

  “It’s a . . . a new product.”

  A grin slowly spread over his face. “It’s one of those monkey biscuits, isn’t it?”

  “So what if it is? Buddy says he eats ’em.” Lifting her chin, she brushed by him. “You told me to order them, so I did.”

  Moving to her counter, she poured herself a Coke, then added a double shot of vanilla to cleanse her palate.

  She’d said it before, and she’d say it again. Buddy Franklin was the strangest man to ever land on Heavenly Daze.

  The week between Basil’s call and their lunch appointment passed slowly for Dana. With no students to teach, no house projects to complete, and no husband to keep her company, she had thrown herself into a crash program of self-improvement—fifty sit-ups upon rising, twenty minutes of jumping rope after breakfast, an hour of poetry reading before lunch. She read every volume of poems she could find in the house—Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, William Wordsworth. Yakov, who had noticed her feverish interest in the rhymed line, found a book of seventeenth-century poets in the attic and brought it to her. Dana fell head over heels in love with Robert Herrick, who wrote,

  Why
dost thou wound and break my heart

  As if we would forever part?

  Hast thou not heard an oath from me—

  After a day or two or three?

  I would come back and live with thee.

  Take, if thou dost distrust that vow

  This second protestation now:

  If on thy cheek, that spangled tear

  That sits as dew of roses there,

  That tear shall scarce be dried before

  I’ll kiss the threshold of thy door.

  Then weep not, sweet, but this much know—

  I’m half-returned before I go.

  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.”