A Perfect Love Page 8

  Barbara giggled and agreed with Elezar’s affectionate assessment. MaGoo stared at her beneath shuttered lids, his tail lackadaisically sweeping the floor.

  Straightening, Barbara moved on to the small corner that served as the infant section. Vernie scratched her head. Everything in that corner needed dusting; she didn’t think Elezar had put out any new baby stock since August. There were no babies on the island this winter; and none were expected . . . yet.

  She narrowed her gaze at Barbara. The younger woman was examining the cans of baby formula, bottles, and teething rings. She picked up a can of Similac and read the label.

  Vernie’s gaze shifted back to Elezar, who raised his shoulders in a “Who knows?” shrug.

  She lifted her voice. “Just browsing this morning, Barbara, or did you need something particular?”

  “Just browsing, thanks.” The young woman continued to peruse the baby formula ingredients as if the can might contain toxic waste.

  “Nice haircut, by the way,” Vernie called. “Very modern looking.”

  Barbara flashed her a smile of honest appreciation. “Thanks, Vernie.”

  “There’s something else different about you, too.” Vernie pressed her fingers to her lips, thinking.

  “It’s the contacts.” Barbara gave her a timid smile. “No more glasses.”

  Vernie nodded. “Maybe that is it. Nice to see your whole face for a change.”

  She kept an eye on the girl as Barbara looked over the baby shelves, then reached out to finger the soft bunting material of the infant sleepers.

  The mercantile owner paused, studying Cleta and Floyd’s only child from beneath lowered lashes. She didn’t make a habit of ogling her customers, but Barbara was acting strange this morning.

  Vernie let out a long, low whistle. Could Barbara finally be in the family way? Cleta hadn’t breathed a word . . . but Cleta must not know. If Cleta knew her Doodles was pregnant, she’d have rented a skywriter by now.

  What a child Barbara and Russell would produce! Maybe a little boy with Russell’s dark eyes and full black lashes coupled with Barbara’s heavy brows. Vernie would do a little tweezing here and there if they were her brows, and if she were Barbara she might have some of that collagen shot into her lips . . .

  She nodded in approval as Barbara left the infant section and moved toward the cosmetics. The girl studied labels, opened a few tubes of lip gloss to examine their colors, and then set the lipsticks back in the holder. Browsing a minute more, she finally applied a dark color, Raisin Rum, with a disposable applicator Vernie kept handy for that purpose. Stepping back, Barbara pressed her lips together and peered at her image in the vanity mirror. Her brows lifted up and down while her lips pursed and slackened. She turned to catch a glimpse of herself from a side angle. Then she straightened again.

  “That’s a nice shade on you,” Vernie called. “How’s Russell today?”

  Barbara came forward and dropped the applicator into the trash bin. “Russell’s fine. Mom’s making chili for supper and she’s out of tomatoes.”

  “Got plenty of canned tomatoes.” Vernie stepped to the shelves to get the requested item, then turned and lifted her hand. “You know, you ought to run by Olympia’s and get a sack of fresh ones.” She chuckled. “Annie’s tomatoes are actually ripening. Caleb stopped by earlier and said they planned to have bacon-and-tomato sandwiches tonight. I haven’t had any, but they sure look good on the vine.”

  Barbara smiled wanly, and Vernie had to admit the girl looked a little streaky. Quite possibly pregnant. Saturday they’d been out looking at houses to rent.

  She smiled in satisfaction. Barbara had to be pregnant. Now that a baby was on the way maybe Russell would put his foot down and they would get a place of their own. A change of scenery would be good for Barbara, and ought to erase the bored look off her features.

  “Let me have two cans of tomatoes, please,” Barbara said, gesturing toward the shelf, “just in case Olympia doesn’t have enough for Mom’s chili.”

  “Fine, honey. You get whatever you want. If you get a craving for something, it’s best to satisfy it.”

  Barbara paid for the tomatoes, then glanced back at the cosmetics display.

  “Raisin Rum is a pretty color for winter,” Vernie said, trying to be helpful. “And it looks real good on you— brings out the sparkle in your eyes.”

  Barbara shrugged. “I don’t wear lipstick much anymore.”

  “You don’t?” Vernie sacked two cans of tomatoes, and then slid the bag over the counter. “That’s a shame. You used to fancy up more.”

  Barbara took the package. “I have to be going now. I promised Bea I would help with the angel mail.”

  Angel mail—letters resulting from a crazy e-mail that had been zipping through the Internet—had been pouring into Bea’s tiny post office since November. According to the rumor, angels actually resided on Heavenly Daze and could work miracles for those who took the time to write. The islanders took turns responding to the letters and praying for the various needs. Though Vernie had sent out dozens of e-mails to rebut the rumor, requests for heavenly intervention just kept coming.

  Vernie gave her best friend’s daughter a fond smile. “Have a good time with Bea, hon. And you take care of yourself.”

  Grinning at the thought of a baby in Heavenly Daze, she returned to Olympia’s order. Caleb would be by in a few minutes to pick it up, and she didn’t like to keep her customers waiting. Behind her, the bells over the door jangled.

  “Just a minute, Caleb,” she called, not turning around. “I’ve almost got everything together, but you’re gonna have to tell me why Olympia wants five cans of olives—”

  She jumped as a pair of arms slipped around her waist. Instinctively she reached for the hammer she kept next to the register, then she heard Stanley’s soft rebuke. “Don’t pound me! I’ve just dropped in to say hi, Sweetums.”

  Her cheeks burned. Dropping the hammer, she spun out of the embrace. Stanley stood before her, with a smile the size of Texas and . . . wet hair?

  “You scared a year’s life out of me, Stanley Bidderman,” she snapped, straightening the bib of her apron. “You keep your mitts to yourself!”

  Stanley backed off, holding his arms up in mock surrender. “Just wanted to bring you something.”

  “You keep running around with a wet head, and you’re liable to end up in the hospital.”

  His grinned deepened. “Couldn’t be helped.”

  She glared, aware her heart was beating like a trip hammer and not from fright. He was starting to make a habit of bringing gifts every day—trying to butter her up, no doubt. “What is it this time?”

  Stooping, he picked up a large vase of red roses he must have set on the floor before attacking her. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. What was this? Another peace offering?

  He took her hands and wrapped them around the cool vase. His touch was oddly soothing. “Happy Birthday, Veronica.”

  She stared at the beautiful flowers and blinked away a sudden rush of tears. Stan had brought her roses every year for her birthday . . . before he skipped town, that is. Roses and the largest Whitman’s Sampler he could find.

  She glanced up, half-hoping to spy a box of chocolates in his hand, then frowned at her own foolishness.

  She quickly shoved the vase back at him. “It isn’t my birthday.”

  Ever so gently he wrapped her trembling fingers back around the vase. “I know. But I missed a few while I was gone, and a woman like you should never have been without flowers on her special day.” Then he reached inside his coat and withdrew a large box of Whitman’s chocolates. Tucking them in the crook of her arm, he kissed her cheek and whispered, “Get used to it, Vernie. I have twenty years to atone for.”

  She cleared the frog from her throat. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Stan? If you keep getting under my feet, I’m going to send you back to the Lansdowns’—”

  “I do have a job. I’m helping the pastor with h
is bathroom.”

  With a wink and a grin, Stanley left the store as quietly as he had entered.

  Stunned, Vernie tiptoed to the front window. Stan was walking toward Ferry Road with definite energy in his step.

  “The old fool,” Vernie murmured, bending to inhale the sweet fragrance of the roses. She swiped a tear away. If Stanley thought he was going to win her back with chocolates and roses, he . . . well, he was on the right track.

  Burying her face in the bouquet, she giggled.

  At noon, Vernie called for Elezar to mind the store, then pulled on her jacket. Her curiosity had been stirring ever since Barbara’s visit, and she had to know if—and what— Cleta knew about her daughter’s condition.

  Stepping out into cool air that smelled of brine, seaweed, and fish, Vernie shoved her hands in her pockets and set out across the street, then stopped in her tracks as Russell Higgs crossed the front porch of the B&B and started down the paved pathway. He caught Vernie’s eye and waved, then strode confidently toward Dr. Marc’s cottage behind Frenchman’s Fairest.

  Vernie cocked her head and stared at him. Unusual enough to see Russell out and about in daylight hours, but to see him in jeans and a sweater instead of orange waders, coat, hat and knee-high gum rubber boots . . .

  Russell wasn’t working, he was going to visit the doctor.

  Vernie’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. Russell was ailing, and now, with a baby coming? Was it serious? Why, the boy looked the picture of health.

  A moment later she jogged up the steps of the B&B and burst through the front door. “Cleeeeeta!”

  “Up here!”

  Vernie followed Cleta’s voice up the stairway to the second floor landing. She peeked in the open doors at empty bedrooms.

  “Where are you?”

  “Keep comin’!”

  Propelled by curiosity, Vernie took the attic steps two at a time. She found Cleta in the attic room that Stanley had occupied before Christmas. “Cleta!”

  About to shake out a clean sheet over the bed, Cleta jumped as if she’d been shot. She sank onto the side of the bed and pressed her hand to her chest, eying Vernie with a sour look. “Why are you screamin’ at me?”

  Struggling to catch her breath, Vernie sank into the chair by the door. “No special reason. Just thought I’d drop by and see what you were doing.”

  Cleta gave her a doubtful look.

  Vernie crossed her legs in an effort to be casual. “What’s going on over here this morning?”

  Standing, Cleta shook out the sheet and let it settle on the bed. “Not much. Of course, you’ve seen Doodles’s hair, and I suppose you know about the contacts.”

  “Barbara told me about them this morning. I saw her in the store.”

  Cleta sighed wearily. “She hasn’t said a word about the house she and Russell were lookin’ at, and I haven’t dared broach the subject. It was nothin’, I’m sure. Just some silly little something to pass the time.”

  “Maybe.” Vernie uncrossed her right leg, then crossed her left.

  “So.” She propped her elbow on the arm of the chair, then dropped her head to her hand. “How is Barbara today?”

  Cleta made a face as she tucked in the sheets. “Fine—didn’t you just say you saw her? I worry about you, Vernie.”

  “I’m worried about Barbara—she was looking a mite streaked today.”

  “Well, she’s delicate.” Cleta plumped a pillow. “Always has been.” She moved toward the doorway, then lifted a brow in Vernie’s direction. “I’m done in here, unless you want to sit a spell.”

  “No, I’ll follow you.”

  Vernie trailed Cleta down to the second-floor landing, then followed her into Barbara and Russell’s room. Cleta yanked back the bedspread and proceeded to pull the sheets from the mattress.

  “I want to get to Ogunquit again soon,” she said, dropping the sheets to the floor. “Saw the prettiest pink ruffled spread and curtains in a window there. I think I’ll surprise Barbara.”

  Vernie frowned. “I thought Barbara and Russell picked out this spread and curtains.”

  “Oh, they did, but just look at these colors.” Cleta tssked. “Russell has no taste in fabrics—who could live with these colors? I’m going to buy a new spread. Pink will look better in here, and the kids will love it once they get used to the change.”

  “You think Russell will be happy sleeping in a sea of pink ruffles?”

  “Why not? Men these days aren’t so persnickety about protecting their he-man image.”

  Vernie bet she knew a certain lobsterman who wouldn’t agree. She looked around. “Where is Barbara?”

  “In the basement, I think. Looking for something.”

  Vernie leaned closer to her friend. “You interfere too much, Cleta.”

  Cleta laughed. “Barbara loves my little indulgences.”

  “But you shouldn’t be meddling. If those kids picked out this spread and drapes, they like this. Not pink.”

  “Oh, fizzle. How could they like anything like that?” She pointed to the dark green and navy blue plaid drapes. “What person in their right mind wouldn’t be grateful to get something new and not have to pay for it?”

  Realizing Cleta was blind to the obvious, Vernie changed the subject. “Guess who I saw a minute ago?”

  Cleta carried the dirty linens to the hallway, then dropped them on the floor. “Beats me. Who?”

  “Russell.”

  “Really? I thought he took the boat out today.” Without missing a beat, Cleta moved to the nightstand and picked up the fabric-bound journal beside the lamp. Sitting on the edge of the bare bed, she flipped through the pages.

  Vernie blinked. “Cleta.”

  She looked up.

  “Isn’t that private?”

  Cleta shook her head. “Barbara doesn’t have any secrets from me.”

  “Still, it is her room. And a journal is supposed to be a person’s private thoughts.”

  Cleta hooted. “Private? Listen to this: Had dinner with Mom and Dad. Watched On Golden Pond with them and Russell. R was very sweet and attentive and we are blessed to be living with Mom and Dad.” Cleta looked up, a smug smile on her face. “What’s so private about that?” She closed the book and carefully laid it back in the same spot. “Now, what were you saying about Russell?”

  Vernie braced herself against the wall. “He was going to see Dr. Marc.” Vernie lifted a brow, waiting for Cleta’s reaction. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, for wouldn’t it be logical for a young father to visit the doctor after he’d discovered his wife was pregnant? The poor boy probably needed assurance or something, and right this minute Dr. Marc was telling him that everything was going to be all right with the mother and wee one . . .

  Lifting the lamp, Cleta dusted under it.

  Vernie stared in stupefaction. “Did you hear me?”

  Cleta shrugged. “Russell went to see Dr. Marc.”

  “Well?” She hesitated, giving Cleta time to absorb the facts. “Is he sick?”

  Cleta paused long enough to look at her. “Why, no, he’s not sick. What makes you think that?”

  Vernie gave her friend the look she’d have given a very slow child. “Because he went to see Dr. Marc. He’s over there right now. So . . . if he’s not sick, what do you suppose he’s doing?”

  Cleta’s smug smile reappeared. “I imagine he’s there because Dr. Marc asked him to take a look at a leaky faucet. Russell’s good with those things—you remember when he fixed your outside connection when it was dripping? He put in new seals.”

  Vernie deflated. “Ayuh. I’d forgotten all about that.”

  “Vernie Bidderman, sometimes I do think you gossip too much.” Cleta gave the nightstand a final swipe with her dust cloth, then stood. “What sort of conclusions were you jumpin’ to? That Russell had some kind of disease? That he was dyin’ or somethin’?”

  Vernie bit back a growl. “Nothing like that, Cleta.” She pulled herself off the
wall. “Guess I should be getting back to the store.” She hesitated, biting her lower lip. “You’re sure he isn’t sick—cold? Flu? Maybe a stomach ailment?”

  Cleta shook her head. “He’s healthy as a horse. And has an appetite to match.”

  Vernie’s face fell. “Oh. OK. I’ll be running along, then.”

  Cleta paused, dust cloth in hand. “You can’t stay for a cup of coffee?”

  “No, got work to do. Talk to you later.”

  Vernie was halfway down the front stairs when she heard Cleta call, “You need a vacation, Vernie Bidderman! A good long one!”

  She let herself out, then nearly bumped into Edith Wickam on the front porch. Edith’s eyes were wide, her curls bounding. “Vernie! Thank goodness. You’ve got to help me.”

  “Why, Edith, whatever is the matter?”

  “It’s the bathroom!”

  Vernie had never seen Edith in such a state. “What’s wrong with the bathroom?”

  Edith paused to catch her breath. “Winslow tried to put up the border without removing the old paper—and it just fell off. Stanley tried to help him string up the border, but it dropped onto his head and I spent hours sponging the paste out of his hair. To make matters worse, whoever painted the bathroom before the wallpaper didn’t put sizing on the walls. Now Stanley and Win have got the border up, but it’s a mess. Half of it is falling off, while the other half is stuck tighter than a tick. The part they tried to pull off took the old wallpaper with it, and in a couple of places they stripped the plaster! My wall looks like it’s filled with moon craters! We’ve got to do something!”

  Vernie closed her eyes, imagining Stanley’s role in the disaster. “Oh, my. I can just imagine—”

  “If you don’t have a can of that stuff that loosens wallpaper, Win will have to go to Ogunquit and rent a steamer. This could take all night. I don’t think I can sleep in the house with that room looking the way it does.”

  Vernie slipped her arm about Edith’s shoulders and led her off the porch. “I can see you’re upset. Let’s go to the store and see if we have a can of stripper. I’m sure we can find something.”

  The women crossed the street and entered the mercantile. Vernie poured Edith a vanilla Coke—“Guaranteed to make you feel better,” she promised—then she called out to her clerk. “Elezar?”