by Angela Hunt
Chapter Five
Batta, batta, batta, batta.
Winslow’s mind burned with the memories of younger days when he had stood in the lineup of his father’s softball team. The Boston Beaners were a class act, a neighborhood club that had actually sent one native son, Chad Rockaport, to the majors. And Winslow’s father, Don Wickam, was the leading pitcher, a man for whom chucking a ninety-mile-an-hour fast pitch over the plate was as easy as spitting.
Batta, batta, batta, batta, swing!
Though his feet felt like buckets of sand, Winslow kept moving, jogging past the church again and heading toward Main Street. He’d already run out to the lighthouse at Puffin Cove, waved a moment at Old Man Gribbon (who didn’t return the gesture), and now he was determined to make it down to the ferry landing before surrendering to the call of a hot shower and a soothing application of Bengay.
Sweat dripped from his forehead and tunneled through his brows. Winslow thrust out his jaw and blew a breath upward to warn off a circling bee, then focused his gaze on the ocean view at the end of the street. He would make it. Do or die, that had to be his motto. If he was going to become the pastor Heavenly Daze needed, he would have to stay the course.
“Batta, batta, batta, bean!”
That’s what the other kids had yelled every time a sure hitter strode to the plate.
They never yelled it when Winslow picked up the bat. Whenever he edged forward to face the pitcher, a chorus of giggling and/or sympathetic whispers rose from the bench and the bleachers. Everyone knew it was a crying shame that Don Wickam, athlete extraordinaire, had fathered a klutz. A bookwormish klutz.
If only the sweaty mob had known the truth— Winslow took after his mother, Abigail Wickam, an outstanding and much-appreciated reference librarian at the Boston College Law Library. While Winslow endured long softball games with his father and his peers, Abigail Wickam helped lawyers pore through obscure documents that enabled Truth and Justice to prevail in the city of Boston.
Winslow could not understand why his mother urged him to follow his father’s example when her own was so much more interesting. During supper each evening, after his father had finished reciting the scores of whatever major sport happened to be in season, Winslow would ask, “What did you do today, Mom?” If he pressed hard enough, and if his father had thoroughly tired of sports trivia and braggadocio, Abigail might be persuaded to tell of how she’d found a little-known clause that enabled the police to include a questionable fingerprint as evidence and allow the state prosecutor to nail a murderer.
Right about at this point, however, Don Wickam would look up, scowl, and say, “Good grief, Abigail, did you forget to put the ketchup on the table again?”
One evening, while his mother rose to fetch the ketchup for his father, Winslow decided that his life would be different. He wouldn’t take a job that required men to bully one another, nor would he ever bully his wife. He would be thoughtful and kind, and he would spend his life making a difference in the thoughts of others, for if you could change a man’s thought processes, you could change his actions . . .
“Pastor Wickam!”
From out of nowhere, Beatrice Coughlin’s reedy voice sliced into his thoughts. Glancing around, he saw the petite widow standing near the door of the tiny brick building that served as a post office for Heavenly Daze.
Panting, he stopped, then bent and clutched his knees. Oh, my. He had rounded the corner without even realizing it, but his body was complaining now, telling him that he’d gone too far, too fast.
“Pastor,” Beatrice’s insistent voice loomed closer, “don’t you run away until I give you this package. It’s a rush delivery, that new priority mail, and it came clear from Chicago. I knew you’d want it as soon as possible.”
Winslow winced. The package was in Bea’s little hand right now. If she knew what it contained his secret would be spread all over the island by suppertime.
He blinked and studied the bundle. True to their word, the people in Chicago had packaged his order in a plain brown wrapper. The return address revealed nothing but a post office box.
“Thanks, Miss Beatrice.” Winslow reached out and pried the parcel from the woman’s fingers. “I’ll save you a trip over to the parsonage.”
The woman’s hungry eyes followed the wrapper as he tucked it under his arm. “A sweet little box, that. What’d you do, order something for Edith?”
Winslow forced a smile. “Well—not really. But thanks for stopping me.”
“Something for you, then?”
Winslow pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his sweatpants and mopped his brow. He ought to just wave his thanks and sprint away . . . and he would, if only he had the energy. Right now his legs felt numb, and the package under his arm seemed to weigh two tons.
“Miss Bea,” he said, hoping to change the subject, “I couldn’t help but notice that you were wearing a new hat Sunday. It was quite becoming—did you pick it up in Ogunquit?”
“Why, Pastor.” Beatrice pressed her hand to the lace at her throat and beamed. “That was just an old felt hat Birdie had lying about the house. I just put it on because— well, you know, there’s a bit of a nip in the air.”
“I see.” Winslow jammed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well, I’d better run along. Thanks for thinking of me.”
And before Miss Beatrice could recover from the compliment, Winslow turned and kick-started his internal engine, moving just fast enough to turn the corner and clear Bea Coughlin’s line of sight.
He limped the rest of the way home.
Edith Wickam checked her purse for her shopping list, then, satisfied that she hadn’t left home without it, lifted her head and quickened her pace. The glorious day was perfect for walking, the sky a spotless blue curve over the island. She set out at a brisk pace, passing the church and the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast, then turned right on Main Street and walked toward the Mooseleuk Mercantile.
Her heart bounded upward when she saw Winslow shuffling toward her, but he limped along with his eyes downcast, his thoughts apparently a million miles away. Amused, Edith stopped on the sidewalk immediately across the street, but he crossed without looking up and continued down Ferry Road toward the parsonage. As he passed, Edith noticed that he carried a small brown package— Bea had undoubtedly caught him as he ran by the post office. The woman had an eagle eye and rarely let a potential delivery slip by.
Chuckling at her preoccupied husband, Edith continued on her way. Out in the harbor, the ferry tooted a welcome, and she waved. Soon the boat would dock, and the last-of-the-season visitors would pour onto Main Street. The tourist season officially began in April, but the real crowds began to arrive in late May and swarmed over the island until the first week of October. Though the visitors stole much of the peace and quiet from their little town, Edith, like everyone else, had learned to be grateful for them. Without summer tourist dollars, Heavenly Daze would not survive the winter.
The Mooseleuk Mercantile, named for a stream in Maine, sold basic staples to year-round residents and a host of geegaws to tourists in search of something different. Vernie Bidderman, the store proprietor, offered a wonderful selection of delicacies like honey maple butter, jars of New England clam chowder, and kettle-stirred blueberry jam made from blueberries grown on the north side of the island. At the mercantile you could find flannel nightgowns, shearling slippers, and fleece ear warmers for folks who didn’t like hats. Vernie’s beauty counter offered Carmichael’s Cuticle Cream, white cotton sleeping gloves for protecting wind-chafed hands, and Dermal-K Cream, guaranteed to cover spider veins.
Everybody could find something at the mercantile— from waffle makers to thermal underwear, Vernie boasted that she either had it or she could order it—and that thought made Edith wonder what Winslow had been carrying when he passed her. A package, but from where? If he needed something, he usually asked her to pick it up at the mercantile, but he hadn’t mentioned anything.
S
he shrugged—it had to be a book. Winslow was always ordering books off the Internet. Some of the books he used for his sermon studies were hard to find, and not the sort of thing Vernie would enjoy tracking down.
Standing in the shade of an oak, Edith watched the ferry pull into the dock. At least thirty people crowded the railing, eager to disembark, accompanied by Tallulah, Olympia de Cuvier’s freewheeling terrier mix. As soon as the deck hands tied the ropes and lowered the gang plank, they stormed off, most of them headed for the mercantile or the Graham Gallery. In time, a few would wander down to Birdie’s Bakery for a sandwich or an ice cream cone. The kids would congregate in the candy aisle, eyes wide and mouths watering at the contemplation of so much sweetness.
Edith leaned back against the tree and smiled as Tallulah sauntered past. “Hello, Tallulah,” she called, “Good pickin’s in Ogunquit today?”
The mischievous mutt threw a toothy doggie smile over her shoulder and went on, her tail waving like a plume over her back.
Two couples, both of them young, had linked hands and strolled toward the bed-and-breakfast, dragging their wheeled suitcases behind them. In time, they might walk over to the Graham Gallery and buy a painting or a pot to commemorate their romantic getaway.
Edith turned her face into the wind and sighed as she remembered her first night on Heavenly Daze. She and Winslow had come alone on a Saturday, leaving Francis behind with friends in Boston, and together they shyly toured the island and met the townspeople. That night Winslow polished his sermon notes for the twentieth time, went into the bathroom and practiced his delivery, then came out and drew her into his arms. In the de Cuvier room at the B&B, they had quietly loved each other, setting a thousand worries to rest as they united to face whatever the coming day would bring.
The next morning, Winslow had awoken early and slipped into the bathroom. Edith crept out of bed and tiptoed to the cracked door, then peeked through to see Winslow reciting his sermon before the mirror. Using a hairbrush as a microphone, he had pointed toward the mirror and softly proclaimed, “The story of Jonah is a grand picture of Christ’s resurrection and the church’s mission to minister to all nations.”
Edith tapped her fingertips over her lips, as prone to giggling now as she had been ten years ago. To a casual observer, her husband seemed calm and phlegmatic, but she knew how he fidgeted the night before a sermon and how hard he worked to prepare his lessons. And even if he had not chosen to preach, he would still be a good man. He wasn’t perfect, but who among God’s children was?
A pair of freewheeling gulls squawked overhead, bringing Edith out of her reverie. The horde of tourists had dissipated, so she crossed the street and stepped into the mercantile, then bent to pick up one of the straw shopping baskets stacked by the door. Immediately to her right, a group of preadolescent girls huddled around Vernie’s cat, a thirty-seven-pound black-and-white freak of nature named MaGoo. MaGoo drew as much attention as Vernie’s wares, and the soft kitty treats offered by tourists (and sold at thirty-five cents per bag) insured his longstanding claim to the title of Maine’s Heaviest Living Cat.
Edith looked up, ready to greet Vernie, but she stood behind the wooden counter, her head bowed in conversation with Beatrice Coughlin. Not wanting to interrupt, Edith moved into one of the aisles and studied the various jars of saltwater taffy. This sweet treat came in over a dozen different flavors, and she had never tried it. Perhaps it was time she did.
A memory ruffled through her mind like wind on water. In those frugal first years of marriage, occasionally Winslow would bring her a small gift. He never called it a gift or a present, because he knew she’d protest any extravagance. And so he would bring her some little thing and call it a “happy.” And no matter what it was—a flower, a candy bar wrapped in ribbon, or a small book—the thought always did lift her spirits.
Edith ran her hand over the candy jars, overcome by the sense that Winslow could use a happy right now. He’d been preoccupied for the last several days, and nothing she said or did seemed to break the spell of whatever dark thoughts had clouded his usually sunny outlook.
But Winslow wasn’t much of a candy person. He preferred salty snacks to sweet, so perhaps she could find something over in the aisle where Vernie kept peanuts and potato chips.
Edith had no sooner entered that aisle than she heard her name.
“Of course, we’re taking pains not to tell Pastor or Edith Wickam,” Bea was telling Vernie, “but Rex Hartwell will be coming in on the last Sunday of the month.”
“Will he preach?” Vernie asked.
“No, he’s just here to look around. But he’s supposed to meet with Cleta and her committee before he leaves. Then we’ll have his final answer.”
“Oh, Bea.” Edith flinched as Vernie slapped the counter. “This is so exciting! We haven’t heard this much good news since . . . well, since we called Reverend Wickam!”
“But we’ve got to keep it quiet.” Beatrice lowered her voice to a stage whisper that carried easily over the row of peanuts and pretzels. “We haven’t yet decided how to tell Pastor Wickam.”
“I won’t say a word.”
From her hiding place, Edith flinched as though an electric spark had jumped over the aisle to sting her. Though she had no idea what Vernie and Bea were talking about, their conversation made it quite clear that she wasn’t supposed to know. Her abrupt appearance would embarrass all three of them.
As her heart pounded hard enough to be heard a yard away, Edith lifted the shopping basket up over her head, then crouched down and backed down the aisle toward the thermal underwear. When she was certain that neither Vernie nor Bea had left the counter, she skirted the rear of the store and hustled up the candy aisle, startling a visiting couple who were deliberating over the display of Necco wafers.
“Excuse me,” Edith whispered, ducking as she passed them.
Still holding the straw basket over her head, she fled through the open doors and crossed the porch, then hurried away, pausing at the last moment to listen to her conscience. Before leaving, she hooked Vernie’s shopping basket over the antique hitching post at the edge of the property.
Vernie’s gossip might have made Edith an eavesdropper and worrier, but she would not allow it to make her a thief.
Edith felt a weight lift off her shoulders as she crossed the threshold of her own home. Though it was clear from Vernie’s conversation that Winslow didn’t know everything going on with Cleta and her church committee, he was bound to know about Rex Hartwell.
At least she hoped he did. She didn’t want to be the one to tell him.
“Winslow?” Pulling her sweater from her shoulders, she dropped it over the back of a chair, then moved through the house. Winslow usually spent his mornings at home, so he had to be here, but the room he used as a study was empty, as was their bedroom.
But the bathroom door was closed. And locked.
Edith drew back her hand, perplexed. In all the winding length of their marriage, she could never recall Winslow locking the bathroom door.
Her feeling of uneasiness suddenly turned into a deeper and much more immediate fear. What was wrong? He had cancer; he was dying; he had heard terrible news and couldn’t bear to share it with her—
No. This was a small town, and gossip traveled as fast as a wink. He had heard what she heard, and he had locked himself in the bathroom rather than face her. Hadn’t she seen him coming from the post office with a package? So he had encountered Bea this morning, and she might have let something slip. Even if she’d only hinted at trouble, that hint had been enough to preoccupy Winslow enough that he didn’t notice his own wife walking on the other side of the street . . .
“Winslow!” She pounded on the door. “Win, I need to speak with you. Please, honey, don’t shut me out.”
Pressing her hands to the smooth wood, she sighed in relief when she heard a footstep, then a metallic squeak as the old-fashioned skeleton key turned in the lock. As the door opened she flung herself
into his arms.
“Honey,” she whispered, resting her cheek on his chest, “I’m with you. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know we’re going to be okay. Whatever is happening in your life, God will take care of us. He knows what’s best, and he’s in control no matter what that church committee has going on—’’
“You know about the church committee?” His voice sounded muffled, strange.
Edith nodded, not lifting her head. “Yes. I overheard Bea talking to Vernie at the mercantile. They didn’t see me. I didn’t catch much of their conversation, but I heard something about Rex Hartwell—’’ A strangled sound came from Winslow’s throat.
“Who is he, Win?” she asked, holding him tighter.
“He’s a preacher.” Winslow’s voice dissolved into a thready whisper. “And he’s coming here. At the end of the month. To look us over.”
“Well, honey, that doesn’t mean—’’ Edith fell silent, searching for some explanation besides the obvious one. Why would a church committee invite an outside preacher if not to look over the congregation in view of a future call?
“Well, I don’t know what it means.” She patted his back in a gesture of reassurance, then lifted her head. “But I know—’’
The remaining words caught in her throat as she stared upward. A sudden chill climbed the staircase of her spine as she stared at the man she thought she knew, then she backed out of his embrace, her hands lifting.
Winslow took a step toward her. “Honey, it won’t hurt you.”
“Just—just give me a minute.” Edith blinked, then took another half-step back and bumped against the bureau, hurting her hip. Tomorrow she’d have a bruise, but now all she could do was stare at the black thing atop Winslow’s head.
“What—where—’’ she stammered, one finger pointing at the dark mass crowding her husband’s forehead.
“I ordered it from an 800 number,” Winslow said, stepping out of the bathroom. He paused in front of the mirror above his chest of drawers, then tugged at the hair above his ears, making the entire patch of hair move . . . as if it were alive.
