by Angela Hunt
Olympia stuck a small black hat on her head. “I’ll not be taking anything this year. I’ll not be staying long enough to eat, so I don’t see why I should have to feed everyone else. There’s no use wasting all that flour, lemon, and sugar. Last year food went to waste.”
“Oh, Missy. You must take something,” Caleb protested. “The other women—’’ “I’m not concerned about the other women.” She rammed a hatpin into place. “I’m only going to keep up appearances. A de Cuvier will not turn down a social invitation, no matter how rotten society treats her.”
“But if you eat—’’
“One cookie. That’s all I plan to eat. One tiny crumb. I’m sure one crumb will never be missed.”
Caleb’s face fell. “But—”
“That’s all, Caleb. You’re going to make me late for services.”
He sighed heavily. “I’ll bring the carriage around.”
“No need. I’ll be walking. Overtaxing the horse will only make him hungry.”
Before the servant could launch into a sermon defending the horse’s right to eat, she slipped out the door.
Her eyes widened at the sight that met her. Annie, wearing a dress, hose, and heels, was tiptoeing through the soggy garden lifting pots off the tomato plants.
Why would she get so dressed up to garden?
She opened her mouth to ask, then snapped it shut and set off for the short walk. She would have asked Annie to accompany her, but the last thing she wanted on this glorious Lord’s morning was to rehash last night.
Breathing deeply of the salt air, she leaned to open the gate. She’d barely undone the latch when a breathless Annie fell into step beside her.
Surprised, Olympia frowned. “And where might you be going?”
“With you.”
“I thought you were busy with your plants.”
“They’re fine. You don’t mind if I go, do you?
It sounded for the world like a challenge, but this morning Olympia wasn’t about to accept it.
The two women clipped along silently for half a block. Finally, determined to have a civil conversation, Olympia turned to Annie.
“Do you go to church in Portland?”
“No.”
Olympia frowned.
“God and I have called a truce.”
What that remark was supposed to mean Olympia didn’t know, but she was going to let sleeping dogs lie. Apparently Annie had decided to let last night’s confrontation pass without further angst.
They walked past houses of latecomers and crossed the street at the end of the block. Overhead, warm sunshine filtered through the colorful maples and oaks as they walked along.
Heavenly Daze Community Church sat just off Ferry Road, between the tidy white parsonage and the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast. As they approached, the tolling steeple bell announced that morning services were about to begin. Edith Wickam stood in the foyer doorway, shaking hands with the late arrivals.
“Good morning, Olympia. You’re looking especially nice this morning.”
Olympia stopped before the minister’s wife and turned to Annie. “Edith, I’d like you to meet my niece, Annie Cuvier.”
“Annie—from Portland, right?” Edith looked at Annie and waited expectantly.
Annie nodded. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wickam.”
The woman laughed. “Call me Edith. We’re on a first-name basis around here.”
Olympia and Annie were swept through the double doors as other late arrivals crowded into the foyer. Locating a seat in her favorite pew, Olympia opened her bulletin and perused the order of service. Dear heaven. Vernie Bidderman was doing another solo this morning. She rolled her eyes. Vernie’s warbling contralto offended nearly everyone’s sensibilities, but her feelings were hurt if she wasn’t asked to sing at least once a month.
Piano music rang from the front of the church, and the congregation stood, filling the small building with the bright strains of “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee.”
Olympia’s heart swelled with pride when she heard Annie’s distinct, clear soprano leading the cheerful chorus. She ached to turn and see if Vernie was paying attention. That woman could learn a thing or two from listening to Annie sing.
Chapter Twelve
On Sunday morning, Winslow lingered in the house until long after his usual departure time, then bent to check his reflection in the kitchen window. Though Edith was still doing her best to ignore the toupee, after three days he was finally beginning to feel as if it were a part of him. He had deliberately remained out of sight Friday and Saturday, giving himself time to become accustomed to the hairpiece, and he was pleased to discover that it adhered to his scalp through most of his normal activities. He’d been tempted to try the toupee in the shower (the ad guaranteed that it was washable), but a niggling fear from the back of his mind insisted that the moment water hit those perfect waves, the entire hairpiece would frizz into a fright wig.
But Friday he’d done four dozen jumping jacks and fifty push-ups, and the Hair didn’t budge. On Saturday he covered the wig with a baseball cap and went for a jog along the beach, and the Hair didn’t even shift when he removed the cap. Best of all, it passed the wind test. At the deserted north point of the island, Winslow had stood upon the highest sand dune and dared the strong ocean winds to knock his wig off . . . and none did. With a sense of satisfaction, he replaced his ball cap and jogged home.
The toupee was good. Hair was good, period. Guys with hair didn’t know how good they had it until their hair left, but you’d never catch a bald guy taking the hair involvement in a simple jumping jack for granted. Winslow had carefully performed at least a dozen before the mirror, several in slow motion, so he could study the rise and fall of the Hair to be sure it moved naturally.
Now he peered into the kitchen window and flicked a hair off his forehead, then pulled another strand down at a rakish angle. A stranger stared back at him—a thick-haired, darkish man with determined eyes and a resolute chin. This man could take on the church committee of Heavenly Daze. This man could even send Reverend Rex Hartwell, heartthrob of the women’s auxiliary, running for cover.
Whistling softly, Winslow slipped out the back door of the parsonage and strode across the lawn, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching his Bible. The tinkling sounds of the piano came through the cracked windows, accompanied by the sound of worshipers. A decent crowd, by the sound of it.
Winslow paused at the church’s back door and adjusted his tie. The wig on his head felt suddenly heavy, and an unmistakable drop of sweat was coasting down his left temple. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it away, then straightened and pasted on a confident smile. When he opened this door, the congregation would get their first look at a new pastor—and a man who intended to retain his position in Heavenly Daze.
He waited until the song ended, then cracked the door. “Shall we approach the Lord?” Micah asked, then the congregation bowed their heads in prayer. With every head bowed and every eye closed, Winslow swallowed against the unfamiliar constriction in his throat and walked into the church.
With the ease of a cat, he crept across the platform and took his place behind Micah. While the song leader prayed, Winslow eased the tiny hand mirror he’d slipped into his pocket out for one final peek.
Hair okay.
Convinced that he wouldn’t embarrass himself, he peered out at the congregation. Edith, thank the Lord, sat in her usual second row seat by the aisle. Cleta and Floyd Lansdown sat behind her, and behind the Lansdowns were the Grahams and the Klackenbushes. On the other side of the church, the de Cuviers were represented by Olympia and Annie Cuvier, while Barbara Higgs sat in the pew behind them.
Winslow frowned. He had meant to visit Russell Higgs, but had been sidetracked by the Hair. Russell was a worthy project, for if he could get that stubborn lobster-man to church on a regular basis, the townsfolk would never again doubt his effectiveness as a minister.
“We pray these thin
gs in the blessed name of the Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
As Micah concluded his prayer, Winslow lifted his head and met the gazes of his congregation. An unnatural silence prevailed, during which sweat beaded on his forehead and under his arms, then, from across the sanctuary, in a voice as piercing as an auctioneer’s, a child’s cry rang out: “Mama, the preacher has a squirrel on his head!”
Babette Graham slapped her hand over Georgie’s mouth while several women gasped in delighted horror. The men shuffled their feet and stroked their chins, desperately trying to hide their smiles. Ignoring them all, Winslow walked to the pulpit, dropped his Bible to it with a loud thump, then picked up the tiny lapel microphone and clipped it to his tie.
“It is wonderful to see you all here,” he said, letting his gaze rove over the back walls, the windows, and the doors, anywhere but the faces of his congregation, “and I’m thrilled to present the text of Habakkuk’s first complaint. Next week we shall hear about Habakkuk’s second complaint, and the following week we will focus on Habakkuk’s prayer. And throughout this study, I trust that God will illustrate the theme of this minor prophet: The just shall live by faith.”
Faint rustlings announced the congregation’s search for Habakkuk. Winslow took advantage of the moment to look at Edith—she sat very still, her unopened Bible on her lap, her cheeks as red as a Boston brick. But she hadn’t screamed, fainted, or left the room.
Emboldened, he picked up his Bible, then obeyed an impulse born of Hair confidence and moved to the right side of the pulpit. Why should he preach as if he were rooted to one spot? He had a lapel mike; he could move anywhere he wanted to. He could stand right over Floyd Lansdown if he chose to, and if that didn’t keep Floyd awake, nothing would.
“Habakkuk was complaining to God,” he said, enjoying the way his voice resonated through the speakers at the edge of the platform. “God was preparing to send the Chaldeans, also known as the Babylonians, to invade Judah, and Habakkuk wasn’t crazy about God’s plan. But God had an answer. Listen now while we read Habakkuk’s complaint and God’s response.”
He lifted his Bible and began to read. As his lips formed the words and his eyes followed the text, his ears told him that the usual sounds of restless movement had ceased. In the heavy silence, he had the feeling that if he dared to look up more than a few would be staring at him instead of following in their Bibles. That was only natural; they were still recovering from surprise. In time, they’d get used to the Hair just as Edith had.
Olympia flipped mechanically through her Bible, but her eyes were fixed on Pastor Wickam’s particularly atrocious toupee.
Jaw agape, she turned to look at Annie, who had scrunched low in the pew. Her hand was pressed to her mouth as she struggled to restrain a fit of giggles.
Shifting to glance behind her, Olympia encountered Barbara Higgs’s disapproving stare.
Nodding pleasantly, she straightened, then reprimanded Annie from the corner of her mouth. “Stop laughing this instant!”
Annie bit her lower lip, her eyes swimming with ill-concealed amusement. Sitting erect, she cleared her throat and focused on her Bible. Seconds ticked by before Olympia saw Annie’s gaze wander back to the hairpiece.
Olympia couldn’t help it. She chuckle-snorted.
Annie turned, her eyes wide with disbelief. Olympia bit her lip and crossed her legs, trying to get her emotions under control, but by now Annie was shaking with silent spasms. Her arms went around her waist, her Bible slid to the floor with a loud flump, and her face had gone as red as one of those mythical tomatoes.
Several in the congregation turned to see what was going on.
Struggling to gain her composure, Olympia bit the inside of her left cheek and thought of Effie. That usually did the trick.
Another snort escaped her.
Merciful heavens!
Again she snorted, louder—the sound was so loud and obtrusive that Beatrice swiveled from the front pew to glare at the troublemakers. Her laser-like eyes focused on Olympia with a hot gleam of disapproval.
Olympia brought her hand to her throat, feigning innocence. This was awful. What could Annie be thinking? Was she trying to disgrace the both of them? She closed her eyes and prayed that the pastor wouldn’t hear and think they were mocking his message.
Though he heard the sounds of laughter, Winslow pressed on. People always laughed at the truly creative. Surely they laughed at Ben Franklin when he was flying that kite in the electrical storm. They laughed at Henry Ford and they probably laughed at Noah when he began to build the ark.
But no one would dare laugh at him by the end of this sermon. This was a holy place, and he was God’s servant, preaching a divine message. So whatever laughing impulses had tickled their fancies would be dead and buried long before the service ended.
Twenty minutes later, after Winslow had reminded his people of the fury of a righteous and vengeful God, his theory proved correct. As confident as a terrier, he took his place at the back, ready to send each man, woman, and child out the door with a heartfelt smile.
So ended the first Sunday morning with Hair. And as Winslow said farewell to his parting parishioners, he considered the changes he had made and pronounced them good.
Olympia felt faint with relief. Finally, the ordeal was over. Pastor Wickam stood in the doorway shaking hands as the congregation filed by, complimenting him on his sermon.
“Lovely sermon, Pastor, very different,” Beatrice Coughlin said, slowly shaking the pastor’s hand.
“Ayuh, and that prayer was a real topper,” Mike Klackenbush added, half grinning before Dana could give him a sharp jab to the ribs.
When Winslow spotted Annie and Olympia, his wide smile shrank to a more dignified expression.
Olympia made the brief introductions.
Winslow inclined his head. “Thank you for coming, ladies.”
Olympia nodded. “Reverend.”
She hurried Annie down the steps before the minister had a chance to inquire about their source of amusement.
“I have never been so mortified in my life,” Olympia scolded as they broke into a brisk walk. She felt as if she were dragging a fifteen-year-old Annie out for passing notes in church.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Olympia.”
“To ridicule Pastor Wickam, a man of God, during one of his sermons—”
“I wasn’t ridiculing Pastor Wickam!”
“Then what, may I ask, were you doing?”
“Laughing at you.”
Olympia stopped in the middle of the street, her cheeks flaming. The truth stung. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Annie was apparently still trying to get control of her giggle box. “I would never be so rude or insensitive as to make fun of Pastor Wickam. It was you that got me tickled. You and that stunned look on your face. You should have seen yourself, Aunt Olympia! When the pastor came in with that bad toupee, you looked as stunned as a bug on a windshield.” She broke into a new round of laughter, drawing attention from other homebound churchgoers.
“Why—why—I did not. How ridiculous.” Olympia jerked the brim of her hat straighter. “I wasn’t making any sort of face; I was just surprised to see . . . and then when that Graham boy yelled out—”
She broke off, struggling with the laughter bubbling at the back of her throat. What must Edith be thinking to let her husband wear such a rat’s nest in public?
Setting off again, she quickened her pace. “Hurry along, we’re making fools of ourselves. Caleb will have dinner on the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Annie quickly caught up. They covered a block in silence before she picked up the thread again. “Where do you think he got that ugly thing? Certainly they don’t sell things like that in Ogunquit.”
“Maybe he ordered it . . . from Montgomery Ward.”
“Carpet World?”
Olympia snorted. “Or from Hair R Us.”
“The Hair Club for Men?”
“Faux Furs?” Olympia struggled to kee
p her composure; after all, she was the mature one in this relationship. But her stomach was about to bust from her imposed self-control, and before she knew it, another snort had escaped.
“And did you see the way Dana Klackenbush jabbed her husband?” Annie broke into laughter. “I bet he has three bruised ribs.”
“Serves him right for laughing so hard,” Olympia said, then the two giggled all the way home.
As they walked up the drive, Annie quietly said, “I am sorry, Aunt Olympia; I honestly didn’t mean to embarrass you. Surely you know that you taught me to exhibit more sensitivity than to laugh at Pastor Wickam, or anyone for that matter.”
“But it was rude,” Olympia reminded, cringing when she recalled Bea’s horrified stare. She wouldn’t live this down anytime soon.
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You did, too—if you hadn’t snorted I wouldn’t have gotten so tickled.”
“I’ve had quite enough of this conversation, young lady. I’ll hear no more about it, understand? The tea this afternoon will be trial enough without having to deal with this.”
“Yes, Aunt Olympia.” Annie meekly lowered her head as they covered the last few feet and climbed the porch steps. “But you did start it.”
“Did not.”
“Did, too!”
Winslow checked his watch. Three-thirty, and high time he was out of Edith’s way. She had that infernal tea scheduled for this afternoon, and there was no way he was staying in a clucking henhouse, even with Hair.
He blew a kiss in Edith’s direction and set out, walking briskly toward Frenchman’s Folly. He’d called at least once every day this week to check on Edmund’s condition, but it was time he paid the man a visit. Sometimes he just sat and read Scripture to terminal patients. Even when they couldn’t communicate through the drug-induced haze, he believed the Word was still a comfort.
Olympia and Annie were on their way out when he arrived.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He nodded, conscious of the way the wind ruffled the Hair in the sea breeze.
