A Perfect Love

by Lori Copeland

  “Well . . . I’m not very hungry.”

  There it was—the whine.

  Floyd complained about Barbara’s whining, but who wouldn’t sound a wee bit edgy at this hour of the morning? Of course, Cleta was used to the early hour, and so was Floyd. He couldn’t sleep past sunup if Cleta tied him in the bed, but Barbara was a good sleeper, and had been since infancy. Left undisturbed, Barbara could stay in bed until midafternoon, and often did. But then the poor thing had a terrible time going to sleep at night. Barbara didn’t come alive until Leno was on, then she’d get interested in movies on the Lifetime movie channel; sometimes it’d be three or four o’clock in the morning before the child could unwind enough to sleep. Russell was ready to get up about the time Barbara was ready to turn in. If children ever came along . . .

  Cleta shook her head. Barbara wouldn’t know day from night if she had a baby who got her up at all hours.

  She eyed Floyd, who was slurping his coffee. “What’s on your docket today, Floyd?”

  “Thought I’d go down and fire up the truck. Then I got to study.”

  Cleta drew a deep breath. Floyd had been taking a correspondence course in mechanical engineering for the past several weeks. Though she was glad he’d found something to do, his studies had reinforced his annoying fixation on things mechanical.

  Her husband had a virtual love affair going with the community fire truck. As faithful as the sunrise, he went down to crank the engine once a day in order to keep the motor in top shape. There hadn’t been much call for the fire truck lately—none, actually, since last October when a gull snatched Pastor Wickam’s toupee and the awful hairpiece landed in a pine tree.

  “Got to keep ’er running smooth.” Floyd reached for the saltshaker. “Do you know what a vehicle like that would cost nowadays if we had to replace ’er?”

  Cleta didn’t venture a guess because she knew. Floyd reminded her and the entire town at every monthly meeting.

  “Nine hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Floyd supplied.

  “Hmm,” Cleta said around a mouthful of toast.

  “If that one goes on us, we’ll never get another.”

  Cleta sighed, then, like a good wife, mumbled her line. “Did we pay that much for this one?”

  “No. Got this one at a steal but only because it was ten years old. Still paid over three hundred thousand bucks.”

  Cleta rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “That much?” She hated this conversation, but they had it nearly every morning. Why couldn’t Floyd find a new topic?

  Her husband nodded. “Needs new rubber, though.”

  “Ayuh. New tires. So you’ve said.” Again and again and again . . .

  “Daddy,” Barbara whined.

  “I know, I know.” Floyd leaned over and pinched Barbara’s cheek. “You gals don’t like to talk business so early in the morning. But you have a fire with bad tires and see if you don’t change your mind, little missy.”

  Russell pointed toward the plate in the center of the table. “Pass the eggs.”

  Sighing, Cleta handed him the plate.

  As sunlight streamed through the tall window of her bedroom, Barbara leaned against the window frame and stared past the dock toward the sea where her husband worked. Was he thinking of her as he baited and tossed out his traps? If so, was he missing her, or enjoying the peace and quiet away from this house?

  Unable to face the disloyal thought, Barbara reined in her gaze, settling on the mulched flower beds that lined the front walkway. Those flower beds were Micah Smith’s pride and joy, though he had little to do with them in the winter. In summertime, the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast was the town showplace, gardens of annuals and perennials in full bloom. Beds of old-fashioned apothecary rose dotted the spacious lawn facing the Atlantic. The flowery fireworks of scarlet salvia, the eccentric mop tops of bee balm, and mounds of cloverlike globe amaranth lined the red brick walks with friendly greetings for the tourists.

  “Look,” some woman would inevitably exclaim as she bent to fondle a siren-red clump of Lawrence verbena. “Have you ever seen anything more heavenly?”

  Micah loved flowers, and Barbara was fond of saying he possessed a green thumb plus four green fingers. No one could wield a trowel, fork, shovel, and rubber pail with such astounding effect. But island winters were merciless, and once the leaves and flower beds were raked and the outdoor furniture stored in the shed behind the B&B, Micah had little to occupy his time other than leading music at the church and enjoying coffee and doughnuts at the bakery with Abner. That morning habit, Micah declared years ago, was proving disastrous to his waistline, so he wanted to earn his keep by housecleaning in the winter months.

  When Cleta had protested that cleaning wasn’t Micah’s job, he only smiled and said he liked to feel needed. So now the forty-somethingish gardener helped with the vacuuming and cleaning in winter, attending to each guest room with as much dedication and precision as he gave his beloved flower beds. Like clockwork, he cleaned twelve rooms—thirteen if you counted the attic bedroom, used only for overflow—five guest rooms and three baths upstairs, and the Lansdowns’ bedroom, kitchen, parlor, and bath located downstairs. Each Monday morning Micah started at the top of the house and worked his way down, rarely finishing before noon on Thursday. The high-pitched whine of his vacuum cleaner reverberated along the sixteen-foot ceilings until Barbara declared she was going to frow the cord.

  In the church, the house, and the garden, Micah was a perfectionist. He didn’t just sprinkle tender plants or vacuum the center of guest rooms. He pulled out heavy chairs, beds, and nightstands with the same diligence he sowed, weeded, and fertilized every inch of the lawn. The lively man went about his mission like a sugared-up General Patton, hellbent on annihilating dust mites, powdery mildew, black spot, and rust. Occasionally his trained eye would catch sight of the dreaded rose mosiac fungi and life wouldn’t be worth living around the B&B until he’d stamped out the blight.

  Now Micah and his Hoover were bearing down on Barbara, roaring down the carpeted hallway.

  “If it’s no trouble, I’ll do your room and be out of your way soon!” Micah shouted above the siphoning noise. The Hoover mowed through a path of resistance, catching the hem of a window drape. The fabric corkscrewed up the shaft, the wall screws straining to hold the curtain rod. Micah quickly stepped on the power button and shut off the machine. “Not a problem,” he said, turning the vacuum on its side.

  Tightening the belt of her robe, Barbara walked to the doorway of her bedroom and leaned against the framing. Oblivious, Micah patiently proceeded to undo the snarl.

  She would have heaved the cleaner out the window and told her mom to buy new drapes.

  Sighing, she folded her arms and caught her reflection in the antique hallway mirror. What happened to the dewy-eyed twenty-year-old girl Russell had married? She was nowhere in evidence today. The image that stared back at her had allergy-puffed eyes behind thick glasses, no makeup, and thin lips. The swinging, sassy haircut Russell had thought cute a year ago now hung like linguini against her pale features.

  She leaned forward, making white indentations on her cheeks with her thumb and forefinger. Water retention from too many nitrates. She really should lay off the bacon.

  “Micah? Why would any man in his right mind marry me?”

  The gardener, absorbed in salvaging the drape, glanced up. His brown-eyed gaze softened. “What a question, Barbara. Any man would be proud to have you for his wife.”

  “Oh, stop it.” She leaned against the banister and stared at the ceiling. Micah always had a kind word for her—especially when she didn’t want to believe him. “Look at me! I’m an ugly, overweight, water-retentive wretch, and I don’t see how Russell stands me.”

  Forsaking the vacuum, Micah propped his hands on his bent knee and smiled up at her. “What a way to talk. The Lord made you in his perfect image. Are you questioning his purposes?”

  “No.” Barbara averted her eyes from the look
of kindness on the gardener’s face, feeling somehow ashamed of her neediness. He was right; she shouldn’t feel so down on herself, but how could she help it? Men didn’t care what they looked like; but for women, looks were important. Looks were what caught a man’s attention in the first place, and after you caught a man’s attention you had to charm him, and flatter him, and make him feel special. And once you married him, you had to please him, and care for him, and eventually, give him a baby . . .

  And in that lay the problem. Lately Russell had been insisting it was time they started a family and found a place of their own. Barbara had been stalling, hoping that the announcement of a baby would ease her way out of her family home, but there’d been no baby thus far.

  She supposed she was at fault. She wasn’t in any hurry to leave home, even though she’d been a married woman for three years. Mom and Dad were . . . well, Mom and Dad, and she loved them with all of her heart. But lately she felt uncomfortable here, even smothered, and she couldn’t explain this feeling to anyone.

  What was wrong with her?

  She tried to be enthusiastic about the prospect of having a baby and leaving home. Each month built to a climax of hopeful suspense—was she or wasn’t she pregnant? There were breathless days when her monthly cycle failed to begin on time, and sometimes, when she was late, she spent days in a kind of hopeful bemusement, refusing to take even a simple aspirin in case the miracle had happened.

  But those days were inevitably followed by the awful waking up to a low abdominal ache and the sure knowl- edge she wasn’t carrying a child. Russell always stirred when he heard her crying, and rolled over to take her into his arms, whispering that he loved her and they would be parents when the time was right. They had to be patient and wait on God’s timing.

  Cleta and Floyd only looked at each other with “what’s wrong now?” expressions on their faces when Barbara came into the kitchen with dark circles ringing her eyes. Disappointment, thick as sea smoke, hung in the air for a few days before life settled back to normal and the cycle began again.

  “Is something bothering you, Barbara?” Micah’s concern pulled her from her thoughts.

  Sighing, she gripped the banister behind her. Outside the window, bright sunshine streamed through the lace curtains—deceptively misleading for January. Just as her young body was deceptively misleading, offering the promise of babies and a home when there was none.

  “It’s personal, Micah.”

  “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “No, it’s not that I don’t want to tell you. You’re like family, after all. It’s just that I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  The gardener smiled softly. “I don’t think you could embarrass me, dear girl. I have seen more things on earth than you could imagine and—”

  “I don’t know why I can’t have babies,” Barbara blurted out. “Russell and I try . . . but it doesn’t happen. Russell wants a son so badly.”

  Micah tilted his head slightly. “Babies come when the Father sends them. When the time is right, you will conceive.”

  Barbara had heard that same assurance stated in a hundred different ways:

  Be patient.

  In God’s perfect timing, it will come.

  Don’t be in such a hurry; enjoy your carefree days. Children are a lot of responsibility.

  Have you thought about adoption?

  Cleta had been less than encouraging. Oh, Mom wanted a grandchild, but she made it clear there was no hurry. Children were a lot of responsibility, she said, and once babies started coming Russell would want a place of his own and that was the silliest idea this side of heaven. Barbara and Russell were just twenty-three and twenty-eight. “Goodness,” Mom would shake her head, “You have your whole life ahead of you—what’s the rush?”

  Barbara was beginning to think Cleta wanted them to stay at the B&B forever. She sighed, her eyes roaming the hallway. She loved this old house. She especially loved the bedroom she and Russell had made their own. Together they had picked out the drapes and bedspread. One Saturday afternoon they had laughed and kissed as they hung the masculine blue and green plaid fabric, vowing they would keep it forever. Later they had laid in bed holding each other, secure in their love.

  They’d always had a good relationship, but lately Barbara sensed a strain. Though Russell loved Floyd and Cleta—as much as one could love one’s in-laws—he made it clear he didn’t want to live in their home forever. He’d compromised with Barbara by agreeing to remain at the B&B until she got pregnant, but what would happen if she didn’t conceive a baby before Russell lost all patience?

  And she couldn’t blame him for being impatient. She’d really let herself go in the past year, and why not? Russell was gone all the time on the boat, while she was left here with nothing to do but sleep, eat, and watch television. She didn’t have her own house to care for, and her mother and Micah took care of most of the work at the B&B. When she tried to help around the house, Mom warned that her delicate constitution wasn’t up to hard labor.

  And Mom had a fit just before Thanksgiving when Russell broached the subject of he and Barbara renting a house or apartment in Ogunquit. Even Floyd had added his two cents to that brouhaha, saying that renting was only a waste of good money. Cleta would spend all day on the ferry crossing over to see Barbara, so they might as well save the wear and tear on everybody and let Barbara stay where she was—leastways until kiddies started coming. If Russell had money to burn, however, he might give some serious thought to donating a new set of tires for the fire truck. That would be money well spent.

  Upon hearing that, Russell had left the house in a snit, slamming the door behind him. Barbara had bolted for her room, and that concluded the subject. Nobody had wanted to bring it up again.

  Barbara looked down at the sympathetic gardener. “I’d be happy to wait for the right time, but the right time may be too late,” she confessed, driven to reveal her deepest fear. “I’ll be lucky if Russell sticks around that long.”

  “That is the silliest thing you’ve said so far.” Micah rose, shaking his head. “Russell’s a patient man, and he isn’t in this marriage for babies. He loves you, Barbara, deeply. It seems to me you aren’t being sensitive to his needs.”

  She stared in honest amazement. What needs? Russell didn’t have needs; not like hers. He could walk through the Wal-Mart baby department and not get weepy. He could stand and sincerely rejoice when friends announced pregnancies while Barbara ran for the guest bathroom in tears. It wasn’t his makeup that had to be redone, his eyes patted with cold water to reduce the swelling, or him pasting on a bright smile of bravado for the remainder of the evening.

  Russell didn’t understand a woman’s need to cradle an infant, nourish it, give it life. He was willing to let nature take its course while Barbara wanted results now. She didn’t fear the weight gain, varicose veins, heartburn, or the stretch marks she heard other women complain about. She would welcome a change in her body. Yet pregnancy never happened, and she was starting to fear that it never would.

  “Have you talked to Dr. Marc?”

  Micah’s gentle inquiry drew Barbara from her thoughts. “Not yet—Mom says there’s nothing wrong with me. She tells me to be patient.”

  “What does Russell say?”

  Shaking her head, Barbara crossed her arms. “He would like to have a place of our own by the time we have a baby, but there’s no reason we couldn’t get pregnant now. His business is doing well, but the longer we stay here, the better off we’ll be financially. That’s why we haven’t pushed the issue.”

  But Russell was ready to seek medical help; she could hear it in his voice when the subject came up. She didn’t want to take fertility drugs—she wasn’t up to having a passel of babies. Just one would do—one cute little boy or girl with Russell’s brown eyes and long lashes. Russell would have to be the one who consulted the doctor, though—she would be too embarrassed to go. Besides that, doctors frightened her.

  Other tha
n having her tonsils out, she’d never had anything more than a cursory physical examination. Before Barbara’s wedding, Mom had indicated with a strained look and a knowing eye that a gynecological exam involved more than a quick glance down one’s throat and a peek into one’s ears. Barbara wasn’t sure she wanted to discover how much more was involved. She’d heard Barbette Graham talk about the night Georgie was born. Amazing, what some women talked about.

  “Are you ready to tackle parenthood?” Micah asked, squeezing her arm in reassurance.

  Barbara raked her fingertips through her hair. Was she ready? Or was she feeling pressured into motherhood? She often thought she could handle a baby, then Mom would remind her how hard it was to run a household and raise children. Sometimes Barbara didn’t know what she wanted; often she wanted to be left completely alone. No pressure. No monthly anxieties. No talk of icky exams and prying doctors. When the time was right, a baby would happen if it were meant to happen.

  She tossed her head and gave Micah a repentant smile. “I’m sorry. I’m talking your head off, and you have work to do. I guess I’m just in a pink stink this morning.”

  Squeezing his shoulder in thanks, she moved past him toward her own bedroom. Here she was complaining again. She needed more to fill her time—something to force her to take an interest in life. But Mom cleaned the house and Micah did the gardening. Dad took care of the Fire Station and Russell was out on the boat from sunup to sundown. What was she to do with her time? She’d read every book in town, tried crocheting and hated it, halfheartedly joined the Women’s Circle quilting circle but found no real joy in working with a needle and thread. She couldn’t think of a single thing that held her interest.

  Micah knelt down and returned to the vacuum cleaner. Glancing back at his gentle features, Barbara wished she could be like the soft-spoken gardener, bathed in contentment.

  Micah glanced up, caught her looking at him, and smiled. “I can see you’re feeling better already.”

  Barbara came forward to drop a kiss on the man’s head, then went into the bedroom to get dressed. She wasn’t going to spend the whole day moping around the house. It was a beautiful day and she planned to make the most of it.