A Perfect Love

by Lori Copeland

She heard a knock at the front door, then the creak of Floyd’s TV chair. A moment later Caleb’s and Abner’s voices drifted to the kitchen. Olympia’s butler and Birdie’s baker were out for their nightly stroll.

  Before Cleta could dry her hands and make herself presentable, Winslow and Stanley knocked on the kitchen door to say they had the steamer—an awkward, burdensome relic that look as if it might take a couple of men to operate.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Winslow said, stepping into the warmth of her house. “But I need to ask a favor. I don’t know if you’ve heard about our bathroom situation at the parsonage—”

  Cleta lifted a hand. “Oh, we’ve heard.”

  Floyd giggled. “Vernie’s been over.”

  Pastor Wickam pressed his lips together. “I see. Well, if you don’t mind, Edith and I are in a bit of an embarrassing situation. While we were in the midst of wallpapering—”

  “Their toilet is sitting in their tub,” Stanley interrupted. “And not very useful at the moment, if you know what I mean.”

  “Vernie already told me she’d volunteered my bathrooms,” Cleta said, grateful for an opportunity to show hospitality to someone who would appreciate it. “You and Edith can pop in any time. We’ll leave the back door unlocked for you.”

  Floyd pointed to the stainless-steel monstrosity Stanley had dragged in. “What is that, part of an artificial lung?”

  Stanley looked offended. “It happens to be the only wallpaper steamer in Ogunquit.”

  “It looks,” Floyd said, his gaze sweeping over the machine, “like it could use some new rubber. Those tires are nearly as bad as our fire truck’s—”

  “If you don’t mind,” Winslow interrupted, nodding toward the coffeepot. “Stanley and I would love a cup of coffee before we drag this contraption all the way down to the parsonage. We about froze on the ferry.”

  Cleta wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “I thought you two were supposed to steam the walls this afternoon.”

  “We tried,” Winslow said. “But Odell Butcher was nowhere to be found. So we had to wait for the last ferry.”

  Cleta nodded. The ferry ran to Heavenly Daze only three times daily in the off-season—at seven, noon, and six. More than once she’d been stranded in Ogunquit for an entire afternoon.

  Placing her hand on her hips, she surveyed the decrepit machine. “Looks like an older model.”

  “Ayuh,” Floyd agreed, drawing on his pipe. “Looks like it could have come over on the Mayflower.”

  “It was all they had, and we were right glad to get it,” Winslow said. He covered his mouth with his hand and belched, apologizing. “Sorry—the sandwich I had for lunch is backin’ up on me.”

  “You too?” Stanley popped an antacid into his mouth.

  “Let me get your coffee.” Cleta moved to the coffeepot, then smiled at Caleb and Abner as they came through the swinging kitchen door. “Welcome, gentlemen. Looks like you’re just in time to help Stanley and the preacher drag this monstrosity down to the parsonage.” She frowned as she surveyed Caleb, the butler. Though she had no idea how old the man was, he looked every day of eighty years old. Maybe he shouldn’t be out in the evening chill.

  “I can’t stay but a moment.” Caleb smiled, handing Cleta a small brown bag. “Olympia was feeling a little poorly when I left, so I told her I’d be back as soon as possible. But she thought you might enjoy a couple of fresh tomatoes.”

  Cleta peered inside the bag, then pulled out two plump red jewels. “Why, have you ever? Tomatoes in January. Who’d have thought it possible? Annie must be thrilled with her experiment.”

  Caleb nodded. “Ayuh. These beauties should put her in the textbooks, and they’re some good. Nice and meaty, with few seeds. Olympia enjoyed a couple of slices with her dinner this evening.”

  “My.” Stanley’s eyes widened at the sight of the red beauties. “They’re really edible? They look perfect enough to be plastic.”

  “Of course they’re edible. I’ll show you.” Cleta walked to the counter and pulled out a knife, then sliced one of the largest tomatoes. After adding a dash of salt and pepper, she spread the slices on a plate and grabbed a handful of forks.

  Holding the plate over the kitchen table where the men were gathered, she offered the utensils and nodded. “Go ahead, taste one.”

  Stanley and Winslow cautiously cut a bite, then bit into the flavorful fruit. “Yum,” Winslow said. “Delicious.”

  Stanley wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Looks like Annie’s a genius.”

  Caleb laughed. “I think so—but then I have always believed in her.”

  Floyd grinned. “Even the time she blew up the shed trying to make soda pop?”

  “Even then,” Caleb admitted. “She’s always been exceptionally bright . . . and curious.”

  Floyd had to get in on the tasting, and soon the three men had finished off the whole tomato.

  “I’m saving the other one,” Floyd remarked. “For tomorrow.”

  “Delicious,” Stanley said. “Never ate one any tastier.”

  “Well, Abner and I must be going,” Caleb announced. “We still have to walk a mile before we can go home.”

  Abner frowned. “Caleb is a hard taskmaster.”

  Caleb patted his friend’s extended belly. “Ah, but exercise is good for mortal bodies.”

  Winslow buttoned his coat. “Edith will be steamin’ herself by the time we get there. I promised her we’d get the job done tonight, which means we’ll have to strip the paper off the bathroom wall before we can go to bed. And we promised to have the steamer back in twenty-four hours.”

  Floyd, his thumbs hitched in his suspenders, rocked on his heels and pulled on his pipe. “If you need any help, just holler. I’m studyin’ mechanics, you know.”

  “Ayuh, will do.”

  Cleta closed the door behind the departing men and gave Floyd a reproachful look. “If they need any help? Of course they need help. They’re incompetent!”

  “Ayuh, and I plan to go over first thing in the morning and clean up their mess. Winslow’s bathroom is small, so I’d only be underfoot if I were to go over tonight.” He chuckled. “Sometimes you’ve got to let a man learn that he can’t do a thing before he’s willing to step aside and let somebody else have a go at it.”

  Cleta shook her head, but realized Floyd was probably right. Pastor Wickam seemed a lot better suited to preaching than wallpapering, but he’d made his wife a promise, and he had every right to honor it . . . if he could.

  “I’ll leave the light on,” she said, carrying the empty tomato plate to the sink, “so Edith and Winslow can find their way if they have to use our bathroom during the night.”

  By 11 PM, Dana Klackenbush had spread her antique double bed with a red and white checked tablecloth. A basket in the center of the cloth held a warm crock filled with Boston baked beans, while another basket held fragrant roast-beef sandwiches served on croissants, Mike’s favorite bread. A pair of tall scented candles gleamed from her nightstand, while soft music played from the radio on her husband’s.

  When she heard the slam of the downstairs door, she slipped out of her bulky chenille robe, then curled on the bed beside her heaped pillows, arranging her hair so that it flowed over one shoulder. She wore a charming ruffled nightgown of white cotton, sleeveless and thin . . . altogether impractical, considering the temperature outside, but this was a special occasion.

  She heard the groan of the stairs, then the squeak of the bedroom doorknob. Dana clicked off the television remote, then gave her husband her best come-hither smile. “Hi ya, honey.” She kept her voice low and husky. “Hungry?”

  Mike winced as he entered, pressing one hand to the side of his neck. “I think I got a crick or something from staring at the computer screen.” Without even looking at her, he moved toward the bathroom. “Man, it hurts! Do we have aspirin in the medicine chest?”

  Dana rose up on one elbow. “You want aspirin?”

  “We have any in here, or is it i
n the kitchen?”

  She glanced at the basket, the candles, the sandwiches, the bean pot. She didn’t see how he could have missed such a spread, but perhaps the pain in his neck had distracted him.

  “Honey,” she raised her voice so it would carry into the bathroom, “aren’t you hungry? You missed dinner.”

  “I couldn’t eat if I tried.” She heard the creak of the medicine cabinet, then the sound of water in the sink. “I’m bushed. I’m going to brush my teeth and go to bed.”

  She straightened as he thrust his head out of the bathroom doorway. “The aspirin’s not in here, hon. Would you mind running down to the kitchen and bringing it up?”

  She gave him a frosty glare. “Is that all you want?”

  “Ayuh, thanks.” His eyes wandered to the checked tablecloth. “Having a midnight snack? Hope you didn’t get crumbs in the sheets. But I’m so tired I think I could sleep in an ant bed.”

  As he disappeared back into the bathroom, Dana took one last look at her festive picnic, then blew out the candles. Gathering the tablecloth by its four corners, she jerked the entire thing straight upward, then swung it over her shoulder. Heedless of the mess, she carried the entire setup downstairs to the kitchen, then dropped her burden onto the kitchen table.

  “You want aspirin?” she muttered between clenched teeth. “You come down here and get it yourself.”

  Unfolding the tablecloth, she pulled out the basket, then tossed the gourmet sandwiches into Butch’s bowl. The dog, who’d been watching her from his bed by the back door, sprang to attention, then trotted toward the bowl, grunting in appreciation.

  “Your neck hurt?” she growled, pulling the bean crock from the mess. She lifted the lid, then dumped the steaming beans down the garbage disposal. “Your neck’s gonna hurt worse if you end up sleeping on the couch for a week, husband o’ mine.”

  The beans had spilled in her unconventional cleanup, so she grabbed a fork from the pile of utensils and scraped the sticky mess from the tablecloth linen, then slung bean goop into the sink.

  Making far more noise than was strictly necessary, she tossed dirty dishes into the dish drainer, the silverware into the sink, the tablecloth into the laundry hamper. Then she sat at the kitchen table and crossed her arms, her toe tapping in a quick rhythm as she waited for Mike to come down and see why she was taking so long with his aspirin.

  Five minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Finally, fearing that she was wasting a good pout, Dana crept up the stairs and discovered her husband asleep in bed, the side of his face pressed into the pillow and one hand brushing the wooden floor.

  The adrenaline that had fired her drained away, leaving her feeling empty. Too weary to work up another good temper, Dana crawled beneath the covers and curled into a ball, shivering as tears streamed from the corners of her eyes and into her hair.

  On his bed, working by the dim light of a forty-watt bulb, Buddy Franklin lay on his stomach and peered at the legal pad propped against his pillow. He had an inclination to write something, but the words hadn’t yet caught up with the urge . . .

  After dinner he’d gone into the workroom half of the carriage house and found Dana’s big birdcage beneath a stack of cardboard boxes; now it stood in one corner of his small room, next to the woodstove on one wall and his chest of drawers on another. The ornate freestanding cage seemed at home in the room, and by tomorrow night it would be home to the cutest critter in Heavenly Daze. Let Dana and Mike fawn over Butch, and let fussy Olympia de Cuvier dote on that Tallulah mutt—he was going to have the most unique, most clever pet on the island. Little Georgie Graham was going to go nuts when he saw it, so Buddy would probably have to avoid the kid for a while, just to give his sugar glider time to get adjusted. As a matter of fact, he should avoid everyone for a while, lest someone slip and tell Dana about the new pet. She’d come around eventually, but she had seemed awful determined the other day about not wanting any more animals in the house.

  But Buddy’s apartment wasn’t really her house. And the sugar glider wouldn’t be her responsibility. He would belong to Buddy alone.

  His heart brimmed with euphoria too rich for words, yet words bubbled up and pushed at him, straining for release. He’d had this experience before—once, in second grade, when a teacher told him he was a sensitive child, and in tenth grade when Jennie McGrady passed him a note that said, “I like you.” The feeling was like a beachball he tried to hold beneath the sea, but just when he thought he had it safely tucked away, it got away from him and popped up in some unexpected outburst. Earlier tonight, when he’d been in the workroom scrounging for the birdcage, he had burst into a rousing chorus of “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah,” startling Mike and Yakov so badly that they lost their place in their inventory count.

  Now the feeling was about to burst out again, but this time he was prepared. Gripping a pencil between his thumb and index finger, he pressed down so intently he nearly broke the pencil point.

  “My joy,” he wrote. And with the launch of those two words, a stream followed:

  My joy cannot be contained in words or song or

  expression—

  Letters, juxtaposed puzzles, are rife with discretion,

  But boundless joy, the rarest fruit of my heart,

  Is far more an elixir of life than mere art.

  Two black velvet eyes, a tip-tilted gaze

  Have launched me round this sphere in a daze.

  My heart doth pound in rapturous beat

  Anticipating the warmth of your breath so sweet—

  He scratched through the last line, knowing it didn’t fit. But what did? Sweet little feet? That rhymed, but didn’t seem lofty enough. Tiny little treat? No, nothing little. The love he would feel for his new companion would be anything but small. It would be huge, expansive—

  “Ah!” He pressed the pencil to the paper again. “My heart doth pound in rapturous beat, because your love makes my poor life complete.”

  There. Satisfied with his poem, he read it aloud three times, then ripped the page off the legal pad, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it toward the garbage can. He had memorized it, and tomorrow night, when his little pet snuggled safely in its pouch against his chest, he would whisper it through the night.

  Snatching the sleeping mask off her eyes, Cleta bolted upright up in bed. The fluorescent hands of the bedside clock stood at one o’clock. She tensed, listening to a rumble and creaking that could only be someone rushing up her stairs at ninety miles to nothing.

  Beside her, Floyd stirred. “Eh? What’s going on?”

  “Shush, I don’t know—go back to sleep. Must be Winslow using the bathroom. But you’d think a body would try to be a little quieter when using someone else’s toilet in the middle of the night.”

  “Sounds like a herd of buffalo.” Floyd rolled over, and a minute later a snore rolled from his mouth.

  Land almighty. Sinking back to her pillow, Cleta snapped her eye mask back into place.

  An hour and a half later, Cleta met Barbara at the kitchen window, blinking heavy eyes as they watched a weakened Winslow shuffle away across the graveled church parking lot, the ties of his bathrobe flapping, his hairy legs stuffed in corduroy house shoes as he shuffled toward the parsonage. Meanwhile, upstairs, the pipes sang as a toilet flushed in another part of the house—her own bedroom, Cleta guessed, from the sound of it. If so, this was the fourth time Floyd had made an urgent trip to the necessary room.

  “What is going on?” Barbara asked. “Who keeps slamming the doors?”

  “Land, I don’t know. Something must have upset their stomachs. Just go back to bed, hon.”

  Cleta tried to follow her own advice, but at three-thirty, Floyd reared out of bed and lunged toward the bathroom, nearly tripping in flight. The door slammed, jarring the old house.

  Cleta sat up. “Floyd?”

  A few minutes later he emerged, one hand pressed to his abdomen. “Stomach feels a little queasy—” He dropped off to sleep before he finished the compla
int.

  The man could sleep through the Second Coming.

  Cleta was awakened—well, the whole household was awakened—four more times before she gave up and got dressed just before dawn. Out of curiosity, she peered out a western window toward the mercantile, and through the darkness saw a light burning on the third floor.

  So—either Stanley had taken to sleeping with a light on, or he’d been up and down all night, too.

  She staggered into the kitchen and flipped on the light, feeling as if she’d been caught in a wringer. She’d never spent a more miserable night. She plugged in the coffeemaker, then padded through the foyer. When she opened the front door, a whiff of chilly air slapped her in the face.

  Colder than yesterday, a mite. The unexpected thaw couldn’t last much longer.

  Winslow Wickam was lucky. If he had ruined his bathroom a week or two later, he’d be running around in the dark in weather cold enough to freeze two dry rags together.

  She bent down to pick up the paper. The dedicated newspaper boat servicing all the Maine islands ran in all weather but a full gale, and Cleta marveled that anybody could function in full dark. Must be a special kind of person to thrive before 5 AM; she had never gotten the hang of it.

  Her hand closed around the morning news, then she went back into the house, letting the door close behind her.

  Chapter Six

  A little after sunup, Micah rounded the corner of the B&B and found Stanley Bidderman hunched in the porch swing and swathed in blankets. The man looked as pale as parchment.

  Concerned, the gardener climbed the steps, eying the sick man. “Stanley?”

  “A . . . yuh.” He stuttered the greeting over chattering teeth.

  “Goodness, man, why are you sitting out here at this time of the morning?”

  Stanley hung his head. “Vernie said I was keeping her up, so I left. I . . . I can’t afford to have her mad at me, not now.”

  “Are you ill?”

  The man nodded. “Must have been something I ate— that Po’ Boy sandwich or something.” He shuddered. “I can still taste the kraut.”