A Perfect Love

by Lori Copeland

“Come over to my place. I’ll fix you some coffee and you can get warm.”

  Micah helped Stanley up from the swing and steered him across the porch and down the steps. A few moments later they were sitting at the gardener’s kitchen table watching the sun gild the morning sky.

  Micah poured hot water into a cup and added a spoonful of honey and a tea bag. While the drink steeped, the two men talked. Stanley told the gardener about Vernie and all the years they’d been apart. He said he’d been fool- ish to leave. He’d gone searching for a rose when he had an orchid in his own backyard.

  Micah listened, slowly stirring his tea as Stanley poured out his heart. “I’m afraid too much time has passed,” Stanley finished. “I realized my mistake too late.”

  “You fear she will never forgive you?”

  He nodded. “She says she forgives me, but forgetting is another matter altogether. My failure will always be in her mind, and I can’t do anything to erase it. She’s made a life for herself, a good life, and she doesn’t need me in it.” He looked away, and Micah studied his profile. Stanley’s features were pasty and drawn in the early morning light.

  Stanley whispered, as though he were speaking more to himself than to Micah. “Vernie’s rough on the exterior, but she has a heart of gold. I was a fool. I didn’t appreciate her before.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  Stanley closed his eyes. “I’ve made more than my share.”

  Micah set his spoon on the table. “Do you believe in God, Stanley?”

  Stanley tilted his head. “I suppose so. As a child I believed in lots of things, including God, but faith became harder when I grew up. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all a myth. One thing I know for sure—God has no reason to believe in me.”

  Micah lifted a brow. “His grace is not sufficient to cover all your mistakes?”

  Stanley shook his head. “I sound like an atheist, don’t I? I know we’re not to rely on feelings, but sometimes emotions are alst I have left. I feel so bad about my mistakes that I can’t believe God would have me.”

  Micah rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. “We are given free will, Stanley, so it’s not surprising that men make wrong choices. Every man, woman, and child makes mistakes. Only through grace are humans restored to fellowship with God.” His gaze met Stanley’s and held it captive. “Grace is a marvelous thing.”

  “Say again?”

  “If men were to rely only on their own efforts to reach heaven, they really would be in a pickle, wouldn’t they?”

  The mention of food seemed to make Stanley grow paler. He clutched at the edge of the table, then leaned forward, his face twisted in an expression of pained concentration. “May I?”

  The angel pointed. “It’s that way.”

  Lurching from his chair, Stanley disappeared down the hall, then slammed the bathroom door.

  Micah chuckled in quiet sympathy, then leaned back in his chair, sipped his coffee, and lifted his gaze to the window. The day outside was glorious, another testament to the Father’s grace and mercy. The citizens of Heavenly Daze ought to have been buried in snow and ice by now, yet few of them had stopped to consider that God had allowed them a respite. Fewer still had thought to wonder why. The good weather was a gift, pure and simple. Just like grace.

  Micah smiled as his thoughts returned to Stanley Bidderman. God’s grace was more than sufficient to cover sin, but a mortal man’s mistakes often rose up to haunt him. Stanley and Vernie had wasted many years, and they would waste even more if they continued to look back instead of moving forward. Cleta was also looking back—longing for the days when her daughter had been truly dependent. That sincere woman needed to cut the strings that bound her to the past and seek God’s will for her future.

  What was it about humankind that made them yearn for the opposite of God’s good plan for them? God had given them two weeks of splendid weather; they muttered about the snow and ice to come. They complained about loneliness, then spent their time in activities that corrupted the soul and proved insatiably addictive. Two years ago Cleta had become hooked on soap operas, and that addiction had nearly cost her the friendship of every woman on the island. And though she knew the danger of daytime drama addiction, still she allowed her daughter to watch the silly shows, knowing that the habit kept Barbara close to home.

  Humans squandered things of eternal value and hoarded worthless, temporary baubles. They wept buckets over silly fictional movies, and found it difficult to sustain a dull ache for the terrible tragedies of real people’s lives. They found ten minutes of prayer tedious, yet wasted hours surfing the World Wide Web and watching television.

  They yearned for God, but the God they sought was a safe, grandfatherly deity who would send them good weather and keep them safe as they went about their daily business. Few of them realized that the God they cajoled in prayer wasn’t grandfatherly at all, and he was certainly not safe. The sovereign God of heaven and earth was a consuming fire, and his overriding purpose for men and women was not safety or comfort, but holiness . . .

  Micah’s heart softened as he prayed for Barbara and Russell, two dear children who struggled to find and follow the Lord’s will. God had promised to provide and care for them, but presently they were choosing to live a safe life rather than an obedient one. Barbara had allowed fear to blind and bind her, and that same fear would prevent her from discovering all the blessings God had allotted for her.

  Micah shook his head.

  His dear charges, the occupants of the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast, had much to learn about walking in faith and light.

  Trying to appear as though he hadn’t a care in the world, Buddy Franklin whistled as he stepped into the mercantile, then checked his watch. High noon, and no sign yet of the ferry or a Federal Express package. Fortunately, the temperature was above freezing, so his sweet little sugar glider wouldn’t freeze his stripes off if he were stuck in a truck somewhere in Ogunquit.

  “Can I help you, Buddy?” This from Elezar, who stepped out from behind the counter.

  “Um, ayuh. Whatever.” Buddy looked around for Vernie, then sighed in relief when he didn’t see her. Seemed like that woman knew everything that went on in Heavenly Daze, and Buddy didn’t want word of his special pet getting out—at least not yet. He’d have to judge Dana’s mood before he could let her know about his new addition, and he knew he’d have to get through at least a couple of months with her not knowing before he’d be able to prove he could have a pet without bothering her in the least.

  Elezar craned his neck to look around Buddy. “Butchie didn’t come with you this morning?”

  “Naw. Butchie stayed home.” Buddy stepped closer to the store clerk and lowered his voice. “I need something, you see, and I don’t want Vernie knowing about it. My sister, either.”

  Elezar’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I can keep a secret, Buddy.”

  “Good.” Buddy edged closer. “I’m looking for a little bottle, the kind of thing you’d hang in a hamster’s cage.”

  Elezar nodded. “I think you’re in luck. We have a few pet supplies in a drawer in the back, and seems to me we got in a few hamster-type things back when Georgie Graham was talking about gerbils.”

  He turned and walked toward the rear of the store. “You thinking about getting a hamster, Buddy?”

  Buddy followed the clerk. “No.”

  “Well, then.” Stooping, Elezar bent before a dusty shelf and pulled out a box. “Here we have an assortment of small rodent toys—a little ceramic dish for food, a wheel, and—ayuh, here’s a water bottle.”

  Eyeing the toys, Buddy said, “If I get some of those things, you promise you won’t say anything to Vernie?”

  Elezar shook his head. “She won’t even know they’re gone until someone else comes in here looking for them. The odds of that are pretty slim.”

  “OK.” Buddy pointed to the box. “I’ll take the little dish, the bottle, and . . . well, ayuh, give me the wheel too. I don’t know
if I’ll need it, but you never know.”

  Elezar lifted a dark brow. “Not a hamster, huh? Thinking of getting a gerbil?”

  “Um, no.”

  “A mouse?”

  “No.”

  Elezar made a face. “Don’t tell me you’re getting a rat!”

  Buddy managed a grin. “No.”

  Elezar’s smile faded. “Don’t tell me you’ve already caught a rat.”

  Buddy shook his head. “No, and I gotta go, OK?”

  Elezar stood. “Shall I put this on Dana’s tab?”

  Buddy was about to nod, then realized that certainly wouldn’t work. Dana examined her receipts with an eagle eye. “No, I’ll pay cash.”

  Elezar’s eyes widened to the point that Buddy feared they’d fall out of his head, then he grinned and led the way to the counter. Buddy forked over the money quickly, lest Vernie come down the stairs and catch him in a cash transaction, then he stuffed his purchases inside his coat and left the mercantile, whistling as casually as he could.

  Still cloaked in a residual fog of Bad Mood, Dana knocked on the door to Buddy’s apartment, then grunted in relief when he didn’t answer. Pushing the door open with her hip, she stepped into the room, then blinked in amazement when she saw her birdcage, nicely cleaned, standing in the corner.

  Coming closer, she peered into the empty depths of the huge cage. “What in the world?” She glanced around the apartment, but saw nothing out of order. Buddy’s bed was an unmade mess, as usual, and the fire in the wood-stove had been banked to a low glow through the tempered glass. His bureau stood as cluttered as always, with half the drawers cockeyed, and decorated with a pair of underwear and two socks hanging over the rim of an open drawer.

  Why in the world would Buddy want to put her birdcage in his room? Was he missing her parakeet? He’d never paid it much attention, except, of course, for the time she asked him to clean the cage and he left the door open. Two hours later the bird had vanished, and then they found him, the victim of an attempted dive into the goldfish bowl . . .

  Surely Buddy wasn’t feeling guilty about that. The parakeet was ancient history, so what was he thinking about now?

  Her mind drifted back to an arts-and-crafts show she and Buddy had visited in the fall. A dealer from Wells had specialized in old birdcages filled with arrangements of silk flowers and driftwood. So maybe Buddy was feeling artistic . . . maybe even noodling on the idea of making something for her. The idea brought a small niggling of pleasure, but it still seemed incredible. If he’d wanted to make something, he could have kept it in the workroom . . . unless he didn’t want to get in Mike’s and Yakov’s way.

  She scratched her head, then shrugged and reached outside the door to bring in her utility-sized garbage bag. Buddy was an enigma, and even though the same blood flowed in their veins, she had never been able to figure him out. She had never understood why he joined the Navy when he got seasick in the bathtub, nor had she been able to comprehend why he’d found it necessary to tattoo himself. No one else in their family had a tattoo, yet Buddy sported three of them, two on his right arm and one on his left. Dana knew the preacher cringed every time Buddy helped pass the offering plate in short sleeves. All those tattoos somehow seemed out of place in church.

  She dumped Buddy’s trash can into the garbage bag, then bent to pick up a crumpled sheet of paper that had obviously missed the mark. She held it for a moment, thinking of the birdcage, then sat on the bed and smoothed out the wrinkles. In Buddy’s distinctive blocky handwriting she read:

  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,

  Because your love makes my poor life complete.

  She lowered the page, her thoughts racing in a thousand different directions. Buddy . . . was in love! But with whom? He couldn’t be in love with anyone on the island; everyone here was married, too old for him, or distinctly not interested. And this wasn’t the poem of a man suffering from unrequited love . . . this man had hope! That could only mean he had written this for someone he’d met recently.

  She pressed her hand to her lips, trying to remember if any eligible single women had visited the island in the last few weeks. Annie Cuvier had come for Christmas, but she’d been fixated on the doctor’s son throughout her visit. Besides, Annie was too brainy for Buddy—he had depths to his personality, but few people took the time to explore them. Most people assumed he was as dull as he was slow to speak, but Buddy had always had a gift for the written word, like their father, so if he’d been writing someone . . .

  She snapped her fingers as a memory surfaced. Last night Buddy had been writing some woman on the computer! He’d been pretty intense about it, too, and at least a couple of messages had zipped back and forth in the short time Dana was calling Buddy to dinner.

  She pressed both hands to her face, then laughed aloud. Buddy had found a girl through the Internet!

  Mike would be glad to hear it—unless, of course, Buddy decided to marry and bring his wife to live in the cramped carriage house. But that wasn’t likely to happen. No self-respecting woman would agree to that; she’d want Buddy to live in her town and be married in her church . . .

  Dana smoothed the page and read the words again. Not a bad poem, actually, though apparently Buddy hadn’t liked it enough to keep it. He must have written another one to e-mail his female friend . . . so he wouldn’t mind if Dana used this one.

  Her thoughts skittered back to the photograph of Basil Caldwell and the announcement of his poetry contest. Why not enter this poem? It wouldn’t win, not with all the wannabe Robert Frosts in the Maine woods, but it’d give her an excuse to paper clip a little note to Basil on the entry form. She’d write something cheery—“Saw your picture, you look good, stay in touch!” If she sent in a poem, he’d have to acknowledge her entry, wouldn’t he? So he just might drop her a little note in return, and from his message she’d be able to tell if he remembered her at all.

  Humming in anticipation, Dana folded Buddy’s poem, slipped it into her jeans pocket, and then dragged the trash bag back outside.

  With a bag filled with mailing tubes slung over his shoulder, Mike approached the ferry landing shortly after noon, then stared when he saw his brother-in-law seated on the bench.

  “Hey, Buddy,” he called, dropping the heavy bag to the dock. “You going to Ogunquit?”

  Buddy glanced at Mike for a moment, then returned his gaze to the watery horizon. “No.”

  Mike quirked a brow, but apparently Buddy didn’t want to embroider his response. That was his way. He rarely said more than twenty words at a time to anyone but Dana.

  Sinking to the opposite end of the bench, Mike slipped his hands into his pockets and turned his face toward the sun. “Can’t believe this weather we’re having. Feels more like October than January.”

  Silence from Buddy, then, “Whatever.”

  Mike pressed on. “Yakov and I had a dozen auctions close yesterday. Someone paid eighty-five dollars for a sixteen-by-twenty canvas print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.”

  One of Buddy’s shoulders rose in a shrug.

  “And I sold thirty-five of those eight-by-ten canvases, each for at least twenty bucks. Can you believe it? I think they cost me about a dollar each. Of course they cost the printer about fifty cents, so it’s not like we’re ripping anybody off—”

  “What about Van Gogh?”

  “Huh?”

  “Aren’t you ripping him off?”

  Mike blinked at the unexpected question. “Well . . . he’s dead, Buddy. Been gone a long time, so I don’t expect he cares much about royalties.”

  They lifted
their heads in unison as the gleaming ferryboat appeared on the horizon. Captain Stroble’s ship came forward steadily, her bow slashing through the wind-whipped waves. Mike felt his pulse quicken as it always did when the ferryboat drew near. A body never knew what surprises it would bring, for Captain Stroble brought the mail, packages from various shipping companies, and visitors, of course, though off-islanders were rare in January.

  Grabbing the strap of his canvas bag, Mike stood and waved at the ferry. Five minutes later, the boat pulled up to the dock. Captain Stroble’s deck hand threw out a bowline as thick as Mike’s wrist. Catching it, he slipped the end of it around a mooring cleat, then walked down the dock and grinned at the captain.

  “Good afternoon to you, sir! I’ve got a bag of mail for you.”

  Captain Stroble, his tanned face flushed, thrust his head out of the cabin and grinned at Mike over his beard. “How be you, Mike? I’ll be happy to take your mail, as long as it has Miss Bea’s stamp of approval.”

  “Miss Bea’s already put postage on all these.” Mike swung the canvas bag over the narrow space between the boat and the dock. “I thought I’d spare her the trouble of hauling all my mail down here.”

  “And that’s right thoughtful of you.” Stroble caught the bag, then nodded toward Buddy, still sitting on the bench. “What’s your brother-in-law up to?”

  Mike gave the captain a one-sided smile. “I have no idea. But if he’s got to do nothing, I suppose this is as good a place as any to do it.”

  Stroble lowered his voice. “I hate to say it, Mike, but he looks a little squamish.”

  Mike leaned closer. “He’s not sick; Dana thinks he’s in love. She says he met a girl on the Internet.”

  One of the captain’s bushy white brows shot up. “Really? I wouldn’t know much about such things. I have a computer, but I try to stay out of those chat rooms.”

  “You have a computer?” Mike tilted his head. “I never would have thought you were the computer type.”

  “Ayuh.” Stroble stepped into the cabin and came out with a tray of mail, which he handed to Mike. “I love my machine. I use it to e-mail all the grandkids, and they send me pictures taken with one of those new digitized cameras. Plus, Mazie and I used the Web to find the perfect hotel for our Florida vacation.” He winked. “We leave the first week of February.”