A Perfect Love

by Lori Copeland

  “Ayuh, the tomato version of Montezuma’s Revenge.”

  Annie sank to the nearest chair. “Oh my goodness.”

  “There’s nothing else that the four ate that could have produced these disastrous results. To make matters worse, they kept eating the tomatoes during treatment, negating the effects of the medicine I prescribed. Poor Floyd can hardly lift his head. Winslow has lost ten pounds, which he needed to lose, but not this way. Olympia has fared best, but she’s still a bit uncomfortable. Stanley has been suffering the same complaint. In fact, the only person who ate your tomatoes and didn’t get sick was Caleb.”

  Annie laughed weakly. “Of course not. Caleb never gets sick.”

  “Really?”

  “Not since I’ve known him—and I’ve known him forever.”

  Annie lowered her head into her hand, trying to absorb this startling information. She had manipulated the tomato’s genetic makeup in order to create a hybrid that would grow in winter weather, but she’d never even considered that such manipulation might render the fruit indigestible.

  Shoot. To have this happen just when the experiment looked so promising! Her plants were about to be featured in Tomato Monthly. But if her plants were propagated and couldn’t be eaten—why, she’d poison half the world’s population!

  “Dr. Marc, this is awful! Make Caleb promise not to let anyone else eat a single tomato!”

  The doctor laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. Once this news leaks out no one will go within a hundred yards of those plants.”

  Annie groaned. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never eaten one myself.”

  “I’m sure you never imagined this kind of result. No one would.”

  “Please, please tell everybody how sorry I am.”

  “I will. And I’m sorry, dear. I know this was your big dream.”

  They spoke a few minutes more, then the doctor hung up.

  Annie hung her head and dropped the phone back into the cradle. Another experiment down the tubes. Another failure. But . . . at least no one had been seriously injured this time. She hadn’t blown up any buildings, and in the course of the great tomato experiment she had managed to meet one of the most charming men in the world.

  She’d been knocked down before, and she always got up again. Sheer, dogged persistence (Olympia would call it stubbornness) was probably her best quality.

  She blew upward to dislodge a wisp of hair from her eyes, then grinned. Even after devastating news about killer tomatoes, any girl dating Dr. Alex Hayes couldn’t be totally depressed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Abefore-church quiet filled the bed-and-breakfast when Cleta came in and sat down at her desk. Since she had a few minutes before Floyd would rise and begin clamoring for his Sunday breakfast of French toast and cheesy eggs, she picked up a pen and thoughtfully chewed the end of it, then began to write:

  Dear Angel,

  Could you help me with a problem? My daughter and I have always been close. I’ve loved and protected her since she was born, through scraped knees, colds, and first boyfriends. She has always turned to me for advice and shared her heart with me. I could always count on her being as close as my shadow. But now things have changed, and my heart is broken. It’s not that I resent her having married a good man. He treats her well, and I shouldn’t complain. But he doesn’t understand how precious my relationship with my daughter has been. He’s taking her away from me and that hurts me deeply. I don’t know how to feel anymore, I don’t know how to make things right. Please give me wisdom and guidance about what I should do.

  Hurting Mom

  Dropping her pen, Cleta read the letter through one more time, then quietly ripped it into little pieces. She couldn’t mail it. Bea or one of her helpers would read it, and though angel mail came to Heavenly Daze from all over the world, they’d know who’d written this one.

  Still, it felt good to pour out her feelings in writing. And it would feel better still to lift them to the Lord.

  She bowed her head. “Please help me,” she prayed. “I’m so confused.”

  After lunch, obeying a prompting of the Spirit, Micah went into the front room and stood at Cleta’s desk. The blotter was clean and dust-free, the leather pencil holder loaded with an odd assortment of pens, pencils, and a pair of scissors. A stack of ivory envelopes stood in a compartment in the small hutch, each etched in the upper left corner with a pen-and-ink rendering of the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast . . .

  His eyes fell upon a tidy little pile of paper. Sitting at the desk, he held his hand over the shredded bits of ivory, then closed his eyes.

  Information flowed into his brain, borne by the Spirit of God. Cleta was in pain, and she had written a letter . . . to the Heavenly Daze angels. Her words filled his ears, ringing with a mother’s anguish, fear, and loss.

  Nodding, Micah opened his eyes. “I’ll find her, Lord.” Moving to the kitchen, he poured two cups of coffee and went in search of Cleta. He’d noticed that she hadn’t sung a word of the hymns in church that morning, neither had she sat next to Barbara as she usually did. The cold war had gone on long enough; it was time to call a truce and make peace.

  He found Cleta on her knees in the dirt, pulling weeds as if she was on a deadline. He scratched at his beard. There weren’t any real weeds to pull, just the dead stalks from last summer. Even a mortal human would have understood that Cleta had to have something serious on her mind to come out and abuse a dead garden.

  He stooped to tap her on the shoulder. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry. I have to keep busy.”

  Ah, yes. If she didn’t keep busy, her agony would devour her.

  “It’s cold out here,” he said. “I brought you a cup of coffee. Thought you could use some warming up.”

  Cleta brushed dirt from her hands and knees, then perched on a stone at the garden’s edge.

  “Thank you, Micah.” She took one of the mugs. “That’s some thoughtful of you.”

  Micah sat on a small bench at the edge of the flower bed that would be a colorful paradise of roses come summer. He sipped at his own mug, then lowered it to look at the woman in his watchcare. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

  Cleta’s thoughts seemed faraway. “What is?”

  “How our lives are like this garden, brimming with potential, but cluttered with a lot of things we need to weed out, prune, and sweep away from time to time. Human prejudices, guilt, unforgiveness, and fears can grow up like weeds. Without being aware of it, many men let them choke out their God-given potential.”

  He took another sip and let his words sink in. “Remember how pretty this garden was last summer?”

  “Lovely,” Cleta echoed.

  “But if I hadn’t vigilantly pruned, pulled, and trimmed, the new plants wouldn’t have taken a firm hold in the soil. They’d have grown, ayuh, but they wouldn’t have been nearly as strong and beautiful.”

  Cleta stared at the dead foliage. “I suppose.”

  Micah nodded toward a dark and leafless rosebush against a trellis. “See that old climbing rose? Roses aren’t going to bloom on the old woody vine. They’re going to bloom at the end, where the stems are fresh and green. But if you cut back the woody vine, the flowers will bloom closer to the ground where we can enjoy them.” He bent forward, watching her face. “But first, you’ve got to prune the plant back, let go of the old so the new can bloom and grow.”

  A smile crept across her lined face. “I’m not dense, Micah,” she said, her voice wry. “I understand what you’re trying to tell me. But I’m not sure you know how it hurts to prune away that old vine. The pruning shears are sharp, and they sting.”

  He stood, then reached down to touch her shoulder. “Weeping endures only for the night, Cleta. Joy comes in the morning.”

  Cleta stared at the choppy Atlantic, tears rolling down her cheeks. Micah looked down at his empty mug, knowing his words had fallen on fertile, broken soil.

  “Don’t stay out too long,” he called as
he turned away. “It’s warm inside where you belong.”

  Chapter Twelve

  January stopped playing coy the next day. A nor’easter tore up the coast and buried the island of Heavenly Daze in fifteen inches of snow and ice. Folks had expected a blast of winter weather to hit eventually, but it didn’t make their comments any friendlier.

  Stanley waded through hip-deep snow to fetch a box of chocolates for Vernie in Ogunquit. When he showed up that afternoon with a box of Shari’s Berries under his arm, she stared at him as if he’d become unhinged.

  “Have you lost your mind, Stanley Bidderman? Traipsing around outside in this kind of weather?”

  “I have lost my mind. Over you.” Silently, he pleaded with her. “Can we sit down and share a cup of coffee before you tell me to get lost again?”

  Vernie studied the box of chocolates, then glanced at the old ragged robe she was wearing. He wanted to tell her he didn’t care what she had on, he’d seen her looking worse.

  It was good he kept his mouth shut.

  “All right,” she finally said. “I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee.”

  Stanley stomped snow off his boots and followed her into the warmth of the little kitchen at the back of the store. When they reached the table, he shrugged out of his coat and hung it near the stove to dry.

  Vernie got a cup from the cupboard and poured coffee. “There’s no need to bring me chocolates, Stanley. Not on a blustery day like this.”

  The room smelled warm and cinnamony, as if she’d baked his favorite fresh cinnamon rolls. Smiling, he watched as she dropped two on a plate and set it in front of him.

  “Did you make these for me?”

  “No.”

  He bit into the warm buns. “No matter. They’re delicious.”

  Vernie grunted and sank into the empty chair beside him.

  They sat in the warm kitchen listening to the howling wind. Snow fell in gusty sheets outside the window.

  Vernie clapped her hands and looked at him. “Guess you won’t be eating any more of those tomatoes?”

  Stanley felt his stomach drop. “I don’t think so. Will Annie stop her experiments?”

  “Annie, quit?” Vernie snorted. “Not if I know her.”

  “Persistence is an admirable thing in a woman,” Stanley said. “Though it’s akin to stubbornness, I think.”

  He braced himself, but she didn’t punch him. When he finished his coffee and rolls, Vernie brought out a Monopoly board.

  She shrugged at his look of surprise. “It’s been a good long time since I beat you senseless in Monopoly.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “Thought since you were here and we had nothing better to do, we might play a game.”

  He nodded. “Not likely that Winslow will be working on his bathroom today. He’s still waiting for the tiles to arrive.”

  “Let’s play. But don’t get your hopes up.” She looked at him with challenge in her eyes. “I’m undefeated.”

  He bit back a satisfied grin, bending to unbuckle his galoshes. “Bring it on, woman.”

  She set the board on the table and put the race car at GO. She took the iron.

  Stanley eyed the colorful paper bills. “Want me to be the banker?”

  “Go for it.”

  Vernie flexed her fingers, brought them up to hover over the board. Pausing, she looked Stanley in the eye. “OK.”

  “OK what?”

  “OK, I baked the rolls especially for you.”

  His eyes warmed with affection. “Well. That’s real nice, Veronica.”

  “Shut up and roll the dice. Then hand me that box of chocolates.”

  Though a storm raged outside, Stanley thought he might feel a thaw coming on. Progress was progress, even if he had to let Vernie win at Monopoly again.

  Micah opened his eyes when he heard a rap at his front porch. He had been meditating and praying for the people in his care, and now he knew without being told that one of them stood outside his apartment.

  He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light of earth, so dim after the glory of heaven, then stood and answered the door. Barbara stood there, with a forlorn expression on her face.

  “Micah?”

  “Come in, child. It’s colder than creek water out there.”

  Barbara shuffled in, then pulled out a chair at his small kitchen table. He leaned against the counter, and hid a smile behind his fingertips. Though Barbara Higgs was a woman grown, in some ways she was a small child. She had accepted the Lord in her seventh year on earth, but spiritually she was still toddling along . . .

  “What’s wrong, Barbara?”

  She burst into tears. Micah said nothing, but pulled out a box of tissue he kept on the counter for visits just like this. Barbara had been stopping by for years—after her first date with Russell, when she’d been so certain he found her unattractive and uninteresting; after their first fight (when Russell left his socks on the floor and she was convinced he’d done it to spite her); and the night Russell’s ship had to ride out to sea to escape a gale and Barbara just knew his ship had capsized. Each time Micah had heard her out, then gently led her to the throne room of heaven in prayer.

  She accepted the tissue with a bleary smile, then blew her nose. “I thought I was all cried out, but I guess I’m not.”

  “It’s okay.” He folded his arms and stared at the streaming tracks upon her cheeks. Though as an angel he possessed emotions, will, and an intellect sharper than any human’s, he rarely wept. The process fascinated him. Perhaps, he mused, tears bubbled up inside these humans when they experienced emotions they could not put into words . . .

  “It’s . . . a baby,” Barbara blubbered. “I think I want one—but it’s causing trouble between me and Mom, and between me and Russell. And I’m scared, Micah. If I’m to get pregnant, I’ll have to have surgery.” She squinted at him. “But you’re always telling me God can do the impossible. Maybe he could make me pregnant without the surgery if I pray hard enough?”

  Micah sank into the chair opposite her. “So—you want God to do all the work? He can do anything, that is true. But He asks that you have faith.”

  Barbara shook her head. “I sometimes think I should just give up on the idea and concentrate on adoption. Dr. Marc said that even with surgery I might not get pregnant. So why should I bother to try?”

  “Adoption is a wonderful thing.” Micah gave her a smile. “Jesus was adopted by Joseph. Esther was adopted by her uncle; Moses was adopted by Pharaoh’s daughter—”

  “Really?”

  Micah nodded. “But you’re not being honest, Barbara, with yourself, with me, or with God. You’re talking about giving up and begging for miracles because . . .” He lifted a brow, silently urging her to dig deeper.

  “Because . . .” Barbara’s gaze drifted toward the window. “I don’t want to have the surgery because . . . I’m afraid. I’ve always been terrified of doctors.”

  “Ayuh.” Micah smiled in relief. “Some of the modern psychologists would say you must face your fears, but I will tell you that there is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear, Barbara, and if you have Jesus, you have perfect love. God told the prophet Isaiah to tell his people, ‘But now, O Israel, the LORD who created you says: “Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine.”’”

  Micah reached across the table and tapped Barbara’s trembling hand. “God created you, Barbara, and he calls you by name. You have no reason to fear anything on earth, under the earth, or above the earth. The Mighty God who keeps you will sustain your soul. You have only to trust him.”

  The corners of Barbara’s mouth were still tight with distress, and her eyes slightly shiny. “Trust him?”

  “Ayuh.” Micah leaned back in his chair. “Just like a little child.”

  Barbara lay in a cloud of pink cotton candy as she watched television. A character on the show was having a baby, panting and pushing, sweating and screaming, until—ta da! A squawking bundle of joy poppe
d out beneath a drape and landed in the masked doctor’s hands.

  Tears rolled down Barbara’s cheeks as she brought a chocolate to her mouth. Life wasn’t fair. The women of her favorite television drama were beautiful, rich, and fertile. By next week, this character would be thin too.

  Across the room, Russell sat stocking-footed in a chair, the classified ads in his hands. Laying the paper aside, Russell stood. “I think I’ll make me a bedtime snack. Want a sandwich or something?”

  Sniffling, she fumbled for a caramel nougat. “No, thank you. I don’t have any appetite.”

  “You sure?’

  “Positive.”

  Russell left the room, closing the door behind him as Barbara’s fingers encountered nothing but empty wrappers. She pulled the box closer, ruffled through the frilled papers, then cast the container aside. Snuggling down into pink sheets, she tried to sleep, but her brain would not rest. Dr. Marc’s words kept running through her mind: The sooner we do it, the sooner your body will have a chance to heal and prepare for a child.

  A baby. A child of her own. Was that what she wanted? Sometimes the thought thrilled her, but at other moments her mother’s warnings overshadowed the thrill. A child was a terribly serious responsibility, kids could break your heart, and they did grow up to be teenagers . . .

  Rolling over, she picked up the remote and clicked to The Learning Channel. Groan. “A Baby Story” was playing. Her finger was about to hit the channel button again when the screen filled with a shot of a pregnant couple walking down a corridor into the birthing room.

  For the next fifteen minutes she watched, alternating between tears and laughter. Barbara joined the chorus of reverent oohs and ahhhs as air filled those tiny lungs and the infant released its first kittenish cries.

  Grandparents and siblings entered the birthing room after the new arrival appeared. Barbara had never seen such excitement and joy on any faces. She reached for a clean tissue, picturing Russell as the new daddy, Cleta and Floyd as the new grandparents.

  They would be happy with a new baby, she knew it. Cleta was only afraid of losing her daughter. But you couldn’t lose what you didn’t really own, and, if the truth be told, nobody owned their kids. Babies didn’t drop off trees; God sent them . . . and never before had Barbara realized how significant that fact was. God had entrusted her to her mother, and in the future he might entrust a child or two into her care . . . if she could overcome her fear.