A Perfect Love (19 page)

Yakov nodded. He had been warmer than usual, but he'd been so distracted by the sounds coming from Buddy's apartment he barely noticed.

“So . . . that's all right, huh?” Buddy grinned, then ran his hands over his noodlelike arms. “Gotta go. It's cold out here with nothin' on.”

Yakov lifted his hand to protest, but Buddy opened the door. He would have slipped back into his apartment without another word, but Yakov planted one of his boots in the opening. Sometimes a guardian angel had to exercise a little force on behalf of his charge . . .

“Buddy, you do not have to roast yourself on my account,” he said, insinuating his shoulder into the narrow space. “When it is cold outside, the prudent thing to do is put clothes on. That's why I dress warmly for the workroom.”

“Now you won't have to wear so many clothes,” Buddy said, maintaining a steady pressure on the door. “Don't see how you can paste labels wearing gloves, anyhow.”

Yakov didn't budge. “Buddy,” he insisted, squeezing his face into the crack between the wall and the door, “I have been concerned about you all day—”

That's when the bed moved. Not the bed exactly, Yakov saw when he focused his gaze, but a small brown pouch on the bed. It looked like the sort of bag a boy carried marbles in, but this pouch was writhing as if it contained something alive—

“Oy!” With the barest touch of supernatural strength, Yakov shoved the door away, then stepped into the room and slid into a squat beside the bed. He fingered his chin and stared at the squirming fabric bag. “Buddy, what have you got there?”

Suddenly belligerent, Buddy slammed the door. “I got a pet,” he said, crossing his arms. “But don't tell Dana, 'cause she said I couldn't have one. But that's not fair, because she has that mangy bulldog.”

Yakov tilted his head. “You think I should tell Dana about a thing like this . . . thing?” He rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin, then pointed to the bed. “What is that, anyway?”

Buddy relaxed, his arms drooping to his side. “You promise you won't tell?”

“It is not my place to tell about such a thing. You are a grown man, and responsible for your own actions.”

“That's what I keep saying.”

“If you want to tell Dana, that would be a good thing, but it will have to be your choice.”

“I don't know if it's a good thing, but ayuh, it's my decision. I'll tell when and if I'm good and ready.”

“So.” Yakov stared at the pouch. “Are you going to tell me, or shall we play twenty questions?”

“It's Roxy.”

Yakov shook his head. “In all of creation, I've never heard of a roxy.”

“That's her name. She's a sugar glider.”

Yakov frowned. “The little marsupial native to Australia?”

“You've heard of them?”

“I am familiar with all the Lord's creations. But a sugar glider—here? In winter?”

“I know.” Buddy's face fell. “The lady who sold her to me didn't know I live in an igloo.”

“This is not exactly an igloo.” Yakov spread his hands, indicating the space around them. “But you will have to keep the fire blazing. I do not think your Roxy will handle the cold very well.”

“She's young, too—only twelve weeks.”

“Then it is doubly important that she be kept warm.” Yakov glanced at the pile of driftwood against the wall. “You are planning to clear the beaches?”

“I can't use too much of Mike and Dana's firewood. They'd know something was up.”

“Better not let Dana catch you in your cabana wear, then.” Yakov stood, and as he did the animal thrust her pointy face out of the pouch. In spite of his misgivings, he smiled. “She is cute, Buddy. One of the Lord's most adorable creations.”

“You promise you won't tell Dana or Mike?”

“I will leave that for you, Buddy . . . when you find the chutzpa.” He placed his hand on the doorknob, then turned and winked at his young charge. “And tomorrow, I will wear something sleeveless to work.”

Chapter Eight

A
fter nearly twenty-four hours of intermittent weeping, Dana pulled herself off her bed, washed her face, and steeled herself for a confrontation with her husband. She'd been too distraught to accuse him yesterday, and he hadn't given her a chance. After coming back from Ogunquit on the late ferry (and not keeping his promise about coming home for lunch), he'd gone straight out to the workroom to check on his shipments, then come up to their bedroom, where she lay quietly sniffling beneath the blankets. Mike hadn't noticed her emotional condition or, if he had, he'd chosen to attribute it to PMS. In any case, he'd gone straight to sleep.

This morning he rose before her and headed off to Ogunquit again. But this time when he came home, Dana was determined to ask him what terribly fascinating thing he had discovered in Ogunquit
. . . and on Shore Road in particular. If, in fact, Jodi Standish's house was where he'd been headed.

Going downstairs to the kitchen, she pulled a defrosted chicken from the refrigerator and tossed it in her largest pot, then covered it halfway with water. Cooking gave her something to do, and for the moment, at least, she was grateful for something else to think about. She had no appetite, but Buddy and Yakov deserved a good dinner.

Setting the pot on the stove to simmer, she sprinkled salt and pepper over the chicken, then covered the pot with a lid. While the burner ticked as it began to heat, she lowered herself to a chair at the table and rested her head on her palm.

After only twenty-eight short years, her life was over. Her adoring husband no longer loved her. They hadn't even made it to the seven-year itch; they'd barely lasted thirty-six months. But she couldn't deny the proof written on a certain slip of paper, or the unwavering doubt that gnawed at her gut . . .

The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. Fearing that something had happened to Mike, Dana leaped to answer it. “Hello?”

“Dana? Dana Franklin?”

“Yes?”

“Basil Caldwell here. I received your poem.”

Dana clutched at the back of a chair as the kitchen began to spin. “Basil . . . my poem? But I only mailed it yesterday!”

“And I just opened it. It's wonderful, truly. First I was delighted to hear from you, then when I read your exceptional submission—well, I was astounded. I never knew you'd been touched by the muse.”

Dana twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “I haven't been, not really—wait, you were delighted to hear from me? You remember me?”

“How could I forget that cute little blonde girl who used to sit on the front row of the bleachers at our basketball games? I'll bet you haven't changed much, either.”

Dana laughed. “Oh, I've changed a little, thank goodness.”

“I can't wait to see you.”

Dana froze, her hand twisted in her hair. Basil Caldwell wanted to see her? “I'm sorry, we must have a bad connection—it happens sometimes on the island. What did you say?”

“I said I can't wait to see you. I'd like to have lunch, if possible, and discuss the publication of your poem. I'll drive up from Boston, of course, but am I correct in assuming Heavenly Daze is pretty much closed down now?”

She blinked. “It's the off-season.”

“Then how about meeting me in Ogunquit . . . say, next Thursday? I was thinking we could have lunch at that nice seafood restaurant down by Perkins Cove. It's the Oarweed, isn't it? I don't want to inconvenience you too much, and I know things are primitive on that Godforsaken island.”

Dana cleared her throat. “Um, ayuh, the Oarweed is right across from the landing. I could take the one o'clock ferry and meet you there at half past—”

“Wonderful, let's consider it a date. Of course, I'd like to extend the invitation to a guest, if you'd like to bring someone . . .”

The implication was both tactful and obvious—
if you want to bring your husband or a special friend
—but Dana had never felt less inclined to accept an invitation for her husband. If Mike was going to keep secrets from her, well, she could keep a secret too. Hers was an innocent secret, but Mike deserved to experience a little tit for tat.

“I'm afraid it'll be just me,” she said, injecting a false note of regret into her voice. “And I'll look forward to it, Basil.”

After hanging up, Dana moved to the stove and lifted the lid on the chicken pot. Guilt bubbled through her conscience as she swirled a wooden spoon through the simmering broth, but she was not going to let guilt stand between her and a pleasant poetic afternoon with Dr. Basil Caldwell.

After all, her trip to Ogunquit would be motivated by love for Buddy. At the Oarweed she'd tell Basil that the brilliant poet he sought was none other than her own introverted brother. It was the only way Buddy would ever be discovered. He would certainly never agree to go meet Basil, but perhaps, with the right amount of persuasion, she could convince Basil to come to Heavenly Daze and encourage Buddy to pursue his gifts. Poetic genius deserved a little special attention.

Blowing out her cheeks, Dana pushed her bangs away from her forehead and lowered the lid on the chicken.

Her confrontation with Mike would have to wait. Like two partners on a seesaw, the addition of her secret had balanced things out. If Mike could teeter in midmarriage with a mystery in his lap, so could she.

Barbara's hand hesitated over the telephone. Should she call Dr. Marc? Maybe her mother would make the call for her. Cleta had always made Barbara's appointments, had always gone with her to the dentist and the pediatrician.

No, she needed to make this call herself. Besides, she had promised Russell.

Barbara quickly dialed Dr. Marc's number. Fortunately, the doctor was in, and said she could come over right away.

She felt her stomach knot as she hung up the phone. She'd done it, but now what? What if Dr. Marc found something seriously wrong with her? What if the problem couldn't be fixed? How would she tell Russell? How would she tell her mother? Her stomach churned, and for a moment she felt she would be really sick.

Moving like an automaton, she stepped into the shower, then dressed and put gel in her spiky new haircut. After worrying mascara onto her lashes and adding a bit of lipstick for color, she went downstairs. Her mother was in the kitchen, scrubbing a mixing bowl while a pan of oatmeal bread rose on the stove. Cleta turned, her eyes bright and appraising, when Barbara came into the room.

“Are you feeling all right, Doodles?”

“I'm fine, Mom.”

“You've spent a lot of time upstairs today.” Cleta pressed the backs of her fingers to Barbara's forehead. “You look a little pale.”

“I'm fine. I'm going out for a while.”

“Going for a walk?” Cleta frowned. “OK, but the weather's breezin' up out there. Be sure and wear your heavy coat. Wait a minute—I'll go with you. I could use some exercise—”

“No, Mom!” Barbara interrupted, then cringed. Gentling her tone, she added, “I'll just walk a little way. I need some time to think.”

Cleta shot her a pointed glance. “Think about what?”

“Some stuff. You stay here—it looks like your bread is about ready for the oven.”

“Hmmm.” Cleta turned toward the stove. “I suppose it is.”

Barbara breathed a sigh of relief as she escaped the house. Hoping no one saw her—no one who would report to Cleta, anyway—she cut through the de Cuviers' backyard and slipped into Dr. Marc's waiting room.

Edmund and Olympia de Cuvier, acting as town benefactors, had donated their carriage house for the establishment of a medical clinic on Heavenly Daze. Dr. Marcus Hayes had come to the island to retire, but kept his medical skills up to par by tending to the town's thirty residents. Barbara had never visited the doctor's office, but she knew Georgie Graham visited the doctor at least once a week.

Now, as she looked around, she was grateful for the small clinic. A large medical center might have intimidated her, but this waiting room was cozy, with a pair of comfortable chairs, a huge silk ficus in the corner, and a pretty painting of the Heavenly Daze lighthouse on the wall.

Despite the pleasant surroundings, fear that the doctor would find something seriously wrong lay like a stone in her stomach. She sat down, glad to be alone in the room . . . and then she heard her father's voice.

“Thanks, Doc. We appreciate you seeing us.”

Panicked, Barbara jumped up. Dad couldn't see her here! He'd have all kinds of questions, but they'd be nothing compared to the grilling she'd face if he told Mom about finding her in the doctor's office . . .

Feeling like a frightened child, she hid behind the ficus tree in the corner, hoping the weeping fig's straggly branches would hide her. As she pressed her back against the wall and tried not to breathe, Floyd, Winslow, and Stanley came down a hallway and walked out the door without glancing up. All three of them looked pale and worn.

After the door closed behind Stanley, Barbara squeezed from behind the ficus and slipped into her chair again. A moment later Dr. Marc came out to greet her.

“Barbara! Good to see you. Come on into the office and let's talk a bit.”

Dr. Marc's office was all leather and bookshelves, the kind of room where someone could read and think. More silk plants lined the windowsill. Pictures of his son, Alex, and his late wife sat on the corner of his desk, along with an engraved silver pen set. Everything looked perfectly normal and very . . . comfortable.

But she couldn't relax.

“How can I help you, Barbara?”

She twisted the straps of her purse together as a flush of embarrassment heated her cheeks. “I, um . . . Russell and I have been married three years, and we'd like to start a family.”

She glanced up and saw that the doctor was sitting with his hands folded beneath his chin, his head tilted to one side as if what she was saying was the most important thing in the world. The knot in her stomach relaxed a little.