A Perfect Love (22 page)

What kind of minefield had she wandered into? Cleta wouldn't meet her eyes, so she'd get no help from her friend.

She shifted her gaze to the man of the household. “How be you, Floyd?”

“Nicely, thank you.”

“You don't look so good, if you'll pardon my saying so. You look a bit squamish. I hear Pastor Winslow is still a bit under the weather. He and Stanley haven't been able to do a thing toward repairing the damage they've done to poor Edith's bathroom.” She looked at Cleta. “Olympia is down with that intestinal bug now.”

Vernie paused, noting the solemn, strained expressions on the Higgs's and Lansdowns' faces.

She took another stab at conversation. “Happy birthday, Russell,” she said, patting the young man's shoulder. “I'm sorry I didn't make it over yesterday, but Elezar and I had to turn the place upside down looking for—”

“I know.” Russell's voice was flat. “You had to find lemon flavoring. For my birthday cake.”

“Ayuh.” Vernie looked at Cleta and lifted a brow, sending her a help-me-out-here look.

Accurately interpreting Vernie's expression, Cleta shrugged slightly. “Barbara saw Dr. Marc.”

Vernie looked from the stonefaced Cleta to Barbara. “Is anything wrong? You got a touch of the grippe?”

“Barbara took herself to the doctor on her own,” Cleta said, verbally underlining the last word.

“Oh.” Vernie didn't know what else to say.

Cleta looked like she had swallowed a persimmon. Crossing her arms, she said, “I've always gone with her. Since the day she was born. I've always gone.”

Barbara shook her head and sighed. “Mom.”

Vernie pulled up a stool and sat down, grateful that she now understood the flow of the conversation. “She's almost twenty-three, Cleta. A grown woman.” Vernie smiled at Barbara. “I take it there was nothing seriously wrong?”

“Well, there is a problem. But Dr. Marc assures me a surgical procedure will take care of it.”

“That's good news, then.”

“Ayuh, but Mother is a little . . . miffed at me.”

Cleta's jaw jutted forward. “She went to Dr. Marc on her own, then ran to tell Russell the news almost before his boat docked.”

“And there's something wrong in that?” Slipping off the seat, Vernie poured herself a cup of coffee, then perched on her stool again. She'd thought to do a little neighboring, but this visit might prove highly entertaining. Best of all, the tale might take up the better part of the morning once everybody at the table had a say.

“You don't understand, Vernie.” Cleta fixed her daughter in a frosty stare. “It's something that we've always done. I've always gone with her, made sure everything was all right.”

Vernie took a sip of her coffee, then lowered her mug. “But she's married now. Russell should be the one to hear good news first.” She smiled at the Higgs boy. “And this is good news. You'll be fixing up a nursery soon, right? By the way, Barbara, did you put a deposit on that house you and Russell were studyin' last Saturday?”

Cleta went as pale as death.

“No, Vernie,” Russell said, slipping his arm around the back of Barbara's chair. “We only looked at the house. We haven't made any decisions, but when we do, we'll make them on our own and in our own good—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Cleta ran from the room. Barbara held her hands over her ears until her mother's bedroom door slammed.

Vernie stared at the swinging kitchen door. “Well, what on earth?”

Just then the back door burst open and Pastor Winslow rushed through the room, then headed for the back stairs. When they heard the bathroom door slam, Vernie glanced at Barbara.

The younger woman shrugged. “Well, I guess whatever Dr. Marc prescribed for those fellows hasn't taken hold yet.”

An hour later, Barbara wadded her pillow over her ears and fervently wished she had freedom and privacy enough to scream. She wished she'd never started this doctor business. Life had been much simpler before she'd told her mother about the surgery. Mom was overprotective, but she loved her, and Barbara loved knowing she was loved.

But she had hurt her mother. Badly. Mom felt betrayed somehow. She hadn't come out of her bedroom since breakfast, and she just might pout until she could convince herself the surgery thing would go away. Now, more than ever, Barbara wanted it to go away.

What was the big deal? Was it unreasonable to want to share good news with her husband before her mother? Barbara hadn't thought so, Vernie didn't think so, but Cleta clearly saw it as a significant break in the mother-daughter relationship. Barbara hadn't anticipated such a fuss—or had she? Maybe she had psychologically sabotaged her relationship with her mother. Oprah would think so. Dr. Phil would say so. But how else could a girl cope with being pulled in opposite directions by the two people she loved most in the world?

The ringing of the bedside phone interrupted her thoughts. She let it ring three times, thinking her mother would pick up, then sighed and lifted the receiver. “Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast.”

“Barbara, it's Dr. Marc. How be you this fine morning?”

“Nicely, thank you.”

“I spoke with Dr. Comeaux yesterday and she said she can do the procedure we discussed on the twenty-eighth of this month, if you're still interested.”

Without warning, fear rose in the back of Barbara's throat and threatened to choke her. Surgery. Knives. Anesthetic. What if she went to sleep and never woke up? Some people did that. OK, not most people, but accidents did happen.

She gripped the phone. “I don't think I'm ready.”

Silence rolled over the line for a moment. “Oh, I thought you and Russell wanted to get started—”

“I know, but now that I've thought about it, I—I'm not ready.”

“There's nothing to worry about, Barbara. If you're feeling a mite spleeny—”

She twisted the phone cord around her fingers, blinking back fresh tears. “I just want to think about it some more.”

“I see. You let me know when you're ready and I'll make the appointment.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you're feeling all right?”

“I'm fine. Just a little tired.”

“Perhaps vitamins are in order. Call or drop by anytime if you want to talk. Understand?”

“Ayuh. I will.”

She hung up the phone, wishing she knew what to do. She couldn't bear Cleta's anger and disappointment. They'd always been so close. Now she felt as if a door between them had slammed shut, and she could never open it again unless she surrendered
and went back to her old ways. But Russell would be so disappointed if she gave up on their dreams—and angry that she was running from her problems.

She sat up on the bed and hugged her knees. Why, oh why, didn't God write things on the wall for his modern children like he did for that old Babylonian King Dinglefuzzie in the Old Testament?

She spent the afternoon doing laundry. Cleta found other things to occupy her time, clearly striving to keep out of her daughter's way, which only made Barbara feel worse. When Barbara began setting the table for dinner, Cleta came in and dumped spaghetti in boiling water as if Barbara wasn't even in the room. With tears stinging her eyes, Barbara left the table half-set and went upstairs to avoid her mother's cold shoulder.

When Russell came in a half-hour later, he stripped off his jacket, then took her into his arms. “What's the matter, hon? Have you been crying?”

“Allergies.”

She turned away and busied herself laying out clean clothes for after Russell's shower.

But he had other things on his mind. Lowering his head to look into her eyes, he asked, “Did you ask Dr. Marc to make an appointment for the surgery?”

Barbara hesitated, holding his fresh shirt up like a shield.

Russell stood in his socks, his flannel shirt hanging out of his bibs, his hair tousled, hands on his hips, the crease of a frown between his brows. “You did speak to him, right?”

“He called me. I, um, told him I wasn't ready to have the surgery yet.”

“What?”

“I told him—”

“I heard what you said. Why?”

Barbara floundered before his hot gaze. “I couldn't go through with it. Mother is so upset about this whole thing—”

“What she's upset about is you having the gumption to do something on your own for a change. Grow up, Barbara! If she had her way, you wouldn't blow your nose without her holding the tissue!”

“That's not true! She loves me and wants to protect me.”

“And I don't? Listen, Babs—we could have a baby, you and me. We're married. We've been married three years! It's time to start a family of our own. The Bible says married people should leave and cleave, and you've never left your mama! It's not right, Barbara. And it's not fair to me!”

Barbara wanted to drop through the floor and die. She couldn't make anyone happy, not her mother, not her husband. Nothing she did was right. When Russell stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, she sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at the wall as tears rolled down her cheeks. Two days ago she and Russell had been so happy, then Cleta got hurt and angry. Now everyone in the family but Micah was either angry or miserable or both.

“I want this to go away,” she whispered. “Why can't this go away and everything be the way it was?”

Because . . . Russell wasn't happy with the way things were. He wanted a home of his own. He wanted children.

And, if the truth be told, so did she.

She heard the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. Pastor Winslow again. Whatever Dr. Marc had given the sick men clearly hadn't worked. Pastor Wickam had dashed into the bed-and-breakfast a dozen times this morning, whipping past Barbara without a glance, his face sweaty and flushed.

She felt the corner of her mouth twitch in a wry smile. Rumor had it that the restoration of Edith's bathroom had come to a complete halt, resumed, and halted again. Between bouts of abdominal spasms, Stanley and Winslow had worked to chisel loose the plastered baseboards, but they accidentally chipped several of Edith's patterned floor tiles. A quick call to the Home Depot in Portland assured them that the tile had been discontinued. So the floor would have to be replaced. Last Barbara heard they were ordering a new light fixture as well as new tile, because Stanley had slammed the broom handle into the overhead light while sweeping away tile and plaster chips. Edith, Vernie had reported, sat in her rocker on the parsonage porch and cried a lot.

Barbara had half a mind to join her. Didn't misery love company?

A north wind whipped Dr. Marc's overcoat as he knocked on the door of Frenchman's Fairest just after sunset. “Come in,” Caleb invited. “I was just about to serve Olympia her tea. Would you care for a cup?”

Dr. Marc rubbed his chilled hands together. “That would be nice. It seems to have dropped ten degrees in the last hour out there.”

The old butler smiled. “Could be a storm brewing. Let me take your coat. Olympia is in the parlor if you'd care to go on in. I'll bring the tea shortly.”

After giving Caleb his coat, the doctor found Olympia reading a book by the fireplace. The widow put on a good front, but Dr. Marc knew she was grieving deeply for Edmund, who had passed on in November. The genteel woman extended her slender hand as he approached.

“Dr. Marc. Come, sit. You didn't need to stop by—I seemed to be doing . . . well, no worse.” She smiled. “Tell, me, how is Alex? I haven't heard you speak of him recently.”

“Alex is fine. Says he's too busy to visit this month, but I venture to say he'll make time if Annie plans to come— and a storm doesn't blow in.”

She lowered her magazine to her lap. “What's this about a storm?”

“Well, I don't know if it's a storm or just our regular January climate. But I have a feeling our spell of mortifyin' weather is about to pass.”

“Ah, here's Caleb. Let's have our tea.”

Marc sat silently as the old butler poured from the antique silver tea service, then gratefully accepted a cup of the fragrant liquid. He sipped and smiled as its warmth chased away the chill.

“What brings you over this evening, Doctor?”

Resting the cup and saucer on his knee, Marc met Olympia's direct gaze. “It's about your tests this morning.”

Olympia arched a brow. “Is something wrong?”

“I don't think so,” he assured her. “But I've become convinced that your stomach distress is neither viral nor bacterial. You, Floyd, Stanley, and Winslow are all experiencing the same symptoms. Stanley and Winslow tried to blame some sandwiches they ate in Ogunquit, but Floyd never ate those sandwiches.”

“Nor did I.” She shuddered slightly. “Those sandwiches are so . . . messy.”

“Then it occurred to me to wonder what the five of you may have eaten, and I came up with one common denominator.” He looked up and caught Caleb's eye. “And one exception.”

The old butler flushed as silence settled over the room.

“I can't imagine,” Olympia murmured, her brow furrowed in thought.

Caleb cleared his throat. “I think I know what you're going to say.”

Dr. Marc looked up. “Tell me, Caleb. Tell me why everyone who ate Annie's tomatoes got sick—except you?”

The butler put one hand on the mantle, and shrugged, obviously casting about for words. Finally he looked at Olympia and said, “I have a supernaturally strong constitution?”

“Maybe,” Dr. Marc answered. “But four out of five is enough to prove my theory. I stopped by to get Annie's phone number. As much as it breaks my heart to do this, I've got to call and tell her those tomatoes are unfit for human consumption.”

The phone rang in Annie's Portland apartment just as she was letting herself in. Dumping her purse and briefcase on the sofa, she lunged for the receiver, praying the caller was A. J. Hayes.