The Island of Heavenly Daze by Angela Hunt Page A

slowly on the swing, taking pleasure in the thought of a new and improved Winslow Wickam. Even Edith would be pleased by his transformation. She’d been after him to eat less and exercise more ever since his last physical. The doctor hadn’t found anything really alarming in Winslow’s lab results, but he’d pointed out the potential for problems if Winslow didn’t do something to burn calories and get his heart pumping more regularly.
    The slap of a slamming door broke into his reverie, and Winslow looked up to see Cleta Lansdown coming across the street. The Lansdowns’ bed-and-breakfast stood next door to the church and catty-cornered to the Grahams’, so maybe Babette had called Cleta to help with Georgie, too . . .
    Cleta moved across the street as if her feet were on fire, her arms swinging in a steady rhythm. Without glancing toward the side garden where Winslow sat in the swing, she mounted the steps and crossed the wide porch in three strides. “Babette!” she called, pulling open the screen door as she rang the bell. “You ready to hear the latest?”
    Winslow sat silently on the swing, huddled inside his jacket. A sharp stab of guilt rose to needle at his brain—he ought to call out and greet Cleta in order to announce his presence, and it was only fair that the Grahams know that he’d come to help their son. He shifted his weight forward, about to stand and call out a hello, but then Babette opened the front door.
    â€œI just called Olympia with the news,” Cleta said, her voice filling the night with a note of vibrancy. “The Maine Council of Independent Churches has agreed to send Rex Hartwell to us on the last Sunday of the month. He’s coming to look us over.”
    Winslow’s blood suddenly swam in adrenaline.
    â€œReally?” Honest pleasure filled Babette’s voice. “Why, that’s wonderful! I know you had to work hard to get those people in Portland to listen. But my hat’s off to you, Cleta, for convincing them we need help out here.”
    â€œAh, twern’t nothing, really.”
    Winslow sat silently, too stunned to breathe as the two women moved into the house and took seats by the parlor window. Their voices carried out to him as clearly as if he’d been sitting in the room.
    â€œNow comes the hard part, of course,” Cleta said. “We’ve got to make all the arrangements without Pastor knowing.”
    â€œWon’t he have to know sooner or later?”
    â€œLater is better than sooner, Babette, and we’ll all do well to remember that. In the meantime, what Winslow Wickam doesn’t know won’t hurt him a bit.”
    â€œReverend Rex Hartwell.” A note of wonder filled Babette’s voice. “I’ve seen his picture. Such a handsome man.” She lowered her voice to a discreet tone. “I shouldn’t be saying this, being a married woman and all, but he just seems . . . well, too manly for the pulpit, if you know what I mean. Preachers shouldn’t be so good-looking—they might cause the ladies’ thoughts to drift away during the church service.”
    Cleta’s cackling laughter rippled through the air, followed by, “Babette Graham, I’m ashamed of you!”
    â€œMaybe I can’t help it,” Babette added, sounding as if she were choking on giggles, “because he’s just so different from Pastor Wickam!”
    Winslow tugged at his collar, feeling warmer than the temperature of the evening warranted. He could feel his cheeks flushing against the cool evening air, and his stomach soured at the thought of spending another minute in Babette’s fading garden. As the women’s laughter floated into the night, he rose from the swing and beat a hasty path back to his own porch, his thoughts swirling in circles of anger and humiliation and resentment.
    â€œHon, is that you?” Edith’s face appeared around the