The Island of Heavenly Daze by Angela Hunt Page B

corner of the kitchen. “Did you help Georgie get to sleep?”
    Turning from his wife, Winslow shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door, then bent to pull off his boots. “I never made it to the Grahams’,” he said, grateful to have something to do with his hands. “Got sidetracked, but it looked like they had the situation under control. Cleta Lansdown was over there, and so was Zuriel Smith.”
    â€œHe’s a real help with that little boy.” Edith stepped out of the kitchen and leaned against the wall. “How’s Cleta?”
    â€œDidn’t speak to her.” Winslow dropped his boots into the space behind the door, then brought his hand to his temple. “I’m going upstairs to lie down, Edith. Not really feeling chipper. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    She might have frowned or gazed at him with worried eyes, but at that moment Winslow didn’t care to know what his wife was thinking. His soul was still smarting from Cleta’s remarks, and from the obvious truth he’d gleaned: The Heavenly Daze Community Church had grown tired of him. After ten years, they wanted to send him away in order to welcome a younger, more handsome, more manly pastor.
    Winslow’s temple, which had been numb only a moment before, began to throb in earnest as he climbed the stairs.

    Looks just like you, Pastor, only younger.
    Time goes fast when you’re old . . . and boy, are you old.
    See how the light shines from your head? It’s almost like a halo!
    Honey, you could stand to lose a few pounds. For your health.
    â€œWhat!”
    Pulling himself out of the whirlwind of voices, Winslow sat up and clutched a loose puddle of sheet against his waist. He stared into the darkness, acclimating himself to the quiet reality of his bedroom, then glanced at Edith. Bathed in the faint green glow of the digital alarm clock, she slept beneath a lace-trimmed eye mask—a frippery she’d grown used to back in Winslow’s seminary days.
    Closing his eyes, Winslow drew a deep breath, then reached back and adjusted his pillows. He would not sleep again tonight. His brain was alert, his thoughts too troubled to rest. His heart pounded as if he had just run a fifty-yard dash.
    Smoothing the sheet over his lap, Winslow reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on. Behind her eye mask, Edith slept on, blissfully unaware of the lamp or Winslow’s unease.
    Winslow picked up the television remote and considered channel surfing, then tossed the clicker to the floor. Nothing decent aired after midnight in America—nothing a pastor should watch, anyway. And if one of the early morning lobstermen should walk past the window and hear an unsavory broadcast coming from the parsonage— well, the manly Rex Hartwell might be coming sooner than he had planned.
    His heart ached at the thought. How could his people be so disloyal? Over the last several hours the picture had become perfectly clear. They had waited until his tenth anniversary to give him a portrait they intended to keep as a memento of his time in Heavenly Daze. By the end of the month, after Rex Hartwell had come and decided that he liked the look of the place, they would regretfully tell Winslow that his tenure had come to an end. “God has closed the door on another chapter,” they might say, “and we know he has great things planned for you. So Godspeed, Pastor Wickam, and God bless you.”
    How would he break the news to Edith? She had made some good friends on the island. Her heart would break when she learned that Cleta, Olympia, and Babette had been plotting to remove her husband . . . and replace him with some hunk the women would find more appealing.
    Winslow closed his hand into a fist, then brought it to his chest. How much time did he have left? Cleta had said Rex Hartwell would come at the end of the month, so Winslow still had a few weeks. The discreet art