Free The Island of Heavenly Daze by Angela Hunt

be grateful for them. Without summer tourist dollars, Heavenly Daze would not survive the winter.
    The Mooseleuk Mercantile, named for a stream in Maine, sold basic staples to year-round residents and a host of geegaws to tourists in search of something different. Vernie Bidderman, the store proprietor, offered a wonderful selection of delicacies like honey maple butter, jars of New England clam chowder, and kettle-stirred blueberry jam made from blueberries grown on the north side of the island. At the mercantile you could find flannel nightgowns, shearling slippers, and fleece ear warmers for folks who didn’t like hats. Vernie’s beauty counter offered Carmichael’s Cuticle Cream, white cotton sleeping gloves for protecting wind-chafed hands, and Dermal-K Cream, guaranteed to cover spider veins.
    Everybody could find something at the mercantile— from waffle makers to thermal underwear, Vernie boasted that she either had it or she could order it—and that thought made Edith wonder what Winslow had been carrying when he passed her. A package, but from where? If he needed something, he usually asked her to pick it up at the mercantile, but he hadn’t mentioned anything.
    She shrugged—it had to be a book. Winslow was always ordering books off the Internet. Some of the books he used for his sermon studies were hard to find, and not the sort of thing Vernie would enjoy tracking down.
    Standing in the shade of an oak, Edith watched the ferry pull into the dock. At least thirty people crowded the railing, eager to disembark, accompanied by Tallulah, Olympia de Cuvier’s freewheeling terrier mix. As soon as the deck hands tied the ropes and lowered the gang plank, they stormed off, most of them headed for the mercantile or the Graham Gallery. In time, a few would wander down to Birdie’s Bakery for a sandwich or an ice cream cone. The kids would congregate in the candy aisle, eyes wide and mouths watering at the contemplation of so much sweetness.
    Edith leaned back against the tree and smiled as Tallulah sauntered past. “Hello, Tallulah,” she called, “Good pickin’s in Ogunquit today?”
    The mischievous mutt threw a toothy doggie smile over her shoulder and went on, her tail waving like a plume over her back.
    Two couples, both of them young, had linked hands and strolled toward the bed-and-breakfast, dragging their wheeled suitcases behind them. In time, they might walk over to the Graham Gallery and buy a painting or a pot to commemorate their romantic getaway.
    Edith turned her face into the wind and sighed as she remembered her first night on Heavenly Daze. She and Winslow had come alone on a Saturday, leaving Francis behind with friends in Boston, and together they shyly toured the island and met the townspeople. That night Winslow polished his sermon notes for the twentieth time, went into the bathroom and practiced his delivery, then came out and drew her into his arms. In the de Cuvier room at the B&B, they had quietly loved each other, setting a thousand worries to rest as they united to face whatever the coming day would bring.
    The next morning, Winslow had awoken early and slipped into the bathroom. Edith crept out of bed and tiptoed to the cracked door, then peeked through to see Winslow reciting his sermon before the mirror. Using a hairbrush as a microphone, he had pointed toward the mirror and softly proclaimed, “The story of Jonah is a grand picture of Christ’s resurrection and the church’s mission to minister to all nations.”
    Edith tapped her fingertips over her lips, as prone to giggling now as she had been ten years ago. To a casual observer, her husband seemed calm and phlegmatic, but she knew how he fidgeted the night before a sermon and how hard he worked to prepare his lessons. And even if he had not chosen to preach, he would still be a good man. He wasn’t perfect, but who among God’s children was?
    A pair of