Free The Island of Heavenly Daze by Angela Hunt Page A

freewheeling gulls squawked overhead, bringing Edith out of her reverie. The horde of tourists had dissipated, so she crossed the street and stepped into the mercantile, then bent to pick up one of the straw shopping baskets stacked by the door. Immediately to her right, a group of preadolescent girls huddled around Vernie’s cat, a thirty-seven-pound black-and-white freak of nature named MaGoo. MaGoo drew as much attention as Vernie’s wares, and the soft kitty treats offered by tourists (and sold at thirty-five cents per bag) insured his longstanding claim to the title of Maine’s Heaviest Living Cat.
    Edith looked up, ready to greet Vernie, but she stood behind the wooden counter, her head bowed in conversation with Beatrice Coughlin. Not wanting to interrupt, Edith moved into one of the aisles and studied the various jars of saltwater taffy. This sweet treat came in over a dozen different flavors, and she had never tried it. Perhaps it was time she did.
    A memory ruffled through her mind like wind on water. In those frugal first years of marriage, occasionally Winslow would bring her a small gift. He never called it a gift or a present, because he knew she’d protest any extravagance. And so he would bring her some little thing and call it a “happy.” And no matter what it was—a flower, a candy bar wrapped in ribbon, or a small book—the thought always did lift her spirits.
    Edith ran her hand over the candy jars, overcome by the sense that Winslow could use a happy right now. He’d been preoccupied for the last several days, and nothing she said or did seemed to break the spell of whatever dark thoughts had clouded his usually sunny outlook.
    But Winslow wasn’t much of a candy person. He preferred salty snacks to sweet, so perhaps she could find something over in the aisle where Vernie kept peanuts and potato chips.
    Edith had no sooner entered that aisle than she heard her name.
    â€œOf course, we’re taking pains not to tell Pastor or Edith Wickam,” Bea was telling Vernie, “but Rex Hartwell will be coming in on the last Sunday of the month.”
    â€œWill he preach?” Vernie asked.
    â€œNo, he’s just here to look around. But he’s supposed to meet with Cleta and her committee before he leaves. Then we’ll have his final answer.”
    â€œOh, Bea.” Edith flinched as Vernie slapped the counter. “This is so exciting! We haven’t heard this much good news since . . . well, since we called Reverend Wickam!”
    â€œBut we’ve got to keep it quiet.” Beatrice lowered her voice to a stage whisper that carried easily over the row of peanuts and pretzels. “We haven’t yet decided how to tell Pastor Wickam.”
    â€œI won’t say a word.”
    From her hiding place, Edith flinched as though an electric spark had jumped over the aisle to sting her. Though she had no idea what Vernie and Bea were talking about, their conversation made it quite clear that she wasn’t supposed to know. Her abrupt appearance would embarrass all three of them.
    As her heart pounded hard enough to be heard a yard away, Edith lifted the shopping basket up over her head, then crouched down and backed down the aisle toward the thermal underwear. When she was certain that neither Vernie nor Bea had left the counter, she skirted the rear of the store and hustled up the candy aisle, startling a visiting couple who were deliberating over the display of Necco wafers.
    â€œExcuse me,” Edith whispered, ducking as she passed them.
    Still holding the straw basket over her head, she fled through the open doors and crossed the porch, then hurried away, pausing at the last moment to listen to her conscience. Before leaving, she hooked Vernie’s shopping basket over the antique hitching post at the edge of the property.
    Vernie’s gossip might have made Edith an eavesdropper and worrier, but she would not allow it to make her