lighthouse, but . . .
Had the light shone last night? She didnât know whether the light was on some kind of automatic switch or whether Salt had to activate it manually. And last night she and her sister had retired to the cozy keeping room behind the bakery, with Birdie spending the night knitting in her rocker while Bea read and sorted angel letters.
She made a mental note to call the Ogunquit Memorial Library where she used to work. Faye Lewiston, the head librarian, was an old friend and would be happy to pull a book or two on lighthouses and send them over on the ferry. The next time Salt came âround for a chat, Birdie could impress him with her knowledge of lighthouses and lanterns and whatever made them go âround and âround.
âStrange that we havenât seen the captain today,â Abner volunteered from the mixing counter. âHe should be ready for more cookies by now.â
Birdie shook her head. âHe came in day before yesterday for his usual cookies and bread.â
âAyuh, but I remember thinking that he looked a little pale.â Abner paused, his hand gripping a wooden spoon. âHe didnât stick around to talk, remember?â
A creeping uneasiness began to rise from the bottom of Birdieâs heart. What if Georgie was telling the truth? What if Salt was lying abed and the lighthouse wouldnât shine tonight? Theirs was a tiny island with a rugged shore, and any small craft could crash into the rocks once the sun went down . . .
Untying her apron, she turned to Abner. âI think I might ride up to the lighthouse and see what set Georgie off,â she said, ignoring the knowing smile that crossed Abnerâs face. âDo we have any soup left in the Crockpot? It wouldnât hurt to take that, I suppose, in case Salt is doinâ poorly. Who knows? Heâs probably as healthy as a horse; the boy only thought it odd when Salt didnât holler at him for playing too near the lighthouse. Anyway, it wonât hurt to drive up and have a look, will it?â
Abner grinned. âNo, maâam, it wonât.â
Next door at the mercantile, Vernie faced her first customer of the day with bad news.
âNo nutmeg?â Edith Wickam lightly fingered the string of imitation pearls at her neck. âOh, dear. Winslow was hoping for an early pumpkin pie.â
Vernie smiled, hoping to allay the pastorâs wifeâs fears. âIt will be in Wednesday afternoon, Edith. Donât worry. Deliveries are running behind because of the weather. The moment the shipment gets in, Iâll have Elezar personally deliver the nutmeg to you.â
âThereâs no need of that.â Edith smiled pleasantly and added a tin of baking powder to her order. âWinslow needs to be watching his cholesterol these days, but Iâve found this skim pumpkin pie recipe that uses Egg Beaters and low-fat milk. I figure one or two slices arenât going to send him to an early grave.â
The front door opened and Cleta and Barbara Higgs came in on a rush of cold air. The women exchanged pleasantries, commenting on how they would all be glad to see spring when it finally got there.
âWinter doesnât officially arrive until the twenty-first,â Vernie reminded them. She gave Cleta a warning look when the bed-and-breakfast proprietor took a napkin out of her coat pocket and began to feed MaGoo the remains of a sausage biscuit. âStop that. He wonât be able to get through the doorway if you keep feeding him breakfast leftovers.â
Cleta grinned and offered MaGoo a piece of sausage that had fallen to the floor. âOh, a little taste wonât hurt him. Canât let Maineâs Heaviest Living Cat lose his title, can we?â
MaGoo purred, lacing in and out of Cletaâs legs.
Vernie shifted her attention to Cletaâs daughter, Barbara, who was browsing the cosmetics aisle. Barbara had always been a shy child,