Hearts at Home (17 page)

She would have to be careful, however, because Winslow thought diets were all silly fads. Plus, he seemed oblivious to the extra pounds she carried.

Edith stamped her feet with renewed energy on the front porch steps. Tonight she'd prepare a sensible dinner so Winslow wouldn't suspect a thing. Then she'd help him eat the last of the leftovers, and tomorrow she'd begin again with a clean slate.

Tomorrow, she'd be resolute.

Over dinner, Edith slowly ate her sensible meal (chicken and broccoli and leftovers), then lowered her fork and looked at her husband. “How was your day, dear?”

“Hmm?” He glanced up from a steno pad on the table, then dropped his eyes to his notes.

“What did you do today?”

Winslow usually shared his activities during supper, but tonight he seemed more interested in his notes than in her. Edith knew Olympia's sudden death had affected him, but would it hurt him to make a personal contribution to the conversation?

Sighing, she stood to pour herself another cup of decaf coffee.

Her movement must have signaled something to her absent husband, for he turned a page on his notepad and spoke: “I think I am going to leave Obadiah and center on Nahum for the next twelve weeks. I think my flock is ready for a bit of a change.”

Edith groaned. Only the most dedicated Christian could make it through twelve weeks of Nahum without keeling over.

Sinking back into her chair, she changed the subject. “When did you schedule Birdie and Salt for premarital counseling?”

He peered at his notes over the edge of his glasses. “Hmm . . . first of next month.”

Edith tore open two packages of aspartame and dumped the contents into her cup. “Birdie ordered her dress from the Sears catalog.”

“That's nice.”

She stirred the coffee so forcefully her spoon threatened to break the glass. Winslow was on autopilot. She sipped from her coffee cup, then said, “The color is orange, the bodice is cut to the navel, and the dress is backless.”

“That's nice, sweetie.” He looked up, his eyes blank orbs, then squinted at her. “Did you say
orange?”

“Never mind, Win.”

Sighing, she took her coffee and walked into the living room, then stepped out onto the front porch. The sun had set an hour before, and lights lit the porches of houses down the street. Across the road, the Grahams would be gathered around the table with Georgie, and just past the church, Cleta, Floyd, Russell, and Barbara would be sitting down to a dinner of crab cakes and potatoes. Cleta had mentioned her dinner plans at lunch, and Edith's mouth had watered at the menu.

What was wrong with her? Instead of learning to live without food, she seemed to be obsessing over it!

Shivering, she took another sip of her coffee. The liquid warmed her throat and brought heat to her cheeks, which were already beginning to feel the effects of the cold.

In the distance a harbor buoy clanged through lowering fog. Edith bit back tears as she stood alone in the darkness, thinking about all the happy times she and Winslow had experienced. God had blessed her with health, meaningful friendships, and a loving and devoted husband. So why was she standing here feeling miserable?

Because she was overweight. Because the last couple of days had proved she had absolutely no self-control. She had always considered herself a leader among the women; in the last three days she had learned she had no backbone at all. She couldn't even stand up to her own foolish desires for food.

Arming herself with resolve, she went back into the house. She reached under the coffee table for the latest issue of
Good Housekeeping,
then spied a provocative headline:
I lost thirty pounds in one month eating meat and potatoes,
and you can, too!

She opened the magazine and ran her finger down the table of contents, searching for the article.

“Edith?”

She glanced up to see Winslow silhouetted in the doorway.

“Honey, are you all right?” He crossed the room and sat beside her on the sofa. When he spotted the betraying shimmer of tears in her eyes, his expression softened. “Is something bothering you?”

Edith longed to confess everything, for Winslow would undoubtedly assure her she was fine, he loved her, she didn't need to worry about her weight. But he saw her every day, and he hadn't noticed how she had changed over the years. Furthermore, he deserved to have a wife who looked pretty by his side.

Sliding into his arms, Edith rested her head on his solid shoulder, then crinkled her nose. He smelled of shrimp and butter.

“I'm feeling a little melancholy tonight, Win. Nothing serious.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. But thanks for asking.”

She
was
sure, for tomorrow would bring another day and a fresh start. Armed with this article in
Good
Housekeeping,
she'd meet her eating opportunities with courage and resolve. She would win the war against excess pounds one day at a time.

“I adore you, Edith Wickam.” Winslow dropped a kiss on her forehead before he stood and walked back to the kitchen where his notes waited.

“I adore you, too, Win,” she whispered. “Enough to make you proud of me again.”

“Honey? Where'd you put the new toothpaste?”

“Under the sink, Win.” Edith wound the clock and set it on the bed stand. Winslow's and Stanley's recent remodeling job had resulted in a spacious new area beneath the sink to store supplies from the hall closet. She wouldn't wish the remodeling process on her worst enemy, but the results were pretty and added a much-needed update to the parsonage.

She picked up her Bible as Winslow continued to rattle around in the adjoining bathroom. Closing her eyes, she rested the open book across her breast and sighed, trying to summon enough concentration to read a few Scriptures.

An image from a TV commercial blazed on the backs of her eyelids. A giant taco, designed to tantalize, was practically pornographic in the way it drew attention to the crispy shell, thick shredded cheese, tiny bits of tangy tomato. Never had a picture been more carefully designed to arouse the lust of the flesh—

Opening her eyes, she blinked the image away. What was wrong with her? She had never been this fixated on food before. She had resolved to eat less
,
but somehow her brain had translated that into a food preoccupation. . . .

The bed sagged as Winslow sat down and pulled off his slippers. Removing his glasses, he placed them on the nightstand, and then rolled under the covers.

“Ahh.” He snuggled beneath the electric blanket's warmth. “I'll be glad when spring comes.”

Edith nodded. “Me, too. Can't wait to see my crocus and hyacinths along the front porch.”

Too bad she couldn't eat her spring flowers—they were undoubtedly low calorie.

She smiled when she heard Winslow sigh contentedly. Within minutes he would be asleep.

Lifting the Bible, she tried to concentrate on a verse from Ecclesiastes:

While still seeking wisdom, I clutched at foolishness.
In this way, I hoped to experience the only
happiness most people find during their brief life in
this world.

Why did people insist on reaching for foolish things when they knew wisdom was better? Why did
she?

Winslow's voice startled her.

“Something
is
bothering you tonight, Edith. What is it?”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She shook her head as she snagged a tissue from the box on the nightstand.

“It's just . . . everything,” she said, hating the way her voice trembled. “Olympia and Bea and Annie—it's a time of change, and change isn't easy.”

She fell quiet, hoping Winslow would accept her answer at face value. Everyone's emotions had been close to the surface all week, but the reason for her tears went far deeper. She was indulging in her own private pity party because she wasn't as thin as she used to be.

Win's voice drew her back. “Edith?”

Closing the Bible, she shut her eyes. “It's nothing, Win. Nothing important, just . . . foolishness.”

“It's the diet thing, isn't it?” His voice held a note of reservation; she knew he disliked diets, always said they never worked. All things in moderation, he believed, but Edith didn't have time for moderation with Birdie's wedding less than two months away. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

She opened her eyes and turned to face him. “I have to lose two dress sizes by the end of next month, Win. Otherwise I have nothing to wear to Birdie's wedding.” She reached out to run her hand along his cheek. “I know you don't approve of diets, but I'm asking you to be a little tolerant so I can reach my goal.”

“Edith.” Sighing, he stroked her arm. “Why do women agonize about their weight?”

She shrugged. “We just do.”

Winslow nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, then. I will try to understand your desire to lose a few pounds, but only if you consult Dr. Marc and do
exactly
as he says. I don't want you going on one of those fad diets and making yourself sick.”

“Why should I see Dr. Marc? When I had my physical last year he said I was as healthy as a horse.” Not the most flattering diagnosis, but welcome nevertheless.

“Dr. Marc will recommend a sound program. I trust him.”

And he didn't trust
her?
Edith pulled away, a little hurt, but Winslow didn't understand. Besides, she knew what Dr. Marc would say: Eat according to the food pyramid, exercise, take it slow and easy. Sound advice, sure, but too slow if she was going to wear her peach dress for Birdie's wedding.

When she didn't answer, Win nudged her. “Do I have your promise?”

“Uh hum.” Edith felt an urgent need to change the subject. “Can you turn the blanket down, hon? My side is getting too warm.”

“Sure.” He turned the dial down a notch, then snuggled closer to her side. “I love you like you are, Edith.”

“I know, Win.” She patted his hand, feeling only a little guilty. She might have to fudge a bit to get around Win's wishes, but she'd be careful. Men just didn't understand. They lost weight quicker than women, they kept it off easier, and they didn't suffer from hormonal rages that made them want to eat everything in sight, particularly if it was made of chocolate. . . .

She'd go see Dr. Marc if it'd make Winslow feel better, then she'd do whatever it took to get the weight off. And when she stood by Winslow's side, mixing with guests at Birdie's wedding reception, she'd be the picture of elegant grace in peach and silver. . . .

Simply lovely.

Chapter Eight

R
eturning to her tiny office at Portland's Southern Maine Technical College, Annie dropped her book bag to the floor, then leafed through a sheaf of pink messages the division secretary had stacked on her desk. Apparently her students had been delighted to have a week off from her class, but only five students had enrolled in “Herbaceous Plant Design” for the spring term. In a Maine February, the only herbaceous plants around lived in the college greenhouse.

She dropped into her chair and tossed the messages onto her desk. None of them were pressing; they could wait until after she'd gone through the mail.

A rap on her door made her look up. “Ms. Cuvier?”

A freckle-faced young man with hair the color of ripe apples stood in her doorway.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah.” The young man blushed. “I'm Jason Boggs. I wanted to sign up for your class.”

She lifted a brow. “You're a bit early, Jason. Registration for the summer term won't begin for weeks.”

“But the catalog says instructor approval is required for the summer lab. I wanted to come by early . . . you know, to make sure you approve of me.”

Annie had to smile when his ears went the color of strawberries.

“It's not a hugely popular class, Jason. I think you'll be fine.”

His tentative grin broadened. “Great! When I read the article, I just knew I had to get into your lab. I want to learn all about how to design plants like your tomatoes.”

“The class isn't about designing plants, Jason, it's about designing landscapes.” She frowned. “Um, what article did you read?”

“This one.” With a flourish, he pulled a magazine from his book bag, then dropped it on her desk. Aghast, she stared at a glossy copy of
Tomato Monthly.
The cover featured her smiling face, and in her hands she held one of her spindly, practically poisonous tomato plants.

Groaning, she dropped her head into her hands. “They were supposed to pull this story. I called them right after the incident.”

“What incident?”

“My tomatoes nearly poisoned an entire town. They're worthless.”

Jason shrugged. “Doesn't matter, really. The article says you're a genius at hybrid plant design. The writer said he thinks you're going to be a millionaire by the time you're thirty.”

Annie laughed aloud. “Don't believe everything you read, Jason.” She fingered the glossy cover. “Do you mind if I borrow this? No—wait. I don't want to look at it. Take it with you.”

He picked up the magazine and turned, then paused at the door. “So I can sign up for your class?”

“If you want to learn about landscape design, sure. If you want to learn how to poison half the world's population, why not?”

Jason Boggs threw her a grin, then walked away whistling. When he had disappeared around a corner, Annie dropped her head to her desk and covered it with her hands.

What had she ever done to deserve such a streak of bad luck? She'd been blessed with a rich imagination, but apparently she lacked the brainpower to make her ideas work. As a kid, her soda pop concoction had blown a hole through the roof of the barn at Frenchman's Fairest, and her hair dye had turned Barbara Higgs's hair shocking pink for an entire summer. Even those blasted tomatoes, which had actually managed to bloom and produce fruit in a Maine winter, had proven to be all looks and no substance.