A Perfect Love Read Free

hungry.”
    There it was—the whine.
    Floyd complained about Barbara’s whining, but who wouldn’t sound a wee bit edgy at this hour of the morning? Of course, Cleta was used to the early hour, and so was Floyd. He couldn’t sleep past sunup if Cleta tied him in the bed, but Barbara was a good sleeper, and had been since infancy. Left undisturbed, Barbara could stay in bed until midafternoon, and often did. But then the poor thing had a terrible time going to sleep at night. Barbara didn’t come alive until Leno was on, then she’d get interested in movies on the Lifetime movie channel; sometimes it’d be three or four o’clock in the morning before the child could unwind enough to sleep. Russell was ready to get up about the time Barbara was ready to turn in. If children ever came along . . .
    Cleta shook her head. Barbara wouldn’t know day from night if she had a baby who got her up at all hours.
    She eyed Floyd, who was slurping his coffee. “What’s on your docket today, Floyd?”
    â€œThought I’d go down and fire up the truck. Then I got to study.”
    Cleta drew a deep breath. Floyd had been taking a correspondence course in mechanical engineering for the past several weeks. Though she was glad he’d found something to do, his studies had reinforced his annoying fixation on things mechanical.
    Her husband had a virtual love affair going with the community fire truck. As faithful as the sunrise, he went down to crank the engine once a day in order to keep the motor in top shape. There hadn’t been much call for the fire truck lately—none, actually, since last October when a gull snatched Pastor Wickam’s toupee and the awful hairpiece landed in a pine tree.
    â€œGot to keep ’er running smooth.” Floyd reached for the saltshaker. “Do you know what a vehicle like that would cost nowadays if we had to replace ’er?”
    Cleta didn’t venture a guess because she knew. Floyd reminded her and the entire town at every monthly meeting.
    â€œNine hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Floyd supplied.
    â€œHmm,” Cleta said around a mouthful of toast.
    â€œIf that one goes on us, we’ll never get another.”
    Cleta sighed, then, like a good wife, mumbled her line. “Did we pay that much for this one?”
    â€œNo. Got this one at a steal but only because it was ten years old. Still paid over three hundred thousand bucks.”
    Cleta rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “That much?” She hated this conversation, but they had it nearly every morning. Why couldn’t Floyd find a new topic?
    Her husband nodded. “Needs new rubber, though.”
    â€œAyuh. New tires. So you’ve said.” Again and again and again . . .
    â€œDaddy,” Barbara whined.
    â€œI know, I know.” Floyd leaned over and pinched Barbara’s cheek. “You gals don’t like to talk business so early in the morning. But you have a fire with bad tires and see if you don’t change your mind, little missy.”
    Russell pointed toward the plate in the center of the table. “Pass the eggs.”
    Sighing, Cleta handed him the plate.
    As sunlight streamed through the tall window of her bedroom, Barbara leaned against the window frame and stared past the dock toward the sea where her husband worked. Was he thinking of her as he baited and tossed out his traps? If so, was he missing her, or enjoying the peace and quiet away from this house?
    Unable to face the disloyal thought, Barbara reined in her gaze, settling on the mulched flower beds that lined the front walkway. Those flower beds were Micah Smith’s pride and joy, though he had little to do with them in the winter. In summertime, the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast was the town showplace, gardens of annuals and perennials
in full bloom. Beds of old-fashioned apothecary rose dotted the spacious lawn facing the Atlantic. The flowery