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the quilt top. Money was a touchy subject even in the closest of families, so perhaps she shouldn’t mention finances to her daughter . . . unless the need arose.
    As the quilt circle broke up, Barbara followed Cleta up the stairs and waited on the graveled parking lot while her mother locked the church door. She huddled in her jacket, breathing in the clean scent of the sea and wondering how it would feel to kiss her mother on the cheek and walk away toward a home of her own, where Russell would be waiting. She could walk in and kiss him in the living room if she wanted without anyone squawking, they could eat anything, anytime they liked . . .
    On the other hand, it was nice to go home and not have to worry about dinner. Her mother would take care of everything.
    They crossed the parking lot together, Cleta jabbering about something Vernie had said, Barbara only half listening. After entering the house, her mother dropped her keys on the kitchen counter and moved to the refrigerator to start supper.
    Sighing wearily, Barbara climbed the stairs, then went to her room and stretched out on the bed. The afternoon had been tiring. She’d known the subject of babies would come up—it always did, ’cause women and children went together like love and marriage. She knew the other women were probably wondering why she and Russell hadn’t had kids yet, but, fortunately, lots of young couples these days waited a while before having babies.
    Trouble was, she hadn’t wanted to wait. A honeymoon pregnancy would have been fine with her.
    She closed her eyes as exhaustion seeped through her brain. She was tired of thinking about babies, tired of worrying about Russell’s disappointment, tired of breathing in her mother’s suffocating closeness.
    She was tired of everything.

Chapter Three
    O n Friday morning, Buddy Franklin signed his name at the bottom of the application, then lowered the pen and stared at the scratchings on the page. References? He’d listed his sister and brother-in-law, whose address he’d been sharing for the last several months. He had also listed Vernie Bidderman, who owned the Mooseleuk Mercantile, and Floyd and Cleta Lansdown, owners of the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast. He suspicioned that neither the Lansdowns nor Vernie thought much of him, but they would be too polite to sound off about his shortcomings to a virtual stranger from the bank.
    He crinkled his nose as he stared at his neatly printed block lettering. The loan officer might think it odd that the only people qualified to provide a character reference for Buddy Franklin lived on Main Street, Heavenly Daze, but he couldn’t do anything about his lack of connections. He had lived the life of a will-o’-the-wisp until his brief career in the Navy, and the Navy was the last outfit on earth that’d be willing to suggest that the Key Bank of Maine provide Buddy with nearly four hundred thousand dollars at 7 percent interest. He hadn’t managed to save any of his Navy wages, but had spent his paycheck like a drunken sailor even when he was cold-stone sober. When he’d finally been discharged, he’d had nothing to show for his brief and unfortunate naval career except three new tattoos: Mother, Kiss My Biscuits, and Don’t Take Bilge from Nobody. With his parents dead and the ancestral home in Ogunquit sold, he’d had no choice but to appeal to his sister. Dana had taken him in with one stipulation—as payment for his room and board, he had to promise to attend church. And he had, on several occasions.
    Buddy made a face as he skimmed the rest of the loan application. He knew his prospects were so poor the amount in the rectangular box at the top of the form might as well have been a million dollars. But Kremstock Industries, the outfit that owned the Lobster Pot, wouldn’t take less than four hundred grand for the place. As the only operational restaurant on Heavenly Daze, tourists