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“Are you sure we’ll be approved for that grant?”
    â€œAyuh.” Cleta nodded. “We’ll prove that Heavenly Daze Church deserves that grant if I have to personally visit every home and drag the slug-a-beds out of bed by their ears.”
    Floyd slipped out of the cart and gravitated toward the back door, sniffing the air as he went. “Smells like a good roast, Mother. So stop your squawking and let’s get dinner on the table.”
    Cleta followed, refusing to let her husband dampen her good mood. “Ayuh, Floyd, hold your horses. I’m coming.”

Chapter Three
    L eaving the parsonage and the flickering warmth of Edith’s cinnamon-scented candles in the windows, Winslow skirted the field bordering the cemetery and walked toward the sea. The sky, already dark over the ocean, was still lit by deep orange and red and purple streaks in the west.
    Ignoring the encroaching darkness, Winslow lengthened his stride through the swishing grass until he reached the rock-strewn rim that marked the eastern edge of the island. Unsuitable as a tourist beach, this rough leeward shore undoubtedly looked much as it had two hundred years ago when Jacques de Cuvier and his cronies settled the town.
    Upon reaching the rocks where walking became difficult, Winslow turned and moved along the perimeter of the cemetery. The oldest graves were situated here, and Jacques de Cuvier’s occupied one of the loftiest locations.
    Winslow paused a moment before Jacques’s worn headstone, then, in a burst of irreverence, turned and sat on the granite slab. Olympia de Cuvier would faint if she saw him sitting cross-legged upon the sainted sea captain’s final resting place, but somehow Winslow didn’t think Jacques would mind.
    Shifting to face the sea, he rubbed his hands over his arms and stared out at the rolling surf. What would old Jacques think if he were to walk among today’s residents of Heavenly Daze? Would he marvel at the electric golf carts and satellite dishes, or would he mourn the passing of the polished lanterns shedding soft yellow light on the cobblestone streets? If he were to walk into the church, would he rejoice to see that a faithful remnant remained, or would he regret that the little church had not grown? Though the population of Heavenly Daze swelled during the summer season as tourists flocked to visit the charming shops, the residential population had remained much the same from one generation to another.
    The cool evening air, as astringent as alcohol, washed over his head and shivered the bare skin. Hunching forward in his jacket, Winslow glanced over his shoulder toward the cluster of houses located along the intersection of the island’s two roads. The sun had nearly finished its course across the sky, but hadn’t yet reached the Maine shore, barely visible in the distance. On the island, lights had begun to shine from each house, and he imagined that from the air Heavenly Daze would take on the shape of a silvery cross blazing out of dense darkness. The porch lights of Frenchman’s Folly, home to the de Cuviers, would form the top of the cross that extended from the island’s southwestern shore to its midpoint, where a solitary street lamp burned outside the fire/police station, the only municipal building on the island. The lights of Birdie’s Bakery on the west and the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center on the east would create the crossbar.
    The island had been marked, probably inadvertently, with the sign of the cross, as had Winslow’s life. He had been reared in a Christian home, taught to serve God at an early age, and he had always loved to study the Bible. After college he entered seminary with lofty dreams and high aspirations; he graduated with every intention of becoming the next Billy Graham. Then he accepted the call of his first church, and his dreams shrank into the shadows, eclipsed by painful realities and the hard lessons of