Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

Babette waved him out the door with a perplexed expression on her face. “Thank you very much.”

  As the bells over the door jangled in farewell, Zuriel handed Babette the ball of twine, then put away the roll of brown paper. She chuckled as she dropped the twine back into the desk drawer. “Georgie will be thrilled to hear he made his first sale,” she said. She picked up the check and waved it in the air. “Maybe we should frame this for him.”

  “That’d be nice.” Zuriel pulled the protective plastic back over the rows of paintings. “And every time he sees it, he’ll remember how God answered his prayers.”

  “His prayers?” Babette said, glancing at the check in her hand. “For an entire ten—oh! Z, this check is for ten thousand dollars!”

  Zuriel felt his mortal heart pound in an odd double beat. Ten thousand? Was this the Lord’s provision … or a mistake?

  “It can’t be,” Babette whispered, sinking onto a stool. Her face had gone pale, and the hand holding the check trembled. “He misunderstood. But I was honest, wasn’t I? I told him Georgie was the artist. I said Georgie was only a boy.”

  “Ayuh, you did.” Zuriel moved to the French doors, not sure whether he should comfort Babette or chase Pierce Bedell. His orders had been simple: meet the man on the ferry, and escort him to the Graham Gallery. Nothing more specific than that.

  So … what did the Lord want him to do now?

  Babette sat motionless, the check in her hand, as wave after wave of shock slapped at her. Ten thousand dollars! Pierce Bedell was a fool—no, an angel! She couldn’t keep this—yes, she could—but she shouldn’t. Either the fellow had misunderstood, he didn’t know what he was doing, or he was a pretentious dilettante who wouldn’t know a Klimt from a Klump.

  “Zuriel,” she whispered, her heart doing a strange little dance in her chest. “Run after him. No—I’ll go. I should go.”

  Her leaden feet reluctantly obeyed her command and carried her through the foyer, over the porch, and past the front gate. In the distance she could see the ferry, the man on the dock, even Captain Stroble’s blue coat. With any luck, she’d be able to catch Bedell and explain that he’d bought a child’s painting. With even greater luck, he’d laugh and say he’d done exactly what he intended to do.

  Fat chance.

  Bedell’s dark figure moved from the dock to the boat deck, and Babette hurried, the check fluttering in her fingers as the wind blew through the nap of her sweater. Now the captain was aboard, too, and soon the boat would be pulling away …

  She broke into a run at the intersection of Ferry and Main, then cried out as a shaggy shape leapt from the shadows of the mercantile’s deep front porch. Her shins encountered something soft, then Babette went flying forward, her elbows striking the cobblestones with a heavy scrape.

  For a moment she lay on the ground, terribly conscious of the fact that she must look ridiculous, then her eyes opened. Her fist still grasped the check—at least she hadn’t lost that along with her dignity.

  “Glory be, Babette, are you all right?”

  Elezar Smith, Vernie’s helper at the mercantile, came running out of the building, the storm door slamming behind him. Before reaching her, though, he stopped to examine a mass of white fur in the road. “Tallulah? You okay?”

  Babette made a wry face as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Only in Heavenly Daze would a man be as concerned for the de Cuviers’ mutt as for a lady.

  Brushing a layer of sandy grit from her sweater, she called, “I’m fine, Elezar.” She winced as her fingers encountered a sore spot at her elbow. “Tallulah and I were on a collision course, that’s all.”

  “That Tallulah can get under your feet, and don’t I know it.” The tall man knelt and ran his fingers over the old dog who lay on her side, four legs and a pink tongue extended. At the touch of the man’s fingers, Tallulah opened her button eyes and whimpered, then waved one forepaw in a helpless gesture.

  “My goodness, I think the old girl might really be hurt.” Elezar’s walnut complexion took on a shade of concern. “Wonder if I should carry her over to see Dr. Marc?” He squatted in the road and crossed his arms, one finger over his lips as he considered the situation. “Olympia’s going to be mighty upset if Tallulah gets hurt right when Mr. Edmund’s doing so poorly. I don’t know if she could handle losing them both at once.”

  “Let’s not panic yet.” Babette groaned as she stood, then she bent with her hands on her knees and looked at the whimpering dog. Brightening her voice, she called, “Tallulah? Would you like to go inside and get a cruller?”

  As if by magic, the terrier lifted her head. The forepaw that had been waving helplessly only a moment before served her well enough now, and before Babette could straighten her aching muscles, the dog had righted herself and begun to prance toward Birdie’s Bakery, her plumed tail waving like a flag over her back. When Elezar and Babette didn’t immediately follow, she turned and looked at them, her mouth opening in a toothy doggie smile.

  Elezar removed his cap and scratched his head, grinning. “If that don’t beat all.”

  “I’ve seen this little actress do her injured act before,” Babette said, wincing again as she gently squeezed her sore elbow. “She’ll do anything for a cruller.”

  “I suspect I’d better keep our end of the bargain.” Elezar stood and moved toward the door. “I hope Birdie has some day-old doughnuts left for this little missy.”

  Leaving the spoiled dog and her friend, Babette turned and looked toward the sea. As she feared, the ferry had pulled away from the dock and was already plowing through the crushed diamond sea. Nothing she could do but go home and leave a message on Mr. Bedell’s answering machine.

  As she turned to go, she saw Elezar standing by the center post of Vernie’s front porch. He was watching her, a look of marked concern on his face.

  “You must think me ill-mannered, tending to a dog before looking after a lady,” he said, his tone apologetic. “Truth is, you didn’t look much hurt.”

  Babette forced a smile. “I’m afraid the only thing hurt was my pride.”

  “So everything’s fine with you and yours?”

  Babette opened her mouth, intending to give him a polite, reserved answer, but her true feelings spilled out in a rush. “Actually, Elezar, things aren’t so fine. I think I’ve just made a major mistake—my brain or my ethics or something went to sleep on me, and for a moment I lost my bearings. I was running to catch the ferry to set things right, but—well, you saw what happened.”

  Elezar nodded, one corner of his mouth twisting upward. When he spoke again, his voice rang with depth and authority. “Listen to your heart, Babette. If the Spirit of God is speaking, you listen carefully.”

  What did that mean? Her heart was filled with confusing impulses and emotions, so how was she to know which ideas came from God and which were born of her own selfishness?

  Babette raked her hand through her hair, then smiled a polite farewell. “Better get going,” she said, gesturing toward her house. “I’ve got things to do.”

  Sitting alone in the art gallery, Zuriel stilled his spirit and listened to the sounds of life in the house. Upstairs, Charles worked on his latest manuscript, the heavy click, clack, ching! of the old typewriter sending a staccato vibration through the walls. From another room, Zuriel heard the sound of childish singing—which meant Georgie was painting again. The boy loved to paint, and Zuriel truly believed the Lord had given him a unique gift. Like his father, Georgie saw stories in every object, but he turned those stories into art through the medium of paint and paper.

  Like a bird who warbles when he builds a nest, Georgie sang as he created. Babette had once told Zuriel that Georgie’s pediatrician asked her if the boy ever sang around the house. “All the time,” she’d answered, wondering at the significance of the question.

  “Then he’s a happy child,” the pediatrician told her, “because happy children sing.”

  Zuriel smiled at the doctor’s insight. Some
times humans amazed him with their perspicacity. They grasped so many truths, but others, including some of the most basic and eternal, eluded them. He would never understand why so many humans could believe that human life developed from nothingness, yet refuse to accept the more logical truth that God created man from clay and the breath of life.

  At the moment, he was struggling to understand how a family as happy as the Grahams had become so … compartmentalized. Ever since the end of the tourist season, each of them had seemed to go in a separate direction— Charles to his writing room, Babette to her kitchen, Georgie to his schoolroom at the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, then to wherever little boys liked to roam after school. The Scriptures clearly taught that a threefold cord could not be easily broken, but the members of this family had become so independent that any one of them could snap at any moment.

  At the sound of footsteps on the porch, Zuriel stood and moved toward the front door. A moment later Babette entered the foyer, and from the distressed expression on her face he knew she hadn’t been able to catch the ferry.

  “Had a little accident,” she said, apparently reading the question on his face. “Tallulah and I had a collision on Main Street. Neither of us are hurt, but tomorrow I’m going to have a bruise the size of Wisconsin on my elbow.”

  “But Mr. Bedell—”

  “Got away.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m going to leave a message on his answering machine. If it has a time and date stamp, at least he’ll know I tried to reach him as soon as possible.”

  She stepped into the gallery, then stood behind the tall work desk and picked up the phone. Turning to Zuriel, she said, “Don’t tell Georgie we sold his painting.” She lowered her voice. “Because I’m going to have to take it back.”

  “I won’t say a word,” Zuriel promised.

  Moving stiffly, as if the action caused her pain, Babette smoothed the crinkled check on the polished desk, then dialed Mr. Bedell’s telephone number. Zuriel stepped back into the gallery and pretended to check the pottery inventory as she placed the call, then he heard her speak in the strangely artificial voice people always used when addressing an answering machine: “Hello, this is Babette Graham, from the Graham Gallery. I really must speak to you, Mr. Bedell, about the painting you bought today. Will you call me as soon as you get in? Thanks very much.”

  She lowered the phone back into its cradle, then blew out her cheeks. “It’s done,” she said, cocking a brow at Zuriel. “It may cost us a new roof, but we’ve done the right thing.”

  Zuriel smiled, glad that she had obeyed the voice of her conscience, but a little confused by the day’s latest development. He’d been sent to escort Mr. Bedell to the Graham Gallery so Georgie’s prayer could be answered. He did, and it was. So what was Babette doing now, and how would her actions affect Georgie?

  Tugging on his beard, he turned to the window, anxious to see what changes the next few days would bring.

  After Zuriel left the gallery, Babette walked to her desk in the kitchen. She slipped Mr. Bedell’s check into an envelope, then placed the envelope atop the stack of roofing bids, wishing that Bedell’s ten thousand dollars could cover her financial needs as easily as she could cover her bills with his check.

  Strange, that she’d been handed ten thousand dollars when she needed almost that exact amount to replace her roof. Odd that the money had come from a painting Georgie wanted her to sell. In simple, childlike faith he had given her an offering, and his offering had brought in exactly what she needed …

  She froze as a sudden thought struck her. Was Pierce Bedell’s visit an odd coincidence … or heavenly provision? She had never in her life experienced a miracle quite like this one, but there was a first time for everything.

  Perhaps it would be wrong to return the money. After all, she’d begged God to meet their needs, and he had promised to take care of his children. Hadn’t Pastor Wickam recently reminded them to be like lilies of the field, not worrying about food or clothes because the heavenly Father would take care of them?

  She could easily cash the check and say nothing. Why not? The man wanted a puffin painting and he bought one, and she’d been honest with him. She hadn’t even wanted to sell the painting, but her reluctance only seemed to increase his eagerness to buy. She would never need to say anything further about it, because Pierce Bedell, whoever he was, obviously knew nothing about the real art world. He was probably a graduate from a liberal arts college who’d taken one class in art appreciation and now fancied himself an expert. But he wasn’t, obviously, because he’d assumed the puffin painting was something spectacular while he’d passed over Charles’s excellent seascapes as if they were little more than art on black velvet …

  If he was truly ignorant, maybe she ought to protect him from himself … but could she do it at the expense of her family?

  How would she ever know what to do?

  Chapter Four

  Babette spent the entire weekend battling her conscience. As tense as a bowstring, she snapped at Georgie when he spilled milk at the breakfast table, and she kept her distance from Charles even on Sunday. She didn’t want to discuss the puffin matter with him—first, because he might tell her to return the money, and second, because she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that his five-year-old had sold a puffin picture for more than Charles had ever earned on a single painting.

  Not even Zuriel was safe from her crusty mood. On Monday morning he suddenly stepped around the gallery corner, startling her so badly that she dropped the beautiful teapot in her hands and screamed out her frustration. Five minutes later, she had to apologize for screaming and destroying one of his best pieces. He was helping her sweep up the broken pottery when the gallery phone rang.

  She froze.

  “Answer it,” Zuriel said, his face displaying an uncanny awareness of her mental state. “It might be Mr. Bedell.”

  Babette lifted the phone and held it to her ear. “Good afternoon, this is the Graham Gallery.”

  Zuriel leaned forward as Babette’s face paled. The caller had to be Pierce Bedell. Few people called in the off-season, and none of the usual suspects would make the color drain from Babette’s face.

  He rose from his stool, about to leave and give her privacy, but she covered the phone with one hand. “Please, stay,” she mouthed the words. “I may need you.”

  Relieved, Zuriel sat back down and lifted a brow when Babette pressed the button to activate the speakerphone.

  “Mr. Bedell,” Babette said, setting her mouth in a determined line as she crossed her arms and faced the phone, “I’m glad you called. I wanted to be sure you understood the background of the puffin painting. I told you the artist was a boy—what I didn’t tell you is that the boy is my five-year-old son, Georgie Graham.”

  For a moment, the static hum of the speakerphone was the only sound in the room, then Bedell’s piercing laugh ripped through the stillness. “Your son? Why, that’s delicious news! Marvelous! You have the artist on the premises, so you can easily have him paint another!”

  Babette’s blue eyes widened. “You—surely you don’t want another one?”

  “My dear, that’s my good news. I do want another puffin. I sold the first painting, for twic—well, for an amount that adequately covered my expenses. I was planning to bring a check for the balance when I return to your quaint little island this week, and I was hoping you could find another painting for me.”

  Babette eyed the phone as if it were a bad smell. “But—isn’t this fraud or something?”

  “Of course not!” Bedell laughed again. “Fraud is when you claim something is what it isn’t. I told the buyer the Puffin was a charming primitive. Which it is.”

  “But you said it was painted by Zhorzh-ay somebody or other.”

  “Zhorzh-ay, Georgie, what’s the difference? We’re still referring to the same person—a boy. A prodigy. How delightful!”

  Babette looked at Zuriel, a frown hovering above her eyes. “I don’t
know about this, Mr. Bedell.”

  “Call me Pierce, please. If we’re going to be in business together, we should dispense with formality.”

  She drew a deep breath. “I’m just not sure whether this is the right thing to do.”

  “My dear lady,” Bedell’s voice dropped to a pleasant drawl, “let me tell you a true story. My sister, a housewife from Ohio, went to a yard sale and bought a pair of salt-and-pepper shakers. While she was there, the man of the house offered to sell her a few other salt-and-pepper shaker sets, with only one catch—she had to buy the entire collection for one dollar per set. His late wife, it seemed, had collected salt and pepper shakers her entire life.”

  Like any good storyteller, Bedell paused. Babette took the bait. “What happened?”

  Bedell laughed. “The man took her to a specially-built trailer stuffed to the ceiling with five thousand sets of salt-and-pepper shakers. My sister didn’t have that kind of cash, so she approached me, and together we bought the late wife’s collection. Then my sister began to sell salt-and-pepper shakers on eBay, the Internet auction site, and soon she was getting hundreds of dollars for single sets of salt-and-pepper shakers. The other day she sold a simple pair of goldfish shakers for six hundred dollars.”

  “They must have been valuable,” Babette whispered, a note of disbelief in her voice. “Fine porcelain or something.”

  Bedell chortled. “There was absolutely nothing special about them. But people got caught up in the frenzy, and the price escalated. The last time I checked with my sister, she’d earned over $40,000 from selling these things, and she still has a garage full of shaker sets she hasn’t even unpacked.”

  His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Remember this, dear Mrs. Graham. Value has nothing to do with worth, but it has everything to do with perceived worth. And art can easily be perceived as priceless.”

  “I suppose,” Babette whispered, her gaze meeting Zuriel’s across the room, “there’s no rhyme or reason to it.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”