Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

  Zuriel felt his heart twist as Bedell cackled again, then promised to visit soon … to pick up another puffin painting.

  “Birdie, will you look at this?” Bea, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, wandered into the sitting room late Monday morning.

  Awakened from a nap by the sound of her sister’s voice, Birdie sat up and cleared her throat. “What is it, Bea? I’m busy.”

  Bea peered over the rim of her glasses. “I can see that,” she said, her voice dry. “Are you awake enough to help me with this? It’s another angel letter that came general delivery to Heavenly Daze. It’s from a child”—Bea lifted her brows—“who wants a baby sister. Listen.”

  While Birdie blinked sleep cobwebs from her eyes, Bea read the letter.

  Dear Angel,

  I don’t believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny but I do believe in angels. Mom says she can feel your spirit sometimes. I can’t, but I burnt my finger the other day, so maybe that’s why.

  I am nine years old and the only kid mom and dad have, which sometimes causes a problem. I have been praying for God to send another baby to my mom and dad so they won’t have so much time on their hands. Mother needs someone other than me to worry about. She can be a pain sometimes. I am writing to you to make sure God hears my prayers. Will you please ask him to help me? My name is Skip Patterson and I live in Detroit, Michigan. Tell him its S-K-I-P P-A-T-T-E-R-S-O-N on Lombard Street.

  Thank you very much.

  Sincerely,

  Skip Patterson (on Lombard Street.

  In case there’s another one.)

  “My, my.” Birdie removed her glasses and polished the lens. “Such a sweet letter. I suppose you’ll need to write him right away. But what are you going to say?”

  “That I’ll pray for him, of course.” Seating herself at the writing desk, Bea reached for pen and paper. “Two angel letters in less than a week. Why are people suddenly thinking of Heavenly Daze as a celestial substation?”

  “I imagine it’s for the same reason folks think the North Pole is Santa’s address.”

  “The North Pole has elves to help with the work load,” Bea pointed out. “I don’t.”

  Birdie stiffened in her chair. “Now, Beatrice. Surely you can write a couple of letters to precious little kids.”

  “Two letters, ayuh, but if the mail gets heavier, I don’t see how I’ll keep up.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Sister. No use borrowing trouble.” Birdie slipped her glasses on, hooking the rims over her ears. “I think I’ll go to the library this afternoon, visit with Faye a little while. Do you need anything from Ogunquit?”

  “More stationery,” Bea murmured.

  Birdie dressed warmly for the ride across the bay, pulling on a heavy wool coat and leather gloves. The boat had a heated cabin, but the ride across the inlet would be windy.

  “Better wear a hat,” Abner told her as he bagged bear claws for her to take to Captain Stroble.

  “Thank you, Abner. I will.”

  Baker and proprietor parted outside the store, and Birdie set off for the landing.

  Crossing Main and Ferry, she spotted the inelegant boat moored at the dock. Cormorants flew overhead, darting in and out of the water in search of a tasty morsel.

  “Afternoon, Birdie.” Captain Stroble greeted her with a smile as she crossed the gangplank.

  “Afternoon, Gus.” She handed the distinguished looking man the bakery bag. “Thought you might enjoy these with your afternoon coffee.”

  Brightening, the captain took his pipe out of his mouth, his eyes scanning the goody bag. “Much obliged, Birdie. You know I can’t pass up Abner’s pastry.”

  When the ferry docked in Ogunquit, Birdie pulled her collar close and headed into the wind. By the time she arrived at the library on Shore Road, her lips were numb with cold.

  Faye Lewiston, the current head librarian, flashed a friendly smile when Birdie walked in. “Birdie, girl, get yourself in here and get warm.”

  Familiar scents washed over her: the lemon oil of the polished floor, the mingled dry scents of leather and paper, and Faye’s distinctive rose perfume. In years past she had spent many a day among the tomes and periodicals, and sometimes she missed her old haunt. She missed sharing her morning coffee with Faye and discussing important things like the prospect of getting a new computer system to assist the reading public. Extra money wasn’t easy to come by, but still it had been fun to dream of new reading tables and an enlarged reference section.

  Faye stepped from behind the circulation desk, her rubber-soled shoes brushing against the tile floor. Birdie drew her into a quick embrace. “How are you, Faye?”

  “Fine as frog hair—and you?”

  “Wonderful.”

  Adjusting a lightweight sweater casually draped around her shoulders, the elderly woman frowned. “What brings you out on such a blustery afternoon?”

  Birdie felt her mouth quirk in a smile. “Thought I might see what you had left over from the used book sale.”

  “I don’t rightly recall what’s left,” Faye admitted. “The boxes are in the back room. Do you want to look through them?”

  “That would be nice, Faye.” Birdie followed the petite woman into the private room where stacks of books and magazines littered the floor.

  Faye stopped before an empty space and tapped her fingertips together as she glanced around. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Children’s books.”

  Faye turned to stare at her.

  “For a friend,” Birdie explained.

  “Well,” Faye bent to study a box, “I believe they’re all mixed together, but you’re welcome to go through anything in here.”

  After shrugging out of her coat, Birdie hung it on the hook she’d used for over twenty years, then stepped back and sighed. “Look at that—my coat looks right at home there, Faye.”

  “That it does,” Faye answered, chuckling. “But you can’t have my job. You gave it up for cookies, remember?”

  Still smiling, Faye returned to the front when a patron rang the bell.

  Birdie sank to her knees and set about scavenging the cardboard boxes, pulling out worn copies of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Black Beauty, and Betsy-Tacy and Tib. Pulling up a chair, she reread a couple of Grimms’ fairy tales, delighted with the fanciful illustrations.

  An hour later, her feet propped on a storage bin, she helped Nancy Drew discover The Secret of the Old Clock. Before she knew it, she heard Faye closing up for the day, switching off lights in the early fall dusk.

  “Faye, do we have any McGuffey’s readers lying around?”

  The librarian came into the back room carrying a handful of paperclips. “The school system donated a whole stack last spring,” she said, pitching the paper clips into a bin. “But what in the world do you want with kindergarten material? Are you teaching little Georgie Graham to read?”

  “Georgie?” Birdie laughed. “That boy can read nearly as well as I can.”

  She pressed her lips together, unwilling and unable to say that Salt Gribbon would be the recipient of her generosity. But how was she going to get the material to him without violating his privacy? After all, a man like the captain was bound to be sensitive about his inability to read, and she wouldn’t hurt his feelings for the world.

  Faye rummaged through a shelf and came up with a handful of McGuffey’s Eclectic Primers. “How many do you need?”

  “One will do.” Birdie confiscated the book, her eyes eagerly scanning the pages. The material was elementary and illustrated—perfect. Now, to get the primer in the captain’s hands without causing him to suspect she knew what he was doing. Self-educating wasn’t the easiest way to learn to read, but she supposed it was better than doing nothing at all.

  “This will be great,” she announced, adding the book to her growing stack.

  By the time Birdie left the library, she’d bought twenty dollars worth of reading material. Some books
she would keep and dole out as Salt progressed, but she’d deliver the elementary reader right away.

  She was the only passenger on the six o’clock ferry. The water was choppy and the wind sharp enough to cut through a body.

  “Bundle up tight,” Captain Stroble called as the boat bumped the dock. She waved as she hopped off, then shifted the heavy sack of books to her left hand as she braced herself for the cold walk home.

  As she passed Frenchman’s Folly, she couldn’t help noticing that a warm light glowed in Edmund de Cuvier’s sick room. Birdie imagined Caleb and Olympia keeping the deathwatch. A tough time for them, surely.

  She shook her head, huddling deeper into her coat as she toted the heavy books up the hill. Her thoughts shifted from the sober image of the de Cuviers to Captain Gribbon’s pleased expression when she delivered the books. “Now, Birdie,” he’d say in his clipped New England accent, “you shouldn’t have gone to the bother.”

  “Don’t get yourself all frothed up, Cap’n Gribbon,” Birdie would say right back. “Weren’t no bother a-tall.”

  Some thought the cap’n a little crabby, but Birdie suspected a heart of gold beat beneath all that bluster and blow.

  The wood stove burned brightly as Birdie entered the house through the back door, and the smell of clam chowder hung thick in the air. Bea turned in the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon. “You must be near frozen, Sister. I’ll get you a cup of hot coffee.”

  Birdie set the sack of books on the kitchen counter before stripping off her coat and gloves. “Frozen clean to my toes, I reckon. I need something to get the blood circulating.” She moved toward the fire. “It’s fearsome out there tonight.”

  “Ayuh, cold as a well digger’s ankles.” Bea poured coffee into a thick white mug, then added cream and a teaspoon and a half of sugar. “Been at the library all afternoon?”

  “Ayuh. Faye and I had a nice visit.”

  Taking a pan of cornbread from the oven, Bea eyed the bulging book bag. “Got you some reading material?”

  Birdie pretended not to hear the question. Bea wouldn’t approve of her buying books for the captain, and she didn’t want to begin an argument she couldn’t win. She cast about for a new topic, then asked, “Have you ordered the Thanksgiving bird yet?”

  The diversion worked like a charm. Bea snapped her fingers and headed toward the desk to write herself a note. “Thirty pounder again this year?”

  “Of course, we can always freeze the leftovers.”

  Smiling, Birdie picked up her cup of coffee and went into the sitting room, then sank wearily into her recliner. Beyond the frosted windowpanes, the wind whistled around the eaves, banging the shutters, but Birdie was warm as a puppy and about as happy.

  Charles listened in stunned silence as Babette told him the story of Pierce Bedell and the puffin painting. She had called him and Zuriel into the kitchen, then, over steaming bowls of vegetable soup, she proceeded to tell the most incredible art tale he’d ever heard.

  Despite his elation at the thought of money, parts of the story bothered him. The idea that someone would pay $15,000 for a child’s painting was ludicrous, and the realization that Babette had conducted this transaction in secret disturbed him. But they desperately needed a new roof, and by the time she pulled Bedell’s check from a blank envelope and slid it across the table, Charles was ready to forget his petty annoyances and consider the possibility that good fortune had smiled upon them.

  Dense silence filled the kitchen as Zuriel and Babette waited for his reaction. “Well,” he finally said, drawing a deep breath as he placed the check on the table, “they say truth is stranger than fiction. I suppose this proves it.” He slid the check back to Babette. “Cash it, though, before you call the roofers. Let’s make sure this thing won’t bounce.”

  Babette took the check and folded it. “Bedell said he sold the painting already. I’m not certain, but I think he may have sold it for double what he paid us.”

  Zuriel grunted. “Quite a markup. One hundred percent?”

  “Standard in retail,” Babette countered. “That’s fine, I can’t begrudge him a profit. I just want to be sure we’re doing the right thing.”

  “It’s incredible, but it feels right.” Charles leaned over and squeezed Babette’s shoulder. “You’ll get your new roof.”

  “And the remaining five thousand will come in handy as an emergency cushion this winter.” Her face brightened as if his approval had lightened her load. “I won’t have to worry if the weather turns cold and we have to crank up the thermostat.”

  “Wait a minute.” Leaning back, Charles brought one hand up to scratch at his jaw. “You said he wants another painting, right? That makes another fifteen thousand we can count on.”

  A look of discomfort crossed Babette’s face. “I don’t know. Georgie’s other puffin paintings aren’t as good as the one I framed.”

  “He can paint more, can’t he? The kid’s always painting puffins. Last summer all he talked about was puffins swimming, puffins flying, puffins in the nest—”

  “I think,” Zuriel said, breaking in, “that Georgie might be a little put out with puffins. I haven’t heard him mention them in a while.”

  “The boy’s a born artist; he can paint whatever he sets his mind to painting,” Charles countered, smacking the table for emphasis. “So he can paint more puffins.” He looked directly at his wife. “And we can use that next five thousand for a top-of-the-line computer. I can finally toss out that old typewriter and get a computer to write this book. The book will practically write itself if I get a good machine.”

  Babette’s blue eyes narrowed. “Do we really need a computer?”

  “Of course we do.” Charles crossed his arms and jerked his chin downward in a decisive gesture. “These days you can do practically anything with a computer: You can do the accounting for the gallery. You can do payroll, track inventory, and sell art on the Internet. You can even build us a Web page! We can increase our sales and reach the entire world, Babs! Here we can only sell six months out of the year, but with a Web page, we can sell year round, and to people even in Timbuktu! We need a computer!”

  Babette said nothing, but slowly, nodded, visibly acceding the argument. He had her, and he knew it. And though she might not realize her need for a computer now, she’d soon wonder how they ever ran a business without one.

  “Okay,” she said slowly, “we’ll use the next five thousand for a computer. And we’ll sell one more puffin painting— I think I have one in the drawer that’s suitable for framing. I can mat it right away and have it ready when Mr. Bedell comes later this week.”

  “And the next $15,000?” Charles asked, hoping she’d suggest a wide-screen TV …

  “Will be our emergency cushion,” she said, her tone flat and matter-of-fact. “We need one. The money will go into savings, and it will stay there unless we desperately need it.” She looked from her husband to Zuriel. “And then I’ll be able to sleep at night.”

  Charles nodded, ruefully accepting the fact that Babette would not be swayed from this conviction. And since he’d given her the responsibility of handling their finances, he’d have to give her the right to do her job.

  “All right.” He smiled, feeling a great deal cheerier than he had when Babette began her story. “One more puffin painting, and we’ll be set. Now”—he looked at the steaming soup and picked up a cracker— “call Georgie, and let’s eat supper. I’m starving.”

  Chapter Five

  Two days later, Babette held up the newly-framed puffin painting and regarded it with a critical eye. The other puffins in the drawer weren’t nearly as good as this one and the first, but she did have to admit this piece possessed a colorful and youthful exuberance. Perhaps Georgie really was a prodigy. After all, his father was an artist, and maybe such things could be inherited …

  Who knew?

  The front door jangled a welcome. She looked up in time to see Pierce Bedell, dressed in a new coat that looked like ca
shmere, enter through the French doors. “Madame Babette,” he called, crossing the polished floor in three smooth steps. He took her outstretched hand and kissed it, his mustache tickling the skin near her wrist.

  “Mr. Bedell.”

  “Pierce.”

  “Of course, Pierce.” Gently, she pulled her hand out of his grasp. “Welcome back.”

  With a flourish, the art dealer swung his briefcase (butter-soft calfskin, Babette noticed, unmarked and clean) onto the counter, spun the locks, and opened it. From a folder he pulled a slip of paper and flashed it before her eyes. “The remaining deposit on the first painting. Five thousand dollars.”

  Babette focused on the check, devouring it with her eyes. She’d lain awake the last two nights, half-afraid the ferry would sink and they’d never see Bedell again. Charles had ordered his new computer on credit, and Babette knew she wouldn’t feel any peace about his high-tech purchase until this five-thousand-dollar check was safely deposited in their account at the Key Bank of Ogunquit.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bedell.” She accepted the check and slipped it into her zippered cash bag. “And I have something for you.”

  His dark gaze shifted toward the painting on the display easel. “Ah, I see it already. And I do believe this one is more stunning than the last.”

  Babette couldn’t stop a half-smile from lifting the corner of her mouth. “You really think so?”

  “Madame, I know so.” Bedell moved to a position directly in front of the easel, then held up his hand like a movie director framing a camera shot. “Look at those colors! They seem deeper than watercolors—”

  “That’s because some of them are oils,” Babette pointed out. “Georgie tends to use whatever he can find around the house.”

  “Even better!” Bedell clapped his hands. “I see … a successful incorporation of watercolor delicacy and oilistic texture. Look how the white speck embellishes the bird’s eye! Notice the way you can see water purling on the beach in the background!”

  Babette leaned forward and frowned at the painting. Odd that she’d never noticed any of those things. Then again, she wasn’t artistic.