Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

  I love you.

  Raleigh Akerman

  Lifting cookies off the tray, Abner shook his head, his face lined with concern. “Poor child.”

  “It breaks my heart.” Birdie flipped the mixer switch, thinking about the appeal as the motor whirred. Such a simple request—warmth. A body was entitled to be warm in the winter.

  Bea slid the second letter back into its envelope and laid it on the counter, atop a growing pile of unanswered correspondence. She eyed the mail with a calculating expression. “I don’t understand,” she shouted above the mixer. “It’s almost as if some divine decree has gone out and Heavenly Daze has suddenly become a celestial post office.”

  Birdie looked up as the door opened and Vernie Bidderman came in. Stomping her boots on the rubber mat, she grinned, her large, uneven teeth shining in a weather-lined face. “How be you, friends? Is that chocolate chip cookies I smell?”

  “Hot out of the oven,” Abner confirmed. He slid a cookie on a plate, then set it on the counter.

  Sniffing appreciably, Vernie unsnapped her down plaid jacket. “Saw Annie getting off the ferry a few minutes ago.”

  “Annie?” Birdie shut off the mixer, grateful for the sudden quiet. “Now what would Annie be doing in Heavenly Daze on a Thursday?”

  Vernie shrugged and lifted a cookie from the plate. “Maybe she’s taking a long weekend. Those tomatoes look a bit peaked when it snows.”

  “Maybe,” Birdie mused, “or maybe Edmund’s worse.”

  “Be a terrible thing for Olympia to lose him so close to the holidays,” Vernie said.

  “It’s going to be hard on her anytime,” Bea corrected.

  Her mouth full of cookie, Vernie nodded, then swallowed with an effort. “No denyin’ that Olympia loves Edmund.” Her eyes shifted to the pile of letters on the counter. “Don’t tell me—more angel mail?”

  Bea nodded, her expression grim. “If it keeps up I’m gonna have to have help. I’ve answered over twenty letters this week alone. I’m running out of things to say.”

  “Heard Buddy Maxwell’s looking for work.” Vernie took another bite of cookie.

  Bea propped her chin on her knuckles. “Thought he was going to buy the Lobster Pot.”

  Vernie swallowed, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Lately he’s realized he doesn’t have a hope of getting that kind of money. Alst I know is he’s a professional moocher. I don’t think he wants a steady job.” She grinned. “Might have to actually do some work.”

  Birdie glanced at her sister. “You could hire him to help answer letters.”

  Bea shot her a sour look. “I’m not that desperate.” She picked up the stack of letters and disappeared through the back hallway as the door opened. Dr. Marc came in on a rush of cold air.

  “Morning, Dr. Marc,” Birdie called.

  “Good morning, Birdie. Brrrr!” The doctor rubbed his hands together. “Do you have any of that flavored coffee?”

  “Coming right up.” Birdie poured a cup of raspberry decaf and handed it over the counter. Dr. Marc accepted it, smiling gratefully. “Don’t know if I’ll ever get used to these Maine winters.”

  “You don’t get used to them, Doctor; you learn to live with them,” Abner said.

  Vernie sidled toward the doctor. “How’s Edmund this morning?”

  Dr. Marc shook his head. “Won’t be long now.”

  Sighing, Birdie pulled the mixing bowl off the stand and sniffed appreciatively at the mix. Nothing beat the scent of yeast bread, and in a few hours, this entire place would smell of it. She grimaced as a sudden thought struck her. “Vernie,” she turned to face her friend, “you did order my Thanksgiving bird, didn’t you?”

  Vernie scowled in indignation. “Of course I ordered your bird: thirty-one plus pounds, at sixty-nine cents a pound. Got a good buy on toms this year.”

  “And the sage?”

  “Birdie Wester, when have you ever known me to forget to order anything?”

  Not once, Birdie silently conceded. Vernie Bidderman prided herself on efficiency; anyone with a lick of sense knew they could depend on Vernie for supplies. Most of the islanders shopped in Ogunquit for staples, weather permitting; prices were better and the selection beat the mercantile any day. But during bad weather Heavenly Daze had to depend on Vernie for essentials, and she hadn’t failed them yet. You could call Vernie in a blizzard and ask for Epsom salts, and you’d find your order bagged and waiting by the time you managed to track through the snow to the mercantile. Though she specialized in candy and tourist trinkets in season, folks agreed you couldn’t beat the Mooseleuk Mercantile in a pinch.

  “Used the last of my sage when Bea got a craving for cornbread dressing this summer,” Birdie said, carrying her bowl to the flour-sprinkled work counter. “Been meaning to pick up a tin at the Grocery Mart but I keep forgetting.”

  Vernie stiffened at the mention of her competitor across the bay. “Your sage will be waiting for you when you want to pick it up.” She pointed to the sour cream doughnuts. “I’ll have a couple dozen of those and a dozen glazed, Abner. Are they fresh?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The baker sent Birdie a look that said be patient. “Our pastry is baked fresh every morning.”

  “Hmm, well, make that two dozen glazed. MaGoo will eat what I don’t.”

  Abner wiped his hands on a white cloth. “Coming right up, Vernie.”

  “Vernie, that cat is getting as broad as a boxcar,” Dr. Marc commented. “What does he weigh now?”

  “Land, who knows? Must be up around forty-five pounds by now. Alst I know is that I nearly put my back out every time I lift him.”

  Birdie smothered a smile as she thought of the cat next door. Tourists made a point to stop by the mercantile to see if rumors about the glandular feline were true. Unless the cat moved—and MaGoo wasn’t fond of physical exertion— folks thought they were looking at a huge black-and-white doorstop.

  She glanced at the doctor. “Your son going to make it to the island for Thanksgiving?”

  Dr. Marc lowered his coffee cup and nodded. “That’s his plan, unless an emergency keeps him away.”

  “A doctor’s life is never his own,” Vernie said. “I sure hope young Alex makes it—Annie’s coming home every weekend now.”

  “I know.” The corners of Dr. Marc’s mouth lifted with amusement. “Hope to get those two introduced one of these days.”

  Heads turned in unison when the door opened and Buddy Maxwell stomped in.

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  Big muddy boots approached the display counter.

  “Morning, Buddy,” Birdie said, eyeing the puddles forming beside his boots.

  Red suffused the young man’s cheeks as he hung his head with a sheepish grin. “Whatever.”

  “What can I get you this morning?”

  Buddy studied the case. “What’s that thing?”

  Birdie wiped her hands, trying to follow Buddy’s pointing finger. “Fried blueberry pies.”

  His finger inched down the glass, streaking it, no doubt.

  “Those are bear claws.

  “Cinnamon crullers.

  “Vanilla-iced cake doughnuts.

  “Doughnut holes.” She glanced at him sharply. “You taking a survey?”

  His flush deepened. “I’ll have two cinnamon rolls, I guess.”

  Bea reappeared in the kitchen, still holding the handful of letters. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Birdie put two warm cinnamon rolls in a sack and handed it to Buddy. “Beatrice, you know that’s dangerous.”

  Not taking the bait, Bea waved the pink envelope from Ogunquit. “I have an idea.”

  Birdie rang up Buddy’s order, then turned to face her sister. “What’s your idea?”

  Brightening, Bea said, “Seems like a utility bill isn’t a big thing. We could take part of our tithe money and send it to this child.”

  “Now, Beatrice,” Birdie cautioned, “that’s a generous thought, but taking tithe money
away from the church doesn’t seem exactly fair. Without tourist donations, the church budget gets real lean during the winter.”

  Bea shook her head. “I know that, but it would only be this once, and I’m sure Pastor Wickam would approve if he knew about the need.” She glanced at Abner and Dr. Marc. “We could all chip in and send this poor woman a couple of hundred dollars. She could pay the utility bill and maybe get her refrigerator fixed. What do you think?”

  Abner took to the idea right away. “I’d be willing to contribute.”

  Birdie wasn’t convinced. “Now, Bea, if we start giving away money there’ll be no end to the letters. You and I aren’t rich.”

  “But this is such a small request—and folks in Ogunquit are almost like family.” Bea gazed wistfully at the envelope. “No one has to know where the money comes from. Besides, having her need met will bolster little Raleigh’s faith.”

  Birdie shook her head. “I don’t like it, Bea. I have no objections to helping, but that little girl said she and her mother attend church. Surely Grace Unity has a benevolent program to assist members in need.”

  “Maybe … or maybe the mother is too proud to ask for help, so little Raleigh is depending on angels.”

  Birdie glanced up to see Abner nodding his head. “You approve of this plan?”

  “The family needs help,” he said quietly. “And why are we here, if not to extend a hand to those in need?”

  “Bea’s right,” Dr. Marc added. “Often pride does blind a person—especially a single parent. The shadows of past mistakes can make it hard to ask for assistance.”

  “But,” Birdie stuttered, “we’d be misleading the child if we pretended to be angels!”

  Smiling, Abner wiped his hands on his apron. “We are the Father’s hands on earth. Perhaps Bea can word the letter in such a way that the little girl will understand that God’s people answered her request.”

  Bea’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “I could do that— I’m sure of it.”

  Dr. Marc spoke up. “Why not donate the money to the church in Raleigh’s name and have the pastor deliver it?”

  All eyes swiveled to focus on the doctor.

  “Ayuh,” Birdie mused. “It might work.”

  A smile found its way through Bea’s mask of uncertainty. “Please, Birdie? We can’t cure cancer or bring fathers back to families, but we can scrape up enough money to make sure a little girl and her mama are warm this winter.”

  Smiling, Abner added his vote of confidence. “I’m sure there are others in Heavenly Daze who would be willing to chip in. And as far as taking money away from the church, we are the church. We are God’s people, commanded to help our brothers and sisters.” The baker turned to Buddy, who’d been listening with his mouth slightly open. “Don’t you agree?”

  Red-faced, Buddy shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Well … all right,” Birdie conceded, wondering if she would live to regret this decision. Answering the letters with hope and comfort was one thing; giving money away was quite another. They were inviting trouble, for certain, but she wouldn’t be able to sleep nights knowing that young Raleigh dinglefuzzie and her ailing mother were lying in a cold bed and drinking spoiled milk out of a faulty refrigerator.

  “All right.” Birdie trained her gaze on her sister. “But donate the money anonymously and instruct the little girl’s pastor to personally deliver it to her mother. Hopefully, the child will assume her church has come to the rescue.”

  Bea expelled a whoosh of relief. “I’ll get on it right away.” She turned to leave, then hesitated at the threshold. “It wouldn’t hurt to write and tell Raleigh that God has heard her prayers, would it?”

  “No, that wouldn’t hurt.” Birdie gave her sister a smile. God had heard the prayer, so she had no qualms about allowing the child to believe that truth. She turned back to her waiting bread dough, then jerked around as another thought struck her. “Bea?”

  Bea leaned back through the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Exactly what do you plan to do about the sock-eating dryer?”

  Buddy glanced up, frosting shining on his upper lip, apparently bumfuzzled by the question.

  Shrugging, Bea’s grin widened. “Why, send a pair of new blue socks. What else?”

  As the door closed behind Bea, Birdie picked up the coffeepot to refill the doctor’s cup. “I’m still a little uneasy about this. If we attempt to meddle in other folks’ problems there’ll be trouble, mark my words.”

  “Now, Birdie,” Dr. Marc said as she poured, “who could possibly object to a few concerned souls trying to help a needy mother and her daughter? Aren’t you always saying that folks don’t neighbor like they used to? And this is the season for giving thanks, a time when we should reflect upon our blessings and share with those who are less fortunate. Two or three utility bills and a part for a refrigerator— those are needs we can handle.”

  Holding the coffee pot in midair, Birdie checked her thoughts. Dr. Marc was right, of course. Who in Heavenly Daze could possibly object to a random act of compassion? Setting the pot back on the warmer, Birdie dismissed her objections. This was the month for grateful hearts, so she was worrying needlessly.

  Thursday afternoon, three days and seven puffin pictures behind schedule, Babette decided to change her tactics. The enticement of Disney World hadn’t done much to persuade Georgie to pursue puffin painting, but now, in hindsight, she thought she could understand why. Georgie had never been to Disney World, so he didn’t know what he was missing, and an after-Christmas trip must have seemed like a lifetime away.

  Punishment hadn’t worked, either. For the last two days, after Georgie came home from kindergarten and ate lunch, she had offered her son the choice of puffin painting or confinement to his room. Inevitably, he had chosen his room, coming out only for supper and bathroom breaks.

  She had been so upset and disappointed she couldn’t bring herself to say bedtime prayers with him. Charles had fulfilled that duty. For the last two nights she had listened from the hallway as her son asked God to bless Dad, Mike and Dana Klackenbush, the ailing Mr. Edmund, and Zuriel. Babette couldn’t help but notice that her son made no mention of her or the puffin project.

  Determined to change her approach, on Thursday afternoon she fed Georgie an egg salad sandwich and bean soup, then put away the dishes and told him to wait at the kitchen table. While he sat there, his head on his folded hands and his foot rhythmically kicking the table legs, she went upstairs to Charles’s office and picked up the pages she’d prepared.

  Returning to her reluctant son, she spread the papers on the kitchen table. “Do you know what this is?” she asked, pointing to a photograph. “It’s a pug puppy. They are adorable little dogs—clean and neat and small. They’re good watchdogs and great companions. They are also one-person dogs, so if you’re a very good boy, this will be your very own dog. He can even sleep in your bed.”

  Georgie’s countenance lit up. “Really?”

  “Really.” She sank into the chair next to him. “I found a lady in Ogunquit with a litter of puppy pugs. We will call and get one of these dogs for you tomorrow if you promise to paint three puffins every day for the next two months.”

  The light in Georgie’s eyes dimmed, and for a moment he didn’t speak. Then, as his chin quivered, he pushed away from the table. “Puffins stink,” he said, standing. “Puffins clink! And I want to go to my room and think.”

  Babette felt her own eyes fill with tears of frustration, but at that moment Charles came down the stairs, his stockinged feet pounding out a th-thump rhythm over the wooden treads. “Hey, Georgie,” he called, coming into the kitchen. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  Georgie looked up, a question on his face.

  “Hey, buddy.” Charles knelt next to Georgie and squeezed his upper arm. “Did your mom tell you about the puppy? I’m ready to go get it tomorrow, if you’ll give the word.”

  “Charles—,” Babette began.

  “You know
what else, Georgie boy?” Charles barked out a laugh. “Your dad’s going to be a published author!”

  Frowning, Babette drew in a quick breath. When had this happened? She hadn’t heard the phone ring, and Bea hadn’t yet come by with the mail …

  “Ayuh,” Charles said, releasing his son. He turned and smiled at Babette. “For only 1.3 puffin paintings, I can pay to have my book printed at SelfPublish.com. I’ll order five thousand copies, and we’ll sell them on our Web page.”

  Babette groaned. “No, Charles, a thousand times no. What if we end up with an attic full of books we can’t sell?”

  “But we will sell them, honey.” He sank into the chair Georgie had vacated. “Don’t you know about what happened with The Christmas Box ? The fellow who wrote that little book self-published it first. He was selling it in a local bookstore, then an editor found it and bought the rights for a million bucks or so, and then it became a runaway bestseller and a TV movie. The author’s gone on to do other books, too—”

  “That doesn’t mean your silly book is going to sell.”

  The moment the words slipped from her mouth, Babette knew she had made a colossal mistake. Charles had suffered brutal appraisals from a host of agents and publishers; he didn’t need to hear harsh comments from his wife.

  He pulled away as abruptly as if she’d slapped him.

  “Charles,” she turned toward him, trying to soften the blow, “I’m sorry, the book isn’t silly. I know you take your writing quite seriously. But, honey, look at the comments you’ve received. The only people who’ve been encouraging are those who want your money. Everyone else—the people who actually pay other people to write—has told you to stick to your day job.” Sighing, she ran her hands through her hair and shifted her gaze to the window. “I wish you’d listen to them.”

  Charles’s face had gone as red as a stop sign. “Well. I’m glad you finally told me what you really think.”

  “I don’t think anything.” She raked her hand through her hair again. “I don’t know what to think. All I know is you’re a much better painter than writer. Bless your heart for trying, babe, but you’re not cutting it. And you could do a lot to ease the financial pressure on this family if you’d paint in the winter instead of working on those useless books. You could paint puffins and take the pressure off all of us.”