Groaning, she buried her face in her hands. She wasn’t fit to be a mother or a wife. Charles might never forgive her for being so cruel, and Georgie … what must he think of her? If not for Zuriel, who watched over Georgie like some kind of guardian angel, last night could have been even worse.
She heard footsteps on the stairs and tilted her head, analyzing the sound. The steps were light and tentative— they had to belong to Georgie.
Brushing her hands through her hair, she pasted on a calm face, then stood and moved to the cupboard.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she called as he came into the kitchen and slid into his chair. Her voice sounded artificially bright in her own ears. “Want some orange juice with your Frosty Flakes?”
She turned in time to see him shake his head. Georgie’s lower lip jutted forward, his gaze focused on the salt-and-pepper shakers in the center of the table.
She forced a smile into her voice. “Want some toast? I have those blueberry preserves you like. They’re expensive, so we’d better not let them go to waste.”
Again, nothing but head shaking.
She set the cereal before him, then leaned against the counter as he picked up his spoon and began to eat. Upstairs, the bedroom door slammed, then Charles’s heavy footfalls creaked the steps.
Turning away from the kitchen doorway, she sought something to do and settled for tightening the twist tie on a loaf of bread.
“About ready, bud?” Charles asked, coming into the kitchen. He paused to tousle Georgie’s hair.
Georgie ducked away from his father’s hand, then slid out of his chair. “I want to go to school now.”
Babette lowered her head, feeling the pressure of Charles’s eyes upon her back. Ordinarily they’d be looking at each other, sending a series of invisible signals, a silent communication they’d grown adept at understanding over the years …
But the lines of communication were down today.
“Better hurry then, hon.” She reached out to pat Georgie’s shoulder but nearly missed him as he grabbed his backpack and moved past her without a word.
Pressing her lips together, Babette clung to the back of a chair as her husband and son left the kitchen.
At nine o’clock, after Charles had returned from taking Georgie to kindergarten and silently ascended to his writer’s garret, Babette stood in front of her husband’s large easel in the gallery. She’d been wrong to expect Georgie to work like an adult. She’d been unfair to impose such a burden upon him, and today she would do all she could to remove that obligation.
One of Georgie’s poorer puffin paintings lay on the table next to her, surrounded by jars and tubes of paint she’d pulled from Charles’s paint box. Babette tied her kitchen apron behind her back, then picked up a clean paintbrush and regarded the blank canvas.
How hard could painting like a five-year-old be? She could do it, especially since she had one of Georgie’s paintings to guide her. Tilting her head, she considered the canvas. Georgie might be a talented little boy, but half of his artistic genes came from her. So even if she’d never painted as much as a ceramic plate, she could produce at least six or seven puffins a day.
She dabbed the brush in a jar of ebony tempera, then drew it across the canvas, boldly approximating the shape of the puffin’s head and wing. Satisfied with the result, she dabbed and painted again, coloring in the tail feathers, wing, and the white speck that marked the eye.
Dropping her brush into a glass of water, she stepped back to evaluate her work. Not bad. Not great, but perhaps it would look different when the paint dried and she added a few details. When she was finished, she’d sign a big G to the lower right corner, but this time it would stand for “Graham,” not “Georgie.”
So she could sell them to Pierce Bedell with a reasonably clear conscience.
An hour later, Babette stared at the wasted canvas and admitted defeat. The shape that had looked promising at the beginning had somehow become cluttered and sloppy. Her puffin looked more like a sick puppy than a bird. The orange feet were grossly out of proportion, and the multicolored beak attached to the black head looked more like a Halloween mask.
She dropped her brush into the water jar, then grabbed at the apron strings at her back. She only had a few minutes to put these things away and dispose of that awful canvas. If Georgie came home and saw what she’d been doing, he’d think she was cheating.
Which she was.
Shuddering in sudden humiliation, she pulled the apron over her head. She was about to toss it onto the table when Charles’s frame filled the doorway. “Babs—,” he said, then he halted, his strong jaw dropping as he stared at the painting on the easel.
“I was—” She felt herself blushing as she looked at the monstrosity she’d created. “I felt bad about putting so much pressure on Georgie. I thought I’d try to paint some puffins myself … so he wouldn’t have to.”
Charles’s expression clouded. For a moment she thought he’d say something sarcastic, but then he slapped his hand to his cheek and laughed. “You thought—,” he began, then he leaned against the doorframe and grabbed his knees, bending double in laughter. “That’s”—he spoke through snorts and cackles—“the silliest looking picture I’ve ever seen!”
Babette bit the inside of her lip and gathered her apron into her fist. If he didn’t stop laughing, she would throw it at him in a minute …
“That,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “looks like a penguin on steroids!”
Babette felt her mouth twist. She moved closer to the door, then turned and stared at the painting from his vantage point.
What she saw brought a smile to her own lips. “I’ve got to admit,” she said, crossing her arms, “he does look a little … hunky.”
“Oh, honey.” Charles’s arm fell loosely over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you’re not a painter. You have many gifts and talents, but this”—he pointed toward the easel— “is not one of them.”
She shook her head, amazed that he couldn’t see the irony in his words. He was an excellent painter, so why did he persist in trying to write the Great American Masterpiece?
“I can’t do it,” she said, turning to face him. “So why don’t you help? You could paint a couple of puffins just to motivate Georgie. If you only started one, Georgie would pick up a paintbrush. That’s why he paints, anyway. He wants to be like you.”
For a moment she thought Charles might soften, but a muscle tightened in his jaw as his arm fell from her back. “I can’t paint right now, Babs. I’ve got to finish my book.”
“You can’t take even a little break? For a day or two?”
He shook his head. “No. And don’t worry about Georgie. Give him some space, and he’ll paint again when he’s ready.”
“What if he doesn’t want to paint until after Christmas?” Babette put her hands on her hips. “What if he waits until the trend has passed? You know today’s hot commodity can become tomorrow’s Talking Elmo or Pokémon. If he doesn’t paint while he’s in demand, we may as well quit now. No one will care if he waits too long.”
Charles turned toward the kitchen. “We can’t quit,” he called, “we need the money. Besides, Georgie won’t wait too long.”
“How do you know?” Babette followed him, nipping at his heels like a terrier. “And yet that’s not what concerns me most, Charles. I’m worried about what Georgie is becoming. He never used to be belligerent or surly or pouty, but he’s become all of those things in the last few days. In the last couple of days, he’s been deliberately disobedient— he refuses to paint those puffins! He never used to give us this kind of trouble.”
Charles moved to the cupboard and reached for a glass. “Georgie’s fine, hon. Leave him alone.”
“How can I?” She swept her hand through her hair, wishing it were proper to knock some logic into one’s husband’s head. “I will not raise a hooligan or a delinquent, and I’m afraid that’s what we’re doing. But he’s so stubborn! I�
��ve never seen a kid so strong-willed.”
“I was a strong-willed child.” A self-satisfied smile crossed Charles’s face. “And I turned out okay.”
Babette bit back a sarcastic remark, then drew a deep breath. Lead a horse to a mirror and you still can’t make him see himself …
“Fine.” Throwing up her hands, she left Charles alone and sailed away to clean up her mess in the gallery.
At precisely 12:45 on Friday morning, Birdie stepped out of the bakery, her purse in hand. She was running low on buttercream-colored yarn, and the mercantile didn’t have a vast assortment of colors. If she hurried she could make the one o’clock ferry and be home before dark.
She hadn’t taken three steps when she spotted the Lansdowns coming her way, accompanied by their daughter and son-in-law, Russell and Barbara Higgs. Vernie Bidderman and Buddy Maxwell brought up the rear of the procession, and every face in the parade was fixed in determination— well, every face except Buddy’s, who appeared to have been swept up in the pack.
Birdie tried to cross the street, but Cleta spotted her and flagged her down.
“What is it, Cleta?” Birdie checked her aggravation as she watched the mob approach. She didn’t need a crystal ball to know this hunting party was upset. Cleta’s face pulsated with passion and Floyd looked as if he could blow a cork out his ears any minute.
The assemblage stopped in the street, then spread out to face her. A tactical maneuver.
Vernie cleared her throat. “We want to talk to you, Birdie Wester.”
Birdie calmly consulted her wristwatch. “I’m in a hurry, Vernie. I’m on my way to buy yarn and I don’t want to miss the ferry.”
“Those old dishrags can wait,” Vernie snapped. “We’re upset about what you’re about to do with this angel problem.”
Glowering at her, Birdie snorted. She could put up with most anything, patience was part of her nature, but she didn’t tolerate rudeness. Vernie might not fancy the dishcloths Birdie toiled over from May to December, but many a woman on the island appreciated her long hours of labor when they opened a gaily-decorated Christmas present and discovered two of the lovely handknitted dishcloths.
Old dishrags, indeed!
She lifted her chin. “We had this conversation earlier, Vernie,” she said, injecting a note of steel in her tone. “If you’re upset, you need to talk to Bea. She handles the mail.”
Vernie shook her head, her strong features solidified in a defiant mask. “Bea won’t listen—you know she’s mulish.”
Birdie checked the time: 12:50. They were going to make her late. “Come to the point, Vernie.”
Floyd beat her to it. “We don’t want you to answer that letter.”
“It’s gonna stir up a hornet’s nest,” Vernie seconded, while Russell and Barbara nodded in halfhearted agreement. Some folks said the Lansdown girl and her husband were backward, but Birdie thought they were just shy of expressing an opinion not originally planted by Floyd or Cleta.
Floyd scowled. “The more we think about it, the worrieder we get.”
“Then don’t think about it,” Birdie snapped. “Let me and Bea do the thinking. And there’s no such word as worrieder, Floyd. I dearly wish you’d stop massacring the English language.”
“Don’t go gettin’ highfalutin on me, Birdie Wester.”
“You answer that letter,” Cleta warned, “and Heavenly Daze will never be the same.”
“Nonsense.” Birdie straightened her hat. “You’re getting in a dither over nothing.”
“Old Jacques de Cuvier would roll over in his grave if he knew what you were about to do to his island,” Vernie said, her eyes glinting.
“He came here for peace and quiet, and we want the same thing,” Floyd added.
“Peace and quiet? You’ll get plenty of that when you get to heaven and stand in line for your heavenly reward— if ’n you get one, considering that you’re telling me to ignore the poor and helpless.”
With that parting shot, Birdie set off for the ferry, leaving the troublemakers standing in the street. But troublemakers seldom give up, so she wasn’t surprised to look over her shoulder and see them following, still expressing their objections.
“Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the State of Maine will be coming up here looking for a handout!” Cleta called.
Vernie yelled out, “We’ll have to add on to the store and hire more help—you know how hard it is to get good summer help?”
“How are we going to get that new furnace for the church if you give the money away faster than we can bring it in?” Floyd hollered.
Whirling, Birdie confronted the lot of them. “Money—that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it? That’s all you’re concerned about, the money. Not the requests— you’re not thinking about the people, just your own money!”
“That’s not fair, Birdie,” Vernie countered. “Somebody’s got to mind the store. We’re not rich—we live from hand to mouth most months; you know that. If that old furnace gives out, where will we have services? You gonna volunteer your house?”
Birdie stood still as Vernie’s question rippled through the group. Well, of course she wasn’t volunteering her house! Neither Birdie’s place nor the bakery was large enough to hold the congregation. The parsonage was too small, too. The de Cuviers had room to spare, but Olympia had her hands full with Edmund. The Grahams’ house was big enough, but that young couple was struggling to establish the art gallery and deal with a wild child, so they couldn’t be worrying about hosting church services on Sunday morning.
Birdie focused on the Lansdowns. “What about you, Cleta? You have the bed-and-breakfast and plenty of room. We could hold services at your house if the furnace blows up.”
“Now, Birdie, you know we’re remodeling. The whole downstairs is a sawdust mess. We’d be glad to help but we can’t.”
“What about the Klackenbushes?” Floyd looked to Buddy. “Mike and Dana could help out.”
Buddy grimaced, the veins in his throat standing out like ropes. “Whatever,” he said, throwing up his hands.
“No,” Vernie corrected, shaking her head. “They have that septic line problem, Floyd. No flushing more than once an hour.”
Floyd looked thoughtful. “Oh. Right.”
The ferry whistle blew.
Consulting her watch, Birdie took a half-step toward the dock. “We’ll have to discuss this another time.”
Cleta put a bony hand on her hip. “There’d be no need for discussion if you’d use plain old common sense, Birdie Wester.”
Birdie turned, leaving the mob behind, but Vernie and Cleta came alongside her, their boots keeping time with her quick steps.
“Don’t go meddlin’ in other folks’ business,” Vernie said, a note of pleading in her voice as they stomped over the dock. “We’re all upset that a young mother and her daughter are having a hard time paying their utility bill, but there are all kinds of folks in trouble and you can’t help ’em all. Some can’t pay their car payment, some can’t provide enough food for the table, and some have trouble keeping shoes on their kids’ feet. We can’t answer all those needs, even if we tried. So leave the charity up to the church and leave Heavenly Daze in peace.”
“That’s the trouble,” Birdie said, barely clearing the gangplank before the heavy spiral ropes began to lift from the water.
Conversation halted as Captain Stroble hit the air horn and a deafening blast shattered the cold November afternoon. From out of nowhere Tallulah appeared, making a flying leap from the dock to the boat. Just in time, the feisty canine landed belly down and slid halfway across the polished deck.
Birdie chuckled as the dog scrambled to her feet, paused to shake thoroughly, then shot into the cabin to warm her bones. Birdie followed her in, hoping to finally rid herself of her misguided neighbors.
As the engines revved, the big boat slowly eased back from the dock.
“Don’t do it, Birdie!” Cleta yelled above the churning water. “You answer that let
ter and you’ll open the doors to sin and corruption in Heavenly Daze!”
Birdie turned her face to the opposite window. Honestly, Cleta’s theatrics could wear a body to the nubbin.
That night, Birdie rested her head on the back of her recliner, a pile of buttercream yarn pooled in her lap. For the first time in years she’d made a mistake and had to tear out three rows. All this mail business had her so upset she couldn’t knit straight.
The fire snapped and popped. Outside, a north wind whipped the shutters while in her bedroom Bea snored beneath her electric blanket.
Birdie’s mind drifted over the day. She was bone weary of trying to decide what to do about those poor folks in Ogunquit. Two or three hundred dollars was a goodly amount of money, but only a drop in the bucket when one thought of how many people had those kinds of needs.
It should have been simple—send money to provide warmth to a mother and child during a long, cold winter. Bea said they should send the money and quit worrying about what the town thought, but Heavenly Daze was Birdie’s home. How could she purposely upset her friends and neighbors? For Cleta was right; first there’d be one request, then another and another and another until she and Bea couldn’t possibly keep up.
But suppose she sent three hundred dollars—why, that equaled two trips to the grocery store, a couple of movies, and a few meals at the Lobster Pot. Compared to a family’s need for warmth, it seemed a minimal sacrifice.
She couldn’t get the Akermans’ plight out of her mind. Raleigh hadn’t sent a picture, but Birdie could picture her, dark-haired with a pale face, huddling together with her mother around a hot plate. Maybe she was shivering even tonight—the wind was breezin’ up something fierce.
Was Raleigh Akerman wondering why God hadn’t answered her prayers?
We are God’s hands on earth.
But hands had to be willing to work in order to do any good.
Stirring, Birdie blinked back tears. Then she felt a persistent, reassuring pressure on her left shoulder. She glanced up to see Abner standing beside her chair with a tray of hot tea in his left hand.
Grace in Autumn Page 15
