Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

  But now—ah, the difference heaven made! Though wrought of spirit and invisible to human eyes, Zuriel could see that Edmund de Cuvier now radiated joy and peace. Clothed in strength and vigor, he fluttered into the throne room like a child testing a new jet pack, then settled before the throne with a look of adoration upon his glowing features.

  “My servant Edmund, beloved of God.” The Lamb’s greeting was as warm as an embrace. “Welcome home.”

  “My Lord and my God,” Edmund whispered, his voice atremble with joy. “How my soul has longed for this place, for you!”

  As the living creatures broke out into another hymn of praise to the Lamb who had made Edmund’s homecoming possible, Gavriel touched Zuriel’s shoulder. “We must go back,” he said, levitating from the floor. He tilted his head toward the inky blackness beyond, where stars gleamed like scattered diamonds over an endless succession of galaxies. “Come.”

  Misty-eyed over the scene he’d witnessed, Zuriel thumbed a tear from his cheek, then rose through the celestial air and followed Gavriel.

  After materializing within the privacy of his cottage, Zuriel moved to the window and studied the larger house. A light still burned in the kitchen—which meant that either Charles had wandered in for a cup of milk and forgotten to flip the switch, or Babette was still working at her desk.

  He glanced at the digital clock across the room: 11:15 PM. Babette rarely stayed up this late.

  Thoughtfully considering his task, he opened the cottage door and stepped out into the night, the cold air shivering his mortal flesh. After the glorious warmth of the throne room, he suspected even a balmy spring night would have felt frigid.

  Hurrying across the yard, he came to the back door and rapped upon it. Shivering, he thrust his hands into his jeans pockets and hoped the Spirit had prodded Babette to remain awake. This message would be easier to deliver if she had been prepared to receive it.

  A moment later, the frilled curtain at the door lifted, then her face appeared in the window. Her tense expression relaxed at the sight of him, then the curtain fell and he heard the sound of the latch being lifted.

  “Zuriel,” she scolded as she opened the door, “what are you doing out here without your coat? You’ll catch your death of pneumonia.”

  He couldn’t stop a smile. “I don’t think so.”

  She closed the door behind him, then frowned and pulled her robe together at her neck. “Something wrong? You’re not usually up this late.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “No.” A frown puckered the skin between her brows. “But I can’t sleep.” She moved toward the stove, where the teakettle was beginning to rattle on the burner. “Want something hot to drink? I’ve got instant mixes for cocoa, or I could always make tea—”

  “Babette, I have a message for you.”

  Raising fine, arched eyebrows, she looked at him. “Really?” Her voice was dry. “From whom?”

  “From the Father.”

  Lifting the kettle from the stove, Babette made a faint move of distaste. “I knew Charles was annoyed with me, but sending you to carry his messages is too much.”

  Zuriel coughed slightly as she began to pour water into mugs. “Not Charles. The Father of all who believe. My message is from God.”

  Babette froze, the teapot in her hand, then threw Zuriel a quick glance of disbelief. “God’s been talking to you?”

  He smiled, for his fellow angels had often commented on the irony in their situation. These people, who benefited daily from the presence of immortal ministers, often found it difficult to believe in the very God who guarded them. They sang about him, prayed to him, and made all sorts of midnight confessions and resolutions, but when it came down to daily reality, few of them were really willing to trust him with the details of their lives.

  “God would speak to you, too,” he said, couching his message in terms she ought to understand and accept, “if you would listen.”

  The frown reappeared between her brows as she began to pour again. “I’ve had a lot on my mind, Zuriel.”

  “God knows. That’s why he wanted me to give you a message.”

  She sighed heavily, puffing the bangs away from her forehead, then set the teapot upon a frayed potholder. “You didn’t answer—tea or cocoa?”

  He frowned at the distraction. “Cocoa.”

  She tossed him a foil packet, then pushed a steaming mug toward him. While he fumbled with the package, she slid into a chair at the kitchen table and propped her head on her hand. “Okay, let’s hear it,” she said, ignoring her own cup of hot water. “What does God want me to know?”

  Grateful for the opportunity to speak freely, Zuriel dropped the foil packet and sat in the chair opposite her. Leaning forward on his elbows, he caught her weary gaze and held it.

  “You,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “have been richly blessed with a son. You hold a precious treasure in your grasp, but you have become blind to its true value. Your son’s soul is worth more than any earthly riches.”

  Babette stared at him blankly for a moment, then a spark of irritation entered her blue eyes. “That’s it?”

  Zuriel nodded.

  “Well.” She dropped her hand and looked around the room as if searching for something. “Thank you, Z, for that lovely bit of advice.”

  Watching her, Zuriel weighed the effect of his words. After a moment, the trace of irritation disappeared from her eyes, and her face went blank, almost as if she were wearing a mask. Moving slowly, stiffly, she pulled a teabag from the pottery canister in the center of her table, unwrapped it with jerky gestures, then dropped it into the steaming mug.

  “I have never knowingly done anything to hurt my son,” she said, her tone defensive. She fixed her gaze on the teabag, trailing it through the water with the string over the tip of her fingernail. “I love Georgie more than anything.”

  Zuriel did not answer. He had delivered the message and fulfilled his responsibility. How she chose to receive the word of the Lord—well, like angels, humans had free will.

  “I think I’ve been a good mother.” Her gaze shifted to meet Zuriel’s, then thawed slightly. “Haven’t I?”

  “I think you’re a fine mother.” Searching for something to do, Zuriel ripped open his packet of cocoa, dumped the powder into his mug, then reached for a spoon. “Millions of children are far less fortunate than Georgie.”

  “But you think I’ve been doing something wrong.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “I am not a judge. I am only a messenger.”

  She yanked the teabag up by the string and let it fall to the table with a wet plop. “So, speaking for God— that’s more your style.”

  Zuriel closed his eyes as a blush burned the top of his cheekbones. “God uses whomever he chooses. Whoever is willing.”

  She snorted softly. “Even Balaam’s donkey, right?”

  Smiling, he looked at her. “I’ve heard that was an exceptionally intelligent animal.”

  “Well, then.” After taking a perfunctory sip of her tea, Babette pushed back her chair and tightened the belt of her robe. “I think I’ll get started on my baking. I was about to mix up a blueberry gingerbread when you knocked.”

  Zuriel accepted his cue and stood as well. “You’ll want to make some extra for Olympia. I don’t imagine she or Caleb will feel much like baking tomorrow.”

  The thin line of Babette’s mouth clamped tight for a moment. “What do you mean?”

  Too late, Zuriel realized he’d relayed sensitive information. But he couldn’t lie to cover his tracks … and Babette would hear the story in a few hours, anyway. She’d probably assume he’d talked to Caleb or Dr. Marc.

  He met her questioning gaze with his best look of compassion. “Edmund de Cuvier went home tonight,” he said simply. “He’s rejoicing before the throne right now.”

  A tremor passed over Babette’s face, then a spasm of grief knit her brows. “O
h, poor Olympia! Though she was expecting it, I know this has to hurt.”

  “I think,” Zuriel spoke slowly, measuring each word, “Olympia will be fine. When a man is suffering the pain of the disintegrating human condition, heaven is a tremendous blessing. Even though Edmund dearly loved his wife, I know he wouldn’t exchange his heavenly home for his frail earthly tabernacle.”

  Despite her compassionate expression, one of Babette’s brows lifted. “You know this for a fact.”

  Zuriel gave her a wry smile. “I do.”

  “I can tell you’ve never been married.” Shaking her head, Babette moved toward the pantry. “I wouldn’t go around town telling folks that Edmund was eager to go,” she called as she pulled canisters of flour and sugar from the shelf. “Most people like to think they’ll be missed … and most wives want to believe their husbands would move heaven and earth in order to remain with them.”

  Zuriel scratched his beard. Babette had to be tired, or she wouldn’t be making such ludicrous statements. Why any child of God would want to linger in a temporary body on a temporary planet … the logic escaped him.

  After thanking her for the cocoa, he took his mug and stepped out into the chilly night.

  Babette sighed as she latched the back door. Zuriel was a wonderful tenant and a talented potter, but sometimes he seemed almost childlike in his naiveté. Though he had to be a good ten years older than her, she often thought he behaved as though he’d spent his entire life in that sheltered little cottage, throwing bowls and vases and pitchers of clay. His strong religious views dominated his viewpoints, but never before had he exhibited the audacity he had tonight—

  Speaking for God? How dare he tell her to mind her mothering!

  Sudden tears clouded her vision as she pulled her gingerbread recipe from her notebook. She was a good mother … at least, she tried to be. She lavished as much love, attention, and discipline upon Georgie as she could, always striving for the proper balance of each. And despite his distracted dreaminess, Charles was a devoted father. Georgie had bucketfuls of love and attention from each of his parents, so what in the world was Zuriel trying to say?

  “One-half cup shortening.” She read the first ingredient aloud, then moved to the pantry, but the memory of Zuriel’s words would not leave her brain. “At least,” she told herself as she lifted the shortening from the shelf, “you know Z loves Georgie nearly as much as you do. Maybe he’s seen something you’ve missed.”

  Her mother had always told her to listen carefully to rebuke. No matter how unfair or unwarranted it seemed, often strong words contained a kernel of truth …

  Moving slowly, she walked back to the counter and methodically creamed the shortening, added salt and sugar, then picked up an egg. She cracked the shell on the edge of the counter, then watched the white stream toward the bowl as she held the yolk in the broken half-shell. Let the unimportant drift away, and keep what is good. And what had Zuriel said? That she had been richly blessed with Georgie. That Georgie’s soul was worth more than earthly riches … and that she had become blind to his value.

  Utterly ridiculous. Of course she knew her son was worth more than anything on earth. She’d endured sixteen hours of labor to bring him into the world, and she’d gladly endure whatever she must to keep him in the world. She’d give her life for him, her time, her energy … She dropped the yolk into the mixing bowl as her thoughts drifted to the puffin paintings. Had her actions of late given Zuriel the impression that she cared more for things than for her beloved son?

  Surely not. Everything she did—from the meals she prepared to the puffin-based budget she had designed— she did to benefit her husband and son. Anyone who knew her could see that she was a loving, dedicated mother.

  With a quick, sharp motion, she tossed the eggshell into the garbage. She had more important things to think about than Zuriel’s well-intentioned words. She needed to make dishes for her family and Olympia’s and give serious consideration to Thanksgiving dinner.

  After mixing a double batch of her famous blueberry gingerbread, Babette poured the mix into two square pans, sprinkled the top of the batter with sugar, then slid each pan into the oven. After setting the oven timer for sixty minutes, she crossed the kitchen and picked up the telephone. She paused before dialing Frenchman’s Fairest, wondering if a midnight call might be ill-advised.

  Surely not. With a death in the house, someone was bound to be awake. Olympia or Caleb would be calling the minister, arranging for the funeral director to pick up the body, and overseeing the thousand details one had to consider after someone died.

  She dialed the number, then leaned back against the counter as the phone rang. When no one answered on the first or second ring, she considered hanging up, but then a sleepy voice answered: “Hello?”

  Babette recognized the voice of Annie Cuvier, Olympia and Edmund’s niece.

  “Hi, honey.” Babette lowered her voice to a sympathetic whisper. “I heard the news. Is your aunt okay?”

  “Aunt Olympia?” Annie’s voice rose in pitch. “Shouldn’t she be?”

  “Well—” Babette hesitated. Was it possible Caleb and Olympia were keeping the news from Annie? Of course not, the girl was a grown woman. But she was behaving as if she didn’t have a clue about what had happened under her own roof.

  “Let me speak to Caleb, honey,” Babette said, injecting a note of assurance into her voice. The old butler would know what to do. He knew everything that happened in Frenchman’s Fairest.

  Annie yawned audibly. “I think he’s asleep.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s awake.” Babette forced a note of steel into her voice. Maybe Annie was in shock or denial, and she needed someone to be firm with her. “Just go wake him up, okay?”

  The phone dropped to a desk or some other hard surface, and a full three minutes passed before Babette heard anything. Then Annie said, “Caleb’s not here! He’s not in his bed!”

  “What about your aunt?”

  “Just a minute, she was sleeping in Uncle Edmund’s room …”

  The phone dropped again, then Babette heard the heavy thumping of bare feet upon a wooden floor. A longer silence followed, then a heartrending wail split the static humming in Babette’s ear.

  Slowly, she lowered the phone back into the cradle.

  Annie hadn’t known.

  She had obviously gone to her uncle’s room to find Olympia and Caleb, then had discovered what Zuriel already knew—Edmund was gone.

  To heaven, Z said.

  Babette slid into her chair at the kitchen table and brought her thumb to her mouth, clicking the edge of her thumbnail against her teeth as she considered the impossible.

  Sleep, when it finally came to Babette, did not bring rest. She dreamed of working in her kitchen, her mixing bowl filled with mud instead of dough, the warmth in her kitchen radiating from Zuriel’s kiln instead of her oven. The potter himself sat at her kitchen table, and his electric wheel occupied the center space usually filled with flowers and salt-and-pepper shakers.

  Zuriel did not speak in her dream but waited patiently for her to supply the clay. Bewildered by the stiff mud around her wooden spoon, she handed the bowl to him without a word, then watched as he pulled living, pliant clay from the glass.

  Babette had watched Zuriel work at his wheel before, so she wasn’t surprised when he centered and rounded the clay with scarcely any effort. In the dream, however, his hands seemed to flutter over the spinning earth with a lightning quick touch. When the wheel slowed and stopped spinning, she saw that the piece was not a bowl, but an image—a softly sculptured, deftly molded statue of Georgie.

  “But why not a jar?” she asked, marveling at the lifelike creases around the little boy’s smile. “The tourists like the stoneware jars. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sell this statue.”

  Zuriel looked at her then, but something in his appearance had subtly altered. The man sitting there still wore Zuriel’s shaggy brown hair and beard, but the ey
es were brighter and wiser, scanning her own as if they could see down into her heart and fathom every secret of her soul. “Jars of clay are nothing special,” he said, his voice crashing over her with the force of a rogue wave. “Their only purpose is to draw attention to what they contain.”

  Blinking, she stared at the statue, which seemed to breathe and tremble with life. The potter brought his hand up, extended his thumb, and deftly smoothed a watery streak from the statue’s cheek.

  Babette felt her heart twist. A tear?

  “What,” she asked, searching for some purpose in the beautiful object before her, “is this designed to contain? There’s no opening, so it can’t be a vase. There’s no slot, so it can’t hold coins.”

  “Not coins.” The potter’s hand dropped and gently covered hers. “This clay holds something far more precious.”

  “What?”

  The potter—who, though he wore Zuriel’s splotchy overalls and Zuriel’s face, definitely was not Zuriel—gave her a heart-stopping smile. “This clay, stamped with the image of God, houses the priceless soul of a child. And soon, if you are faithful, it may contain the Spirit of God himself.”

  Silence settled upon her kitchen, a heavy absence of sound that seemed to leave her in a vacuum, without oxygen, without thought, without sense. Babette fought to breathe in the empty air, struggled to find some meaning in this man and what he’d created in her kitchen. Finally, just as the world went black, she closed her eyes and gasped out the only words her tongue could form: “What do you mean?”

  When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but the quiet shadows of her bedroom, the clock on the nightstand, and a fringe of daylight around the window shade.

  It had been a dream, nothing more.

  Breathing deeply, she turned to face the sleeping mound of her husband, who snored in the gentle rhythm of the ticking clock in the hall.