Grace in Autumn (12 page)

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

T
wo 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 cashmere, 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.

Laughing softly, Bedell pressed his fingertips to his chin. “How ingenious, having the simple beach serve as a foil to the colorfully plumaged bird. Yes, this is genius. Your son, Madame, is something special.”

Straightening, Babette shrugged modestly. “We've always thought him bright and inquisitive.”

“And my clients will be very grateful for the opportunity to own his work.”

He pulled another check from his pocket, this one already signed and made out for $15,000. Babette gasped at the man's confidence. “Are you sure you can sell it? Wouldn't you rather take this on consignment—”

“My dear, I already have a buyer. In fact, I have buyers lined up to buy more puffins. The owner of the first painting—a lady in Boston who wishes to remain anonymous— immediately entered
The Puffin
into an art show sponsored by the
Boston Globe.
Already your son's work has won rave reviews. Here, I brought this to show you. It's from yesterday's paper.”

The briefcase opened again, then another folder appeared. From it Bedell withdrew a folded newspaper, then snapped it open. Babette gaped at the headline over a column on the left side of the front page: “Puffin Painting Prodigy Packs a Punch and Parallels Picasso!”

“Oh, my,” she murmured, sinking to her stool.

“Keep that copy,” Bedell said, snapping the locks on his attaché. “Read away. I'll wrap the painting myself, if you don't mind, and hurry to catch Captain Stroble before he takes the ferry back to the mainland.”

Murmuring her agreement, Babette picked up the paper. She was only half-conscious of Bedell's movements as he wrapped the second puffin painting in brown paper and twine. Her thoughts were too busy following the words of Howard Crabbe, art critic for the
Globe:

Boston's art community was rocked today by the appearance of a new artist—a newcomer represented by Pierce Bedell, a private art dealer headquartered in Portsmouth. The artist is a young man known only as “Georgie,” and his signature is a bold, cocky
G.

The cause of this weekend's commotion was a single simple painting of a black bird common to Maine seashores and properly called
Fratercula arctica,
or common Atlantic puffin. Georgie's puffins, however, are unlike any of those seen along Maine's rocky shores. The puffin of Georgie's imagination has stark, stalklike legs, enormous eyes, and a face that seems to smile grimly at the environmental destruction of the puffins' habitat and hereditary nesting places.

Professor Milford Higgenbottom, of Harvard University, discovered evidence of strong environmental concerns in the controversial piece. “In this painting,” he told a crowd of onlookers at the gallery, “I see a dire concern for mother earth and all things natural. Look at the slender, almost reedlike legs—the artist is pointing to the thin thread of life which binds the bird to earth and all of us to each other. Look at the colors on the beak—the blue of the sky, the white of a cloud, the orange of the sun. Are these not the colors of nature? Can we live without air or water or sunlight? Indeed not.”

Amelia Scarborough, a visiting professor from Oxford, echoed Professor Higgenbottom's views. “In London, of course, we are much more aware of environmental matters, yet you will never find a puffin on England's shores. But in the composition of this piece, I see myriad messages. Like the Impressionists, the artist seems to be working
en plein air
to capture spontaneous impressions of a timeless world. Notice that the sun is an orange blob in the distance. For this artist, obviously, the sun and all it cheers is the signifier of an eternal organic cosmos, yet he hints at another world outside our own temporal existence. This is an extension of the Pre-Raphaelite ‘truth to nature' concept through which artists seek to render the temporary as permanent by the use of structured patterning of creation, color, and concept.”

“I don't know who this young artist is,” Higgenbottom added, “but I cannot wait to observe his career as he passes through the angst of early adulthood. His maturation will bring us closer to our own souls and mother earth.”

Stunned, Babette looked up and caught Bedell's gaze. “You're kidding,” she said, dropping the newspaper to her lap. “Do these people know who—or what—they're talking about?”

“They are talking about the art world's latest prodigy.” Bedell grinned and tucked the new painting under his arm. “And you, Madame, are the mother of a genius. Keep him painting. Call me when you have other puffins—I can sell as many as the lad can produce.”

“I'll see what I can do.” The words slipped from Babette's mouth before she could think. Surprised at her own audacity, she stammered a correction: “That is—if we need to continue. But thank you, Mr. Bedell—I mean, Pierce.”

“You're welcome, Madame. And I certainly hope you will continue. The world is clamoring to see more from your son.”

After jauntily tipping his hat in her direction, Bedell left the gallery. Watching through the window, Babette saw him duck his head into the wind and hurry toward the ferry, leaving her alone with Georgie's first published review.