Grace in Autumn (14 page)

“You're sixty-eight years old. An old man,” he'd slurred. “Get out of my life, Pop. Leave me and my kids alone!”

The passing months had made Salt two years older, but as long as he had his mind and his health he wasn't about to stand by while his grandchildren were mistreated. Patrick, he'd decided, would never shape up on his own. Until he reached the point of wanting help, he wouldn't accept it.

So, after watching Brittany and Bobby suffer from the neglect of an alcoholic parent who wouldn't work more than a week at a time, Salt had done the only thing a responsible grandparent could do—he'd taken the matter into his own hands and gone to Wells to fetch the children. He wasn't unaware of the trouble he could find himself in, and he knew he'd done wrong in the eyes of the law. But what Patrick was doing was far worse.

Now Salt eased himself into a chair, once again considering the ramifications of his actions. If Social Services found the kids here, they'd have plenty to crow about. He was seventy years old, living in rustic conditions, and some would say a lighthouse wasn't an appropriate home for children. But he would fight with every God-given breath to keep the children, regardless of red tape, rules, and regulations. Who better to raise a pair of kids than the grandfather who adored them?

For three months now, he'd kept the children hidden in the lighthouse and ended each day with a muttered prayer that their presence would remain undetected. He knew they couldn't hide here forever, but each day they lived under his roof meant one more day they lived in peace. With him they had food to eat and warm clothing. At night they said their prayers with him, and in the daytime they played with the puffins along the shoreline.

But now Birdie Wester knew his secret. Trouble was comin'; time to batten down the hatches.

Rising from his chair, he slid the door's deadbolt into place, determined to lock the world out.

Flat on his back beneath three antique quilts, Charles lay in the midst of a quiet so thick the only sound was the rhythm of Babette's breathing. Despite her stillness and the dim outline of her back, he knew she wasn't asleep, and he suspected she knew he knew. He wanted to talk, but the topic of Georgie's puffin paintings would destroy the semblance of peace in their bedroom. Still, the matter hung in the air like a hatchet, a threat hanging over them all night until one of them acknowledged it.

Finally, he broke the silence. “I can understand why you think the idea is silly,” he said, his words rumbling in the darkness. “That review is the most exaggerated and overblown piece of foolishness I've ever read. But shouldn't we think a little more long term? If Georgie is as hot as everyone thinks he is, maybe we should take advantage of this moment. We have no way of knowing how long he'll be interested in painting, so we can't afford to waste this opportunity.”

The mattress creaked as Babette rolled onto her back. “Strike while the iron is hot, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

“But they're just childish paintings.”

“They're paying for your new roof, aren't they?”

For that Babette had no comeback. Charles had heard her on the phone with Handyman Roofing ten minutes after Bedell left, so that ninety-nine hundred dollars wouldn't even have a chance to warm their pockets. Even after the sale of two paintings, they were in almost the same financial state they'd been in before the puffins—except now the roof wouldn't leak on his new computer when it arrived.

The room swelled with silence as the shadows shifted and she folded her hands across her chest. “What did you have in mind?” she finally asked.

Turning onto his side, he propped his head on his hand. “Well, there's Georgie's college to consider. I figure we'll need to set aside at least eighty thousand for that.”

She groaned.

“And more, if he wants to go to graduate school,” Charles continued in a rush. “Tuition is rising, and there's no way to know how expensive things will be when he's ready for the university.”

“Eighty thousand?” Babette's voice was whispery soft and tinged with tension. “That's 5.3 puffin paintings.”

Charles struggled to do the math in his head, but she'd always been faster with figures. “Well . . . eight puffins would see him through college and graduate school. And if we put the money in one of those special college accounts, it could earn tax-free interest while Georgie is growing up.”

The sheets rustled slightly, and Charles knew Babette was probably clicking off objections on her fingertips. “Okay,” she said, “eight more puffins, then we'll quit, okay? I really don't feel good about this, Charles. I mean, that review won't matter in the long term, considering that it was mostly a bunch of pompous professors trying to outtalk each other, but don't you think they'll feel foolish when they learn that Georgie is a little boy?” She sighed heavily. “I mean . . . what will the
Globe
print when the entire truth comes out?”

“I don't really care what anyone else thinks,” Charles answered, stiffening. “No one asked them to rattle off all that pretentious gobbledygook. If the art critics look foolish, it's their own fault. Besides”—he gentled his tone and reached out to run a finger along her shoulder—“they'll probably proclaim our son a genius if only to save face. Those kinds of people never admit they're wrong.”

She squirmed, but whether from his touch or the idea of selling more paintings, Charles couldn't tell. “Still,” she said, “I'll be relieved when it's all over.”

“There's something else we should think about”— Charles brought his hand up to the soft curve of her cheek—“our retirement. In eighteen years Georgie will be out on his own, and we'll still be relatively young—in our midfifties. Do you want to spend the rest of your life here, shoveling snow and repairing the roof, or would you like to move to Florida and relax in the sunshine? If Georgie painted only a few more paintings, we could invest the money and have plenty to retire on by the time he's through college and grad school.”

A short silence followed, in which his words seemed to hang in the darkness as if for inspection, then Babette said, “That's a lot of paintings, Charles. If we're going to retire that early, we'd need at least a million dollars in investments. And you can't ignore the financial risk—the markets go up and down, and who knows what the future will bring—”

“You can figure it out.” He moved closer, cupping her face. “You always do, honey.”

And then, before she could object further, he kissed her into silence.

Chapter Six

O
n Friday morning, while the crew from Handyman Roofing stomped and hammered overhead, Babette sat at her kitchen desk, a collection of papers spread in front of her. After researching various mutual funds, investment strategies, and college savings programs, she had designed a Graham Family Financial Plan:

She rechecked her figures, then held up her steno pad and studied the numbers. Her goals list contained nothing extravagant or unreasonable—Georgie's college education was important, as was their emergency fund. They needed a golf cart, which would be far less expensive than buying a car like people on the mainland, and she hadn't gone overboard on her clothing allowance, figuring that one painting alone could clothe the three of them for 16.6 years—nearly long enough to get Georgie through school.

Her retirement plan resulted from simple and sound financial planning. Everyone knew you couldn't depend upon Social Security to provide for retirement, so they'd have to fund their own golden years in Florida. A neat little townhouse in St. Petersburg, with a community tennis court and a view of the beach at sunset—surely that wasn't too much to expect from a retirement plan. The puffin paintings would provide investment capital up front; the rest of their nest egg would come from interest accumulated over the years.

She dropped the steno pad and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Her plan made sense. The thought of selling seventy-seven additional puffins made her dizzy at first, but a quick call to Pierce Bedell had set her mind at ease. Like every trend, he told her, the puffin craze would start slow and rise in a bell curve, then taper off. Because all trends rose and fell in such a predictable pattern, they had to get out as many puffins as soon as possible. Seventy-seven original Georgie puffins would not saturate the market, far from it. In fact, Bedell assured her, if the pictures continued to attract attention, he might be able to license one of the more popular paintings and sell a series of prints. “Imagine,” Bedell said, his voice filling Babette's ears and imagination, “Georgie's puffins could soon be selling in every Wal-Mart in America. Then we will be wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.”

For an instant Babette was tempted to ask exactly how wealthy Bedell intended to become, then she bit her lip. On her desk lay a copy of the contract he had faxed that morning. In solid black letters the contract stated that “Babette and Charles Graham, legal guardians and representatives of Georgie Graham, agree to deliver ____ original puffin paintings to Pierce Bedell, art dealer, for $15,000 each, to be paid upon delivery of the paintings. In the event they can not provide the aforementioned number of paintings within a six-month period, the contract will be canceled and all moneys for undelivered paintings returned.”

Babette lifted her pen and wrote “77” in the blank space. Georgie could create that many paintings; she'd seen him paint half a dozen in an afternoon. She wouldn't even need six months. If Georgie were properly motivated, she could deliver seventy-seven paintings before Christmas. After Bedell had accepted them, she and Charles and Georgie could relax and enjoy the most prosperous Christmas they'd ever known.

The thought of Christmas brought a wrinkle to her brow. Why not have a truly extravagant Christmas? They could close up the house and go to Florida—maybe take in Disney World and Clearwater Beach and the Kennedy Space Center. They'd fly down, spare no expense, and enjoy the first vacation they'd ever funded without painfully pinching pennies. Just one more puffin would pay for everything . . .

She picked up her pen and adjusted the number. Seventy-eight puffins before Christmas. Georgie could do it. After all, he had her to help.

Standing at the bakery window, Abner sipped from his coffee cup and watched as Buddy Franklin trudged down Main Street with a large gray mail sack over his right shoulder. Abner smiled at the young man's plodding pace. Buddy never got in a hurry, usually taking twice as much time to accomplish a task than anyone else.

A patient sort of lad.

Ten minutes later Buddy arrived at the bakery, tracking mud across Abner's clean linoleum.

Squish, squish, squish.

The mail sack hit the floor with a solid sound, then Buddy took a deep breath. “Mail.”

Abner viewed the huge sack quizzically. “For Bea?”

Buddy shrugged, red creeping up his narrow cheeks. “Ain't she here?”

Abner bent to open the sack. As mistress of the tiny post office, Bea usually received a single tray filled with mail on the noon ferry. Abner couldn't recall her ever receiving an entire sack, so there had to be a mistake—

He pulled out a handful of letters and examined the addresses. “Angel mail?”

Buddy bent low, his face inches away from Abner's. As Abner turned, their gazes collided.

Buddy flashed a grin. “Cool, huh?”