Grace in Autumn (18 page)

With the finished piece in his hands, he flinched as someone pounded on the door. “Z?” Babette's voice came through the frosted windowpanes. “Can I speak to you?”

He placed the bowl on his table, then crossed the small room in three long strides. Babette stood on the stoop, shivering and without a jacket, but with a sheet of printed paper in her grasp. Not seeming to mind the cold, she thumped the page with the back of her hand.

“I found this on the Internet! I can't believe it! Trouble is, I can't do anything about it because I signed a contract!”

Zuriel stepped back, wordlessly inviting her in, then closed the door and sank to his workbench. “Suppose you begin at the beginning?” He folded his hands and nodded toward the paper. “What is that?”

“This?” She waved the paper again, then held it aloft. “This is an article from the
Boston Globe
—an article Pierce Bedell did not show me. I would never have known about this if not for that blasted computer. Charles was doing an Internet search on puffins, and he stumbled across this.”

Zuriel lifted a brow. “I still don't understand.”

“Bedell!” Babette slammed her hand to the paper again. “No wonder he was so eager to buy our paintings. I'm not sure what he got for the first one, but this article says the second puffin sold at Sotheby's last weekend for $55,000. That's more than a 366 percent markup!”

Zuriel's gut reaction was indifference—what did money matter, after all? The Lord provided for his children, and Charles, Babette, and Georgie had never lacked for the things they needed. As far as he knew, they had never gone without clothing, shelter, or medical care . . .

But this news about Bedell had obviously astonished Babette.

His eyes widened in pretended surprise. “Fifty-five thousand dollars?” he said, allowing a grin to cross his face. “That's wonderful news!”

Her mouth curled into a smile that was not particularly attractive. “Wonderful?” She snarled the word. “It's not wonderful; it's . . . dishonest. The typical markup on gifts and fine art is 100 percent. By that standard, we should have made twenty-seven thousand on the second puffin painting, so Bedell owes me twelve thousand bucks! What's more, if his prices keep increasing, he'll owe us more and more as time goes by.”

Zuriel pressed his hand to his mouth in a moment of contemplation, then pulled it away. “But didn't you agree to sell all the paintings for a certain amount? It wouldn't be fair of you to—”

“That was before I knew what he was doing.” Babette flushed to the roots of her hair. “I didn't know he was making this kind of money. It just”—she waved her arms in a flurried gesture—“it seems unfair, that's all.”

Zuriel scratched at his beard. “You didn't think it was unfair when he paid fifteen thousand for the first painting and took all the risk. He didn't have any assurance he could sell the first picture.”

“He sure thought he could sell it.” Babette sank into the small guest chair with a sudden plop. “I don't think he was taking any great risks.”

“And what is your risk?” Zuriel made an effort to keep his tone gentle. “You sold a painting your son gave you to sell. You lost nothing, not even your son's respect, because he wanted you to sell it. And the Lord has always provided for you, so what have you to lose?”

Babette's flush deepened to crimson, and she would not meet Zuriel's gaze.

“The Word of God warns us,” he continued, “about letting the cares of this life, the lure of wealth, and the desire for nice things choke out the joy of the Lord.”

“Somehow it doesn't seem right,” she muttered, staring at the empty potter's wheel. “Not fair. And now I've got to make Georgie paint seventy-eight puffins, and today he didn't even want to look at the easel.”

Zuriel tugged at his beard, finally understanding the scene at the window. Georgie was like any other five-year-old human boy. He could be led, but he couldn't be forced . . . not to create, anyway. Creation overflowed from a peaceful and joyous heart, never from coercion.

“Babette,” he said, keeping his voice low, “you cannot force an artist to paint. Let him choose his own pace and his own pictures. Then you will not be disappointed.”

She looked at him then, her eyes dark and disbelieving. Had she listened to a word he'd said?

“Did you”—he softened his tone—“talk to Georgie about this when you tucked him in tonight?”

“Charles tucked him in,” she said, waving her hand in a distracted gesture.

Zuriel scratched his beard, knowing full well that Charles hadn't left his computer room since supper. Georgie had been overlooked by both his parents, and neither of them knew it.

“Thanks, Z,” Babette said, standing. She crumpled the paper in her hand, then tossed it in the corner wastebasket. “But I'll deal with Georgie in my own way. I'm his mother, and he's supposed to obey me. The Good Book says that, too.”

The door opened, letting in a blast of frigid air that shivered Zuriel's spine, then she was gone.

Chapter Eight

. . . and so, Angel, if you could bring me a blue sock I would be real happy. They were my favorite socks. And could you bring Mom a new dryer? One that doesn't eat socks? She says that sock eating dryer is driving her nuts.

Thank you,
Holly Madison
2664 Swallow Lane
Wichita, Kansas

Bea folded the letter, then glanced at Birdie and Abner and sighed.

“Wichita?” Birdie frowned as she set a bowl of bread dough beneath the commercial mixer. “How in the world did somebody in Kansas hear about Heavenly Daze?”

“Good news travels fast,” Abner said, grinning as he pulled a tray of cookies from the oven.

“Some of the letters are from far-flung places,” Bea said. “But here's one with an Ogunquit postmark.” She pulled out a pink envelope, opened the letter, and began to read:

Dear Angel,

Can you please help us get enough money to pay our utidly bill? My mama's been sick and she can't go to work much. It's cold in our house, and the fridgerator is old and worn out like my mom. Ha. She makes a joke like that all the time. When it's snowing we have to wrap in blankets and sit around our hot plate to keep warm, then we drink hot milk from a fridgerator that's supposed to be cold. Ha. In church (Grace Unity Church), my teacher said there are angels waching over us all the time. So if you're waching, Angel, we need help.

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.”