Grace in Autumn (20 page)

Around the corner at the bakery, Birdie hurried to fill the pastor's order while the clergyman, Winslow Wickam, leaned on the counter.

“I must say,” he said, his brow furrowing, “I am a little concerned that funds will be diverted from the church—albeit for a worthy cause. I'm certainly not averse to helping out, you understand, indeed not—but must we pull the funds from the church budget?”

Birdie wrapped the bagel in tissue, then dropped it into a bag. Word of little Raleigh's plight had spread faster than a bad rash.

“Now, Winslow,” she soothed, handing him the bag, “you're a thoughtful and God-ordained man, so surely you can see the need here. The mother and daughter can't pay their utility bill.”

Winslow's head bobbed with sympathy. “I have no qualms about helping with the need, but perhaps we should have the Ogunquit church take up a special offering. After all, our church has utility bills, which are especially high in the winter.”

“And run the risk of offending the folks from Grace Unity? We don't know if they are even aware of the family's need, and my guess is they aren't. If it weren't for the letter, we wouldn't know about the little girl's unfortunate circumstances. No.” Birdie leaned her chin on her palm. “We can't tell those people they need to take care of their own. That would seem uppity.”

“Well, we certainly can't imply that an angel is answering the need.”

Birdie's thoughts drifted to something Abner had said earlier:
We are the Father's hands on earth.

The bakery door opened. Amid a flurry of cold air and the sound of stomping boots, Floyd and Cleta Lansdown came in.

Birdie smiled. “How be things at the bed-and-breakfast today?”

“Doin' nicely, thank you,” Cleta answered, her voice clipped.

Birdie asked from mere politeness, for this time of year business at the bed-and-breakfast was slower than an oak's growth. Nearly all the commercial establishments in Heavenly Daze slowed or closed during the winter months because tourists were scarce.

Birdie paused, thinking of the odd little mustached man who'd paid at least two visits to the Graham Gallery. Maybe Charles and Babette had found a regular customer.

Floyd grunted something, flipping his earmuffs to the crown of his hat. Floyd must have something on his mind—never a good thing. Cleta usually did the talking for the couple, but today she held back and tossed an expectant look in her husband's direction. The head of the household gave Winslow an abrupt nod.

Pastor Wickam returned the greeting. “Afternoon, Floyd and Cleta.”

“Afternoon, Pastor.” Cleta stationed herself beside Floyd, her smile vanishing as her lips pulled into a thin line. While Birdie watched, Cleta's nostrils flared and red crept up from her throat. She stared at the pastor with eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket.

Uh-oh, that look meant trouble. Birdie had seen Cleta's battle stance before.

She blew out her cheeks, then made an effort to lighten the mood. “What can I get you this afternoon, Cleta? Just took some fresh loaves of sourdough out of the oven.”

Cleta shook her head, then gouged Floyd with her elbow.

“Don't need no bread,” Floyd said. “Came to discuss this utility bill business. Pastor, we don't want no money taken from the church.”

“Now, don't go getting yourself all exercised about this,” Pastor said, glancing at Birdie. “We were just discussing the matter.”

Sighing, Birdie picked up a bottle and shot a stream of Windex on the glass countertop.

“It's nothing to lose sleep over, Floyd,” she said, ripping off a paper towel. “Bea and I have decided to personally respond to an angel letter—just one—from Ogunquit. The family is having trouble paying their utility bill so we thought we'd pitch in and help.”

“So you and Bea are using your own money?”

Birdie wiped the counter in long strokes. “A little bit of our tithe—not that it's anything you need to be concerned about.”

Floyd shook his head. “The tithe is God's money,” he said, his voice booming like thunder. “If you take it away from our church, you're siphoning funds from our budget. You're stealing from the church!”

By the inflexible set of Floyd's jaw, Birdie knew she and Bea were in for a fight. As head deacon of the Heavenly Daze Community Church, he often took too much upon himself. She could stand and face him, or she could be a little creative . . .

She gave him a meek smile. “Maybe we ought to have a bake sale instead.”

“Guess we could,” Bea said, coming out of the back room. Birdie turned in surprise, wondering how much her sister had heard. “But this time of year there's only the locals and I doubt we'd earn enough to make a drop in the bucket. It makes a whole lot more sense to let Birdie and I send the money and save us all from added poundage. After all, we're using part of our tenth to help a sister in need, and I don't think the good Lord would fault us for that.”

Cleta nudged Floyd, whose expression remained thunderous.

Birdie looked at Bea. “Then maybe a craft sale.”

Bea shook her head. “Same problem, not enough customers this time of year to warrant the bother. Floyd, you know as well as I do that most islanders are living on a limited income in the winter. If we ask them to dig a little deeper into their pockets, they're going to say they give at church and that's enough.”

Birdie turned to look at Cleta. “We can't forget that Christmas is coming up.”

“And folks have already turned their pockets inside out to provide funds for the Women's Circle,” Bea continued.

“But,” Floyd said, his dark eyes blazing, “if we all started cutting our tithe for this and that, we won't be able to send our monthly support to Missionary Boggs and his family in Zimbabwe.”

Good point, Birdie conceded. Her eyes flicked to Pastor Wickam.

Winslow took a moment to wipe his mouth with a napkin, then said, “It's not that I'm against helping this family. The need is certainly there, but the church's furnace is about to give out, and we'll not be able to hold services this winter if we can't heat the building.”

Cleta jabbed Floyd.

“Ayuh,” he said, giving Birdie a pointed look. “No heat, no services.”

All this excitement was giving Birdie a headache. Pitching the paper towel in the waste can, she glanced around the corner. Abner was in the storeroom, his forehead creased in thought as he counted bags of flour and sugar.

“Well,” she said, turning back to face the opposition, “no use getting our colons in a kink over this. All right. Bea and I will try to come up with funds apart from our tithe money.”

Winslow looked decidedly relieved. “Edith and I will chip in. We don't have a lot to spare, but maybe if I ate fewer pastries . . .”

Birdie clucked at him. “If you cut out the pastries, you'll be cutting back on my ability to give, Pastor. You'll have to think of something else to give up.”

Silently, she wondered how much the pastor and his wife could contribute. Though the parsonage was provided by the church, the Wickams had other expenses like everyone else. And Winslow's salary was barely adequate.

Cleta rammed Floyd.

“One more thing,” Floyd added, after giving his wife a nasty look.

“Yes?” Sighing in exasperation, Birdie lifted her head to see what else the Lansdowns could possibly find to complain about.

Clearing his throat, Floyd fixed his gaze on the strudel tray. “We don't think it's wise to answer those angel letters. If folks think they can write to Heavenly Daze and then angels will solve their problems, well, it just ain't fittin'. It'll turn into one big, ugly mess. The island will be overrun with folks looking for a handout, crime will increase, and we'll have to start locking our doors at night. On top of that, we'll have to arm ourselves and hire security guards. The septic system won't be able to handle the overload, and we'll have to build a bigger post office to handle all the mail. Before long, we'll have folks fighting in the streets and we'll be on the six o'clock news in Portland.”

His gaze narrowed as he stared at Birdie. “I don't want our town to be on the six o'clock news. It won't be good for the legitimate businesses here.”

Cleta punched him.

“Is that what you want, Birdie?” Floyd continued. “Do you want Heavenly Daze to turn into Las Vegas?”

Winslow's eyes widened. “Oh my. Las Vegas . . . gambling and show girls. We certainly can't have that.”

Floyd gave a succinct nod. “Ayuh.”

“Ayuh,” the pastor added absently, sending Birdie a worried look.

Las Vegas? Birdie had never heard anything so silly. Purposefully, she turned her back to the crowd and untied her apron, signaling the end of the conversation. Good grief, a simple act of compassion was turning into a three-ring circus.

“Excuse me, folks,” she said, pulling off her apron. “But it's near two o'clock. We're closin'.”

Taking the hint, the Lansdowns buttoned their coats, then trailed Pastor Wickam out of the bakery.

Birdie tossed her apron onto the counter, then pressed her face to her hands. Las Vegas? Honestly! Floyd needed to keep his predictions of gloom and doom to himself.

Shaking her head, she walked to the front door and turned the sign.

“Try it like this, Georgie.”

Pretending not to notice the tracks of tears on the boy's face, Zuriel picked up the lump of raw clay, formed it into a tight ball, then tossed it from one hand to the other. “What you want to do is create shock waves that will distribute the moisture evenly,” he said, handing the ball back to the boy. “Clay must have water all the way through before we can mold it.”

Georgie sniffed, wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve, then picked up the clay and slowly tossed it from hand to hand.

“That's good.” Zuriel patted Georgie's shoulder, feeling the boy's small, frail frame beneath his crusty palm. “Now we're going to wedge the clay. Have you ever seen your mother knead a loaf of bread?”

Georgie shook his head almost reflexively, then shrugged. “I dunno.”

“I'll bet you have.” Zuriel picked up another piece of clay and pressed it to the sturdy tabletop, then bent and folded it back upon itself. Leaning forward and pushing against the clay with the heels of both hands, he demonstrated the art of wedging. “We don't want to flatten the clay too much,” he said, watching from the corner of his eye as Georgie began to imitate him. “You never want to beat the clay down or push it too far. That's not a good thing.”

Children shouldn't be pushed too far, either. He glanced out the window toward the house, where lights gleamed in the kitchen window. Odd, that neither Babette nor Charles had come out to check on Georgie or take him up to bed. It was nearly eight o'clock and past the boy's usual bedtime.

“Georgie,” he asked, stepping back to watch the boy work the clay, “your folks know you're out here?”

Another sniffle, then: “I don't care.”

Zuriel stroked his beard. “Something happen today? I'm glad you spent the afternoon with me, but you've never been allowed to stay out this late on a school night.”

Another stroke of the sleeve across the nose and a sudden rush of tears. “Puffins stink. Puffins clink. Puffin people are great big finks.”

“Oh.” Zuriel picked up his lump of clay and began to wedge it, matching his pace to the boy's. “I'm glad you like pottery. I love making things. I love the feel of the clay in my fingers and the coolness of the water over my hands. And when the pot comes through the firing, I love holding something strong and beautiful . . . and I'm happy to know I helped make it.”

Georgie sniffed again, wiping his nose with his hand this time, leaving a smear of gray mud across his upper lip. “Whaddya mean, you helped?” he asked, his brown eyes flashing toward Zuriel. “I thought you made your pots by yourself.”

“God helps me.” Zuriel lifted his lump of clay from the table, smoothed it one more time, then set it on the bat above the potter's wheel. “God is the great Creator, and all good gifts flow through him. When I make a circle or a sphere or a star, I'm only copying the things he has already made. I feel his Spirit when I'm working . . . and when I do my best, I know the Creator is pleased.”

Wiping his nose again, Georgie moved toward the wheel, his eyes intent upon the clay. Zuriel moistened the mound with a damp sponge, then set the switch to its slowest speed. As the wheel turned, he used both hands to push the ball to the center of the bat and pressed it to the surface.

“Did you know we are jars of clay?” Zuriel remarked, his wet hands centering the earth. He picked up the sponge again, then dribbled water over the lump. “God created the first man out of earth, which is another word for clay. The Bible says humans are like clay jars in which the treasure of God is stored.”