Grace in Autumn (22 page)

At precisely 12:45 on Friday morning, Birdie stepped out of the bakery, her purse in hand. She was running low on buttercream-colored yarn, and the mercantile didn't have a vast assortment of colors. If she hurried she could make the one o'clock ferry and be home before dark.

She hadn't taken three steps when she spotted the Lansdowns coming her way, accompanied by their daughter and son-in-law, Russell and Barbara Higgs. Vernie Bidderman and Buddy Maxwell brought up the rear of the procession, and every face in the parade was fixed in determination— well, every face except Buddy's, who appeared to have been swept up in the pack.

Birdie tried to cross the street, but Cleta spotted her and flagged her down.

“What is it, Cleta?” Birdie checked her aggravation as she watched the mob approach. She didn't need a crystal ball to know this hunting party was upset. Cleta's face pulsated with passion and Floyd looked as if he could blow a cork out his ears any minute.

The assemblage stopped in the street, then spread out to face her. A tactical maneuver.

Vernie cleared her throat. “We want to talk to you, Birdie Wester.”

Birdie calmly consulted her wristwatch. “I'm in a hurry, Vernie. I'm on my way to buy yarn and I don't want to miss the ferry.”

“Those old dishrags can wait,” Vernie snapped. “We're upset about what you're about to do with this angel problem.”

Glowering at her, Birdie snorted. She could put up with most anything, patience was part of her nature, but she didn't tolerate rudeness. Vernie might not fancy the dishcloths Birdie toiled over from May to December, but many a woman on the island appreciated her long hours of labor when they opened a gaily-decorated Christmas present and discovered two of the lovely hand-knitted dishcloths.

Old dishrags, indeed!

She lifted her chin. “We had this conversation earlier, Vernie,” she said, injecting a note of steel in her tone. “If you're upset, you need to talk to Bea. She handles the mail.”

Vernie shook her head, her strong features solidified in a defiant mask. “Bea won't listen—you know she's mulish.”

Birdie checked the time: 12:50. They were going to make her late. “Come to the point, Vernie.”

Floyd beat her to it. “We don't want you to answer that letter.”

“It's gonna stir up a hornet's nest,” Vernie seconded, while Russell and Barbara nodded in halfhearted agreement. Some folks said the Lansdown girl and her husband were backward, but Birdie thought they were just shy of expressing an opinion not originally planted by Floyd or Cleta.

Floyd scowled. “The more we think about it, the worrieder we get.”

“Then don't think about it,” Birdie snapped. “Let me and Bea do the thinking. And there's no such word as worrieder, Floyd. I dearly wish you'd stop massacring the English language.”

“Don't go gettin' highfalutin on me, Birdie Wester.”

“You answer that letter,” Cleta warned, “and Heavenly Daze will never be the same.”

“Nonsense.” Birdie straightened her hat. “You're getting in a dither over nothing.”

“Old Jacques de Cuvier would roll over in his grave if he knew what you were about to do to his island,” Vernie said, her eyes glinting.

“He came here for peace and quiet, and we want the same thing,” Floyd added.

“Peace and quiet? You'll get plenty of that when you get to heaven and stand in line for your heavenly reward— if 'n you get one, considering that you're telling me to ignore the poor and helpless.”

With that parting shot, Birdie set off for the ferry, leaving the troublemakers standing in the street. But troublemakers seldom give up, so she wasn't surprised to look over her shoulder and see them following, still expressing their objections.

“Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the State of Maine will be coming up here looking for a handout!” Cleta called.

Vernie yelled out, “We'll have to add on to the store and hire more help—you know how hard it is to get good summer help?”

“How are we going to get that new furnace for the church if you give the money away faster than we can bring it in?” Floyd hollered.

Whirling, Birdie confronted the lot of them. “Money—that's what it boils down to, isn't it? That's all you're concerned about, the money. Not the requests— you're not thinking about the people, just your own money!”

“That's not fair, Birdie,” Vernie countered. “Somebody's got to mind the store. We're not rich—we live from hand to mouth most months; you know that. If that old furnace gives out, where will we have services? You gonna volunteer your house?”

Birdie stood still as Vernie's question rippled through the group. Well, of course she wasn't volunteering her house! Neither Birdie's place nor the bakery was large enough to hold the congregation. The parsonage was too small, too. The de Cuviers had room to spare, but Olympia had her hands full with Edmund. The Grahams' house was big enough, but that young couple was struggling to establish the art gallery and deal with a wild child, so they couldn't be worrying about hosting church services on Sunday morning.

Birdie focused on the Lansdowns. “What about you, Cleta? You have the bed-and-breakfast and plenty of room. We could hold services at your house if the furnace blows up.”

“Now, Birdie, you know we're remodeling. The whole downstairs is a sawdust mess. We'd be glad to help but we can't.”

“What about the Klackenbushes?” Floyd looked to Buddy. “Mike and Dana could help out.”

Buddy grimaced, the veins in his throat standing out like ropes. “Whatever,” he said, throwing up his hands.

“No,” Vernie corrected, shaking her head. “They have that septic line problem, Floyd. No flushing more than once an hour.”

Floyd looked thoughtful. “Oh. Right.”

The ferry whistle blew.

Consulting her watch, Birdie took a half-step toward the dock. “We'll have to discuss this another time.”

Cleta put a bony hand on her hip. “There'd be no need for discussion if you'd use plain old common sense, Birdie Wester.”

Birdie turned, leaving the mob behind, but Vernie and Cleta came alongside her, their boots keeping time with her quick steps.

“Don't go meddlin' in other folks' business,” Vernie said, a note of pleading in her voice as they stomped over the dock. “We're all upset that a young mother and her daughter are having a hard time paying their utility bill, but there are all kinds of folks in trouble and you can't help 'em all. Some can't pay their car payment, some can't provide enough food for the table, and some have trouble keeping shoes on their kids' feet. We can't answer all those needs, even if we tried. So leave the charity up to the church and leave Heavenly Daze in peace.”

“That's the trouble,” Birdie said, barely clearing the gangplank before the heavy spiral ropes began to lift from the water.

Conversation halted as Captain Stroble hit the air horn and a deafening blast shattered the cold November afternoon. From out of nowhere Tallulah appeared, making a flying leap from the dock to the boat. Just in time, the feisty canine landed belly down and slid halfway across the polished deck.

Birdie chuckled as the dog scrambled to her feet, paused to shake thoroughly, then shot into the cabin to warm her bones. Birdie followed her in, hoping to finally rid herself of her misguided neighbors.

As the engines revved, the big boat slowly eased back from the dock.

“Don't do it, Birdie!” Cleta yelled above the churning water. “You answer that letter and you'll open the doors to sin and corruption in Heavenly Daze!”

Birdie turned her face to the opposite window. Honestly, Cleta's theatrics could wear a body to the nubbin.

That night, Birdie rested her head on the back of her recliner, a pile of buttercream yarn pooled in her lap. For the first time in years she'd made a mistake and had to tear out three rows. All this mail business had her so upset she couldn't knit straight.

The fire snapped and popped. Outside, a north wind whipped the shutters while in her bedroom Bea snored beneath her electric blanket.

Birdie's mind drifted over the day. She was bone weary of trying to decide what to do about those poor folks in Ogunquit. Two or three hundred dollars was a goodly amount of money, but only a drop in the bucket when one thought of how many people had those kinds of needs.

It should have been simple—send money to provide warmth to a mother and child during a long, cold winter. Bea said they should send the money and quit worrying about what the town thought, but Heavenly Daze was Birdie's home. How could she purposely upset her friends and neighbors? For Cleta was right; first there'd be one request, then another and another and another until she and Bea couldn't possibly keep up.

But suppose she sent three hundred dollars—why, that equaled two trips to the grocery store, a couple of movies, and a few meals at the Lobster Pot. Compared to a family's need for warmth, it seemed a minimal sacrifice.

She couldn't get the Akermans' plight out of her mind. Raleigh hadn't sent a picture, but Birdie could picture her, dark-haired with a pale face, huddling together with her mother around a hot plate. Maybe she was shivering even tonight—the wind was breezin' up something fierce.

Was Raleigh Akerman wondering why God hadn't answered her prayers?

We are God's hands on earth.

But hands had to be willing to work in order to do any good.

Stirring, Birdie blinked back tears. Then she felt a persistent, reassuring pressure on her left shoulder. She glanced up to see Abner standing beside her chair with a tray of hot tea in his left hand.

Peace, the like of which Birdie seldom experienced, flowed like running water through her heart.

She found her voice. “You startled me—what are you doing here at this hour?”

“I saw the light burning through the window. I hope it isn't too late to pay a visit?”

“It's never too late for you.” She smiled, motioning him to the chair opposite her. The fragrant aroma of brewed tea wafted from the steaming teapot.

“I thought you might enjoy a cup of tea before bed.”

Sighing, Birdie dropped her head to the chair cushion, closing her eyes. “Thank you, Abner. You always know when I'm troubled. How is that?”

Smiling, Abner poured a cup of tea and added sugar. He extended the cup to her. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Oh, dear.” She smiled, balancing the fragile china on her fingertips. “Why does life have to be so complicated?”

“I can't explain, Birdie, but someday you will understand.” Settling back into Bea's chair, he sipped his tea, his large hands awkwardly tipping the dainty china cup. Outside, the wind howled while the clock on the shelf above the window ticked away the minutes.

Long minutes, if you were shivering in the cold.

“I don't know what to do about the letter.” Softly she explained that her neighbors feared Heavenly Daze would turn into another Las Vegas if people thought money could be had for the asking. Abner listened, occasionally adding an “Oh, my,” or “We hope not,” but he had no answers.

When she finished, he offered only an observation: “The Lord commands us to love one another. And love often requires sacrifice.”

“Yes, but the town's concerns are valid,” Birdie admitted. “I love the island's serenity, and I don't want to see it interrupted. And what would we do if the church furnace went out? The old thing is on its last leg.”

Abner sipped his tea, then said: “The Lord promises to meet our needs.”

“But he hasn't met the Akermans'.”

Abner's gaze lifted to meet hers in the mellow lamp-light. “He will,” he said simply, “through you. And then he'll meet your needs, too.”

Birdie blinked. “How can you be sure?”

A thoughtful smile curved Abner's mouth. “When Bea came to live here, did you worry about having another mouth to feed?”