Grace in Autumn (24 page)

After church, the Grahams ate Babette's Crockpot lunch— oyster stew—mostly in silence. Charles kept one eye on his wife and the other on his son, not knowing who would erupt first. When the last of the stew and crackers had been eaten, he pushed back his chair and took Georgie by the hand.

“Let's you and I take a walk out to the lighthouse, bud.”

“But, Dad—”

“Mind your father.” Babette spoke in a no-nonsense tone, and something in her voice prodded Georgie to obey. Together he and Charles slipped through the foyer, plucked their coats from the rack by the front door, and stepped out into the autumn sunshine.

They walked for five minutes without speaking. Like a fish gasping for air, Charles opened his mouth a half-dozen times, attempting to begin the speech he'd prepared and revised a dozen times during the Sunday sermon. But the beginning had never quite felt right, and he couldn't bring himself to open the conversation.

He could have hugged Georgie out of sheer relief when his son brought up the taboo topic.

“I guess Mom's pretty mad, huh, Dad?”

“She's not mad, Son. She was embarrassed.”

Georgie accepted this news in silence. “But the pastor asked what we love—and I do love naked women. Almost as much as I like whales . . . and puffins.”

Charles squinted up at the sky, where a pair of gulls were surfing the wind currents and hoping for a handout. “I love naked women, too—God made women beautiful. But nakedness is a private thing, and not something we're supposed to talk about in public. It embarrasses people.”

“Like it embarrassed Mom?”

“Exactly.” Pausing on the road, he turned to look at his boy. “Why'd you tell Pastor Wickam you like naked women if you like whales and puffins more?”

Georgie kicked a stone in the path, then shrugged. “I dunno.”

“I think I know.” Charles resumed his walk. “I think maybe you were angry with your mom, and you knew she'd be embarrassed if you talked about women instead of whales. So that's why you brought it up.”

Georgie didn't answer, but his chin quivered as he looked away.

“I don't think you did it on purpose.” Charles slipped his hands in his jeans pockets and frowned at the lighthouse in the distance. “Sometimes, when we're angry, we say things to hurt people. If that happens, we need to apologize and ask for their forgiveness. If they forgive us, then we'll be as good as new. Even better, in fact. Because when they forgive us, we understand how much they love us.”

Georgie lifted his gaze to meet Charles's. “Did you tell Mom you were sorry? 'Cause the other day you said things to hurt her. You had a fight together.”

Charles looked away as his conscience stung. He had hoped Georgie had tucked that memory away, but apparently he had not.

“We hurt each other that day,” Charles said, his voice soft. “And you're right, we need to say we're sorry. And we will forgive each other, because we love each other. And then, you'll see, things will be as good as new.”

“You won't”—Georgie's lower lip wobbled—“you won't get a divorce?”

“Not gonna do it.”

“Not even if I don't paint puffins?”

Stopping, Charles knelt in the path and placed his hands on his son's shoulders. “Never gonna leave your mom, Son. Never ever. I promise.”

Georgie smiled, his features suffused with relief, then he hugged his father tight.

Chapter Eleven

A
hundred and thirty-one letters!” White-faced, Bea stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, her arms filled with angel letters. Several spilled to the floor as she walked to the kitchen, and as Birdie bent to pick them up, she saw how the envelopes were addressed:

Angels Unaware
Heavenly Daze, Maine 09876

To the Heavenly Daze Angels
Heavenly Days, Maine 09876

Any Angel in Heavenly Daze
HD, Maine 09876

To the Whom It May Concern Angel
General Delivery
Island of Heavenly Daze, Maine 09876

Yo, Angel!
Heavenly Days and Nights, Maine 09876

“Oh, my,” Birdie whispered as Bea dropped her burden to the kitchen table.

“That's just the top layer,” Bea said, stomping back to the bakery. A moment later she returned, dragging a bulging mail sack. She slid it over the carpet and onto the kitchen linoleum, then dropped the cord. More letters spilled from the drawstring opening. “This all came in on the noon ferry,” Bea explained. “And there's more on the way.”

Birdie sat down hard in her kitchen chair.

“What are we going to do about this?” Bea lifted her hands. “Every deprived soul in Ogunquit must have heard about the Akerman's letter.”

Biting her lower lip, Birdie cringed. “Great day in the morning, how could word have spread so quickly? I just sent the check Saturday.”

Stepping over the heap of correspondence, Bea moved to the window and groaned. “Here comes Buddy with another sack—I told him to bring it to the back door. What are we going to do, Birdie?”

Birdie pressed her palm to her forehead. “Stay calm, Bea. Maybe there's been a mistake—all this mail can't be a result of us answering the Akerman's request. That'd be impossible.”

At least Birdie hoped it was. Maybe she had been too hasty; perhaps she should have thought a little more and come up with a more indirect way to help the struggling family. But land sakes, who'd ever think one simple act of kindness could result in this madness?

Bea opened the back door, and Buddy stumbled in, the toe of his heavy boot catching on the threshold. The sack in his arms opened and mail flew in all directions.

For the next hour, Birdie, Bea, and Buddy sorted mail around the kitchen table, leaving Abner to run the bakery. In the two sacks of mail there were three bills for the Grahams, a jam and jelly catalog for Vernie Bidderman, a couple of cards for Olympia, and two hundred seventy-five angel letters from all over the nation.

“And one,” Bea said, holding up a blue airmail envelope, “from Australia.”

“How in the world?” Birdie asked for the twentieth time.

Her musings were interrupted by the sight of Vernie Bidderman on the back porch. “Hallo!” Vernie called, rapping on the glass. “Open up, Birdie, I see you all in there!”

Birdie looked at Bea. “Might as well let her in,” she said. “If we're going to hear ‘I told you so,' might as well start with our closest neighbor.”

She blew a stray hank of hair off her forehead as Bea opened the door. Vernie marched in, but instead of offering a rebuke, she waved a sheet of paper.

“I solved it!” she said, her grin a mile wide. “I knew it had to be something like this.”

Bea settled back into her chair. “Will you please speak sense, Vernie?”

Vernie plopped onto the footstool by the stove. “The Internet,” she said, lifting a brow as she settled her glasses onto the end of her nose. “I got this note just this morning, via e-mail. Listen.”

In a gravelly voice, she began to read:

Miracles are happening in Heavenly Daze! This is not a hoax! It's the honest truth, so pass this e-mail on to everyone you know!

Heavenly Daze, a tiny island off the coast of Maine, is inhabited by angels who will perform miracles for people who have faith enough to write and ask for one! Recent miracles have included tomatoes that grow in the winter, a man who grew a full head of hair overnight, and a dog who was pronounced dead, then got up and walked away!

Legend has it that Jacques de Cuvier, the original founder of the town, prayed that angels would forever inhabit his private island. His request was granted, and invisible angels have inhabited the island ever since.

So if you are missing something in your life, write a letter to the angels today. Just send your request to Heavenly Daze, Maine 09876.

Pass this on to at least twenty people! Bad luck will come your way if you don't!

P.S. This is true! I myself received a note from Bea Coughlin, postmistress of Heavenly Daze, who assured me she was an angel assistant!

Birdie stared wordlessly at her sister. Bea's eyes appeared to be at imminent risk of dropping right out of her face.

“That explains how they got the zip code,” Buddy said, shrugging. “I never could remember it myself.”

“The Internet.” Bea lowered her chin and hissed the words. “A tool of the devil. Lies flying around in cyberspace, sent without a moment of rational thought. Unlike a properly posted letter—”

“That's the biggest bucket of poppycock I've ever heard in my life,” Birdie interrupted, staring at the letters. “Why—there are no miracles here! Any man could put on a toupee, and Annie's tomatoes look like they're one leaf away from the compost pile. And what's that nonsense about a dog coming back to life? Who could have started this nonsense?”

“I suppose the dog is supposed to be Butch or Tallulah,” Vernie said, grinning. “I'm a little offended they didn't mention MaGoo. I think a forty-five pound cat is a bit of a miracle.”

“Some fool tourist must have started this mess,” Bea said, nudging the empty mail sack. “We had a smattering of them last month, after all. But for sure there's no miracle here. It's all due to that blasted Internet.”

“But the needs . . .” Birdie's eyes drifted back to the letters. “The needs are real. Listen to this one.”

Dear Angel,

Can you make me stop feeling so sad? Daddy's gone to live at another little girl's house. I don't know what I did to make him so mad that he'd want to leave me and Mommy and live with somebody else. We miss him so much. Mommy cries and cries and then I start to cry and we can't stop. Can you please bring my daddy back home? I have faith, I really do. I try to think about the times when Daddy laughed a lot and he and Mommy held hands. Angel, please bring my daddy back so Mommy and me can laugh again.

Crissy Stillman, age nine

Birdie shook her head, murmuring a heartfelt, “Lord, help this child” under her breath.

Bea wiped her eyes, then opened another letter. She skimmed a few lines, then rolled her eyes and sent Birdie a smirking smile. “You're not gonna believe this one.”

Yo Angel,

How about a motorcycle? I could use a new set of wheels. Like I really believe in angels. Duh.

Jake Foley
4957 Westminster Lane
Salt Lake City, Utah
(In case you try to find me. Duh.)

Birdie ripped open another envelope and read the first two lines. “Dear Angel, I am blind. Can you please make me see again?”

Shaking her head, Bea dropped her letter onto the pile. “Birdie, what have we done?”

The small group sat around the kitchen table, staring at the pile of correspondence. Birdie's heart ached, for herself and for Bea. Unlike the idiot who started the silly e-mail letter, they'd meant no harm; they'd only wanted to spread comfort and help a family in distress. The Lansdowns, Vernie, and Pastor Wickam had foreseen trouble and tried to avoid it, but she and Bea had recklessly pursued the matter, inadvertently encouraging more of this foolishness.

But still—the needs, or most of them, were real. And only God himself could grant some of these poignant petitions.

Birdie shook her head, feeling sick to her stomach. When would she learn not to meddle? First she'd meddled with Salt and his books, and now her impulsive nature was about to create trouble for the whole island.

“Well,” Bea said, swiping her bangs off her forehead, “we have a choice. Either we toss these letters and ignore them, or we answer them.”

“We can't toss them.” Birdie looked at Vernie for confirmation. “Some of these people really need help. We can't send money to everybody, but we can offer a word of encouragement . . . though I'm not sure I'd refer to myself as an angel assistant.”

“Definitely not,” Bea remarked dryly. “So—why don't we just write a note that says we're praying and God loves them? That's true, and it's innocent.”

“Sounds good to me,” Birdie said, standing to fetch pen and paper.

“As much as I'd love to stay and help,” Vernie said, rising, “I have a store to run.”

Buddy stood, too, and gestured toward the door. “And I have to . . . um, go.”

Bea rolled her eyes as they left, then sat down and set to work. As the afternoon rolled on, Abner came in and took a seat, silently pitching in to help.

Throughout the long afternoon, Birdie, Bea, and Abner answered letters as simply and truthfully as they could. Only the occasional compassionate pressure of Abner's hand on her shoulder stilled Birdie's chaotic thoughts.

At five o'clock, Birdie put on a heavy coat and left the bakery carrying a shopping bag filled with a loaf of rye bread and two dozen molasses cookies.

Island shadows lengthened as she walked down the alley between the post office and the bakery; it would be full dark soon. She hugged the flashlight in her pocket, reassuring herself before heading into the night. A crisp walk was just what she needed; it ought to clear her head.