Grace in Autumn (25 page)

She strode toward the cove, intending to cross the salt marsh and catch Ferry Road well past the municipal building. By now everyone in Heavenly Daze knew about the influx of letters, and right now she couldn't face Cleta or Floyd. Vernie's copy of that preposterous e-mail had proved Birdie didn't cause the deluge, but the embellishment on that silly note indicated that she and Bea might have inadvertently added fuel to the fire.

She paused when she heard male voices. Ducking behind the carriage house where Vernie's helper, Elezar, lived, she saw Buddy and Captain Stroble straining to carry two more burgeoning mail sacks to her own back porch.

Was she only imagining the captain's enough-is-enough look? Probably not. No spring chicken, the captain wasn't used to ferrying this volume of mail. And he'd never had to make two mail deliveries in one day.

Turning quickly lest they see her, she picked up her pace and hurried toward the lighthouse. Maybe she was in a masochistic mood tonight. What else would drive her into Salt Gribbon's territory after a marathon session of answering angel mail? What was she thinking?

Hadn't she had enough humiliation for one day?

She answered her own question—she yearned for a strong dose of Salt Gribbon's no-nonsense approach to life.

In the distance, the large rotating lamp atop the lighthouse swept the cold waters, warning ships away from the jagged coastline. Commercial fisherman and shipping lines knew enough to stay away from the rocks at the north point of Heavenly Daze, but still the beam shone out, lest an ignorant pleasure boater turn his vessel into the rocks. Birdie suspected the job gave Salt comfort—the radiant light shining over the waters must be a sentimental reminder of long ago days when he'd spied the light and realized he'd come safely home.

The tang of briny water hung in the air and she drank it in. A buoy bell clanged as it steadily rode the swells near the shoreline.

Clang, clang, clang.

She matched her strides to the rhythm of the bell and pushed on as lengthening shadows gave way to smoky dusk. Shorebirds flew overhead, soaring into the encroaching darkness as they searched for a place to roost.

Birdie switched on the flashlight and let the beam play over the rocky road.

She lifted her head when a light shone out a window at the midpoint of the lighthouse—Salt's living quarters, she presumed. Had he seen her light? Was he now pulling on his coat so he could step out and investigate the intruder? He'd warned her and everyone else to stay away, and he wouldn't be happy about her visit. But as long as he didn't start throwing rocks . . .

She plodded on, her arguments growing stronger with every step. Salt Gribbon didn't own this part of the island, and he didn't own the lighthouse. He might not care for her audacity, but he couldn't prevent her from coming out to visit one of Heavenly Daze's historical treasures. Besides—she gripped the bakery bag tighter—genuine trespassers didn't bring gifts, and she'd brought a generous rye and some of Abner's best cookies. He could refuse her offering, but he couldn't order her away from Puffin Cove.

The cold air served its purpose and Birdie felt her head begin to clear. The dull ache between her shoulders receded and tension slowly drained away. The sea had that effect on her. Out here a body could rediscover peace and harmony amid the sound of crashing surf.

The lighthouse rose up before her, tall, dark, and forbidding. She looked up, then shivered in a moment of inexplicable panic. What was she doing? Coming out here, acting like a schoolgirl suffering from her first crush. “You old fool,” she whispered. “He's going to think you're positively addled.”

Veering off the path, she picked her way over the rocky shoreline, stepping carefully over sea-sprayed rocks. The night was full dark now, spangled with a canopy of gleaming stars overhead.

Settling on a large boulder, she opened the bag of cookies and ate one. She'd had no appetite at supper, though the meatloaf Bea had in the oven smelled tempting. Sunday Winslow had remarked that Bea's cooking couldn't be beat, then amended the remark to “Bea's cooking is really great” when Edith's lower lip edged forward in a tiny pout.

Munching on the cookie, Birdie considered the choices she'd made in her life. Maybe she should have married and had children. But she'd always preferred books to men, and it seemed natural for her to go to college and major in library science. Now, at sixty-five, she was living with her choices . . . and with her sister. If anything happened to Bea, she would be utterly alone.

Twenty years ago the prospect of loneliness hadn't given her a moment's thought, but tonight it rested like a shroud around her shoulders. If she had her life to live over, maybe she would have looked harder for a companion, been less picky . . .

“What are you doing here?”

Startled by the voice, Birdie drew in her breath, accidentally inhaling a bit of cookie into her windpipe. Choking, she spat what she could onto the rocks, then grasped her throat with both hands. She stood in panic, then whirled around to meet the wintry blue eyes of Salt Gribbon.

Stepping forward, Salt soundly whacked her on the back. The obstruction popped loose.

Gasping for air, Birdie lowered her lids and glared at him. “You scared a year's growth out of me!”

A wicked grin hovered at the corners of the old sea captain's mouth, and in that moment Birdie realized he must have been quite a scoundrel in his day. She pressed her hand to her belly, aware that a crop of butterflies had awakened and decided to perform handsprings in her midsection.

Salt's grin widened to a roguish smile. “At our age, Birdie, you ought to be thanking me for the excitement.”

He sat down as if he'd been invited, then stared out at the sea. Without looking at her, he asked, “What are you doing wandering around the island at this time of night?”

Birdie lifted her chin and gave him a defiant look— which he didn't turn to see. “You don't own this point, Salt Gribbon,” she said, feeling proud of her courage. “A body has a right to come out here if she wants.” She thrust the bakery bag at him. “Have a cookie.”

Opening the bag, he peered inside. “What's this?”

“What does it look like?”

He sniffed the offering appreciably. “Rye bread. Molasses cookies.”

She sat on the rock, careful not to sit too close. “I didn't eat supper. Thought I might get hungry on my walk. So I grabbed the first thing I could reach in the display case as I went out the door.” She kept her eyes on the feather-white sea, refusing to meet his eyes in the dim light of the rising moon. “Don't try and make anything out of the fact it's your favorite bread and cookies. Your preferences didn't have a thing to do with my selections.”

Grinning, he bit into a cookie. “Of course not,” he mumbled around the mouthful.

“I wasn't thinkin' of you a-tall.”

“Didn't say you were.”

“I wasn't.”

“Didn't think so.”

“Don't flatter yourself.”

He snorted, and for a moment Birdie wondered if he was laughing. Salt Gribbon, laughing? Who'd athunk it?

A cold wind blew off the water, but a zillion stars twinkled overhead. Birdie suddenly felt warm and young and foolishly giddy. Age was creeping up on Salt Gribbon, but it hadn't overpowered him, not a-tall. He was still handsome enough to make her heart beat double time.

They sat for a long stretch, neither speaking. Birdie found the companionable silence . . . nice.

She finally brought her hands to her face, exhaling a long breath as she thought about the day's events. “I've done a foolish thing, Salt.”

“I'm listening.”

Those words weren't a comforting arm or a gentle touch, but at sixty-five, Birdie knew enough to take what she could get.

She spoke slowly at first, then her words tumbled over one another as she told him about the letters, Raleigh Akerman, and that silly e-mail about angel inhabitants. “And now,” she finished, “I'm afraid that news about the money we sent will leak out to the Internet—what if this keeps going and growing? We can't send money to every off-islander who writes us.”

She stopped, out of words and out of energy, and looked at him. He nodded simply, then said, “You did the right thing.”

Birdie nodded, wiping the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. She knew she'd done what the Lord expected, but it was nice to hear support instead of ridicule.

She sniffed. “The letters will continue to come, I fear. There will be more requests and pleas for all kinds of impossible things. We're trying to answer these people by telling them that we're praying and God loves them, but there aren't any angels in Heavenly Daze—only good, kind people who can't perform miracles.”

“Ayuh, but maybe by writing a simple letter, the healing is begun.” Salt stared at the lapping waters with a molasses cookie in his large hand. “Children will write expressing their wants. They may not get that new bicycle, basketball, or pair of gym shoes, but they'll know someone cared enough to answer. If writing a simple letter to Heavenly Daze brings them the assurance that God is love, what could be the harm?”

“The harm will be that the island could be overrun with people seeking favors from invisible angels,” Birdie fretted.

Salt turned to look at her, his rangy features silhouetted in the moonlight. “Is the North Pole overrun with energetic children seeking toy trains and video games?”

Birdie laughed softly. “I couldn't say, having never been to the North Pole. But Heavenly Daze is a lot more accessible, and who knows what could happen?”

“Don't borrow trouble, Birdie. See what tomorrow brings.” Salt folded his hands. “The flood of mail might be over and forgotten in a few days.”

“Vernie and Cleta won't forget.”

“Well, that would be Vernie's and Cleta's problem, wouldn't it?”

Somehow, and Birdie couldn't imagine how, Salt had put the problem into perspective. She'd done what she felt the Lord was leading her to do, so she'd done the right thing by sending the money to little Raleigh. And three or four sacks of mail wasn't a gargantuan task; she and Bea and Abner could handle those letters. She could get Vernie to write an e-mail that said, “No Angels in Heavenly Daze, Pass it On,” and maybe the letters would stop. Of course, some folks might find that notion a little unfriendly, but it was better than giving people false hope. And, finally, if their letters could renew hope in a desperate heart . . . well, the whole enterprise would have been worth the stress.

Feeling considerably better, she took a deep breath and sat up straighter. Salt was right; she was borrowing trouble by worrying about tomorrow, and the good Lord clearly said today had its sufficient share.

“So,” she said, turning to a more upbeat—she hoped— topic, “how's your situation progressing?”

His brows lowered, meeting in the center of his face as his eyes darkened.

He was defensive as always, but she wouldn't give up. She turned to face him directly. “Are you making progress with your little problem?”

“With what?”

“With . . . your situation.”

Did she have to spell it out for him? He was so touchy she didn't dare come right out and ask, but she was dying to know if he'd used the primer.

“Nothing's changed,” he said shortly. He stood up, so she followed suit. They lingered for a moment, allowing the sound of the sea to embrace them. The earlier feeling of easy companionship had waned, and Birdie knew the altered mood was her fault.

But she so wanted to help!

“Salt,” she began again, “I wish you would let me help you. Abner can watch the bakery a few hours every day—”

“No!” The bark rang with so much authority and prickly defensiveness that she drew back.

But she didn't give up. “Together we could make good progress.”

He turned and stalked off, denying her the opportunity to finish her thought. And the stubborn old noodle had left the bag of pastries on the rock.

Oh, no. He wasn't walking away, not this time. She snatched up the bag, then hurried to catch up. If he would allow her to share the burden, she could have him reading in only a few days. What joy awaited him in the world of books, and he'd find so many things to occupy his time in that lonely lighthouse.

She trotted to keep pace with his long-legged stride. He might not want her tutoring services but he was going to accept the rye bread and cookies or watch her feed them to the sea gulls!

“Go home, Birdie Wester. Leave me with my peace.”

“I'm going, Salt Gribbon, but I'm leaving you with cookies and rye bread!”

She flung the bag at him, then spun on her heel, snapped on her flashlight, and began the walk home. That old codger was impossible!

Shaking his head, Salt watched her flounce off.

Women!

Why would Birdie Wester want to help him? She had to have her hands full at the bakery.