Grace in Autumn (29 page)

Charles looked toward the ceiling, pretending to be deep in thought, then lowered his gaze and smiled. “It probably doesn't mean anything, honey. We dream every night, but we forget most of them.”

“This one felt different”—she propped her arms on the table—“really different.”

Charles shrugged again. “Ask Zuriel,” he said, picking up his spoon. “If he was in your dream, maybe he'll have an answer for you.”

He sipped the warm milk in his cereal bowl and found the temperature just right.

When Birdie walked into the bakery on Wednesday morning, Elezar and Micah were sitting together, their elbows propped on the table, a spread of hot doughnuts and coffee between them. The two men immediately rose to their feet when Birdie walked by.

“Mornin', Birdie,” they said in unison.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Carry on; don't let me bother you.” Frowning, she stepped to the window and peered out on Main Street. “Is that Buddy Franklin? What's he doing up so early?”

Clearing his throat, Abner began to wipe the counter. “The captain got Buddy up when he made the seven o'clock run this morning. Seems there was an awful lot of mail, and he needed someone to help haul it up from the dock.”

Birdie's hand flew to her mouth. More mail? Merciful heavens! Before noon? Her worst fears were coming true.

“Now, Birdie, don't fret.” Abner stepped to the window and patted her shoulder. Their eyes followed Buddy's progress up Main Street, his labored breathing creating frosty breath from his nostrils.

“Abner,” she whispered, “this is turning into a nightmare. Some body's got to answer all that mail.”

She turned as Buddy burst into the bakery, then unceremoniously dropped a bulging canvas sack onto the floor. Clucking in disapproval, Abner bent to pick up the drawstring, then dragged the bag past the counter and through the doorway that led to Birdie's sitting room.

She swallowed hard and stared at her once-clean floor. The bag, damp with sea-spray, left a sluglike slick on the linoleum.

Birdie glanced at Buddy, who merely stared at her, his eyes like vacant windows above a crimson nose.

“Thanks, Buddy,” she said wearily. “Bea will be dressed in a few minutes and we'll decide what to do with it.”

Buddy shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Let me get you something warm to drink.” Birdie crossed to the counter, then poured a cup of hot coffee into a foam cup. As she handed it to the younger man, she said, “I hope there isn't more—”

“There're nine more,” Buddy confided in a rare burst of chattiness. “More'n I've ever seen on a day, let alone a morning. Captain Stroble's fit to be tied.”

“Nine,” Birdie mouthed, stunned.

“The others are sittin' in the ferry shack.” Buddy took a swig of hot coffee. “And the cap'n says there'll be more at noontime.”

Birdie's knees threatened to buckle.

Elezar patted her shoulder as they prepared to leave, but Micah caught Abner's eye and said, “You know where to find us if you need us.”

Nodding, Abner escorted his friends to the door. They shook hands, and the two men disappeared into the gray mist that seemed to hover over the island this morning.

Zuriel was still in his robe when Babette knocked on the cottage door, and by the look on his face she surmised that she'd surprised him. He didn't complain, though, but let her in and placed a mug of coffee in her hands before pouring himself another.

“I have a quick question for you—two, actually,” she said, wrapping her hands around the warmth of the stoneware mug. “First—do you believe God speaks to us in dreams?”

The line of his mouth curved in his beard. “I do,” he said simply, spooning a heaping mound of sugar into his coffee. “Scripture is filled with stories of men who heard the voice of God in their dreams: Joseph, the adoptive father of Jesus; Daniel; Joseph of Egypt; the apostle Peter—”

“What about ordinary people,” Babette interrupted. “Like me?”

Zuriel regarded her with an intense but guarded expression as he lowered himself into a wooden kitchen chair. “Yes, I believe God speaks to ordinary people in dreams. Sometimes he must because they will not hear in other ways.”

Babette felt her cheeks burn. He had to be obliquely referring to his so-called “message from God.” Well, her dream was as convoluted and odd as his message, so perhaps they did spring from the same source. Pure and simple guilt had probably produced that crazy dream . . .

“Imagine, if you will,” Zuriel said, his dark eyes twinkling in the morning shadows, “a powerful king who unites many far-flung kingdoms. He yearns to communicate with his new subjects, but they don't speak his language. He could require them to rise to his level, but he loves his subjects enough that he is willing to learn the language of each tribe and clan—even the language of the individual.” He sipped from his coffee cup, swallowed, and looked at her over the rim. “God is like that, Babette. He loves each person enough to learn his or her heart language. And however he can best speak to you, that's the way he will speak. If one communication doesn't get through, he'll try something else until his message is understood and received.”

Babette struggled to swallow over the lump in her throat. “I thought God spoke through the Bible and preachers.”

Zuriel smiled. “Often he does. Often he speaks through circumstances. Sometimes he demonstrates his will in opportunities given and removed. But sometimes he speaks through the intimate language of a dream.”

He leaned forward, setting his coffee on the scarred wooden table. “You had another question?”

Babette shook her head as if the motion could clear out the cluttered ideas and thoughts crowded there. “Um—yes.” She caught his eye and softened her voice. “How did you know about Edmund? I called Frenchman's Folly after you left, and Annie didn't know.”

Zuriel's eyes shone with gentleness and understanding. “I saw Caleb last night.”

“Ah.” Babette lifted her hand in relief. Of course, Caleb hadn't been in his room when she called. He must have been with Edmund when he died, and he'd met Z when he went to fetch Dr. Marc or something . . .

She managed a soft laugh. “I'm glad that's straightened out. I was beginning to wonder—” She shook her head. “Never mind.” She pushed herself out of the chair, then placed her coffee cup in the small sink by the window. “I won't keep you, Z; I only wanted your opinion.” She grinned at him. “I don't suppose you do dream interpretations on the side.”

A wry half-smile crossed his face. “Sorry. I haven't been given any interpretations for you.”

“Too bad.” She moved toward the door and placed her hand on the knob, bracing herself for the cold dash back to the house.

“Thinking of Edmund reminded me of something,” Zuriel said, stopping her. She glanced back in time to see a slow smile light his face. “Just remember—this life, every moment of it, will one day be the dream. Eternity is what matters, Babette. All of this”—he lifted his hands, gesturing toward the pottery, the cottage, the world in which they stood—“all this is fleeting and temporary. The best is yet to come.”

Drawing her collar around her throat, Babette nodded wordlessly, then carried her swirling thoughts out into the falling snow.

Walking backward from the Kid Kare Center, Georgie watched the way his footprints melted the snow that had begun to stick to the sidewalk. Miss Dana's eyes had been red and puffy when he arrived, and after only a few minutes she told Georgie that school would be canceled today.

“Are you sick?” Georgie asked, alarmed at her appearance.

“No, honey.” She paused to blow her nose, then wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “It's not a good day for school. Besides, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. So let's call today a holiday, okay?”

She sent him out the door with a pat on his back. “Tell your mom we'll have school again on Monday . . . after the memorial service and the holiday weekend.”

Georgie was about to ask what a memorial service was, but Miss Dana had firmly closed the door.

Now he frowned as he studied his backward footsteps. Something was wrong and all the grownups felt it, but no one would explain what had happened. His mom had been unusually quiet at breakfast. Then Dad forgot to put the chocolate pudding in his snack sack (he knew this because he always ate it on the way to school), and now Miss Dana was sending him home before ten o'clock.

Something was definitely not right. The entire world seemed backward today.

At the corner of Main Street and Ferry Road, Georgie stood next to the wooden street sign and looked up at the sky. The clouds sagged toward the town, nearly touching the top of the church steeple. The heavy air felt like a woolen scarf, only cold, muffling sounds and sights alike.

A man's voice suddenly cut through the silence. Feeling out of place, Georgie ducked behind the huge oak on the lawn of the B&B, then peered toward the source of the sound. Dr. Marc stood on the front porch of Miss Olympia's house, and even from this distance Georgie could see that he was wiping his nose, too. Then the doctor turned and stuffed his hanky into his pocket as two other men, both in dark brown overcoats, carried a small bed out of the house.

Georgie bit his lip and leaned forward, his mittens sticking to the rough bark of the oak. Through the falling snow he could see that the bed was covered in a white sheet, but he couldn't tell who—or what—slept under the covers. He didn't recognize the two men, but as soon as they reached the sidewalk, they pulled out legs on the bed, then rolled it down the concrete toward the street.

Who would want to ride on a rolling bed? Georgie crept out from behind the tree and edged forward, feeling somehow naughty. The two strangers wore stern faces, and something in their manner told Georgie that they were dealing with Serious Business, and that always meant No Kids.

A woman's voice reached him then, and he cringed, half-fearing to hear a rebuke from his mother. But the voice belonged to Miss Annie, who joined Dr. Marc on the porch. She held a handkerchief, too, and her pretty eyes looked like slits in a blotchy face.

Georgie twisted his mouth. He knew what that face meant. Like Miss Dana, Miss Annie had been crying.

He opened his hand and counted people on his fingers. Annie lived in Frenchman's Folly on weekends, and she looked okay. Dr. Marc lived in the garage, and he looked okay, too. That left Miss Olympia and Caleb and Mr. Edmund . . .

He tilted his head as the light of understanding dawned. Mr. Edmund had been sick for a long time. His mother never said his name in anything but a sad whisper, and Georgie could hardly remember the last time Mr. Edmund had been able to attend church. He used to carry red-and-white peppermints in his pockets, but he hadn't given Georgie a candy in a long time. Mr. Edmund must be the one in the bed—and he must be very, very sick.

Caleb came out of the house then, followed by Miss Olympia, and Georgie saw Olympia hug Annie. Then Olympia lifted a big Christmas wreath, except this one was completely black, and Annie helped her hang it on the door. Then Dr. Marc hugged Miss Olympia, then he hugged Annie, then the three of them watched Caleb follow the two men who were rolling the bed on wheels toward the dock.