Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

  “Pardon?”

  She let the curtain drop back into place. “This town needs a good psychologist—that’s the fourth time in as many weeks someone has dropped by babbling about friendship muffins and invitations. First it was Edith Wickam, then Vernie Bidderman. Last week Dana Klackenbush popped over, and now Birdie and Bea.” She turned to face the old butler. “Must be something in the water, and I’m the only one not drinkin’ it.”

  Ducking sheepishly, Caleb murmured, “I’ll just carry these dirty dishes to the kitchen. If you need anything—”

  “I know. I’ll call you.”

  A few minutes before noon, Zuriel hunched into his coat as he walked to the ferry landing, bracing himself against the cold breath of the wind. The new day had dawned cold and gray, but now the overhead sun sent brilliant fingers of light through the cloud cover. The strident sound of gulls echoed over Ferry Road, but the only other sound in the stillness was the crunch of gravel as Bea and Birdie Wester wheeled their cart into the alley beside the bakery.

  Zuriel paused at the intersection of Ferry and Main out of habit, watching for Tallulah and Butch, but nothing moved on Main Street. Smoke rose from the chimney of the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast, where Cleta and Floyd were probably enjoying a lunch of chowder and shrimp salad sandwiches. The sweet scent of wood smoke filled Zuriel’s nostrils and made him glad for the approach of winter. The other angels professed to favor summertime, but he liked the solitude of the quiet months.

  A tiny whitewashed shed served as the ferry office. As Zuriel drew near he could see that the building stood closed and empty, but within the hour Captain Stroble would be holed up inside, warming his hands around a thermos of hot coffee. The ferry from Ogunquit ran only three times in the off-season: at 7 AM, noon, and 6 PM, returning to the mainland an hour after each arrival.

  Zuriel checked his watch, then scanned the sea for a sign of the approaching boat. Nothing marred the horizon, so Captain Stroble must have been held up at Perkins Cove. Knowing he wasn’t likely to encounter a crowd on a cold day like this, Zuriel moved toward the green bench next to the ferry office. He could wait.

  Sinking to the bench, Zuriel smiled as he flicked away a peeling paint chip from one of the planks—the bench had been brown before—and considered his divine appointment. The man who would soon step onto the Heavenly Daze dock had no idea he was expected. Zuriel had only learned of his arrival this morning, when Gavriel materialized in his workroom and relayed instructions from the Lord. The Lord had spoken, Gavriel said, and Georgie’s prayer was about to be answered. Zuriel was to facilitate the operation.

  The wind caressed the angel’s face as he turned to study the shafts of sunlight reflecting off the deep blue water. Ah—there she was. The squat ship was coming on with an impressive show of speed, a white foamy mustache at her bow.

  Zuriel stood and walked down to the docks, smiling as a school of fish in the shallows darted away from his shadow. The ferry drew closer, slowing as it neared its berth, and two anchors fell from its nostrils. A deck hand threw out the towropes, then leapt to the dock to secure the heavy hemp spirals.

  Zuriel stepped out onto the dock and rocked on his heels, his hands in his pockets as he regarded the boat. No tourists lined the deck as they might have in warmer months—the combination of cold wind and sea spray would not appeal to a landlubber. Not even the sturdy folk of Heavenly Daze would stand out here without a terrifically good reason.

  The captain stepped out of the cabin first, the reddish-brown color of his face advertising his occupation.

  “Hello, Z,” he called, settling his cap upon his head. “If you were supposed to meet someone, I’m afraid they missed the boat. I got no one aboard but one little fella from Boston.”

  Zuriel met the captain’s greeting with a smile. “I’ll take whoever you’ve got, Captain. What’s the off-islander’s business here?”

  Stroble crossed his arms, folding his ungloved hands into his armpits. “He says he’s going out to photograph the lighthouse.”

  Zuriel stepped closer to the edge of the dock, breathing in a whiff of sea salt emanating from the captain. “I could take him out that way.”

  The captain’s smile sent a single dimple winking in his left cheek. “Trying to earn some extra change, are you?”

  “No.” Zuriel felt a blush burn his face. “Just trying to be helpful.”

  At that moment Stroble’s passenger emerged from the cabin. The “little fella” wore a down jacket, jeans, and a hat from which a fringe of brown hair sprouted at the back. A battered leather camera bag dangled from his shoulder, the mark of a tourist out for a pleasant excursion, but the expression on the man’s face did not seem particularly pleasant.

  The captain touched the brim of his cap. “Good afternoon to you, then,” he called as the man negotiated the gangplank. “We’ll be departing at one and again at seven, if you should need that long.”

  “I should hope not.” The man clung heavily to the guide rope as he traversed the short walkway. Stroble winked at Zuriel, then leaned upon the deck railing.

  “This fella here is Zuriel Smith,” he called, pointing toward Zuriel. “He’s a good sort, and he might be willing to show you the way out to the lighthouse. Might save you some time.”

  The man turned, his dark brown eyes taking in Zuriel’s form in one swift glance. “I don’t need a guided tour.”

  “It’s not a tour, only a friendly point in the right direction,” Zuriel answered, shrugging inside his coat. “I have to walk back that way no matter what you decide.”

  The man hesitated, lifting one gloved finger to stroke the end of his clipped mustache. “All right, then,” he finally said, nodding at the captain. “I’ll try to make it back in an hour. I only need a few shots.”

  Zuriel smiled to himself as the bantam-weight photographer led the way off the dock. He knew almost nothing about this man—only that he would somehow provide an answer to Georgie’s prayer.

  Lengthening his stride, Zuriel caught up to the man as they passed the ferry office. “First time to Heavenly Daze?” he asked.

  The man nodded, his eyes set and serious beneath dark brows. “First and last, I hope,” he said, glancing up and down Main Street. “What is this place, a ghost town? Not a soul around.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Zuriel countered. “I’m here. Everyone else, I expect, is busy with their duties. We’ve just come through a busy tourist season, and most folks are settling down for winter and the holidays.” He nodded at Frenchman’s Fairest as they walked past. “That household is keeping a vigil. The owner, Edmund de Cuvier, is near death.”

  The man made a face. “That’s terrible. This place is bleak enough during the winter, but with death hanging over your heads—”

  Zuriel cast the man a reproving glance. “On the contrary, there’s nothing bleak about this island. You should come back when you have more time to look around.”

  “One look is all I need. The magazine I freelance for wanted a shot of this lighthouse for its spring edition. Though how I’m going to make it look like spring is beyond me.”

  Zuriel laughed softly. “The northern part of the island looks pretty much the same year round, except when there’s snow on the ground. It’s rocky up there, so we don’t get much vegetation, even in summer. The landscape shouldn’t be a problem, but getting close enough for a good shot might be. The lighthouse caretaker is a mite zealous in his responsibility. He doesn’t like people getting too close.”

  “I’ve got a zoom lens,” the man answered.

  “You’ll need it.”

  They passed through the intersection of Ferry Road and Main Street in silence. “Man,” the visitor said as they passed the mercantile, “I feel like I’ve stepped back in time.”

  Zuriel shivered as a gust of wind rocked the hanging sign outside the B&B. “Folks around here do like to keep things pretty much the same. That’s what brings the summer tourists. Everyone likes to take a walk down memory
lane.” His voice softened as he thought about the two hundred years he’d passed on the island. “Even me.”

  He inclined his head toward the Graham Gallery as they approached. “Here’s where I live. Could I interest you in a cup of cocoa before you head on up to the lighthouse?”

  He stopped outside the tidy picket fence surrounding the property and noticed that his new acquaintance cast a longing eye toward the sheltering porch.

  “Something hot sounds good,” the man admitted. “The boat ride about froze me solid.”

  “Then come in for a cup.” Zuriel opened the gate and gestured toward the cobblestone path. “Babette always keeps a pot of hot water on the stove, and there’s instant coffee or cocoa or whatever you like.”

  “Your wife?” the man asked, passing through the gate.

  “My landlady”—Zuriel flashed a smile—“and co-owner of the Graham Gallery, home of the finest art and most humble pottery in these parts. You can look around while you drink your cocoa, and I’d advise you to drink until you’re pretty well defrosted. The lighthouse is still a good walk from here.”

  The bells above the door jangled as they entered, and a moment later Babette emerged from the kitchen, her face flushed and her hands wet. She hesitated, a question in her eyes, when she saw the stranger in her foyer.

  “Babette,” Zuriel stepped forward, “I was wondering if you had some hot water on the stove. My friend here is determined to walk out to the lighthouse, but I think we ought to fortify him for the journey by putting something warm in his belly.”

  “Why, certainly.” Babette dried her hands on her apron, then came forward and smiled at the stranger. “I’m Babette Graham. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Pierce Bedell.” After removing his hat, the man shook her hand and bowed his head in an almost-courtly gesture. “This is a lovely establishment. Quite charming.”

  “Oh.” Babette blushed prettily and waved her hand toward the showroom. “It’s a mess right now, with all that plastic over everything. Our sales season ended last month, and we generally keep everything put away until spring.”

  “An unexpected pleasure, to meet another art aficionado.” Mr. Bedell patted the leather bag at his side. “I’m here as a freelance photographer, but I’m really an art dealer. I have clients in Boston, Portland, even as far west as Chicago.”

  “Really?” Babette’s eyes widened.

  Recognizing an opportunity to be of service, Zuriel took a step toward the kitchen, then turned. “Coffee, cocoa, or tea, Mr. Bedell?”

  “Um, coffee. I take it black.” The man moved toward the double French doors that led into the gallery showroom. “May I look around?”

  “Please.” Babette made a nervous gesture toward the doors, then pulled her hand back. “Help yourself.”

  Moving into the kitchen, Zuriel heard the creak of the doors that led into the gallery. An inch of dark brown liquid remained in the bottom of Charles’s coffeepot, so he sloshed coffee into a stoneware mug, then set it on a tray and hurried into the gallery.

  “This is an adorable piece.” Zuriel entered the showroom in time to see Bedell point toward one of his salt-glazed teapots. “And so reasonable! Is the artist local?”

  “As local as can be,” Babette answered, her voice dry. “The artist is Zuriel—the fellow who’s offering you coffee right now.”

  Bedell froze in surprise, then threw back his head and let out a great peal of laughter, the first glimpse of joy Zuriel had seen in the man.

  “Wonderful!” he said, taking the mug from the tray. He looked again at Babette. “This really is a beautiful piece. I’d love to buy it—should I pay you or the artist?”

  Zuriel grinned as he lowered the tray. In all his years of working for the Grahams, no one had ever offered to buy anything directly from him. He didn’t want the money; of course, he had no need for earthly possessions. But Babette’s response might prove interesting …

  She didn’t hesitate. “Zuriel has been some gracious to us, but he’s your friend. If you want the teapot, I’m sure you can buy it directly from him.”

  Zuriel wrapped his arms around the tray and hugged it to his chest. Despite the financial strain on her family, Babette had retained a generous heart.

  “I’ll think about the teapot,” Bedell said, moving toward a row of paintings draped in plastic. “May I look at these?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Bedell took a perfunctory sip from the coffee mug, then set it on the edge of a shelf, dropped his camera bag, and began to flip through the standing frames.

  Babette lifted a brow as if to ask, “What gives?”

  Zuriel shrugged.

  “Very soothing seascape,” Bedell murmured, eyeing a scene Charles had painted last summer. “But what’s this card at the bottom?”

  Babette let out a sharp laugh. “My husband is not only an artist, but an incurable storyteller. He likes to include a short story or essay with each painting. He says it makes the paintings more personal.”

  “My dear lady,” Bedell murmured, squinting downward at the painting, “if a picture paints a thousand words, why would anyone add to such art? This card is unnecessary, redundant.”

  Behind Bedell’s back, Babette winked at Zuriel.

  “What a tasteful portrait,” Bedell said, studying another painting. “Most exquisite.”

  “All our paintings are tasteful,” Babette answered, casting Zuriel a worried glance. “After all, I have a five-year-old son. I look for artists who deal as much with shadow and implication as with, um, anatomical detail.”

  Bedell cast a quick grin over his shoulder. “I understand, Madame. A wise decision, no doubt.”

  He moved to another rack of paintings, lifted the plastic, then stiffened. “Eureka,” he breathed, “I have found it.”

  Zuriel and Babette looked at each other as she asked, “What did you find?”

  “This—this incredible piece,” Bedell whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp in the room. “Such colors! Such honesty! Such … there is no word but passion! It is stark and primitive, yes, but this is the most genuine work I have seen in years.”

  With curiosity snapping in her eyes, Babette walked over and peered past Bedell’s shoulder. Zuriel felt his stomach drop when her gaze caught and held his. “Oh,” she said, her voice flat, “The Puffin.”

  “It is a masterpiece!” Bedell pulled it from the rack with both hands, then carried it to the display easel at the front of the room. With the afternoon sun brightening the window, Zuriel had to admit Georgie’s painting was attractive.

  “I have a client in Boston,” Bedell was saying, one finger pressed to his mustache, “who would be thrilled to add this to her collection. She loves the Maine seashore, you see, and hasn’t seen a real puffin in years. I’m certain I could sell this to her.”

  “Really?” Babette’s voice was a whimper in the room.

  “I’d stake my life on it.” Bedell ran his finger over the bold G in the lower right corner. “And the artist is—?”

  “Georgie,” Babette whispered, her voice fainter than air.

  “Zhorzh-ay,” Bedell corrected. “I should have recognized his work immediately. In any case”—he pulled a checkbook from his inner coat pocket, then turned to Babette—“I’d like to take this painting to Boston. Let’s see—suppose I offer you ten for it?”

  Babette’s face fell. Zuriel knew she’d probably spent five times that amount on the frame.

  “I really can’t part with that picture, I’m sorry.” She pushed a hank of hair from her brow and gave him a sad smile. “It was a gift. It really shouldn’t be in the gallery at all, but our roof was leaking, so I moved it—”

  “All right—ten now and five more when I sell the painting. That’s fifteen, and at that price I’ll be lucky to break even.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Zuriel stepped between Babette and the art dealer, effectively cutting off their conversation. Mindful of his heavenly mission, he lowered his
gaze to study Babette’s face. “Think of Georgie.” He bent closer to whisper in her ear. “He wanted you to sell that picture. If you do, no matter what the sales price, he’ll know he did something to help his family.”

  She looked away, maternal love and pride struggling on her face. “All right,” she said, sighing. “I’ll sell it. But only because Georgie wanted me to.”

  “Zhorzh-ay,” Bedell said, scrawling on his check. “And to whom should I make this check payable?”

  “The Graham Gallery.” Babette rolled her eyes at Zuriel, then flashed him a wicked grin that said ten dollars is better than nothing.

  Zuriel grinned back, knowing Georgie would think the amount a princely sum. Ten dollars could buy a lot of saltwater taffy at the mercantile.

  As he stepped forward to wrap the painting in brown paper, Zuriel heard the satisfying sound of paper ripping from a checkbook. Babette took the check and dropped it on the desk, then opened the drawer and fumbled for the ball of twine they hadn’t used in over a month.

  “We hope you like the painting, even if you’re not able to resell it,” she said, freeing a chain of paper clips from the twine. “Georgie will be thrilled to hear that we sold his first painting.”

  Pierce Bedell’s smile nearly jumped out from under his mustache. “This was his first? What luck! This will add tremendous value!”

  Babette’s face twisted in concern. “You do understand, don’t you? The Puffin was painted by a boy.”

  Bedell laughed as Zuriel finished wrapping the painting. “My dear lady, we are all boys at heart. We are all children in a sea of life’s experiences.”

  “No, I mean …”

  Babette’s voice trailed off as Bedell took the wrapped painting, tucked it under his arm, then glanced at his watch. “My heavens, the ferry will be leaving. Guess I won’t make it out to that blasted lighthouse after all. But that’s fine. I’ve found something far more valuable.”

  Slinging his camera bag over his shoulder, he settled his cap back on his head, then waved a cheery farewell. “Call me if you acquire another Zhorzh-ay. My number’s on the check.”