Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

  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.” Bi
rdie 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.

  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.”