Grace in Autumn

by Lori Copeland

  Purpose and determination kept her from arguing. “Charles, I was wrong to say those things. If you believe in your dream, you should pursue it. I don’t know what will happen, but if you really believe this is something God wants you to do—”

  “You didn’t say those things.” His heavy finger thumped the Sticky Note. “Stellar Cross did.”

  She hesitated, blinking with bafflement. “The Stellar Cross?”

  “He returned my manuscript.” Charles heaved the mountain of paper onto his cluttered desk. “He obviously thinks I should stick to my day job.”

  Babette lowered her gaze. She had come up to encourage her husband, to apologize for her bluntness, and to give her blessing so he could continue to exercise his creativity however he saw fit. But Stellar Cross had smashed Charles’s dream more effectively than she ever could.

  “I’m surprised,” she began, proceeding carefully, “that a busy man like Stellar Cross would even take the time to read a manuscript from … well, from an unknown. The fact that he did says something, Charles.”

  “Ayuh, it does.” He lifted a folded sheet of paper that had fallen to the floor and handed it to Babette. “Read that and you’ll understand everything.”

  Babette unfolded the letter, a handwritten note, and saw that it had been signed by Florence Cross, the famous novelist’s wife.

  “My husband does not read unsolicited manuscripts,” she had written, “but he recognized your name and decided to make an exception. He loves your art, Mr. Graham, and one of your seascapes is hanging over the fireplace in our library. My husband is a harsh critic of writing, I’m afraid, because he has spent years studying the craft and has little patience for beginners. So forgive his brusqueness … and know how much we appreciate your beautiful artistry.”

  Babette folded the note and held it for a long moment before speaking. “Honey, I came up here to apologize.”

  “No need. You were right. I stink.”

  “You don’t stink.” She sighed. “You have a great gift, but maybe you’re neglecting it. Maybe you’re like a kid holding a whole bag of peppermints, but you keep reaching for somebody else’s lollipop.”

  Charles’s mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “I guess I’m not the Renaissance man I thought I was.”

  “Maybe not.” Babette stood and walked to him, then bent and draped her arm around his shoulder. “But you’re the Renaissance man I love. And you’re the father Georgie adores. You’re a wonderful artist, and the people in this town respect you.”

  “But my painting—” A muscle flexed at his jaw. “It’s not good enough to support this family. We couldn’t afford to fix the roof, and we had to rely on Georgie to buy a computer—”

  “Your art is good enough. It’s great.” She bent until they were eye-to-eye. “But you’ve only been painting six months out of the year. Maybe our profits would increase if you painted a few months more … and you would satisfy your need for variety if you painted something besides seascapes. You’re a talented artist, Charles, and you know the great Creator. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Art won’t pay all the bills.”

  Babette drew a deep breath, feeling a dozen different emotions collide. Part of his glum reaction was her fault, for she had whined about the bills and the budget, wanting Charles to feel guilty for allowing her to carry the burden of bookkeeping.

  But God had given her a head for figures, so the burden was a by-product of her own stubbornness. For years she had scrupulously trusted God to handle the tidy ten percent she gave him each month but refused to trust him with the ninety percent she retained. Clinging to their dollars, she had fussed and fumed over expenses while Edmund de Cuvier personified the key to accumulating eternal treasure while living in peace on earth.

  Be a channel of blessing.

  “Honey,” she softened her tone, “God will supply our needs. He always has … I see that now. We can trust him for the future, too.”

  “You think so?”

  The computer chair creaked as Charles’s hands closed around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Babette giggled as she and her husband tilted backward at a dangerous angle.

  “I know so,” she whispered, running her hands through the wisps of her husband’s hair.

  Creeping up the stairs, Georgie turned the corner of the landing, then slapped his hands over his eyes. His parents were both sitting in one chair, kissing!

  “Mom and Dad,” he yelled, trying not to look, “there are men downstairs to see you.”

  “What?”

  When he lowered his hands, his mom stood by the desk, smoothing the wrinkles from her jeans. Dad stood, too, and he was grinning.

  “Who’s downstairs?” Mom asked, moving past Georgie toward the landing.

  “The puffin man,” Georgie said, following her, “and some guy I never seed before.”

  “You’ve never seen,” his dad corrected, dropping his hand to Georgie’s shoulder. “Did you leave them alone in the gallery?”

  “Z’s with them.” A tingle of excitement, a feeling almost like Christmas, moved through Georgie. He didn’t know what was happening, but this was not like any other day-before-Thanksgiving he could remember. First of all, there was all that stuff with Mr. Edmund going to heaven, then his parents were kissing, and now the puffin man was downstairs with a stranger who carried a video camera and a big black bag of stuff.

  Eager to discover what it all meant, Georgie skipped down the stairs behind his mom and dad.

  Grateful that she wouldn’t have to postpone her explanation to Pierce Bedell, Babette smiled in relief when she crossed the foyer and saw him in the gallery with Zuriel. The two men, accompanied by a stranger, were standing before one of Charles’s seascapes. She caught herself hoping that Bedell would be as taken with Charles’s work as he had been with Georgie’s, but when she entered they turned to face her without a backward glance.

  “Madame Graham,” Bedell said, coming forward to greet her with a warm handshake, “I am so glad to find you at home today. I’m sorry we didn’t call ahead of time, but John thought it might be nice to catch you unprepared— so we could have sort of an impromptu visit.” He laced his fingertips beneath his chin, then forced his hands outward in an explosive gesture. “Ta da! Surprise!”

  Speechless with astonishment, Babette looked at the third man. He wore a denim jacket and jeans, but he carried a video camera on his shoulder, while an impressive array of gadgets littered the floor by his feet. “You must be John,” she said.

  “John Wilkerson, from WCSH,” the man said, awkwardly shifting the video camera in order to extend his hand. “News at Five, Channel Six.”

  Babette turned to Bedell. “I think we’d like a full explanation.”

  “Ayuh.” Charles’s voice echoed from behind her. “We would.”

  “Of course.” Bedell blazed his smile around the room. “Marcia Goldman, program director for WCSH, has hired me to do a segment on our genius Georgie. I’ll interview him, John will record the interview, and we’ll be live at five on the local news. Marcia’s hoping the network affiliate in Boston will pick up the clip, then we should get some major national coverage before the week is out—”

  “I’ve seen the puffin paintings,” Wilkerson interrupted, shifting his gaze from Babette to Charles. “They’re magnificent.”

  “Mr. Bedell,” Babette began.

  “I know this is irregular,” Bedell said, spreading his hands again, “but this is a bit of an unusual situation. Ordinarily the station would send a reporter and a news truck, but with the holiday, there’s no way we could arrange a full news spot. So I’m going to act as interviewer, and John will tape the piece—”

  “Babs,” Charles’s voice dripped with weariness, “will you handle this, please? Georgie and I are going to go upstairs and play a computer game.”

  In dazed exasperation, Babette watched her husband and grinning son move toward the stairs. What was she supposed to do? She had promised Georgi
e there would be no more puffin paintings, but she hadn’t counted on Bedell showing up with the local news and plans for national exposure. If she sent these two away without a full explanation, she might look as though she were trying to hide the truth about Georgie. But if she painted him as a child prodigy, she’d be right back in the quicksand she desperately wanted to escape.

  She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, murmured a quick, “Lord, help!” and then caught Zuriel’s eye. Some secret twinkled there, and she felt a wave of relief when he stepped forward.

  “Babette,” he said, his smile deepening the dimple at the border of his beard, “maybe these men would like to see Georgie’s work at the Kid Kare Center.”

  Then, in a barely comprehensible flash, she knew the answer.

  After nodding her thanks to Zuriel, she gave her visitors the brightest smile she could muster. “Gentlemen,” she said, leading the way toward the front door, “follow me if you want to see some real works of art.”

  The scents of cinnamon, roasting turkey, and spice candles greeted them when Dana Klackenbush opened the door of her home. “Why, Babette,” she said, taking in her visitors with one wide-eyed glance, “I didn’t expect company today. We’re baking for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “I know, and I hate to bother you,” Babette said, gesturing toward the two men behind her. “But these gentlemen would like to see your classroom. I know you have some of Georgie’s pictures on the wall.”

  Dana’s face brightened as she stepped back to let them in. “Indeed, we do. We have an excellent program for daycare drop-ins and full-time students, even though Georgie is our only resident student right now—”

  “Just a quick look, Dana,” Babette interrupted, stepping into the foyer, “that’s all we need.”

  Dana pointed to the doorway at the right of her foyer, and Babette led the way into the sunny space that served as the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center classroom. Four low tables occupied the center space, but the visitors’ eyes were drawn to an array of colorful pictures on the wall. Smiling, Babette crossed her arms as Bedell and Wilkerson exclaimed over the vibrant portraits of puffins, sea gulls, and whales.

  “What colors! What style!” Bedell gushed, applauding one particularly exuberant painting of a lobster. “I didn’t know our boy liked to paint anything but puffins.”

  “He likes to paint all sorts of animals,” Dana said, shooting Babette a curious glance, “most children do.”

  “Such an air of whimsy,” Wilkerson said, lifting his camera to his shoulder. He put his eye to the viewfinder, then pulled his head back and motioned for Babette to step aside. “If you’ll move to the right, Mrs. Graham, I’ll get a shot of Pierce and these paintings. We’ll do a voiceover about this evidence of Georgie’s budding talent and expanding interests—”

  “Georgie’s talent?” Dana shot the cameraman a twisted smile. “What about the others?”

  Wilkerson froze.

  Bedell’s mouth tightened. “What others? I thought Georgie was the only student.”

  “He is the only resident student,” Dana said, looking to Babette. “But other kids drop in quite often. These pictures”—she gestured around the room—“were painted by many children, from several different places and walks of life.”

  Bedell’s face rippled with chagrin.

  Crossing her arms, Babette gave him a confident smile. “Ayuh,” she said, “these are great works of art. They are simple, whimsical, and beautiful. But they’re not particularly unique. Almost all children paint with this kind of freedom and perspective.”

  Bedell frowned, his gaze level under drawn brows. “Impossible. I know art, and I know genius when I see it.”

  “Perhaps,” Dana said, reaching out to touch the textured surface of a child’s seascape, “all children are geniuses when it comes to art. I know they see a much simpler world than we do. Or maybe they see with innocent eyes.”

  Babette pointed to a wide painting of a spouting whale, marked in the lower corner with Georgie’s trademark initial. “Georgie may have talent, but it’s too soon to force him into professional painting. I want him to be free to explore all the gifts God has given him. As for his art— it is lovely, but any mother in America probably has had something just as priceless on her refrigerator door.”

  She motioned for Wilkerson to lower the camera. “My Georgie isn’t going to sell any more puffins. I was wrong to take the joy of painting away from him. I’m not going to do that anymore.”

  “But,” Bedell stuttered, a cold, congested expression settling on his face, “what about the paintings? What about my reputation? I told people those paintings were art—”

  “They are art,” Babette answered, moving toward the door. “And the people who bought them from you got a bargain. To me, they’re priceless.” When she reached the doorway, she turned and lifted one shoulder in what she hoped was an elegant, casual shrug. “If you want a refund, Mr. Bedell, I’ll give you one. But I’d want the paintings back, of course.”

  “I can’t retrieve the paintings.” Bedell raked his hands through his hair. “And we have a contract!”

  “Consider it canceled,” Babette said. “Payment was upon delivery of each painting, and there will be no more deliveries. So that settles everything.”

  She nodded farewell to Wilkerson, blew a kiss to Dana, and gave Bedell a final smile as she lingered in the doorway. “I wish you both a blessed Thanksgiving, gentlemen.”

  After a dinner of chowder and tuna fish sandwiches, Charles went into the gallery to check on his paint supply. Babette stepped into the foyer to watch him a moment, then smiled and returned to the kitchen.

  He would learn to celebrate his gift. In some ways, he was a little boy at heart, a lot like Georgie.

  And for all her budgeting and planning, she had to learn to live by faith. Through her beloved son, God had given her a precious gift and used that first painting to supply some urgent needs.

  She glanced up at the ceiling, where nothing but a brown stain remained of her near-constant leak. Next weekend, after the holiday, she would pick up some white ceiling paint from the mercantile and freshen this room.

  She ran water in the sink, then squirted a capful of dishwashing liquid beneath the streaming hot water. As the bubbles foamed around the dirty dishes, she realized how close she’d come to breaking her son’s heart.

  “Lord, forgive me,” she whispered, trailing her hand through the bubbles. “When I think of the wall I was building between me and Georgie—”

  “Mom?”

  She turned. Georgie stood beside her now, holding one of his Sunday school papers.

  “Mom”—Georgie wore a serious look as he contemplated a picture of Jesus on the cross—“Zuriel says we have to ask forgiveness when we do wrong, but Jesus never did wrong things. I don’t understand why he had to die.”

  In that moment, just before turning to answer her son, Babette silently lifted another prayer of praise and thanksgiving.

  Fortified by coffee and free doughnuts, Buddy Franklin delivered nine more bags of mail throughout the morning.

  Shortly after the noon ferry arrived, he returned to the bakery with bad news.

  Twenty-one additional sacks had just landed on the dock. And Captain Stroble sent word that future deliveries would be deposited at the ferry office. The citizens of Heavenly Daze would have to transport and deliver the mail from that point. In other words, Birdie deduced, the captain’s bad back was acting up.

  Vernie came in around one o’clock to deliver Birdie’s and Bea’s turkey. The mostly-thawed bird had to be stored in the refrigerator, she warned, as if Birdie had never cooked a turkey in her life.

  As Abner took charge of the poultry, Vernie moved to the window and shook her head. “Terrible thing about Edmund,” she said, her voice dropping to a desolate tone. “I suppose you’ve heard by now.”

  Birdie hurried to the window. “I hadn’t heard. Did he pass?”

  “Last night, apparently. I haven’
t heard the whole story, but I know Pastor Wickam’s been over there this morning. And I saw them carry the body out a while ago.”

  Turning, Birdie caught Abner’s eye. After wiping his hands on a towel, Abner removed his apron. “If it’s okay with you, Birdie, I’ll go see if Caleb needs anything.”

  He returned later, his eyes gleaming with compassion as he told Birdie, Bea, and Vernie that Edmund had passed away in his sleep.

  “Oh, my,” Birdie murmured, wiping at sudden tears. “He was a good man.”

  “Ayuh,” Abner seconded, “he’s always trusted in the Lord for his strength.”

  Without another word, Birdie and Bea slipped into their apartment, and emerged a few moments later in visiting clothes. Abner had guessed their intentions, for he handed three wrapped loaves of focaccia for Birdie to take to the family.

  The sisters walked across the island in silence, then knocked at Frenchman’s Fairest. When a red-eyed Annie opened the door, Birdie extended her arms. The young girl fell into her embrace, openly weeping.

  “Thank you for coming.” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Aunt Olympia needs friends right now.”

  Smoothing Annie’s back, Birdie nodded. “We’ll do all we can to help her through this.”

  They stayed only briefly, for many people were coming and going. In the midst of hushed conversations about the funeral, Birdie heard someone say that Olympia had asked that the services be held Saturday in Heavenly Daze. The island was Edmund’s home, so Pastor Wickam would perform the eulogy and Edmund would be buried in the cemetery behind the church. It seemed only right, somehow, for Edmund to take his place beside Jacques de Cuvier and the other sea captains who had spent their last days on the island.

  Before they left, Olympia embraced Birdie and Bea on the porch, holding onto the women for support. For the first time in years, Birdie sensed genuine appreciation from the island’s female curmudgeon.

  “Thank you for coming,” Olympia whispered. For the briefest moment she broke down, her frail body shaking as she openly wept into a handkerchief. Birdie patted her back, understanding that Olympia needed to allow the months of pent-up emotion to escape. When the wave of despair passed, she leaned weakly against Birdie for strength.