Grace in Autumn (10 page)

As she turned to go, she saw Elezar standing by the center post of Vernie's front porch. He was watching her, a look of marked concern on his face.

“You must think me ill-mannered, tending to a dog before looking after a lady,” he said, his tone apologetic. “Truth is, you didn't look much hurt.”

Babette forced a smile. “I'm afraid the only thing hurt was my pride.”

“So everything's fine with you and yours?”

Babette opened her mouth, intending to give him a polite, reserved answer, but her true feelings spilled out in a rush. “Actually, Elezar, things aren't so fine. I think I've just made a major mistake—my brain or my ethics or something went to sleep on me, and for a moment I lost my bearings. I was running to catch the ferry to set things right, but—well, you saw what happened.”

Elezar nodded, one corner of his mouth twisting upward. When he spoke again, his voice rang with depth and authority. “Listen to your heart, Babette. If the Spirit of God is speaking, you listen carefully.”

What did that mean? Her heart was filled with confusing impulses and emotions, so how was she to know which ideas came from God and which were born of her own selfishness?

Babette raked her hand through her hair, then smiled a polite farewell. “Better get going,” she said, gesturing toward her house. “I've got things to do.”

Sitting alone in the art gallery, Zuriel stilled his spirit and listened to the sounds of life in the house. Upstairs, Charles worked on his latest manuscript, the heavy click, clack, ching! of the old typewriter sending a staccato vibration through the walls. From another room, Zuriel heard the sound of childish singing—which meant Georgie was painting again. The boy loved to paint, and Zuriel truly believed the Lord had given him a unique gift. Like his father, Georgie saw stories in every object, but he turned those stories into art through the medium of paint and paper.

Like a bird who warbles when he builds a nest, Georgie sang as he created. Babette had once told Zuriel that Georgie's pediatrician asked her if the boy ever sang around the house. “All the time,” she'd answered, wondering at the significance of the question.

“Then he's a happy child,” the pediatrician told her, “because happy children sing.”

Zuriel smiled at the doctor's insight. Sometimes humans amazed him with their perspicacity. They grasped so many truths, but others, including some of the most basic and eternal, eluded them. He would never understand why so many humans could believe that human life developed from nothingness, yet refuse to accept the more logical truth that God created man from clay and the breath of life.

At the moment, he was struggling to understand how a family as happy as the Grahams had become so . . . compartmentalized. Ever since the end of the tourist season, each of them had seemed to go in a separate direction— Charles to his writing room, Babette to her kitchen, Georgie to his schoolroom at the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, then to wherever little boys liked to roam after school. The Scriptures clearly taught that a threefold cord could not be easily broken, but the members of this family had become so independent that any one of them could snap at any moment.

At the sound of footsteps on the porch, Zuriel stood and moved toward the front door. A moment later Babette entered the foyer, and from the distressed expression on her face he knew she hadn't been able to catch the ferry.

“Had a little accident,” she said, apparently reading the question on his face. “Tallulah and I had a collision on Main Street. Neither of us are hurt, but tomorrow I'm going to have a bruise the size of Wisconsin on my elbow.”

“But Mr. Bedell—”

“Got away.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I'm going to leave a message on his answering machine. If it has a time and date stamp, at least he'll know I tried to reach him as soon as possible.”

She stepped into the gallery, then stood behind the tall work desk and picked up the phone. Turning to Zuriel, she said, “Don't tell Georgie we sold his painting.” She lowered her voice. “Because I'm going to have to take it back.”

“I won't say a word,” Zuriel promised.

Moving stiffly, as if the action caused her pain, Babette smoothed the crinkled check on the polished desk, then dialed Mr. Bedell's telephone number. Zuriel stepped back into the gallery and pretended to check the pottery inventory as she placed the call, then he heard her speak in the strangely artificial voice people always used when addressing an answering machine: “Hello, this is Babette Graham, from the Graham Gallery. I really must speak to you, Mr. Bedell, about the painting you bought today. Will you call me as soon as you get in? Thanks very much.”

She lowered the phone back into its cradle, then blew out her cheeks. “It's done,” she said, cocking a brow at Zuriel. “It may cost us a new roof, but we've done the right thing.”

Zuriel smiled, glad that she had obeyed the voice of her conscience, but a little confused by the day's latest development. He'd been sent to escort Mr. Bedell to the Graham Gallery so Georgie's prayer could be answered. He did, and it was. So what was Babette doing now, and how would her actions affect Georgie?

Tugging on his beard, he turned to the window, anxious to see what changes the next few days would bring.

After Zuriel left the gallery, Babette walked to her desk in the kitchen. She slipped Mr. Bedell's check into an envelope, then placed the envelope atop the stack of roofing bids, wishing that Bedell's ten thousand dollars could cover her financial needs as easily as she could cover her bills with his check.

Strange, that she'd been handed ten thousand dollars when she needed almost that exact amount to replace her roof. Odd that the money had come from a painting Georgie wanted her to sell. In simple, childlike faith he had given her an offering, and his offering had brought in exactly what she needed . . .

She froze as a sudden thought struck her. Was Pierce Bedell's visit an odd coincidence . . . or heavenly provision? She had never in her life experienced a miracle quite like this one, but there was a first time for everything.

Perhaps it would be wrong to return the money. After all, she'd begged God to meet their needs, and he had promised to take care of his children. Hadn't Pastor Wickam recently reminded them to be like lilies of the field, not worrying about food or clothes because the heavenly Father would take care of them?

She could easily cash the check and say nothing. Why not? The man wanted a puffin painting and he bought one, and she'd been honest with him. She hadn't even wanted to sell the painting, but her reluctance only seemed to increase his eagerness to buy. She would never need to say anything further about it, because Pierce Bedell, whoever he was, obviously knew nothing about the real art world. He was probably a graduate from a liberal arts college who'd taken one class in art appreciation and now fancied himself an expert. But he wasn't, obviously, because he'd assumed the puffin painting was something spectacular while he'd passed over Charles's excellent seascapes as if they were little more than art on black velvet . . .

If he was truly ignorant, maybe she ought to protect him from himself . . . but could she do it at the expense of her family?

How would she ever know what to do?

Chapter Four

B
abette spent the entire weekend battling her conscience. As tense as a bowstring, she snapped at Georgie when he spilled milk at the breakfast table, and she kept her distance from Charles even on Sunday. She didn't want to discuss the puffin matter with him—first, because he might tell her to return the money, and second, because she couldn't bring herself to tell him that his five-year-old had sold a puffin picture for more than Charles had ever earned on a single painting.

Not even Zuriel was safe from her crusty mood. On Monday morning he suddenly stepped around the gallery corner, startling her so badly that she dropped the beautiful teapot in her hands and screamed out her frustration. Five minutes later, she had to apologize for screaming and destroying one of his best pieces. He was helping her sweep up the broken pottery when the gallery phone rang.

She froze.

“Answer it,” Zuriel said, his face displaying an uncanny awareness of her mental state. “It might be Mr. Bedell.”

Babette lifted the phone and held it to her ear. “Good afternoon, this is the Graham Gallery.”

Zuriel leaned forward as Babette's face paled. The caller had to be Pierce Bedell. Few people called in the off-season, and none of the usual suspects would make the color drain from Babette's face.

He rose from his stool, about to leave and give her privacy, but she covered the phone with one hand. “Please, stay,” she mouthed the words. “I may need you.”

Relieved, Zuriel sat back down and lifted a brow when Babette pressed the button to activate the speakerphone.

“Mr. Bedell,” Babette said, setting her mouth in a determined line as she crossed her arms and faced the phone, “I'm glad you called. I wanted to be sure you understood the background of the puffin painting. I told you the artist was a boy—what I didn't tell you is that the boy is my five-year-old son, Georgie Graham.”

For a moment, the static hum of the speakerphone was the only sound in the room, then Bedell's piercing laugh ripped through the stillness. “Your son? Why, that's delicious news! Marvelous! You have the artist on the premises, so you can easily have him paint another!”

Babette's blue eyes widened. “You—surely you don't want another one?”

“My dear, that's my good news. I do want another puffin. I sold the first painting, for twic—well, for an amount that adequately covered my expenses. I was planning to bring a check for the balance when I return to your quaint little island this week, and I was hoping you could find another painting for me.”

Babette eyed the phone as if it were a bad smell. “But—isn't this fraud or something?”

“Of course not!” Bedell laughed again. “Fraud is when you claim something is what it isn't. I told the buyer the Puffin was a charming primitive. Which it is.”

“But you said it was painted by Zhorzh-ay somebody or other.”

“Zhorzh-ay, Georgie, what's the difference? We're still referring to the same person—a boy. A prodigy. How delightful!”

Babette looked at Zuriel, a frown hovering above her eyes. “I don't know about this, Mr. Bedell.”

“Call me Pierce, please. If we're going to be in business together, we should dispense with formality.”

She drew a deep breath. “I'm just not sure whether this is the right thing to do.”

“My dear lady,” Bedell's voice dropped to a pleasant drawl, “let me tell you a true story. My sister, a housewife from Ohio, went to a yard sale and bought a pair of salt-and-pepper shakers. While she was there, the man of the house offered to sell her a few other salt-and-pepper shaker sets, with only one catch—she had to buy the entire collection for one dollar per set. His late wife, it seemed, had collected salt and pepper shakers her entire life.”