Grace in Autumn (15 page)

Cool, but disturbing, Abner decided as he climbed the steps of Heavenly Daze Community Church later that afternoon. When Bea saw the sack of mail—with every letter asking for a response—she'd thrown up her hands and told Birdie it would take a month to answer all those letters. “I may be an angel assistant,” she'd said, her head bobbing, “but I'm not superhuman. I can only write so fast.”

Winded after his brisk walk, Abner sat down in the church vestibule to catch his breath. That's where Gavriel found him, huffing and puffing under Winslow Wickam's portrait.

Tsking, Gavriel brought his hands to his trim waist. “Perhaps, brother Abner, you have been sampling your own cooking too often?”

Blushing, Abner patted his ever-widening girth. “I fear you're right, brother.”

The angel captain, who materialized only when needed, sported a head of long white hair and eyes as rich as the chocolate Abner put in his cakes. Abner tended to think the senior angel possessed an unfair advantage—his mortal body didn't have to endure as much as the others'. Of course, if the truth be told, Abner had forced his body to endure all sorts of delicious treats, sinfully rich cakes, scrumptious cookies, and oh, those spice pies he was baking for the holidays . . .

But he'd come to the church on business.

Standing, Abner gestured toward the quiet of the sanctuary, and Gavriel nodded. Once they were seated on a back pew, the two angels bowed their heads, communing with the Lord before they set about the business of speaking with each other.

When they had finished their prayers, Gavriel leaned one arm on the pew back and turned to face his friend. “Is there a problem at the bakery?”

Abner shook his head. “No, not the bakery. But it seems the post office is suddenly being deluged with ‘heavenly' requests. Do you know anything about this?”

Gavriel adopted a thoughtful expression. “I'm not aware of anything, and the Lord has given me no specific instruction in this area. What sort of requests are these?”

Abner looked toward the window. “Some are amusing, but most are heartbreaking. So far all the letters have come from children who are desperately seeking hope. In today's mail I read a couple of pleas for baby brothers and sisters and a dozen appeals for daddies to come home. There was one from a six-year-old looking for his lost canary, another begging that his severed leg be restored so he could play baseball. Bea and Birdie are doing their best to keep up with the volume, but if it keeps coming by the bagful, well, I don't know if they can do it. Heavenly Daze barely qualifies as a post office. If this angel mail keeps up, Bea will have to hire outside help.”

Gavriel stroked his chin. “Apparently there is a reason for the increased activity—spiritual interest, perhaps? Then again, perhaps people are beginning to confuse Heavenly Daze with the North Pole.”

“I don't know how things like this get started.”

“Often by eager retailers capitalizing on people's needs.”

“Needs?”

“The need to believe in something greater than themselves. That's why people turned the true story of Saint Nicholas into Santa Claus, a mythical demigod capable of fulfilling children's greatest desires. People who believe themselves too old or too sophisticated for Santa beg angels to dole out favors like sticks of peppermint candy.”

Abner shook his head. “There's no need to go to extremes. People have only to ask the Father to meet their needs.”

“Yes, but not every human knows the Lord as Father . . . and many who do have too much pride to bring their needs to him.” Gavriel's eyes grew distant. “‘Seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened.' It's so simple, yet they do not act as if they believe it.” He lowered his gaze, refocusing on Abner. “I'm not sure what spurred this present surge in mail—probably a tidbit in some travel magazine. But Bea's efforts are commendable, and perhaps the Lord wants the citizens of Heavenly Daze to help. In due time we will know.”

“Of course.” Abner nodded. “And all things will work together for good. I'm not doubting; I was only curious.”

“No harm in asking, Abner; the Father wants to share his heart with his servants. I would advise you to encourage Bea to continue her efforts. Meanwhile, I will speak to the Father about this strange situation and seek instruction.” His face lit with a smile. “Who knows? Perhaps Bea will have to petition the postmaster general for larger facilities in order to handle all the mail.”

Abner chuckled. “I'll continue to do all I can to assist Bea and Birdie. And the activity may stop as suddenly as it began. Thank you, Gavriel. I feel much better about the situation.”

Gavriel reached out to touch Abner's arm. Warmth, goodness, and joy surged between them. “It is my job, brother, and I am delighted to serve you. And I ask you to look for opportunities to serve the Grahams as well.”

“The Grahams?” Abner frowned. “Is something wrong at their house? Babette and Georgie were in the bakery this week—”

Gavriel stopped him. “Dark powers are at work, brother. Zuriel has asked for special prayer support at this time.”

“Of course.”

“And keep Salt Gribbon in your thoughts.”

“The light keeper?” Abner knew Gavriel looked after Salt, but he rarely interceded in the old man's life because Salt rarely asked for help. “Is there a problem at the lighthouse?”

Gavriel sighed. “Always.”

“Then I will pray—fervently.”

Chapter Seven

F
lush with a sense of completion now that the house had a beautiful new roof, on Monday morning, November 12, Babette set up Georgie's easel in the gallery, then pulled a large calendar from the desk and taped it to the French door. Beginning with the current date, she framed each Monday through Saturday with a bright red marker, purposely skipping Sundays and Thanksgiving. After all, no one should have to work on Sunday, and they all deserved a holiday.

She drew the last box around Saturday, December 22, then looked over her work. Thirty-five bright red boxes shone on the glossy paper, so Georgie would have thirty-five days in which to create seventy-eight original puffins.

She smiled when she heard the squeak of the stairs. “In here, Georgie,” she called, turning toward the foyer. Her son peered at her through the glass gallery door, his eyes puffy and his hair still tousled from sleep.

“Whatcha doing, Mom?”

“Come here, Son; I've got something to show you.”

He shuffled forward, nearly dropping the ragged blankie in his right hand. He'd slept with that flannel blanket since infancy, and she'd never had the heart to suggest that he toss the tattered thing away. But now that he was about to enjoy his first real job, perhaps the blankie would go the way of his teddy bear and pacifier.

“Look at this, Georgie.” She gestured toward the calendar, then knelt to meet him at eye level. “See these boxes on each date? Every day when you come home from kindergarten, the days marked in red are going to be workdays for you and me. We're going to make some money, enough for a golf cart and some really important things. Then, after thirty-five workdays, we're going to celebrate Christmas at Disney World in Florida.” She gave him the biggest grin she could muster. “Doesn't that sound like fun?”

Shock flickered over his face like summer lightning. “Disney World?”

“Ayuh.” She reached out and drew him close. “We're going to have a lot of fun. And all you have to do is paint puffins like the one you made for me to sell.”

He pulled out of her grasp. “But you already sold the puffin.”

“I know, dear. And it was very helpful. In fact, the woman who bought that puffin liked it so much that she told lots of other people about it. Now they want a puffin painting, too.”

Georgie shrugged. “Can't they paint their own puffins?”

Babette reinforced her smile. “I don't think so, honey. Some of them have never seen a puffin, and they like the way you paint them. So every afternoon after school, you and I will come in here and you will paint puffins. We need you to paint 2.2 puffins a day to meet our goal.”

The heavy lashes that shadowed his cheeks flew up. “I don't know what a tutu puffin is, Mom.”

Babette laughed. “Aw, sweetie, it's just a number. I meant that you'll need to paint two pictures and get started on the next one. That's all. We want you to paint puffins like you always do.”

Georgie digested this for a moment, then turned and moved toward the kitchen, his blanket dragging on the floor.

“Okay, Georgie?” Babette called. “Can we get started today after school?”

No answer.

“I've got your easel in here where the light is good. And we can use Dad's big paint box; he said it's okay. You can paint with any colors you want.”

From the kitchen, she heard the banging sound of the cabinet, and knew Georgie was pulling out his Frosty Flakes.

Sighing, she stood. He hadn't exactly warmed to the idea, but that was okay. There would be plenty of time for painting later.

At noon, after Georgie had returned from the Kid Kare Center and feasted on a fine lunch of clam chowder and a tuna fish sandwich, Babette called her son into the gallery. One look at his face told her he was no more inclined to paint now than he had been that morning. Anticipating this, she had hoped Charles would be able to help her persuade the boy, but that blasted computer had arrived at ten. Charles had been upstairs tinkering with it ever since.

Crossing her arms, she struggled to present her son with a pleasant, let's-get-down-to-business face. “Okay,” she told him, “it's time to paint. Are you ready?”

Georgie crinkled his nose, and Babette counted to three, a handy exercise in controlling her temper. “If you don't like your easel in here,” she said, her tone clipped as she faced her reluctant son, “where would you like me to put it?”

Georgie screwed up his face in thought. “Dad's office? So I can see the new computer?”

She nearly guffawed aloud. Charles wouldn't appreciate them barging in on him, but fathers and sons should spend quality time together . . .

“Fine.” She grabbed the easel with one hand and tucked the blank canvas beneath her arm. “Grab the paint box, then, and follow me upstairs.”

She'd crossed the foyer and climbed half the staircase before she realized Georgie wasn't behind her.

“George Louis Graham!” she yelled, not caring if she disturbed the great and mighty writer upstairs. “Get yourself up these stairs right this instant!”

With Charles's paint box weighing him down, Georgie dragged himself to the bottom of the staircase, then looked up at her. “I don't feel like painting,” he whined, his voice grating on her nerves. He rubbed his free hand over his belly. “My stomach hurts.”

Laden with the awkward easel and canvas, Babette gritted her teeth. “If you don't paint today,” she muttered, her brain racing through the calculations, “you'll have only thirty-four painting days before Christmas. That means you'll have to do 2.29 puffins a day. And if you get lazy, Georgie, we won't be able to go to Disney World at Christmas!”

Georgie dropped the paint box, a frown puckering the skin between his brown eyes into fine wrinkles. “I don't feel like going to Disney World. I feel like watching TV.”

While Babette teetered precariously on the stairs, Georgie turned and ran toward the den beyond the kitchen.

Babette sighed and leaned against the wall. Earning the family fortune was not going to be as easy as she had first thought.

Birdie hunkered deeper into the industrial-sized mixing bowl, ignoring the note of desperation in Abner's plea.

Covered to the elbows in soapy water, she kept scrubbing and singing: “When the roll is called up yonder . . . I'll be therrrreeeeer!”

“Birdie!”

Heaving a sigh, she dropped the sponge and straightened, then felt her heart tighten. Salt Gribbon stood behind the counter and must have entered the bakery sometime during her concert. From the embarrassed look on Abner's face, she reckoned he'd heard at least two choruses.