Grace in Autumn (2 page)

He nodded.

After releasing him, Bea turned the key and heard the electric motor spring to life. Finally, Buddy was in position. He hunched forward, ready for action, his hands on the back bumper.

“When I give it the juice, you push!” Bea yelled over her shoulder.

Shoving his hands in his coat pocket, Buddy straightened and squinted at her. “What?”

“Get your hands back on the cart! When I give it the juice, you push!”

“Seems to me,” he spoke slowly, as if carefully considering each word, “I ought to lift first. You're in a hole, Bea, and the only way to get something out of a hole is to pull it out.”

“Fine. Then pull.”

He screwed his face up into a human question mark. “Maybe we should make that a lift? I'd pull that tire out, but the cart's sitting on top of it and in the way—”

“Lift, push, pull, whatever! Just do something.”

“You don't have to holler.” Sulking, Buddy bent again, placing both hands on the rear fender.

Seizing the moment, Bea eased her foot down on the accelerator, then glanced over her shoulder to see the young man straining, eyes bulging, pushing for all he was worth. The cart rocked back and forth, spewing a wide arc of mud-colored snow pellets and splattering Buddy from head to foot.

Backwash rained down on the metal roof as the old cart endeavored to break loose. Surely it needed only a bit more power—

Slamming her foot down, Bea gave it all she had. The cart sprang forward, free at last, but Buddy Franklin must not have been expecting success. From her rearview mirror Bea saw him teeter off balance for an instant, arms wildly flailing, before falling face first in the mud.

The cart jumped the curb, took out one of the Grahams' shrubs, then returned to the pavement. After throwing a shouted thanks over her shoulder, Bea yelled, “Stop by the bakery and tell Abner I said to give you a hot Danish!”

Still sitting in the mud, Buddy Franklin straightened and stared after her with a dazed expression.

Shaking her head, Bea returned her gaze to the road. “Whatever,” she said, grinning as she headed north on Ferry Road.

Plink.

Sitting at the worn desk in her kitchen, Babette Graham lifted her gaze and stared at the ceiling. Snow had been falling outside her window for half an hour, and that long awaited plink assured her that her containment system was working. The snow had melted upon her tin roof, dripped down the broken seams, seeped through the rotten wood, flowed along the attic rafters, traversed her bedroom from ceiling to floor, found the lowest spot in her worn pine planks, insinuated itself through the space between the upstairs and downstairs, then landed in her kitchen bucket. Mindless molecules of water were lining up to obey the law of gravity and follow the paths of least resistance.

She stood to check the pail's position. Another drop, hanging in the dead center of the brown spot on the kitchen ceiling, launched and landed squarely in the center of the bucket. Plink. She sighed heavily. With no other visual aid than her own house, she could teach a physical science class. Gravity, erosion, entropy, degeneration—in any given room she could illustrate a law of science at work.

Sinking back into her chair, she made a mental note to towel off her bedroom floor when the snow stopped. She used to keep a roasting pan upstairs, but quickly discovered that she had more ceiling drips than pots. Fortunately, the second-story floor had only two low spots, and as water tended to flow downhill, she could catch it with one pail on the first floor—two, if a storm arose or the spring sun decided to melt an entire winter's snow in one afternoon.

Plink.

She closed her eyes and steeled herself to the realization that things would get worse before they got better. This was only the first of November, and the big storms wouldn't hit the island until January or February. By then she'd either have the roof repaired . . . or she'd have to invest in an entire battalion of buckets.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and considered the two letters on her desk. Both were estimates from roofers in Ogunquit, and both bids had come in at over $10,000. “You can't slap just any kind of roof on these old houses, lady,” one of the men had told her. “You gotta stay in character with the history of the house, and you gotta be artistic about it. 'Specially since this place is an art gallery.”

“Trouble is,” Babette murmured, setting the bids aside, “we're an art gallery only six months out of the year. And we barely make enough in those months to carry us through the winter, so how am I going to pay for an artistic new roof that doesn't leak?”

Her gaze shifted to a single business card propped against her pencil mug. Handyman Roofing, headquartered in Kennebunk, had not yet responded with a bid. The nice man who came out had measured and squinted and scribbled on a notepad, then touched the brim of his hat and said he'd get back to her.

She hadn't heard a thing from him, but at this point, maybe no news was good news. As long as he dawdled, she could hope for a miracle . . . an affordable estimate.

The teakettle on the stove began to rumble, so Babette stood and moved to the cabinet where she kept the mugs. She hated to think the worst of her fellowman, but she suspected the first roofer had come to Heavenly Daze, eyeballed her historic house, and spied the expensive paintings in the gallery showroom. Given her surroundings, he'd assumed she and her husband were rich, when nothing could be further from the truth. He estimated her new roof would cost $15,000.

When the second roofer arrived, she made a point of confessing that she didn't own the gallery paintings—she'd only taken them in on consignment. He figured she could replace her roof for $12,000.

When Babette met the third roofer, she managed to casually mention that she and her husband had inherited the house—and they were supporting an active five-year-old who would almost certainly need braces in a few years. As he left, she apologized for not offering him a cup of hot tea. She was out of sugar, she had said, and with sugar prices at the mercantile being what they were . . .

She frowned at the fellow's business card. Maybe she had overplayed the sugar thing. Maybe he wouldn't get back to her at all. Maybe none of her conniving mattered. Even if the last guy came back with a bid of two thousand dollars, that would require two thousand dollars they didn't have.

Plink.

Click, click, click, zing!

She glanced toward the staircase, then bit her lip. The clicking sounds came from Charles's manual typewriter, so apparently he had finished priming his creative pump and was ready to continue his work on the Great American Masterpiece II. He had finished his first GAM last winter, and that ponderous tome was still making the rounds of New York publishing houses—or so Charles hoped. Last April he'd sent it out to a dozen publishers, a handful of agents, and his favorite novelist, Stellar Cross. At last count, replies from two publishers, an agent, and Mr. Cross were still pending.

Babette never asked what the rejection letters said. But from the expression on Charles's face, she knew the news wasn't good.

Plink, plunk!

Click, click, clickity, click.

At least the house was musical. Shaking her head, Babette poured hot water into a mug, dropped in a tea bag from the canister, then crossed her arms, letting the fragrant tea steep.

The house actually seemed quiet at times like these when Georgie was at kindergarten. He attended the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, run by Dana Klackenbush, and was Dana's only student in the off-season. Because Dana's schedule was relaxed, Babette never quite knew when her son would burst through the door and noisily announce his return.

She moved to the desk with her tea, then picked up her pen and studied the bill at the top of the heap. Coastal Gas wanted $300 this month, and she'd only budgeted $275. That meant she'd have to siphon twenty-five dollars from another account, probably clothing, if they were to make it through the winter. Of course . . . her gaze fell upon the envelope stamped Heavenly Daze Community Church. Since the beginning of their marriage, she and Charles had made tithing a regular practice, giving the first 10 percent of their income to support their church. She could hold back the tithe check to avoid dipping into her clothing account . . .

Plunk, plink!

. . . but the church had to pay Coastal Gas, too. And wouldn't that be like doubting that God would provide? She'd heard too many sermons about God blessing those who obediently gave the first tenth of their income to hedge on tithing now. And in the entire ten years of their marriage, though they'd often been broke, they had never gone without food, clothing, or a roof over their heads. God had been faithful.

Click, clickity-click, click, click, zing.

Charles's typing picked up as Babette pulled out the checkbook. She wished he'd try to write something salable like articles or news features, but he seemed set on toppling Stellar Cross from the bestseller lists. She'd hinted that he should paint in the winter, for his popular seascapes always sold for a nice profit, but Charles insisted that summer was for painting and winter for writing. She'd muttered that he ought to invest as much energy into caring for the house and the business providing a roof over their heads, but he pointed out that organization was her gift, not his, and he produced enough during the tourist season to deserve a break during the winter months.

She found herself unhappily dissatisfied as she wrote out the gas check. She loved her husband, truly she did, but living with an artistic personality could drive a woman crazy. Charles didn't exactly howl at the moon, but his occasional fits of melancholy and his live-and-let-live philosophy often forced her to shoulder the burdens of budget and child rearing and . . . roofing.

Plink.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

She grimaced at the sound of paper being torn from the typewriter. If she were to climb the stairs and enter the spare bedroom, she knew she'd find Charles surrounded by crumpled wads of typing paper, a few reference books, and at least six Stellar Cross novels, all standing upright with the glossy author photos facing Charles at his typewriter. “For inspiration,” he had told her when she first noticed this odd arrangement. “Stellar and I are kindred spirits. With his help and support, I'm going to make it.”

Babette had wisely refrained from pointing out that Stellar Cross had never written or spoken to Charles . . . and she had also bitten her tongue when Charles insisted on sending a copy of his first manuscript to the best-selling novelist.

“Five pounds of paper wasted,” she muttered, ripping the Coastal Gas check from the checkbook. “Cross won't read it. He probably won't even open it.”

Charles, of course, couldn't see the impudence in his action. He never minded taking chances in his art—he painted big paintings, he wrote big books, and he dreamed big dreams.

If only he didn't want to spend big bucks.

Just last night he'd been hinting that they could use a computer. “Just think of all we could do with it,” he'd said, bringing a computer magazine to bed—not her idea of romantic bedtime reading. “You could advertise my paintings online. You could set up an auction page for the gallery. And Georgie could use the Internet for research—”

“Georgie is five years old!”

“Age doesn't matter.” Charles propped his elbow on his pillow, then settled his head on his hand as he waved the magazine before her bored gaze. “You can find anything on the Web. Art supplies, books, recipes, information—”

“If I need the Internet, I can always go down to the mercantile.” Babette crossed her arms and glared at him. “Vernie said I could use her computer anytime, so we don't need one.”

“I could write faster on a computer.” Charles's voice took on a dreamy tone, and his heavily-lashed eyes went soft. “I could write better. I could sell my book more easily, maybe even e-publish it.”

“I don't want to hear a list of coulds,” Babette answered, her patience evaporating. “I need to hear wills. I will write faster; I will sell my book. We need to survive the winter, Charles, and we don't have money to waste on luxury electronics. So unless you can come up with a surefire moneymaker, you can forget the computer.”

After that pronouncement she had turned over and closed her eyes, a little ashamed of how harshly she'd spoken to him. Charles was a wonderful husband and father— a little too preoccupied sometimes to be practical, but he'd never said a harsh word to her or Georgie.

She had apologized the next morning but couldn't resist following up her confession with a warning: “We only cleared enough to make it through the winter, Charles. We can't be spending money on extras. There is no financial safety cushion this year.”

Plunk.

No cushion even for a new roof.

A sudden clattering at the front porch interrupted Babette's musings. She rose and hurried through the hallway, then caught a glimpse of Olympia de Cuvier's mounded hair through the window in the door. Olympia, owner and resident of the town's stateliest house, Frenchman's Fairest, stood on the porch, her hand firmly wrapped around Georgie's upper arm.