Grace in Autumn (23 page)

“Of course not, she's my sister. I knew we'd make ends meet somehow. Besides, family should always take care of one another.”

“Little Raleigh Akerman is family, too.” Abner's grin flashed briefly in the lamplight. “She's a child of God, just like you. And God is your Father, and he's not likely to forget about either of you.”

Before going to bed that night, Birdie wrote a personal check for three hundred dollars and slipped it into an envelope. By planning to give her tithe money, she had been, in a way, telling God that she would willingly donate his portion, but she didn't trust him enough to give any of her own. But now . . . well, she'd have to trust him to keep food on the table.

Neither she nor Bea were wealthy women. Bea lived on a small insurance annuity, and Birdie lived on Social Security and income earned from the bakery during tourist season. But she and Bea never failed to have food on the table, a refrigerator that hummed along, and a cozy stove to warm their feet. In all the ways that mattered, they were rich.

After sticking a stamp on the envelope, she addressed it to the Akermans, then enclosed a brief note:

Pay your utility bill and get your refrigerator fixed.
God loves you.

Knowing she'd sleep well tonight, Birdie sealed the envelope. The check would reach the family by Monday and their immediate problem would be solved. They'd have something to be thankful for come Thanksgiving, and Birdie could celebrate the coming feast knowing she'd helped someone in need.

Going into her bedroom, she switched off the light, then settled deep into sheets that smelled of fabric softener. Her toes stretched toward the foot of the bed, eagerly seeking the warmth of her hot-water bottle. She and Bea might have to scrimp on groceries until the end of the month, but she'd already paid Vernie for the Thanksgiving turkey, and their cabinets were stuffed with staples. They wouldn't go hungry. If Birdie Wester had learned anything tonight, she'd learned to be confident in God's ability to take care of her.

Chapter Ten

B
abette made Georgie sit between her and Charles in church on Sunday morning. They filled their usual spots on the left side of the building and smiled at all the usual people: Floyd and Cleta Lansdown, their daughter, Barbara; Mike and Dana Klackenbush; and Edith Wickam, the pastor's wife. After the first hymn, Micah Smith led the congregation in a rousing rendition of “There's a Welcome Here,” and Babette made her customary two-step journey across the aisle to greet those who sat on the right side of the sanctuary: Olympia de Cuvier and her niece, Annie; Dr. Marc Hayes; Beatrice Coughlin and Birdie Wester; Vernie Bidderman; and an entire pew of Smiths: Abner, Yakov, Zuriel, and Elezar. Caleb Smith, she noticed, was not present—which could only mean he was home caring for Edmund de Cuvier.

After greeting everyone within handshake distance, Babette returned to her pew, uncomfortably aware that neither Charles nor Georgie had moved from their places. They'd probably shaken hands with those sitting right around them, but those two were like a pair of hard peas in a pod. At some point over the weekend, Georgie must have sensed that his father didn't exactly approve of the puffin plan, so last night Charles, not Babette, had again been invited to lead the boy in his bedtime prayers.

Babette had been fuming ever since. It didn't matter that she cooked, cleaned, and connived for both of them. No matter that she was responsible for the family budget and had no one to help her plan it. None of those things counted, apparently. The males in her life were set against her at the moment, neither one of them was ready to relent, and she could do nothing about it.

At the conclusion of the welcome song, Micah Smith led the congregation in a heartfelt prayer of thanks, then they sat. Babette noticed that Georgie had sidled closer to Charles during the prayer—well, fine. She pressed her back into the pew and lifted her chin, not caring that a measurable twelve inches separated her and her son. Let the world see the gap that had arisen in their family. Everyone on the island was bound to know their business sooner or later.

Reverend Winslow Wickam stepped up to the pulpit, his bald head shining in the light from the overhead fixture. “On this Sunday before Thanksgiving,” he said, his voice ringing through the lapel microphone he'd taken to wearing, “I thought we'd do something special.” He moved out from behind the pulpit and stood at the edge of the red-carpeted platform, the toes of his shiny black shoes jutting out into space. “I thought perhaps a few of you would like to share some of your blessings with us. After all, God has been good to the people of Heavenly Daze, and he's given us a great love for each other and for this little island.” He clapped his hands together and raised a brow as he looked out over the congregation. “Come now, who'll be the first to tell us about something for which they're grateful?”

A twittering rose from the ladies near the organ, and Babette craned her neck at the sound. For days Birdie and Bea had been huddling together about something, but she'd been too involved in her puffin project to ask for details. She'd heard rumors regarding Bea and the mail, but other than a pen-pal boyfriend, Babette couldn't imagine any reason for the sisters to get excited.

“I'll say something, Pastor.” Annie Cuvier stood and cast a smile around the small sanctuary. “As most of you know, I had pretty much given up on coming back to Heavenly Daze until a few weeks ago. Now, thanks to Aunt Olympia, the island is beginning to feel like home again— and my tomatoes are hanging in there!”

“Amen!” Dr. Marc shouted from his pew.

From her place, Cleta Lansdown waved her hand. “I'm grateful, Pastor, for a good tourist season. Now that we're settling down for the winter, I think most of us will be well-fed and comfortable. We hosted more visitors than usual last summer, and that's good news for the entire island.”

Babette's mouth curved in an automatic smile, but inwardly she cringed. Cleta's bed-and-breakfast may have done well last summer, but only a few of those tourists had bought fine art. A few weeks earlier, Babette had told Charles that they'd experienced a summer of nickel-and-dimers. Vernie sold tons of saltwater taffy and tourist trinkets and Cleta ran a full house most nights, but fine art mostly went a-begging . . .

“Anyone else want to tell us about something you're grateful for?” the pastor asked. “Tell us about something or someone you really love.”

Babette blinked in surprise when Georgie scrambled up on the pew, his heavy-soled church shoes thudding loudly against the wooden bench. She reached out to still him, but he evaded her grasp and called out, “Preacher?”

Every eye turned when Georgie's childish treble rang through the auditorium.

“Yes, Georgie?”

Babette reinforced her polite smile as sympathetic faces turned in her direction. The entire town knew Georgie, and those who didn't adore him seemed to tolerate him. But everyone, from the stern Olympia de Cuvier to sweet Edith Wickam, clucked sympathetically whenever Babette appeared with Georgie in tow.

Squirming beneath the pressure of so many pairs of eyes, Babette turned and studied her son. He was clasping his hands in a fair imitation of Pastor Wickam, warming up the audience. The child ought to consider becoming an actor. He didn't have a timid bone in his body.

She smiled as she caught Charles's eye. This had to be a good thing. In a moment he would tell the church that he loved his parents, or that he wanted to thank God for a Christian home. And then Babette would know that he didn't hate her and he'd forgiven her about the puffins. Everything was going to be okay.

Obviously in a hurry to move things along, Pastor Wickam cleared his throat. “Tell us, Georgie—what do you love?”

Drawing a deep breath, Georgie barreled his twenty-four inch chest. “I LOVE NAKED WOMEN.”

Babette's mind went numb as Georgie's words echoed in the church. A fog seemed to fall upon her, transporting her to a dreamlike state where nothing was real, where what appeared to be happening was not really happening, and where children did not blurt out the first thought on their minds . . .

She slowly turned her head and looked to her left through the fog, half-expecting to see the shadowy figure of her grandmother or some other long-gone ancestor, but no, Charles sat beside her, his eyes blazing like dark diamonds. The sound of whispering rose from the pew behind her, and someone said, “It's that art, you know— nude paintings!” Someone else giggled while the pastor's face went a violent shade of eggplant and his genteel wife twisted in the pew to cast Babette a horrified look.

She clapped her hand over her eyes, knowing from the sting of her fingernails that this was no dream. In this nightmare reality, her son really had said what her ringing ears relayed.

In the space of a few moments Georgie had evolved from delinquent to deviant.

Somehow Georgie sat down, and somehow, by the grace of God, Pastor Wickam recovered enough to return to the pulpit and deliver his sermon.

But Babette didn't hear a word of the rest of the service.

Edith Winslow stopped Birdie as she was leaving services Sunday morning. Pressing an envelope into her hand, Edith leaned closer. “Winslow and I wish it could be more.”

Shaking her head, Birdie returned the gift. “Thank you, Edith, but the matter's been taken care of.” She smiled, patting Edith's arm. “What are you and Winslow doing for lunch?”

“I have tuna salad in the refrigerator,” Edith said. “Win plans to stop by the de Cuviers for a few minutes, then we'll make sandwiches, I suppose.”

“Tuna, indeed. I have a nice pot roast in the oven. Bea will mash potatoes and I'll make brown gravy. I know Winslow loves roast and potatoes, so come join us, please. We have plenty to share.”

Edith broke into a wide, open smile. “Pot roast sounds a lot better than cold tuna. We'll be there, as soon as Win comes back from the de Cuviers.”

Birdie moved on, seeing no reason to elaborate on her decision to dip into her household account and send money to the Akermans. Edith's and Winslow's hearts were in the right place, but she and Bea were probably better prepared to supply a monetary need than the pastor and his wife. Besides, she realized with a smile, sharing made her feel good . . . good enough to feel like sharing again and again.

As she moved over the sidewalk, her eyes searched the crowd for a sign of Salt Gribbon. She'd invite him to dinner, too, if he'd ever come to church. Odd that he never attended services. She checked her disappointment. He was probably avoiding her since she'd made a fool of herself over those books. Yesterday he hadn't come into the bakery for his usual bread and cookies.

Though she saw no sign of him, she hesitated in the shadow of the steeple on the off-chance he'd pass by. The Lansdowns and Vernie Bidderman came out of the church, pausing in the doorway to chat with the preacher and the Klackenbushes. That rascal Georgie Graham, full of pent-up energy from having endured an hour of preaching, darted up and down the steps, weaving in and out of parishioners' legs. Bea, who'd stopped to offer a word of comfort to poor Babette Graham, spotted Birdie and nodded as she slipped through the crowd.

Latching onto Birdie's hand, Bea hurried her sister down the sidewalk. “Sister, why are you standing here?” she scolded, the heels of her Sunday shoes scraping the asphalt path. “With dinner in the oven, we don't have time to engage in another spat over those angel letters.”

“Doesn't matter, everything's settled,” Birdie said, glancing over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the crowd. No Salt.

Sighing, she followed her sister. “Tomorrow morning the Akermans will receive the check, and that will be the end of it. This town can settle down to celebrating Thanksgiving and forget all about folks less fortunate than themselves.”

Bea's pleasant face went blank with shock. “Why, Birdie, what a thing to say!”

Birdie shrugged, a little ashamed of her cynicism. But she couldn't help it. She'd done the right thing—after a lot of persuasion, so she was no saint—but the others still seemed content to turn a blind eye to the needs of hurting people.

What would it take to make them see?