Grace in Autumn (27 page)

As Zuriel and Gavriel watched from a far corner of the throne room, the harpists' music fell to a reverent hush as the foremost angelic troops settled around the throne. At an unspoken signal, they turned, then the spirit of a human and his angelic escort crossed the threshold of the Holy Place. Zuriel felt a jolt as he recognized the one who had guided this child of God from human death to spiritual life: Caleb, an angelic resident of Heavenly Daze.

The human was present in spirit alone, for the resurrection of his body would not be accomplished until the Lamb appeared in the heavens to summon his Bride. Even so, Zuriel could not mistake the identity of the soul moving toward him. In an awed whisper he breathed the name: “Edmund de Cuvier, of Frenchman's Fairest.” No wonder Caleb was beaming!

Gavriel crossed his mighty arms. “I knew Edmund's time was near—how fortunate that we should be allowed to witness his homecoming.”

Zuriel smiled, amazed at the change in the man. Though Edmund's faith had never wavered through his illness, his strong spirit had seemed shriveled when Zuriel last saw him on the island of Heavenly Daze. His courage had dwindled with his physical body, and pain had erased all the outward signs of joy. His memory had been muddled by prescription drugs; his enthusiasm sapped by the inescapable knowledge that he would never rise from his sickbed. His flesh, what little of it remained, had gone thin and translucent, mere tissue covering sharp bones and an embroidery of blue veins.

But now—ah, the difference heaven made! Though wrought of spirit and invisible to human eyes, Zuriel could see that Edmund de Cuvier now radiated joy and peace. Clothed in strength and vigor, he fluttered into the throne room like a child testing a new jet pack, then settled before the throne with a look of adoration upon his glowing features.

“My servant Edmund, beloved of God.” The Lamb's greeting was as warm as an embrace. “Welcome home.”

“My Lord and my God,” Edmund whispered, his voice atremble with joy. “How my soul has longed for this place, for you!”

As the living creatures broke out into another hymn of praise to the Lamb who had made Edmund's homecoming possible, Gavriel touched Zuriel's shoulder. “We must go back,” he said, levitating from the floor. He tilted his head toward the inky blackness beyond, where stars gleamed like scattered diamonds over an endless succession of galaxies. “Come.”

Misty-eyed over the scene he'd witnessed, Zuriel thumbed a tear from his cheek, then rose through the celestial air and followed Gavriel.

After materializing within the privacy of his cottage, Zuriel moved to the window and studied the larger house. A light still burned in the kitchen—which meant that either Charles had wandered in for a cup of milk and forgotten to flip the switch, or Babette was still working at her desk.

He glanced at the digital clock across the room: 11:15 PM. Babette rarely stayed up this late.

Thoughtfully considering his task, he opened the cottage door and stepped out into the night, the cold air shivering his mortal flesh. After the glorious warmth of the throne room, he suspected even a balmy spring night would have felt frigid.

Hurrying across the yard, he came to the back door and rapped upon it. Shivering, he thrust his hands into his jeans pockets and hoped the Spirit had prodded Babette to remain awake. This message would be easier to deliver if she had been prepared to receive it.

A moment later, the frilled curtain at the door lifted, then her face appeared in the window. Her tense expression relaxed at the sight of him, then the curtain fell and he heard the sound of the latch being lifted.

“Zuriel,” she scolded as she opened the door, “what are you doing out here without your coat? You'll catch your death of pneumonia.”

He couldn't stop a smile. “I don't think so.”

She closed the door behind him, then frowned and pulled her robe together at her neck. “Something wrong? You're not usually up this late.”

“Neither are you.”

“No.” A frown puckered the skin between her brows. “But I can't sleep.” She moved toward the stove, where the teakettle was beginning to rattle on the burner. “Want something hot to drink? I've got instant mixes for cocoa, or I could always make tea—”

“Babette, I have a message for you.”

Raising fine, arched eyebrows, she looked at him. “Really?” Her voice was dry. “From whom?”

“From the Father.”

Lifting the kettle from the stove, Babette made a faint move of distaste. “I knew Charles was annoyed with me, but sending you to carry his messages is too much.”

Zuriel coughed slightly as she began to pour water into mugs. “Not Charles. The Father of all who believe. My message is from God.”

Babette froze, the teapot in her hand, then threw Zuriel a quick glance of disbelief. “God's been talking to you?”

He smiled, for his fellow angels had often commented on the irony in their situation. These people, who benefited daily from the presence of immortal ministers, often found it difficult to believe in the very God who guarded them. They sang about him, prayed to him, and made all sorts of midnight confessions and resolutions, but when it came down to daily reality, few of them were really willing to trust him with the details of their lives.

“God would speak to you, too,” he said, couching his message in terms she ought to understand and accept, “if you would listen.”

The frown reappeared between her brows as she began to pour again. “I've had a lot on my mind, Zuriel.”

“God knows. That's why he wanted me to give you a message.”

She sighed heavily, puffing the bangs away from her forehead, then set the teapot upon a frayed potholder. “You didn't answer—tea or cocoa?”

He frowned at the distraction. “Cocoa.”

She tossed him a foil packet, then pushed a steaming mug toward him. While he fumbled with the package, she slid into a chair at the kitchen table and propped her head on her hand. “Okay, let's hear it,” she said, ignoring her own cup of hot water. “What does God want me to know?”

Grateful for the opportunity to speak freely, Zuriel dropped the foil packet and sat in the chair opposite her. Leaning forward on his elbows, he caught her weary gaze and held it.

“You,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “have been richly blessed with a son. You hold a precious treasure in your grasp, but you have become blind to its true value. Your son's soul is worth more than any earthly riches.”

Babette stared at him blankly for a moment, then a spark of irritation entered her blue eyes. “That's it?”

Zuriel nodded.

“Well.” She dropped her hand and looked around the room as if searching for something. “Thank you, Z, for that lovely bit of advice.”

Watching her, Zuriel weighed the effect of his words. After a moment, the trace of irritation disappeared from her eyes, and her face went blank, almost as if she were wearing a mask. Moving slowly, stiffly, she pulled a teabag from the pottery canister in the center of her table, unwrapped it with jerky gestures, then dropped it into the steaming mug.

“I have never knowingly done anything to hurt my son,” she said, her tone defensive. She fixed her gaze on the teabag, trailing it through the water with the string over the tip of her fingernail. “I love Georgie more than anything.”

Zuriel did not answer. He had delivered the message and fulfilled his responsibility. How she chose to receive the word of the Lord—well, like angels, humans had free will.

“I think I've been a good mother.” Her gaze shifted to meet Zuriel's, then thawed slightly. “Haven't I?”

“I think you're a fine mother.” Searching for something to do, Zuriel ripped open his packet of cocoa, dumped the powder into his mug, then reached for a spoon. “Millions of children are far less fortunate than Georgie.”

“But you think I've been doing something wrong.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I am not a judge. I am only a messenger.”

She yanked the teabag up by the string and let it fall to the table with a wet plop. “So, speaking for God— that's more your style.”

Zuriel closed his eyes as a blush burned the top of his cheekbones. “God uses whomever he chooses. Whoever is willing.”

She snorted softly. “Even Balaam's donkey, right?”

Smiling, he looked at her. “I've heard that was an exceptionally intelligent animal.”

“Well, then.” After taking a perfunctory sip of her tea, Babette pushed back her chair and tightened the belt of her robe. “I think I'll get started on my baking. I was about to mix up a blueberry gingerbread when you knocked.”

Zuriel accepted his cue and stood as well. “You'll want to make some extra for Olympia. I don't imagine she or Caleb will feel much like baking tomorrow.”

The thin line of Babette's mouth clamped tight for a moment. “What do you mean?”

Too late, Zuriel realized he'd relayed sensitive information. But he couldn't lie to cover his tracks . . . and Babette would hear the story in a few hours, anyway. She'd probably assume he'd talked to Caleb or Dr. Marc.

He met her questioning gaze with his best look of compassion. “Edmund de Cuvier went home tonight,” he said simply. “He's rejoicing before the throne right now.”

A tremor passed over Babette's face, then a spasm of grief knit her brows. “Oh, poor Olympia! Though she was expecting it, I know this has to hurt.”

“I think,” Zuriel spoke slowly, measuring each word, “Olympia will be fine. When a man is suffering the pain of the disintegrating human condition, heaven is a tremendous blessing. Even though Edmund dearly loved his wife, I know he wouldn't exchange his heavenly home for his frail earthly tabernacle.”

Despite her compassionate expression, one of Babette's brows lifted. “You know this for a fact.”

Zuriel gave her a wry smile. “I do.”

“I can tell you've never been married.” Shaking her head, Babette moved toward the pantry. “I wouldn't go around town telling folks that Edmund was eager to go,” she called as she pulled canisters of flour and sugar from the shelf. “Most people like to think they'll be missed . . . and most wives want to believe their husbands would move heaven and earth in order to remain with them.”

Zuriel scratched his beard. Babette had to be tired, or she wouldn't be making such ludicrous statements. Why any child of God would want to linger in a temporary body on a temporary planet . . . the logic escaped him.

After thanking her for the cocoa, he took his mug and stepped out into the chilly night.

Babette sighed as she latched the back door. Zuriel was a wonderful tenant and a talented potter, but sometimes he seemed almost childlike in his naiveté. Though he had to be a good ten years older than her, she often thought he behaved as though he'd spent his entire life in that sheltered little cottage, throwing bowls and vases and pitchers of clay. His strong religious views dominated his viewpoints, but never before had he exhibited the audacity he had tonight—

Speaking for God? How dare he tell her to mind her mothering!

Sudden tears clouded her vision as she pulled her gingerbread recipe from her notebook. She was a good mother . . . at least, she tried to be. She lavished as much love, attention, and discipline upon Georgie as she could, always striving for the proper balance of each. And despite his distracted dreaminess, Charles was a devoted father. Georgie had bucketfuls of love and attention from each of his parents, so what in the world was Zuriel trying to say?

“One-half cup shortening.” She read the first ingredient aloud, then moved to the pantry, but the memory of Zuriel's words would not leave her brain. “At least,” she told herself as she lifted the shortening from the shelf, “you know Z loves Georgie nearly as much as you do. Maybe he's seen something you've missed.”

Her mother had always told her to listen carefully to rebuke. No matter how unfair or unwarranted it seemed, often strong words contained a kernel of truth . . .