Grace in Autumn (5 page)

Georgie looked away, a little baffled by his mother's answer. “I can make more, Mom. I'm an artist.”

“Like your father.” He heard a smile in her voice, though her lips had straightened.

“Yeah.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and stepped back, feeling pleased with himself. “So sell it, and you'll have money for the bills. Okay?”

The picture now stood under a plastic sheet with a group of other framed paintings in the gallery. Georgie didn't worry about it selling because he knew some pictures took time. After all, one of his father's paintings had hung in the gallery ever since Georgie was a baby. Some paintings, his dad said, waited for years until just the right person stopped by to buy them.

But his puffin painting would sell soon, he knew it. After saying his prayers every night with his mom or dad, Georgie whispered a private prayer in the darkness—that God would soon sell his painting so Mom could stop groaning and looking worried.

A clanging noise rose up from outside, breaking the snow-stillness of the afternoon. Georgie ran to the window and saw Zuriel by the garbage cans beside the house, wiping his hands on his apron.

Zuriel wouldn't mind if Georgie paid him a visit. Aside from Georgie's parents, Zuriel was the best person on the island.

Carefully creeping down the stairs, Georgie clung to the banister, remembering to avoid the last creaky step. His mom hadn't actually said he was forbidden to leave his room, but she hadn't exactly said he could go out to see Zuriel, either.

Better to not bother her with asking.

He peeked down the foyer hallway to be certain his mother wasn't standing at the back door, then heard the slam of the desk drawer. She was still in the kitchen.

Pulling his jacket from the peg rack by the front door, Georgie slipped his arms into the coat and made a face when his shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows. He hated bunchy sleeves, but there was no time to start over. Quick as a cat, he escaped out the front door, remembering not to let it slam, then rounded the corner of the house, skirted his mother's withered flower garden, and sprinted down the path to Zuriel's place.

The potter didn't live in a house, exactly—the building had originally been designed for a horse and carriage. But since only the de Cuviers actually owned a horse and carriage (and they made Blaze live in the barn), most of the little houses behind the town's big houses were used for apartments. Dr. Marc lived in the carriage house behind Frenchman's Fairest, and a man called Elezar lived behind the mercantile. Though Georgie liked Elezar a lot, he liked Zuriel especially. The potter never fussed, never got in a hurry, and never, ever told Georgie to be quiet.

He knocked three times because his mother told him he had to, then pushed the door open a crack. “Z?”

“Come in, Georgie.”

Georgie felt a warm flush steal over him as he closed the door and walked into the open space that served as Zuriel's kitchen, workroom, and living room. Z sat at his potter's wheel, his hands shiny and gray with water and mud. A large mound of wet clay sat on the spinning circular wheel, but Zuriel had not yet begun to pull it. His hands moved slowly over the mound, smoothing and patting.

Georgie tucked his hands into his pockets, trying to keep them still and out of sight. There were lots of breakable things in Zuriel's workshop. Bowls and vases and teapots crowded together on the shelves along the walls, and he knew the pieces of pottery would eventually be sold in his parents' gallery. Georgie didn't know much about pottery, but he knew enough about numbers to understand that Zuriel's pieces helped his mom and dad make a living.

Georgie stared at the clay lump. “Gonna make something today?”

“Maybe.” Zuriel's hands never stopped moving over the clay. “I have to see if this clay is ready to be pulled. I need to discover what kind of mood it's in.”

Georgie grunted as he sat on a stool near the wheel. “My mom's in a mood—a bad one. Miss Olympia got mad at me and Tallulah for playing ball near the tomato patch. And then Mom got mad. But I think she's really mad at the bills. She keeps groaning and mumbling in the kitchen.”

Zuriel made a soft sound of understanding, then picked up his sponge with one hand and dipped it into a bucket of clean water. As he squeezed it and dribbled water over the spinning clay, he asked, “Do you think she's worried?”

Georgie shrugged. “I don't know. But I know she doesn't need to be. I gave her a painting of puffins, the bestest painting I ever did painted. When it sells, she'll have money. And then she can stop making faces at the bills.”

Zuriel looked up, and for an instant his hands stopped moving. “You painted something for her?”

“Yeah.”

“Why, Georgie.” A slow, shining smile blossomed out of Zuriel's shaggy brown beard. “I think that's quite gallant. Some nice gesture. I'm proud of you.”

The warm rush returned, and Georgie shifted awkwardly under the weight of praise. “It hasn't sold, though,” he said, looking down at the floor. “Nobody comes to the shop in the winter. So I don't know how God is going to answer my prayer.”

“You asked the Lord for help with this?”

Georgie looked up. “I asked God to sell my painting.”

Zuriel cocked a brow. “Prayers uttered in simple faith are always answered, Georgie. But sometimes the heavenly Father takes time to work his will. You must be patient.”

“I'll try.” Georgie tightened his hands into fists and resisted the urge to put his own palms on the wet clay. Zuriel made the work look easy, but his mother said Z had a special gift and they should thank God he had agreed to exchange pottery for his room and board.

“Georgie!” His mother's voice echoed from the house. “Get back in here!”

Georgie looked up at Zuriel. “Uh-oh.”

The potter smiled. “Busted?”

“I gotta go.” Georgie slid from the stool and moved toward the door, then took a moment to run his finger over the shiny smooth surface of a teapot on a shelf. The piece was new, he thought—at least he'd never seen another like it. It looked like a little blowfish, with a spouty nose and a handle where the tail fins should be. It would sell. The people who visited his parents' shop loved to buy things that looked like puffins and fish and lobsters.

“Cool,” he said, safely returning his hand to his side.

“Thanks,” Zuriel called just before Georgie closed the door.

After the boy had gone, Zuriel sat in silence, his hands applying even, consistent pressure to the clay as his thoughts centered around Babette and Charles Graham.

When the Grahams moved to the island years ago, he had been delighted to discover that his latest charges planned to open an art gallery. Along with the qualities of emotion, intelligence, knowledge, and will belonging to all angels, Zuriel possessed a particular passion for the beauty of the creative arts. He had rejoiced to discover that God would allow him to use his gifts to aid humans with a similar mind-set.

Charles possessed a sensitive soul and a discerning eye, and while Babette had not been gifted with artistic ability, she had been given organizational skills and a sharp intellect. She ran the business and took care of Georgie while Charles carted his paints and easel all over the island in summer. In the winter, Charles typed.

Zuriel sighed as the leathery clay began to soften under his fingertips. Charles's gift did not extend to the written word, but the man had not yet discovered that painful truth. Zuriel bit his lip. His task was to do whatever God commanded, but he sincerely hoped the Lord's plan did not include a situation where he would have to burst Charles Graham's bubble.

Young Georgie, on the other hand, never failed to delight. Living in youthful innocence and sweet faith, the boy was still as tender as he had been on the day he entered the world. But he was five years old, and nearly capable of understanding that his home, this island, and this world were but a part of creation. He was almost mature enough to choose or reject the One who had created him.

Flipping the switch at the side of the table, Zuriel stopped the spinning wheel and pressed a fingertip into the clay. This lump finally felt right—ready for working. Unlike most professional potters, Zuriel did not use prepared de-aired clay. He took clay from the ground where God had placed it, mixing gummy clays with tough clays as necessary in order to get the best clay body for throwing on his wheel. This clay, dark with the impurities that would give it strength and color, would soon become a solid piece of stoneware.

He flipped the power switch again and leaned forward, his hands pushing firmly against the clay, centering the lump as it took on the shape of the space between his fingers. As he centered the piece, he moved his hands slowly and smoothly, remoistened them in the bucket, then lowered his hands onto the clay again. As always, he was surprised by how much pressure the clay required in order to center itself—just as God often had to use pressure to keep his people in the center of his will.

Zuriel closed his eyes, blocking out the sights and sounds of the ticking cuckoo clock, the humming refrigerator against the side wall, the sweet strains of Sinatra on the radio. He felt nothing but the clay, centering it and himself in one motion, moving his hands gradually up and down, feeling himself perfectly in the center of the will of God.

When the clay was perfectly centered, he lifted his hands entirely and looked down at the clay. The dark lump spun easily in the midpoint of the wheel, without wobbling, a perfect beehive ready to be shaped.

If only his humans were as malleable.

After firmly returning Georgie to his room with a sandwich and a juice box, Babette returned to the kitchen and wearily regarded the bucket of melted snow behind her chair. Too bad she couldn't bottle it and sell it on the Internet—maybe a few folks in Florida could be persuaded to buy genuine melted Maine snow . . . or maybe not. That moneymaking idea seemed about as reasonable as all the others she'd dredged up in the past hour.

She heard a creak from her front porch—the wind lifting the rusty lid of the mailbox. She hadn't yet checked the mail.

In no hurry for bad news, Babette trudged through the foyer, then stepped out into the cold. The aged mailbox (which she kept because now it was considered shabby chic) contained a letter from Handyman Roofing, three solicitations for new and improved credit cards (which she'd have to hide from Charles), and one Victoria's Secret catalog (which she'd have to hide from Georgie).

She grimaced as she tucked the Victoria's Secret catalog under her arm. Though she tried her best to keep her son safe and sheltered, the child was all boy. Last year they'd taken him to the Fogg Art Museum in Boston, and Georgie had all but gaped at the paintings of nudes. She'd breathed a sigh of relief when they sat in an open courtyard to have lunch, but Georgie wandered over to the fountain, where she found him studying an anatomically correct statue of Venus, goddess of love.

The art world was rife with child-rearing hazards.

She tore open the letter as soon as she reentered the house. This bid, bless Handyman's heart, was lower than all the others. For only $9,900.00, Handyman would give them a new roof and a five-year guarantee.

Sinking onto the deacon's bench beside the door, she considered the letter in the harsh light of reality. She finally had a low bid—but she still had an empty savings account. She felt empty, too. Worry, budgets, and penny-pinching had left her feeling drained. She couldn't go on without help.

Click, click, clickity-clack.

She lifted her gaze toward the stairs. Why was she carrying this burden alone? Wasn't the husband supposed to be the leader and supporter of the family? Stuffing the letter from Handyman back into the torn envelope, she straightened her shoulders and stood. The time had come for Charles to lift the burden from her back.

With her chin held high, she climbed the stairs. Charles sat before the typewriter in the spare bedroom, scowling at the printed page. As the floor creaked at her approach, he bent lower, as if to shield his precious paper from prying eyes.