Grace in Autumn (9 page)

Moving into the kitchen, Zuriel heard the creak of the doors that led into the gallery. An inch of dark brown liquid remained in the bottom of Charles's coffeepot, so he sloshed coffee into a stoneware mug, then set it on a tray and hurried into the gallery.

“This is an adorable piece.” Zuriel entered the showroom in time to see Bedell point toward one of his salt-glazed teapots. “And so reasonable! Is the artist local?”

“As local as can be,” Babette answered, her voice dry. “The artist is Zuriel—the fellow who's offering you coffee right now.”

Bedell froze in surprise, then threw back his head and let out a great peal of laughter, the first glimpse of joy Zuriel had seen in the man.

“Wonderful!” he said, taking the mug from the tray. He looked again at Babette. “This really is a beautiful piece. I'd love to buy it—should I pay you or the artist?”

Zuriel grinned as he lowered the tray. In all his years of working for the Grahams, no one had ever offered to buy anything directly from him. He didn't want the money; of course, he had no need for earthly possessions. But Babette's response might prove interesting . . .

She didn't hesitate. “Zuriel has been some gracious to us, but he's your friend. If you want the teapot, I'm sure you can buy it directly from him.”

Zuriel wrapped his arms around the tray and hugged it to his chest. Despite the financial strain on her family, Babette had retained a generous heart.

“I'll think about the teapot,” Bedell said, moving toward a row of paintings draped in plastic. “May I look at these?”

“Be my guest.”

Bedell took a perfunctory sip from the coffee mug, then set it on the edge of a shelf, dropped his camera bag, and began to flip through the standing frames.

Babette lifted a brow as if to ask, “What gives?”

Zuriel shrugged.

“Very soothing seascape,” Bedell murmured, eyeing a scene Charles had painted last summer. “But what's this card at the bottom?”

Babette let out a sharp laugh. “My husband is not only an artist, but an incurable storyteller. He likes to include a short story or essay with each painting. He says it makes the paintings more personal.”

“My dear lady,” Bedell murmured, squinting downward at the painting, “if a picture paints a thousand words, why would anyone add to such art? This card is unnecessary, redundant.”

Behind Bedell's back, Babette winked at Zuriel.

“What a tasteful portrait,” Bedell said, studying another painting. “Most exquisite.”

“All our paintings are tasteful,” Babette answered, casting Zuriel a worried glance. “After all, I have a five-year-old son. I look for artists who deal as much with shadow and implication as with, um, anatomical detail.”

Bedell cast a quick grin over his shoulder. “I understand, Madame. A wise decision, no doubt.”

He moved to another rack of paintings, lifted the plastic, then stiffened. “Eureka,” he breathed, “I have found it.”

Zuriel and Babette looked at each other as she asked, “What did you find?”

“This—this incredible piece,” Bedell whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp in the room. “Such colors! Such honesty! Such . . . there is no word but passion! It is stark and primitive, yes, but this is the most genuine work I have seen in years.”

With curiosity snapping in her eyes, Babette walked over and peered past Bedell's shoulder. Zuriel felt his stomach drop when her gaze caught and held his. “Oh,” she said, her voice flat,
“The Puffin.”

“It is a masterpiece!” Bedell pulled it from the rack with both hands, then carried it to the display easel at the front of the room. With the afternoon sun brightening the window, Zuriel had to admit Georgie's painting was attractive.

“I have a client in Boston,” Bedell was saying, one finger pressed to his mustache, “who would be thrilled to add this to her collection. She loves the Maine seashore, you see, and hasn't seen a real puffin in years. I'm certain I could sell this to her.”

“Really?” Babette's voice was a whimper in the room.

“I'd stake my life on it.” Bedell ran his finger over the bold
G
in the lower right corner. “And the artist is—?”

“Georgie,” Babette whispered, her voice fainter than air.

“Zhorzh-ay,” Bedell corrected. “I should have recognized his work immediately. In any case”—he pulled a checkbook from his inner coat pocket, then turned to Babette—“I'd like to take this painting to Boston. Let's see—suppose I offer you ten for it?”

Babette's face fell. Zuriel knew she'd probably spent five times that amount on the frame.

“I really can't part with that picture, I'm sorry.” She pushed a hank of hair from her brow and gave him a sad smile. “It was a gift. It really shouldn't be in the gallery at all, but our roof was leaking, so I moved it—”

“All right—ten now and five more when I sell the painting. That's fifteen, and at that price I'll be lucky to break even.”

“I'm sorry.”

Zuriel stepped between Babette and the art dealer, effectively cutting off their conversation. Mindful of his heavenly mission, he lowered his gaze to study Babette's face. “Think of Georgie.” He bent closer to whisper in her ear. “He wanted you to sell that picture. If you do, no matter what the sales price, he'll know he did something to help his family.”

She looked away, maternal love and pride struggling on her face. “All right,” she said, sighing. “I'll sell it. But only because Georgie wanted me to.”

“Zhorzh-ay,” Bedell said, scrawling on his check. “And to whom should I make this check payable?”

“The Graham Gallery.” Babette rolled her eyes at Zuriel, then flashed him a wicked grin that said
ten dollars is better than nothing.

Zuriel grinned back, knowing Georgie would think the amount a princely sum. Ten dollars could buy a lot of saltwater taffy at the mercantile.

As he stepped forward to wrap the painting in brown paper, Zuriel heard the satisfying sound of paper ripping from a checkbook. Babette took the check and dropped it on the desk, then opened the drawer and fumbled for the ball of twine they hadn't used in over a month.

“We hope you like the painting, even if you're not able to resell it,” she said, freeing a chain of paper clips from the twine. “Georgie will be thrilled to hear that we sold his first painting.”

Pierce Bedell's smile nearly jumped out from under his mustache. “This was his first? What luck! This will add tremendous value!”

Babette's face twisted in concern. “You do understand, don't you? The Puffin was painted by a boy.”

Bedell laughed as Zuriel finished wrapping the painting. “My dear lady, we are all boys at heart. We are all children in a sea of life's experiences.”

“No, I mean . . .”

Babette's voice trailed off as Bedell took the wrapped painting, tucked it under his arm, then glanced at his watch. “My heavens, the ferry will be leaving. Guess I won't make it out to that blasted lighthouse after all. But that's fine. I've found something far more valuable.”

Slinging his camera bag over his shoulder, he settled his cap back on his head, then waved a cheery farewell. “Call me if you acquire another Zhorzh-ay. My number's on the check.”

Babette waved him out the door with a perplexed expression on her face. “Thank you very much.”

As the bells over the door jangled in farewell, Zuriel handed Babette the ball of twine, then put away the roll of brown paper. She chuckled as she dropped the twine back into the desk drawer. “Georgie will be thrilled to hear he made his first sale,” she said. She picked up the check and waved it in the air. “Maybe we should frame this for him.”

“That'd be nice.” Zuriel pulled the protective plastic back over the rows of paintings. “And every time he sees it, he'll remember how God answered his prayers.”

“His prayers?” Babette said, glancing at the check in her hand. “For an entire ten—oh! Z, this check is for ten
thousand
dollars!”

Zuriel felt his mortal heart pound in an odd double beat. Ten thousand? Was this the Lord's provision . . . or a mistake?

“It can't be,” Babette whispered, sinking onto a stool. Her face had gone pale, and the hand holding the check trembled. “He misunderstood. But I was honest, wasn't I? I told him Georgie was the artist. I said Georgie was only a boy.”

“Ayuh, you did.” Zuriel moved to the French doors, not sure whether he should comfort Babette or chase Pierce Bedell. His orders had been simple: meet the man on the ferry, and escort him to the Graham Gallery. Nothing more specific than that.

So . . . what did the Lord want him to do now?

Babette sat motionless, the check in her hand, as wave after wave of shock slapped at her. Ten thousand dollars! Pierce Bedell was a fool—no, an angel! She couldn't keep this—yes, she could—but she shouldn't. Either the fellow had misunderstood, he didn't know what he was doing, or he was a pretentious dilettante who wouldn't know a Klimt from a Klump.

“Zuriel,” she whispered, her heart doing a strange little dance in her chest. “Run after him. No—I'll go. I should go.”

Her leaden feet reluctantly obeyed her command and carried her through the foyer, over the porch, and past the front gate. In the distance she could see the ferry, the man on the dock, even Captain Stroble's blue coat. With any luck, she'd be able to catch Bedell and explain that he'd bought a child's painting. With even greater luck, he'd laugh and say he'd done exactly what he intended to do.

Fat chance.

Bedell's dark figure moved from the dock to the boat deck, and Babette hurried, the check fluttering in her fingers as the wind blew through the nap of her sweater. Now the captain was aboard, too, and soon the boat would be pulling away . . .

She broke into a run at the intersection of Ferry and Main, then cried out as a shaggy shape leapt from the shadows of the mercantile's deep front porch. Her shins encountered something soft, then Babette went flying forward, her elbows striking the cobblestones with a heavy scrape.

For a moment she lay on the ground, terribly conscious of the fact that she must look ridiculous, then her eyes opened. Her fist still grasped the check—at least she hadn't lost that along with her dignity.

“Glory be, Babette, are you all right?”

Elezar Smith, Vernie's helper at the mercantile, came running out of the building, the storm door slamming behind him. Before reaching her, though, he stopped to examine a mass of white fur in the road. “Tallulah? You okay?”

Babette made a wry face as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Only in Heavenly Daze would a man be as concerned for the de Cuviers' mutt as for a lady.

Brushing a layer of sandy grit from her sweater, she called, “I'm fine, Elezar.” She winced as her fingers encountered a sore spot at her elbow. “Tallulah and I were on a collision course, that's all.”

“That Tallulah can get under your feet, and don't I know it.” The tall man knelt and ran his fingers over the old dog who lay on her side, four legs and a pink tongue extended. At the touch of the man's fingers, Tallulah opened her button eyes and whimpered, then waved one forepaw in a helpless gesture.

“My goodness, I think the old girl might really be hurt.” Elezar's walnut complexion took on a shade of concern. “Wonder if I should carry her over to see Dr. Marc?” He squatted in the road and crossed his arms, one finger over his lips as he considered the situation. “Olympia's going to be mighty upset if Tallulah gets hurt right when Mr. Edmund's doing so poorly. I don't know if she could handle losing them both at once.”

“Let's not panic yet.” Babette groaned as she stood, then she bent with her hands on her knees and looked at the whimpering dog. Brightening her voice, she called, “Tallulah? Would you like to go inside and get a cruller?”

As if by magic, the terrier lifted her head. The forepaw that had been waving helplessly only a moment before served her well enough now, and before Babette could straighten her aching muscles, the dog had righted herself and begun to prance toward Birdie's Bakery, her plumed tail waving like a flag over her back. When Elezar and Babette didn't immediately follow, she turned and looked at them, her mouth opening in a toothy doggie smile.

Elezar removed his cap and scratched his head, grinning. “If that don't beat all.”

“I've seen this little actress do her injured act before,” Babette said, wincing again as she gently squeezed her sore elbow. “She'll do anything for a cruller.”

“I suspect I'd better keep our end of the bargain.” Elezar stood and moved toward the door. “I hope Birdie has some day-old doughnuts left for this little missy.”

Leaving the spoiled dog and her friend, Babette turned and looked toward the sea. As she feared, the ferry had pulled away from the dock and was already plowing through the crushed diamond sea. Nothing she could do but go home and leave a message on Mr. Bedell's answering machine.