Grace in Autumn (11 page)

Like any good storyteller, Bedell paused. Babette took the bait. “What happened?”

Bedell laughed. “The man took her to a specially-built trailer stuffed to the ceiling with five thousand sets of salt-and-pepper shakers. My sister didn't have that kind of cash, so she approached me, and together we bought the late wife's collection. Then my sister began to sell salt-and-pepper shakers on eBay, the Internet auction site, and soon she was getting hundreds of dollars for single sets of salt-and-pepper shakers. The other day she sold a simple pair of goldfish shakers for six hundred dollars.”

“They must have been valuable,” Babette whispered, a note of disbelief in her voice. “Fine porcelain or something.”

Bedell chortled. “There was absolutely nothing special about them. But people got caught up in the frenzy, and the price escalated. The last time I checked with my sister, she'd earned over $40,000 from selling these things, and she still has a garage full of shaker sets she hasn't even unpacked.”

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Remember this, dear Mrs. Graham. Value has nothing to do with worth, but it has everything to do with perceived worth. And art can easily be perceived as priceless.”

“I suppose,” Babette whispered, her gaze meeting Zuriel's across the room, “there's no rhyme or reason to it.”

“You're absolutely right.”

Zuriel felt his heart twist as Bedell cackled again, then promised to visit soon . . . to pick up another puffin painting.

“Birdie, will you look at this?” Bea, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, wandered into the sitting room late Monday morning.

Awakened from a nap by the sound of her sister's voice, Birdie sat up and cleared her throat. “What is it, Bea? I'm busy.”

Bea peered over the rim of her glasses. “I can see that,” she said, her voice dry. “Are you awake enough to help me with this? It's another angel letter that came general delivery to Heavenly Daze. It's from a child”—Bea lifted her brows—“who wants a baby sister. Listen.”

While Birdie blinked sleep cobwebs from her eyes, Bea read the letter.

Dear Angel,

I don't believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny but I do believe in angels. Mom says she can feel your spirit sometimes. I can't, but I burnt my finger the other day, so maybe that's why.

I am nine years old and the only kid mom and dad have, which sometimes causes a problem. I have been praying for God to send another baby to my mom and dad so they won't have so much time on their hands. Mother needs someone other than me to worry about. She can be a pain sometimes. I am writing to you to make sure God hears my prayers. Will you please ask him to help me? My name is Skip Patterson and I live in Detroit, Michigan. Tell him its S-K-I-P P-A-T-T-E-R-S-O-N on Lombard Street.

Thank you very much.
Sincerely,
Skip Patterson (on Lombard Street.
In case there's another one.)

“My, my.” Birdie removed her glasses and polished the lens. “Such a sweet letter. I suppose you'll need to write him right away. But what are you going to say?”

“That I'll pray for him, of course.” Seating herself at the writing desk, Bea reached for pen and paper. “Two angel letters in less than a week. Why are people suddenly thinking of Heavenly Daze as a celestial substation?”

“I imagine it's for the same reason folks think the North Pole is Santa's address.”

“The North Pole has elves to help with the work load,” Bea pointed out. “I don't.”

Birdie stiffened in her chair. “Now, Beatrice. Surely you can write a couple of letters to precious little kids.”

“Two letters, ayuh, but if the mail gets heavier, I don't see how I'll keep up.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Sister. No use borrowing trouble.” Birdie slipped her glasses on, hooking the rims over her ears. “I think I'll go to the library this afternoon, visit with Faye a little while. Do you need anything from Ogunquit?”

“More stationery,” Bea murmured.

Birdie dressed warmly for the ride across the bay, pulling on a heavy wool coat and leather gloves. The boat had a heated cabin, but the ride across the inlet would be windy.

“Better wear a hat,” Abner told her as he bagged bear claws for her to take to Captain Stroble.

“Thank you, Abner. I will.”

Baker and proprietor parted outside the store, and Birdie set off for the landing.

Crossing Main and Ferry, she spotted the inelegant boat moored at the dock. Cormorants flew overhead, darting in and out of the water in search of a tasty morsel.

“Afternoon, Birdie.” Captain Stroble greeted her with a smile as she crossed the gangplank.

“Afternoon, Gus.” She handed the distinguished looking man the bakery bag. “Thought you might enjoy these with your afternoon coffee.”

Brightening, the captain took his pipe out of his mouth, his eyes scanning the goody bag. “Much obliged, Birdie. You know I can't pass up Abner's pastry.”

When the ferry docked in Ogunquit, Birdie pulled her collar close and headed into the wind. By the time she arrived at the library on Shore Road, her lips were numb with cold.

Faye Lewiston, the current head librarian, flashed a friendly smile when Birdie walked in. “Birdie, girl, get yourself in here and get warm.”

Familiar scents washed over her: the lemon oil of the polished floor, the mingled dry scents of leather and paper, and Faye's distinctive rose perfume. In years past she had spent many a day among the tomes and periodicals, and sometimes she missed her old haunt. She missed sharing her morning coffee with Faye and discussing important things like the prospect of getting a new computer system to assist the reading public. Extra money wasn't easy to come by, but still it had been fun to dream of new reading tables and an enlarged reference section.

Faye stepped from behind the circulation desk, her rubber-soled shoes brushing against the tile floor. Birdie drew her into a quick embrace. “How are you, Faye?”

“Fine as frog hair—and you?”

“Wonderful.”

Adjusting a lightweight sweater casually draped around her shoulders, the elderly woman frowned. “What brings you out on such a blustery afternoon?”

Birdie felt her mouth quirk in a smile. “Thought I might see what you had left over from the used book sale.”

“I don't rightly recall what's left,” Faye admitted. “The boxes are in the back room. Do you want to look through them?”

“That would be nice, Faye.” Birdie followed the petite woman into the private room where stacks of books and magazines littered the floor.

Faye stopped before an empty space and tapped her fingertips together as she glanced around. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“Children's books.”

Faye turned to stare at her.

“For a friend,” Birdie explained.

“Well,” Faye bent to study a box, “I believe they're all mixed together, but you're welcome to go through anything in here.”

After shrugging out of her coat, Birdie hung it on the hook she'd used for over twenty years, then stepped back and sighed. “Look at that—my coat looks right at home there, Faye.”

“That it does,” Faye answered, chuckling. “But you can't have my job. You gave it up for cookies, remember?”

Still smiling, Faye returned to the front when a patron rang the bell.

Birdie sank to her knees and set about scavenging the cardboard boxes, pulling out worn copies of
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Black Beauty,
and
Betsy-Tacy and Tib.
Pulling up a chair, she reread a couple of Grimms' fairy tales, delighted with the fanciful illustrations.

An hour later, her feet propped on a storage bin, she helped Nancy Drew discover
The Secret of the Old Clock.
Before she knew it, she heard Faye closing up for the day, switching off lights in the early fall dusk.

“Faye, do we have any McGuffey's readers lying around?”

The librarian came into the back room carrying a handful of paperclips. “The school system donated a whole stack last spring,” she said, pitching the paper clips into a bin. “But what in the world do you want with kindergarten material? Are you teaching little Georgie Graham to read?”

“Georgie?” Birdie laughed. “That boy can read nearly as well as I can.”

She pressed her lips together, unwilling and unable to say that Salt Gribbon would be the recipient of her generosity. But how was she going to get the material to him without violating his privacy? After all, a man like the captain was bound to be sensitive about his inability to read, and she wouldn't hurt his feelings for the world.

Faye rummaged through a shelf and came up with a handful of
McGuffey's Eclectic Primers.
“How many do you need?”

“One will do.” Birdie confiscated the book, her eyes eagerly scanning the pages. The material was elementary and illustrated—perfect. Now, to get the primer in the captain's hands without causing him to suspect she knew what he was doing. Self-educating wasn't the easiest way to learn to read, but she supposed it was better than doing nothing at all.

“This will be great,” she announced, adding the book to her growing stack.

By the time Birdie left the library, she'd bought twenty dollars worth of reading material. Some books she would keep and dole out as Salt progressed, but she'd deliver the elementary reader right away.

She was the only passenger on the six o'clock ferry. The water was choppy and the wind sharp enough to cut through a body.

“Bundle up tight,” Captain Stroble called as the boat bumped the dock. She waved as she hopped off, then shifted the heavy sack of books to her left hand as she braced herself for the cold walk home.

As she passed Frenchman's Folly, she couldn't help noticing that a warm light glowed in Edmund de Cuvier's sick room. Birdie imagined Caleb and Olympia keeping the deathwatch. A tough time for them, surely.

She shook her head, huddling deeper into her coat as she toted the heavy books up the hill. Her thoughts shifted from the sober image of the de Cuviers to Captain Gribbon's pleased expression when she delivered the books. “Now, Birdie,” he'd say in his clipped New England accent, “you shouldn't have gone to the bother.”

“Don't get yourself all frothed up, Cap'n Gribbon,” Birdie would say right back. “Weren't no bother a-tall.”

Some thought the cap'n a little crabby, but Birdie suspected a heart of gold beat beneath all that bluster and blow.

The wood stove burned brightly as Birdie entered the house through the back door, and the smell of clam chowder hung thick in the air. Bea turned in the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon. “You must be near frozen, Sister. I'll get you a cup of hot coffee.”

Birdie set the sack of books on the kitchen counter before stripping off her coat and gloves. “Frozen clean to my toes, I reckon. I need something to get the blood circulating.” She moved toward the fire. “It's fearsome out there tonight.”

“Ayuh, cold as a well digger's ankles.” Bea poured coffee into a thick white mug, then added cream and a teaspoon and a half of sugar. “Been at the library all afternoon?”

“Ayuh. Faye and I had a nice visit.”

Taking a pan of cornbread from the oven, Bea eyed the bulging book bag. “Got you some reading material?”

Birdie pretended not to hear the question. Bea wouldn't approve of her buying books for the captain, and she didn't want to begin an argument she couldn't win. She cast about for a new topic, then asked, “Have you ordered the Thanksgiving bird yet?”

The diversion worked like a charm. Bea snapped her fingers and headed toward the desk to write herself a note. “Thirty pounder again this year?”

“Of course, we can always freeze the leftovers.”

Smiling, Birdie picked up her cup of coffee and went into the sitting room, then sank wearily into her recliner. Beyond the frosted windowpanes, the wind whistled around the eaves, banging the shutters, but Birdie was warm as a puppy and about as happy.