Grace in Autumn (21 page)

He lifted his muddy hands and held them aloft. “You want to try?”

Georgie nodded.

“Wet your hands in the bucket, then place them on the mound, like I did. Relax, and let the mud mold itself to your fingers.”

And while Georgie lowered his hands to the lump of earth and smiled in the joy of creation, Zuriel studied the living clay jar before him and wondered when the boy's parents would come to their senses. Lately they had become far too concerned with earthly possessions. Their true treasure was the priceless soul of their child.

He lowered his gaze, accepting the knowledge that something had created schisms within this human family. Babette and Charles were good parents, but apparently tonight neither of them was up to the challenge of comforting their son. Again.

“I'll save this for you, sport,” Zuriel said, lifting Georgie's wrists and sliding the small hands off the clay. “I'll wrap it in plastic, and tomorrow you can pick up where you left off . . . if you want to. But for now, I think maybe we should clean you up and get you ready for bed.”

Holding his wet hands stiffly before him, Georgie looked up with eyes soft with hurt. “Will you say prayers with me, Z?”

“Sure I will,” Zuriel said, pointing the boy toward the sink in the kitchen area. “Anytime.”

Chapter Nine

H
unched in her robe, Babette stared at the steaming cup of coffee between her hands and considered the state of the universe. Right now things seemed pretty cold on Planet Graham. Though she'd heard sounds of life in the galaxy of Georgie's room, he hadn't come downstairs. And though she could hear the groaning of the shower pipes, Charles hadn't uttered a word since their disastrous fight of the day before. Somehow, from out of nowhere, a thundercloud had moved into the household and slammed them all with a bolt in the heart. If not for Zuriel, who'd stepped in and taken care of Georgie . . .

She closed her eyes, desperately wishing she could turn back time and take back the words she'd spewed yesterday afternoon. She and Charles rarely argued—he was usually too easygoing to fight—but yesterday she had thoughtlessly attacked the dream he held most dear to his heart. Worst of all, they had argued in front of Georgie, who in his entire lifetime had never heard them utter a harsh word to each other.

Her memory flitted back to an afternoon in July when they'd taken the ferry over for a day of shopping in Ogunquit. As they rode the trolley car back to Perkins Cove, they'd begun to banter about whether or not they should stop for ice cream. Charles wanted to, Babette didn't, and after a couple of playful exchanges Georgie clapped both hands over his ears and screamed, “Stop!”

The trolley car driver, a sweet older fellow, slammed on the brakes so hard that Babette's purse went flying from her lap. Every eye in the vehicle turned to Georgie, who slowly lowered his hands and regarded his parents with a somber expression. “I don't want to choose,” he said.

“Choose what, bud?” Charles asked.

“Who I'll live with,” Georgie answered, “when you get a divorce.”

While Charles put his arm around Georgie and tried to explain that he didn't have to worry about divorce, Babette smiled stupidly at the other trolley passengers, then tried to distract them by pointing out the world famous Lobster Pound restaurant.

If a snappy discussion about ice cream had nearly convinced Georgie that his parents' marriage was doomed, what had last night's genuine battle done to him?

Groaning, she buried her face in her hands. She wasn't fit to be a mother or a wife. Charles might never forgive her for being so cruel, and Georgie . . . what must he think of her? If not for Zuriel, who watched over Georgie like some kind of guardian angel, last night could have been even worse.

She heard footsteps on the stairs and tilted her head, analyzing the sound. The steps were light and tentative— they had to belong to Georgie.

Brushing her hands through her hair, she pasted on a calm face, then stood and moved to the cupboard.

“Good morning, sweetie,” she called as he came into the kitchen and slid into his chair. Her voice sounded artificially bright in her own ears. “Want some orange juice with your Frosty Flakes?”

She turned in time to see him shake his head. Georgie's lower lip jutted forward, his gaze focused on the salt-and-pepper shakers in the center of the table.

She forced a smile into her voice. “Want some toast? I have those blueberry preserves you like. They're expensive, so we'd better not let them go to waste.”

Again, nothing but head shaking.

She set the cereal before him, then leaned against the counter as he picked up his spoon and began to eat. Upstairs, the bedroom door slammed, then Charles's heavy footfalls creaked the steps.

Turning away from the kitchen doorway, she sought something to do and settled for tightening the twist tie on a loaf of bread.

“About ready, bud?” Charles asked, coming into the kitchen. He paused to tousle Georgie's hair.

Georgie ducked away from his father's hand, then slid out of his chair. “I want to go to school now.”

Babette lowered her head, feeling the pressure of Charles's eyes upon her back. Ordinarily they'd be looking at each other, sending a series of invisible signals, a silent communication they'd grown adept at understanding over the years . . .

But the lines of communication were down today.

“Better hurry then, hon.” She reached out to pat Georgie's shoulder but nearly missed him as he grabbed his backpack and moved past her without a word.

Pressing her lips together, Babette clung to the back of a chair as her husband and son left the kitchen.

At nine o'clock, after Charles had returned from taking Georgie to kindergarten and silently ascended to his writer's garret, Babette stood in front of her husband's large easel in the gallery. She'd been wrong to expect Georgie to work like an adult. She'd been unfair to impose such a burden upon him, and today she would do all she could to remove that obligation.

One of Georgie's poorer puffin paintings lay on the table next to her, surrounded by jars and tubes of paint she'd pulled from Charles's paint box. Babette tied her kitchen apron behind her back, then picked up a clean paintbrush and regarded the blank canvas.

How hard could painting like a five-year-old be? She could do it, especially since she had one of Georgie's paintings to guide her. Tilting her head, she considered the canvas. Georgie might be a talented little boy, but half of his artistic genes came from her. So even if she'd never painted as much as a ceramic plate, she could produce at least six or seven puffins a day.

She dabbed the brush in a jar of ebony tempera, then drew it across the canvas, boldly approximating the shape of the puffin's head and wing. Satisfied with the result, she dabbed and painted again, coloring in the tail feathers, wing, and the white speck that marked the eye.

Dropping her brush into a glass of water, she stepped back to evaluate her work. Not bad. Not great, but perhaps it would look different when the paint dried and she added a few details. When she was finished, she'd sign a big
G
to the lower right corner, but this time it would stand for “Graham,” not “Georgie.”

So she could sell them to Pierce Bedell with a reasonably clear conscience.

An hour later, Babette stared at the wasted canvas and admitted defeat. The shape that had looked promising at the beginning had somehow become cluttered and sloppy. Her puffin looked more like a sick puppy than a bird. The orange feet were grossly out of proportion, and the multicolored beak attached to the black head looked more like a Halloween mask.

She dropped her brush into the water jar, then grabbed at the apron strings at her back. She only had a few minutes to put these things away and dispose of that awful canvas. If Georgie came home and saw what she'd been doing, he'd think she was cheating.

Which she was.

Shuddering in sudden humiliation, she pulled the apron over her head. She was about to toss it onto the table when Charles's frame filled the doorway. “Babs—,” he said, then he halted, his strong jaw dropping as he stared at the painting on the easel.

“I was—” She felt herself blushing as she looked at the monstrosity she'd created. “I felt bad about putting so much pressure on Georgie. I thought I'd try to paint some puffins myself . . . so he wouldn't have to.”

Charles's expression clouded. For a moment she thought he'd say something sarcastic, but then he slapped his hand to his cheek and laughed. “You thought—,” he began, then he leaned against the doorframe and grabbed his knees, bending double in laughter. “That's”—he spoke through snorts and cackles—“the silliest looking picture I've ever seen!”

Babette bit the inside of her lip and gathered her apron into her fist. If he didn't stop laughing, she would throw it at him in a minute . . .

“That,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “looks like a penguin on steroids!”

Babette felt her mouth twist. She moved closer to the door, then turned and stared at the painting from his vantage point.

What she saw brought a smile to her own lips. “I've got to admit,” she said, crossing her arms, “he does look a little . . . hunky.”

“Oh, honey.” Charles's arm fell loosely over her shoulder. “I'm sorry, but you're not a painter. You have many gifts and talents, but this”—he pointed toward the easel— “is not one of them.”

She shook her head, amazed that he couldn't see the irony in his words. He was an excellent painter, so why did he persist in trying to write the Great American Masterpiece?

“I can't do it,” she said, turning to face him. “So why don't you help? You could paint a couple of puffins just to motivate Georgie. If you only started one, Georgie would pick up a paintbrush. That's why he paints, anyway. He wants to be like you.”

For a moment she thought Charles might soften, but a muscle tightened in his jaw as his arm fell from her back. “I can't paint right now, Babs. I've got to finish my book.”

“You can't take even a little break? For a day or two?”

He shook his head. “No. And don't worry about Georgie. Give him some space, and he'll paint again when he's ready.”

“What if he doesn't want to paint until after Christmas?” Babette put her hands on her hips. “What if he waits until the trend has passed? You know today's hot commodity can become tomorrow's Talking Elmo or Pokémon. If he doesn't paint while he's in demand, we may as well quit now. No one will care if he waits too long.”

Charles turned toward the kitchen. “We can't quit,” he called, “we need the money. Besides, Georgie won't wait too long.”

“How do you know?” Babette followed him, nipping at his heels like a terrier. “And yet that's not what concerns me most, Charles. I'm worried about what Georgie is becoming. He never used to be belligerent or surly or pouty, but he's become all of those things in the last few days. In the last couple of days, he's been deliberately disobedient— he refuses to paint those puffins! He never used to give us this kind of trouble.”

Charles moved to the cupboard and reached for a glass. “Georgie's fine, hon. Leave him alone.”

“How can I?” She swept her hand through her hair, wishing it were proper to knock some logic into one's husband's head. “I will not raise a hooligan or a delinquent, and I'm afraid that's what we're doing. But he's so stubborn! I've never seen a kid so strong-willed.”

“I was a strong-willed child.” A self-satisfied smile crossed Charles's face. “And I turned out okay.”

Babette bit back a sarcastic remark, then drew a deep breath. Lead a horse to a mirror and you still can't make him see himself . . .

“Fine.” Throwing up her hands, she left Charles alone and sailed away to clean up her mess in the gallery.