Grace in Autumn (30 page)

Unable to see down the hill, Georgie slipped his hands into his pockets and walked toward the ferry landing. He formed his lips into a pucker and tried to whistle the way his dad did when he set out for the newspaper, but his lips were too frozen to whistle . . . and he'd never been very good at it.

His steps slowed as he neared the ferry. The boat rocked gently in the swells, but it shouldn't be at the docks now. In the winter it wasn't supposed to come until noon.

The grownups on the porch of Frenchman's Folly didn't seem to notice him, so Georgie crossed the street and hid behind one of the tall, bare trees across from the mercantile. From his position he could see the strangers and the bed—and Captain Stroble talking to Caleb as the men carried the bed aboard the ferry. The wind whistled across the dock, flattening the men's coats against their legs, then a corner of the sheet lifted and flew upward, stopped only by a belt over the bed—

Georgie felt his stomach drop. A body lay on the bed, a body that looked like Mr. Edmund, but wasn't. The man's skin was blue gray, and the face seemed hollow and shrunken like a scary cartoon. That couldn't be Mr. Edmund, it was a frightful thing, and suddenly Georgie realized that he was seeing his first honest-to-goodness dead person.

He felt a cold hand pass down his spine. A voice inside his head whispered that he ought to look away, but his eyes wouldn't close, wouldn't even blink. Torn between fascination and fear, he stared until one of the men caught the fluttering sheet and pulled it back down, covering the dead man's head and shoulders again.

Overcome by a bad feeling he couldn't name, Georgie turned and ran for the safety of home.

Babette cleared her throat softly and hugged Annie, then Olympia. Strange, how frail Olympia felt. Babette had always imagined that Olympia de Cuvier had steel in her spine, but the slender woman in her arms felt almost birdlike, a fragile creature of cartilage and feathers.

Babette blinked the preposterous image away and whispered in Olympia's ear. “I'm so sorry, my dear. We've been praying for you all morning.”

Olympia pulled out of her embrace, nodded briefly, and dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. For a moment she stood straight and tall, then the facade crumbled. “My Edmund,” Olympia whispered, the tears beginning to flow again as her shoulders slumped, “I wanted to tell him good-bye, but he slipped away before I could!”

“There, now, honey.” Edith Wickam came in from the parlor and put her arms around Olympia, managing to give Babette a smile as she did so. Babette willingly stepped back, eager to let the pastor's wife handle the condolences.

While Edith walked the sobbing Olympia toward a quiet corner, Babette caught a glimpse of Barbara, the Lansdowns, and Winslow in the kitchen. Winslow was on the telephone, jotting down a message, while Barbara hovered near the coffeemaker. Floyd was frowning at a flower arrangement that had just been delivered. “What in tarnation am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, his voice drifting out in the hall.

Not wanting to get in the way, Babette wandered into the formal living room, where Annie sat on the couch, an open photograph album on the cushion next to her. Caleb, the old butler, sat stiffly on a chair, a strange smile on his face.

Shock, Babette thought. The reality hasn't hit him yet.

“Miss Babette.” Caleb rose to his feet as she entered, then gestured toward the sofa. “Would you like to sit and share a cup of tea?”

“I don't need anything, Caleb, so please don't trouble yourself.” Babette exchanged a smile with Annie, then took a seat on the far end of the sofa. Pointing toward the photo album, she said, “Taking a trip down memory lane?”

“Ayuh.” Annie's tired eyes glowed with wonder. “I never knew Uncle Edmund was a pilot! But here he is, flying one of those old—what were they called, Caleb?”

“Biplanes,” the butler answered. “Oh, yes. Your uncle was quite a daredevil in his younger days.”

“Famous, too.” Annie pointed toward a black-and-white photo, then turned the album so Babette could see. “ ‘Edmund Shots and his Amazing Flying Fandango.' Can you believe it? He and his brothers were into wing-walking and all that stuff.”

“Edmund Shots?” Babette glanced at the butler. “I thought his name was—”

“Olympia never liked the name,” Caleb explained, a blush lighting his cheekbones.

“Oh.” Babette clapped her mouth shut, knowing better than to pursue what had to be a touchy subject. She looked down at the photos for a moment, then purposefully looked away, intuiting that Annie wanted to concentrate on the pictures. Why did young people wait until death to appreciate the folks they'd known all their lives?

Babette crossed her legs and cleared her throat, her gaze flitting around the room. Frenchman's Fairest was still a regal house, though there were definite signs of wear on the Oriental carpet. The heavy drapes in this room had to be twenty years old, and the antique sofa sorely needed reupholstering.

What had Edmund done with his money? She hadn't known him in his stunt pilot days, but she'd known him when he was a successful investment banker. Of course, his illness had eaten away at their savings, and a place like Frenchman's Fairest took far more than Social Security to maintain. And there was Annie, whom Olympia and Edmund had taken in after her parents died.

But Annie had gone to college on scholarship, hadn't she? And they hadn't spent too much on housing, for this place needed help, and quickly. She lifted her gaze and spotted the telltale signs of stained wallpaper at the junction of wall and ceiling. So—the roof of Frenchman's Folly leaked, too. Wonder how much the repairs on this monster would cost?

She blushed when her gaze crossed Caleb's. How long had he been watching her?

“Mr. Edmund,” the old butler said, a reproving note in his voice, “believed in laying up treasures in heaven, not on earth.”

Babette's heart jumped in her chest. Had he read the expression on her face and guessed her thoughts? Or was this the typical kind of comment one made during sympathy calls? She hadn't done this sort of thing enough to know how to respond.

“Treasure in heaven?” She tilted her head and tried to keep her tone light. “What did he do, buy heavenly savings bonds?”

“No, missy.” His smile deepened. “Edmund invested his life in things that count for eternity. I was with him at the end, and I can testify to the fact that he looked forward to receiving his eternal rewards.”

“Look at this!” Annie said, jabbing her finger at another picture. “I never knew Uncle Edmund worked at a church camp!”

“He not only spent the entire summer as a camp counselor, but he also paid expenses for twenty kids from inner-city Boston that same year.” Caleb kept his gaze fastened firmly on Babette. “He gave money whenever he saw a need. He gave quietly, often anonymously, and always freely. He used to say he was just a channel, that God was the real supplier.”

Huddled over the album, Annie laughed softly. “I remember this,” she said, her fingertip caressing another photo. “Uncle Edmund decided to sponsor a dozen kids from the Angel Tree project. He sent Christmas presents to all of them, and instead of decorations that year, we had the kids' pictures hanging on our tree.”

Babette leaned sideways and twisted her head to see. The snapshot had been taken years ago, for Annie looked to be fifteen or so, but there was no mistaking Olympia's slender form and Edmund's wide smile. In the photo, he had one hand on Olympia's narrow shoulder and the other tucked inside his coat pocket—the same pocket that had always held peppermint candies for Georgie.

Edmund de Cuvier had spent his lifetime . . . giving. In the light of his gifts, what did aging drapes and worn upholstery matter?

Babette looked up and caught Caleb's eye as the light of understanding dawned in her heart.

Zuriel half heard the thwacking sound before he actually noticed it. It must have begun while he was throwing the pot, for it blended into the rhythms of the spinning wheel and the rise and fall of his fingers. But when he switched the wheel off and sat observing his work, the thwacking sound continued . . . and came from outside the cottage.

He rose from his stool and crossed to the window, then stared out across the side lawn. Surrounded by the stiff, brown stalks of last summer's flowers, Georgie sat in the garden swing, mindlessly smacking a stick against the angled frame of two-by-fours.

Zuriel didn't wait to be told the boy needed him. Clearly, if an active child like Georgie had been sitting still for more than two minutes, something was wrong.

He pulled his coat from the peg near the door, then stepped out into the overcast day. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he hurried forward until he reached the swing, then stood for a moment. Georgie didn't speak—another sign of trouble.

Zuriel jerked his chin toward the empty space on the long swing. “Mind if I sit down?”

Georgie shrugged in response.

Taking that as permission granted, Zuriel sat on the swing and pushed off, using his long legs to advantage. Georgie stopped smacking the stick against the support posts and let it fall to the mulch beneath the swing.

Zuriel waited, rocking the swing in a silent rhythm. Finally, the boy spoke: “I saw a dead man.”

A tremor of alarm touched Zuriel's spine, then he realized what must have happened. The ferry would have come this morning for Edmund's body.

Zuriel made a soft sound of compassion. “Mr. Edmund is in heaven now. Did no one tell you?”

Georgie shook his head. “I saw the black wreath and everyone crying, but no one would say anything. And then the men came out with the rolling bed, and the sheet flew up.” He lifted his head then, and Zuriel saw shadows behind the boy's brown eyes. “The body looked awful. It didn't look like Mr. Edmund at all.”

“What you saw wasn't Mr. Edmund.” Zuriel paused to let the truth sink in. “What you saw was only the shell that housed Mr. Edmund's spirit while he lived.”

Georgie screwed up his face. “People don't have shells.”

Zuriel laughed softly, realizing that the boy had to be thinking about shellfish like crabs and lobsters, common fare on the island. “We don't have shells like sea creatures, true. Our shells are flesh and bone. This”—he held up his arm and pinched the skin on the back of his hand—“is temporary. My body is a vessel I can wear on earth, but the moment I go to heaven, I have to leave this shell behind.”

Georgie lowered his gaze, long lashes hiding his eyes. “If we don't have a body in heaven . . . are we all indivisible?”

Chuckling, Zuriel turned and rested his arm on the back of the swing. “Spirit things are invisible to humans,” he said, crossing his legs, “but that doesn't mean they're not real. After all, you can hear and feel and smell the wind, but you can't see it. And it's very real.”

Georgie looked up, his gaze clouded in thought. “So Mr. Edmund is a spirit now? Like a ghost?”

“Not a ghost, Georgie. But yes, he's spirit, and he's in heaven with Jesus. If you were in heaven, you'd see him plain as day. You'd recognize him in a minute. Because you'd be spirit, too.”

Georgie hugged himself. “I don't want to die like Mr. Edmund. And I don't want my mom or dad to die or Mr. Caleb or Miss Annie or Miss Birdie or Miss Bea—”

“Georgie.” Zuriel dropped his hand on the boy's shoulder. “You don't have to fear death, and you certainly shouldn't worry about it. All things die.” He hesitated when Georgie flinched. “It's like this,” he said, leaning closer. “Look at your body—your hands, your fingernails, your hair. Every little part of you is alive as long as it's attached to the living part of you, your soul. But if you trim your fingernails or get a haircut, pieces of you fall off and get thrown away. Are you sad about losing those pieces?”

Georgie shook his head. “No, 'cause the barber gives me a candy bar if I sit still for the haircut.”