Grace in Autumn (32 page)

Creeping up the stairs, Georgie turned the corner of the landing, then slapped his hands over his eyes. His parents were both sitting in one chair, kissing!

“Mom and Dad,” he yelled, trying not to look, “there are men downstairs to see you.”

“What?”

When he lowered his hands, his mom stood by the desk, smoothing the wrinkles from her jeans. Dad stood, too, and he was grinning.

“Who's downstairs?” Mom asked, moving past Georgie toward the landing.

“The puffin man,” Georgie said, following her, “and some guy I never seed before.”

“You've never seen,” his dad corrected, dropping his hand to Georgie's shoulder. “Did you leave them alone in the gallery?”

“Z's with them.” A tingle of excitement, a feeling almost like Christmas, moved through Georgie. He didn't know what was happening, but this was not like any other day-before-Thanksgiving he could remember. First of all, there was all that stuff with Mr. Edmund going to heaven, then his parents were kissing, and now the puffin man was downstairs with a stranger who carried a video camera and a big black bag of stuff.

Eager to discover what it all meant, Georgie skipped down the stairs behind his mom and dad.

Grateful that she wouldn't have to postpone her explanation to Pierce Bedell, Babette smiled in relief when she crossed the foyer and saw him in the gallery with Zuriel. The two men, accompanied by a stranger, were standing before one of Charles's seascapes. She caught herself hoping that Bedell would be as taken with Charles's work as he had been with Georgie's, but when she entered they turned to face her without a backward glance.

“Madame Graham,” Bedell said, coming forward to greet her with a warm handshake, “I am so glad to find you at home today. I'm sorry we didn't call ahead of time, but John thought it might be nice to catch you unprepared— so we could have sort of an impromptu visit.” He laced his fingertips beneath his chin, then forced his hands outward in an explosive gesture. “Ta da! Surprise!”

Speechless with astonishment, Babette looked at the third man. He wore a denim jacket and jeans, but he carried a video camera on his shoulder, while an impressive array of gadgets littered the floor by his feet. “You must be John,” she said.

“John Wilkerson, from WCSH,” the man said, awkwardly shifting the video camera in order to extend his hand. “News at Five, Channel Six.”

Babette turned to Bedell. “I think we'd like a full explanation.”

“Ayuh.” Charles's voice echoed from behind her. “We would.”

“Of course.” Bedell blazed his smile around the room. “Marcia Goldman, program director for WCSH, has hired me to do a segment on our genius Georgie. I'll interview him, John will record the interview, and we'll be live at five on the local news. Marcia's hoping the network affiliate in Boston will pick up the clip, then we should get some major national coverage before the week is out—”

“I've seen the puffin paintings,” Wilkerson interrupted, shifting his gaze from Babette to Charles. “They're magnificent.”

“Mr. Bedell,” Babette began.

“I know this is irregular,” Bedell said, spreading his hands again, “but this is a bit of an unusual situation. Ordinarily the station would send a reporter and a news truck, but with the holiday, there's no way we could arrange a full news spot. So I'm going to act as interviewer, and John will tape the piece—”

“Babs,” Charles's voice dripped with weariness, “will you handle this, please? Georgie and I are going to go upstairs and play a computer game.”

In dazed exasperation, Babette watched her husband and grinning son move toward the stairs. What was she supposed to do? She had promised Georgie there would be no more puffin paintings, but she hadn't counted on Bedell showing up with the local news and plans for national exposure. If she sent these two away without a full explanation, she might look as though she were trying to hide the truth about Georgie. But if she painted him as a child prodigy, she'd be right back in the quicksand she desperately wanted to escape.

She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, murmured a quick, “Lord, help!” and then caught Zuriel's eye. Some secret twinkled there, and she felt a wave of relief when he stepped forward.

“Babette,” he said, his smile deepening the dimple at the border of his beard, “maybe these men would like to see Georgie's work at the Kid Kare Center.”

Then, in a barely comprehensible flash, she knew the answer.

After nodding her thanks to Zuriel, she gave her visitors the brightest smile she could muster. “Gentlemen,” she said, leading the way toward the front door, “follow me if you want to see some real works of art.”

The scents of cinnamon, roasting turkey, and spice candles greeted them when Dana Klackenbush opened the door of her home. “Why, Babette,” she said, taking in her visitors with one wide-eyed glance, “I didn't expect company today. We're baking for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I know, and I hate to bother you,” Babette said, gesturing toward the two men behind her. “But these gentlemen would like to see your classroom. I know you have some of Georgie's pictures on the wall.”

Dana's face brightened as she stepped back to let them in. “Indeed, we do. We have an excellent program for daycare drop-ins and full-time students, even though Georgie is our only resident student right now—”

“Just a quick look, Dana,” Babette interrupted, stepping into the foyer, “that's all we need.”

Dana pointed to the doorway at the right of her foyer, and Babette led the way into the sunny space that served as the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center classroom. Four low tables occupied the center space, but the visitors' eyes were drawn to an array of colorful pictures on the wall. Smiling, Babette crossed her arms as Bedell and Wilkerson exclaimed over the vibrant portraits of puffins, sea gulls, and whales.

“What colors! What style!” Bedell gushed, applauding one particularly exuberant painting of a lobster. “I didn't know our boy liked to paint anything but puffins.”

“He likes to paint all sorts of animals,” Dana said, shooting Babette a curious glance, “most children do.”

“Such an air of whimsy,” Wilkerson said, lifting his camera to his shoulder. He put his eye to the viewfinder, then pulled his head back and motioned for Babette to step aside. “If you'll move to the right, Mrs. Graham, I'll get a shot of Pierce and these paintings. We'll do a voiceover about this evidence of Georgie's budding talent and expanding interests—”

“Georgie's talent?” Dana shot the cameraman a twisted smile. “What about the others?”

Wilkerson froze.

Bedell's mouth tightened. “What others? I thought Georgie was the only student.”

“He is the only resident student,” Dana said, looking to Babette. “But other kids drop in quite often. These pictures”—she gestured around the room—“were painted by many children, from several different places and walks of life.”

Bedell's face rippled with chagrin.

Crossing her arms, Babette gave him a confident smile. “Ayuh,” she said, “these are great works of art. They are simple, whimsical, and beautiful. But they're not particularly unique. Almost all children paint with this kind of freedom and perspective.”

Bedell frowned, his gaze level under drawn brows. “Impossible. I know art, and I know genius when I see it.”

“Perhaps,” Dana said, reaching out to touch the textured surface of a child's seascape, “all children are geniuses when it comes to art. I know they see a much simpler world than we do. Or maybe they see with innocent eyes.”

Babette pointed to a wide painting of a spouting whale, marked in the lower corner with Georgie's trademark initial. “Georgie may have talent, but it's too soon to force him into professional painting. I want him to be free to explore all the gifts God has given him. As for his art— it is lovely, but any mother in America probably has had something just as priceless on her refrigerator door.”

She motioned for Wilkerson to lower the camera. “My Georgie isn't going to sell any more puffins. I was wrong to take the joy of painting away from him. I'm not going to do that anymore.”

“But,” Bedell stuttered, a cold, congested expression settling on his face, “what about the paintings? What about my reputation? I told people those paintings were art—”

“They are art,” Babette answered, moving toward the door. “And the people who bought them from you got a bargain. To me, they're priceless.” When she reached the doorway, she turned and lifted one shoulder in what she hoped was an elegant, casual shrug. “If you want a refund, Mr. Bedell, I'll give you one. But I'd want the paintings back, of course.”

“I can't retrieve the paintings.” Bedell raked his hands through his hair. “And we have a contract!”

“Consider it canceled,” Babette said. “Payment was upon delivery of each painting, and there will be no more deliveries. So that settles everything.”

She nodded farewell to Wilkerson, blew a kiss to Dana, and gave Bedell a final smile as she lingered in the doorway. “I wish you both a blessed Thanksgiving, gentlemen.”

After a dinner of chowder and tuna fish sandwiches, Charles went into the gallery to check on his paint supply. Babette stepped into the foyer to watch him a moment, then smiled and returned to the kitchen.

He would learn to celebrate his gift. In some ways, he was a little boy at heart, a lot like Georgie.

And for all her budgeting and planning, she had to learn to live by faith. Through her beloved son, God had given her a precious gift and used that first painting to supply some urgent needs.

She glanced up at the ceiling, where nothing but a brown stain remained of her near-constant leak. Next weekend, after the holiday, she would pick up some white ceiling paint from the mercantile and freshen this room.

She ran water in the sink, then squirted a capful of dishwashing liquid beneath the streaming hot water. As the bubbles foamed around the dirty dishes, she realized how close she'd come to breaking her son's heart.

“Lord, forgive me,” she whispered, trailing her hand through the bubbles. “When I think of the wall I was building between me and Georgie—”

“Mom?”

She turned. Georgie stood beside her now, holding one of his Sunday school papers.

“Mom”—Georgie wore a serious look as he contemplated a picture of Jesus on the cross—“Zuriel says we have to ask forgiveness when we do wrong, but Jesus never did wrong things. I don't understand why he had to die.”

In that moment, just before turning to answer her son, Babette silently lifted another prayer of praise and thanksgiving.