Grace in Autumn (6 page)

“Charles,” she began, not caring about his penchant for privacy, “we need to talk about the roof.”

He pecked out another string of letters. “What roof?”

“The roof on this house. The one that leaks.”

Charles hesitated, his fingers frozen over the keys, then swiveled his head to look at her. “You got bids, didn't you?”

“Ayuh.”

His mouth pursed up in a small rosette, then unpuckered enough to ask, “And?”

“Fifteen thousand, twelve thousand, and ninety-nine hundred.”

He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight in what appeared to be a colossal effort, then lifted his lids. “So what's the problem? Take the lowest bid.”

Babette threw him a black look, but Charles had already turned back to his manuscript and placed his fingers on the keys.

“The problem,” she said, taking pains to keep her voice low, “is that we don't have ninety-nine hundred dollars. We don't have one hundred extra dollars. With the high cost of gas this year, we'll be lucky if we can make it through the winter without maxxing out the credit card.”

Charles's fingers kept hovering over the keys, but his head turned toward her again. “I'm not worried, honey. My book's still out there, and it's going to sell any day now.”

She forced the words out. “And if it doesn't?”

Charles's shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “You'll think of something. You always do.”

Click, clack, clickity clack. His fingers moved over the keyboard. Already he had shut her out.

Babette swallowed hard and wrapped her arms about herself, feeling suddenly chilly. She had no answers, not this time. With winter approaching and the ferry running only three times a day, very few off-islanders even visited Heavenly Daze. The few who came might want to enjoy the bed-and-breakfast or sample saltwater taffy from the mercantile, but with Christmas approaching, nobody would have money to spend on big-ticket art items from the Graham Gallery. They might sell a few pieces of Z's pottery, but those would barely cover the expense of heating the large showroom.

Gripping the Handyman Roofing envelope in her fist, Babette turned and left Charles alone, then walked slowly down the stairs. She wondered if anyone on the island knew about their money problems—after all, the Graham Gallery did not sell knickknacks or tourist trinkets. Their living-room-turned-showroom was well-stocked with paintings worth thousands. Even some of Zuriel's pottery pieces sold for over one hundred dollars. But most people didn't know that everything but Z's pottery and Charles's paintings were being sold on a consignment basis. When and if they were purchased, 60 percent of the money went directly to the artist. The remaining 40 percent went into the Graham Gallery business account to pay Babette's meager salary and provide a roof over their heads.

A roof that leaked.

Sighing, she dropped the letter from Handyman atop the stack of bills on her kitchen desk. Apart from taking out a loan—which she doubted they could get, much less pay off—she could do nothing but wait for spring and the few tourists who'd return and spend their discretionary income on a piece of art that would remind them of the idyllic weekend they'd spent on a Maine island.

She sank into her chair and stared out the window. The snow had stopped, and the steady plinking sound of the water had slowed. But she dared not move the bucket. If temperatures warmed, it could rain in an instant. Weather on the island could be fickle.

Crossing her arms, she leaned her head against the back of her tall chair and groaned. They could, of course, move to Portland or Boston. In an urban location they could turn the gallery into a twelve-month business and make money year round . . . but Georgie would have to live in the city. And the quality she appreciated most about Heavenly Daze was the small town sense of community. Here, Georgie was growing up among people who prized and petted him. As far as she knew there were no guns on Heavenly Daze, no violence, and no crime apart from the occasional trouble that came over with the tourists. This island was as near as she'd come to finding heaven on earth, and she didn't want to take Georgie away.

It'd be easier to buy more buckets.

Charles stopped typing nonsense and waited for the familiar sound of Babette groaning at her desk, then breathed a sigh of relief. Babette was a good woman and a great wife, but when she got in a mood . . .

He shook his head and stared at the confused page before him. He'd been in the middle of a scene when she interrupted, and now he couldn't think of anything but the leaky roof. What did she expect him to do about it? He knew nothing about roofing and would probably break his neck if he climbed up on the eaves and started ripping off shingles. His father had never been much of a handyman, and on the few occasions Charles had picked up a hammer, he'd routinely hit his thumb or injured some other part of his body.

Babette knew he wasn't handy, and she knew he didn't care a thing about accounting. Early on they'd agreed that she'd keep the books, and in the ten years of their marriage, she'd done a marvelous job of keeping their family and business solvent.

So why was she coming to him about their finances now? Sometimes he felt as though she wanted him to suddenly become the family executive, lawyer, and banker all rolled into one, but when she married him she knew he was none of those things. He was an artist, a dreamer, and a painter . . . and at the moment a very frustrated wordsmith.

He reread the first paragraph on the page:

“Devon,” she whispered softly, her heart thudding like the bass drum that used to hurt her ears in high school band class, “I wanted to see you.”

Devon stared at her, his mouth going dry and his palms in need of a good swipe of antiperspirant. Wowsers, she was beautiful. She was passion and flowers and music and moonlight and magic and magnolias all rolled into a great big sticky gumball of loveliness. He needed her. He wanted her. But she must never know it.

“So see me,” he answered dryly, his voice grating like nails over a chalkboard. “I'm here. I've always been here.”

Akgyueiotywieotiutlgkshg

Charles blew out his cheeks, then ripped the page out of the typewriter, wadded it, and tossed it over his shoulder. Even with the gobbledygook he'd typed when Babette came in, he knew it wasn't working.

“Not compelling,” he muttered. “Plodding. Tired and full of purple prose.” Those words had become a jingle that echoed in his brain, a singsong chorus he couldn't wipe from his consciousness. The rejection slips he had received from his first book all contained some variation of those lyrics.

From a New York agent: “Not compelling. Keep your day job.”

From Harbor House, home of best-selling author Stellar Cross: “Plodding and ill-paced. Needs revision.”

From The Writer's Ink, a manuscript evaluation service: “Tired and redundant, but shows signs of promise. For $999, we'll make suggestions for improvement.”

From Oprah's Book Club: no response.

But he had not given up hope, hadn't given in to the temptation to quit, hadn't moped or moaned or pouted. He'd merely outlined his second novel and begun to write again, holding out hope that those who still had his first manuscript would recognize fledgling genius when they saw it. Until they did, he would remain hard at work, polishing and perfecting and persevering at his task.

Let the roof leak. Someday, when he had made the
New York Times
bestseller list, he'd tell the story of how he suffered in his writing room . . . and laugh.

Later that afternoon, Birdie looked up from her accounting and saw that Abner was preparing to close the bakery. The devoted employee finished his baking by late morning, and early afternoon business usually slowed to a trickle—nothing Birdie couldn't handle if anyone happened to stop by for a cookie or an after-dinner dessert.

“If there's nothing else, Birdie, I'll be going.” Abner appeared in the doorway, bundled up for the brief walk to the carriage house at the back of Birdie's lot. Though it would have been far simpler—and warmer—for him to walk through the house, he insisted that Bea and Birdie deserved their privacy. Also, he once confessed, the exercise did him good. (The poor man had developed a noticeable paunch—the result of sampling too many of his own delicious concoctions.)

Birdie often wondered what he did with his free time. She knew the carriage house was warm and comfortable. She'd furnished it herself with a soft bed, a small black-and-white television, a table, chair, and lamp. During summer months, when everyone on the island raised their windows to catch the sea breeze, she often heard him laughing at reruns of
Happy Days
and
Little House on the Prairie
. Six days a week his lights were out by 9 PM, and he was back in the bakery by 4 AM, baking again. By six o'clock, the first of the hot doughnuts, thick with shiny glaze, lay on cooling racks. Elezar and Zuriel would arrive, their noses red from the brisk, early morning walk, and the three men would sit around a table to enjoy cups of steaming coffee and fresh, just-baked doughnuts.

About a half-dozen sugary treats each.

Smiling, Birdie reached for a roll of adding machine tape. “I can't think of anything else I need, Abner. Have a nice afternoon.”

“You, too, Birdie. May God smile especially on you today.”

She grinned impishly. “He already has. I'm alive and apparently still foxy-looking enough to catch a certain skipper's eye.”

“Ayuh, that you are.” Wrapping his scarf around his neck, Abner winked, then left the shop.

After working another hour on her accounts, Birdie turned the CLOSED sign into place and pulled the shade on the front door. Sighing, she turned and walked through the kitchen and into the keeping room, careful not to disturb Bea, who was hunched over the small writing desk and apparently lost in thought.

Settling into her recliner, she picked up her knitting and began her work, her thoughts drifting back to young Lewis's letter.

Heavenly Daze had no angels, of course, but there was no reason she and Bea couldn't act as compassionate surrogates. They were two aging women with time on their hands, so what was to prevent them from helping out? They couldn't heal or dictate the color of bicycles, but they could lend a word of encouragement to a grieving parent and offer a word of comfort to a confused child. Perhaps they could write several letters over the winter, keeping tabs on Lewis's progress . . .

The thought of children brought Salt Gribbon to mind. Twice a week he came into the bakery for cookies and bread, and though Birdie didn't want to admit it (especially to Bea), she looked forward to his brief visits. He wasn't a conversationalist, but he always made a point of speaking to her, personally singling her out. Vernie like to tease her about the cap'n, but that didn't bother Birdie. Vernie could tease all she liked; Birdie rather enjoyed the man's attention, though she was powerless to understand why. Romance was certainly not in her future. Never married, she'd nonetheless made a comfortable life for herself on the island. She'd served as head librarian at the Ogunquit Memorial Library for twenty years before taking out a loan to purchase the bakery. When Frank died and Bea came back to Heavenly Daze, Birdie's life became even fuller. Sister took over the post office so Birdie could devote more time to the bakery and church work. Why, Edith Wickam literally glowed when Birdie offered to chair the annual quilt bazaar.

No, Birdie had no intention of changing anything, but a little male attention never hurt any woman's esteem.

But . . . what use could Cap'n Gribbon possibly have for
Curious George
?

Could Bea have been right when she said he couldn't read? He seemed intelligent enough. Was it possible he was using children's books to teach himself?

The image of such a flinty old character huddling over a children's book and stammering to pronounce the simplest words . . . that picture was all wrong.