Grace in Autumn Page 9

  Laughing softly, Bedell pressed his fingertips to his chin. “How ingenious, having the simple beach serve as a foil to the colorfully plumaged bird. Yes, this is genius. Your son, Madame, is something special.”

  Straightening, Babette shrugged modestly. “We’ve always thought him bright and inquisitive.”

  “And my clients will be very grateful for the opportunity to own his work.”

  He pulled another check from his pocket, this one already signed and made out for $15,000. Babette gasped at the man’s confidence. “Are you sure you can sell it? Wouldn’t you rather take this on consignment—”

  “My dear, I already have a buyer. In fact, I have buyers lined up to buy more puffins. The owner of the first painting—a lady in Boston who wishes to remain anonymous— immediately entered The Puffin into an art show sponsored by the Boston Globe. Already your son’s work has won rave reviews. Here, I brought this to show you. It’s from yesterday’s paper.”

  The briefcase opened again, then another folder appeared. From it Bedell withdrew a folded newspaper, then snapped it open. Babette gaped at the headline over a column on the left side of the front page: “Puffin Painting Prodigy Packs a Punch and Parallels Picasso!”

  “Oh, my,” she murmured, sinking to her stool.

  “Keep that copy,” Bedell said, snapping the locks on his attaché. “Read away. I’ll wrap the painting myself, if you don’t mind, and hurry to catch Captain Stroble before he takes the ferry back to the mainland.”

  Murmuring her agreement, Babette picked up the paper. She was only half-conscious of Bedell’s movements as he wrapped the second puffin painting in brown paper and twine. Her thoughts were too busy following the words of Howard Crabbe, art critic for the Globe:

  Boston’s art community was rocked today by the appearance of a new artist—a newcomer represented by Pierce Bedell, a private art dealer headquartered in Portsmouth. The artist is a young man known only as “Georgie,” and his signature is a bold, cocky G.

  The cause of this weekend’s commotion was a single simple painting of a black bird common to Maine seashores and properly called Fratercula arctica, or common Atlantic puffin. Georgie’s puffins, however, are unlike any of those seen along Maine’s rocky shores. The puffin of Georgie’s imagination has stark, stalklike legs, enormous eyes, and a face that seems to smile grimly at the environmental destruction of the puffins’ habitat and hereditary nesting places.

  Professor Milford Higgenbottom, of Harvard University, discovered evidence of strong environmental concerns in the controversial piece. “In this painting,” he told a crowd of onlookers at the gallery, “I see a dire concern for mother earth and all things natural. Look at the slender, almost reedlike legs—the artist is pointing to the thin thread of life which binds the bird to earth and all of us to each other. Look at the colors on the beak—the blue of the sky, the white of a cloud, the orange of the sun. Are these not the colors of nature? Can we live without air or water or sunlight? Indeed not.”

  Amelia Scarborough, a visiting professor from Oxford, echoed Professor Higgenbottom’s views. “In London, of course, we are much more aware of environmental matters, yet you will never find a puffin on England’s shores. But in the composition of this piece, I see myriad messages. Like the Impressionists, the artist seems to be working en plein air to capture spontaneous impressions of a timeless world. Notice that the sun is an orange blob in the distance. For this artist, obviously, the sun and all it cheers is the signifier of an eternal organic cosmos, yet he hints at another world outside our own temporal existence. This is an extension of the Pre-Raphaelite ‘truth to nature’ concept through which artists seek to render the temporary as permanent by the use of structured patterning of creation, color, and concept.”

  “I don’t know who this young artist is,” Higgenbottom added, “but I cannot wait to observe his career as he passes through the angst of early adulthood. His maturation will bring us closer to our own souls and mother earth.”

  Stunned, Babette looked up and caught Bedell’s gaze. “You’re kidding,” she said, dropping the newspaper to her lap. “Do these people know who—or what—they’re talking about?”

  “They are talking about the art world’s latest prodigy.” Bedell grinned and tucked the new painting under his arm. “And you, Madame, are the mother of a genius. Keep him painting. Call me when you have other puffins—I can sell as many as the lad can produce.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” The words slipped from Babette’s mouth before she could think. Surprised at her own audacity, she stammered a correction: “That is—if we need to continue. But thank you, Mr. Bedell—I mean, Pierce.”

  “You’re welcome, Madame. And I certainly hope you will continue. The world is clamoring to see more from your son.”

  After jauntily tipping his hat in her direction, Bedell left the gallery. Watching through the window, Babette saw him duck his head into the wind and hurry toward the ferry, leaving her alone with Georgie’s first published review.

  Birdie looked up when the bakery door opened, then grinned when she saw what the wind had blown in: Babette and Georgie Graham. Babette’s blue eyes were shining, and wide-eyed Georgie immediately focused on the plump round sugar cookies on the top shelf of the display case.

  Abner lifted his brows to Babette in a silent question, then grinned when she nodded.

  He leaned on the counter. “Hey, Georgie! In the mood for a sugar cookie?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Only one,” Babette cautioned. “You’ll spoil your supper.”

  Abner wrapped the cookie in tissue and handed it over the counter, then reached out to affectionately ruffle the child’s hair. Birdie walked away from the cake she was decorating and smiled at Babette. “He’s growing like ragweed.”

  Babette sighed. “I know. We can’t keep him in clothes.” Her eyes scanned the display case, then rested longingly on the éclairs. Rich creamy filling spilled from the delicately browned and chocolate-covered pastry. Ordinarily, Babette bought two and gave one to Georgie. Today she bought six.

  “Half a dozen?” Abner asked, surprise registering on his pleasant features.

  “Six, please,” Babette repeated, looking a little smug.

  As Abner set about boxing up the special treats, Birdie stepped closer. “Celebrating?” she asked, knowing it was nosy of her but unable to resist. What was the sense in living in a small town if you couldn’t feel free to ask about your neighbors? “Don’t tell me.” She clapped her hands. “Did Charles sell his book?”

  Grinning, Babette shook her head. “Nothing like that, just splurging a little.”

  Birdie accepted this news in silence. The islanders knew money was tight at the Graham’s. But Babette wasn’t likely to spend money frivolously, and six éclairs wouldn’t break anybody’s bank. It was good to see the young woman loosening up a bit.

  “I think you’ll find the éclairs extra good today,” she said, turning back to her cake.

  Georgie grinned. “Everything Abner bakes is super good.”

  Abner beamed, adding a couple of extra pastries to the bag. Then he reached for a loaf of fresh cheese bread and laid it on the counter beside the bag of éclairs.

  “Oh—,” Babette exclaimed.

  Winking, he leaned closer. “I baked twice what we’d need today. Please, do me a favor and take this off our hands.”

  Babette glanced at Birdie for approval. As if Abner needed it!

  Chuckling, Birdie pulled out a box for Vernie Bidderman’s cake. “Tell that young husband of yours to stop in and visit. He needs to get away from that typewriter now and then.”

  “I will. Thank you, Birdie!” With a final smile, Babette grabbed her package and Georgie’s hand, then hurried him toward the door.

  “Mom,” the boy protested, just before shoving the last of the cookie in his mouth.

  The bakery door closed, choking off a frigid blast.

  Right after the Grahams left, Birdie yanked th
e CLOSED sign into place, then reminded Abner of Edith Wickam’s order for the next morning. The pastor’s wife needed two dozen glazed and a dozen chocolate sour cream doughnuts for the ladies’ auxiliary ten o’clock meeting.

  “I’ll take them when I go,” Birdie offered, “and you might want to throw in some of those cinnamon-crusted bagels—you know, for those of us who are watching our figures.”

  “Yes, Birdie. I always do.”

  Walking back through the living quarters, Birdie’s eyes darted to and fro, checking to be sure the coast was clear before she tiptoed into her bedroom for the bag of library books. Bea was nowhere in sight. Good. Birdie didn’t want to answer a lot of questions.

  Intermittent sunshine made the walk to Puffin Cove tolerable. Ferry Road took her past the mercantile, the Graham Gallery, and the Lobster Pot on one side, the bed-and-breakfast, the church, and the tidy clapboard parsonage on the other. The last two buildings on Ferry Road were relatively new structures, both brick red and bone ugly: the public restrooms and Floyd Lansdown’s pride and joy, the Heavenly Daze Municipal Building. The rigid and unimaginative structure held the municipal office (a desk, chair, and telephone) and one jail cell (used only once, as far as Birdie could recall, when an inebriated tourist pulled a live lobster from the restaurant’s tank and proceeded to threaten the other customers with its claws).

  She sighed with relief when she passed the modern buildings. The remainder of Ferry Road had been left as God made it—wild, wind-swept, and rocky. Beige grasses moved as the wind blew, and soon they’d be covered over in snow. Beyond them, black stones lined the shore, where the feather-white sea pounded incessantly. The leeward shore of the island was not as suitable for human habitation as the windward side. Captain Salt Gribbon was the only person she could even imagine living in this starkly desolate place.

  Gribbon had taken up residence in the historic lighthouse about the time Bea had returned to the island. The town mayor, Floyd Lansdown, hired him to operate the light. Rumor said Gribbon had remodeled the old monument into comfortable living quarters, though Birdie suspected the skipper’s idea of comfort differed greatly from the average person’s. Besides, since Gribbon assumed the job of light keeper, no one had ever been inside the lighthouse to judge the Captain’s lifestyle. The old man kept to himself and had lately begun to aggressively guard his privacy. Other than regular trips to the bakery and a monthly stop at the municipal building for his paycheck, he shopped in Ogunquit and steered clear of the other islanders.

  Until a few months ago, Pastor Wickam had regularly made the long walk out to Puffin Cove to invite Salt to church. Lately the minister hadn’t expended the energy, saying that Salt Gribbon knew there was a service every Sunday morning, rain or shine. He was a grown man, and he certainly didn’t need Winslow Wickam to remind him of what his own town had to offer.

  Birdie clutched the collection of books to her bosom and thought about the two dozen molasses cookies she’d added to her little care package. Surely the captain wouldn’t object to an occasional neighborly visit.

  Wind whipped the waves around the rocky point, sending an icy Atlantic spray crashing along the shoreline. Birdie smiled when she spotted a lone cormorant sitting on a rock drying his wings. He seemed a solitary old bird, just like the man she was going to see.

  In the distance, an Ogunquit fishing fleet was returning from one of its last trips of the year. Their tall-masted ships mingled with the smaller boats of lobstermen who were busy running traps for the second time that day.

  The tall stone lighthouse appeared deserted as Birdie approached. Even in the light of midafternoon, the structure looked almost sinister, jutting up from the rocks like a warning finger, urging her to turn back.

  Shaking off a shiver, she approached with slowing steps, clutching at the bag of books and cookies. At the end of Ferry Road she paused, cupping her hand over her eyes to stare up at the light tower, which had kept many a lost seaman safe from a watery death. A chill wind tugged at her scarf and chafed her cheeks.

  Should she go up and knock on the door? Had Salt seen her approach? Probably not, since he hadn’t come out to greet her or throw rocks.

  Her heart hammered as she took another step forward. Maybe she shouldn’t have come unannounced. But he didn’t have a phone, and when he was in the bakery, curious eyes were always twinkling in her direction. She’d waited two days to gather her courage, and if she didn’t proceed now, she might never again find the nerve.

  Her grip tightened around the bag in her arms. She was acting like a nervous schoolgirl! Why was she so jittery? She was bringing books to an old sea dog, not singing a solo in church. There was no earthly reason why she should be feeling spleeny about walking up to knock on an old man’s door.

  Fortifying her nerve, she quickened her pace. In less than a moment she stood in front of the lighthouse, in front of a rugged wooden door someone had painted bright red.

  The color of a stop sign.

  Or a warning signal.

  Lifting her hand, she pecked at it with a knuckle.

  A moment later she knocked with her whole hand.

  When no one answered, she reared back, about to pound for all she was worth, but at that moment the door opened. She pitched forward, fist upraised, and nearly knocked Salt Gribbon to the ground.

  Catching her, with surprising strength he steadied her arm and set her upright, then half-closed the door, blocking her entrance.

  Cold blue eyes bore down on her. “What do you want?”

  Birdie opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her throat worked and her eyes fixated on his stern gaze while her mouth opened and closed like a speared cod.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “I—”

  He planted his solid frame between her and the door, his aggressive stance leaving no doubt about what he thought of the intrusion. She was clearly not welcome.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. “I—,” she began again, feeling faint.

  “Speak up, woman,” he roared.

  Spurred into action, she flung her bag at him. “Books,” she said, but the word came out in a squeak.

  Steel blue eyes focused on the bag against his chest. Frowning, he thrust his hand into the sack and pulled out the McGuffey primer. His frowned deepened.

  “It’s a book,” she explained, shivering.

  “I can see that.”

  “For you,” she added, feeling sick to her stomach. She shouldn’t have come. She had better things to do with her time than bring books to a man who clearly didn’t want company. What on earth had made her think he would welcome a visit from her when he’d told the world he wanted to be left in peace?

  Whirling, she stalked off, keeping her head down as she shoved her fists into her coat pockets. Mortification stung her cheeks.

  Why oh why had she made such a fool of herself? She could feel Salt Gibbon’s eyes boring a hole in her back. She’d never felt more idiotic, not even when she was seventeen and her daddy caught her kissing Floyd Lansdown down at the beach.

  Live and learn—she could almost hear Bea now. Oh dear, if Bea ever got wind of this …

  Her footsteps quickened, carrying her away from the lighthouse in a breathless lope.

  Stepping into the lighthouse, Salt Gribbon placed Birdie Wester’s bag on the old pine table and emptied it. More books, just like she’d said, and a bag of cookies—his favorite. Why?

  Frowning, he focused on the titles.

  The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, McGuffey’s Eclectic Primer, Betsy-Tacy and Tib.

  His eyes pivoted back to the children’s primer.

  He glanced up at the winding staircase as fingers of apprehension gripped him.

  Birdie knew.

  How in the world?

  He scratched his head. No matter how, she knew. Probably been snoopin’ around when he was over in Ogunquit picking up supplies. He always told the kids to stay in the lighthouse and out of sight, but a six-and seven-year-old co
uldn’t always be trusted.

  He tugged at his beard. How long had she known? And why hadn’t she said anything?

  He had been so careful. He’d made the trip to Wells undetected, using his own boat in broad daylight so no one could say he had abandoned his post. Once on shore, he’d taken a bus to Wells, then gone to his son’s apartment and found him missing. The kids were skittish and shy, probably scared to death of the bearded stranger who came in and pounded the wall in frustration.

  When Patrick returned and searched for Brittany and Bobby—assuming he cared enough to look for them—he would have found them gone. Salt had left a note so Patrick wouldn’t do anything as foolish as calling the police, but in the past three months Patrick had never contacted Heavenly Daze, either.

  He was probably relieved to be rid of the kids.

  Julie, their mother, hadn’t even cared enough about her children to stick around. Having never married Patrick, she obviously didn’t feel any binding ties. Salt wasn’t sure of the details, but from what he’d picked up over the years he knew she’d moved to England when Brittany was three weeks old, leaving both children with a drunken father. Patrick had then immersed himself deeper into the bottle. Nothing Salt said or did could convince his son that he was neglecting two precious lives. Two years ago he had begged Patrick to let him have the children, but Patrick refused.

  “You’re sixty-eight years old. An old man,” he’d slurred. “Get out of my life, Pop. Leave me and my kids alone!”

  The passing months had made Salt two years older, but as long as he had his mind and his health he wasn’t about to stand by while his grandchildren were mistreated. Patrick, he’d decided, would never shape up on his own. Until he reached the point of wanting help, he wouldn’t accept it.

  So, after watching Brittany and Bobby suffer from the neglect of an alcoholic parent who wouldn’t work more than a week at a time, Salt had done the only thing a responsible grandparent could do—he’d taken the matter into his own hands and gone to Wells to fetch the children. He wasn’t unaware of the trouble he could find himself in, and he knew he’d done wrong in the eyes of the law. But what Patrick was doing was far worse.