Flush with a sense of completion now that the house had a beautiful new roof, on Monday morning, November 12, Babette set up Georgie’s easel in the gallery, then pulled a large calendar from the desk and taped it to the French door. Beginning with the current date, she framed each Monday through Saturday with a bright red marker, purposely skipping Sundays and Thanksgiving. After all, no one should have to work on Sunday, and they all deserved a holiday.
She drew the last box around Saturday, December 22, then looked over her work. Thirty-five bright red boxes shone on the glossy paper, so Georgie would have thirty-five days in which to create seventy-eight original puffins.
She smiled when she heard the squeak of the stairs. “In here, Georgie,” she called, turning toward the foyer. Her son peered at her through the glass gallery door, his eyes puffy and his hair still tousled from sleep.
“Whatcha doing, Mom?”
“Come here, Son; I’ve got something to show you.”
He shuffled forward, nearly dropping the ragged blankie in his right hand. He’d slept with that flannel blanket since infancy, and she’d never had the heart to suggest that he toss the tattered thing away. But now that he was about to enjoy his first real job, perhaps the blankie would go the way of his teddy bear and pacifier.
“Look at this, Georgie.” She gestured toward the calendar, then knelt to meet him at eye level. “See these boxes on each date? Every day when you come home from kindergarten, the days marked in red are going to be workdays for you and me. We’re going to make some money, enough for a golf cart and some really important things. Then, after thirty-five workdays, we’re going to celebrate Christmas at Disney World in Florida.” She gave him the biggest grin she could muster. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
Shock flickered over his face like summer lightning. “Disney World?”
“Ayuh.” She reached out and drew him close. “We’re going to have a lot of fun. And all you have to do is paint puffins like the one you made for me to sell.”
He pulled out of her grasp. “But you already sold the puffin.”
“I know, dear. And it was very helpful. In fact, the woman who bought that puffin liked it so much that she told lots of other people about it. Now they want a puffin painting, too.”
Georgie shrugged. “Can’t they paint their own puffins?”
Babette reinforced her smile. “I don’t think so, honey. Some of them have never seen a puffin, and they like the way you paint them. So every afternoon after school, you and I will come in here and you will paint puffins. We need you to paint 2.2 puffins a day to meet our goal.”
The heavy lashes that shadowed his cheeks flew up. “I don’t know what a tutu puffin is, Mom.”
Babette laughed. “Aw, sweetie, it’s just a number. I meant that you’ll need to paint two pictures and get started on the next one. That’s all. We want you to paint puffins like you always do.”
Georgie digested this for a moment, then turned and moved toward the kitchen, his blanket dragging on the floor.
“Okay, Georgie?” Babette called. “Can we get started today after school?”
No answer.
“I’ve got your easel in here where the light is good. And we can use Dad’s big paint box; he said it’s okay. You can paint with any colors you want.”
From the kitchen, she heard the banging sound of the cabinet, and knew Georgie was pulling out his Frosty Flakes.
Sighing, she stood. He hadn’t exactly warmed to the idea, but that was okay. There would be plenty of time for painting later.
At noon, after Georgie had returned from the Kid Kare Center and feasted on a fine lunch of clam chowder and a tuna fish sandwich, Babette called her son into the gallery. One look at his face told her he was no more inclined to paint now than he had been that morning. Anticipating this, she had hoped Charles would be able to help her persuade the boy, but that blasted computer had arrived at ten. Charles had been upstairs tinkering with it ever since.
Crossing her arms, she struggled to present her son with a pleasant, let’s-get-down-to-business face. “Okay,” she told him, “it’s time to paint. Are you ready?”
Georgie crinkled his nose, and Babette counted to three, a handy exercise in controlling her temper. “If you don’t like your easel in here,” she said, her tone clipped as she faced her reluctant son, “where would you like me to put it?”
Georgie screwed up his face in thought. “Dad’s office? So I can see the new computer?”
She nearly guffawed aloud. Charles wouldn’t appreciate them barging in on him, but fathers and sons should spend quality time together . . .
“Fine.” She grabbed the easel with one hand and tucked the blank canvas beneath her arm. “Grab the paint box, then, and follow me upstairs.”
She’d crossed the foyer and climbed half the staircase before she realized Georgie wasn’t behind her.
“George Louis Graham!” she yelled, not caring if she disturbed the great and mighty writer upstairs. “Get yourself up these stairs right this instant!”
With Charles’s paint box weighing him down, Georgie dragged himself to the bottom of the staircase, then looked up at her. “I don’t feel like painting,” he whined, his voice grating on her nerves. He rubbed his free hand over his belly. “My stomach hurts.”
Laden with the awkward easel and canvas, Babette gritted her teeth. “If you don’t paint today,” she muttered, her brain racing through the calculations, “you’ll have only thirty-four painting days before Christmas. That means you’ll have to do 2.29 puffins a day. And if you get lazy, Georgie, we won’t be able to go to Disney World at Christmas!”
Georgie dropped the paint box, a frown puckering the skin between his brown eyes into fine wrinkles. “I don’t feel like going to Disney World. I feel like watching TV.”
While Babette teetered precariously on the stairs, Georgie turned and ran toward the den beyond the kitchen.
Babette sighed and leaned against the wall. Earning the family fortune was not going to be as easy as she had first thought.
Birdie hunkered deeper into the industrial-sized mixing bowl, ignoring the note of desperation in Abner’s plea.
Covered to the elbows in soapy water, she kept scrubbing and singing: “When the roll is called up yonder . . . I’ll be therrrreeeeer!”
“Birdie!”
Heaving a sigh, she dropped the sponge and straightened, then felt her heart tighten. Salt Gribbon stood behind the counter and must have entered the bakery sometime during her concert. From the embarrassed look on Abner’s face, she reckoned he’d heard at least two choruses.
After shooting Gribbon an exasperated look, she lowered her voice and turned to her helper. “Can’t you get his bread, Abner?”
“Yes,” Abner silently mouthed, “but he wants you to wait on him.”
“He can’t have me,” she whispered back.
“Then he won’t leave,” Abner said, his face brightening to the shade of a cherry tomato.
After the embarrassing exchange of last week, Birdie was in no mood to go another round with the scrappy skipper. But here he was, behaving as if nothing had happened, looking for his weekly bread and cookies and insisting that she wait on him. She! Why, she owned this bakery, and she didn’t have to lift a hand for anyone if she didn’t want to.
Absently touching a hand to her hair, she toyed with the idea of refusing to serve him. If he wanted his bread and cookies, he’d have to let Abner get them or do without.
Then again, she was running a business and she couldn’t cut off a customer because of personal feelings. She lifted her gaze and peeked at the old goat. The set of his square jaw told her all she needed to know. He was as stubborn as a barnacle and he wasn’t about to leave until she personally filled his order.
Downright mule-headed, that one. He deserved to stew in his juices, but maybe, as an act of Christian charity, she ought to turn the other cheek and give the man his cookies.
“Seriously, Birdie, you need to take care of him,” Abner pleaded. “I have pies in the oven and they need to come out.”
“Oh, all right.” Squaring her shoulders, Birdie paused in front of a shiny aluminum baking tray to make sure her lipstick was still intact, then marched up to the counter with a bright smile pasted on her face.
“One loaf of rye and two dozen molasses cookies coming right up,” she called, injecting a falsely cheerful note into her voice. “Will there be anything else this afternoon, Cap’n?”
Gribbon stood behind the counter, his arresting blue eyes focused on her. She shivered, wondering what he was thinking—no, she didn’t want to know; it would only upset her. She’d been upset enough by her own recent actions.
She bent to wrap the cookies, grateful for a chance to look away. Buying those books for Salt Gribbon had been a mistake. One she wasn’t likely to make again.
She hurriedly bagged the bread, avoiding his burning gaze. Stepping to the register, she rang up the sale. “Two dollars and twenty-four cents.” Silence stretched between them as he fished in his pocket and counted out change. He laid two dimes and four pennies on the counter, then added two dollar bills.
“Thank you.” She gave him a prim smile, then put the money in the register and closed the door. She wheeled on her heel, about to return to her dishwashing, but his iron-edged voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Birdie, let’s go for a walk.”
A walk? Her heart tripped. Events were taking a serious turn: a walk was more personal than, say, a talk. She’d only talked to him before, never walked with him.
What should she say?
“You’re about through here, aren’t you?” His voice was lower now, and there was no denying it held a note of pleading. Even Bea would have heard it.
She glanced at the clock and saw that it was a few minutes past two. Abner could take care of what little business there’d be between now and closing. Still undecided, she turned and looked at the man. When his eyes captured hers, she couldn’t think of the simplest excuse.
“Why . . . okay.”
“Bundle up tight. It’s breezin’ up outside.”
Before Birdie knew what hit her, she was buttoning her coat and winding a heavy wool scarf around her neck. From the corner of her eye she saw Abner grinning as he took three pies out of the oven and set them on the cooling rack.
Avoiding his gaze, Birdie lifted her chin. “I may not be back before you close, Abner. Make certain the front door is shut tight—the thing popped open on me yesterday.”
“I’ll do that, Birdie.”
“Thank you.”
Sly as a cat, Abner stepped into her line of vision and winked. “You be a good girl.”
Flustered, Birdie reached for her keys and dropped them in her pocket, then meekly followed Gribbon out of the store. An unannounced and unchaperoned walk was highly unusual; Bea would have a cow if she found out. Of course, in this day and at her age she shouldn’t have been concerned about taking a simple little walk with a man, but something in her clung to the old ways . . . and Salt made her more than a little nervous.
Stuffing her hands in her coat pockets, she matched the captain’s stride, step for step. Neither of them spoke as they headed up Main, then turned onto Ferry Road and walked north toward Puffin Cove. Despite the sunshine, the wind was sharp and from the southwest.
She lifted her eyes to the church steeple, which reached up and above its historic neighbors with a kind of easy majesty. Next to the church stood the parsonage, and Edith Wickam had hung an autumn wreath on the front door. The effect of the colorful wreath against the dark green door was utterly—
“Charming,” she said aloud, then bit her lip. Heavens, suppose Salt thought she was talking about him! She walked a few more paces, her eyes wide and her nerves tense, but either he didn’t notice her slip or he was content to ignore her.
Just like a man—ask a woman out for a walk and not say a blessed word the entire outing.
They walked on, past the Lobster Pot and the municipal building, and then it hit her—for some reason Birdie couldn’t fathom, she was enjoying this unexpected diversion. Social activities on the island were as scarce as feathers on a fish. With the few exceptions of church functions, most islanders kept to themselves during the winter months.
They turned slightly into the wind and kept walking toward the lighthouse. It would have been more comfortable to talk in the civilized part of town where the road was smoother, but this was Salt’s walk, not hers, so she kept quiet.
Wind whipped across the island, colliding with the incoming waves and shooting a cold spray across the rocky shoreline. Overhead, a watery sun skipped in and out of lowering clouds. The island was in for another snowstorm by nightfall. Birdie thought about turning around and going back; the path was cold and the company even colder.
She took another stab at conversation. “Feels like sleet.”
“Ayuh.”
The silence began to pluck at Birdie’s strained nerves. Talkative by nature, she didn’t know how to handle conversational lapses. She found herself grasping for topics.
“Thanksgiving’s right around the corner—will you be visiting family?”
“No.”
“Will family be visiting you?”
He paused, turning to give her a penetrating, almost frightening look. For an instant she wondered if he’d brought her out here to bean her with a rock and teach the others a lesson.
Watching him, she saw something almost like bitterness enter his face. “Why did you bring those books?”
“Because . . . I want to help.” She felt color creeping up her cheeks, a flush that had nothing to do with the weather.
“You’ll help me by staying away.”
“Away?” She bristled, falling into step when he resumed his pace. “I was trying to do you a favor, Salt Gribbon.”
“Don’t need any favors from you, woman. Nor anyone else.”
Birdie was running now to keep up with his long-legged stride. If she’d known he’d react so negatively to those books she would have kept them to herself.
“If you want to return the books—”
“Don’t want to return ’em.”
Then what did he want? Simply to berate her for an act of kindness? Birdie crossed her arms, offended and bewildered, and stopped dead in the middle of the road. “Salt Gribbon,” she fixed him in a steely gaze that would match any of his own, “you have to talk to me. Speak!”
Pausing, his eyes scanned the horizon with seasoned experience. “Backing wind,” he murmured.
Birdie frowned. “Backing what?”
“Backing wind is an ill wind. Storm approaching.”
Birdie focused on the choppy three-foot swells and huddled deeper into her coat. This time of year weather could disintegrate from bad to worse in a matter of minutes. From the corner of her eye she studied Salt and wondered about the sights he’d witnessed over the years. Rumor held that he’d been a longliner—a fisherman who went out at sea longer than most but returned with more catch. Longliner fishermen sometimes came into the bakery, and she heard them talking about working twenty-hour days for as long as two to three weeks, then falling numb into bunks to sleep round the clock on the long trip home. All to meet a quota.
She nodded toward the sea. “Guess you’ve spent your fair share of time out there?”
“Ayuh.” She expected that would be the extent of his conversation, but then he surprised her. “Let’s sit a spell.”
Guiding her into a windbreak behind a tree, he sat down and motioned for her to follow suit. She settled on a rock beside the tree and found that she could see for miles. Out on the blue Atlantic, ships bobbed against the horizon while gulls caught the updrafts and soared high above their heads.
Contentment washed over Birdie, and suddenly she was glad she came. Out here a body’s problems seemed insignificant, easily swallowed up by the rolling surf. She could understand why the sea obsessed men. Such beauty and power tended to put things in perspective.
Salt was a man of the sea, as elemental and rough and powerful as the breakers crashing on the shore. He didn’t walk or talk or think like a shore-hugger . . . and in that lay his appeal.
They sat, each of them deep in thought, staring out across the waters. What she’d considered awkward lapses in conversation now seemed moments of comfortable and quiet companionship. Birdie found herself enjoying the moment.
“Ever been in a bad storm?” she asked.
“Ayuh. Many.” He turned to look at her, his stance softening. “Working a school of cod one time when a gale blew in. The fish were closely packed, and we were having a hard time keeping our distance from other boats. Fishing grounds can be small and close to the shore, so a man is stationed at each end of the boat to cut anchor cables should another boat bear down on ’em. That night, without warning, the stars disappeared and snow started to drive down on us horizontally. I looked up and saw a craft heading straight for us, so I yelled for the line to be cut. But by the time the men sliced through the heavy cables, we were hit astern. Both vessels went down. Water closed over us.” He shook his head, apparently overcome by memories of the night’s horror. “When I surfaced, the night was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. Waves buried me for a minute at a time, and I couldn’t get a clear breath. Every few minutes I had to retch the sea from my lungs. The winds were howling and the sea was covered in foam—spindrift. All around me I could hear my shipmates yelling, trying to save themselves. After a while I lost strength; I could hardly keep my head up. Then I went under.”
He paused, and Birdie waited, her heart constricting with compassion. In all her years, she’d never been in a situation even close to what Salt was describing.
“The instinct not to breathe under water is so strong that it overrides the need to supply air to the lungs,” he said, his eyes staring out across the water. “I struggled, thoughts shrieking through my mind: I was too young to die; I had a wife and four-month-old son waiting for me at home. I could see my mother shaking her head, railing over my senseless death. Then, through the grace of God, I came back up, sucking air, puking water, and crying like a frightened boy. A piece of flotsam passed and I grabbed out and held on. Somehow I reached out for five more of my shipmates, and then a tuna boat came up to pluck us out of the churning water. Saved us from dyin’ of the cold.”
They fell silent, with only the sounds of the breakers against the shore to break the heavy quiet. Birdie stared at the sun-spangled sea, thinking of the men who lost their lives that night, men calling out for help that did not come soon enough—
“God is good,” Salt said quietly. “I don’t know why he saved me and allowed the others to die, but I’m grateful.”
Birdie’s blood ran thick with guilt. He’d suffered so much in his life, and she’d intruded upon the boundaries he’d set up to protect himself. What did it matter that he couldn’t read? A man could be wise in other ways.
“Salt,” she said, the words coming out in a tumble, “I’m sorry about those books. I was out of line and nosy and intrusive and unkind—”
“No.” He stopped her with an uplifted hand. “I overreacted, Birdie. I sometimes say things unkindly. I appreciate the books, but I’m going to ask that you keep the reason for them quiet.”
She met his worried gaze with a compassionate smile. Of course he would be concerned that others would laugh if they knew he couldn’t read. None would, but she supposed she might feel the same way if the situation were reversed. “I’ll not tell another soul, Salt.”
“I don’t want you to tell Bea. She . . . gets around the island too much, if you know what I mean.”
“I certainly do.” Birdie loved her sister, but Bea couldn’t be trusted with sensitive information. She wasn’t a gossip, at least not intentionally, but information leaked out of Bea like a sieve. Birdie learned long ago if she didn’t want something made known, she didn’t dare mention a word of it to Beatrice.
As Salt looked away Birdie detected a red flush creeping up his neck. Why, he was ashamed of his lack of knowledge! Her heart went out to him.
“I figured it was the only thing I could do,” he said.
“Yes, but working alone isn’t always the best way,” she gently pointed out. “I could help.”
Frowning, he turned back to look at her.
“I could come to your place and help out—”
“No!”
She blinked.
“No.” He tempered his voice. “I don’t want you or anyone else snooping around the point. It’s too dangerous.”
It was her turn to frown. “Dangerous?”
“I want this kept quiet, Birdie. You are the only one who knows—and I’m mad at myself for being so careless. I didn’t want anyone to know—no one can know. Do you understand?”
“Of course.” Tentatively, she reached out and patted his broad hand. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of—this situation happens to all kinds of people.”
He lifted a white brow.
“You’re not the only one who’s had to do this,” she went on, “it happens more often than you’d think. Actually, you should have done it sooner. And you shouldn’t be ashamed to ask for help.”
His scowl deepened. “I don’t need help to do this, Birdie. I’m not too old, no matter what they might say.”
“Of course you’re not! I knew a man who did it when he was ninety-seven!”
Salt’s jaw dropped. “He was ninety-seven? With his grandkids?”
She laughed. “No, he used the kids down the street. And they were happy for the experience. Their parents were grateful.”
Salt stared at her, drawing back. “Well,” he said after a long pause, “I appreciate the books, but I don’t need them.”
“Then tapes. There are wonderful tapes—”
“No tapes or books! Are you daft, woman?”
“Then home correspondence. I’ll deliver the material to you personally. No one will ever know what you’re doing.”
Surprise siphoned the blood from his face. “There’s a home correspondence program?”
“Of course, wonderfully informative material, clearly outlined, step by step.”
He stared at her. “Step by step?”
She nodded. “With tapes and videos and expert lecturers. You could have a diploma in no time.”
He turned away, disgust flaring his nostrils. “Don’t need no diploma.”
“Please, Salt, let me help. I’m quite good—I was a librarian for over twenty years.”
“What’s all this got to do with kids?”
“Kids?” She smiled, perplexed by the way his mind wandered. That was odd and potentially troublesome. “Well . . . I suppose people in your situation often find themselves reading lots of kids’ books. But you don’t have to. There are adult-level easy readers, too.”
Abruptly standing, Salt pulled his collar tighter against the rising wind. “No books, no home correspondence courses, no tapes, and no diploma. I’ll do this myself. All I need from you is your promise not to gab my secret around the island.” His eyes darkened. “I mean it, Birdie, no one can know. If they find out I’ll be forced to leave.”
Leave? The gormy cuss was being a little melodramatic.
But he was set on teaching himself to read. Without books. Or tapes. Or home correspondence courses. She’d like to know how he planned to accomplish that!
But Salt’s inability to read wasn’t her problem. If he was too proud to accept help, there was nothing she could do. The only clear course at the moment was to lay low until he admitted defeat. Eventually he would realize he needed help and she’d be around to extend a hand of help.
“You have my promise,” she said, smiling up at him. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Opening his coat, he withdrew his bakery bag, then offered her a cookie. She accepted it and they ate the sweets in silence.
“Abner bakes a mean cookie,” she ventured.
“Ayuh.”
“The best in the State of Maine, if I can say so without seeming uppity.”
Salt’s eyes studied the deteriorating weather on the horizon. “Getting colder; we need to be going.”
They walked back in companionable silence, but Birdie’s thoughts were all aflutter with confusion. Teach himself to read? The man had to be crazy as a backhouse rat.
Babette felt like breaking into a round of the “Hallelujah Chorus” when, after supper, Georgie went to his easel without being asked. While he had watched TV and babied his upset stomach, she’d reconsidered her plan and decided that Georgie’s reluctance to paint had to be rooted in her change of his routine. He usually painted in his bedroom or in the den, so while he went out to call Zuriel to supper, she carried the paint box and easel to the den, set up a blank canvas across from the television, and quietly left the room.
After eating two grilled cheese sandwiches and three chocolate chip cookies and downing two glasses of milk, Georgie returned to the den, Zuriel slipped out to his cottage, and Charles went back upstairs to learn about RAM and ROM and other computer alphabet soups. Babette quickly cleaned up the kitchen, then moved to the den doorway to watch Georgie paint.
On the television screen, animated crime-fighters blasted criminals with ray guns as high-pitched screams filled the air. Georgie stood before his easel, his brush in his hand, but his wide eyes were focused on the television. As Babette watched, he dipped the brush in orange paint, then smeared it across the blank canvas in a distracted motion.
“No, Georgie, not like that!” Hurrying forward, she took the brush from his hand. “Whoever heard of an orange puffin? You have to do the body like the others— black and white, with color only on the beak. Remember?”
Georgie blinked, then his gaze hardened. “I want to paint my kind of puffins.”
“We have to paint these like the others.” Babette withdrew a clean brush from the paint box and offered it to him. “Now dip this in the black paint and see if you can paint over the orange. Try not to waste the canvas—I had to order more, and the new shipment won’t arrive for another week, at least. Remember—these things cost money!”
The frown between Georgie’s brows deepened into a scowl.
Unable to understand exactly what he was supposed to do, Georgie glared at his mother. Paint puffins like the others? Why? He didn’t like those kinds of puffins any more.
“I don’t want to paint black puffins.”
“You have to paint them black, dear. That’s what color they are.”
“I want orange puffins.”
“God tells the puffins what color to be. And you’re not God.”
He dropped the brush onto the easel tray, then crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to paint today.”
“You have to paint, Georgie. A couple of puffins a day until Christmas, that’s all.”
Why was his mom being so mean? He stamped his foot on the floor, then looked away. Christmas took forever to come, so he’d be painting forever and ever and ever . . . unless he could change her mind.
Deliberately, he fell into the beanbag chair in front of the television set. “I want to watch cartoons.”
“We have to work. After work, you can watch whatever you want.”
He closed his eyes. “I want to go out and see Zuriel.”
“Zuriel is working, too. You know how hard he works at his pottery. Your dad works. Your mom works. Now you can work, too, and grind your own bait, just like the old-timers say. And everybody will be glad when we get to go to Disney World.”
Georgie lifted one eye and squinted at his mother. He wanted to see Disney World, but he didn’t want to paint puffins. Not today. Maybe not ever.
“I want to play outside.”
“It’s too cold.”
“Then I want to watch Nickelodeon.”
His mother’s pretty face hardened. “Young man, you will work today. After your work, you can play inside and watch TV until bedtime. But no play until your job is done. And your job is painting puffins.”
Georgie chewed on his lip, considering the idea of a job. He used to think having a job would be fun. After all, his dad seemed to enjoy his jobs of writing and painting, and sometimes his mother said she enjoyed her job in the gallery—though lately she frowned a lot more than she smiled. But if having a job meant painting when he’d rather be playing, a job was not something he wanted to have.
He tried another approach. “I want to watch Dad and his computer.”
“George Louis Graham.” His mother’s voice had that final, flat tone that meant she would not argue any longer. “You will paint puffins, or you will go to your room and stay there for the rest of the night. Fish or cut bait, Son. Make your choice.”
Georgie lifted his chin, tightened his grip on his arms, and pulled himself out of the beanbag chair, stomping loudly on his way through the foyer. A rhyme formed in his head, and he chanted it at the top of his lungs as he climbed the stairs:
“Puffins stink!
Puffins clink!
Puffins poop on our bathroom sink!”
But later, as he lay on his bed and stared at the crinkly plaster ceiling, he thought he might be angry with his mother and not puffins. And when the shadows lengthened and finally swallowed up the room and neither his mom nor dad came in to tell him to brush his teeth and say his prayers, Georgie thought he might even be a little frightened.
Outside the Graham Gallery, Zuriel stood in the alley that led to his cottage, enjoying the serenity of the twilight. The dark sky seemed to hover just above the village, and streamers of night were gently falling over the sleepy houses of Heavenly Daze. The brisk air was cool, and already the evergreens at the side of the house wore a sweater of crisp frost.
He walked slowly toward his cottage, his boots crunching the dried autumn leaves, his heart heavy with thoughts and prayers for the folks he was privileged to serve. A nudge of the Spirit caused him to look up, and his heart tightened when he saw Georgie at the window. Their gazes met and locked, and even in the dim light Zuriel could see the sheen of tears upon the boy’s face. After a long moment, Georgie turned from the window without a wave and the light disappeared.
Georgie’s unhappiness seemed to cast a shroud over the house, no less tangible than the layer of frost that would coat the dried grass by morning.
What were Charles and Babette doing to their son? Remaining beneath the boy’s window, Zuriel pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together, the cold stinging his skin. Did they know Georgie was unhappy? Had they taken the time to notice?
He debated going into the house on the pretext of looking for something else to eat, but Babette had already fed him a hearty supper. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to pry. His job was to serve these people, and at the moment they didn’t seem to want his help.
A human might have worried—but Zuriel had long ago learned to resist that particular sin. Trusting the situation to the Lord, he shoved his cold hands into his pockets and trudged back to his little house.
His kiln stood open, the lid raised, and upon entering he could tell that its heat had fully dissipated into the room. The clay objects he had fired were finally ready to be removed from the oven.
He walked to the kiln and lifted out the first piece, a spiral bowl he had thrown in two stages, then carved when the piece was leather hard. The design featured a simple star, cut into the piece with a wire loop and repeated around the bowl in a never-ending circle.
He smiled in satisfaction. The piece should bring a good price for the Grahams, and the natural design spoke of the Lord Creator, as all art should.
With the finished piece in his hands, he flinched as someone pounded on the door. “Z?” Babette’s voice came through the frosted windowpanes. “Can I speak to you?”
He placed the bowl on his table, then crossed the small room in three long strides. Babette stood on the stoop, shivering and without a jacket, but with a sheet of printed paper in her grasp. Not seeming to mind the cold, she thumped the page with the back of her hand.
“I found this on the Internet! I can’t believe it! Trouble is, I can’t do anything about it because I signed a contract!”
Zuriel stepped back, wordlessly inviting her in, then closed the door and sank to his workbench. “Suppose you begin at the beginning?” He folded his hands and nodded toward the paper. “What is that?”
“This?” She waved the paper again, then held it aloft. “This is an article from the Boston Globe—an article Pierce Bedell did not show me. I would never have known about this if not for that blasted computer. Charles was doing an Internet search on puffins, and he stumbled across this.”
Zuriel lifted a brow. “I still don’t understand.”
“Bedell!” Babette slammed her hand to the paper again. “No wonder he was so eager to buy our paintings. I’m not sure what he got for the first one, but this article says the second puffin sold at Sotheby’s last weekend for $55,000. That’s more than a 366 percent markup!”
Zuriel’s gut reaction was indifference—what did money matter, after all? The Lord provided for his children, and Charles, Babette, and Georgie had never lacked for the things they needed. As far as he knew, they had never gone without clothing, shelter, or medical care . . .
But this news about Bedell had obviously astonished Babette.
His eyes widened in pretended surprise. “Fifty-five thousand dollars?” he said, allowing a grin to cross his face. “That’s wonderful news!”
Her mouth curled into a smile that was not particularly attractive. “Wonderful?” She snarled the word. “It’s not wonderful; it’s . . . dishonest. The typical markup on gifts and fine art is 100 percent. By that standard, we should have made twenty-seven thousand on the second puffin painting, so Bedell owes me twelve thousand bucks! What’s more, if his prices keep increasing, he’ll owe us more and more as time goes by.”
Zuriel pressed his hand to his mouth in a moment of contemplation, then pulled it away. “But didn’t you agree to sell all the paintings for a certain amount? It wouldn’t be fair of you to—”
“That was before I knew what he was doing.” Babette flushed to the roots of her hair. “I didn’t know he was making this kind of money. It just”—she waved her arms in a flurried gesture—“it seems unfair, that’s all.”
Zuriel scratched at his beard. “You didn’t think it was unfair when he paid fifteen thousand for the first painting and took all the risk. He didn’t have any assurance he could sell the first picture.”
“He sure thought he could sell it.” Babette sank into the small guest chair with a sudden plop. “I don’t think he was taking any great risks.”
“And what is your risk?” Zuriel made an effort to keep his tone gentle. “You sold a painting your son gave you to sell. You lost nothing, not even your son’s respect, because he wanted you to sell it. And the Lord has always provided for you, so what have you to lose?”
Babette’s flush deepened to crimson, and she would not meet Zuriel’s gaze.
“The Word of God warns us,” he continued, “about letting the cares of this life, the lure of wealth, and the desire for nice things choke out the joy of the Lord.”
“Somehow it doesn’t seem right,” she muttered, staring at the empty potter’s wheel. “Not fair. And now I’ve got to make Georgie paint seventy-eight puffins, and today he didn’t even want to look at the easel.”
Zuriel tugged at his beard, finally understanding the scene at the window. Georgie was like any other five-year-old human boy. He could be led, but he couldn’t be forced . . . not to create, anyway. Creation overflowed from a peaceful and joyous heart, never from coercion.
“Babette,” he said, keeping his voice low, “you cannot force an artist to paint. Let him choose his own pace and his own pictures. Then you will not be disappointed.”
She looked at him then, her eyes dark and disbelieving. Had she listened to a word he’d said?
“Did you”—he softened his tone—“talk to Georgie about this when you tucked him in tonight?”
“Charles tucked him in,” she said, waving her hand in a distracted gesture.
Zuriel scratched his beard, knowing full well that Charles hadn’t left his computer room since supper. Georgie had been overlooked by both his parents, and neither of them knew it.
“Thanks, Z,” Babette said, standing. She crumpled the paper in her hand, then tossed it in the corner wastebasket. “But I’ll deal with Georgie in my own way. I’m his mother, and he’s supposed to obey me. The Good Book says that, too.”
The door opened, letting in a blast of frigid air that shivered Zuriel’s spine, then she was gone.