Grace in Autumn by Lori Copeland Page B

Elezar, things aren’t so fine. I think I’ve just made a major mistake—my brain or my ethics or something went to sleep on me, and for a moment I lost my bearings. I was running to catch the ferry to set things right, but—well, you saw what happened.”
    Elezar nodded, one corner of his mouth twisting upward. When he spoke again, his voice rang with depth and authority. “Listen to your heart, Babette. If the Spirit of God is speaking, you listen carefully.”
    What did that mean? Her heart was filled with confusing impulses and emotions, so how was she to know which ideas came from God and which were born of her own selfishness?
    Babette raked her hand through her hair, then smiled a polite farewell. “Better get going,” she said, gesturing toward her house. “I’ve got things to do.”

    Sitting alone in the art gallery, Zuriel stilled his spirit and listened to the sounds of life in the house. Upstairs, Charles worked on his latest manuscript, the heavy click, clack, ching! of the old typewriter sending a staccato vibration through the walls. From another room, Zuriel heard the sound of childish singing—which meant Georgie was painting again. The boy loved to paint, and Zuriel truly believed the Lord had given him a unique gift. Like his father, Georgie saw stories in every object, but he turned those stories into art through the medium of paint and paper.
    Like a bird who warbles when he builds a nest, Georgie sang as he created. Babette had once told Zuriel that Georgie’s pediatrician asked her if the boy ever sang around the house. “All the time,” she’d answered, wondering at the significance of the question.
    â€œThen he’s a happy child,” the pediatrician told her, “because happy children sing.”
    Zuriel smiled at the doctor’s insight. Sometimes humans amazed him with their perspicacity. They grasped so many truths, but others, including some of the most basic and eternal, eluded them. He would never understand why so many humans could believe that human life developed from nothingness, yet refuse to accept the more logical truth that God created man from clay and the breath of life.
    At the moment, he was struggling to understand how a family as happy as the Grahams had become so . . . compartmentalized. Ever since the end of the tourist season, each of them had seemed to go in a separate direction— Charles to his writing room, Babette to her kitchen, Georgie to his schoolroom at the Kennebunk Kid Kare Center, then to wherever little boys liked to roam after school. The Scriptures clearly taught that a threefold cord could not be easily broken, but the members of this family had become so independent that any one of them could snap at any moment.
    At the sound of footsteps on the porch, Zuriel stood and moved toward the front door. A moment later Babette entered the foyer, and from the distressed expression on her face he knew she hadn’t been able to catch the ferry.
    â€œHad a little accident,” she said, apparently reading the question on his face. “Tallulah and I had a collision on Main Street. Neither of us are hurt, but tomorrow I’m going to have a bruise the size of Wisconsin on my elbow.”
    â€œBut Mr. Bedell—”
    â€œGot away.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m going to leave a message on his answering machine. If it has a time and date stamp, at least he’ll know I tried to reach him as soon as possible.”
    She stepped into the gallery, then stood behind the tall work desk and picked up the phone. Turning to Zuriel, she said, “Don’t tell Georgie we sold his painting.” She lowered her voice. “Because I’m going to have to take it back.”
    â€œI won’t say a word,” Zuriel promised.
    Moving stiffly, as if the action caused her pain, Babette smoothed the crinkled check on the polished desk, then dialed Mr.