Free Grace in Autumn by Lori Copeland Page A

“I’m Babette Graham. It’s nice to meet you.”
    â€œPierce Bedell.” After removing his hat, the man shook her hand and bowed his head in an almost-courtly gesture. “This is a lovely establishment. Quite charming.”
    â€œOh.” Babette blushed prettily and waved her hand toward the showroom. “It’s a mess right now, with all that plastic over everything. Our sales season ended last month, and we generally keep everything put away until spring.”
    â€œAn unexpected pleasure, to meet another art aficionado.” Mr. Bedell patted the leather bag at his side. “I’m here as a freelance photographer, but I’m really an art dealer. I have clients in Boston, Portland, even as far west as Chicago.”
    â€œReally?” Babette’s eyes widened.
    Recognizing an opportunity to be of service, Zuriel took a step toward the kitchen, then turned. “Coffee, cocoa, or tea, Mr. Bedell?”
    â€œUm, coffee. I take it black.” The man moved toward the double French doors that led into the gallery showroom. “May I look around?”
    â€œPlease.” Babette made a nervous gesture toward the doors, then pulled her hand back. “Help yourself.”
    Moving into the kitchen, Zuriel heard the creak of the doors that led into the gallery. An inch of dark brown liquid remained in the bottom of Charles’s coffeepot, so he sloshed coffee into a stoneware mug, then set it on a tray and hurried into the gallery.
    â€œThis is an adorable piece.” Zuriel entered the showroom in time to see Bedell point toward one of his salt-glazed teapots. “And so reasonable! Is the artist local?”
    â€œAs local as can be,” Babette answered, her voice dry. “The artist is Zuriel—the fellow who’s offering you coffee right now.”
    Bedell froze in surprise, then threw back his head and let out a great peal of laughter, the first glimpse of joy Zuriel had seen in the man.
    â€œWonderful!” he said, taking the mug from the tray. He looked again at Babette. “This really is a beautiful piece. I’d love to buy it—should I pay you or the artist?”
    Zuriel grinned as he lowered the tray. In all his years of working for the Grahams, no one had ever offered to buy anything directly from him. He didn’t want the money; of course, he had no need for earthly possessions. But Babette’s response might prove interesting . . .
    She didn’t hesitate. “Zuriel has been some gracious to us, but he’s your friend. If you want the teapot, I’m sure you can buy it directly from him.”
    Zuriel wrapped his arms around the tray and hugged it to his chest. Despite the financial strain on her family, Babette had retained a generous heart.
    â€œI’ll think about the teapot,” Bedell said, moving toward a row of paintings draped in plastic. “May I look at these?”
    â€œBe my guest.”
    Bedell took a perfunctory sip from the coffee mug, then set it on the edge of a shelf, dropped his camera bag, and began to flip through the standing frames.
    Babette lifted a brow as if to ask, “What gives?”
    Zuriel shrugged.
    â€œVery soothing seascape,” Bedell murmured, eyeing a scene Charles had painted last summer. “But what’s this card at the bottom?”
    Babette let out a sharp laugh. “My husband is not only an artist, but an incurable storyteller. He likes to include a short story or essay with each painting. He says it makes the paintings more personal.”
    â€œMy dear lady,” Bedell murmured, squinting downward at the painting, “if a picture paints a thousand words, why would anyone add to such art? This card is unnecessary, redundant.”
    Behind Bedell’s back, Babette winked at Zuriel.
    â€œWhat a tasteful portrait,” Bedell said, studying another painting. “Most exquisite.”
    â€œAll our paintings are tasteful,”