Free Grace in Autumn by Lori Copeland Page B

Babette answered, casting Zuriel a worried glance. “After all, I have a five-year-old son. I look for artists who deal as much with shadow and implication as with, um, anatomical detail.”
    Bedell cast a quick grin over his shoulder. “I understand, Madame. A wise decision, no doubt.”
    He moved to another rack of paintings, lifted the plastic, then stiffened. “Eureka,” he breathed, “I have found it.”
    Zuriel and Babette looked at each other as she asked, “What did you find?”
    â€œThis—this incredible piece,” Bedell whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp in the room. “Such colors! Such honesty! Such . . . there is no word but passion! It is stark and primitive, yes, but this is the most genuine work I have seen in years.”
    With curiosity snapping in her eyes, Babette walked over and peered past Bedell’s shoulder. Zuriel felt his stomach drop when her gaze caught and held his. “Oh,” she said, her voice flat, “The Puffin.”
    â€œIt is a masterpiece!” Bedell pulled it from the rack with both hands, then carried it to the display easel at the front of the room. With the afternoon sun brightening the window, Zuriel had to admit Georgie’s painting was attractive.
    â€œI have a client in Boston,” Bedell was saying, one finger pressed to his mustache, “who would be thrilled to add this to her collection. She loves the Maine seashore, you see, and hasn’t seen a real puffin in years. I’m certain I could sell this to her.”
    â€œReally?” Babette’s voice was a whimper in the room.
    â€œI’d stake my life on it.” Bedell ran his finger over the bold G in the lower right corner. “And the artist is—?”
    â€œGeorgie,” Babette whispered, her voice fainter than air.
    â€œZhorzh-ay,” Bedell corrected. “I should have recognized his work immediately. In any case”—he pulled a checkbook from his inner coat pocket, then turned to Babette—“I’d like to take this painting to Boston. Let’s see—suppose I offer you ten for it?”
    Babette’s face fell. Zuriel knew she’d probably spent five times that amount on the frame.
    â€œI really can’t part with that picture, I’m sorry.” She pushed a hank of hair from her brow and gave him a sad smile. “It was a gift. It really shouldn’t be in the gallery at all, but our roof was leaking, so I moved it—”
    â€œAll right—ten now and five more when I sell the painting. That’s fifteen, and at that price I’ll be lucky to break even.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    Zuriel stepped between Babette and the art dealer, effectively cutting off their conversation. Mindful of his heavenly mission, he lowered his gaze to study Babette’s face. “Think of Georgie.” He bent closer to whisper in her ear. “He wanted you to sell that picture. If you do, no matter what the sales price, he’ll know he did something to help his family.”
    She looked away, maternal love and pride struggling on her face. “All right,” she said, sighing. “I’ll sell it. But only because Georgie wanted me to.”
    â€œZhorzh-ay,” Bedell said, scrawling on his check. “And to whom should I make this check payable?”
    â€œThe Graham Gallery.” Babette rolled her eyes at Zuriel, then flashed him a wicked grin that said ten dollars is better than nothing.
    Zuriel grinned back, knowing Georgie would think the amount a princely sum. Ten dollars could buy a lot of saltwater taffy at the mercantile.
    As he stepped forward to wrap the painting in brown paper, Zuriel heard the satisfying sound of paper ripping from a checkbook. Babette took the check and dropped it on the desk, then opened the drawer and fumbled for the ball of twine they hadn’t used in over a month.
    â€œWe hope you like the painting, even if