Grace in Autumn Read Online Free Page A

sitting area. This was her favorite room in the house. Flanked on three sides by six windows, the space featured two La-Z-Boy recliners, a polished cherry end table with a trailing philodendron, and a floor lamp positioned so Bea could read and Birdie could do handiwork. Her current project, knitted dishrags, spilled out of a basket by her chair.
    Across from the chairs stood an entertainment center they’d ordered from Sears and put together themselves— now that was a day to remember. They’d spent the better part of an afternoon down on all fours, trying to figure what went where. All those bolts and screws and instructions— why, it’d take a Harvard graduate to understand them.
    The best thing about their small abode, however, had to be the delicious scents that continually filled the living quarters. Now the aromas of cherry filling and flaky pastry wafted from the front of the building. Bea sniffed the air. “Smells like those cherry Danish are about ready.”
    Straightening a lacy tieback, Birdie turned from the window and proceeded toward the hallway that led to the bakery kitchen. Folks claimed Abner had a gift when it came to baking. Birdie liked to say that the good Lord gave Abner a golden rolling pin.
    Bea trailed Birdie into the bakery, sniffing with appreciation. The cheerful baker was taking a large pan out of the oven, exchanging small talk over the counter with Vernie Bidderman. The tall, raw-boned owner of Mooseleuk Mercantile, swathed head to foot in a man’s overcoat and green earflap cap, greeted Birdie and Bea with a nod and went on yakking.
    â€œDid I tell you I got the new Web site up and running? Selling pure Maine maple syrup—got four more orders just this morning.”
    â€œIs that right?” Abner smiled, transferring Danish onto cooling racks with a steel spatula. “That’s good to hear, Vernie. Selling many candles?”
    â€œA few—expect sales to pick up any day now with the holidays coming on.”
    â€œVernie Bidderman, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Birdie scolded, tying an apron around her trim waist. “Everybody takes the easy way out these days. Internet this, Internet that. Why, if we keep working with computers our children will forget how to use a book. Can’t people buy syrup and candles at the grocery store?”
    â€œNot if they want pure Maine syrup and Bidderman candles—unless they live around these parts,” Vernie answered, grinning.
    Birdie bit her tongue. Criticism rolled off Vernie like water off a duck’s back. Especially criticism about the Internet. Vernie loved the World Wide Web. Wasn’t a finer sales vehicle around, she was quick to tell anyone who questioned her preoccupation with cyberspace.
    All a waste of good time, Birdie contended. Didn’t people use libraries anymore?
    â€œI don’t know anything about computers,” Bea began, but her words trailed away when the front door opened and Salt Gribbon blew into the bakery.
    Birdie felt her heart skip a beat when the curmudgeon stamped his feet in the sudden ringing silence. Snow lay in white skiffs on the sea captain’s navy pea coat. Salt, a gaunt man not especially known for cordiality, scowled at Bea and Vernie as he shuffled to the counter. Lowering her gaze, Birdie put her hands to work lining a display tray with paper doilies.
    Abner set the spatula aside. “Morning, Cap’n.”
    â€œAyuh.” Gribbon’s eyes scanned the display counter. Salt Gribbon, retired swordfish boat captain of the Salvatore 2, had long since lost the desire to prove anything to anyone. In his late-sixties, Birdie supposed, he lived alone in the lighthouse and still cut a vibrant figure—vibrant enough to make her hands tremble.
    Abner leaned across the counter. “What can I get you today? The Danish are nice and hot.”
    Gribbon’s eyes lifted and focused squarely on Birdie. “A loaf of