Grace in Autumn by Lori Copeland Read Free Book Online

She felt empty, too. Worry, budgets, and penny-pinching had left her feeling drained. She couldn’t go on without help.
    Click, click, clickity-clack.
    She lifted her gaze toward the stairs. Why was she carrying this burden alone? Wasn’t the husband supposed to be the leader and supporter of the family? Stuffing the letter from Handyman back into the torn envelope, she straightened her shoulders and stood. The time had come for Charles to lift the burden from her back.
    With her chin held high, she climbed the stairs. Charles sat before the typewriter in the spare bedroom, scowling at the printed page. As the floor creaked at her approach, he bent lower, as if to shield his precious paper from prying eyes.
    â€œCharles,” she began, not caring about his penchant for privacy, “we need to talk about the roof.”
    He pecked out another string of letters. “What roof?”
    â€œThe roof on this house. The one that leaks.”
    Charles hesitated, his fingers frozen over the keys, then swiveled his head to look at her. “You got bids, didn’t you?”
    â€œAyuh.”
    His mouth pursed up in a small rosette, then unpuckered enough to ask, “And?”
    â€œFifteen thousand, twelve thousand, and ninety-nine hundred.”
    He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight in what appeared to be a colossal effort, then lifted his lids. “So what’s the problem? Take the lowest bid.”
    Babette threw him a black look, but Charles had already turned back to his manuscript and placed his fingers on the keys.
    â€œThe problem,” she said, taking pains to keep her voice low, “is that we don’t have ninety-nine hundred dollars. We don’t have one hundred extra dollars. With the high cost of gas this year, we’ll be lucky if we can make it through the winter without maxxing out the credit card.”
    Charles’s fingers kept hovering over the keys, but his head turned toward her again. “I’m not worried, honey. My book’s still out there, and it’s going to sell any day now.”
    She forced the words out. “And if it doesn’t?”
    Charles’s shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “You’ll think of something. You always do.”
    Click, clack, clickity clack. His fingers moved over the keyboard. Already he had shut her out.
    Babette swallowed hard and wrapped her arms about herself, feeling suddenly chilly. She had no answers, not this time. With winter approaching and the ferry running only three times a day, very few off-islanders even visited Heavenly Daze. The few who came might want to enjoy the bed-and-breakfast or sample saltwater taffy from the mercantile, but with Christmas approaching, nobody would have money to spend on big-ticket art items from the Graham Gallery. They might sell a few pieces of Z’s pottery, but those would barely cover the expense of heating the large showroom.
    Gripping the Handyman Roofing envelope in her fist, Babette turned and left Charles alone, then walked slowly down the stairs. She wondered if anyone on the island knew about their money problems—after all, the Graham Gallery did not sell knickknacks or tourist trinkets. Their living-room-turned-showroom was well-stocked with paintings worth thousands. Even some of Zuriel’s pottery pieces sold for over one hundred dollars. But most people didn’t know that everything but Z’s pottery and Charles’s paintings were being sold on a consignment basis. When and if they were purchased, 60 percent of the money went directly to the artist. The remaining 40 percent went into the Graham Gallery business account to pay Babette’s meager salary and provide a roof over their heads.
    A roof that leaked.
    Sighing, she dropped the letter from Handyman atop the stack of bills on her kitchen desk. Apart from taking out a loan—which she doubted they could get, much less pay off—she could do nothing but wait for spring