Patterns in the Sand (5 page)

 

 

“Nope,” Izzy said. “But she was waiting on the front steps when I opened the store. She must be an early riser. She only stayed a half second and didn’t seem at all interested in talking about her art to me or anyone else. She just wanted to thank me for not turning her in to the police last night, she said, and then she was off again, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and that lopsided old bike that I totaled more times than I care to remember. Where’d she get that?”

 

 

“That old bike? Willow was riding it?” The bike had been hanging on a hook in the garage. Willow must have seen it when they drove in the night before. It was surprising that she had taken . . . well, had used it. It was fine, of course. But . . .

 

 

Nell leaned against the railing. “I got up early for a run today and it was quiet down at the cottage. I assumed she was still asleep. The poor thing looked like she needed a few days of it. Ben went down later to invite her up for breakfast on the deck, but she was gone.”

 

 

“The whole situation is a little freaky, Aunt Nell. Willow showing up like that. She seems sweet—and maybe just a little bit sad. But on the other hand, it’s all a little strange. It was nice of you and Ben to offer her a place to spend the night.”

 

 

“The guesthouse wasn’t being used. It made sense.”

 

 

“But we don’t even know her. She could be another Lizzy Borden.”

 

 

Nell laughed and took a sip of her coffee. “No one who creates such lovely pieces of fiber art can be an ax murderer. I dug up that old poster before I went to bed last night and was reminded how beautiful her pieces are. She has a unique design sense. Quirky, kind of unexpected.”

 

 

“Quirky. Unexpected. That fits, doesn’t it?” Izzy’s full laugh traveled over the line. “Do you suppose that she has some of her creations in that duffel bag? She was wearing the same jeans and T-shirt today, so I don’t think it held clothes.”

 

 

“She looks like she needs someone to care for her. But I agree. The situation is a little strange. Ben says to remember that she’s an artist and lots of our artist friends have idiosyncrasies.”

 

 

“I asked her how she wanted me to advertise her talk, but she was in a hurry and didn’t want to talk about it much.”

 

 

In a hurry
? Nell wondered where she’d be hurrying to. Willow knew no one in Sea Harbor, or so she had insinuated last night. Nell’s gaze settled again on the quiet cottage in the distance. She wondered if Willow had enjoyed her night in the wide, high bed—so high that Ben had made a little foot stool for visitors to help them climb up beneath the cotton sheets. It had been Ben’s parents’ bed and Nell loved it. When Izzy was little and would visit her aunt and uncle each summer—a much-anticipated break from her rambunctious brothers back in Kansas—she’d always ask for a night in the stepping bed, as she called it. A night stretched out on the high mattress, with Aunt Nell beside her and the windows open to the cool, salty air.

 

 

And Nell, herself, often slipped down to the small cottage porch to write or think or do yoga, the pounding of the ocean waves a lovely mantra in the near distance.

 

 

Did Willow find that kind of peace last night in the cottage?
Nell wondered. The little thing looked like she could use a dose of the guesthouse’s magic. Did she sleep soundly and feel safe from whatever had pushed her to hitchhike to Sea Harbor?

 

 

“Aunt Nell?”

 

 

Izzy’s voice drew Nell back from her scattered thoughts.

 

 

“Yes, sweetie, I’m here.”

 

 

“I have to run—the shop is crazy today. Knitters by the thousands, and Mae is urging me to pay attention to them. I received a gorgeous supply of Mongolian wool and it’s like a stampede. I’ll save you some. Mae is about to take my phone away.”

 

 

Click.

 

 

Izzy was gone, rushing to help her shop manager satisfy a customer’s needs. Mae Anderson had been an amazing find for Izzy—she loved the shop and knitting nearly as much as its owner did. And with decades of retail experience supporting her no-nonsense style, Nell knew Mae was as integral to the Seaside Knitting Studio’s success as its smart and talented owner was.

 

 

“Nell, where are you?” The front screen door banged shut and the light sound of Birdie’s tennis shoes pattered on the hardwood floor and out the open door to the deck. “So what’s this I hear about you taking in a sweet little hippie who broke into Izzy’s shop?”

 

 

Birdie dropped her backpack to the deck floor and sat down on a reclining deck chair. She stretched her legs out in front of her. Her silver hair was damp, her cheeks flushed, and her forehead glistened with beads of perspiration. She took a few steadying breaths and pressed one hand against her bright orange T-shirt.

 

 

“Birdie, are you all right?”

 

 

“I rode my bike over, and I swear on my sweet Sonny’s grave that this hill outside your door is growing. Can’t you have dear Ben flatten it out a bit?” Birdie pulled a water bottle from the backpack and took a long drink, her gray eyes sparkling above the rim of the bottle. She wiped her forehead with the edge of a cotton scarf tied loosely around her neck.

 

 

“There. I’m fine now, love. Come. Sit.” She patted the chair next to her. “Tell me about last night’s adventure.”

 

 

Nell looked at Birdie carefully, making sure her breathing normalized. It was Ben’s encouragement that got Birdie to purchase the flaming red road bike. Before the bike, even teenagers had scattered when Birdie drove her 1981 Lincoln Town Car down Harbor Road. Ben had strongly suggested that it’d be better for everyone if the Town Car stayed in the garage more often than not. Good for the environment, he’d added with a convincing smile.

 

 

Birdie had complied under protest, but soon discovered the bike could get her places the car could not. Soon she was a familiar figure tooling down the winding roads of Sea Harbor, her lined face tilted to the wind. Nell marveled at her friend’s stamina. If twenty years hence she had half the energy that was bottled up in Birdie’s small frame, she’d consider herself blessed. But even so, her friend was at an age when most people slowed down considerably, and moving from a gallop to a trot might be something Birdie should consider. “Birdie, can I get you anything?”

 

 

“Oh, pshaw. I’m fit as a fiddle. All I need is a little gossip. Do tell me about the young girl. I stopped at the deli to get a loaf of rye, and Harry filled me in on some of it—how he’d spotted her curled up in Izzy’s shop window and thought she was dead. Lordy, as if our Izzy needs a dead body in her store window.”

 

 

“She was asleep, poor thing. She’s like a waif.”

 

 

“The Saturday crowd at Coffee’s had several versions of your waif. Jake Risso thought she’d probably escaped from the women’s prison up in Goffstown. Gracie Santos suggested she was a starlet hoping to get in a movie filmed on our Cape. And Laura Danvers was sure that she was smoking something or another. A runaway, Laura said, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint what she’d run away from.”

 

 

“I suspect the truth is a little less dramatic.” Nell looked down toward the cottage again. The thought that perhaps Willow had disappeared just as she had arrived—without announcement or notice—hovered like an irritating fly, but Nell brushed the thought away with a shake of her head. She had a feeling about Willow. She didn’t fit any of the roles Coffee’s customers suggested, and she surely wouldn’t run off again without saying thank you or at least good-bye. Nell felt sure of that.

 

 

Birdie was intrigued to learn that Willow was a fiber artist, but horrified at the hitchhiking story. “Though I must confess,” she said, “I hitchhiked a time or two in my day. But things were quite different back then.”

 

 

“Willow was determined to get to Sea Harbor, it seems.”

 

 

“That’s a tad odd, isn’t it?” Birdie said. “Not that seeing Izzy’s lovely shop isn’t worth the trip from wherever on earth she came. But breaking into it? That shows a rather surprising determination. What do you suppose she was thinking?”

 

 

“That there might be a place inside to sleep, I suspect. And maybe that someone who was nice enough to send her a complimentary e-mail about her art—and someone who loved yarn on top of that—would surely understand.”

 

 

“And of course she was right. Though it must have scared everyone half to death to find her in the window like that.”

 

 

“Except Purl. Purl seemed to accept it all in good spirits. She seemed quite fond of Willow and happy to have the company.”

 

 

“That’s definitely in Willow’s favor. Our Purl is a fine judge of character.”

 

 

“The true mystery to me is where Willow is right now. You’d think she’d be at the Seaside Knitting Studio—or here in the cottage sleeping. Or at the least, that she’d have stopped in to say good morning or ask directions or something.”

 

 

“I suspect she’s out exploring Sea Harbor. If I were Willow and had dropped into this amazing village unexpectedly, I would be out soaking in every minute of it.” Birdie leaned forward and patted Nell on the knee. “You don’t know her well enough to worry about her yet. Give it a day or two.”

 

 

Nell’s husky laugh floated across the deck. Her penchant for taking on the problems of people’s lives was the object of continuous teasing among the Seaside knitters, and Nell was quite adept at brushing it off. It was genetic, she would tell her friends, and there simply wasn’t anything she could do about it.

 

 

“Since we’ve determined Willow is alive and well, how about you give me a ride to the farmer’s market?” Birdie said. She checked the large round watch that dwarfed her wrist. “It’s already midday and I’ve a list a mile long. My bike basket isn’t nearly big enough to carry it all.”

 

 

 

 

 

The summer market at the pier was one of Nell’s and Birdie’s favorite Saturday things to do. It wasn’t just the smell of the fruits and vegetables piled high on the farmers’ stands. It was the people watching, greeting neighbors, the music and kites flying and icy containers of clams, lobsters, and oysters being sold by local fishermen. It was Peggy Garner’s stand, filled with freshly baked blueberry, rhubarb, and cherry pies, and Frank and Lucy Staff’s Mason jars of fresh homemade salsa—pineapple and raspberry and spicy tomato. And it was even the incongruous appearance of Joe Quigley, who appeared every summer in the seaside town and hawked his Chicago dogs, piled high with onions and mustard and pickles, from a tiny booth right beside the pier.

 

 

Birdie’s sack was nearly full by the time she and Nell had walked halfway through the maze of stands.

 

 

“Birdie, how will you eat all that in a week?” Nell asked, eyeing the array of vegetables and fruits.

 

 

But Nell knew how she’d do it. By handing it over to Ella Sampson, who worked for Birdie and lived with her husband, Harold, in Birdie’s carriage house. Ella would do magical things with whatever Birdie brought home. At Birdie’s suggestion, she’d make large quantities, enough for a crowd, and after dinner each night, Harold would quietly drive over to the homeless shelter near the highway and leave healthy dinners in the back kitchen.

 

 

“There’s Cass,” Nell said, waving above the heads of a clump of teenagers.

 

 

Cass wove her way to their side. “I finally met her.”

 

 

“Who?” Nell asked.

 

 

“Willow, that’s who. The star of the night. The window dressing.”

 

 

“She’s here at the market?”

 

 

“No. I went over to the cove to deliver some lobsters to Jane and Ham—my traps were overloaded and I owe them lobsters for life for that painting Ham gave me of my boat.” Cass slipped a band from her wrist and twisted it around a thick handful of hair.

 

 

“So Willow was with Jane and Ham?”

 

 

“No. She was sitting on a little bench in that grassy area near Aidan Peabody’s Fishtail Gallery. She had on huge sunglasses—like a movie star or something—but Tommy Porter pointed her out to me. He said he was sure that’s who it was behind the shades—the gal who broke into Izzy’s shop—but the one whom Izzy didn’t press charges against. Typical Izzy. No wonder she quit her law practice. She’s way too soft for a lawyer.

 

 

“When you called last night to say things were okay, you didn’t say you’d be bringing her home. We’d have stuck around longer, if we knew there was going to be drama.”

 

 

“No drama, except what the police provided. Willow was exhausted, poor thing, and we sent her to bed as soon as we got home.”

 

 

“What was she doing in Canary Cove?” Birdie asked.

 

 

Cass shrugged. “Things were bustling around the colony because of the Art at Night tomorrow night. Jane said she’d seen Willow peering in open doors, looking into the studios and galleries, but no one paid much attention to her because they were busy. She seemed intent on a brochure of the area, almost like she was looking for something to buy or find. She had a notebook and was taking notes, maybe names of the shops she liked?”

 

 

“I guess it makes sense she’d head toward Canary Cove. She’s an artist, after all, and in addition to the lovely posters Brendan put up on his way home last night, Harbor Road was full of makeshift notices about tomorrow’s open studios. I should have thought of that myself when I started worrying about her disappearing.”

 

 

“Did you talk to her?” Birdie asked.

 

 

“Yep. I introduced myself, told her we were all friends. She was a little uncomfortable, fidgety, as if she shouldn’t be there. Or at least didn’t want anyone to know she was there.”