Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series (11 page)

11

T
he old man summoned him early. If he were to describe his great-great-uncle’s demeanor in one word, that would be giddy. He had never seen the old man giddy before.

“Look in the envelope, look,” the old man said without as much as a good morning when he entered the room. “It’s her. She’s the one.”

“She’s the one what?” He’d had a sleepless night, with a sense of foreboding that something rotten was festering like last week’s garbage. He pulled the papers from the envelope, unfolded them, and read.

“See. I was right about her.” The old man clapped his veined, wrinkled hands.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Do? Nothing, at the moment. I’m not going to tell her. And neither are you.” The old man spoke the last four words with the force that surprised him.

“Oh, you can be sure I won’t tell her.” He weighed his next words carefully. “Do you think she already knows?”

“I highly doubt it.” The old man looked triumphant, as if he were prepared to kill the fatted calf.

As if he would let the old man do anything so foolish.

Kelly smiled as she woke up to the morning sun, then winced. Only ninety minutes of work helping Tom lay the flooring at the townhouse had awakened muscles in her back and legs she’d forgotten she had. But it had been fun, and definitely different from working on the quilt. They swung by a Thai restaurant and ordered takeout, which they ate at the harbor front. It almost felt like a date, but then the harbor front was neutral ground that they both agreed was relaxing. A flicker of memory, the other night at Tom’s parents’ home, made her recall something that had sparked between them, if only for an instant before they were interrupted. His touch on her hair had been so soft, so gentle. . . .

Kelly shook her head and sat up on the side of the bed. Another day’s worth of work stretched out before her. She’d completed cutting out the blocks that needed to be replaced on all five compasses on the quilt. Now the trick was incorporating the newer fabric with the old without sacrificing any of the old fibers.

If she had truly thought about it, she should have turned the project down. But then again, she needed the money. Then there was the issue of her being the lone bidder. Kelly tried calling Mr. Chandler’s office after she’d showered and dressed for her workday. His secretary said he was in meetings all day and she would leave him a message.

Her phone chimed while she was leaving her number for Mr. Chandler. Tom.

She ended the call to Mr. Chandler just in time. “Good morning, I’m almost on my way out the door.”

“Hey, I’m glad I caught you. My father’s dropping me off at the Winthrops’ house today. So if I finish here in time, I’ll end up at Gray House by mid-afternoon.” Tom’s voice sounded tight.

“Okay, thanks for letting me know.” She was probably reading too much into it. But then the other night at the Pereiras’ house, she couldn’t ignore the tension between father and son, and the unspoken competition between the Pereira brothers, at least on Tom’s part.

He wasn’t Nick Pereira. She realized she wouldn’t find him half as interesting if he were. With Tom, you didn’t know what to expect, and she liked that. But on the other hand, being with him was comfortable. Last night at the harbor, she could have sat there for hours with him as the sun slid down below the horizon behind them.

“I’ll see you this afternoon. If you get a moment, I have another favor to ask.”

“What’s that?”

“Can you check the greenhouse sprinklers and make sure the timer’s not set for noon?”

“I can do that.”

“See you later. Thanks.” With that, he left her to her day.

She had a little more time that morning to study the first of the compasses she would soon repair. The holes had edges where the cotton fibers were unraveling. If she could only stop the unraveling and then replace the missing patch without ruining the pattern.

The quilt was rapidly becoming such a metaphor, the longer Kelly worked on it and the more she read Mary Gray’s journal. Mary’s life had turned into shreds, much like the quilt. But Mary’s story was already told and done; there could be no reworking of her tale. The quilt, though, had hope. Kelly went down to the kitchen, her footsteps echoing off the walls. She’d developed her routine in the house of eating a simple breakfast of toast and some fruit, along with a cup of strong coffee.

Her mind still couldn’t quite get used to the fact that she was the sole occupant of a home that had been vacant for who knows how long. Yes, someone had occasionally maintained the inside. She could tell that. But as far as someone living here for any real length of time? It had been decades since anyone had lived and loved inside these walls.

As the coffee brewed and the aroma filled the kitchen, Kelly found it easy to imagine the bustle of servants and cooks from years gone by. What it must have taken to maintain a place like this.

“It’s a shame no one has appreciated you for so long,” Kelly said aloud. Then she felt rather foolish, speaking aloud to the house. Not that she expected any kind of response besides the coffeepot gurgling.

She heard a creaking above her, as if someone walked the space above. It was the captain’s bedroom, kept separate from his wife as was the custom of the time. The sound didn’t make her shiver. A breeze outside was making the maple tree’s branches sway. The house likely was doing some settling of its own.

Kelly knew enough not to fear noises. It was the real-live people who could hurt you, not the imaginary musings and memories.

She wondered why Mary hadn’t mentioned the quilt anymore since that earlier journal entry. But then sewing was part of everyday life for most women of that time period. However, Mary had the status of a whaling captain’s wife. Not quite that of a merchant, but enough to have a grand home.

After breakfast, she pulled out her magnifier and set herself to concentrating on fibers and threads for the morning.

A thumping downstairs roused her from her focus on the quilt. Between giving Tom rides, which she didn’t mind, and the occasional phone call, interruptions yanked her from her flow of work. Maybe it wasn’t a fast flow, but she still inched along toward her goal.

Kelly opened the front door to see a young woman about her age standing there. She wore a crisp, white blouse topped by a navy blazer, a little warm for this time of year, along with some nice khakis.

“Yes?” Had she left the front gate unlocked? She ought to check it once she got rid of this visitor. The other day when the Pereira clan had descended on Gray House, she might have forgotten and left the gate unlocked. Visitors definitely didn’t help her work flow.

“I’m Megan Hughes, from the
New Bedford
Star.”

Kelly noticed for the first time an official-looking badge that hung from a lanyard. “I’m not interested in a newspaper subscription.”

“Oh, I’m not here about a subscription.” Megan looked as hopeful as a hound dog trying to catch a scent somewhere beyond Kelly’s shoulder. “I’ve been driving by the house for a few months now, and it looks to me like someone is trying to work on restoring the outside.”

“Yes, there’s a groundskeeper who has been working on the gardens. Except he’s not here right now.” Kelly’s instincts made her want to close the door in the woman’s face, but so far the reporter had been polite. Plus, nothing would make a reporter persist more than a closed door.

“So is this your house? When did you move in? I don’t remember anyone ever living here,” said Megan.

“No, it’s not my house. I’m . . .” She wasn’t sure how much to tell the young woman. Mr. Chandler had never told her
not
to talk to the press. It’s not like she was here working on a top-secret project. “The house is owned by a private company. I’m here on-site working on a commission to restore a textile project.”

“Okay. I figured it might be owned by an absentee owner or even a company of some kind, which made me wonder seeing you living here.” Megan whipped out a note pad and started scribbling. “So, I imagine the period pieces in this house are amazing.”

“They are.” Kelly nodded. She decided to give her a tidbit of information. “I’m actually working on restoring an old quilt that was sewn by the wife of the house’s first owner.”

“Really, you don’t say? Now, I would love to see that.” Megan nodded. “Our readers would love the human interest angle of the story. Do you mind if I see it?”

“Well, I should talk with the house’s owner about that. I’m really quite busy right now and it’s not finished,” Kelly explained. “I expect to be done by the end of the summer.”

“Here’s my card.” The reporter fished a business card from her jacket pocket. “If the company clears you to talk about the quilt, call me. Like I said, I think it’ll make a good story. With photos.”

“Thank you, Ms. Hughes.” Kelly studied the business card. “I’ll let you know.”

She tried not to sigh as she closed the door while the reporter left the way she came. She frowned at her phone. She’d definitely have to call Mr. Chandler and let him know about the inquisitive Ms. Hughes. Maybe she’d get his voice mail and she could leave a quick yet succinct message.

His receptionist put her right through, and he answered after the first ring. “Ms. Frost.”

“I’m calling you because a reporter stopped by today, asking about what’s been going on here at Gray House this summer.”

“And you told her nothing, I presume?”

“I told her someone’s been working on the garden and that I’ve been working on the quilt—”

“You shouldn’t have said anything.”

“She didn’t seem to be the kind to take no for an answer. If I hadn’t given her a little bit of information, she might not have left.” Her own chutzpah surprised her, but then, she’d dealt with uptight museum people before, why not deal with an uptight lawyer, or manager, or whatever title Mr. Chandler had?

For a few seconds, she thought the call had been dropped, but when she glanced at her phone, the line was still keeping time. “Mr. Chandler?”

“You’re probably right. Did she leave any contact information?”

“She did. I told her I’d pass it along to you.” Kelly ambled along toward the ballroom. “If that was okay.”

“Yes, yes. You did right. What is her phone number, please?”

Kelly gave him the number.

“If she contacts you again, call me.”

“I’ll do that.” She stared at her now-silent phone. Weird encounter. She went back to the quilt, donned her gloves and resumed the posture of leaning over the object and resuming her work.

Kelly shook her head. If the reporter returned, it would be because Mr. Chandler allowed it. She couldn’t imagine that happening, from his tone. She hunkered down and focused on the first star-shaped compass until the light from the windows started to dim.

Thanks to Kelly’s help, the kitchen floor was now complete. Tom spent the day working on trim work, then measured the living area again. This would take longer, with more angles and cuts. The stacked boxes of flooring loomed in the entryway of the townhouse.

A firm knock sounded on the door. Pop, who said he’d be glad to give him a ride to his apartment. Via his parents’ house for supper again. He hadn’t been to the grocery store in about a week, so this time he wouldn’t turn them down.

He could probably talk to his father about the genealogy that Dave Winthrop had given him, too. Maybe that was one way to bridge the yawning gap between them.

“You ready to go, Son?” Pop wasn’t given to waiting.

“I just need to turn off some lights and lock up.” He turned off the kitchen light and unplugged his tools. He made sure he grabbed the folder from Winthrop.

“The floor looks good. What kind of wood is that?”

“Bamboo.”

“You don’t say.” Pop shook his head. “I never would have thought.”

“It’s very durable and ‘green,’ ” Tom said as he motioned toward the entryway.

“Green, shmeen.” Pop waved. “We were reusing things for building construction years ago. That’s nothing new. So what if they call a fancy flooring material ‘green’?”

Tom chuckled. “I know. But it’s still a nice floor.”