The Double Cross (3 page)

“Taking on another job?” he asked.

“No. I just serve myself.”

“Another rule you don’t like to follow—waiting your turn.” He was smiling, but I’d heard enough from him about my inability to follow the rules to find it amusing.

“Carrie doesn’t mind.
She
likes it when her friends help out.”

If he understood my reference, he didn’t let on. “You’re a good friend.” He ran his fingers down my arm. It tickled. I moved away. “And it gives us a chance to say hi to each other.”

“Not this week. I’m heading to a quilt retreat with the group. Most of them, anyway.”

He moved closer to me and looked into my eyes. Jesse had a perpetually serious, slightly distracted expression on his face, as if he were in the midst of solving life’s biggest questions. The short dark hair and small eyeglasses, combined with crisp white shirts, only added to the sense that he had no time for anything trivial. So when he smiled—and it was a wide, expressive smile—it always surprised me. There was a professorial handsomeness to him most of the time, but when he smiled, he was beautiful.

“The town won’t be the same without you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

I smiled but took a few steps back. His hair brushed against his glasses, and I resisted the urge to move it out of the way for him. “Archers Rest will be fine,” I said. “Quieter but fine.” And with that I walked out of the coffee shop.

It was a weak comeback, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. We’d gone on a few dates and seemed to be heading somewhere until he put the brakes on things because I took an interest in his police work—a strong interest that sometimes included chasing suspects and breaking into people’s homes. He couldn’t handle it. Fine. But now he was flirting. And if I responded in kind, we’d be right back where we started, wherever that was.

I understood that Jesse had someone more important than me to consider. As a widower with a six-year-old daughter, he had more than his share of challenges. He didn’t need another one, and I could be, according to Jesse and my grandmother, something of a challenge.

Back at the car, Susanne was holding Jeremy while Eleanor and Natalie put fabric catalogs in the trunk. As they finished, Bernie pulled up behind them. I ran to do whatever I could to stop an all-out war, but by the time I got there I realized something entirely different was going on. Bernie was putting her suitcase into our already crowded car.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Eleanor counseled her. “It will help you to put it behind you.”

Bernie shrugged. “It’s silly to carry this around for all these years, but I just have to know,” she said.

Eleanor nodded, then turned to me. “Bernie has made a last-minute decision to join us. Isn’t that nice?”

“Wonderful,” I said weakly. Crazy was more like it. I opened my mouth to ask why, but I could see from Eleanor’s eyes that this wasn’t the right time. With nothing else to do, Natalie and I glanced uncomfortably at each other.

“Have a safe trip,” Natalie said as she closed the trunk. She gave each of us a quick hug and watched as we got into the car, with Eleanor uncharacteristically giving up the front seat to Bernie. Before I could get in the driver’s seat, Natalie tapped my arm. “There’s got to be more to this than a high school romance,” she whispered. “Bernie’s in her sixties. Wouldn’t she be over it by now?”

“I hope so. I’d hate to think that some people are impossible to get over.” I watched as Jesse walked out of Jitters and toward the police station.

Natalie shook her head. “I was hoping that by Bernie’s age we’d be past making fools of ourselves for men.”

As the words came out of her mouth, I saw my grandmother’s . . . gentleman friend, I guess he would be, park his car across the street.

Oliver White was an acclaimed artist and art teacher. Born in England, he had a European elegance and bad-boy charm even in his seventies. But whatever his reputation had once been, he was now as loyal to my grandmother as Barney was.

He walked to the car and Eleanor got out to greet him.

“I just wanted to see you off,” Oliver said. He gave my grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll miss you terribly. But I want you to have all the fun in the world, and not to get into any trouble.”

He looked at me.

“It’s a quilt retreat,” I reminded him. “Aside from not matching our seams, I’m not sure how much trouble we can get into.”

“Do some drawing while you’re up there. Do something that will put my work to shame.”

“Not possible,” I said.

“You’re an artist, Nell. You’ll do lovely work. Just look beyond the ordinary.”

I kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks. I promise I will.”

He smiled and ran his hand lightly across Eleanor’s cheek, then headed back across the street. He waved to her one last time and she waved back. Because she thought no one was looking, a smile that made her glow crept across her face. When she caught me watching, the smile was replaced by a slight look of embarrassment and then a scowl.

“Honestly, Nell, with all this standing around it will be midnight before we get up there.”

“Sorry, Grandma.” I smiled. “I forgot we were on a schedule.”

She nodded. As she got in the car, I saw her glance in the direction of Oliver, who was about to walk into Jitters. Her scowl turned back into a wistful smile. Happy as I was that my grandmother had found someone so clearly in love with her, my happiness was mixed with a little envy.

As I looked at Bernie, I realized I wasn’t alone.

CHAPTER 3

The Patchwork Bed-and-Breakfast was a good name for the place. The main building, a rambling Victorian, looked as though it had been renovated a dozen times with no particular regard for the original architecture. There were two smaller buildings on the property: one looked like it would be used for the shop, and the other for the classroom. The place had an empty, lonely feeling to it that made me wonder if it might be better suited to ghosts than quilters.

I could see Susanne grow anxious as she walked around the grounds. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” she whispered to me.

“No, it wasn’t,” I said, more in hope than confidence. “The students will get here tonight, and the place will come alive. It will be just what you hoped.”

“Found the place okay?”

I jumped at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. When I turned I saw a man walking toward us, an ax in his hand.

“I’m George. We’re just thrilled to have you folks here.”

I immediately looked to Bernie. She was standing, or really hiding, behind Eleanor.

When no one else spoke, I stepped forward. “I’m Nell,” I volunteered. “And this is your teacher, Susanne.”

George was tall, with thinning hair and a growing belly, but he had friendly eyes and a comfortable way about him. He had the sort of easygoing look that would have made me like him if he hadn’t been somehow responsible for hurting Bernie. He was wearing a pair of clean moccasins, new jeans, and a red-plaid flannel shirt over a crisp white T-shirt. It looked as though the entire outfit had arrived that morning from L.L. Bean.

He walked around shaking hands with the group. I waited, as I’m sure we all did, for George to reach Bernie. When he did, he stopped and stared at her for a moment before recovering and holding out both arms.

“This can’t be Bernie Keegan.” He smiled. “You look seventeen.”

Bernie blushed. “Good to see you, George. It’s Bernie Avallone now.”

“Oh, that’s right. I heard you married yourself some millionaire. No surprise there. You could have gotten any man you wanted. What are you doing here?”

“I’m a friend of Susanne’s,” Bernie said quietly.

“Is that right? It’s a small world, by God. But a wonderful one. Come in, come in. Rita is out for the moment, but she will be thrilled that you came. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve talked about you over the years. All the good times we three had.” He stopped and stared at her again. “Bernie Keegan. You make me wish I were back in high school.”

I could see Bernie’s eyes tearing up. Whatever her reasons for being here, I knew it took a lot of courage. It was clear that she still felt something for this man, even after all the time that had passed and all the men she’d loved since. She and George stood awkwardly next to each other, both seeming to want to speak but not knowing what to say. I could see the mixture of embarrassment, pain, and curiosity in Bernie’s eyes. There was a time when she knew everything about this man, everything that happened in his life and everything he dreamed would happen. Now they were just strangers with a past.

If I ran into my ex-fiancé, or Jesse, in forty years, maybe I’d feel the same awkwardness, the same lump in my throat. I walked over to Bernie and linked my arm with hers. I could feel her sink into me, and I felt as if I were the only thing keeping her from falling down.

“Are we going inside at any point?” Eleanor looked up at George. “Or are we going to stand in the cold?”

The Patchwork B-and-B was as shabby and haphazard inside as it was outside. The front hallway was covered with the kind of embossed white wallpaper that’s often found in old Victorians, though it’s normally painted over. No one had gotten to that step here, even though the paper had clearly been up awhile. The edges had begun to get dirty and the texture had worn down in spots. The hallway was furnished with only a small rectangular table and two uncomfortable chairs. George had to get the guest book out of a closet to check us in. To the left of the front door, two unvarnished glass-paned doors separated the hallway from the sitting room. They were left open, and one seemed about to come off the hinges. A scratched hardwood floor connected the two. A sheet of painter’s plastic covered a couch in the sitting room, though there didn’t appear to be any painting going on. The few decorations were out of place for a quilt-themed inn. On one wall there was a weathered-looking deer head, and mounted above the mantelpiece was a hunting rifle and a stuffed bird.

“We’re remodeling,” George said. “It used to have a hunting lodge feel. The previous owner was a hunter and he left us with some of his—I guess you would call them decorations. Lots of hunters up here. But don’t worry; we’re going to make it nice and feminine for the quilters. We’re going to paint the place as soon as Rita decides on a color. And then we’re going to sand down all the wood and get it back to its original condition. A lot of the wood has twenty coats of paint on it. Shame, really, the way this place was cared for.”

“Should you be holding classes when you’re in the midst of remodeling?” Eleanor asked. “Paying guests might like a bit of comfort.”

George’s eyes hardened for a moment; then he smiled, cheery as before. “Well, we were a bit enthusiastic, but that’s our way. Once we latched on to the idea of bringing you ladies up here, we figured, why not get started?” He looked at Bernie and winked. “I said to Rita, ‘Quilters don’t mind a little work in progress.’ Am I right, ladies?”

“When will the students arrive?” Susanne asked. “I’m anxious to meet everyone.”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“But surely they’re spending the night.” Susanne looked around, concerned. “We talked about having a little reception the night before class, so we could get to know one another. If everyone is drives up tomorrow, there could be people arriving late.”

“That won’t be a problem. They’re all local, so they’ll be here bright and early. They’re looking forward to your class. We all are. And if you need anything, just let me know.”

Susanne pointed to a piece of artwork hanging by the door. It was a rough collage made from old greeting cards, mementos, and photographs. Something a child might make for Mother’s Day. “My eye keeps going to that piece. I wonder if I could borrow it for class. It’s the same idea as a journal quilt.”

“That old, ugly thing? You can have it. It’s another leftover from the previous owner. I’ll bring it to the classroom myself. Though I hope your students come up with something nicer than that. I expect a lot from quilters.”