The Stolen Canvas

by Marlene Chase

  Tara rifled through more letters, each similar in tone, containing uplifting thoughts, expressing concern, giving assurances of prayer, along with little asides about the life of an elderly woman in a house where ocean breezes wafted through the windows … . I can still see well enough to work my needle. I hope you like this cushion cover I made for you. I stitched one like this for my daughter many years ago; perhaps it will remind you of your own child. And the signature … Love.

  Tara looked down. The cushion had slipped off the chair and fallen to the threadbare carpet. She stared at the beautifully worked design that featured a cradle near an open window. No face could be seen, but inside it a baby must be asleep. On a table next to the cradle, pink roses flourished in a crystal vase. Filmy wind-swept curtains revealed a cobalt blue ocean on which a distant white sail glinted beneath a summer sky.

  She imagined her mother holding that cushion and looking into the cradle. Did she see small curved lips and wide trusting eyes beneath a cap of curly hair? She swallowed. Did she think of her? What had she done to so disappoint her mother? What could she have done to make her mother love her? Well, it hardly mattered now.

  Jem pulled himself out of the chair and strode over to her. “Pack it up, and let’s get out of here!” He released a long disgusted sigh. “What are you doing now?”

  His words were slurred, and she realized that he was slightly drunk. He’d had a couple of beers in the car on the way and another while he watched the football game. “It’s these letters my mother saved,” Tara stammered, drawing her shoulders in. It was a reflex whenever Jem had been drinking. He was as likely to give her a shove as a kiss, especially when he got impatient. “And this pillow. It’s beautiful, and it’s got initials in the corner. See, E.H—Elizabeth Holden … like the signature on these letters.”

  “Lot of sentimental claptrap.” He grabbed the pillow from her hand and seemed about to fling it across the room. Suddenly he stopped. “Hey! Wait a minute. I know that name.”

  He snapped the letter from her hand. Knitting dark brows together, he studied it first, and then the handworked cushion. “Yeah. That’s the old lady from Stony Point! Well, can you beat that? Imagine your mother knowing Mrs. Holden, the grand lady of Grey Gables.”

  He grabbed up the little stack of letters and the cushion, and strode back to the easy chair. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he poured over the letters with the cushion on his lap. He began stroking his left jaw, a gesture that meant he was planning something, and that meant trouble.

  She got up, pushed a carton to the front door with the side of her foot, wishing she hadn’t come. And yet, she was glad she’d seen the letters—there was comfort in them. Her mother had died alone in a stuffy apartment, but she had known the hand of love in her final years … even if it was just an old woman, miles away. Elizabeth Holden had known her and had not forgotten. I pray for you … and for Tara.

  “Yeah, it just might work,” Jem was mumbling, more to himself than to her. “This could be just the luck I need.” He continued to rub his long, stubbly jaw as he refolded the letters. “Here, tie these back up and find something to put this pillow in. And be careful with it.”

  Tara felt a chill in spite of the airless heat in her mother’s apartment. She tucked her arms into her old blue sweater. “Jem, what are you talking about?”

  “It’s J.C.! I’ve told you a million times. Not ‘Jem’ or that ridiculous ‘Jeremiah.’ Can’t you get it right?” He put his fist down on the arm of the chair, bobbing his head in frustration. A strand of black hair fell over his forehead. “Jeremiah Carson was a dumb kid cutting traps on the dock, falling over his big stupid feet while his puny brother followed him around like a lost puppy dog.”

  “Whatever,” she said, letting go a long sigh. Pretentious initials aside, he was still the overgrown little boy with grand ideas that never came to anything. Ah, she knew how to pick them.

  “Hold onto your hat, Tara my girl. We’re going back to Stony Point. When those snooty townsfolk ticked me off, I said I wouldn’t go back …” He gave her a rare kiss on her forehead and looked down at the handworked pillow. “Now there’s something in that old backwater town that just might be worth the trip.”

  Perhaps the place held some good memories for him. A place where pink roses bloomed, and where one could look out on the ocean. Her mother had seen such a world.

  “People in these parts are dying to buy up Mrs. Holden’s needlework. I saw one in the Brown Library the other day—and a big write-up about the artist. And to think I knew her as a kid. Me and Wally used to do stuff for her at that big house on Ocean Drive.”

  Tara dropped down on the couch across from him. Jem was talking about picking up and leaving again. She was desperately tired. “Je …” She caught herself. “J.C., you know I haven’t been feeling well lately. I can’t …”

  “Country air is just what you need!” he said. He didn’t look at her. He was seeing something beyond the room. His eyes gleamed with that frightening, yet magnetic shining he got when he was excited.

  “I don’t understand …”

  “There could be a fortune in that old house. And your mother was a friend of the lady who owned it. You read it … that sweet stuff about being welcome and all.” His lips curled in a confident smile. “I hear her granddaughter lives there now—a widow who inherited the place from Mrs. Holden. And you’re going to show up at Grey Gables.”

  “I’m not!” Tara crossed her arms over her chest.

  He ignored her protest and pushed out his lower lip in a thoughtful gesture. “We’re going to that little Maine backwater burg, but you’re going to show up alone. You won’t know me. You’re just a girl alone who’s learned her mother has died; you have no place to go and no one to turn to. You just want to meet the lady who comforted your mother in her last years.”

  “And then what?” Tara demanded wearily. “What good is that going to do?”

  “Just leave it to me.” He stroked his jaw in concentration. “We’ll go slow. We have to be real careful. Now, grab that junk. We’re getting out of here; I’ve got some thinking to do.” He got up, cradling the pillow and letters in his big hands.

  Tara followed, shivering in her thin jeans and sweater. Her arms full of cartons and bags, she didn’t even close the door behind them. The landlord would come and throw the remaining pieces of her mother’s life in the trash bin. Poor Claire Andrews. All that was left of her was one skinny failure of a daughter who hadn’t even said goodbye.

  3

  It was late when Annie said goodbye to Alice. They’d gone out to lunch at a vintage tea room and had taken their time coming home. It had become their practice to make Tuesdays special, beginning with the Hook and Needle Club meeting; today had been no exception. They stopped at several roadside vegetable stands, found some luscious-looking strawberries, Granny Smith apples, and sweet corn with variegated yellow and white kernels. Their arms were bulging when they finally decided to call it a day.

  After seeing Alice off, Annie dined late on frosted wheat cereal for supper. She answered her email, spruced up the kitchen, and took the sweet corn out to the porch. The messy task of shucking was best done outside where the wind or plucky birds could take the silky hairs stripped from the ears. Boots followed with a look of intrigue on her whiskered face, but Annie expected little help from the feline quarter.

  The sun hung low, melting into bands of gold and dusky rose. Strips of charcoal clouds rose as though chased upward by some unseen hand. That subtle light, as day began to die, evoked a certain sadness; something precious was coming to an end. While there was hope for tomorrow, this day would never come again.

  She had often witnessed day’s end with her husband, Wayne. The spectacular Texas sunsets they had shared were so explosive with color and movement that it seemed you could almost hear them—like pyrotechnics on the Fourth of July. It always brought a lump to her throat, and she would squeeze his hand, knowing that he was hearing the f
ireworks too. Here at Stony Point, sunsets were no less lovely, but quieter—like music. Each night the melody was unique. Sometimes it was vibrant and chaotic; other times, it was methodical and tranquil.

  Today, the music was slow and haunting, and Annie felt a peculiar melancholia. There was no one to turn to, to point to the sunset and say, “How lovely!” And in a sudden flash she thought about Ian, the venerable mayor of Stony Point, who had quickly become her friend. There had never been more than friendship between them; she’d made sure of that, in spite of hints that his feelings lay deeper. Still, it would be nice if he were here right now. She’d fix him a glass of that strawberry lemonade he was fond of, and they could just talk … Ah, Annie, she rebuked herself. You’re just feeling lonely. It will pass.

  She leaned back in Gram’s wicker chair and ran her fingers along a smooth green ear of corn. She let a long green strip fall and watched Boots bat it with tentative white paws. The cat sniffed it and tossed her head in spontaneous play.

  “It’s just you and me, Miss Boots,” she said softly to the swish-swish accompaniment of cornhusks across the porch floor.

  She glanced up, suddenly aware of another sound. It was coming from far off, like sudden wind through beach grass. But the night air was still; no wind disturbed the leafy overhang of trees. The sound stopped briefly, and then started up again. Was someone walking up the overgrown path that led to Grey Gables? Annie often took that shortcut after a walk along the water, but visitors usually used the driveway.

  Annie dropped the corn into a green bag and walked toward the path lined with daylilies and daisies. Perhaps Alice had forgotten something or was coming back for a chat. “Hello?” she called, a little nervously. Stony Point neighbors seldom locked their doors, even at the height of the season when tourists abounded. It was charming, even though it might be foolhardy. Hadn’t she learned anything after that pirate cove map had been stolen and the incident with the greedy antiques dealer?

  She called again, but there was no answering voice. Perhaps a tourist had taken a wrong turn. Suddenly someone appeared at the top of the path—a girl—or a woman markedly thin in a cotton sundress dragging a duffle bag too large for her small frame. A mass of hair gave her head a too-large-for-her body look. Dark curls fell over her eyes, and then suddenly, it was the girl herself falling.

  Annie ran toward her, reaching her just as she righted herself into a sitting position. The girl lowered her head onto her knees and wrapped her arms around them. Goose bumps rose all over her exposed flesh. Annie dropped down beside her. “Are you all right?” She clutched one arm, and felt its clammy chill.

  The girl raised her head and peered up from red-rimmed eyes, her face pale. “I’m sorry, I …” She put a hand to her head and swayed slightly, as though the negligible breeze unbalanced her. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” Her voice was small and raspy, as though it hadn’t been used in a long time. She tugged awkwardly at her skirt, trying to smooth it over her knees. “I felt a little faint. I …”

  Why was this stranger climbing up a private path? Should she call for help? The silence stretched as Annie tried to work out what to do. Had she fainted again? She removed her sweater and wrapped it around the girl’s shaking shoulders.

  “Oh, thanks,” she said, sitting up straighter and meeting Annie’s eyes. “I’ll be OK. I’m really sorry. I—saw your light and … well, my car broke down outside of town, and I just started walking …” She broke off, dropped her gaze from Annie’s and reached for the handle of her bag.

  Annie saw now that her surprise guest was not a girl, despite her willowy form. She had to be somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties, and she had the look of someone whose life had not been easy. Small lines around her mouth seemed the more prominent in a face too thin to be pretty. Yet the velvety eyes had a classic nut-brown beauty above a straight nose.

  “Can you walk to the house?” Annie asked. “My name’s Annie Dawson, and I live just up there.” She pointed toward Grey Gables. “It’s not far.” She helped the girl to her feet, feeling the trifling weight against her as she rose. “You probably could use a cup of hot tea.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she stammered. “I’m really sorry to impose …” She said nothing more but walked unsteadily, leaning on Annie’s arm.

  Annie dropped the girl’s bulky nylon bag in the hall and led her to the living room. Settling her on the sofa, she wrapped a pink and green afghan around her shivering guest’s shoulders. “Do you want to lie down?”

  “No, thank you. You’re very kind, but I’ll be fine.” She ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips and drew in a series of shuddering breaths. Gradually she became calmer. “My name’s Tara. I’m from Portland, and I … well, I …” She broke off and a shadow passed over the brown gaze.

  “Well, Tara from Portland, you just rest. I’m going to put the kettle on,” Annie said, patting her arm. Tara was not a child, but everything about her begged consolation. Boots had scooted in behind Annie and sat looking on with her usual calculating yellow gaze. “She won’t bother you, but she does like to hop onto the couch to gain access to the window.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Tara said, a ghost of a smile touching the bow-shaped lips. “I—like cats.” But she made no move toward Boots. Instead she leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes.

  When Annie returned with the tea and a plate of open-faced sandwiches, Tara appeared not to have moved an inch. Her eyes flickered open, and she sat upright. “Oh, this is very kind of you.”

  “Do you take anything in your tea, Miss … ?” Had she mentioned a last name? And was she a “miss”?

  “It’s Frasier. Tara Frasier.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” Annie handed her a delicately flowered cup of Earl Grey tea. She could see that Tara Frasier wore no rings. Her nails were short and somewhat ragged, as though she hadn’t cared for them in some time. Still they were well-shaped, sensitive-looking hands. They trembled slightly when she took the cup.

  “Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor? I could drive you to …”

  “No, please. I … I really am all right.” She took a sip of tea and glanced around the room as though she were looking for something.

  “Your bag is in the hallway, Tara.” Perhaps she had medicine in it, which might account for why she hadn’t left the heavy thing in the car when she set out on foot.

  “Oh. Thank you.” She took a small pimento cheese sandwich from the tray that Annie held toward her. “I guess I am a little hungry.”

  Annie sat in a chair across from her and set her own teacup on the tray table. Boots quickly leaped upon her now unencumbered lap, and Annie stroked her soft fur. It was quiet in the living room except for the steady ticking of the mantel clock. Annie had never known it to be so loud before. What had brought Tara Frasier to her door? Why had she simply left her car without calling a tow truck or arranged for a ride to a hotel or something?

  “Tara, do you want me to phone someone for you?”

  “No. There’s no one. I …” She broke off and set her cup down on the coffee table in front of her. She let the afghan fall around her and folded her hands nervously in her lap. “My cellphone died, and I realized I didn’t have my charger cable with me.” She pushed a swirl of misplaced hair back with her index finger and clasped her hands together once more. “You see, I …” Once again she let the sentence drift into space. Her wide brown eyes filled.

  “Never mind,” Annie said gently. “We can deal with it in the morning. You can stay here tonight. There’s plenty of room.” Aghast, Annie listened to the words coming out of her own mouth. This woman could be anyone! A thief … an axe murderer! What was she saying?

  A small sob escaped Tara’s lips. She nodded her head back and forth as though in dissent or dismay. Annie couldn’t tell which, but she found herself reaching across the space between them to cover the small clasped hands. “Whatever it is …”

  “I’m really sorry. I’
m not usually so emotional. It’s just that my mother …” She paused, ringed her lips with her tongue once more, and fixed her eyes somewhere over Annie’s head. “My mother just died. She—she’s been ill, really, for some time, and I …” The words fell away again in another half sob.

  “Oh my dear,” Annie said, struck by the girl’s vulnerability. “I’m so sorry.” Indeed, Annie did know, for she had lost both mother and father. She was still working through the two latest losses in her life—her beloved Wayne and Gram. Darkness crept around the windows of Grey Gables. She pulled a clean tissue from her pocket and gave it to Tara. A lamp on an automatic timer breached the encroaching night.

  “I just had to get away. I didn’t know where to go, or what to do. I just got in my car and drove up the coast.” Tara dabbed at her eyes. The skirt of her pale blue sundress was torn near the hem, perhaps from climbing up the rugged path from the road; a green stain smeared the bodice. “I—I should have known my old car wasn’t up to another road trip. I’ve been meaning to trade it in, but I lost my job, and then Mother …”

  Annie patted Tara’s clasped hands and remained silent. It was no wonder she was a bit disoriented after what she’d been through. In a broken economy, a lost job was not unique, but for each person it happened to, it was a new and wrenching story. Then to lose someone important to you was a double sorrow.

  “My car broke down in Petersgrove; then I took a bus. I didn’t have enough cash to go farther than Stony Point, so I just started walking. Then, when I saw your light …” Tara didn’t finish the sentence. “You’ve been so kind, and I really don’t want to impose. Is there a hotel or a bed and breakfast nearby?”

  Annie drew in her breath, pursed her lips. Was she serious? From the look of her, she couldn’t afford a cheap room—even with a credit card. And it was clear that her health was anything but robust. She shook her head slowly from side to side but gave Tara an encouraging smile. “There’s no need for that. It’s late, and you’ve been through a lot. I have a perfectly good bedroom upstairs. I used to sleep there when I visited Grey Gables as a child. You see, I’ve only come to live here recently, after my grandmother passed away.”