She took the bandage from Vanessa’s tanned fingers. “It’ll do,” she said, searching for the thank you she knew she ought to say but not finding it. “Did you fill Boomer’s water bowl while you were back there?” she quipped.
“Yup.” Vanessa nuzzled her face in the dog’s velvety fur. She gave his ear an affectionate tug and looked up at Carla. “Gotta go.” She glanced at Carla’s arm. “You sure you shouldn’t see someone about that?”
“It’s just a scratch,” she said roughly. “Gomer there may have a ton of germs from all those squirrels and mice he’s eaten, but he doesn’t have rabies.” Why did she insist on naming the animals? Simply to inflict more pain when they were gone, to savor it like a hair shirt penance? “Don’t forget to close the gate,” she added sharply. She turned her back to Vanessa and went into the little kitchen behind her office.
She’d barely finished a ham-and-cheese sandwich when she heard a car pull up. If someone else had come to get rid of a pet she would send them away in no uncertain terms. Dropping her dishes in the sink, she went back into the office.
Two women climbed out of an old burgundy Malibu. The driver looked to be in her forties. She had medium-length blond hair, a quick step and a trim figure—the kind of build that made Carla draw in her expanding waistline.
“You’ve got to stop eating all those sweets; you’ll blow up like a balloon!” Her petite mother’s frequent cant when she was a child had only made her crave desserts more. Why did the memory still rankle after so many years? She’d been an oyster in a family of cultured pearls. Well, maybe she liked it that way! She strode to the door and prepared to quickly dispatch whoever was calling.
At least the arms encased in a pale blue sweatshirt held no animal. The woman wore slim jeans. A paisley fabric bag was slung over one shapely shoulder.
“Hi, I hope we haven’t come at a bad time. My name is Annie Dawson, and this is my friend, Tara.” She extended a hand with a smile and hopeful green eyes. When Carla didn’t take the outstretched hand or move from the doorway, she continued somewhat more hesitantly, “I’m a member of the club that’s hosting a benefit for your shelter … the Hook and Needle Club run by Mary Beth Brock.”
Carla mumbled something in return, but she had been distracted by the face of the younger woman at her side. Rail skinny with enormous brown eyes, she had dark hair as curly as corkscrews … a lot like … Drat! What is wrong with you, Carla Calloway? Get a grip!
“Tara is interested in the ad for temporary employment you posted in The Point,” Mrs. Dawson was saying. “She’s good with animals, and she really needs the work right now. I wonder if you might have time to talk with her.” Tentatively she stepped away. “I’ll just—I’ll wait in the car.”
Carla recovered. “Sure,” she said, aware that her voice sounded more like the croak of a tree frog. Green Eyes had returned to her Malibu, and the young woman was stepping gingerly inside. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the chair opposite the desk. Her legs felt weak, and her mind seemed to be in some kind of time warp. She pulled an application from her desk drawer and concentrated on its bare whiteness. “Name?”
“It’s Tara. Tara Frasier. I …”
“Spell it please.”
“F-r-a-s-i-e-r,” she responded. “Mrs. Calloway—”
“It’s Miss, but you can call me Carla,” she said without looking up. “Experience?”
“I don’t have any, but I really like animals, and I know I could do the work.”
“How do you know?” Carla demanded. She knew she sounded hard—angry even. But it was the memory, that memory that had nagged her for all those years. Why did it come back to slap her in the face just because a young woman happened to look like her? Thinking quickly of her own life, Carla wondered what she had hoped to accomplish by coming back here? “If you have no experience you have no idea whether you can do the job or not!”
The girl seemed stunned. Then with a little lift of her chin, she said, “You could at least let me try.” The brown eyes darkened. The girl was angry too, or determined. A lot like … Suddenly Carla was sixteen again, and she was with Corky. They were sunning on the beach at Butler Point, the boom box turned up high while they swayed dreamily in their bikinis.
“You can call me Corky if you want to. And you’ll be Carlotta,” Corky had said. “Wasn’t she some hoity-toity princess or something?”
“I’m not a hoity-toity princess. Take that back!” Carla had retorted.
Then the memory shifted, and they were walking to the wharf, hoping to be noticed by the lobstermen on the dock who hauled in their catch with brown, muscled arms. Climbing up to the top of the point, they pretended they could fly. Later they would stop by Mrs. Holden’s house on the hill for lemonade and homemade cookies. But the summer would end, and knowing it, the pair linked arms fiercely, trying to squeeze the last ounce of adventure before they went back to their boring lives.
“We’ll be going home tomorrow. They never go to the same resort twice! What if we never see each other again?” Carla had asked.
Now Carla could almost feel the hot sun on her face, the smooth young arm linked in hers as they walked past Butler’s Lighthouse.
“I won’t forget,” Corky had mumbled.
“Give me one of your curls,” Carla had begged.
Corky had allowed her to snip one of her kinky curls with the tiny manicure scissors from her beach bag.
“I’ll keep it always!” she had told her friend.
At first, Corky had rolled her eyes, and said, “You’re crazy, Carlotta!” But then her dark eyes had misted over, and she had kicked hard at a stone in their path.
“I mean it. I’ll never forget …”
Tara’s repeated plea jerked Carla back to the present. “Won’t you at least let me try?”
Carla dropped her pencil onto the blank page and regained her composure.
“Look, it’s more than taking care of animals. What I really need is someone to help with all this paperwork.” She swept her arms over the sea of white in front of her. “And I need someone who can operate this blamed computer, to get word out about animals that need homes. Unless you can …”
“I can,” Tara said, interrupting. “I can do that, and I know a lot about advertising. I used to work for a sign company.”
Carla faced the young woman across from her, and took in the wild mass of curls and the eyes filled with determination or hope or something else. Her finely etched lips tightened as their gaze held. Whoever she was she had touched some deep place inside Carla, a place that hurt more than her wounded arm.
“Pay is ten dollars an hour, but I can only afford half days.”
“That’s OK. I’ll—”
“I expect you to earn every dime.” Carla stood abruptly. “Just because you’re friends with that society needlewoman …” she paused, not knowing how to phrase her thoughts. “I’ll accept their charity for the animals’ sake, but I don’t kowtow to anybody.”
She sounded like a shrew even to herself. What must this girl be thinking? Perhaps she would simply bolt out the door and never come back.
“We’ll be best friends forever and ever, won’t we?” Carla—or Carlotta as Corky called her—slipped the expensive gold ring she’d been given on her fourteenth birthday onto the thin, tanned finger of her friend. Best friends forever! Her heart was big enough to explode. In a few days she would have to go back—back to the endless parties and socials, the stiff regimen of private tutoring, the emptiness of her heart. And her best friend would go back home too. They’d be separated by so many miles—it might as well be oceans.
“Best friends forever!” she whispered as she twirled the handmade bead ring Corky had given her in exchange around her finger.
Tara had reached the door and was about to go through. Carla felt a wave of panic. “Can you start on Monday?” she called.
Tara turned and her voice came back like a wave breaking over the surf. “I will. And thank you, Miss …
uh … Carla.”
As the door closed, another opened, and Carla stepped again into the past. The sun dropped lower and lower over the bay like a field of wilting roses in a blue china bowl. They had explored the coves and caves around Stony Point and watched the whales breaching in the distant bay. They’d come as close as they dared to the seals, wanting to touch the sleek gray bodies on the sun-drenched rocks. They picked wild daisies and made flower wreaths for their hair. “He loves me, he loves me not.” Carla could feel the thick curly locks in her fingers as she tucked a wreath into that mass of hair.
“Do you think you’ll fall in love, and get married some day? Have kids?” In answer, Corky lay back with her arms flung over her head and stared into the blood-red sky. What was love anyway?
The bellowing and barking from the pens broke through her reverie. Boomer bounded in again, crookedly, pressing his wet nose against her leg. How long she sat there after Tara Frasier left she couldn’t have said, but it was time to pay attention to the four-legged orphans who needed her; time to stop the memories stirred by the girl who looked so much like Corky. So much like the girl who had destined her to a life of unabated guilt.
10
Annie woke to the aroma of coffee brewing. A glance at the clock revealed she’d slept longer than usual; maybe that was because she’d spent several hours in the attic looking through boxes for information about Tara’s mother.
She hadn’t found any mention of anyone with the name Claire, but she had located a number of small, carefully stored cross-stitch pieces she hadn’t known existed. Several pictured cats that might have been inspired by Boots. Annie suddenly realized that Boots had started her day without her—usually the hungry cat pawed her mistress awake. Her mind drifted back to the small cross-stitch pieces; they would be just the ticket for the shelter benefit. They could be framed or inserted in covers of jewelry boxes. As Betsy Originals they’d bring a good price.
She threw on jeans and a light knit top, and headed for the kitchen. Tara had been with her almost a week and a half; she had finally made herself at home as Annie had urged her to do.
She turned around to face Annie when she entered the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind,” Tara said. “I started the coffee.” She wore jeans and the same blousy top she’d worn the day before. It still looked clean and fresh, so she must have washed it. Her mass of curls was held back with combs, and her complexion shone with delicate color.
She’d come a long way since the night she’d stumbled, ashen and weak, up the hill to Grey Gables. The previous day she’d even insisted on walking the two miles to the shelter “to save you the trouble of driving me.”
“I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’m glad to take you; I usually have some errands to do in that direction anyway.”
Not only had Tara started the coffee, but two places were set at the table, and the butter and jam were in place for toast.
“Will it be cinnamon raisin or wheat?”
“I’ll have the raisin. Thank you, Tara, but you don’t need to wait on me.”
“But you’ve done so much for me, Annie. I want to help. And just for the record, I’m going to pay you back for all these meals you’ve been giving me when I get my first check … that is, if Carla doesn’t fire me first.” She arched her eyebrows and gave a small smile.
Annie slipped into a chair. “And how did your first two days go?”
“OK, I think,” Tara said, buttering a piece of toast. “I keyed in a lot of records and worked on a website for her; it should be up and running in a day or two. She’s hoping to spread the word about the animals in order to find good homes for them. She gave me a bunch of photos to post on the site.”
“Wow, you have been busy. Did she like the website you designed?”
“Well, I don’t think she hated it, but Carla isn’t much for compliments.”
Annie sighed, understanding. Her encounter with Carla Calloway had been awkward at best the day she’d introduced Tara. The woman could do with a course on winning friends and influencing people. “She’s a strange one,” she said. “No one seems to know anything about her really. She hasn’t been in town long and has no relatives here … that we know of. Ian’s been out to welcome her; he even helped her with some business details for the shelter. He said she wasn’t much for compliments either.”
“She hardly talks to me all day, but I can tell she’s watching me. It makes me nervous, like she’s waiting for me to make a mistake or something. I look up and find her eyes on me. Then she mumbles something and walks away. She yells her head off at Vanessa, though. But I think she likes her.”
“Vanessa can hold her own,” Annie said with a smile. “And she’ll put up with anything to be around animals. It’s a shame Kate’s so allergic. Bet she makes Vanessa change clothes in the mudroom and shower before dinner after a day at the shelter.”
“Carla gives her a huge apron to wear when she’s in the pens. That should help some.” Tara took a sip of her coffee and added, “The kittens at A Stitch in Time are so cute; are you going to take one?”
“Boots might have a thing or two to say about that,” Annie said drily.
As though her name had been taken in vain, the cat left her window seat and leaped up on Annie’s lap. “My, what big ears we have!” Annie laughed softly and stroked the silken fur. “Never mind, your kingdom is secure—at least for now.”
Annie and Tara finished breakfast in companionable silence. There was something very likable about Tara, but disturbing too. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps it had something to do with Tara’s failure to be straightforward at first about why she’d come. She’d explained it reasonably, and yet … Annie directed her gaze out the bay window where busy sparrows laced in and out of the hydrangeas. What would the mysterious Claire Andrews tell them if she could?
“Tara,” she said, pushing her dishes forward and giving Boots a gentle shove off her lap, “I did some searching in the attic yesterday.” At the sudden lift of wide brown eyes, she added quickly. “I didn’t find anything about your mother yet.” She’d feel better about things if she could corroborate Tara’s story about her mother. Still, why should she doubt it?
A little silence passed between them. Then Annie corralled her thoughts. “I’m sure between the ladies of the Hook and Needle Club and a bit more exploring, we’ll learn something. There’s still a ton of stuff to go through up in the attic.”
Tara said nothing. She began clearing the dishes and placing them slowly in the drain board. Boots reclaimed her seat in the window and watched through heavy eyes as the sun streamed over her back.
“Tara, would you like to help me with a little project for the shelter benefit? You don’t go to work until one—right?”
“Sure,” Tara responded, turning.
“I found some cross-stitch pieces of Gram’s that are perfect for framing or jewelry boxes. The girls at A Stitch in Time will help too, once the pieces are cleaned and straightened. They’re beautiful originals—a lot of them with animals as subjects. We can set up a table upstairs with the supplies. Are you game?”
“I don’t know anything about needlework, but I’m willing to learn,” Tara said. “I love the picture of the ocean that hangs in the bedroom—with the porch and geraniums and the white sailboat on the water. Your grandmother was such an artist. I bet she made lots of pictures like that …”
She broke off as though she’d spoken out of turn or something. Tara was a strange mix of mouse and lion. Annie smiled. Perhaps everyone was. “Let the dishes go. I can’t wait for you to see the little cross-stitch canvases.”
Upstairs, in one of the extra bedrooms, Tara helped Annie set up a table and assemble the things they needed: thick terry towels, a wide shallow bowl for warm water and mild detergent, and the blocking board. The board, which she had ordered from Mary Beth, was covered with heavy-duty fabric that was printed with a grid of squares. Before its advent, Annie had used a towel-covered pine board and a T-squar
e for blocking.
“Actually, a person could pin a canvas to a clean, carpeted floor, but the blocking board is much better,” Annie said. “Now all we need are these heavy-duty rustproof T-pins and an iron.” She plugged in her Steam Master and moved the dial to the dry setting. Annie went up the steps and into the attic to get the box of small cross-stitch canvases she had found. “Go ahead,” she said to Tara when she returned to the bedroom, “take a few out and set them on the table. We’ll see which ones are soiled and need a bath.”
“Oh, these are beautiful, Annie.” Tara traced her finger over a watering can in which a curious kitten peered over the edge. Annie’s grandmother had stitched vibrant purple petunias spilling over a clay pot near the kitten. “I’m a novice with my watercolors, but your grandmother was truly an artist.”
“Well, these are simple pieces. Her true masterworks are the large canvases. She stitched some of them on ratchet frames. You can buy some wonderful modern frames with two-way rail systems, but Grandpa made the first one for her with his own hands, and it was always her pet frame.” Annie had found six finished canvases that had been stored in fancy embroidered pillowcases favored by women in earlier years. Some embroidery spelled out the days of the week, and other cases were bordered with lace.
Tara’s gaze rested on the doorway to the attic. “How many do you suppose are stored in there?” she asked, almost reverently.
“I haven’t counted,” Annie said, laughing. “But Gram was very prolific with her needle. And she stored her canvases in homemade pillowcases, so they wouldn’t get damaged. I found some others wrapped in acid-free tissue and kept in cardboard tubes. I’m still in the process of going through things; Gram lived a long time, and she was seldom without her needle.”
Tara took the watering can and kitten piece out of the water and rolled it in a thick towel, as Annie had showed her. She was about to pin it to one end of the blocking board when the doorbell rang. She jumped at the sound.
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