The Stolen Canvas

by Marlene Chase

  Gwendolyn Palmer, who had once rescued two kittens and was a great supporter of animals, couldn’t resist taking on another. Peggy chose a ragged black and gold female for Emily, whose birthday was only a couple of days away. Annie imagined the excitement on the little girl’s face when she saw her present. She’d probably put a tutu on the poor thing and teach it to dance!

  Only one kitten hadn’t been claimed by the time the oohs and aahs were over, and the box containing the delightful little allergens had been removed to the back room. Everyone returned to their projects, buzzing with enthusiasm. Stella Brickson, who had barely paused in her knitting, viewed the proceedings over her rimless glasses. “Well, I guess that’s one we’ll have to consign to the dragon lady.”

  The others turned silent. Tara frowned and busied herself with the contents of her newly acquired tote bag. Annie realized that Stella had not heard the news about Carla’s accident.

  “Well, she’s not breathing fire right now,” Gwen said with a knowing look and a slight toss of her elegant head. “She’s in Stony Point Hospital. She picked up some disease from that owl she rescued.”

  Stella drew her lips together and clacked her needles with renewed vigor. The others began buzzing about Carla Calloway’s mishap and how Tara had called 911.

  “It must have been real scary for you,” Peggy said, leaning over and touching Tara’s hand lightly as she walked past.

  Tara only nodded, frowning and drawing back from Peggy’s spontaneous touch. Of all the members of the group, Peggy seemed most likely to elicit Tara’s shyness. Odd, since the two of them were probably the closest in age. Annie watched Tara study the doggie blanket she was Mary Beth had been placed next to her, having been assigned to guide her progress. On the other side of Tara was Stella, who worked her own project with intensity.

  Mary Beth leaned in to correct a stitch that had slipped off Tara’s needle. “There, that should get you back on track,” she said. Then, pausing, she added in a rush of curiosity, “What’s she like? I mean, no one’s gotten to know Carla or visited her house. I hear she lives in the back part of the old Bergner place and uses the rest for the shelter.”

  “Yes,” Tara confirmed shyly. “She has a small sitting room and a kitchen and a bedroom in the back. I—I only saw it because …” She broke off, her frown deepening. “I went to find her because I saw that the dogs hadn’t been fed that morning. She was just lying there, moaning, and she looked awful. Her arm was all red and sore looking …”

  “Tara acted quickly,” Annie put in, wanting to ease her tension. “She called for help, and then she and Vanessa took care of things at the shelter.”

  “I straightened up her room a bit, and put her sheets in the washing machine,” Tara said, looking into the distance. She said no more but began stitching with studied intensity.

  The others realized Tara didn’t want to say any more and took up other subjects as they worked. Gwen and Peggy went to get coffee. That left just Alice and Annie at the table. Stella sat quietly to the side of Tara, perhaps feeling rebuffed for her comment about the hapless Carla Calloway.

  “Don’t mind them,” Annie said gently when the others left the room. “They’re naturally curious about the way other women live. We’re each a bit of a busybody, you know.” Looking down she saw that Tara’s hands had stilled. She was chewing the inside of her lip thoughtfully. Two stitches dropped off her needle. “Are you all right?” Annie asked softly.

  “Oh, it’s just …” She let the needles and the purple doggie blanket fall onto her lap. “I was just thinking …” She stopped and began again. “When I was cleaning up, I found something Carla must have dropped. It was an old newspaper clipping, all yellow and crumbly. And a curl of hair dropped out of it. I know I shouldn’t have, but I read it, and … I just can’t stop wondering about it.”

  “I heard Carla’s not the neatest pin in the pack,” Alice said lightly, shrugging to indicate that no malice was intended. “My mother used to save newspaper clippings too and put them in her scrapbook.”

  “What bothers you about it?” Annie asked, watching Tara closely.

  “I don’t know exactly.” Tara’s eyebrows drew together in concentration. “It was from The Point here in town. Just a small notice about some teenager stealing a car and her mother coming to get her.” She paused and added, “Her mother was killed on the way.”

  “How awful,” Alice said softly.

  “There was something inside the newspaper,” Tara said, dark eyes widening. “It fell out. It was a curl of hair and a ring made out of beads—red, yellow, and blue.”

  “How curious,” Alice murmured.

  “Do you remember what the clipping said exactly?”Annie asked.

  “I do remember,” Tara said. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since …” She broke off, and then began reciting in a monotonous voice: “An unidentified teen was arrested earlier this week after stealing H.T. Simmons’s car.” She looked up at Annie. “It happened on Ocean Drive—near where you live. Do you know a Mr. H.T. Simmons?”

  Annie searched her mind but nothing clicked. “No, I’m afraid I don’t, but I haven’t been here long, you know. But then, Carla is new to Stony Point too.”

  “Did you say Simmons?” It was Stella Brickson whose clacking needles had stilled. She peered over her narrow glasses in Tara’s direction. “What were those initials again?”

  “H.T.,” Tara repeated. “That’s all it said. H.T. Simmons.”

  Stella pursed her lips and was quiet for a moment. Her penetrating gaze went beyond the small circle of women, and then returned to focus on Tara. “My cousin on my father’s side was named Simmons. Herbert Thorwald. He only lived here in Stony Point for a few years—had a passion for cars, the faster the better. I believe he headed for the Midwest—Indianapolis to be specific. Why, I haven’t thought of H.T. in years. We weren’t close, you see, but …” She broke off and cocked her head. “Why, imagine that woman saving a clipping about someone in my family.”

  The three other women stared at Stella, who’d returned to Stony Point late in life after many successful years showcasing artists in New York City. What could Carla Calloway have in common with Stella’s cousin? Annie turned to Tara. “How old was the clipping, Tara?”

  “I don’t know. I looked for a date, but it wasn’t there. It was just a circled paragraph, and around it was some stuff about the weather and upcoming events.” She stared at Stella, still nibbling the inside of her cheek.

  “Well, it has to be thirty or forty years ago,” Stella said. “H.T., rest his soul, passed in 1990, but he was a young man when he left Stony Point. He took off for the Midwest well after I went to New York. I don’t think he ever came back.” She paused, searching the halls of her memory, and then returned to her knitting. But the frown etched in her forehead lingered.

  “That’s odd,” Annie said. “Perhaps the two knew each other.”

  “Did your cousin have curly black hair?” Tara asked. “I mean … really curly, like mine?”

  “Certainly not,” Stella said. “He was a towhead. His hair was so blond it was almost white, even as a teenager. Mind you, when he took off for the Speedway he’d lost most of it. The Simmons men were prone to early baldness.”

  “Well, then the hair couldn’t be his, but maybe he gave her the ring. Maybe the two of them were …”

  When Stella glared over her glasses, and Tara didn’t finish her sentence, Annie said, “You never know. History has an odd way of twisting and turning. Thirty or forty years is a long time. Stony Point must have all kinds of secrets.” She gave Tara an apologetic glance. “Sadly, we haven’t learned much about your mother yet.”

  “Well, I’m going to go through some of the Simmons archives,” Stella said, pursing her lips once more and whacking away at her knitting. “I’m sorry that woman’s ill, but I can’t imagine what she has to do with my deceased cousin.”

  Annie rolled her eyes at Alice. Stella was a proud woman, as she su
pposed all New Englanders were, and it was no doubt natural that she wouldn’t appreciate learning about her family from some outsider like the prickly Carla Calloway. But Annie knew Stella’s straightlaced demeanor covered a heart as tender as rose petals. She’d throw in her share when they ordered flowers to be delivered to Carla’s room.

  “I—I shouldn’t have said anything,” Tara whispered to Annie when they gathered up their things and prepared to leave the shop. “Carla would probably fire me if she knew I’d told you all about the clipping. It’s just that I feel sorry for her. She’s so—I don’t know—troubled. And she has been good to me.”

  And likely it takes one troubled soul to recognize another, Annie thought, regarding Tara’s brooding eyes. Maybe Carla also recognized a fellow sufferer. Maybe that’s why she was gentle with Tara when she was such a bear with everyone else.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “Stella’s bark is much worse than her bite, and Alice and I won’t say anything to hurt Carla. We’d like to help her too. All of us would. That’s why we’re having the benefit for the animals. And speaking of animals, you’d better go collect little Blackie. Mary Beth won’t let you out the door without your charge.”

  “You mean?” Tara started with a lift of her eyebrows.

  “Yes, Blackie’s for you. You can keep her in your room at Grey Gables, and when you leave you can take her along with you. Boots and I will have a little talk about this temporary arrangement. She’ll behave herself. I won’t let her swallow the poor thing.”

  “Oh!” Tara said, throwing her arms around Annie’s neck. “I didn’t know you were taking her for me.” She drew back, her cheeks pink. She had not shown such affection before and seemed embarrassed now by her spontaneous reaction.

  Annie linked an arm through Tara’s. “The little runt needs a good home. I know you’ll give it to her, Tara. Love and a bowl of milk now and then—that’s all any of us really need. Come on. Mary Beth will be champing at the bit.”

  16

  Tara walked along the beach and thought about all that had transpired since she’d come to Stony Point. Two days had passed since she brought Blackie home from A Stitch in Time. She was touched by the gift of the kitten and by the warmth of her new friends. It was generosity she could never have anticipated and trust she had no right to claim.

  They all cared about her search for her mother’s story, and they cared about Carla. How strange that the two were inextricably linked. Wonderingly, Tara played their conversation over in her mind.

  “You found the clipping, didn’t you?”

  Carla Calloway had fixed her with wary eyes, favoring her bandaged arm as she sat behind her desk. Just released from the hospital, she probably should be in bed, but she had quickly resumed her duties.

  “I—I didn’t mean to pry,” Tara stammered. “I was just cleaning up a little and …” She met her employer’s gaze, trying to analyze the expression on her face.

  Carla stood and walked to the window. She was silent for a long time, just looking through the glass. When she turned back, her eyes were misted with tears. “I thought it was just a coincidence—you looking so much like her. That day you came in, all the years melted away. She was here again. We were both fifteen years old and walking along Stony Point beach together, drinking lemonade with Mrs. Holden, laughing and full of summer adventure …” Her voice caught, and Tara was frightened. She’d never seen the feisty Carla Calloway cry.

  What was she talking about? Had she left the hospital too soon? Was she delirious again? Tara took a step forward but faltered, wondering what she should do and what she should say. But Carla shook her head slowly, moistening her lips before she spoke again. “When Stella Brickson came to the hospital to see me and showed me what she’d found, I knew who you were.”

  Stella Brickson? Tara thought back to Tuesday’s meeting of the Hook and Needle Club meeting. They had been discussing the clipping. Everyone but Annie and Alice had gone, but Stella had overheard, and she’d remembered H.T. Simmons, the man whose car had been stolen and wrecked. He was a distant cousin of Stella’s. But what did that have to do with Tara and her mother?

  “She found the whole story in one of her old scrapbooks,” Carla said, pausing and catching her lower lip between her teeth.

  Had Carla been arrested for stealing? Had her mother perished in the crash when the police phoned with the news? The terror of the experience would have marked anyone who’d gone through it and made them sad and resentful. No wonder Carla was so indrawn and suspicious. But why was she telling her all this? “What story? I don’t understand,” Tara stammered.

  “She called herself Corky,” Carla said in a near whisper. “She had curly hair—dark and thick—and when it rained it coiled up like corkscrews all over her head. She called me Carlotta, and we were best friends.” She drew her arms across her chest, cupping the injured one, and a sad smile trembled on her lips.

  Tara shrank back, frightened—though of what she didn’t know.

  “She never told anyone,” Carla continued in the same detached voice. “All those years, and she never told a soul.” With her good arm Carla pulled something from the pocket of her jeans—an envelope. She opened it to show Tara the contents. It was the coil of hair and the small beaded ring that Tara had discovered in Carla’s bedroom. She held them out to Tara with trembling fingers.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She gave these to me; I’ve always treasured them. When you read the article, you probably thought I was the girl who was arrested. But it wasn’t me.” Carla’s eyes widened, as though she saw something Tara could not see. “It was your mother—Claire … my best friend, Corky. But I was the one driving the car. I crashed it into that tree. I ran away and just left her standing there to face the police alone. I didn’t do the right thing because I was afraid.”

  Tara backed away, staring at the ring and the black coil of hair that was so like her own. So that was why she hadn’t been able to put that clipping out of her mind—the sight of that hair. It had seemed alive, as though it could speak to her. She had been touching part of her mother’s life, a part she had never known. A part that had marked her forever.

  “It was your grandmother who died in the crash, Tara,” Carla moaned. “All these years, I’ve been haunted by what happened. Your grandmother might be alive today if I had told the truth that day. Oh, Tara, I—I am so sorry. Please, don’t ever let fear keep you from doing the right thing … like I did.”

  The mother she’d neglected had come alive to her in those few moments. She imagined her as a teenager, lonely and afraid … as she had been. Longing for love, as she had been, and looking in all the wrong places. Claire’s mother had died because of a childish indiscretion on a summer day. But she had never revealed the truth about Carla. That had taken loyalty and love. If only Tara could tell her mother now how much she loved her—how she’d always loved her.

  But it was all too late. Her mother was beyond her reach. She fought to understand her emotions. She didn’t hate Carla. Carla and Claire had been young and adventurous; they had done something wrong, and their folly had resulted in unforeseen tragedy. Neither had told the truth. Perhaps if they had, their lives would have been very different. Each lived with their guilt, just as Tara was doing now.

  “Don’t let fear keep you from doing the right thing,” Carla had said. But Tara was afraid. She hadn’t told the truth from the minute she’d come to Stony Point. She should have admitted why she and Jem had come to Grey Gables. She should have asked for forgiveness—as Carla had. If only she could find the strength. … She had run from Carla, fast and hard without stopping, leaving her alone at the window, supporting her injured arm.

  Now as she walked with these revelations crowding her mind, Tara saw Grey Gables just ahead, its facade tinted gold in the late afternoon light. How good its hostess had been to her. How trusting. Indeed, everyone in Stony Point had shown her kindness. They too must subscribe to Annie’s creed: A person c
an stay strong through trouble by doing what’s right and by opening your heart to others.

  Tara paused on the same hill she had climbed that first night where she’d been given shelter in Annie’s house. She hid behind a tree, the ache in her heart weighing her down. She was a fraud! What a mess she had made of things with all her lies.

  She would speak to Annie now and tell her the whole truth. She was about to step away from her hiding place when Annie came out onto the porch, her blue dress twirling as she closed the screen door. The lowering sun turned her hair golden. She was beautiful—beautiful and good. Or was she beautiful because she was good?

  Tara watched a car pull up the drive. It was Ian Butler, the handsome mayor she had met and liked immediately. But his piercing eyes had put her on guard, and she had been glad to stay in the kitchen while he and Annie talked on the porch. Now they were going somewhere together, perhaps to dinner. There would be no time to speak to Annie now. She would have to carry the burden of her deception a while longer.

  When she saw them disappear into the distance, she stepped out from behind the tree and walked to the house—the lovely Victorian house that had been her brief but blessed refuge. Her eyes burned with tears when she saw the note on the kitchen table:

  Missed you, Tara. Hope you enjoyed your day. I fed Blackie. Ham and potato salad are in the fridge for you. See you tonight.

  She stared at the note a long time as Boots twined around her ankles. She could hear an insistent mewling coming from above. Blackie was waiting for her. She started up the stairs to her room, but heard something at the back door, a scraping or stamping of feet. Had Annie forgotten something? Tara retraced her steps to the kitchen. She opened the back door, weary from the day’s climb and the heaviness of her thoughts.

  Her heart leapt to her throat as Jem pushed his way into the kitchen. She hadn’t seen him since that day in the woods, the same day she’d found Carla sick and disoriented. She thought he had left her for good this time. And she’d begun to be glad.