by Lea Wait
I swallowed. “I’ll do my best.” I had other plans for the next week. Needlepoint was new to me, too, and I’d already volunteered to give up at least one day to help Patrick decorate. Plus, I had a little more to do on the pillow I was stitching for him as a Christmas surprise. The threads matched the vibrant colors and design of the painting hanging in his living room that he’d completed before he’d burned his hands. I’d been working on the pillow all fall, but it wasn’t quite finished.
I hoped my gift would encourage Patrick to paint again. Recently he’d spent most of his time at the gallery he’d bought on Main Street. His studio stood empty.
“That’s four pillows,” said Patrick, looking at all of us hopefully.
“Okay,” Ob sighed reluctantly. “If Anna can do one, I can, too. Your mother’s worked wonders with Aurora. It’ll be good to see a Christmas tree up at the place this year.” Ob and Anna lived across the street from Aurora.
“Thank you all so much,” said Patrick. “That’s a relief. Mom will pay you all well, I promise, for the fast turnaround involved.”
“I’ll get back to those of you who volunteered. Patrick and I will talk.” I sent him a glance I hoped he’d find meaningful. “First thing in the morning I’ll call the four of you who volunteered to stitch and let you know the colors and dimensions of the pillows and whose name to stitch. We’ll use our usual pattern for the tree.”
But Patrick wasn’t finished asking for help. “Do any of you have suggestions for a caterer?” he asked. “I called the lobster bake place in Camden Mom used last summer, but they don’t do bakes in December. And every caterer I could find online was already booked for Christmas events.”
A lobster bake in December? Not exactly. Patrick was out of his depth.
Maine’s restaurants and caterers were famous for their gourmet delights in the summer, but many of them closed in the off-season. Those still open were sure to be booked.
Gram came to the rescue. “What about Bev Clifford? Her Wild Rose Inn is closed for the winter, and she’s a good cook. She’s a widow, and her son won’t be home for Christmas. Recently she told me she was dreading the holidays. Too many memories. Tom and I invited her for Christmas dinner, but as long as you want lobsters and good Maine food she might be willing to help you out.”
In other words, nothing fancy. And Bev Clifford could use the money. Winters were tough for Mainers who ran businesses for summer visitors.
“I’ll call her,” said Patrick gratefully. He wrote down her name. “Mom isn’t looking for French cuisine. She used the words authentic and local when I talked with her. And, of course, seafood.”
“Some French food is authentic Maine cuisine,” Anna put in. “Think of the patisserie downtown, and all our French-Canadian neighbors.”
“Right,” said Patrick, who clearly hadn’t thought about Quebecois cuisine at all. “I should talk to Bev Clifford about that.”
“I’m sure she could make up some tourtières,” suggested Gram.
“What?” Patrick asked, blankly.
“Spicy pork pies. A traditional Christmas dish from Quebec. A lot of Maine folks bake them this time of year. And you’ll want local oysters as well as lobster,” Dave suggested.
“And local wines and beers,” Patrick said, taking more notes.
“Local distillers make spirits,” I added. “The only libation you may have to buy from away is champagne.”
“You could always introduce these folks to Moxie,” Captain Ob said, a glint in his eye.
“There are Maine fruit sparkling wines,” agreed Reverend Tom, with a smile. “Charlotte and I can suggest some.”
Patrick looked overwhelmed. “I only thought I had to worry about a tree and wreaths!”
“I have a cousin who has a horse,” said Ob, getting into the spirit. “And a wagon. Wouldn’t be a sleigh, like Skye wanted, but it’d be better than nothing. Most of us drive trucks and snow plows these days.”
“And snow mobiles. I know. I do know. I’m sorry. Mom spent time here, but she hasn’t lived here. And this is our first winter. We both still have a lot to learn about Maine.” Patrick smiled at everyone. “I’m throwing myself on your mercy. I really appreciate all this help.”
I touched his arm. “You can do it, Patrick. It may not be exactly what your mother has in mind. But she has to be flexible. This isn’t a movie set. Haven Harbor is a real town, and we all have real lives.”
Real lives that had been planning Christmas for months. I’d looked forward to joining Gram and Tom for Christmas morning and having Patrick join us for Christmas dinner. Now he’d be spending Christmas Day with his mother and her Hollywood friends at Aurora.
He was the man in my life, at least for now. I was willing to help him arrange his mother’s house for her guests.
But I didn’t want to sacrifice family time for the amusement of people I’d probably never see again.
Patrick might be used to doing that. I wasn’t.
Chapter 3
“Liberty in the Form of the Goddess of Youth Giving Support to the Bald Eagle.”
—Silk embroidery stitched by Louisa Bushnell (1799 – 1887) in Essex, Connecticut, depicting the goddess reaching up to the eagle, an American flag on her right, and the scene surrounded by a garland of flowers.
Patrick excused himself to call Bev Clifford.
The rest of us looked after him as he headed for the quiet of the kitchen. Reverend Tom shook his head.
I expected a few comments from the needlepointers about folks from away who expect too much from locals, but everyone held their tongues. Maybe on my behalf. They’d all accepted that, at least for now, Patrick was my guy. (He didn’t know it, but that gave him a little more leverage around Haven Harbor, especially with my friends.) Or maybe they’d been willing to help because of the promised donation to the church, or because it was Christmas.
I poured myself a glass of egg nog and was silently grateful.
Quiet carols were playing on my computer (the living room, minus the Christmas tree and decorations, was also my Mainely Needlepoint office). Captain Ob added two logs to feed the flames on the hearth. Everyone else was eating, drinking, or needlepointing. Clem, who didn’t know the others as well as I did, was chatting quietly with Sarah. I hoped Sarah was filling her in on how Skye and Patrick would expect us to keep news about the famous guests quiet.
“Time to put on the ornaments!” I announced.
“I’ll pass on hanging balls, but I’ll supervise. Let you all know if you’re overloading the tree on either side,” Ruth suggested. Her arthritis was keeping her close to her walker these days.
The rest of my guests each took a box of ornaments and went to work.
Patrick rejoined us in a few minutes. “Thanks for recommending Bev Clifford, Mrs. McCully,” he said to Gram. “She’s on board. I’m going to meet her tomorrow afternoon at Aurora.”
“Good,” I said. “Now, here’s a box of ornaments for you to hang.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling.
I handed him ornaments I’d made as a child—gold-painted starfish tied with red ribbon and papier-mâché shapes of uncertain intent. The attached pieces of string or wire would be easier for him to hang than the small hooks on the balls.
He picked up a glittery picture frame made of Popsicle sticks holding a picture of eight-year-old me. “Pretty cute kid,” he grinned as he hung the ornament on a nearby branch.
With everyone helping, decorating took less time than I’d imagined.
After we’d found places for every gold or red ball and lumpy ornament we sat to admire our handiwork. Katie and Dave picked up their needlepoint. Most of us sipped more eggnog.
“I haven’t told you all,” Sarah shared. “Last Saturday I went to an auction up in Thomaston and bought an amazing collection of antique needlework tools. You should all come to my antiques shop to look. I’m afraid they’re expensive, but I’d love you to see them before they sell. They’re the so
rt I’d only seen in museums.”
“Tools?” I asked. Unlike most of the others, I was still learning about needlework. I had no idea what “antique needlework tools” would be.
“An elegant lady in the eighteenth or nineteenth century would have a personal set of everything she needed for needlepointing or sewing—needles, needle cases, scissors, thimbles, stilettos, tape measures, shuttles . . . everything you can imagine. Her tools were made of elaborately carved bone or ivory or mother-of-pearl or silver or even gold, sometimes set with gemstones. They’d fit in an inlaid sewing box, or an etui—a tabletop holder for tools—or sometimes hang on a chatelaine . . . a series of chains she’d wear around her waist to hold the gadgets, almost like charms on a bracelet. Chatelaines were for the wealthy; they’re expensive. But some pieces in the collection are affordable. I’ve already decided to keep a wooden needle case decorated with a Blue Wren—it’s from Australia, from the nineteen forties or fifties, and reminds me of a case my grandmum used.”
“Then it’s meant for you, Sarah,” agreed Dave. “I once saw scrimshaw needle cases and thimble holders at an exhibit of mariner carvings. Sailors didn’t just carve pictures on whales’ teeth and walrus tusks. Do you have any tools like those?”
“I do. Gifts made on long voyages to be given to a mother or wife or sweetheart when the mariner returned home. And there’s a set in a tartan ware case, from Scotland, and silver cases with Art Nouveau designs, and needle cases from China for the export trade. You have to come and look! Some of the carvings and etchings and inlays are wonderful.”
“Whose collection was it?” Katie asked. “It sounds fantastic.”
“Hinting for a Christmas gift?” her husband, Dr. Gus, put in.
“Might be,” Katie said, nudging him with her elbow.
Sarah had said “expensive.” I suspected the tools were out of my reach, although Dr. Gus would have the money. Too bad. I could use another gift to put under Gram’s tree. She’d given me so much, for so many years.
“The collection was started years ago by the grandmother of a woman in Waldoboro. She inherited it and then added to it. It’s being sold since none of her heirs were interested in carrying on the tradition.” Sarah shook her head sadly. “‘I had some things that I called mine—And God, that he called his.’” I’d gotten used to Sarah’s quoting Emily Dickinson at odd moments, but Clem looked puzzled. It could be confusing.
“Sad,” said Ruth.
Sarah shrugged. “It is. All the items were well cared for. The scissors and needles are still sharp! Most antiques auctions today are full of furnishings or collections being de-accessioned by people downsizing, or by their children, who don’t want to polish family silver and think mahogany furniture is old-fashioned. Most of the pieces in this collection are from England or France. Here in the States women did needlework, but most couldn’t afford the accessories upper-class British women in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries prized.”
“I’d like to look at the collection,” Patrick put in. “My mother’s not a needlepointer, but you all restored those needlepoint pictures in her dining room, and it might be nice to have something to display near them. Mom’s impossible to buy for—she buys everything she wants herself.”
“Do stop in, then,” encouraged Sarah. “One of the elaborately carved stands would fit in Aurora. Or an inlaid box of tools. Your gallery is nearby. I’d keep my shop open a little late if I knew you were coming.”
“When I learned Mom and her friends were flying in I decided to close the gallery until Christmas,” Patrick said. “I’ll put a ‘call for appointment’ sign up. I have too much to do now to gallery-sit. But I can fit in a trip to your shop. I’m intrigued.”
“Me too,” I said. “You’ll be open your regular hours?”
“Until four in the afternoon Christmas Eve,” she promised. “Oh, and, Angie? I almost forgot to tell you. A woman from Texas was in my shop yesterday. She asked lots of questions about Haven Harbor. A nuisance. But she may turn out to be a good customer. She was fascinated by all the old needleworking tools and is looking for someone to needlepoint some chair covers. I didn’t get the whole story—I had other customers—but I gave her your name.”
“Thanks. That might be a big order. As long as she doesn’t want the work done by Christmas!”
“I don’t think so,” said Sarah. “Although she didn’t say.”
Captain Ob stood, reaching a hand to Anna. “We’ve enjoyed this evening, Angie. Thanks for inviting us. But Anna and I have some Christmas preparations of our own to do. We’re going to take off.” He turned to Patrick. “Shall I come over with my saw tomorrow morning to help you with a tree and extra branches for decorating?”
“I’d appreciate that. About eight?”
“Sounds good,” said Ob. “No major snow’s predicted tonight, so we should be able to get what you need in an hour or two. I’ll bring a sled we can use.”
“After you get the tree up you’ll need ornaments,” I put it. “There’s a Christmas shop in Portland that has all the lights and tree decorations you need. Don’t forget electric candles for all the windows, and call me when you’re ready to decorate.”
“Put me on your call list, Patrick,” Dave added. “I’ll see what students I can convince to help you out. I’ll be at home tomorrow morning. Angie, let me know about those needlepoint pillows, too.”
I gave Patrick a special hug as he and the others left.
“Now it’s you and me and the dirty dishes,” I said to Trixi, who’d come out of hiding and was batting at a low-hanging red glass ball. “I should rearrange the ornaments so the unbreakable ones are on the bottom branches.”
I started piling up the ornament and light cartons.
My dream of a cozy Christmas at home now seemed unlikely. But my tree was beautiful, Gram and Tom didn’t live far away, and tomorrow I’d be helping Patrick decorate the Victorian mansion his mother called home.
Even if she was expecting guests for the holidays, and I’d go to her Christmas Eve dinner, I’d still have Christmas Day with my family.
I focused on the positives. I had a lovely tree, my family—Gram—was here, and I was in Haven Harbor. Home.
Even with last-minute changes, it would still be my best Christmas in years.
I texted Clem to caution her that all she’d heard tonight about Skye West and her friends was confidential.
Then I extricated Trixi from the branch she was climbing. “I may have to put a fence around that tree,” I scolded. “Merry Christmas, Trixi! We’re home for the holidays.”
Chapter 4
“To labour and to be content with that a man hath Is a sweet life.
There is nothing so much worth as a mind well instructed.”
—Unsigned (as was most British needlework) and stitched in an elaborate gold-threaded sampler about 1800. The words are between two large gold birds. Below them is a pastoral scene of a shepherd with sheep, and the entire sampler is bordered in wildflowers.
My friends had agreed to stitch the pillows Skye wanted for her guests, but I know none of them were looking forward to the task.
It was December 19. Everyone already had plans for the next week, even if those plans were to bake cookies and eat them all themselves. (Sarah’s plan.) No one was happy about dropping other Christmas preparations to fill what they saw as a rich woman’s whim.
I called Patrick. He reluctantly agreed the “needlepoint pillows” could be more like balsam sachets, about five by six inches, with plain green backs and red fronts as background for a green tree and a name. The struggle would be fitting the names on them. I won another battle when I convinced him first names alone would be all right—and even more personal.
Gram had already called to say she thought Paul Carmichael was the handsomest young actor in Hollywood. Sometimes she amazed me. Or the magazines she read at the hair salon did. Sarah would stitch the pillow for Marv, the director. Anna and Ob agreed to cover the screenwriti
ng team Thomas and Marie, and I assigned Dave Percy the pillow for “Blaze,” which I assumed was her stage name. I’d stitch Paul’s gift myself.
I was already sorting through my stash of threads and canvases, pulling out what I’d need for the new project, when I glanced through the bay window. A woman I didn’t recognize was standing on my porch. She was probably in her mid-fifties, but her makeup and teased hair (neither commonly seen on the coast of Maine) said she was trying to look younger.
I hoped she wasn’t selling anything or asking for a donation. I hated saying no, especially at the holiday season. Reluctantly, I opened my door.
“Are you Angie Curtis?”
“Yes,” I answered, tentatively.
“I’m Carly Tremont. Did the nice lady with the Australian accent call to say I was coming?”
The “nice lady” could only be Sarah. I opened my door a little wider.
“She was so busy with all those customers yesterday I wasn’t sure she’d remember to call you. I met her at her little antiques shop on Main Street,” she explained.
Where had Sarah said this woman was from? Then I remembered.
“Of course. She told me someone from Texas might be calling.” Not stopping in, for sure. I would have remembered that.
“I was admiring the needlework accessories collection she has, and she told me you were the one to see if I wanted to have some needlepointing done.”
I gestured that she should come in. “You’ve come to the right place. My office is in the living room, although right now it’s also decorated for the holidays.”
She walked to the mantel and admired the needlepoint stockings hanging there. “Two stockings. How sweet. One for you and one for the man in your life?” She winked.
I didn’t tell her the second stocking was for my cat.
She turned back toward me and put out her hand. “Call me Carly. I hail from Houston. I hope I wasn’t too personal. We Texans have our own way of talking.”