by Lea Wait
—From The Farm and Household Cyclopedia: A Complete Reference Library for Farmers, Gardeners, Fruit Growers, Stockmen and Housekeepers, Published by F.M. Lupton, 1885.
No mention of Skye West or Haven Harbor or anything else I cared about on the morning news. Good.
Skipping dinner the night before had been a mistake. I was starving. I made myself an onion and cheese omelet, toasted an English muffin, and drank two cups of coffee before pulling on my down vest and boots and filling the birdfeeders, to the delight of the chickadees and cardinals and nut hatches that appeared immediately. Trixi was torn between sitting at one of her two window perches and watching the activity outdoors, or playing with the felt catnip Christmas ball I’d bought her at last week’s craft show. It was a hard decision, but the birds won out.
At nine o’clock on the dot Carly Tremont was at my front door, stomping her unbooted feet on the wire mat.
“Come in,” I said, opening the door. “Don’t worry about the snow. The rug in the hall is indoor/outdoor carpet.”
She picked up the heavy armless side chair she’d been carrying and lugged it in with her, plopping it near the entrance to the living room and kicking off her snowy sneakers. “I’m not worried about the snow on your rug. My feet are freezing! How do you people stand this weather?”
I tried not to laugh as she wiggled her toes. “We wear boots,” I said. “While you’re here you should check out L.L. Bean’s rubber boots. They’re the best.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I looked. Ugly. We’d never wear boots like that in Texas.”
I resisted pointing out that Texas wasn’t known for its frequent blizzards. “You’ve brought the chair,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Yes, I have six, just like that one,” she said, as I picked up the chair and put it next to my desk in the living room.
The chair was badly stained and the seat cover was ripped where it wasn’t worn. I hoped she hadn’t paid a lot for the set. “Are all six chairs exactly like this one?” I asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Some dining room sets include one or two chairs with arms,” I said calmly.
“Not this set,” she assured me.
I suspected the other two chairs had disappeared through the years, or been sold separately. But six identical seat cushions would be easier to plan for.
I pulled out my tape measure. “You said you wanted bright flowers, am I right?”
“Texas flowers. Like bluebonnets.”
“I’ll have to do a little research, but that shouldn’t be a problem.” Thank goodness for the Internet. “Any special colors?”
“I’d like the background to be navy blue,” she specified. “And different flowers on each chair. Reds and whites and yellows would look pretty. My dining room walls are pale yellow.”
I nodded, taking notes.
“I saw Skye West’s house on the news! Was that you in the background, with that man? Was that Skye’s son?” Carly asked. She sat on my couch.
Not everyone had gone to bed early last night.
“Yes, that was me.” I focused on staying calm. This was a customer. Potentially, a valuable customer.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to be on the broadcast. They cut away much too fast.”
“It was fine,” I said. “We’ll have to replace the cushions on the chairs. Is this thickness about right, or would you like something a little deeper?”
Carly Tremont waved her hand as if dismissing the question. “Whatever would look best. I’m going to have the chairs refinished while you’re working on the cushions.”
“That would be good,” I said, smiling. “Refinished chairs with new cushions should look lovely.”
“Elegant,” she pronounced. “That’s what I want. I’m a very elegant person.”
I glanced at her hair, wet and disheveled from being out in the snow, her bare feet (no wonder they were cold!) bedecked with smudged red toenail polish, and the red and green sequined Christmas sweater she was wearing. “I can see that. As I told you yesterday, I’ll need some time to design the cushions. After you’ve approved the designs it will take five or six months to complete the needlepoint.”
“Not a problem. Does Skye have needlepointed cushions in her house?”
“A few,” I admitted. “Shall I send you the designs by e-mail, or will you still be in Maine at the end of January or beginning of February?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she answered. “Do I have to decide now? I’ve taken a leave of absence and don’t have a definite return date.”
“What do you do?” I asked, to be polite.
“Work for a company that makes jewelry.”
She wasn’t wearing any jewelry. Maybe she didn’t like taking her work home. “You don’t have to set a specific date to see the designs today,” I assured her. “But I’d like you to fill out this contract to make sure it says what we’ve agreed to. Make sure you include your contact telephone numbers and e-mail address so I can get in touch with you when the designs are ready. And, as I mentioned yesterday, I’d like a nonrefundable deposit to cover my design work.”
“Fine,” said Carly, glancing through the contract I’d prepared. For any large needlepoint job I required a contract. I didn’t want any misunderstandings with clients. That was one of the things I’d learned when I worked for a private investigator. Make sure everyone understood deliverables and expectations and costs and time frames. Carly filled out her contact information quickly and handed me a credit card. “You can take a card, I assume?”
“I can.” Who could do business today without taking credit cards?
Her card went through easily.
“So when will Skye be arriving?” she asked. “And who’s coming with her? I’m dying to know!” She leaned toward me. “I still can’t believe I’m in the same town with her!”
“She’s not here yet. I’m not exactly sure when she’ll be arriving,” I said, standing. “I’ll call you when I have the seat designs finished. Do you need any help taking your chair back out to your car?”
“I can do it,” she answered, bending to put her soaked sneakers back on. “I’m fine. Only I wish we’d have one day without snow.”
“That could happen,” I agreed. “It’s unusual to have snow every day, even in Maine.”
“You couldn’t prove that from the past week.” Carly stood and pulled on her pink fleece jacket. “Maybe I’ll see you around town. I’m not sure how long I’ll be in Haven Harbor, but I’ll be in town for the holidays for sure.”
I opened the front door for her and her chair. “Have a Merry Christmas, then!” I said as she carefully descended my porch steps, carrying her chair. “I look forward to working with you.”
And, I thought as I closed my door, I’ll look forward to spending the money you spend with Mainely Needlepoint.
Chapter 9
“Let us count all things loss
That Jesus we may win
Let’s glory in his cross
And leave the paths of sin.”
—Susannah Wearing stitched this silk on linen sampler in England in 1833. She embroidered her words in an oval that included a chipmunk, a bird, and a scene of a farmhouse and barns, then stitched this center work onto dark fabric and embroidered a dramatic floral border in shaded silks.
My meeting with Carly Tremont had taken longer than I’d thought. It was almost ten-thirty. I quickly brushed my hair, slipped on my (warm and dry) Bean boots, put on my ski jacket (which I never skied in), and headed downtown to meet Patrick for lunch at the Harbor Haunts. As usual, the only jewelry I wore was the gold necklace with a small gold angel Mama had given to me for my First Communion. I’d worn it off and on for years, but it meant more now that I knew Mama was gone forever.
Snow was falling lightly, dusting everything with a new layer of white. I stuck out my tongue, hoping to catch a snowflake or two. As my friend Sergeant Pete Lambert of the local police department passed me
, waving from his car, I pulled my tongue in. No, I wasn’t a child anymore. But snow always made me feel like tossing a snowball, or making a snow angel, or building a snowman (or woman) or fort. I couldn’t remember when I’d last done any of those things.
Who cared what I looked like?
I stuck my tongue out again.
It was back in my mouth before I got to Main Street, where smiling Christmas shoppers were buying gifts at The Book Nook and Hubbel Clothing and, I hoped, at Sarah’s antiques shop, From Here and There. Even the Harbor Lights Gift Shop was open. Unless they’d changed their schedule in the past ten years, the owners would be closing at the end of the month and heading for Florida until March.
Portland, Camden, Damariscotta, and Yarmouth, among others, were year-round towns. College towns, like Brunswick and Waterville, were active in the winter. Towns like Haven Harbor shuttered after Christmas and hunkered down until spring. The shrimping season, which started in December and was shorter every year, kept the town wharf open. But most restaurants and gift shops closed for at least a couple of months.
Would Patrick keep his new art gallery open all winter? The patisserie stayed open, and so did The Book Nook (readers needed books to get them through long, dark nights). The Harbor Haunts Café, my current destination, stayed open seven days a week, twelve months of the year, and was cherished by locals and rewarded by their patronage.
Patrick had already claimed a table by the window by the time I got there. Eleven o’clock was early for lunch, even in Haven Harbor. I’d had a big breakfast. I wasn’t even hungry. But I was glad I’d come. Patrick stood and hugged me before I sat down. I noticed a shopping bag between his seat and the wall.
“You found something for your mom at Sarah’s shop?”
“I did. You have to check out what she has! I can’t show you what I bought—Sarah wrapped all the little pieces in tissue paper and even Christmas-wrapped the whole package for me. I bought one of those eighteenth-century things—etuis—she told us about, the kind inlaid with patterns of wood and mother-of-pearl. It sits on a table and holds needles and scissors and hooks and stilettos and all sorts of other sewing tools. It’ll look great on the sideboard in Mom’s dining room, near the needlepointed pictures of Haven Harbor.” He paused. “It was so cool I also bought a large brass spool holder with ivory finials. I figure the two would balance each other on the sideboard. Mom won’t get anything like them from anyone else.”
I nodded.
“I’m going to give her a painting for Christmas, too,” Patrick added.
Maybe his hands were getting better!
“Not one of mine,” he said quickly. “One of Ted Lawrence’s. He left a stack of his local scenes in the storeroom at the gallery. Mom liked Ted when she met him last summer, and she’s pleased I’ve taken over his gallery, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal. I think she’d like to have one of his paintings. I chose one of the lighthouse and the boats in the harbor that’s close to the view Mom has from her bedroom at Aurora.”
“She’ll like that,” I agreed. Would Patrick give me something for Christmas? If he did, I hoped it would be sentimental, and not extravagant. After all, I was going to give him a needlepointed pillow. Holidays were difficult for new couples. If a gift was too small, or too large, or too personal, or too impersonal, it could ruin a romance. Knowing that, I was nervous about gifts. And, I admitted to myself, curious about how Patrick felt about them. Ours was still a new relationship. We’d never discussed gifts.
“The painting sounds perfect, and the needlepoint tools unique.” Sarah was probably really happy about those sales, too. “I’m planning to stop in to see Sarah after lunch and see if I can find something for Gram.” Something a lot less expensive than what Patrick had bought.
“Do you have to do that today?” asked Patrick. “I was hoping you’d go with me to the airport.”
“I don’t know any of those people,” I said. “And I have other things I have to do before Christmas.”
“You know Mom, and she knows we’ve been seeing each other. She’s asked about ten times whether you’ll be coming with me.”
Skye’d always seemed to like me. I’d liked her, too, when I’d worked with her last summer. But I hadn’t been dating her son then.
“Please, Angie?”
The waitress stood by our table. Her earrings were flashing Christmas bulbs. “Specials for today are oysters on the half shell, an oyster poor boy sandwich, and oysters Rockefeller,” she announced.
“Must be an r month,” Patrick said drily. “Aren’t you only supposed to eat oysters in months including an r?”
“The chef got carried away when the Damariscotta Oyster Company came by to take orders,” the young woman explained.
“I’ll have a half dozen of the half shells,” I decided. “And a cup of onion soup.”
“Might as well go with the flow,” Patrick said. “The oyster poor boy and some sweet potato fries.”
“And to drink?”
“Water,” I said.
Patrick reluctantly agreed. “Same for me. We have to drive.”
“YOU have to drive. I’m not coming with you, Patrick. Helping you decorate was fun yesterday, but I can’t take more time now. Besides, your mom and her friends will be tired after their long flight. They’ll want to rest. I’ll have plenty of time to see her while she’s here. I’ve agreed to come Christmas Eve.”
“Are you sure? I’d really like your company. And you know where the airport in Brunswick is.”
“So does your GPS. She’s your mother, Patrick. Not mine.” That might have been strong, but I meant it. “You haven’t seen her in a couple of months. The two of you should have some private time together before you get involved in holiday events and she begins the work she brought with her from Edinburgh.”
“You’re right. Go ahead with your plans. I’ll call you when I get back from the airport.”
Neither of us said much during the rest of our meal. The oysters were fresh and delicious, and for dessert we both ordered cups of cocoa with whipped cream.
It was Christmas, after all.
It was snowing a little heavier than usual when Patrick got in his car and headed for the airport. I waved good-bye and walked up the street to Sarah’s shop.
Chapter 10
“The dearest man in the world must not be left out of your Christmas list. And if, perchance, your purse is too slender to give him what you would like, make him a ‘daisy’ shaving pad: a circle of gray linen, on which you embroider tinted pink daisies and the words ‘A Daisy Shave.’ The latter may have a suggestion of slang, but the new woman occasionally indulges in that.”
—From an article titled “Christmas Novelties” in The Modern Priscilla magazine, November 1905.
The wide windows at From Here and There were lit with red and green lights. Sarah had hung Victorian ornaments on a small artificial tree, and surrounded the tree with vintage Santas, old dolls, toy soldiers, and nineteenth-century board games. Framed prints of Christmases past hung on the side walls, and a large brass star hung over the whole scene.
I wished I knew someone who would appreciate antiques. I was learning more about them all the time, and found some fascinating.
Sarah was alone, doing needlework behind the counter. She’d started the balsam pillow for the director, Marv, and finished stitching most of the tree.
“I’m impressed!” I said, pointing at her work.
She shrugged. “I stitch when I’m not selling. Only certain people shop for gifts at an antiques shop.”
“I hear you made at least one good sale this morning, though.”
“Patrick said he was going to have lunch with you. Yes, his check will cover a lot of my expenses this month. I had to go into overdraft checking to buy all those needlework tools at the auction, but I’m already sure I made a good investment.”
“I came to look.”
“Everything is on those four tables.” Sarah pointed at the lef
t side of her store. “The ones covered with red, to be seasonal, and the shelves above them. Looking for something in particular?”
“Browsing,” I said, heading for the red tables. Sarah’s shelves were laced with pinecones and vases and antique floral tea cups holding holly. More Christmas ornaments like those on the tree in the window were on many shelves, and china and glass with holiday patterns were prominently displayed.
“I didn’t know you had so many Christmas items!” I said, looking around.
“I gather them all year. Collectors of Christmas memorabilia look for it all year, so I always have a few things out. But most I save for December.”
I stopped at a table filled with Santa Clauses made of wood, china, pottery, cloth, wax, and some more recent ones of plastic. One plastic Santa about a foot tall was equipped with an electric cord and glowed. “Let me guess. There’s a Christmas tree bulb inside?”
“Exactly,” said Sarah. “He’s from the nineteen fifties.”
I wondered how he would look on a table in my living room. I had Mama’s collection of Santas—only seven or eight of them—on the mantel, but hadn’t thought of adding to it.
But today I wasn’t shopping for myself.
“I’m looking for something for Gram,” I explained. “I have a couple of things for her already, but I’d love to add a package to her pile.” I hesitated. “A small package.”
I looked over Sarah’s tables of needleworking tools. “Wow. Some of these are gorgeous.” I pointed at a group of needle cases and thimbles. The gold and silver ones were simple; the fancier ones were enameled and inlaid and engraved. I glanced at one price tag. Way above my budget.
“What’s this?” I asked, picking up what looked like a white stone painted with gold flowers.
“Isn’t that interesting? It’s an alabaster hand cooler.”
“What?”
“If your hands holding your needlework got hot and sweaty, they’d leave a mark on your sewing. You could pick up the hand cooler to cool your hands.”