Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  Maybe a miracle would happen, and I’d be attending Skye’s party tomorrow night. The dress Sarah had found for me was still in my car. I hadn’t brought it into the house, afraid the velvet would spot from snow. It would be safe, and Jed Fitch would plow my driveway an hour or two after the snow stopped.

  Second floor taken care of. Pipes were next on my mental list, and not my favorite part of power failure protection. My cellar wasn’t a pleasant place under any circumstances. The dirt floor, damp in spring and summer, was now frozen. In the nineteenth century my ancestors had stored apples and squash and pumpkins in barrels of sand on the granite slabs in the center of the house, below the chimney. They’d layered oysters and mussels with seaweed in barrels, too. Dried vegetables, fish, and meat had been hung from attic beams, reached by a ladder from the second floor. I said a silent prayer of thanks for twenty-first century grocery stores and freezers.

  Trixi paced at the top of the cellar stairs and cried, not wanting to go down into the cellar with me, but not wanting to be alone. I didn’t linger. All I had to do was turn off the valve that brought water from the well to the house. The pipes to the upstairs would be all right unless we were without power for days, but the kitchen and downstairs bathroom’s pipes were against the northern outside wall. They could freeze, and break. They had in the past.

  Upstairs again, I drained the pipes to the sinks and toilet.

  The winds now were more ferocious; the house shuddered under one blast. I needed to get to Gram’s before the storm got worse.

  I pulled the cat carrier out of the downstairs closet and put a few of Trixi’s favorite treats in it. She went inside immediately. Maybe the enclosed carrier looked like a haven.

  The two blocks to the rectory were looking farther away every minute.

  The car carrier in one hand and flashlight in another, my duffel bag hung across my chest, I staggered out into the storm.

  Trixi cried as the frigid gusts hit her carrier. I would have cried myself if my nose and cheeks hadn’t felt frozen.

  Large branches wavered above us, screeching as they rubbed against one another in the wind. Small branches covered with ice and snow had already fallen. I walked in the street. No one else was in sight. Plows had been by several times, and the snow in the street was only a couple of inches deep. If another plow passed I’d step into a drift, but there was a good chance I could get to Gram’s before anyone else was out on the road.

  A red-ribboned wreath blew by on my left. The houses on the other side of the Green were still lit, as were those near the church. My block and houses closer to downtown were dark. Probably the transformer at the foot of the Green had blown.

  What about Sarah? Did she have power?

  The roaring wind was like breaking waves, rising before they hit the shore. Waves at the lighthouse would be dramatic. People eager to see high breakers after storms were swept off Maine rocks every year.

  I bent my head against stinging ice particles mixed with snow.

  Either Trixi had stopped crying or I couldn’t hear her over the storm. I wished I could explain to her what weather was, and how we’d be out of it soon. But she was an indoor cat. She didn’t know this world.

  Did I? I looked down the street, across the Green, and up the hill toward the church. I knew this place so well. Tonight it was blurred, from tears or snow.

  Until now, life had been going so smoothly.

  How could Skye believe I’d hurt Patrick? What had I done to make her believe that? And Patrick told her I’d made the cookies. Did he believe I’d poisoned him? Did he know she’d said I was to stay away from both of them?

  I shook my head in frustration. Snow fell off my hat and hair onto my neck, where it melted.

  I should move back to Arizona, where it was warm, and dry, and no one baked cookies laced with arsenic.

  Walking was hard enough. Carrying my heavy duffel bag and the cat carrier made it almost impossible.

  I should have stayed at home by the fireplace. Trixi and I could have slept there.

  But a kitten that close to the fire? And in this wind, the house would be soon be frigid.

  I carefully put one foot down, then the other, balancing my burdens and trying not to slip. The top layer of snow was now frozen.

  My ancestors were hardy folks, like others who’d built their homes on the coast of Maine before there were even Franklin stoves.

  I straightened up and rested a moment. The Congregational Church, its steeple lit for the holidays, was close. The wreaths on its wide doors were banging, but still attached.

  I turned slightly right and waded into drifts where the rectory’s driveway should be. Snow covered everything.

  Gram’s porch light was on, sending a welcoming glow through the swirling snow.

  Tonight the rectory was home.

  Chapter 44

  “And must this body die

  This mortal frame decay

  And must those active limbs of mine

  Lie mouldering in the clay.

  And there to remain

  Until Christ doth please to come.”

  —Below this verse is stitched, “Barbara A. Baner a daughter of Joseph and Esther Baner, was born in York March the 20 in the year of our Lord 1793 and made this sampler in Harrisburgh in Mrs. Lea Meaguier School A.D. 1812.” Barbara’s sampler also includes flowers, birds, butterflies, hearts, and a female figure in white sitting below a willow tree, the symbol of death.

  Gram had been watching for me, as she had all my life. She opened her front door and I handed her Trixi’s carrier.

  “Horrid weather. Our first serious storm since you’ve been back,” she said as I stomped my feet on her mat to leave as much snow as I could outside. I was covered in white, from my head down, so some of it would come in with me.

  “Don’t worry about the snow. Get in here so we can close the door.”

  I disentangled my duffel bag and dropped it on the floor.

  “Glad you got here all right,” said Reverend Tom, coming into the hallway from his study. “It’s nasty out. Not a night to be alone without power.”

  “Thanks for having me,” I said, unwinding my long scarf. I’d already pulled off my Bean boots. Snow had fallen into them, so I turned them upside down to dry on the boot rack Gram and Tom had put conveniently near their coat closet. “It’s bitter out there. Snow’s a nuisance, but it’s the wind that’s the challenge.”

  “Nasty wind chill,” he agreed. “Hope none of our homeless neighbors are out. The Baptist Church is keeping their soup kitchen open all night, and encouraging anyone who has no place to go to stay there.”

  No place to go in a nor’easter two days before Christmas.

  And I’d been feeling sorry for having to walk two blocks in the storm.

  “Are many people in town homeless?” I asked, as Gram returned with a thick beach towel.

  “Not a lot,” said Reverend Tom. “But even one is too many. And they’ll be others, like you, who lose power tonight.”

  I nodded.

  “How’s Trixi? And how will Juno react to her?”

  Juno, Gram’s coon cat, had been queen of her household for years. She was three times the size of my feisty Trixi, who right now was cold and a little wet, despite the carrier’s protection. How would she react in another cat’s territory?

  “Juno will hide at first. We’ll have to watch them. If there’s a problem, we’ll close a few doors and separate them. You get those wet clothes off. You’re drenched. I’ll get a towel to wrap Trixi in.”

  I wasn’t sure how Trixi would like being wrapped in a towel. But Gram had taken care of cats in all sorts of circumstances for years. I’d had one kitten for less than three months.

  I stripped off my wet jeans and sweatshirt in the guest bedroom, toweled my wet hair, and put on one of Gram’s robes. Then I went back to the living room.

  “You take care of Trixi,” said Gram. “She knows you.”

  I sat on the living room f
loor near the wide Christmas tree bright with lights and slowly opened the carrier.

  Trixi glared up at me. She was damp and cold and not happy about it.

  Gram put a bag of cat treats next to me. “These should distract her.”

  I picked Trixi up, wrapping her in the towel. At first she objected, reaching toward me with her claws. But the towel was thick, and I was bigger than she was. I wiped off her head and back, which were damp, as she looked at the room and the tree. Not only was she wet, but she was in a new place.

  I scratched her head gently, opened the towel so she wouldn’t feel confined, and picked up the bag of treats.

  She recognized it immediately and squeaked her request. I shook several of the treats out onto the rug and she quickly devoured them. Then she looked around the room and began investigating.

  “She’ll be fine,” said Gram approvingly. “Now we’ll see how Juno reacts.”

  As though on cue, Juno appeared from behind the couch. She’d smelled the treats, and I tossed a couple in her direction. Trixi stopped short and stared at her. They both looked shocked that there was another cat present. Trixi took a few tentative steps toward the older cat, and Juno raced off, heading for Gram and Tom’s bedroom.

  “She’ll be back,” Gram predicted. “She needs time to accept that she has a guest.”

  Reverend Tom shook his head. “I’ll leave you ladies to tend to the cats. I have a sermon to finish.” He headed back to his study.

  “Cocoa?” said Gram.

  “With a touch of brandy?” I asked.

  “That could be arranged,” Gram said, winking. “You’re over twenty-one. You keep an eye on Trixi while I heat milk.”

  Trixi checked out the ornaments on the lower branches of the tree and batted one, but her outside adventure had exhausted her. She jumped up onto one of Gram’s armchairs, turned around a couple of times, and fell asleep.

  If only I could do the same.

  I joined Gram in the warm kitchen.

  Chapter 45

  “Better by far for Me

  Than all the Spinster’s Art

  That God’s commandments be

  Embroidered on my Heart.”

  —Verse stitched by Mary Cole in 1759 in New England.

  Gram looked at me critically. “Are you all right, Angel? What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” I said, bursting into tears.

  “And it’s Christmas on top of whatever that ‘everything’ is,” said Gram, squeezing my shoulder lightly as she put a large mug of hot cocoa in front of me.

  She let me cry for a few minutes while she got her own cup and put a box of tissues on the table. “Now, Angel, your life has changed a lot in the past six months. You’ve moved back to Maine, found out who killed your mother, taken over Mainely Needlepoint, were maid of honor at my wedding, and became the owner of both a house and a cat. Not to mention your making some good friends here in the Harbor. I know you carry that gun of yours sometimes, and although I’m not one to do that, I know it was necessary in your old job, and is a comfort to you now. But it can protect your body; not your mind or your heart.”

  I blew my nose.

  “So—which is it that hurts? Your mind or your heart?”

  “Both, I guess,” I said, staunching my tears. “I’m sorry. I almost never cry. But everything’s falling apart. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

  “Sometimes life feels that way. I don’t doubt you. But whatever it is that ‘fell apart’ can either be put back together or put in the past. That I’m sure about.”

  “Patrick’s in the hospital. Someone left him a tin of cookies laced with arsenic.” I held my hot mug of cocoa in both hands, warming them.

  Gram put her cocoa down.

  “The poor man. How is he? Shouldn’t you be there with him?”

  “I was there, Gram. Skye threw me out. She thinks I’m the one who poisoned him. She even called Pete Lambert and told him to arrest me.”

  “Is Patrick going to die, Angel?” Gran always got straight to the point.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “The doctors figured out what was wrong and gave him an antidote. He was asleep when I saw him. Dave said Patrick should be all right if he got the medicine quickly enough.”

  “Have you seen Pete?”

  “He got to the hospital about the time I did. Skye told him to take me away.”

  “But you’re here, so he didn’t arrest you.”

  I shook my head.

  “What gave Skye the idea you poisoned these cookies?”

  “Patrick found them outside his house this morning. There was a note on the box: ‘From your secret admirer.’ He thought that was me. He took the box to Aurora, where he ate one or two of the cookies and collapsed.”

  “It’s ridiculous to think you poisoned Patrick,” said Gram. “Skye must have been very angry, and she lashed out at you. Someone played a horrible trick on Patrick. I’m sure Pete will figure out who and things will work out.” “A trick? Someone tried to kill him! I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him, much less kill him. Can you?”

  “No, but there must be an answer. You try to relax and warm up, and maybe it will all make sense.”

  It didn’t seem that simple.

  “At least you and Trixi are here, where we have heat and light and hot water,” Gram said soothingly.

  “That reminds me. The power outage seemed to be in the direction of downtown. I should call Sarah and see if she’s okay,” I said, pulling out my phone.

  “You go right ahead. And if her power’s out, tell her to come here. You could have a pajama party, the way you did when you were in school. Eat cookies and pop popcorn.”

  Elementary school, I remembered. And only once or twice. Mama’s reputation kept most mothers from allowing their daughters to come to our house.

  I shook my head slightly, trying to vanquish the memories.

  “I’ll ask her, Gram.” I picked up my phone and hit Sarah’s number. “Sarah? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just closed the store and came upstairs. Even two days before Christmas, no customers were around. Who’d want to go out in this storm? I’m one of the lucky ones—my commute is an inside stairway.”

  “Good. I’m at Gram’s. I lost power, and she said you’d be welcome to spend the night, too, if yours went out.”

  “Thank her, do. But I’m fine so far. I have no desire to venture out tonight. The storm’s supposed to let up by morning. But it looks as though we’re going to have a very white Christmas.”

  “It does,” I agreed. “I’m hoping power’s restored by morning, but I suspect that’s being optimistic.”

  “At least you have Gram and Tom to stay with,” Sarah agreed. “I heard on the news that over forty thousand Maine homes are without power already. And the storm’s far from over.”

  “Remember, if you need somewhere to go, Gram’s invitation is open,” I said as Gram nodded her head.

  “Got it. And see you at Aurora tomorrow night!” said Sarah.

  I didn’t want to tell my story again. Gram was right. Somehow it would all work out, although I couldn’t think how. If not, I’d tell Sarah tomorrow.

  “Stay warm,” I said, and hung up.

  When my phone rang almost immediately, I assumed it was Sarah again. Maybe she’d forgotten to tell me something. But it wasn’t Sarah.

  “Angie? It’s Ruth. I want to know what’s happening at Aurora. I just got the strangest telephone call.”

  Chapter 46

  “Count That day lost whose low descending

  Sun Views from thy hand no worthy action done.”

  —Sarah Smith of Wethersfield, Connecticut, stitched this in 1813, when she was eleven years old and a student at Abigail Goodrich’s school.

  “You got a call from Aurora? From whom?”

  “Wait a minute, Angie. I wrote down his name.” Ruth paused.

  Why would anyone have called Ruth—unless Skye was canceling her Chri
stmas Eve dinner. Maybe that was it. Skye was calling everyone in town to tell them I’d poisoned her son, and she didn’t want to see anyone connected with me. Or . . .

  “Angie? I’ve got it. The man’s name was Thomas O’Day.”

  “He and his wife, Marie, are screenwriters, working on the film Skye’s making in Scotland.”

  “Why would he be calling me, asking who my agent was, and whether movie rights are available for my books?”

  “He asked what?” I was one of the few people who knew Ruth wrote erotica under a couple of names. Chastity Falls was one of them.

  “You heard me. Someone told him about my books.”

  “It wasn’t me!” I said immediately. Was there anything else someone could blame me for today? “But—wait.” I felt my stomach tighten. “Yesterday I gave Skye and her guests a tour of Haven Harbor. Thomas and Marie and the director, Marv Mason, were talking about what a perfect location it would be for a movie.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I never mentioned you, or your books, Ruth. I swear! But they were talking about the history of the town and its secrets. They asked about Jasmine Gardener, but Skye said they absolutely could not use that story. Then when I was at Aurora today—briefly—talking with Bev Clifford, she mentioned they were reading books by a local author. Are there any other authors in town?”

  “Not a one, unless they’re like me and hiding in full sight.”

  “Someone must have told them about you. I did mention your books once to Patrick.”

  “Angie! I’ve kept that secret for decades. I trusted you; you’re from here, and your grandmother and I’ve been friends forever. How could you tell someone from away about me?”

  “I’m sorry, Ruth. But it shouldn’t be a problem, should it? I’ve only read one of your books, I’ll admit, but it was fiction. A made-up story. Nothing to do with the real Haven Harbor.”