by Cathy Elliot
The carvings on the case were simple but elegant, with a patriotic theme. Combined with the medals, the effect was much like experiencing the Fourth of July. Someone gave a great deal for freedom. Maybe someone gave all.
Annie inspected the woodwork, wondering if Grandpa was the artisan. She remembered evenings sitting with her grandparents on the front porch, he whittling figurines and she stitching up another masterpiece. Grandpa possessed the ability to carve the bunting-like edge, starred corners, and the American eagle that adorned the lid. To Annie, the wood looked like mahogany. Soft enough for carving, Grandpa said, though he liked pine better.
She set the case on the coffee table and returned to the cardboard box. Had she missed anything? She tossed the remaining crushed newspapers onto the floor where Boots began batting them about.
Her pulse quickened. There was something. At the bottom lay a sealed, white envelope labeled “Save. 1942.” Annie ripped open the flap, felt inside, and withdrew three sepia-toned photos of a man in naval uniform. In one shot, he held the hand of a woman; the others showed him alone on a pier. Was that taken at the harbor? Or in a foreign port? And who were they?
The woman resembled a young Betsy Holden in form, but the faded and grainy picture made it hard to tell. Besides, the woman’s body faced the sailor, and she wore a hat. Annie squinted at the shot. Neither person looked familiar.
Nice hat, though.
Annie flipped over the pictures, one by one. Nothing. No writing at all. Still, because they were packed with the carved case, perhaps they held a clue to the ownership of the medals. Except for the photographs, the cardboard box was empty.
Standing and facing the window, Annie could see the storm had no intention of slacking off. The view from the front porch usually proved picture postcard-worthy--a grassy lawn gently sloped down to the road, and far beyond one could see the ocean. But today the rain fell in torrents and wind bent the bushes with powerful gusts. Annie’s attitude churned along with the Atlantic.
“I thought today was supposed to be filled with scattered showers,” she said, hands on hips. “So scatter!” She followed the order with a foot stomp.
It didn’t work.
Annie stared outside with longing. On a nice day, she might take a leisurely walk, listen to the gulls overhead, and inhale the salty air. Now, trapped inside, she felt restless and unsettled. Maybe a little cabin-bound.
She glanced at the floral-print sofa and the other worn but well-appointed furnishings in the living room. The adjacent formal dining room with its graceful table and china cabinet extended the charm. And finally, Annie eyed the entry and the framed country scene hanging there. Her favorite of all Gram’s handiwork. The first original Betsy Holden cross-stitch.
Smiling, she whispered, “Thanks, Gram. For everything.”
Annie had a sudden urge to call her daughter in Texas and hear that sweet drawl in her ear again. Perhaps grab a little grandma-time with the twins. She punched in the number.
“Sorry, Mom. I dropped the kids off at vacation Bible school over an hour ago.”
LeeAnn, probably enjoying a couple of rare hours of leisure, didn’t sound all that sorry to Annie, who had forgotten about their plans. “Any chance they’ll be home soon? Their grandma is missing them.”
“They miss you too, Mom. And so do I. Any chance you’ll be home soon?”
Did Annie hear a smile in her daughter’s voice or not? This was an argument better left unargued.
Changing the subject, Annie asked, “LeeAnn, did Great-Grandpa ever mention anything to you about military medals? Like maybe a Purple Heart? Or another important medal?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I recall, anyway. He served in World War II, right?”
“Right.” Annie nodded and ambled toward the kitchen. “There are some medals, along with ribbons, displayed in a shadow box here at Grey Gables.”
“There you are, then,” LeeAnn said. “I don’t really get what you are asking.”
Annie chose a chair and sat at the old farm table. This might take a while to explain.
“While I was in the attic searching for something to donate to the community center auction, I found a couple of other medals. They’re beautiful. But I can’t figure out if they belong to Grandpa or not.”
“Well, of course they do. Who else would they belong to?” LeeAnn asked. “By the way, Mom, I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to be rifling around in that attic.”
“Why not?”
“Who knows what’s up there? If you found World War II medals, maybe you’ll find weapons too. What if there’s an old grenade? Or something worse?” LeeAnn asked, her tone turning anxious. “Now that I think about it, I don’t know if I can sleep thinking about you prowling around up there.”
“LeeAnn!” Annie said. “Don’t be silly. Do you really think Grandpa Holden would leave anything dangerous up in the attic when he knew his wife liked to putter among her stored treasures?”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. Finally LeeAnn gave in. “No. I guess he wouldn’t. But even if there are no weapons hidden in there, it’s so full of junk you could break your leg just walking from one side of the attic to the other. Did you ever think of that?”
Annie didn’t want to tell her daughter she had the same thought coming down the stairs today. If she said anything, a plane ticket would be waiting to take her home by noon tomorrow. And Annie wasn’t ready to go. Yet.
But she could feel LeeAnn’s concern between the lines. “Don’t worry, honey,” Annie said, trying to inject a lighter tone. “This is Stony Point. There’s no safer place on earth. Nothing’s going to happen to me here.”
She hoped her assurances had soothed her daughter’s distress. Though, for Annie, discussing the medals had only served to peak her interest in their ownership. There had to be an explanation out there.
And she planned to stay in Stony Point long enough to find it.
3
The next morning Annie took an early walk down to the road, enjoying the sun’s rays breaking through cumulus clouds. The storm had moved on. The view of the ocean was magnificent. Gulls dotted the seascape, bobbing like tiny sailboats. In the distance, a few pleasure skiffs cut across the channel, off to catch “the one that got away” last year. Tourists, no doubt. The real fishing began long before the sun rose.
The walk had worked its magic and the fresh salt air invigorated Annie’s troubled psyche. Last night, she couldn’t stop brooding about the medals and those old pictures found in the attic. She spent several hours trying to complete her current crochet project--a lovely wool afghan in vibrant colors--but didn’t get far. She kept stopping to wonder about the medals.
Annie continued to ponder them now as she lingered in her yard, staring toward the sea, formulating a first step in her investigation. If one could call it that. Her inquiry? That sounded better. Less like a private eye without a license.
Or a clue, for that matter.
“Hey, Annie!” A voice interrupted. “It’s cold out here.” Alice stood beside her car, pushing her sweater-jacket down over her fists. “Stop that woolgathering and let’s go inside.”
Alice lived nearby in an old carriage house and often trekked over on foot for a visit. Today she had driven her flashy Ford Mustang into the Grey Gables driveway, apparently without being noticed by her otherwise-absorbed friend.
Annie hurried toward the porch and opened the door for Alice. They chatted down the hall to the kitchen. Boots followed, probably hoping for a snack. Well acquainted with Alice, who had cared for the cat after Annie’s grandmother had passed away, Boots wasn’t picky about who served the snack, as long as it was served.
“Excuse the mess, Alice. Wally started the kitchen remodel a few days ago. The old wallpaper is out. The backsplash is gone. Ready for a new look.” Annie gave the kitchen a critical review.
“Let me know if you need my help. I’m pretty handy with a brush. And of course I am privy to the
entire Divine Décor catalog at 30 percent off retail. Even some things you can’t buy anymore.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that, Alice. Really.”
“Glad to be of assistance.”
“Wait until you hear what I found in the attic after you left.” Annie dropped a sideways glance as she filled the kettle with cold water from the tap.
“You’re kidding. You found the doll afghan?”
“No, not the afghan. I forgot all about that. But, now that you bring up the subject, I do want to locate it. Think how precious it would be for my little Joanna to play with the same blanket her grandma crocheted as a little girl. Of course it was my first project and the work was elementary. But still she--”
“Annie! Just tell me what you found. We can talk about the afghan later.”
“Of course, sorry.” Annie set the kettle on Gram’s stove and turned on the blue flame beneath. “By the way, I love that jacket. Looks good with your auburn hair. Did Kate Stevens crochet it?” Kate worked at the yarn shop and was an extremely talented designer.
Momentarily diverted, Alice looked down at the burnt-orange jacket trimmed in brown and, maybe realizing she no longer needed the wrap, shrugged it off in the warm kitchen. She hung it across the back of her chair. “You’re getting good at spotting the work of the Hook and Needle Club. It is one of Kate’s. I saw it on a mannequin at A Stitch in Time and couldn’t rest until she agreed to sell it to me. I think it was one of her first … hey!” Alice wagged her finger. “You didn’t answer me again.”
“Would you mind setting up our tea? Then I’ll tell you all about my discovery.”
“Sure.” Alice pulled a favorite tea from the cupboard and pried off the lid. Soon the smell of vanilla almond flooded the room.
“And give Boots some cat food?” Annie asked from the doorway. The cat sat beside her dish, demanding her tea-time treat too. “I’ll go grab my find, and then we can plot our strategy.”
“What strategy?” Alice asked.
But Annie didn’t seem to hear, disappearing down the hall.
Alice gave Boots her snack; then she laid out cups and saucers and poured hot water. She pushed the tin of tea bags within reach as Annie returned, carrying the wooden case along with an envelope.
“Aren’t these wonderful?”
Alice looked puzzled until Annie explained her discovery, including the theory that Grandpa had carved the patriotic symbols on the case. “Don’t you think it’s strange? There’s already a display case in the living room packed with ribbons and medals. Yet these are kept separate.”
“They could belong to someone else,” Alice said, dipping a tea bag.
“Otherwise, they’d be displayed with the rest of Grandpa’s medals. Wouldn’t you think?”
“I would think. It sounds like another attic mystery.”
“That’s what I thought,” Annie said, handing Alice the old photos. “Look at these.”
Alice studied them closely. “Who are these people?”
Annie looked doubtful. “I don’t know. Do you?”
“They look like every other old black-and-white I’ve seen in a picture album. But this one has a certain vintage charm.” Alice held out the photo of the couple, hand in hand. “Looks like these two were sweethearts.”
Annie sipped her tea thoughtfully, examining the photo again. “She reminds me of Gram as a young woman. But the face is turned and hidden by the hat. Besides, I really don’t think this is Grandpa Holden. He was always Gram’s one-and-only. So it can’t be her.”
“Now that’s not really the whole story, Annie. Betsy used to say that Charlie Holden may not have been her first love, but he was her true love. Remember?”
Annie sat back. “You’re right, Alice. She did say that. In fact, I often thought how lucky I was that Wayne was both my first love and my … my true love.” She swallowed hard.
Alice reached for Annie’s arm. “You were very blessed, Annie. You and Wayne both. For many years. Trust me; it doesn’t always work out that way.”
“I know, Alice. There is so much to be thankful for.” Annie hated to say anything that reminded Alice of her divorce. But sometimes … well, it hadn’t been that long since Wayne’s death. Her heart still mourned. Maybe it always would.
“So shall we put our heads together and stitch up a solution for this mystery?” Alice asked, guiding their conversation back to the question of the medals.
Annie took another sip of tea before answering. “I’d love that, Alice. I’m really eager to learn more about the medals. Whether they belong to Grandpa or someone else. Wouldn’t it be great to restore them to their rightful owner?”
“No kidding,” Alice said. “I’m sure we can figure it out. And there’s the Hook and Needle Club too. They could help.”
“They could be a source of information. But I don’t want to mention anything about this yet,” said Annie.
“Why not? Because they gossip?”
“Well, not really. Although I suppose we need to consider that.” Annie put down the teacup. “I’d like to check around here first. Look through Grandpa’s papers and stuff. Find out if there’s a reason they wanted them kept a secret. I might be able to find some answers. And there’s another reason …”
“Oh?” Alice pulled her chair closer to Annie’s.
“These things have been hidden away for many years. I’m guessing since the forties. My grandparents kept them a secret for such a long time. They certainly seem to have kept their own family in the dark.” Annie put the photographs back in the envelope. “It just makes me wonder why.”
“I understand. Caution can’t hurt.”
“We need to be careful when we share this information.”
“Well, sharing information is definitely what we do best in Stony Point,” Alice said.
“I have to agree with you there.” Annie took hold of Alice’s arm, pulling her toward the front door. “And sharing friendship. Come on, we better get going.”
* * * *
Entering A Stitch in Time, Annie and Alice found their seats among the other women of the Hook and Needle Club. Annie had already learned that, like in church on Sunday, everyone sat in the same place at the store each Tuesday. She drew her crochet project from her tote bag and started working at once.
“Wow. That’s really coming along, Annie. It’s going to be gorgeous.” Peggy Carson, dressed in a pink waitress uniform, leaned over to take a good look. “Excuse me if I’m jealous, but I don’t think I’ll ever finish this bedspread. I tried quilting on my break at The Cup & Saucer but finally figured out the grease stains were changing my color palette.”
They laughed, and Annie relaxed into the rhythm of her crochet. She appreciated the new status as an “almost” insider. Maybe someday she would truly be a part of the group.
And of the town.
If she stayed long enough.
“I’d hoped to have it done for the auction, but that doesn’t look likely, does it? There’s still such a long way to go,” replied Annie. “Though I promise I’ve been working hard.”
Annie’s afghan consisted of three oversized strips, each with alternating blocks of bulky wool-cotton tweed in four colors: brick red, sunshine gold, purple haze, and chocolate. The pattern called for variegated yarn, but Annie preferred the tweed. She feared not having enough brick red. The yarn was hand-dyed and starting a new skein in the middle of a block might not match. If she ran short of yarn, perhaps she could make that block a bit small and the next one more generous.
Stitching again on the last strip, Annie thought of the hours spent last night, attempting to grow the afghan row by row. Instead, her mind had remained occupied with the mystery of the medals rather than completing the crochet project. At least she had the vintage print to donate.
It didn’t seem enough. Not for Betsy Holden’s granddaughter.
Annie stepped up her stitching speed.
“What’s the hurry? It’s obvious you won’t finish in time. So r
elax.” Mary Beth, owner of A Stitch in Time, pulled up a stool nearby, ready to dash away to help if any customer needed assistance. “Do you have anything else you’ve made, waiting in the wings, so to speak? Maybe you could donate that instead and save this for another worthy cause.”
“What about a baby blanket? Weren’t you working on one recently?” Gwendolyn Palmer asked, her knitting needles clicking so fast they almost emitted sparks. “You do beautiful work, Annie. I’m sure your grandmother would approve of such a donation.”
Annie looked up, startled. Could she read her mind?
“I did make a couple,” she said, “but they’re targeted for Texas. For the missionary cupboard at my church. We like to have new things for the missionaries when they come home on furlough.” Annie worked three stitches of the red yarn and shifted the strip to start a new row.
Stella Brickson stopped her knitting, “That’s very commendable, Annie. It says a great deal about your priorities.”
“Maybe it’s because my folks were missionaries. I have a little insider knowledge or something.” Annie smiled at Stella. “I’d sure feel bad if there were no soft afghans for a young missionary couple home with a new baby. Or maybe to take back into the field.”
“But what about the priorities right here in Stony Point?” Peggy said. “We’ve got plenty of needs. I mean, the church’s kitchen needs a new floor at the very least. Have you tried to walk on that thing? It makes me seasick. And those bathrooms!”
“Let’s not go into detail about the bathrooms, Peggy. Not in polite society.” Stella barely looked up from her knitting. “Think decorum.”
Hearing Stella’s remark, Annie hid a grin.
“Wasn’t there talk of a new roof?” Mary Beth asked.
“I’m hoping I can get John to get all his banking cronies to take on the roof as a project. After all, the church is used as a community center all week.” Gwendolyn warmed to her subject. “Think of how it will benefit all those groups that use the place. The writer’s group, the stamp club, the Senior Striders, even that skinny gal who gives those exercise classes, Pilates by Pammy.”