by Lea Wait
I didn’t know Simon, but I suspected that wouldn’t be easy.
Chapter 12
“This needle work of mine can tell
When I was young I learned well
And by my elders I was taught
Not to spend my time for naught.”
—Stitched by twelve-year-old Lydia Archer in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1807. Lydia’s sampler also included three alphabets and an elaborate border of strawberry vines and violets.
Ruth’s call woke me the next morning.
“Angie? In the excitement of hearing Jesse’s problems, I forgot to tell you I’d stitched up several Christmas tree balsam pillows.”
“Your hands are better, then!” I said.
“Not as good as I’d like, but yes. Warm days are easier on arthritis than cold ones.
I stitched a little every time I took a break from writing. Shall I drop the pillows off with you?”
“Don’t worry about that, Ruth. I’ll stop by to get them later today.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
I hadn’t finished my morning coffee when my cell rang again.
“Angie, it’s Patrick.”
“Good morning!”
“I’m following up on our talk the other day. Any chance you’d be free to come for dinner tonight? Mom’s going out with Uncle Gerry and his wife, and I hate to eat alone.”
Uncle Gerry. The man who was trying to buy Simon’s island. But without Skye and the Bentleys, seeing Patrick would be more relaxed. And I could find out more about why the Bentleys chose King’s Island. “That would be great, Patrick. What time?”
“How does seven sound? I’ll order enough for two.”
“See you then.” I finished my coffee while I made toast for breakfast. Dinner out two nights in a row. Who was I to complain about my social life?
I almost laughed when my telephone rang again. Was it a conspiracy? This time it was Sarah.
“Hi! I’m sorry I was a little rushed when you stopped in the other day. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I stayed up needlepointing and finished the sampler for the Owens family. Should I bring it by tonight?”
“You’ve finished it already?” Barbara Owens had commissioned an old-fashioned sampler with an alphabet, their family tree going back two generations, and a simple picture of their home. It was to be a Christmas gift for their first granddaughter, Brittany. Sarah had worked it based on an early-nineteenth-century sampler done in Saco, Maine, and added a border of daisies and lupine. I’d seen it partially stitched several weeks before. It looked spectacular. “I’m dying to see your finished work. Why don’t I come to the shop?”
“Great. I’ll be here, per usual, all day,” said Sarah.
“Can I bring you anything?” I asked. “I have to stop at the grocery this morning.”
“A loaf of whole wheat bread and a dozen eggs would be great,” said Sarah. “Oh, and a quart of skim milk. And a brownie mix. I’ve been dying for something chocolate.”
“You’ve got it. I’ll add your stuff to my shopping list.”
The grocery aisles were full of people buying hamburgers and hot dogs for barbecues, marshmallows and chocolate for s’mores, and beer and chips. I picked up Sarah’s items and the few things on my list. I almost bought a bottle of wine to take to Patrick’s. But he was probably equipped with far fancier wine than I could afford. Instead, I bought a tart covered with fruit for our dessert.
“Thank you!” said Sarah, as I handed her the bag of her groceries. “This saves me from racing out right after I close tonight. How was Dave’s dinner?”
“Fun,” I said. “And we had an unexpected guest.” I filled her in on Jesse and his situation.
“That poor man,” said Sarah. “It sounds as though all he has are those birds. It would be cruel to take them away from him.”
“Not to speak of what might happen to the cormorants,” I agreed. “I’m hoping his cousin won’t want to sell. That would solve the whole problem. King’s Island can’t be as valuable as properties nearer shore where there are pipelines for fresh water and electricity. It would be hard for someone to make it livable. Maybe the Bentleys will find another island.”
“They have so much money they may be able to offer a lot more than the island would normally be worth,” Sarah cautioned.
“True. But I can’t figure why they want that particular island. Did you know Gerry Bentley was Patrick’s uncle?”
“No! How did you find that out?”
“I stopped in to see Patrick and Skye the other day. He was there; I met him. He’s Patrick’s father’s younger brother.”
“Interesting. Could be that explains why he wants the island. He has relatives in Haven Harbor.”
“His yacht is almost as big as King’s Island,” I said drily. “Anyway, I came to see your sampler.”
Sarah pulled a tissue paper – wrapped package from under her counter. “Here it is,” she said. “I’ve been working on it in between customers for the past month. Several people commented on it. We might get other orders as a result.” She held up crossed fingers.
“You did a beautiful job,” I said, examining her even stitches and the script she used for the family tree. “I love the border.”
“Me too,” she admitted. “I found a book of flower patterns, and the yellows and purples went well with the other colors Mrs. Owens wanted. ‘So build the hillocks gaily Thou little spade of mine Leaving nooks for Daisy And for Columbine.’”
“Emily?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Mrs. Owens wanted the sampler to look like an old one, though,” I said, hating to criticize. “Your colors are so beautiful and bright. Most of the old samplers I’ve seen are much duller.”
“True,” said Sarah, “But they weren’t dull when they were stitched. The colors have faded over the years. Families framed samplers, but that was before archival backing and glass that screens out strong sunlight. Mrs. Owens decided I should use the colors her daughter featured in her granddaughter’s nursery. I can’t wait to show it to her.”
“She’ll love it. How could she not?” I said, admiring it again. “But first I’d like to borrow and photograph it. I’m adding a section to our Web site that shows off the custom work we’ve done recently, and this is a first for Mainely Needlepoint.”
“Bring it back soon, please! And you said you’d seen Patrick and Skye. How is he?”
“His hands are swollen and deformed,” I admitted. “I didn’t see his arms; he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He’s still having occupational therapy.”
Sarah shook her head. “Sad. Especially for an artist.”
“But he seems pleased with the way the carriage house turned out.”
“How does it look?”
“Gorgeous and modern, very different from the way it looked in June. You were right . . . he designed it and ordered furniture on-line, and had a Portland decorator set it up for him. The only part that isn’t finished is his studio. He wants to do that himself.”
“Can he paint yet?”
“I don’t think so. But he’s optimistic. Ted Lawrence was there, too. I’d never met him.” Dave had said Sarah and Ted Lawrence had been spending a lot of time together. I waited to see what she’d say about him.
“He owns the gallery down the street” was all she replied. “He can help Patrick find sources for the art supplies he’ll need.”
“That’s why he was there,” I agreed. I was about to push a little further, to see if I could find out what the relationship was between Sarah and Ted, when the bell on her shop door jingled.
“Here,” she said, wrapping the sampler again and handing it to me. “Take it and photograph it. I’ll put the food you brought away in my kitchen before more customers arrive.”
She headed to her second-floor apartment with her groceries, adding, “Keep me informed about your friend and his island. I’d like to know how it all turns out.”
“I will,” I said.
Her customer was examining a pile of kid gloves on one of the tables. I walked to the door slowly, so the customer wouldn’t be alone in the shop. Sarah was back quickly. She waved as I turned and left.
I’d drop my own groceries off at home and then visit Ruth.
Chapter 13
“While I my needle ply with skill
With mimic flowers my canvas fill
O may I often raise
My thoughts to Him who made the flowers
And gave us all that we call ours
And render youthful prais.” [sic]
—Elizabeth Grimes, age ten, created this in cross-stitch, surrounding it with a man shooting birds, a dog at his side, a tree, sprays of colored flowers, and an African-American man. In 1803 she sent the sampler to her grandmother in England.
Ruth handed me the bag of pillow covers she’d stitched. I peeked in. “You added beads to the pine trees,” I said. “We’ve never done that before. I love it.”
“I was in a ‘Christmas in July’ mood.”
“One of the Christmas shops put in an order for small cushion covers with trees and reindeer and holly last week,” I said. “These will be perfect for them.”
“I was looking at patterns the other day,” said Ruth. “What about stitching mistletoe for the holidays? Maybe a small framed sign?”
“I like that idea,” I agreed. “Why don’t you make one up? I’ll add it to the list of our products on the Mainely Needlepoint website. I’m hoping people will order on-line. I’m going to include the chair covers and panel Dave’s been working on, and the sampler Sarah finished.”
Ruth smiled. “Good. I’m hoping I’ll be able to do more stitching this fall. I’ll be ready for a break from writing. If I sit at home without anything to do I’ll go crazy. I have my Red Sox to watch if they make the play-offs, and I can do needlepoint at the same time. Can’t do that with writing!”
“Sounds good. I can use all you can produce,” I assured her.
“I’ve been thinking of that friend of Dave’s we met last night . . . Jesse.”
“Me too,” I said. “I hope he can stay on his island.”
“If there’s a chance those great cormorants would be displaced, the Audubon Society or the Nature Conservancy would be interested. They don’t have a lot of money to buy protected areas, but they might get involved if Jesse agreed to leave his rights to the island to them.”
“I wonder who’d know about things like that.”
“Check with Anna Winslow,” said Ruth. “She’d know. I used to go with her to do the Christmas Bird Count. I’m pretty sure she still does it.”
“The Christmas Bird Count?”
“Members of the Audubon Society all over the country go out on Christmas Day and count the number of each species of birds in their area. Because it’s on the same day every year, they get records of how many birds are where, and what species are moving because of global warming or other environmental changes.”
“I don’t know enough about birds to be able to count them!”
“Talk to Anna,” Ruth said. “If you’re interested, she could connect you, I’m sure.”
“Have they been doing that a long time?”
“Since about 1900. And make sure you tell Anna about Jesse’s situation. The Audubon Society would want to know if any threatened species was involved in an area real estate transaction.”
“Got it,” I said. I texted Anna and asked her to call me for details.
The afternoon went quickly. I spent more time than usual dressing for my dinner with Patrick.
Looking decent without looking as though I was trying was harder than I’d hoped.
I’d always told myself looks didn’t matter. But I had my pride.
And maybe while I was having a delicious dinner with a charming man, I’d also be able to find out more about why Gerry Bentley wanted to buy King’s Island.
Chapter 14
“Gold and silver braiding is much used for ornamental articles, for slippers, smoking caps, and cushions.
The French braid is the best, wearing longer without tarnishing than any other. It should be sewed in with silk the exact color of the braid.”
—from The Ladies Guide to Needle Work, Embroidery, etc., Being a Complete Guide to All Kinds of Ladies’ Fancy Work, by S. Annie Frost. New York: Adams and Bishop, Publishers, 1877.
Patrick must have been watching for me; he opened the door to his carriage house before I’d had a chance to knock.
I held out the fruit tart.
“Thanks,” he said, “that looks delicious.” But he was looking at me, not at our dessert. His long-sleeved tan shirt was dressier than most men in Maine wore (they were addicted to T-shirts) and he looked relaxed and elegant. I hoped my carefully chosen outfit passed muster.
“I wanted to contribute to our meal,” I said, sliding past him into the house. I’m not a blusher, but I could feel my cheeks reddening. I didn’t want him to see I was flummoxed by him.
This time I knew it was Patrick who made me self-conscious, not his house or his mother.
“Dinner’s here. I put it in the oven on ‘warm’ so we could sit and talk first,” he said, following me into his living room.
A bouquet of daisies (florist-arranged-and-delivered daisies, not Maine wildflowers) brightened the decorator-arranged sideboard, and a selection of olives, cheeses, and sliced Italian salamis and sausages was arranged on his coffee table, next to Italian bread and shallow dipping bowls of olive oil.
“Hope you like Italian,” he said. “This was the best I could pull together. Wine?”
“Wine would be lovely.” Dave had served Italian lasagna the night before. It had been delicious. But I could easily spend the evening nibbling what Patrick had displayed here.
Moments later he handed me a balloon glass half full of white wine and returned to the kitchen for his. That was when I was certain one of his damaged hands worked better than the other.
“To Haven Harbor,” he toasted, touching my glass with his.
“Haven Harbor,” I agreed. “And your return.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t have time to chat more when you stopped in the other day,” he said, dipping a piece of bread in the olive oil, adding a small piece of prosciutto and handing it to me. “We didn’t expect to have company so soon after we’d arrived. But Uncle Gerry insisted on stopping in, since he was in the area.”
I managed to avoid dribbling the olive oil over my clothes. “So he just happened to be here?”
“So he said. Although he hasn’t sailed Down East in a while. I suspect he wanted to check on Mom and me. See the town and house we’d found here, and make sure I was doing all right. He sent flowers every few days when I was in the hospital, and called Mom a lot.”
“What about your father?” I asked.
Patrick shook his head. “He and Mom were divorced when I was three. He died in a surfing accident a couple of years after that. I never really knew him. Uncle Gerry’s the closest thing I have to a father.”
“He’s important to you, then.”
Patrick winced. “I forgot. You didn’t have a father, either.”
“No. But I had Mama, at least for ten years, and I had Gram. I did all right. Having a father was probably more important for a boy.”
“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “I went to boarding school when Mom couldn’t arrange her film schedule around my classes. Uncle Gerry used to call and invite me to stay with him on weekends and vacations if Mom was busy. He never had children of his own. He pretty much adopted me.”
I nibbled on a couple of olives. Whatever wine we were sipping was spectacular.
“Small towns are full of gossip. I heard your uncle was looking at real estate in or near Haven Harbor.”
“I’m surprised you heard, but yes. He is. He’s been thinking of building a family retreat. He likes Haven Harbor, and I suspect he likes that I’m planning to stay here a good part of the year.”
“Has he seen any land or buildings he likes?” I asked, hoping I looked innocent.
“One place, actually. He passed an island on his way here that attracted him. It looked deserted and large enough to build a small house—of course Uncle Gerry’s definition of ‘small’ isn’t most people’s. And there’d be space for a helipad as well as a dock, which he liked.”
“A helipad?” I tried not to choke.
“An easy way on and off the island. For business purposes, and, as you probably noticed, his new wife is pregnant. She wants all their homes to be close to hospitals, now and in the future.” Patrick took another sip of his wine. “A helipad isn’t so hard to build. I know several people who have them. And a helicopter could take anyone to town or even to Portland in minutes.”
A helipad? “So has he inquired about the island?”
“He talked to Jed Fitch, the Realtor we used to buy our place,” Patrick went on. “Seems a crazy hermit lives there, but that shouldn’t be a problem. The island’s owned by that guy and one of his relatives in the Midwest.”
No problem? Despite Jesse’s insisting he wouldn’t sell? Despite the nesting area? I was tempted to interrupt, to tell Jesse’s side of the story. But maybe Patrick knew something that would help save King’s Island. Instead of talking, I listened.
“Gerry’s flying in the relative from the Midwest—Chicago, I think he said. Figures he’ll make him a good offer and let that guy deal with the crazy relative. Have him declared incompetent. He’s not thinking straight, living by himself on an island so far out.”
Jesse, incompetent? He might be a little . . . individualistic. But no way was he incompetent! “So this Chicago guy is coming here, to Haven Harbor?”
“Tomorrow, I think. Mom said he could stay with us. Uncle Gerry thought that way we could keep track of him. Plus, there aren’t many places to stay in the Harbor.”
Not counting the bed-and-breakfast and the inn. Maybe neither of them was up to Uncle Gerry’s standards.