Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series

by Lynette Sowell

  Kelly glanced at her phone. She’d knocked off work early, listening to her aching muscles and tired body. She had time yet before getting ready to take Tom to the jazz festival. Not a date, she reminded herself. Just two friends, enjoying some time together. She needed to learn to have more fun. Sometimes the instinct for survival drowned out the fun.

  She picked up the journal again and focused on Mary’s story.

  April 1852

  On a stormy night with Steban at my side, I gave birth to another son. Wild dark hair like his father’s, skin fairer than his father’s and more like mine. I cannot think of what the future holds. Esteban tells me that we will find a way, somehow, to be together. Yet I cannot leave my little Hiram behind. Two brothers, one darker, one lighter. I see no resolution, but Esteban says to be patient. We name our little one Peter, or Pedro.

  August 1852

  The news I once longed for and now dread has arrived: a letter from Hiram. Its passionless instructions tell me that I should expect him by the time the leaves fall from the trees. I cry myself to sleep every night in the security of Steban’s arms. He has thought of a plan, but I do not like it. We can tell him of our intentions, without telling him of little Peter. His youngest brother is but two years old, and his mother is used to caring for a brood of children. The Delgados are good people. He will take Peter to his mother, who will care for him without question, until he and I can settle things with Hiram.

  The shadows in the sitting room were long. Kelly sniffled, then brushed the tears from her cheeks. Mary, giving up her child. She set the journal on the small round table, the words on the page. He will take Peter to his mother.

  What must Esteban’s mother have thought, seeing her son carrying an infant through the door, and placing him in her arms? Did she love him like one of her own? Esteban had mentioned to Mary that his mother still had small children in the home, which might be possible, if Esteban had been in his early twenties when Peter, or Pedro, was born.

  There truly was nothing new under the sun. Parents failed their children, children were removed from homes to grow up somewhere else because of their parents’ failures. Kelly had always thought she was on the outside, as were her fellow foster siblings. They didn’t really have a “home,” like in the Hallmark movies.

  She used to dream about having a mother and a father, sitting around the table at Thanksgiving and Christmas, having cousins come to visit. Family vacations, road trips in the car. Slumber parties.

  One night Lottie had found her in tears, around age fourteen or so. She hadn’t been invited to someone’s party at school. Her hand-me-down jeans and off-brand sneakers hadn’t passed the fashion muster, so she’d been excluded from the “inner circle.”

  “I don’t feel like I belong, Lottie,” she’d wailed. “Even if my clothes were the right kind, I still think they’d laugh me off.” But it was more than not belonging because of clothes.

  “You belong in the best way possible,” Lottie had said. She stroked her hair. “I know it hurts and I wish I could make it stop. You’re part of God’s family and you are never alone, and you never have to worry if your clothes are just right.”

  No easy choice then, or now. Life hadn’t dealt Mary Gray the hand she’d expected, and Kelly had learned a long time ago not to expect too much. She was sorry for her unbelief, proba-bly more than Mary was about her goings-on with Esteban.

  She made herself cut the pity party short. Lottie had always talked about counting her blessings. Right now, Kelly figured she ought to do the same. A good place to stay, plenty of work for the moment, her needs met. She had people who loved her, even if that group was small. She had some new friends she liked—a lot, especially Tom. Her face flushed. The past was just that—past.

  Time to pick out some clothes for this evening. The sun had baked the outside with midsummer heat, but with the lengthening shadows, a breeze drifted through the open window.

  Her phone buzzed, an unfamiliar number, but she took the call.

  “Ms. Frost, this is Megan Hughes, the reporter from the New Bedford Star.”

  “I remember you.”

  “I’m calling to let you know that Firstborn Holdings has approved my interview with you, so I can see the quilt and have a tour of the house.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure I’m prepared for a tour.”

  “That’s all right. A Mr. Plummer is supposed to meet me at the house and give me the tour. We’ve set it up for next Tuesday at eleven a.m., if that works for you, too.”

  “My schedule is flexible, so that’s fine.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you then.”

  After the call ended, Kelly stared at the phone. Mr. Plummer? What about Chandler? Well, it shouldn’t surprise her that the company would send someone a little more personable. At least, though, they weren’t depending on her to give a tour.

  Tom closed his eyes and listened to the music echoing off the harbor. Kelly sat beside him on a lawn chair that he’d found while scrounging in the tool shed on his property. He hadn’t thought he’d need them at the time, but now he realized the convenient turn of insignificant events.

  “That was beautiful,” Kelly said as the last strains of the song drifted away. She smiled at him. “I’m glad I came tonight.”

  “Me too. A change of scenery is a good thing sometimes, my mom likes to say.”

  “She’s right.” Kelly took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I guess they’re going for an intermission right now?”

  “It looks that way.” He studied her face. “So, what’s up? You look like you want to say something.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been reading Mary Gray’s diary. I can’t stop thinking about it. I got to the part tonight where she had an illegitimate son by a young carpenter she was tutoring in English.”

  Tom shook his head. “Wow. I wonder if that’s in the records officially anywhere.”

  “I don’t know. It would be interesting to find out. It’s sad, really. She ended up letting her lover’s family take the baby while she dealt with her husband’s return. And get this, the guy’s family is Portuguese.” Kelly shifted on the seat, slowly, as if giving her muscles a chance to stretch.

  “I bet Dave Winthrop would know where to look.” At her questioning glance, he continued. “The bamboo floor guy.”

  “Oh, that’s right. But how would he know where to look?”

  “He’s really into genealogy,” Tom replied. “He’s traced my pop’s side of the family back to the 1850s. When I get a chance, I might start looking farther back, to see when they first came to the United States.”

  She nodded. “That’s neat, that you have that history you can search through.”

  Ah. Tom remembered about Kelly’s family tree, or lack thereof. “It was easier than I thought it would be. Winthrop found some census records.”

  She looked as though she was going to say something else, then stopped. He let the silence fall between them, with sounds of the harbor and other concertgoers swirling around their self-imposed bubble.

  “Are you almost through with the job on that townhouse?”

  “One more day, tomorrow. Then it’s back to Gray House full time.”

  “I’m glad.” Her face flushed, she glanced down at her lap.

  “Walk with me for a few minutes?” He stood, his legs reminding him he’d been sitting still for too long. If he stretched his legs, his back might not flare up and he’d be grateful to get out of bed in the morning.

  “Sure.” They left the lawn chairs and ambled closer to the water. “What did you think you’d find, looking back at your family?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t looked more closely at it yet. The census records show I’ve got a long line of hardworking people behind me.” He stopped at the edge of the pier that ran the length of the waterfront.

  “That’s something to be proud of.” She smiled at him, then glanced toward the harbor waters with sad eyes.

  He nudged her shoulder with his own,
not wanting to risk anything more than casual. “I bet you have something special back in your family tree.”

  “I’ve never cared to look.”

  “Well, you should. I mean, just because your parents were, ah . . .” He couldn’t find the right word, but didn’t want to say anything like “failures” since he didn’t really know much about them, other than their daughter lived in foster care for a good chunk of her younger years.

  “Failures, losers.” Kelly glanced back at him. “I’ve said those words and others before. I honestly don’t know if I want to look back to see what I can find. I never met my grand-parents, either side, that I remember. Or maybe I did, once. Mom stopped at a pretty house, somewhere south of Boston. She, ah, she walked me to the front door and we knocked. She asked the lady at the door for some money and asked if she wanted to meet me. I think it was her mother.”

  “What happened?”

  Kelly shrugged. “We went inside, and the lady gave me a glass of milk and a Pop-Tart. I really don’t remember much of what they talked about, but I know she gave my mother some money before we left. We never went back again, once my mother got another boyfriend.” She crossed her arms and rubbed away a shiver. “Jenks didn’t want Mom to have anything to do with anyone but him. Our house was a prison until Mom died.” Her voice had grown tight.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine living like that.”

  Kelly shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Here, you invite me to this beautiful evening, and I’m spouting off a bunch of ick.”

  He drew on his courage and allowed himself to slip his arm around her waist. “I like Kelly Frost, spouting off and all. God knows I’ve done enough spouting myself, it’s a wonder people would want to be around me sometimes.”

  She leaned against him, but kept her arms around herself. “You’re not so bad.”

  “Ha. You missed the worst of it.”

  “Really. I admire your courage, after what you’ve been through.”

  He caught a whiff of her shampoo, something like fresh flowers. “I’m a work in progress. I’ll just be glad when I can get cleared to drive again. A couple of weeks.”

  “I’m glad you needed a ride tonight.”

  “Me too. And I’m glad you’re the one who brought me.” He surprised himself by turning his head toward her and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

  “Now, you can do better than that.” Kelly slid her arm around him, then pulled him close for a quick kiss on the lips.

  The old man was getting his way again. He’d never before allowed anyone into the house, not until Ms. Frost. And with the latest news, the old man had been quite feisty. The visiting physician said he was making a remarkable comeback, something that none of them had expected.

  It certainly wasn’t boding well for his own personal wallet. After all these years, after all he’d done, his own future was changing faster than his stock portfolio, which had taken a hit in the last few years.

  The old man had better come through in the end. Otherwise, he didn’t know what he was going to do.

  14

  You have certainly had your work cut out for you, no pun intended,” said Megan Hughes as she studied the quilt, spread out on the tables in the ballroom.

  Kelly nodded. “Because of the damage and neglect over the years, and the natural process of aging, it’s been quite a job. So far I’ve completed repairs on three of the five compasses, as much as I can. I have two stars to complete, then the background, and I’m going to attach a new binding to the edges.” She frowned. There was really nothing else she could do for the piece, but it irked her to have to add so much new to the old.

  “So how long have you been working in this business?”

  “Not counting my undergraduate internships, I’ve been full time for nearly seven years.”

  “And you’ve worked for some familiar names? The Boston Fine Arts Museum, for starters.”

  Kelly nodded and tried not to flinch. “Yes, there was a two-year project we wrapped up about six months ago.”

  “Now, when did you receive notice about the job here at Gray House?” Megan’s pen scribbled furiously on a notepad.

  “It was in May, and that’s when I first came out here to see the quilt.” It seemed like years ago, and not mere months.

  A knock sounded at the front door. Megan stopped writing long enough to glance at her phone. “I’ll bet that’s Mr. Plummer from the company. He’s going to give a tour of the house.”

  Kelly nodded, for the first time in weeks feeling like an outsider here. She’d grown accustomed to the house’s noises and knew the halls well enough to go through them in the dark—not that she’d try it. Having the new security system helped her peace of mind, too.

  Kelly was the one to get the door. She opened it to see an old man, propped up against a rolling walker. A young woman stood behind him, looking efficient yet ready to hover over him if needed.

  “Mr. Plummer?”

  He nodded. “Ms. Frost. May I come in?”

  “Of course. Come in. The reporter is in the ballroom already and I’ve been showing her the quilt.”

  With a heave of the walker and a grunt, Mr. Plummer waved off both Kelly’s assistance and that of his official assistant, nurse, or whoever she was.

  “Tara, you can wait here in the front sitting room.” Mr. Plummer waved her toward the front room.

  “But, Mister—”

  “No ‘but Mister.’ Ms. Frost looks strong enough to catch me if I start to topple over.” His words had a bite to them, but Kelly caught a glimmer in the old man’s eyes.

  “Of course.” Tara the assistant skittered into the sitting room.

  “Now, show me the way, and show me what you’ve been doing with my quilt.”

  “Your quilt?”

  “Yes, I’m the CEO of Firstborn Holdings. Jonas Plummer.”

  She froze. CEO? “Nice to meet you.”

  “Don’t lie, young lady. I’m sure you don’t think it’s very nice to meet me and you probably have dozens of questions to ask me.”

  At that, she did laugh. “I wasn’t lying, just being polite. And you’re right, I do have some questions for you.” This man was a switch from Mr. Chandler, a good switch.

  He leaned on his rolling walker, stopping every so often. “Phew. This walk didn’t seem so long eighty-five years ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I grew up here, in Gray House. Lived here until, well, that doesn’t matter so much.” He paused, wheezing. “One moment, please.”

  He’d grown up here? Kelly tried to guess at his age. “What about the rest of your family?”

  “Had a sister, who had a son. I married once, had a daughter. My wife died too young, when our daughter was barely a teenager. Something died inside me, too.” He rolled along a few more feet, then paused again. “I’m one hundred two years old.”

  She’d never met anyone that old before. He was right, too. She brimmed with questions, but held herself back. She’d learn some answers when he spoke to the reporter, or so she hoped.

  “We used to slide on the carpets that lined this hall, Tildie and me.” Mr. Plummer continued on his way. “The banister also had plenty of polish, us sliding down when no one was looking.”

  “I—I like this old place.” She almost blurted out about Mary Gray’s diary, but didn’t want that topic to trail into the interview. It felt almost like betraying a confidence.

  “Has it shared any of its secrets with you?” He halted again, this time staring at her, his dark blue eyes watery yet probing.

  “As a matter of fact, it has.” She could tell him that much. “The first day I moved in.”

  “Ah, she has a lot of secrets. Happy ones, sad ones.” Mr. Plummer sighed as they continued down the hallway. “I used to spend hours in the lookout at the top of the house. A great hiding place from nosy people. It was where I proposed to my sweetheart.”

  “I’m glad this house ha
s had some happy memories,” Kelly said. “It’s had plenty of sad ones.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Kelly glanced toward the ballroom. “I . . . I found Mary Gray’s diary.”

  “Mary Gray’s diary?” His voice rang out, louder than she expected. She tried not to cringe.

  “Yes, I’ve been reading it.” Which would probably stop, now that he was here.

  “She was my great-grandmother.” Mr. Plummer shook his head. “You would probably do well to not read it. She went insane not long after my grandfather was born.”

  “Insane?” The hair on Kelly’s forearms prickled. Hiram Junior, little Hiram, was Mr. Plummer’s grandfather? If Mr. Plummer was ninety-five now . . . she clicked back with the math. Hiram could have been sixty-one when Mr. Plummer was born.

  “Best not talk about it now, not with the reporter here.” Mr. Plummer tightened his grip on the rolling walker and continued his shuffle. “One thing I’ve learned, you don’t have to share everything you know. Not until the right time, anyway.”

  “I see.” She moved ahead of him to open the pocket door to the ballroom a little wider.

  “Are you sure you see? I’ll share this with you.” He glanced toward Megan, who was typing on her phone, then back at Kelly. “Come closer.”

  She took a step so the rolling walker was the only thing between her and the elderly man, then leaned her head toward his.

  “I know your secret, too,” he whispered.

  Kelly snapped upright, then forced herself to be still.

  “You must be Mr. Plummer,” Megan was saying as she crossed the ballroom, her right hand extended. “Thank you for coming today.”

  Somehow, Kelly found her way to the edge of the table closest to her. The quilt lay there, as if waiting for her to sit down and work on it.

  I know your secret, too. What could he mean by that? He knew about Peyton and the museum disaster that nearly tanked her career? She couldn’t think of anything else she’d like to bury about herself. Lots of people had families who were losers. They usually didn’t end up in foster care, but it seemed most families had elements of dysfunction. So it couldn’t be that.