Then came the detached feeling of a seizure. He had his parents on speed dial. “Mom . . .”
His last conscious thought was gratefulness that it didn’t happen in front of Kelly or Pretty Boy Peyton from the museum.
17
April 1853
They say a madwoman cannot make sense of the world around her, let alone write about it, but I can. My empty arms are now full, but my heart tells me that it will never be full again. The one light of my life is gone from me, and I have no embers from which to coax a new spark.
My atonement is futile. I have no other choice than the one before me. If Almighty God is listening from Heaven, surely He will accept this sacrifice. Perhaps the generations to follow will as well.
I will pay for my sins by fire. We all return to ashes and dust. If it is my time now, then it is now.
Kelly turned the page. There was nothing more in the journal. She closed the book and wiped her eyes. She’d had enough of Mary Gray’s story, anyway. It was like watching a car accident. She knew what was going to happen, didn’t want to watch, yet at the same time couldn’t drag her attention away from the scene unfolding in front of her.
Poor, poor Mary.
Her own heart hurt. She’d wavered about Peyton for those few seconds, and that wasn’t fair to Tom. It wasn’t the truth. Peyton might have said his wife kicked him out in the spring, but that still didn’t pave the way for them to be together. He’d sauntered into the garden, thinking she would run to his arms straightaway. No, she wasn’t the same person she was last winter.
God had forgiven her, but that didn’t mean she should walk right back into a relationship with a cheater. Cheaters knew how to cheat. If he cheated on his wife, who else would he cheat with? Probably her, too, if the right woman and circumstances presented themselves. Some people were like that. But not her. And then, there were the horrible things he’d said about her.
Tom had not shown up for work in several days. She had called him once, and it went straight to his voice mail. She told him she was sorry, and she wondered when he was coming back to work.
She stood and stretched. Mary’s story had ended. The paper trail about a fire at Gray House had pointed to the mid-1850s, in an edition of the New Bedford Journal. The house was rebuilt, restored. A family eventually grew up inside its walls. Jonas Plummer had, for one thing. So the house never really changed hands, except on paper, to Plummer’s company.
This was why she was here, to restore Mary’s quilt or at least rescue it from disintegrating. Her own stitches had been full of hope that, yes, this treasure would remain to tell its story. It was a story of a sad, difficult life, stitched with joy and trimmed with sorrow. Much of Mary’s heartache had been from her own choices.
With this final journal entry, Kelly wanted to pick up a pen and write another ending, that Captain Gray and Mary had renewed their love for each other, that she had more children to raise along with little Hiram. Not that any of them would replace her Peter, but that Mary would continue to live a full life in spite of herself. She hadn’t chosen to marry into a one-sided marriage. The long separations had been difficult on Mary.
She wanted to rewrite her own story as well, especially what had happened the other night.
Kelly stood and stretched, wincing as her shoulder tightened up again. She had slacked off on her exercises in an effort to get the quilt finished. Stitch by stitch, hour by hour, day by day, she’d worked her way along the points of the compasses covering the quilt top. Only the backing and binding remained now.
After what happened with Tom and Peyton, she couldn’t be finished soon enough. Part of her wanted to call Tom, to beg him to understand that she was through with Peyton, that his charms didn’t work on her. Of course, she wasn’t immune to them. A woman couldn’t help but find him charming. But charming didn’t mean a man was honorable. Charming no longer meant she’d crumbled, now that her eyes were opened.
Tom had never lied to her or pretended to be anyone other than who he was. And she loved him for it. Seeing the hurt in his eyes in the garden, though, cut into her soul.
Oh, God, forgive me for hurting him. I should have said something then, when Peyton called me after he read the article. I never expected Peyton to show up like that. She sighed and stopped at the fireplace mantel. Maybe it would be better to stay in another room of the house, or better yet, find an inexpensive hotel to stay in until the project was done.
This was a sad house, and now that its secrets had been unloaded on her, she felt weary with the knowledge. Adding that to the fiasco with Tom and she was more than ready to be done with Gray House, New Bedford, and all reminders of her time here.
One good thing, she realized the family she had in Lottie. Her only regret was pushing Chuck and Lottie away for so many years during her youthful craving for independence.
The quilt waited for her downstairs. If she ignored the ache returning to her shoulder, she could finish within the next week. She had all she needed. The only thing that would make her needle move slower was the thought of leaving. But leaving as soon as the quilt was finished would be best. Maybe, just maybe, she’d get another commission because of the news reports about Gray House.
Kelly quickened her steps to the ballroom. Time to make an end of the quilt and be done with New Bedford.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have known better. When that Peyton guy showed up at the house, whatever Tom thought he had—or might have had—with Kelly splintered into a million jagged pieces and blew away, straight at him. He’d seen the wavering in her eyes, for just a millisecond, but it was there.
And he’d been foolish enough to hope that somehow he could persuade her to stay in New Bedford, to give their relationship a chance. His family couldn’t stop talking about her and had all but given her their stamp of approval.
He’d walked right into this. Tom paced his apartment, not allowing himself to punch a wall. Expensive mistakes in the heat of anger were never smart. He stomped to the front window and looked out at the rooftops of the other houses below his third-floor walk-up.
He’d spent a day in the hospital with yet another inconclusive MRI and a worried mother whom he wouldn’t tell what was wrong.
God, why?
He told himself long ago he’d never ask that question again. Not after his injuries and medical discharge from the military, not when watching others achieve what he hadn’t. Stable career. Someone to share his life with. A family. He liked his independence, but the more he’d spent time with Kelly, the more he couldn’t imagine himself not having her in his life.
His phone buzzed on the kitchen island. Tom stomped over to it. He wasn’t in the mood to talk and had half a mind to ignore the call. Angela. She never called. Something was up.
“Hey, Angie.”
“Tom, I was supposed to meet up with Kelly to go to the outlet mall but she called and canceled. She sounded awful, told me she had a headache and maybe we could meet another time. What’s really the story? I could tell she’d been crying.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So something did happen with you two. What did you do?” Her tone was teasing, but the words nipped at him.
“It wasn’t me.” He rubbed his forehead. “Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, I think you two should.”
“Maybe we will. That ball’s firmly in her court.”
“Don’t be so stubborn.”
“Stubborn, nothing.” It was called self-preservation. At least his mother hadn’t called, seeking an update.
“Okay, I’ll let you go. But brother-in-law of mine, don’t let her go. She’s one of a kind.”
“Yes, she certainly is.” He ended the call, then turned his phone off. He wasn’t letting her go, not technically. Maybe just taking a step back until she figured out what she really wanted.
Kelly, having an affair with a married man. Tom tried to shake the idea from his mind. Yes, he could s
ee a woman falling for someone like Peyton from the museum. With that affected almost-British accent, charm, and polish, he didn’t blame a woman. But that Peyton was married . . .
Her stammered explanation still echoed in his ears. Tom, I didn’t know. Please, believe me. I’d fallen for him before I knew.
Yes, just like he’d fallen for her before he knew about Peyton. She’d stood there and said it was over, but her hesitation told him otherwise. He wanted to hop on his motorcycle and drive until he ran out of gas.
Friday night, the weekend ahead of him. Why not?
He’d been cooped up until the doctor had cleared him to drive, and it felt like he had hundreds of unridden miles to make up for. He grabbed his phone, keys, and made sure he had his credit card. Who knew how far he’d get in eight hours, but he’d sure find out.
Kelly hesitated once before heading up the Pereiras’ sidewalk. She had to know something, anything about Tom.
Mrs. Pereira opened the door, just before Kelly turned away. “Kelly, come in.”
“I’m not staying long. I would have called ahead of time, but—”
“Whatever has happened between you and my son, I’m praying that you two work it out. I’ve never seen him like this, not since he first came home. I’ve tried calling him tonight, but he won’t answer his phone.”
“Ah, I see.” So it wasn’t just her. Maybe all they needed was a little bit of time. Surely he’d come back, at least to work at Gray House. “He’s missed work for a few days.”
“He had a seizure the other night and the doctor put him on bed rest.”
“Is he okay?”
Mrs. Pereira nodded. “He’s okay. We’d invited him to supper tonight, but he never came. I have a feeling he’s gone for a ride on his motorcycle.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“That’s hard to say.” Mrs. Pereira shrugged. “Be patient. He’ll be back.”
Kelly drove home to the dark house, realizing she’d forgotten to set the security alarm when she left. Or had she? She sighed as she crossed the kitchen. Just that morning she’d finished reading Mary’s journal and had set it on the table.
The space was empty.
Kelly pounded up the stairs and switched on a light. The bureau top was empty as well. Plus the side table by the window. No, the last place she’d read the journal was in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee that morning.
Someone had stolen Mary’s journal.
The engine roared in Tom’s ears as he made space between New Bedford and his motorcycle. Freedom to think, to not think. Maybe the more miles between him and New Bedford, the better. Night had fallen, but heat still radiated up from the asphalt highway. The white center line blipped past just left of the front tire.
How far to go tonight before stopping? The lanes of highway snaked southeast along the Connecticut coast and toward New York. He didn’t want more lights, but peace and quiet, both inside and out. He didn’t even tell anyone he’d gone.
He zipped along as the minutes crept by, passing around the Big Apple. The city that never slept wasn’t for him tonight.
People joked about the New Jersey shore, but he knew he’d find some quiet there. He probably could have driven all the way to Delaware tonight without stopping, but thought better of the idea. The beginning of a headache pricked at his temples.
He took the Garden State Parkway until the exit for the beach. The lowered speed limit made his pace mimic a crawl. In the next town, a billboard promised a simple motor hotel with rooms “just blocks from the beach.” Fine with him. He easily found the horseshoe shaped one-story structure with a small rectangular swimming pool. The place reminded him of a retro motor court from an old movie. One last room available, and Tom paid for it with cash.
The room, simply furnished with beach-themed rattan furniture, felt stuffy and closed in. Tom switched on the window A/C unit. A walk would help him keep the fidgets away while the room temperature cooled.
He locked the door behind him and headed onto the sidewalk in the direction of the surf’s call. One of the many restaurants along the boardwalk was still open, this one with saxophone music drifting out the open doors. They’d rebuilt after last fall’s hurricane that flooded the town.
Tom wished he could rebuild what was damaged with Kelly, but didn’t know how.
Tom’s stomach growled. He’d missed his evening dose of medicine and supper, too. Neither of those were good things, and his doctor’s chiding reminded him to take care of himself. He stepped into the restaurant and found an empty table. An old man played the saxophone, accompanied by a pianist in the background.
A server stopped at his table. “Something to drink?”
“Just coffee. Black. And a burger and fries, if your kitchen is still open.”
“It is. I’ll get your coffee for you now.” His server disappeared into the rear of the restaurant.
His restless itch had brought him here, but nothing had changed. Maybe just for tonight he could forget what had happened.
He took out the folder of genealogy, looking back at the highlighted names, all the way back to Delgado on his father’s side. The handwritten notes said Peter Delgado, but the census read Pedro. Coincidence?
The names from Kelly’s tales of the journal came back to him. Mary and Esteban had a child together that she’d passed along to Esteban. Now what kind of a mother would do that? His name was Peter, or Pedro. Delgado.
His father’s great-great-grandfather? Yet there it was on the census, Pedro Delgado, eight years old, listed on the census for the first time. The names matched up, too. Esteban was there, only twenty-two, listed below his parents as a separate head of household with the occupation of carpenter. He hadn’t noticed that before.
He didn’t think he’d bother telling his parents about that just yet. Which meant he was related to Mary Gray. His first impulse was to tell Kelly. No. He wouldn’t do it. Eventually, he would. He owed her that much of the story.
“Your coffee.” The server set down a mug in front of him on the plastic tabletop. “I’ll be back soon with your food.”
“Thanks.” It was a sticky late-August night, maybe too hot for coffee, but Tom didn’t want anything stronger.
He took a sip and let the heat slide down his throat. Better. He leaned back in his chair and listened to the saxophone’s call.
One day he’d have to stop running. From people, from memories, from regrets. From his fear. Truth be told, he was terrified of pulling himself out of the shambles and holding pattern he’d lived in. It was easier to push things off on his scars. And then there was Kelly.
He’d fallen for her despite his resolve to stay uninvolved, to not let anyone in. But here he was, hundreds of miles from home. That showed him he was more than involved. She’d wormed her way into his heart, without any effort on her part.
He sipped his coffee and closed his eyes. The saxophone’s music fell silent, and he and the few people gathered in the restaurant applauded. Good stuff, such soulful music. He heard the joy and pain, even longing, in the melody.
Someone stopped at his table, and he opened his eyes.
“You dining alone?” asked the saxophone player, with skin as dark as the coffee Tom drank.
Tom nodded. “Just had to get out for a while, and found this place.” It was the shortest of the explanations he could come up with.
“You mind if I join you for a few moments?”
“Not at all, Mister . . . ?”
“Thompson. Billie Ray Thompson, originally of Memphis, Tennessee.”
“You’re a long way from Tennessee,” Tom said.
“You’re a long way from home yourself.” Billie Ray squinted at Tom’s clothing. “You don’t look dressed for the beach, either.”
“Nah. I had some troubles at home and figured I’d leave them behind for a while.”
“For a while, huh?” Billie Ray grinned. “You know they’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
“Sometimes we need a breather.”
“That we do, that we do. So, what are you running from?”
Tom shrugged. “There’s this woman . . . ”
“A woman, huh? Now this is worth sittin’ down for.” Billie Ray pulled up a spare chair. “Those ladies, they heap plenty o’ troubles on us, don’t they?”
“I should have seen it coming.”
“She run around on you, is that it?”
“No, she hasn’t.”
“She spent your money?”
“No.”
“Killed your dog?”
“Now, that’s ridiculous.” The corners of Tom’s mouth twitched. “No, she wouldn’t do that.”
“So what’s she done that’s so bad, that made you come all the way to the shore?”
“She made me fall in love with her.”
“Made you, did she?” Billie Ray looked up.
A server held a plate of burger and fries. “Thanks,” Tom said, as she placed it in front of him. “Yes, made me.”
“What’s wrong with that? Everybody needs somebody.”
“Maybe they don’t.”
“Of course you do. And if the good Lord has seen fit to send you somebody, you should walk into it.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. ’Cause I wish I had.” Billie Ray sighed. “I waited too long. She got tired of waiting. I wanted to be one-hundred percent sure. I didn’t want to make a mistake. I seen too many bad marriages.”
“What’s wrong with being one-hundred percent sure?”
“Because love doesn’t always give us the best percentages. We gotta rely on us working to love and God working through us to love.” Billie Ray smiled up at the server, who placed a glass of ice water in front of him.
“You don’t say.”
“No, I do say.” Billie Ray glanced at his watch. “I’ve got about five more minutes.”
“Thanks for sitting with me.”
“Thanks for listening to me. Don’t wait too long, my friend.”
“I’ll think about it” was all Tom could say.
Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series Page 15