Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series

by Lynette Sowell

  18

  Tom drove the lawnmower into the storage shed, then cut the engine. He’d finished the lawn, right at twilight. What twilight there was tonight, that is. Clouds were rolling in from the northwest, and a rumble of thunder punctuated the humid atmosphere. Late August and the sticky heat clung to him, just like his shirt.

  His Friday night ride to the Jersey shore behind him, and Monday had come and gone, with plenty to do at Gray House.

  He hadn’t spoken to Kelly since that Peyton character had shown up. Finally, he’d found the right time to kiss her, to feel as if they were truly together. Her work on the quilt was drawing to a close, and she wasn’t sure what would come next. Tom wasn’t sure if he could ask her to stay, to set up a studio in New Bedford and keep working with her special touch on her fabrics. He didn’t understand it all, but he knew he wanted her to stay.

  Then Peyton, the jerk, came in and ruined everything. Kelly had wavered with Peyton’s assurances that he was ready to go back to the way they were. Why couldn’t women see through a player’s big talk? A cheater would always cheat.

  The images he’d seen online, of Boston parties and the museum crowd, had plenty of Peyton and Kelly. Then the photos of Peyton and his wife. What a mess. He’d seen the confusion written on Kelly’s face, too.

  “Give her a chance,” Ma had said. “She’s hurting and healing. But I can tell she cares for you more than she’s ready to say.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Chandler’s warning rang in his ears. Yet how many times had people given him another chance, more than once?

  Billie Ray’s warning also came to him. Don’t wait too long.

  A car rolled up onto the parking slab. Chandler. Good timing, like a root canal.

  The man exited the vehicle. It was the first time that Tom had ever seen him not wear a suit jacket and tie. He looked ready for a clambake at the Vineyard in his khakis and polo shirt.

  “Chandler.”

  “Pereira.”

  “What brings you here today? The lawn’s trimmed, the garden’s weeded, and the roses are free of black spot.” He tried to remind himself that this was his boss’s representative, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.

  “Business. As always, business.” Chandler gestured toward the greenhouse. “May I see your progress on the native plants?”

  Tom nodded. It was sort of odd, the guy having more than a passing interest in the grounds at Gray House. “Right this way.” His head throbbed, probably due to the humidity and changing barometric pressure with a storm coming.

  “So, here’s the turn-of-the-twentieth-century herbs that your boss wanted.” Tom pointed at the row of terracotta planters. “Soon we’ll have a collection that any cook one hundred years ago would love to use.”

  “Well done.” Chandler shook his head. “I never would have thought you’d put up with this job for so long.”

  “Times are tough. A job’s a job.” Tom shrugged. “Plus, what can I say? The place has grown on me. No pun intended. I think there’s life in the old gray house.”

  “I see.” Chandler started walking the aisles of the greenhouse, surveying the plants.

  Tom picked up his courage. Finishing the townhouse project had given him some courage. If he could do the floors, surely he could round up a couple of friends to help him work on the ancient roof of Gray House.

  “Say, Chandler. I noticed that the roof needs repairs, possibly replacement altogether. I’ve already been part of several roofing projects this past spring.” Tom paused, waiting to see what Chandler would say. He didn’t particularly like the guy, but he knew he was the go-between for the head of the company.

  Silence. Chandler was studying the roses, the more than one-hundred-year-old bush that Tom had been coaxing back to life. A solitary bud had appeared on one of the spindly branches. The same one he’d shown Kelly the other night had now started to open.

  “Resilient, isn’t it?” Chandler asked.

  “Ah, the rosebush.” Tom nodded. “It’s taken all summer. But I think this original bush will be ready to introduce back to the garden soon.”

  “Nothing like the original, is there? Any new plant is a hybrid, an imposter.” Chandler’s voice held a detached tone.

  “What are you getting at?” The guy’s attitude was a bit freaky. They were just plants. The old plant was irreplaceable, but really . . .

  “The old man thinks you deserve his birthright.” Chandler was shaking his head. “After all I’ve done for him, and I’m part of the legitimate line. Legitimate is the key word here.”

  “What are you talking about?” How did Chandler learn about his illegitimate connection to Gray House through Mary Gray?

  Chandler pulled out a leather-bound book.

  “How’d you get that?” Tom demanded.

  “It’s none of your concern.” Chandler shook the journal. “See? This tells the whole story. The old man wants to give it all to you and that—that cheating—”

  “Cheating what?” Tom clenched his hands into fists. “You don’t talk about Kelly that way.”

  Chandler spoke one word, and it was enough for Tom to rush at him, slamming him into the door frame. The journal flew from his hand and thudded onto the packed-dirt floor.

  “I can see you’re in denial about Kelly Frost’s true character. Remember, I wanted you to keep an eye on her.” Chandler wheezed. Tom resisted the urge to land a punch. Lightning flashed in the windows.

  “I don’t care. But you’ll not talk like that about her again.” Tom’s head swam. Likely his blood pressure had just shot up. He grabbed his forehead.

  “It doesn’t matter what you tell me. I’ve got the true bloodline. Ironic, that Captain Gray’s progeny has fallen so far.” Thunder cracked through the clouds outside, as if agreeing with Chandler’s rant.

  “Chandler, you need to get some help, or something.”

  “Right. I’ll press charges for you attacking me as well.”

  Tom froze. Chandler had a point. He’d been the one to lose his cool when Chandler made the comment about Kelly.

  “I can sue you for that. Remember, I’m a lawyer.” Chandler took a few steps forward. “Last I knew, it was illegal to slam a man against a door frame for insulting his girlfriend.”

  Tom turned to face away from Chandler. A whooshing noise came to his ears. Then a searing pain, and nothing.

  The lightning flash pulled Kelly’s focus from the quilt. Two, three, four . . . She’d never dropped the childhood habit of counting the seconds until the crack of thunder followed. The storm was close. Good. Anything to break the late summer heat wave and its accompanying humidity. If only the coming storm could wash away the wall between her and Tom.

  Sure, he was back from wherever he’d gone. But he didn’t share anything with her. She’d met Angela for coffee, who’d encouraged her to give Tom some time.

  If he was going to be stubborn, fine. There was nothing she could do about it.

  A knock sounded at the front door. Hopefully, it wasn’t someone else asking for a tour of Gray House. The media attention had garnered some interest for her about future conservation work, but also had pulled up its share of nosy neighbors who wanted to see the old house and hear about the quilt firsthand.

  She headed for the front hallway, then unlatched the front door. “Mr. Chandler.”

  “May I . . . may I come in?” He sounded friendlier than she’d ever seen him.

  “Of course. This isn’t my home.” She stepped back, allowing him into the entryway.

  “Do you have a few moments? I know you’ve been working on the quilt, but I wanted to say thank you, and apologize.” He lowered his head, nodding at her.

  “I’m about ready to stop for the evening, so, sure.” She figured she’d do the courteous thing. “Would you like some lemonade or iced tea? Or coffee? I can make a fresh pot.”

  “Something cold to drink would be fine.” He gestured for her to walk ahead of him. “I won’t be but a few minute
s.”

  Kelly led him to the kitchen. Maybe he’d realized what a jerk he’d been this summer. Or maybe someone at work had told him to be polite. Either way, she’d take it. She wouldn’t be here much longer anyway.

  “I’ve made some fresh iced tea. It should be cool right about now.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Chandler sat down at one of the four wooden chairs that stood in front of the breakfast table.

  She was fighting to stay polite, but this time it wasn’t hard. The guy was actually acting half human for a change. She took out a pair of glass tumblers, set them on the counter, then fished the iced tea out of the refrigerator and poured them each a glass.

  “You seem quite comfortable in this kitchen.”

  An odd change of subject. She shrugged. “As comfortable as I can be, I guess.” She was going to say something about not being much of a cook, but her cell phone ringing made her pause. “If you’ll hold on a minute, I’ll be right back.”

  She scurried down the hall toward the ballroom where she’d left her phone. Give the guy his cold drink, send him on his way after she heard whatever his apology contained. Many times she’d been on the giving end of an apology. If he was going to apologize, she’d listen to him.

  Private caller. That could be anyone. She tucked her phone into her pocket and returned to the kitchen. “Sorry about that.” The grayness of twilight descended outside, so Kelly switched on the kitchen light.

  “We’ve got quite a storm coming in, I imagine,” said Chandler.

  Kelly nodded. “I’m looking forward to a break from the heat.”

  “As we all are.” Chandler took a sip of his tea.

  She picked up her own glass and took a swallow. “So, you said you wanted to apologize?”

  Chandler nodded. “I realize I’ve been unfair in my attitude toward you. I questioned your motives for coming here, to Gray House.”

  “I came because I needed the money.” She took another drink. “This is really going to boost my career, especially with the press surrounding the quilt and the house. I’m thankful to you and your company for helping with that.”

  “I know that your time here is coming to an end, but I’ll be happy to write a letter of recommendation in the future regarding your work.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate . . . that.” Her head had suddenly developed a swimmy feeling, like the time she’d gotten dehydrated. She took another sip of tea. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’re nothing but a money-grabbing little minx. You think that Jonas Plummer will give you his inheritance, you who’ve never been a part of his life?”

  “What are you talking about? Jonas Plummer?”

  “Your mother’s great-grandfather.”

  Her brain had turned to marshmallow and her limbs had grown weak, but this news snapped her to attention. “He’s my family?” She licked her lips and took another swig of tea. Maybe she’d been dehydrated and didn’t realize it.

  A slow nod from Chandler. “He wants you to have all this, but you deserve none of it. You’re garbage, just like your mother.”

  She blinked at Chandler. There were two of him now across the table in front of her. “You did something . . . to the tea . . .”The man was bonkers, crazy for Cocoa Puffs, talking about her family. She pulled out her phone, which he yanked from her weakened fingers.

  His nod was the last clear thing she saw before she slumped over the table, her fingertips brushing the glass of tea. Spilling liquid, then shattering glass.

  Kelly fought against the blackness. A pair of hands gripped her by the shoulders.

  “Don’t fight me. It’s better this way.” Chandler’s voice came from the end of some kind of tunnel.

  Or pit. She was trapped in a pit and couldn’t move, couldn’t talk. With the last shreds of her consciousness, she struggled against the encroaching oblivion.

  “No,” she managed to moan. “Let me go. I don’t care about the house.” But that was too close to a lie for her comfort.

  “Don’t fight me on this,” Chandler said as he dragged her up the stairs.

  Oblivion won.

  19

  Kelly’s head swam. She woke to a flash of lightning in the window. What had happened? She was talking to William Chandler . . . who was insane. She tried to move her arms, then realized she’d been tied, hands and feet, to the bed. She caught a whiff of kerosene, heard the trickle of liquid into a container.

  “No.” She pulled at the bonds that held her wrists. A floorboard creaked and a flashlight clicked on.

  William Chandler stood steps from the side of the bed, a flashlight illuminating the room. “You’re not going to get any of this. Come around, thinking that Jonas Plummer is going to give you a handout. But I know all about you. You will never be worthy of this legacy.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kelly tugged at the bonds. “I’m only here to restore a quilt.” She saw a glass lantern in his hands.

  “Right. You and Tom Pereira are only here to do your jobs.” Mr. Chandler shook his head. “You have no rights to what I’ve claimed my whole life. I’m the one who put up with the old man’s ramblings as he’s slipped closer to the grave. The cancer will take him before his heart will, I think. And then I’m ready. Ready for all of it.” He set the lantern on the bureau next to Mary Gray’s priceless, tragic journal.

  “Let me go, please. I’m used to making it without money. Lots of it, anyway. I don’t even know anything about my family because I don’t have one.”

  Mr. Chandler shook his head. “Everyone has a family.”

  “Where’s Tom?”

  “Your boyfriend is no longer a concern of yours.”

  Except he wasn’t her boyfriend. She’d never had a chance to explain about Peyton, not that it mattered. She didn’t care if Tom wasn’t a college graduate, didn’t have “prospects” and such. As long as he worked hard, she’d take him like he was. Her throat hurt. Lord, please let me get the chance to tell him. I love him.

  Aloud, she said, “He’s not my boyfriend.” Her voice held the tiniest quaver. “Don’t hurt him.”

  “He’ll be fine . . . if he wakes up in time, that is.” Mr. Chandler set the flashlight on the bureau. “A pity the power’s out, with the storm getting ready to break. Lucky me, just in the right time.”

  He struck a match and lit the lantern. “There. Here’s a bit of light for you.”

  Her breath came in gasps, flickers of memory from Jenks. A thunderstorm. A dark closet. A locked door. Mom’s screams. “Let me go, please.”

  “Say goodnight, Ms. Frost.” He picked up the lantern, and let it gently roll onto its side on the wool carpet. With a whoosh, flames rose up from the antique fabric. “Au revoir.” He turned on his heel and left.

  Kelly screamed. All she could hear was the whoosh of flames devouring the curtains, the sound swallowing up William Chandler’s footsteps descending the stairs. She heard a door close.

  “Help me!” She didn’t know if anyone could hear her. One of her legs felt as if the rope was loosening. She kept kicking. Okay. Her left foot came free of the rope. But how long before smoke would claim the rest of the oxygen in the room?

  She worked at the rope tying her other ankle, jamming her left toes into her ankle. He’d tied the knots, but not too tight. Clever man. If he knew she could free herself in time, the smoke might get her, and then it would look as if she’d died crawling for safety.

  She screamed again. As if anyone could hear her. Enough of that, using precious oxygen. Her other ankle was free now. She tried to sling her legs off the bed. If she could somehow pull the posters from the bed, maybe she’d have a chance. That was a big if.

  The thick curtains went up like two pairs of torches. Maybe, just maybe, someone could see that from the street. Except she’d closed the front shutters that faced east, so the sun wouldn’t bother her first thing in the morning.

  The security system. Didn’t it have a panic button to call the fire depart
ment? If she could make it down to the entryway . . .

  Her breath came in wheezes. Where was Tom? What had Chandler done to him? Drugged his drink, like he’d drugged hers? She should have known, should have listened to that warning inside that told her the man was up to no good. But then, she was a suspicious person anyway . . .

  She heard pounding and the sound of splintering wood. Her breath was worth one more scream. Oh, what would they tell Lottie? Tears burned her eyes as she inhaled a lungful of acrid air and tried to form a sound. It came out more like a moan than a scream.

  Someone stumbled into the room.

  “Help me,” Kelly said. Her eyes burned.

  It was Tom, and his hands were bleeding. “Kelly.”

  “He’s crazy, gone crazy.” She yanked at the ropes.

  “Hang on.” Tom worked at one of the knots and it came free. “He was . . . never a Boy Scout.”

  Kelly reached for her other wrist, but her hands refused to work. “Tom . . .”

  “Hush. Save your breath. There’s not much air left.”

  Panes of glass shattered, making both of them duck. Flames danced across the ceiling, devouring fresh oxygen from outside, reaching for her hair. Kelly grabbed Mary’s journal from the top of the chest.

  “The quilt,” she managed to gasp. “We’ve got to get Mary’s quilt.”

  They stumbled into the hallway. Flames raced up the front staircase to meet them.

  “No good,” Tom said. “The back stairs, from the servants’ quarters to the kitchen.”

  At least the air was relatively clear. Kelly stumbled. Tom slid his arm around her waist, pulling her to his side. They skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and collided with the wooden door, blocking them from the kitchen.

  Tom pushed the door. “He’s boarded it shut or something.” He rammed it with his shoulder. The air grew thick, warm.

  Kelly glanced over her shoulder. An orange glow lit the hallway above. “We’re running out of time.” A faint wail of a siren drifted down the stairwell.

  “I hope not.” Tom aimed, then kicked at the door again.

  “Let me try, too.” She joined him at the bottom step, the closed door flush with the step’s edge. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead. She took some breaths of the smoke-filled air, as if she were sucking through a broken straw.