“All right, already. I’m coming!” She dropped the quilt box on the coffee table, scooped Bogie up in one arm, and then lunged for the door before the button-happy person outside could strike again.
Maybe happy was the wrong word to use. The man standing outside, shoulders hunched against the gentle rain that had begun to fall, was anything but happy. Izzy decided to cut him off before he could launch into a sales pitch and become even more disgruntled when she didn’t bite.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. Have a nice day.”
His palm slapped against the door before she could shut it. “I’m not selling anything. I’m looking for my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather? What makes you think … oh.” Izzy looked over her shoulder. “Virgil, does this man belong to you?”
Virgil sighed as he pushed himself out of the chair. “How did you find me, Max?”
“I got a call from Vibrant Vistas. Something about you paying the shuttle driver to drop you off here.”
“Who needs Big Brother when you’ve got Nurse Bauer and her minions?” Virgil mumbled as he ambled toward them.
The rain came down harder, and Max ducked his head as fat drops plopped on him from the roof’s overhang. The soggier he got, the less imposing he seemed.
Izzy stepped back. “Come in out of the rain.”
“Thanks.” He swooped into the room, and a glimmer of a smile flashed at her, exposing a dimple in one cheek.
She closed the door and put Bogie down on the floor. “Stay out of trouble,” she said, scratching his ear. He scampered across the room and settled into a wingback chair facing the door, keeping watch in case any other unexpected visitors decided to show up. Izzy turned back to Max, ready to ask why he’d tracked down his grandfather, but the question died on her lips. He stood in the middle of her living room, staring down at the boxed quilt in shocked silence.
He pointed, his face reverting to its former unhappy self. “How did you get that?”
“Virgil brought it. It’s a present from my grandmother.”
Max shot her a look. “Isabella Randolph is your grandmother?”
“Yes.” Izzy spoke slowly. “She gave me the quilt.”
Max shook his head sharply, sending a fine spray of water in her direction. “Sorry, Miss, but she gave it to me first.”
Virgil groaned. “Don’t, Max.”
Izzy’s eyes swung from one man to the other. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but—”
“I’m Max Logan, curator of the California Pioneer Museum. And that quilt,” he said, stabbing his finger at the Wild Goose Chase, “is mine.”
2
First, Virgil imagined a conspiracy surrounding the quilt, and now his grandson claimed it as his own. Obviously, delusion ran in their family. Izzy snatched the box up before Max could get any closer to it.
“The quilt is mine.” She did her best to give him a down-her-nose, I-mean-business look, just like she’d seen her mother do a thousand times. “Since you’re dripping all over my floor, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”
As if they had rehearsed it, Virgil pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to Max, waving it near his face like a white flag. To her surprise, Max laughed. Not a lot, barely enough to shake his shoulders, really. But enough that she felt foolish over her reaction.
“Fine. I’ll leave. For now.” He ran the white cotton square across his face and over the back of his neck. “But I’ll be back.”
Izzy swallowed. “Why?”
“Because I have a letter of intent from Mrs. Randolph, proving she wanted me to have the quilt.” His brows lowered, obscuring most of his chocolate-brown eyes. “I’ll bring it by in the morning.”
She pursed her lips, her defenses once again raised by his insistence. “I have school in the morning.”
Surprise softened Max’s features. “You’re a student?”
“No, a teacher,” she snapped. Why did everyone always think she was younger than she was? “I have to teach school in the morning.”
“Oh, well, fine.” He wadded up the handkerchief and stuffed it in the pocket of his slacks. “What time should I come over, then?”
“You can’t. Not tomorrow. I’m busy after school.”
He huffed out an exasperated breath. “Doing what?”
“Finalizing my grandmother’s funeral.” Max Logan was rude and insufferable, and only the fact that his grandfather stood beside him kept Izzy from saying so. “The funeral is on Saturday, and I doubt I’ll want to talk to anyone on Sunday. So Monday is the best I can do.”
The furrow in his brow deepened, and Izzy steeled herself for his argument. But Virgil intervened.
“Give it a rest, Max.” He put his hand on the younger man’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “The quilt’s been meandering across the country for a hundred years. A few more days won’t make any difference.”
Max patted Virgil’s hand, then removed it from his arm. “You’re right. I can wait.” He looked back at Izzy. “I’m sorry about your loss. Mrs. Randolph was quite a special lady.”
Like a blade between her ribs, his comment brought up even more questions. Why had Gran never mentioned this man? How had the two of them become so close? And did she really promise to give him the quilt?
“Thank you.” The words came out in a whisper.
Max nodded. “I’ll be by Monday afternoon, then.”
Izzy cleared her throat, wanting her next statement to be heard loud and clear. “I’d rather you not come here again.”
“Excuse me?” Eyes narrowed, head cocked to the side and extended toward her, he resembled Bogie when he saw another dog on television.
“I’d rather meet you at your office.” It occurred to Izzy that she didn’t know anything about this man other than what he’d told her. She needed to make sure the museum he spoke about, and his position there, actually existed. “You do have an office, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Max bit the word off, letting her know what he thought of the implication behind her question. Beside him, Virgil snickered.
“Do you have a card?”
Without a word, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, fished out a card, and handed it to her. She shifted the quilt box, holding it against her hip with one arm, took the card with her free hand, and ran her thumb over the embossed letters. Max Logan, Director, California Pioneer Museum. It certainly looked official.
“I’ll see you Monday, then.” She set the card on top of the quilt.
“Fine. Come on, Gramps.” He motioned to Virgil with a jerk of his head, then stomped to the front door and yanked it open. The rain was coming down in sheets now. Without hesitating, Max took off his trench coat and held it out to his grandfather. “If you put this over your head, you should make it to the car without getting drenched.”
So he did have a heart. In a moment, Izzy took in the broad shoulders beneath his sensible dress shirt, his tie knotted looser than it should be and listing to one side. He was a handsome man, no doubt about it. But what did her in was the expression on his face: the softening of his lips, the concern in his eyes as he took care of Virgil, even though Max obviously thought his grandfather had caused a lot of trouble today. And Izzy was sending them out into the rain. Who was heartless now?
“Wait.”
Both men turned their heads toward her. She started to put the box down but thought better of it when she noticed Max leaning forward, hopeful that she’d changed her mind. She held up her hand, signaling for them to stay put, then jogged down the hall and rifled through the coat closet.
When she came back, she held the box clumsily against her chest with one arm and waived an umbrella in the air with her other hand. “Here you go.”
“Gee, thanks.” Max didn’t seem impressed by her altruistic gesture.
His grandfather was another matter. “Thank you, Izzy.” Before she knew it was coming, he grabbed her in a hug, squeezing tighter than she expected he
could and crushing Gran’s gift between them. Then he whispered in her ear. “Come visit me, and I’ll tell you everything I know about the quilt.”
Over his shoulder, she saw Max roll his eyes toward the ceiling. He’d heard, but she didn’t want to let Virgil know that. The man was already certain he was being watched. No point in confirming it.
“I will,” she whispered back. She handed him the umbrella. “Stay dry.”
He grinned at her. “What’s the fun in that?”
Max took his coat back and spread it over his head like a tarp. But when he made it to the threshold, he turned around one last time. “Take good care of it,” he said, jutting his chin toward the quilt. “And don’t do anything foolish, like putting it up on eBay.”
Izzy had a few choice words for him but decided to keep them to herself. She stepped forward, putting her free hand on the side of the door. “Good-bye, Virgil. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
They walked out and she shut the door behind them. A moment later, she heard whistling, then the opening lyrics of “Singing in the Rain.” Izzy kneeled on the couch, setting the box beside her, and peeked out through the window sheers. Max strode quickly down the driveway, head down and steps sure, toward the curb where he’d parked his car. Virgil trailed behind doing a respectable Gene Kelly impression, swinging the open umbrella like a dance partner and purposely stomping into a puddle. With a chuckle, Izzy fell back against the cushions. What an odd pair those two were.
Her eyes rested on the quilt beside her. Speaking of odd pairs … why in the world had Gran decided to give her this quilt? If it was a family heirloom, shouldn’t it go to Izzy’s mother?
“Not if she wanted it to stay in the family,” Izzy said to herself. If there was any monetary value in the quilt, her mother’s first thought would be to sell it, and Gran would have known that. But could it really hold anything more than sentimental value? Carefully, Izzy lifted the heavy layers of material from the box. As she did, a folded piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor.
Izzy smiled. A message from Gran. Of course she wouldn’t give Izzy a present with no card, no explanation at all. She picked up the paper, spread it out flat, and read.
My Sweet Izzy,
I’ve entrusted my dear friend Virgil with this family heirloom. The fact that you are reading this means I’ve gone to Glory, and Virgil has given it to you. I’d hoped to do it myself, but obviously the Lord had other plans. You may be wondering why I chose to give you this gift. It is because I believe you are the one person who will truly appreciate it. The quilt holds the key to a treasure beyond price. It has a rich history, and by understanding it, you will have a richer, fuller future.
I pray the Lord will bless you and keep you until we are together again.
All my love,
Your Gran
Tears rolled unchecked down Izzy’s cheeks. She gasped as the first one dropped from her chin and landed on the quilt, leaving a dark spot on the off-white background. If this was as old as she thought it was, it had no doubt seen its share of tears, but Izzy didn’t want to add to them. She swiped the back of her wrist across her eyes and set the quilt to one side. Gran’s letter hadn’t told her much about the family heirloom, but it had reinforced two very important facts: first, her grandmother loved her. Second, there was no way on earth Max Logan was getting his hands on this quilt.
“If she thinks she can keep that quilt, she’s crazy.” Max shook his head and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the smells of wet leather and Old Spice only made him more agitated. He glanced over at his grandfather. “Why’d you do it, Gramps?”
The older man fiddled with the heater vent. “Do what?”
“Why did you take her the quilt? You know full well Mrs. Randolph promised it to me.”
“I know nothing of the sort. I know you and Isabella talked about it, how it was a historical piece as well as a family heirloom.”
“Which is why she promised it to me.”
“No. She didn’t promise you anything.”
“She gave me a letter.”
“A letter, not a contract. She considered donating it to your museum. But in the end, she wanted her granddaughter to have it.” Virgil shifted in his seat, angling himself toward Max. “If anyone should understand the importance of family and remembering those who came before us, it’s you.”
Max let out a sigh. “Of course I do. But that girl—”
“Woman. Izzy is a woman.”
With her hair pulled back into a silky blond ponytail, her makeup-free face, and wide, innocent blue eyes, she had looked young, but Gramps was right. She was all woman. Still, it was hard to take her seriously. “What kind of a name is Izzy, anyway?”
“I think it’s nice. Playful.” Virgil’s hands danced in front of him as if he conducted an orchestra. “I imagine more than one person called her grandmother by that name when she was young.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I stand corrected.” Max agreed, but only to get off this rabbit trail and bring the conversation back to a more important topic. “What’s eating at me is that Izzy doesn’t even know what she has. It’s an important piece of American history but she probably just sees it as an old bedspread.”
“You don’t know that.” Virgil’s hands dropped into his lap and he made a tsk-tsk sound. “You don’t know anything about her.”
They fell silent, but Max’s brain never shut off. Gramps was right. He knew nothing about Izzy. He didn’t even know her last name. If the study of history had taught him anything, it was the importance of getting to know your enemy. Not that he considered Izzy an enemy. But they were two people who both wanted the same thing and only one could come out the winner. It would be smart to learn as much about her as he could.
“So, Gramps,” he said casually, “what did Mrs. Randolph tell you about Izzy?”
Max could hear the smile in his grandfather’s voice when he answered.
“Everything.”
3
Izzy was having a hard time concentrating on cubism, especially since her mind kept going back to triangles.
“This is Pablo Picasso, arguably one of the best-known cubist artists. But does he look anything like this man?” She clicked a button on the projector’s wireless remote, changing the image on the screen at the front of the room. Several of the students laughed; a few made noises that loudly communicated their negative feelings toward the piece.
“No way that’s the same guy,” one of the boys said.
“It’s supposed to be.” Izzy walked up the aisle until she stood beside her desk and faced the class. “This is a portrait of Picasso done by Juan Gris, another popular cubist of the time. I want you to take a moment to study it.”
Arms crossed, she looked at the picture with her students, trying to imagine what a bunch of teenagers would think about such an unusual piece of art. But she kept zeroing in on the many triangles present in the painting. The background in particular was a series of triangles pointing in the same direction, giving it a feeling of movement.
Very much like her Wild Goose Chase quilt. The quilt that Max wanted. What was she going to do about Max? Did he really have a letter from Gran? And even if he did, was it binding? Would it give him any claim over the quilt?
The students started to whisper and fidget in their seats, signaling that the moment of silence had gone on long enough. She clapped her hands and looked back at the class. “What emotions do you feel when you look at this painting?”
“I feel nauseated.” The remark came from the back of the room. Grant, her class clown and constant pot stirrer. If he wasn’t so gifted, she wouldn’t put up with his antics.
“Grant feels sick. Duly noted, although that isn’t an emotion.” Grant slouched in his seat as laughter rippled through the room. She pointed at a girl in the front row with her hand up. “Danielle?”
The girl stared at the portrait, tilting her head un
til her cheek nearly touched her shoulder. “It makes me feel sad.”
“Why?”
“Because he looks like he had a stroke.”
“I can see that,” Izzy said, nodding. “The features on one side of the face are much weaker than on the other. Anyone else? Come on, just yell out the first thing that comes to your mind.”
That did it. The room became a cacophony of short, shouted answers.
“Angry.”
“Happy.”
“Confused.”
“Flying.”
That one caught her attention. Flying. Like wild geese.
She moved to the switch panel on the wall, turning the lights on, off, and on again until order returned to the room. “Obviously, this style evokes many different emotions, as all good art should. Which is why each one of you is going to create a cubist-style self-portrait.”
From the groans that came her way, Izzy guessed this wouldn’t be her most popular assignment.
“Miss Fontaine?”
Josie’s voice was so soft and timid that Izzy almost didn’t hear her. She certainly hadn’t seen the girl’s hand barely raised above the height of her shoulder. But the fact that she spoke up at all was great progress. “Yes, Josie?”
“What medium should we use?”
“Any you want. Oils, charcoal, pastels, collage …”
“Macaroni,” Grant threw out.
Izzy met his eyes and held them. “If you can find a way to manipulate macaroni into a cubist work of art, go for it.” She stared at him a moment more in silence, then returned her attention to the class at large. “The idea is to stay true to the spirit of cubism.”
“Over the weekend, I want you to do a preliminary sketch. As you know, you’ll have a sub next week, but she’ll help you work on your ideas. I’ll be back after Thanksgiving and I expect you to knock my socks off.” The bell rang, signaling the end of not only the class but of the school day as well. “Enjoy your holiday!” She had to yell to be heard over the commotion of teenagers scrambling to their feet, talking, gathering backpacks, and turning on cell phones.
A Wild Goose Chase Christmas: Quilts of Love Series Page 2