Mrs. Leipold opened a big spiral-bound appointment calendar. “How about the day after tomorrow, starting at 9:30 a.m., sharp? We’ll estimate two days; I’ll take the first day, Darel will take the second. If it takes longer than that, we’ll both come, and we won’t charge more for the extra day.”
“All right,” said Valentina, and they shook hands to seal the deal.
* * *
MRS. Leipold was prompt. When she came to the Riordan door, with her yellow notepad in hand, Valentina was there to meet her.
“Welcome to our mess, Mrs. Leipold,” she said.
“Please, call me LaVerna.”
“All right—LaVerna. I was going to ask if I could come with you into the house, but I have a couple of errands to run, so I think I’ll leave you to it. But I would like to come back around noon to see how you’re doing. And I can bring you lunch, if you like.”
“Why, that’s very kind of you. Soup and a sandwich would be wonderful.”
“All right. See you in a few hours.”
Valentina stepped aside to allow LaVerna to enter before going out herself. As she hurried down the walk to her old car, she heard LaVerna say, as she closed the door, “Oh my!”
* * *
BETSY came back from lunch to find Godwin waiting eagerly for her return.
“What?” she asked.
“The mail’s on the desk,” he said, looking at it significantly.
She shrugged and, without taking off her coat, went to see what had him so excited.
Godwin came close behind her, peering around her shoulder as she picked up the stack of white envelopes, the kind with glassine windows. Under the bills was a fat brown envelope, the six-by-nine size. The return address bore a name she didn’t recognize, from Atlanta, Georgia. The envelope was faintly stained, as if it had been left out in the rain and then set aside long enough to dry.
“Open it first, open it first,” said Godwin, fairly hopping up and down.
She turned on him with a frown. “Is this a prank?”
He took a step back, surprised. “Oh, it’s no prank! This is an envelope from that mailbag they found in Tom Take’s house.”
“Oh?” She turned the envelope over in her hands. “That’s different. Connor told me about this. He should be down here to see it opened.” She reached for the phone.
But when he answered his cell, he wasn’t upstairs. “I’m on my way to East Saint Paul,” he said. “There’s a Luther Auctions preview going on to give prospective bidders an advance look. Go ahead and open it. Tell me about it later.”
“All right. Bye.”
“You didn’t say, ‘I love you,’” Godwin pointed out when she put the phone down.
“So?” she said and picked up a letter opener. “Neither did he.”
“Never mind, never mind, open the envelope,” said Godwin, moving around to the other side of the desk for a better view.
Inside the envelope was a folded piece of cardboard, the kind that came from the back of a notepad. With the cardboard was a small, square, pale blue envelope, the kind that holds nice notepaper.
Impatient now, Betsy dropped the envelope onto the desk and opened the flap of cardboard. A snow-white handkerchief with a deep froth of lace edging tumbled to the desk.
“Gosh!” said Betsy.
“Wow!” said Godwin.
She picked it up. The handkerchief was an eight-inch square of delicate linen, and the lace was crocheted, done several inches deep with very fine thread, dropping into five long points along the sides, and even longer points at the corners, edged with tiny scallops. She drew it slowly across the back of her hand. It was a lovely, frivolous thing, evoking a long-gone past.
“What do you suppose it is, something for a bride?” asked Betsy.
“It’s kind of large for a bridal accessory. Maybe it’s an antique. Whatever, I’d simply love to flaunt it at a party.” Godwin took it from her. “Oh, my deah!” he said, fluttering it at eye level. “Just too, too sweet!”
Betsy let him examine it more closely while she picked up the little square envelope and opened it. Inside was a folded notepaper featuring a bouquet of tulips. The handwriting was beautiful, just short of calligraphy. It began, Dear Mrs. Berglund—
Betsy gave a startled cry.
“What? What?” asked Godwin, dropping the handkerchief.
“This is addressed to Margot!”
“Well, of course it is. In 1996, Margot was alive and in charge here.”
“Well, of course you’re right. But still, it’s so strange to see her name.”
“What does the letter say?”
Betsy read it aloud:
Dear Mrs. Berglund, I am enclosing a handkerchief with a lace edging that I designed myself. It is a simple pattern, but I think it has a very nice appearance.
I have been doing crochet since I was six years old and have taught classes in it. I am no longer able to teach a class, but I would like to know if you would be interested in carrying this pattern in your store.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Viola van Hollen
“Why, the poor woman!” said Godwin. “Probably thought Margot was dishonest enough to keep the hanky and never cared to answer her letter!”
“How sad,” said Betsy. “Because I think Margot would have liked to carry the pattern. I know I would.” She looked inside both envelopes but found nothing resembling a pattern. “But it isn’t here.”
Godwin picked up the envelopes and looked for himself. “Well, isn’t that too bad!”
“Well, I suppose it’s better, in a way. If she didn’t include a pattern, then at least she knew Margot hadn’t misappropriated it. But here, her address is at the bottom. I wonder if she’d still be interested after all this time. I mean, look at this gorgeous thing! Of course I’m interested!”
The door opened just then, and Betsy lifted her gaze to see a young man looking very eagerly at her. “Have you opened it yet?” he asked.
“Opened what?”
“Did I forget to mention that this fellow came by earlier?” said Godwin. “Betsy, this is Phillip Maxwell, from the Sun Sailor.” Which was a free weekly newspaper, published in Excelsior.
Phillip was a slender young man wearing a dark gray suit, blue shirt, and bright yellow tie under an unbuttoned trench coat. He came forward to look at the beautiful handkerchief on the desk. “Is that what came to you from 1996?” he asked.
Godwin said, “He wants to interview some of the people who got mail from that old mailbag we found in Tom Riordan’s house. I said okay—is it okay?”
“Yes,” said Betsy, after an instant’s thought. She was not averse to free publicity.
“Who’s it from?” asked the reporter.
“A woman in Atlanta, Georgia. She wanted my sister, Margot, who first opened Crewel World, to carry the pattern for it in the shop.”
“Is it an antique?” he asked.
“No, it’s something she crocheted herself.”
“Are you going to carry it?”
“I’ll have to contact her to see if she’s still interested.”
“How did she find out about Crewel World from so far away?” He answered his own question. “Oh, on the Internet, I guess. Did you—or your sister, that’s right—have a web site back then?”
“I don’t think there were such things as web sites in 1996,” said Godwin. “I know Crewel World didn’t have one, since I helped Betsy build one in 2001.”
“So how did she find you?”
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t suppose it matters. This is an interesting story. Thanks for talking with me. I’m sure this will be a great story for the Sun Sailor.” The young man asked a few more questions, took a photograph of the handkerchief with his cell
phone, and went away.
Chapter Fourteen
“BUT she didn’t include the pattern,” Betsy said the next morning over breakfast with Connor.
“Very wise of her,” he said. “Margot might have reproduced it and sold copies to customers without offering Mrs. van Hollen a penny.”
“Margot would never have done such a thing!”
“And Mrs. van Hollen knew this . . . how?”
“Well, yes, of course you’re right. I wonder how she came to send that handkerchief all the way from Atlanta? I searched on Google for her name and didn’t find anything, so I scribbled a note to her and drove by the post office after work. I put the shop’s phone number and e-mail address on the note. Figure two or three days to get there, so maybe we’ll hear from her in a week or less. Unless she’s no longer at this address. Or”—Betsy shuddered—“I suppose it’s possible that she’s no longer alive. Well, I hope that’s not the case. Anyway, this is kind of exciting, I hope she’s still very much with us, and that she wants to sell the pattern.”
“Very likely when she didn’t hear from Margot, she tried somewhere else.”
“Oh rats, you’re probably right. What a shame! But still, it’s been going on twenty years. Maybe she’d be willing to let us offer it a second time around. I don’t crochet so I don’t look at the details of crochet patterns. But even so, I’d say I haven’t seen that pattern anywhere.”
* * *
WHEN Betsy came down to open up the shop the next morning, she saw Alice Skoglund waiting for her outside the front door. Betsy hastened to unlock it, though it was ten minutes before opening time.
A loyal member of the Monday Bunch, Alice was a Lutheran minister’s elderly widow. She had gained the habit of good deeds so long ago that even with failing eyes, she still crocheted and knit tiny hats for newborn and preemie babies, and afghans for impoverished people in Africa and the Middle East. Lately she’d taken up knitting prayer shawls for her church, which were presented as the outward form of blessings to members who were seriously ill or newly bereft.
She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and big hands, homely and kind. This morning she was looking as if she’d received a shock. In one gloved hand she held an envelope.
Uh-oh, thought Betsy, using a key to unlock the dead bolt on the door.
“Good morning, Alice, come on in. The pot’s just heating but there will be hot water for tea in another minute.”
Godwin came out from the back. “What, a customer already?” he said in good humor. “Hi, Alice, how’s my favorite girl?” Then he saw the look on her face and paused. “Oh my, has something happened? Here, come over here, you look as if you need to sit down.” He showed her to the library table and pulled a chair out for her.
“Thank you, Goddy, I have had a great surprise come in the mail, and I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels.”
“Oh, Alice,” said Betsy, “did you get one of those letters from eighteen years ago?”
Alice nodded. She fumbled in her overcoat pocket for a tissue and used it to rub her shapeless nose, which was already pink.
“Was it bad news?” asked Godwin.
“I—I’m not sure what to think about it,” said Alice, putting the tissue back in her pocket.
Betsy came to sit beside her. “Do you want to tell us what it is?”
“It’s a proposal of marriage!” cried Alice, tossing the envelope onto the table. “Come eighteen years too late, a proposal of marriage.” She sobbed once, then took fierce control of herself. “I just couldn’t believe it. I thought—I thought we’d broken off. We had a terrible quarrel—over nothing! Nothing at all, and then I didn’t hear from him again, and I thought—I thought it was over and I was so sad for a long time, and all this while . . .” She did break down then.
Godwin and Betsy looked at each other in dismay.
Godwin said then, “I don’t understand. You didn’t see the gentleman again? You didn’t call him or write your own letter?”
“I was too proud, too proud! I wanted him to come to me, to take the first step—and he did! And I never knew, oh, I never knew!”
Godwin reached out for the envelope but changed his mind before his fingers touched it. “What happened to him? Did he move away?”
“He went to Mexico to do missionary work. He was gone for five years. When he came back, he had a wife—another American; he’d met her down there. He sold his house and they moved away, to Texas, I think, or Arizona . . .” Her voice trailed away, and her eyes looked distant.
Then she suddenly came back to herself. “But I mustn’t burden you with this. This has nothing to do with you. I don’t even know why I came here!” She started to get up.
Betsy put a hand on her shoulder. “You were right to come here,” she said firmly. “We’re your good friends, and we’re going to ply you with tea and cookies, and, if necessary, take you out to dinner.”
“Absolutely!” said Godwin. “I’m all yours—well, until seven this evening, when Rafael and I are going to a Northest Coin meeting.” He leaned in and said in a confidential murmur, “You know those coins we found in Tom Take’s house? I’m going to ask Valentina if Rafael and I can take them to a coin club meeting next month to see what they’re worth.”
“Goddy . . .” warned Betsy.
“Why can’t I tell her? She’s one of us! She won’t go running to tell on us! Will you, dear, sweet, kind, understanding Alice?”
Despite herself, Alice smiled. “Oh, you—!” she said.
“See?” Godwin said to Betsy. “Now you just sit tight and I’ll get you a nice cup of tea. And over it you can tell us all about this very intriguing romance of yours.”
Alice did draw comfort and courage from the tea. Paul Engstrom, Alice said, was a member of Mount Calvary Lutheran Church back when Alice’s husband was pastor. He was an active member, even serving a term on the vestry, though his main interest was outreach. He was firm in his faith, but charming and funny—the Bible stories he told in Sunday school were related in a hilarious Bill Cosby style. He was always respectful and courteous to Alice and made no approach to her for the first year of her widowhood. Then he began a courtship so understated it took her several months before she finally understood what he was doing.
But when they got serious, they discovered their differences. He wanted to go to Mexico to do missionary work, and she thought there was plenty of work to do right here in Minnesota. He began taking classes to improve his Spanish and one evening, probably in an attempt to tease her, insisted on speaking only Spanish to her. She lost her temper and told him to go home and not come back until he gave up trying to persuade her to go live in some filthy hovel in Mexico. She never heard from him again.
“And now this!” she said, and pulled the letter from its envelope. “Read it, read it!”
The letter was handwritten and began with an apology:
My dearest Alice, You know I would not for the world distress you. If I didn’t feel God’s own voice calling me to work in Mexico on His behalf, I would not argue so strongly in favor of going. I was blinded by my desire to answer the call, and did not realize the strength of your resistance, or your fear of travel to a place so strange and, in your mind, dangerous. I apologize from the depths of my being for distressing you.
I propose the following: Allow me to go alone, with your blessing, for one year. On my return, I will hang up my foreign missionary shoes and devote my life to making you happy. If necessary, by marrying you—joke, joke, joke, my dearest one. I would marry you tomorrow if I could, but hope you will agree to this compromise.
Say yes, please say yes, please, please, please say yes.
Your madly devoted—Paul.
“Oh my God,” said Godwin, awed. “And you never got the letter, so he thought you said no, and he went away brokenhearted. Oh, this is the saddest thing I’ve ev
er heard!”
“He probably thought I was insulted by the way he proposed—‘if necessary, by marrying you’—and when he got no reply . . .” She sighed. “Oh, what a fool I was! When I didn’t hear from him, I should have called or written myself. But I was too proud, too proud!” She broke down again.
Betsy put an arm around Alice’s shoulders. “Not at all. It was his fault for trying to make you go with him to a place you thought of as dangerous, where you didn’t speak the language or understand the customs. It was wrong of him to try to force you.”
“But he offered a perfect compromise! If I’d gotten this letter, I would have gladly agreed! Oh, that dreadful man!”
“Wait, I thought you just said Paul wasn’t being dreadful,” said Godwin.
“I mean Tom Riordan! It’s a good thing I’m a Christian, or I might go pay him a visit and tell him what a wicked thief he is, he who made my life sadder than it might have been!”
* * *
WHEN the next edition of the Sun Sailor came out, there was an immediate grab for copies. The paper was a weekly that paid for itself with advertising and normally there were numerous copies left over by the time the next edition appeared. But not this time. People sat in restaurants, in the new library, in the Barleywine microbrewery; they stood outside in the freezing rain, hunched under whatever meager shelter they could find—a young tree, a narrow overhang; they huddled in groups or sat alone at home, reading the story of the late-delivered mail.
THE MAIL MUST GO THROUGH read the headline, EVEN EIGHTEEN YEARS LATE. The article told of an old mailbag found in a hoarder’s house, half full of undelivered mail postmarked 1996.
Betsy searched for and found the paragraph about her own experience with a long-delayed package.
“Small business owner Bessy Devonshire received a beautiful lace-edged handkerchief from a woman in Atlanta, Georgia, and a request that she sell the handkerchief in her store,” read the article.
Betsy sighed. In her whole life, no matter where she lived, every single time she knew something about an event, the media report got at least some of the details wrong. This was no exception, beginning with getting her name wrong.
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