Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  At that moment, the parlor door opened, and Delia came down the hall toward them, her voluminous skirts swishing. Her eyes narrowed as she saw Greta in the kitchen door and Adam at the door to his office. To Adam, it felt as if the air had become electrically charged, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

  “What’s going on here?” Delia asked in a high, thin voice. “What are you two up to?”

  “Nothin’, ma’am,” Greta said innocently. “Nothin’ at all.” Her glance went to Delia’s bodice, where the button was noticeably missing, then—with an open impudence—to Delia’s face. I saw you, it said. I saw what you were doing. She turned back to Adam, and her expression softened. He read in her eyes a plea—not a demand, but a mute entreaty—as if she were asking him to defend her once again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Delia intervened.

  “Get back to your work, girl,” she snapped. “This minute.”

  Greta’s glance lingered on Adam’s face for a moment. Then she turned and went back into the kitchen, her hips swaying. The kitchen door closed behind her.

  Delia turned to Adam. “It certainly looked like something was going on.” Her eyes were accusing. “The two of you were discussing me, weren’t you? You were talking about me behind my back.”

  “Nonsense, Delia,” Adam said evenly. “We weren’t discussing anything at all. In fact, we hadn’t exchanged a word. I was simply—”

  But she didn’t let him finish. “Did you get up to some monkey business with that girl while I was gone, Adam?” Delia’s nostrils quivered, anger sparking in her eyes. “Ever since I got home, you’ve stopped me when I’ve been about to correct her. It is very clear that you are going out of your way to defend her.” Her voice rose, strident and shrill. “Surely you’ve noticed the way she moons around you at the table, rubbing herself up against you every chance she gets. Why, the girl’s in love with you, Adam. Don’t tell me that there wasn’t something between you while I was out of town! You’ve been in her bed!”

  Adam stared at her. Good God. Even his wife could see Greta’s mistaken understanding. How had he been so stupidly blind? But he couldn’t explain it; all he could do was deny.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said evenly. “She’s just grateful when somebody speaks up for her. All she gets from you is criticism—and worse. Lord only knows what you say to her when I’m not around to take her part.”

  “I’m dismissing her.” Delia’s voice was harsh. “Now. This afternoon. Before this thing—whatever it is between the two of you—goes any further.” She put her hands on her hips and pulled her shoulders back. “There are plenty of capable young women who would be glad to have her job. We can’t have a silly girl who keeps throwing herself at you and making you look like a damn fool—even if you are one.”

  Adam gave up trying to hold his temper. “And what if she saw what happened between you and Mr. Simpson in the parlor this afternoon?”

  Delia’s eyes widened and her face paled. She put her hand against the wall, steadying herself. “What makes you think she . . . Did she say something? Did she—” She lifted her chin. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all.” But her face was ashen and her fingers felt for the empty buttonhole in her bodice. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He had been guessing before. He was sure now.

  “Yes, you do. Think about it, Delia. If you dismiss this girl, there’s no predicting how she’ll retaliate. Maybe she’ll tell me what she saw. Or maybe she’ll tell the town. Do you want to take that chance?”

  Delia’s hand, trembling, flew to her mouth. “She . . . wouldn’t!” She caught herself and tried to amend. “She couldn’t have seen something that didn’t happen.”

  If he needed another confirmation, this was it. But the knowledge didn’t cheer him. It didn’t anger him, either. What’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, he thought. He couldn’t blame Delia—or Mr. Simpson. He was equally culpable, and his guilt robbed him of the right to complain or accuse. And he had behaved unconscionably toward Greta, encouraging her to think God knew what.

  But one thing he did know. “Better leave well enough alone for now,” he said. “And lay off the criticism. Things are bad enough as they are.”

  Without another word, Delia turned on her heel and flew up the stairs. In a moment, he heard her bedroom door slam hard enough to rattle the windows.

  Adam found himself shivering as he went down the front steps and headed for the bank. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened in the last few moments, but he had the feeling that—whatever it was—it had altered his marriage forever. He walked faster and then even faster, feeling that he was pursued by something dark and ominous, that he was now enmeshed in a chain of events that could not be reversed and from which he could not escape. It felt as if a storm was on the way, or an earthquake, or a war. A cataclysm that would change everything.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Victorian “language of flowers” assigned meanings to many herbs and flowers. Those who were in on the secret language could exchange coded messages in nosegays. For instance, a white daisy (“innocence, simplicity”), a rosebud (“beauty”), a red carnation (“ardent love”), and fern (“deep sincerity”) could be interpreted as “I love your beautiful innocence with a deep sincerity.”

  Some plants had double meanings. Lavender, for instance, signified both devotion and constancy and distrust and suspicion. The darker meaning arose from the ancient notion that asps (the deadly viper that killed Cleopatra) preferred to live beneath the lavender plant. An unwary admirer of the lavender might be bitten, so it was wise to approach the plant with a cautious distrust.

  “The Victorian Language of Herbs and Flowers”

  China Bayles

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Caitie and I didn’t get our girls’ night out, after all. She texted me to say that Sharon had invited her to stay all night, and since both girls were going to play rehearsal early morning, a sleepover made sense. I was glad to agree. There was something else, though, that Caitie didn’t mention in her text: Sharon lives across the street from Kevin, Caitie’s boyfriend, and I had the feeling that a get-together was in the works.

  A few weeks before, Caitie and I had had the Boyfriend Conversation—not a talk about dos and don’ts, but about questions she needed to consider. We talked about what it means to have a boyfriend at fourteen, and how that might change at eighteen or twenty or twenty-three. (She’s curious, naturally, about Brian and Casey.) About why she wants a boyfriend and why (in her opinion) Kevin wants a girlfriend. About respecting her body and saying no to sexual activity beyond holding hands and (maybe) kissing. Since I knew Kevin, I didn’t think we had to go into the part about sexting or giving in to a boy who says if you don’t, you’re not cool.

  But now there was a terribly unsettling complication: Kevin’s illness. Helen had said that the family didn’t plan to tell friends about it until after the surgery. But that didn’t mean that Kevin wouldn’t jump the gun and tell Caitie what was going on. In fact, I would be surprised if he didn’t—and that worried me. I’m sure she remembers that her aunt died of cancer. How would she handle this?

  But since Helen had asked me not to broadcast the news, there was nothing I could do to prepare her. So I simply texted her back: Okay with me, sweetie. Be sure and thank Sharon’s mom, have fun, and behave yourself. (Of course you will ) This kind of Mom-talk is still new to me, and I’m not sure I always get it right, but I’m learning. Caitie is a good teacher.

  With my husband and daughter both gone for the evening, I had a quiet evening alone, the first in a long time. That is, I was as alone as a person can be in the affectionate company of a basset with an agenda and a cat who adores laps. I ate my sandwich-and-soup supper with Mr. P lying across my knees and Winchester beside my chair, drooling over the possibility of a bite of sandwich and permission to lick my soup
bowl. Winchester is devoted to food—any food, all food (but especially bagels and pizza). When we’re eating, he offers up a plaintive, whining murmur and an imploring expression that will win even the hardest heart. I can’t resist him, so he got the four crusty corners of my sandwich.

  I was rinsing my few dishes when Blackie phoned with an update. Sheila was doing well, he said, but he was having a hard time keeping her out of uniform. With a chuckle, he added. “I may have to resort to sterner measures—locking up her badge and duty belt, maybe. She says to say hi, and thanks.”

  Blackie’s call was followed by one from McQuaid, in Lubbock. He was in his element and loving it. As a former homicide detective, there’s nothing he likes better than sorting through a mess of conflicting testimony—lies, half lies, deceptions, and dishonesties—and coming up with the truth, or the closest approximation thereof. I wondered what kind of questions he would pose to my ghost, but I wasn’t about to ask him. He’s snarky about Ruby’s encounters with the Universe (“mystical claptrap,” he calls it). I was sure he would say the same thing about whoever, or whatever, was haunting my shop—if that’s what was going on.

  So I skipped that subject entirely, and we talked about his investigation, about Sheila’s health, and about Dixie Chick and Extra Crispy and the incredibly black rooster who was capable of producing his half of thirty-five thousand dollars a year just by doing what comes naturally.

  And then I told him about Kevin’s brain tumor, asking him to keep the news to himself. “Helen doesn’t want us to tell Caitie until the family is ready to announce it,” I said.

  McQuaid was as shocked as I had been. “It’s just not something you think about with kids,” he said sadly. And I agreed. Surgery and radiation and chemotherapy don’t belong in a kid’s life. It was a somber end to our conversation.

  After we hung up, I spent some time on my laptop, working on the article on Queen Anne’s lace for the Enterprise. I went lightly on the traditional contraceptive and abortifacient uses of the plant (a touchy subject for some readers) and paid more attention to its use as a wild forage plant and its evolutionary role in the ancestry of today’s garden carrot. Which led me to consider which of a half dozen recipes from my file I should include with the article. I settled on the Queen Anne’s Lace Jelly and the Moroccan Chicken and Carrots I had made for our dinner with Brian and Casey. Then I ran across a recipe for carrot oil, added a couple of sentences about the cosmetic use of carrots, and called it done. I would email it to Hark tomorrow.

  I had brought the carton of photographs home from the shop and was looking forward to digging into it. But when I opened the box, I discovered that there were only about a dozen photographs, when I had been expecting more. The rest of the box was filled with what looked like a random, haphazard collection of yellowed newspaper clippings from the early days of the Enterprise. I sorted the clips from the photos and put the clips back in the box. They would have to wait for another night.

  I spread the photos on the kitchen table, under the bright overhead light. I added the one that had startled me with its appearance on the bulletin board at the shop earlier that day: the baby in the lace-paneled christening dress and cap. I propped the photo against the saltshaker and stared at it. The photo had showed up on my bulletin board for a reason—but darned if I knew what it was. If it was meant as a clue to a mystery, I didn’t get it. Was it the baby who was important? Or the lacy dress? Did the dress in the photo have any connection with the dress Lori’s aunt had given her? I shook my head at that, since any connection between them seemed wildly far-fetched.

  Still, it would be good to rule out the possibility. So I took out my cell phone and snapped a photograph of the baby’s picture, then texted the image to Lori, suggesting that she compare the lace insert in the photo to the lace in the baby’s dress her aunt had given her. I didn’t try to tell her why I was asking—the explanation was simply too implausible. After I’d done that, though, I remembered that Christine hadn’t been able to reach Lori, so maybe this message wouldn’t get through, either.

  While I was looking at the baby’s picture, I thought again of those mysterious sprigs of fresh lavender that had been left on the bulletin board with both photos. I remembered that nineteenth-century Victorians had invented a fanciful “language of flowers” that they used to send “secret” messages to one another. The Victorians—and my ghost seemed to belong to that era—viewed lavender with a certain ambivalent caution. The blossom signified devotion, loyalty, and fidelity, yes—and hence was often used in wedding bouquets, along with rosemary and baby’s breath, which carried a similar message. But at the same time, lavender also signified suspicion and distrust. It seemed to suggest that beauty could not be trusted, for beneath it lay treachery, betrayal, danger, perhaps even death. Was that the meaning here?

  All of which reminded me that Ethel had glimpsed a woman in a long dark skirt and white blouse in the garden, picking lavender. Had she actually seen my ghost? If so, who was—

  Your Honor, please. My skeptical lawyer self again, leaping to her feet. Assumes facts not—

  Yes, I know, I know. Facts not in evidence. And yes, there was a part of me that simply could not accept the idea that I was dealing with a ghost. But the real photographs I had found stuck to my bulletin board—they were a kind of evidence, weren’t they? Of course they were, as were the others spread on the table, like exhibits ready to be put before a jury.

  I gave the photos another, closer look. Four of them were taken inside my building, in its early years as a family residence, but none had names or dates on the front or back. The two most interesting pictured the room that was now my shop. In one photograph, five women of different ages, all wearing late-nineteenth-century dress, were seated in a semicircle with needlework in their laps, like a sewing club. While they worked, they seemed to be listening to a sixth woman, also seated, who was reading aloud from a book. I went to McQuaid’s office, found his magnifying glass, and used it to study the photo, finally making out the book’s title: A Study in Scarlet, which I knew was by Arthur Conan Doyle. I had to smile at that, remembering that it was the first piece of detective fiction in which a magnifying glass was used as a forensic tool.

  In the other photo, the reader was on her feet, leaning over the shoulder of one of the needlewomen, pointing out something in the work she held. I studied the reader more closely, again with McQuaid’s magnifying glass. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought she might be the same woman with the Gibson-girl look who appeared in the veranda photograph, holding the baby. I was interested to see that there was a parlor stove in that room, as well as rugs on the floor, curtains at the windows, and some parlor furniture—a sofa and some overstuffed chairs—pushed back against the walls. Mrs. Birkett, earlier that day, had remembered the room as a “workroom.” Why? Was it because the needlewomen gathered there for meetings of their sewing club? Since the Historical Society’s plaque identified this as the Duncan House, perhaps the reader was Mrs. Duncan. But Mrs. Birkett, who knew the owner as an old lady, remembered her as Mrs. Hunt. Which was which?

  There were two other photos of the interior. One pictured the room that was now Ruby’s shop, a dining room, back in the day. There was a long dining table in the center, with chairs and place settings for six, two on each side and one at each end. In the middle of the table was a modest silver epergne filled with flowers and fruit. Off to one side stood a woman in a dark-colored dress and apron—a servant, perhaps—holding a tray. The photo might have been taken before a dinner party or a family celebration, I thought. Were there six members of the family? Two parents and four children? Was this the Duncan family—or the Hunt family?

  I placed the dining room photo beside the two taken in the parlor-cum-workroom. To this group, I added a fourth photo, taken in a large bedroom, in the space that I recognized as our current tearoom. There was a Victorian double bed with an elaborate gold-colored spindled headboard a
nd footboard. The bed itself was dressed in a white crocheted spread, flounced white skirt, and ruffled white pillow shams. There was a mirrored dressing table, a rocking chair, and a tall chest of drawers. On the chest was a framed photograph—a wedding photo, the magnifying glass told me. A stove stood against one wall and there was a white-painted commode in a corner. A commode? Of course. The bathroom under the stairs would not be installed for several more decades.

  I stared at the photos for a long time. Of course, I had known that my building had a long history. These photographs, though, gave me the sense that it had a personal history, that it had once been a home where people lived, loved, worked, played, and died. In the pictures, the past and the present lay one on top of the other. It was an eerie feeling, as if I were peering through one of those old-fashioned stereoscopes into a long-distant past—but a three-dimensional past in which real people were still living and moving and talking and working, just as they had lived then, when the photographs were taken.

  There were also exterior scenes, and these included children. One was taken behind the house, where an old-fashioned rope swing hung from a large oak tree, now gone. There were four girls in the photograph, all with long hair and big hair bows, all dressed in white pinafores over cotton dresses, a kind of Alice-in-Wonderland look. A girl of nine or ten was pushing the two younger girls—twins, I thought, maybe four or five—in the swing, while the oldest one watched, clapping her hands. She might be eighteen. In another, the older two girls were hoeing weeds in a large vegetable garden, in the area where I now had my zodiac garden. And in a third, the twins were feeding carrots to a fat pony, beside the stable—which was now Thyme Cottage, my bed-and-breakfast. In the background, tall summer sunflowers grew up beside the stone walls.

  The rest of the photographs were of the same couple I had seen sitting with the baby and the little girl on the veranda. One, a studio portrait, was clearly a wedding photo—Mr. and Mrs. Duncan? Yes, I thought, because it was the same photograph I had just seen (with the magnifying glass) on the chest in the bedroom of the Duncan house. The groom, seated, wore his Sunday-best suit with a stiff collar and tie and white rose boutonniere. The bride stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder, wearing a pale silk dress banded with embroidered lace. It was hard to tell colors in the sepia-tinted photo, but the dress might be taffy-colored. The woman’s hair, dark brown or auburn, was partly covered by a lacy bridal veil caught under a floral crown. On a small table beside them lay her wedding bouquet of roses and ferns, tied with a cluster of ribbons. The groom—fair haired and clean shaven—wore a satisfied look, as if he had achieved something he had aimed for. The bride was attractive but not conventionally pretty. She had a firm chin, a full mouth, and large, dark eyes, deep-set and quite remarkable. As I moved from that photograph to the next, I had the uncanny feeling that her eyes were following me. She seemed to be actually watching me, and I shivered.