Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  They landed at exactly the same time, sending out circles of ripples.

  I would get my wish.

  But had I wished for the right thing?

  I took one more look at the sea and headed home. Toward Gram. First I had to help her. Find that Jacques Lattimore, and do what I could to get the money back, which I already suspected he didn’t have.

  Then I’d decide what to do next. One thing was sure. I’d have to navigate carefully. The hidden rocks in this town weren’t only in the harbor.

  Chapter Nine

  From the manner in which a woman draws her thread at every stitch of her needlework, any other woman can surmise her thoughts.

  —Honoré de Balzac (1799–1850)

  A state police car was parked in front of the Harbor Haunts Café when I passed it on my way home. Ethan Trask? What other cop would be in Haven Harbor this afternoon? Probably filling his stomach. Or maybe Lauren was waitressing there this afternoon and he was asking more questions.

  Right now I didn’t want to think about possibilities. I needed time to digest everything I’d heard—to shuffle all the pieces of the puzzle in my head and try to get some of them to link.

  Or maybe, for a few hours, I didn’t want to think about anything. Had I seen a bottle of cognac in Gram’s dining room? Cognac sounded like a sane remedy for an increasingly raw afternoon. And memories.

  The media people had apparently given up their watch, but I was still wary as I headed up the hill. I circled the block and went in the back door, which opened into the kitchen.

  Where Reverend McCully was kissing Gram.

  They broke apart as the door opened. “I’m . . . sorry,” I said. “I went for a walk and was just coming back. . . .”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” said Gram, although she stepped away from the reverend and smoothed her hair. “I should have told you before. But with your coming home, and your mama and all . . . and we haven’t exactly gone public. Tom being a minister, he has to be very careful. People talk.”

  People had talked about Mama. They’d talked about me. But . . . Gram? And how old was this reverend?

  Reverend McCully nodded. “Your grandmother’s a very special person, Angie. She was helping out at the church and we became friends. . . .”

  “And then . . . more than friends,” said Gram. I swear she was blushing. “We’ve been . . . seeing each other . . . for almost a year now.”

  “We were blessed to find each other,” said the reverend, looking at Gram with an expression less than totally holy. “We were going to announce our news to the congregation this spring, but first there was this trouble with Jacques Lattimore, and then your mother’s body was found. We didn’t want people to think we were ignoring problems and only focusing on our own happiness.”

  “Announce?” I looked from one of them to the other. “You mean—”

  “Charlotte said ‘yes.’ She’s agreed to marry me,” he continued, reaching for Gram’s hand. He actually raised it to his lips and kissed it.

  “Gram? Is that so?”

  She nodded.

  “But you never said anything. You never hinted.” I looked from one of them to the other. “Well! Congratulations.” I hoped I was making sense.

  Gram? My Gram? Getting married ?

  She’d been married to my grandfather, but he’d died long before I was even born. I’d never pictured Gram married. She was just . . . Gram. I’d figured she would be forever.

  “I knew you’d be happy for me, Angel. And I was going to tell you, as soon as we’d finished up with the memorial service. I was. There just hasn’t been time.”

  But they’d been . . . dating? Did you call it dating when you were over sixty?

  “I’m happy for you. Both of you. Really. I’m just surprised.”

  “We’d wanted to have a tiny, quiet ceremony, but with Tom’s job, he’s expected to invite everyone in the congregation. So we’re going to do it all. Church wedding, reception. The whole traditional event.” They were both grinning. They were serious about this.

  “I never thought you’d be married before I was, Gram,” I blurted, and immediately knew that was the wrong thing to have said. Besides, marriage was definitely not on my immediate horizon. If ever! I’d dated a guy named Jeff for a while in Mesa. It had felt pretty serious, but it hadn’t worked out, and I’d almost been relieved. Marriage was a long-term decision. I was more the day-to-day type. Maybe like Mama, although I hated to admit it.

  “Most grandmothers get married before their granddaughters, you know,” she said, laughing. “Tom and my timing is just a little different.” She looked at Tom, and I could see excitement and happiness on her face, which I’d never seen before. How had I not even considered that she might want someone in her life? She turned back to me. “We don’t want to make it public for a few more weeks. But I’d love for you to be my maid of honor, Angel. Maybe a late June wedding?”

  Late June! I hadn’t planned to stay that long. Maybe I could leave and then come back. But I couldn’t turn her down, weird as it felt. “I’d . . . be honored. You know, I’ve never been anyone’s maid of honor.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.” Gram looked from Reverend Tom to me and then back again. “How could my life be better? Angel is home again, and we’re planning our wedding. Remember though, Angel, for now it’s our secret. Only the three of us know.”

  “Got it. Do you have any champagne? I feel as though we should celebrate!” I said. It wasn’t the cognac I’d been thinking of, but champagne would do. Now I really did need a drink.

  “I’ve been keeping one handy,” Gram answered. She pulled a bottle of Moët from the back of the refrigerator. “This is just the time to open it. Tom, would you do the honors?”

  A few minutes later we were raising glasses. “To a new beginning,” I said.

  “To forgetting the past, and getting on with the future,” added Gram.

  “And to the woman I love, and her understanding granddaughter, whom I’m grateful to finally meet,” said Reverend Tom.

  We clinked our glasses together and drank.

  “Now everything would be perfect if I could get Mainely Needlepoint back on track,” said Gram. “And you’re helping me do that, Angel.”

  I nodded. I hoped she hadn’t put too much faith in me. “And I want to know who killed Mama,” I added.

  Reverend Tom shook his head slightly. “Joe Greene killed your mother, Angie. I don’t think there’s much question about that.”

  “Maybe. Maybe he did. But I want to be certain,” I answered.

  “Why don’t you let those questions go,” said Gram. “Now you know your mama didn’t leave you intentionally. She was taken from you. It’s time to move on.”

  Maybe it was time for Gram to move on. But I wanted that last t crossed. “First job: finding Jacques Lattimore,” I said, raising my glass again. Then I’d see what I could uncover about Mama’s killer. If it was Joe Greene, and I found out why, I’d accept that. I just wanted to know.

  Chapter Ten

  I hate a woman who offers herself because she ought to do so, and, cold and dry, thinks of her sewing when she’s making love.

  —Publius Ovidius Naso, known as Ovid (43 BC–17 or 18 AD) Ovid, Ars Amatoria (The Art of Love), 2 AD

  I couldn’t slow my mind down that night. Sleep finally came, but it brought confused images so real they might not have been dreams. Each time I woke, trying to escape them, I thought about what I should do. What was most important? And I made some decisions.

  As soon as the sun was up in Arizona, I called Wally, my boss in Mesa. I was relieved when he didn’t pick up and I could leave a message. I knew he wouldn’t be happy with me, and I didn’t want to argue. I told him I wouldn’t be back for a while. A couple of months, at least. I had family issues to deal with. (A murder and a wedding? They certainly counted as issues.) I rummaged through Gram’s kitchen to find her ancient jar of instant coffee and made myself a strong cup. Tea was all we
ll and good, but I couldn’t sit around being cozy anymore. I had to get to work. I added to my mental list, Buy coffeepot.

  Despite the lack of sleep I felt good. I knew what I had to do. Gram had taken care of me for years. Now she needed me to help her. I owed her at least the time it would take to do that.

  And I’d keep my eyes open about Mama’s murder. That was important to me, even if Gram had put it behind her. She wanted to focus on her future.

  I’d worry about mine later.

  The coffee was stale, but strong; and for the first time since I’d been back in Haven Harbor, I began to feel in control of my life.

  A knock on the front door interrupted my self-congratulations. “Yes?” I said to the young blond woman with pink-and-blue-streaked hair who was standing on the porch holding a large bag. “May I help you?”

  She hesitated a moment. “You’re Angel, right? I saw you at the church yesterday.”

  I hadn’t remembered anyone as distinctive. But her accent gave me a clue. “You’re . . . Sarah? Sarah Byrne?”

  “Right. That would be me. Only Australian in town, and likely to remain so.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Gram—Charlotte—isn’t home right now, but she’ll be back anytime. Come on in.”

  She headed for the kitchen, not the Mainely Needlepoint office.

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea? Or, I found stale instant coffee in the cabinet. You could have some of that.”

  “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

  I put the kettle on to boil. Maybe I could get Gram a microwave, too.

  “Thank you for coming to the service yesterday. Although I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you.” I wouldn’t have forgotten that hair.

  “I didn’t go to the little gathering afterward. I had to get back to my shop. I’ve just opened it for the summer, and I didn’t want to miss any customers. I slipped into the back of the church for the service and then slipped out. I hope the press left you alone. They can be so horrible. ‘How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog—’ And so forth.”

  “What?” The woman wasn’t making sense.

  “A line from one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems. I’ve loved her work since I was little. They’re one of the reasons I came to New England.”

  “I don’t know much about poetry,” I admitted. I gave Sarah a selection of tea bags to choose from. Did Australians drink a lot of tea? Would she have expected a teapot and loose tea? I had no idea.

  “This is lovely,” she said, selecting a bag of English Breakfast. “I don’t know if your grandmother told you, but I’ve been doing needlepoint for her. For that Jacques Lattimore, I guess would be more correct. That’s how I’ve come to know her.”

  “She did tell me about you. She said you were really talented. And that you had the antique shop down on Main Street.”

  “That’s me. I’m glad she likes my work. It’s relaxing, and reminds me of home. I learned the stitches from my grandmum when I was little. Working with floss takes me out of where I am, back to a place I was happy.”

  “If you were happy there, why did you leave?”

  She shrugged. “I grew up. Wanted to see the world. Had questions to answer. You left here, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” I looked at her. She was about my age, maybe a year or two older. It was hard to tell. “Why Haven Harbor? Of all the places from here to Australia?”

  “I like it here. People are friendly, but not all over you, if you know what I mean. And I love the sea. I lived near the sea in Australia, and I’d missed it. I’d seen your West Coast, and wanted to see New England. Went to visit Emily Dickinson’s home first, of course, but then drove up Route 1 on holiday. Stayed in Merry Chase’s bed-and-breakfast, up on the hill. And the next morning I went walking and saw the Harbor and the Three Sisters and the lighthouse. I thought I’d woken up inside a picture postcard. There was a ‘for rent’ sign posted on that little store, and I decided it was for me. This was where I should be. Have you ever felt that way? ‘I learned—at least—what Home could be—How ignorant I had been.’”

  I shook my head, assuming she was quoting Emily Dickinson again. Haven Harbor was home. But was it where I was supposed to be? I didn’t know.

  “Well, it’s a great feeling. I signed the lease that day, and then had to figure out what I’d do with the store! I ended up with antiques. Life in Haven Harbor has been good. The building came with a small apartment on the second floor, so I don’t have far to go for work. And my bedroom window looks out to the sea.” I poured hot water over Sarah’s tea bag. “I can keep the store open even in bad weather and don’t even have to think about putting my boots or heavy coat on, although for now I’m only open from the middle of April through Christmas.” She dunked her tea bag a few times. “It suits me.”

  Gram pushed the back door open. “Oh, hi, Sarah! Let me put these groceries down.”

  I took the bags from her and put them on the counter. “Are there more in the car?”

  “No. That’s it.”

  “Shall I pour you a cup of tea? Water’s hot.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” She took off her jacket and sat at the table opposite Sarah while I got out another mug and tea bag. “How have you been, Sarah? I got a peek of you at the back of the church yesterday. Thank you for coming.”

  “I wanted to be there. I couldn’t leave the store for longer. And I’m not much for churchgoing. ‘Some keep the Sabbath going to church—I keep it, staying at Home—’ I didn’t have a chance to say how sorry I was about your daughter. Jenny, it was, right?”

  “Yes. Jenny.” Gram hesitated. “I’m afraid I haven’t got any new information about the business. I haven’t been able to get in touch with Jacques, so I have no money for you, and no new orders.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve cut back on my expenses—and while we’re waiting, I’ve made up extras of the little pillows we sell in the summer.” She opened her bag. Inside were small needlepointed cushions in dark red with green trees on them. “I felt Christmassy. They could be for a regular gift shop or a Christmas shop. Stocking stuffers.”

  I picked one up. “These are beautiful. You could put a ribbon on one and hang it in a closet, or on a doorknob, to bring the pine woods smell to a room.”

  “Excellent idea,” agreed Gram. “Let’s do the next lot like that, shall we, Sarah?”

  Sarah nodded. “That’d be simple, and might give customers another idea of how to use them. A little marketing built in! I’ll leave these with you, if that’s all right.”

  “I’ll make out a receipt for you right now,” said Gram. She went over to the counter, picked up a receipt book, and started to write. “How many have you got in there, Sarah?”

  “Ten,” she answered. “But I came to show you something else. I bought it at a flea market in Waterville last weekend. I wanted to come right over and see what you thought, but, of course, you’ve been busy, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  Sarah reached into the bag, pushed aside the balsam pillows, pulled out an old frame wrapped in tissue paper, and handed it to Gram. “Tell me what you think. I’ve never bought samplers or other needlework before. The good pieces go for high prices. But . . . you’ll see.”

  Gram carefully removed the tissue paper.

  The frame was old and damaged, and held an old piece of needlework. The glass in the frame had disappeared long ago. The stained linen inside was embroidered in faded red silk floss: Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined. Around the saying were two borders, one of small pine trees, not very different from the pine tree Sarah had embroidered on the balsam pillows, and another of convergent triangles.

  “I loved it,” said Sarah. “But you can see it’s stained, and some of the silk threads have rotted out. I looked up the quotation. Alexander Pope wrote it, in 1734.”

  “It’s lovely. Or was lovely, once,” said Gram, holding it close to her eyes so she could examine it better. “Some of the lett
ers are gone, and some are so faded they’re hard to make out. It must have hung on a wall, and sunlight bleached the colors of the threads. I don’t know exactly how old it would be, but it certainly is at least nineteenth century. And American. I’ve never seen European embroidery that included pine trees like these.” She touched it gently. “The concentric diamonds are typical of mid-nineteenth-century rural Maine work. I wonder who did this. It was probably saved because someone treasured it.”

  “I wondered if it might be a sampler. Needlework a young girl would have done to demonstrate her skills. But the only samplers I’ve ever seen had the name of the girl, and often the date and place it was done, stitched right in. This piece has no identification.”

  “No. And it’s very simple, compared to others I’ve seen. But that makes it even more charming,” added Gram. “I love it, too, Sarah. I’m sorry it’s stained, though. I don’t think you should bleach it. That might take the stains away, but it would also take the little color left of the silk, and the silk could disintegrate further. Luckily, the stitching was on linen. It’s held up better than the silk threads.”

  “I haven’t decided what I’ll do with it,” said Sarah.

  “We shouldn’t be touching it, I suspect,” said Gram, holding on to the frame alone. “The oils from our hands might damage it. I’ve never thought of what could be done to save a piece of history like this. It should come out of the frame. The wood has probably stained the edges we can’t see.”

  “At first I thought of stitching in the missing parts, where the silk has broken. But I know with early furniture you’re not supposed to take off the paint and refinish it. People did that in the past, but now it’s thought preserving the look of the piece is important. And I don’t want to do anything until I know what’s best,” said Sarah. “I thought I’d ask you first. I saw an ad in Antiques and Fine Art Magazine for a dealer who specializes in samplers and old needlepoint. I’ll call there and ask for advice.”