Skin Deep

by Marissa Doyle

  “I’m not alone. I’ve got our friends upstairs.”

  Evidently her light tone had fallen short, for his mouth tightened. “There’s something else. Ben said that there’s been a lot of vandalism around beach houses over the last week—broken windows, trashed houses. They’re stepping up patrols, but…be careful, Garland. If anything happened to you, I’d—”

  She put her hands over his. “I’ll be all right, Rob. Promise. I’ve taken all kinds of self-defense and strength training classes. I could probably have you flat on the floor in about five seconds if I tried.”

  “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have to try very hard to get me on the floor, you know.” He smiled—really smiled—and kissed her quickly. “Just be careful, huh? I’ll call you later.”

  * * *

  After Rob left Garland made lunch for Alasdair and Conn—plain tuna on toast, with not even a dollop of mayo or a drift of ground pepper on it—and brought it upstairs. Conn abandoned his scraps of fabric and made her sit beside him while he ate. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead and smiled as he wiggled closer, still crunching happily on his toast. Little cuddle-bug. She’d gone so many years without snuggling—even longer than without sex. And snuggling a child was totally different, anyway. Conn snuggled consciously, purposefully, just as he played or ate his lunch or settled for sleep.

  “That man did not stay long,” Alasdair observed, breaking the silence.

  “Who, Jim Barnes? No, he didn’t.” She stared pensively at the rainbow of triangles and squares on the bed. Rob’s horrible story had pushed him out of her mind for a while, but—

  Her gaze focused on a group of scraps. Conn had taken a square and some triangles, and made—“Hey, it’s a fish,” she said, sitting up. “That’s very good, Conn. I like it. In fact—”

  She swept up more of the scraps and assembled another one like it, with different proportions, and set it next to the first. “That could be fun. Do you want to help me make a quilt? If you make me more fish like this, I can sew them together and make them into a little quilt.”

  He looked at her solemnly, stuffed the rest of his tuna and toast into his mouth, handed her his plate, and turned to the fabric. She laughed.

  “Oh no you don’t, buddy. Wash hands first, and then we’ll make a quilt. Hold on.” She brought a warm washcloth to wipe his face and hands, then got out her scrap box full of odd bits and handed it to him. “So long as you don’t get them all over the room, you can look for pieces in here too. Make me lots and lots of fish, okay?”

  He took the box, and she got the impression that if he’d known how, he would have saluted.

  For the rest of the afternoon she sewed Conn’s fish, big ones and little ones and a few highly peculiar ones. She resisted her impulse to fiddle with his designs but took them as he gave them to her. He became so engrossed that he didn’t take his usual nap, and she became so engrossed that she didn’t even notice. Only now and again did she sense Alasdair silently watching them from his bed, which was fine with her. The less direct interaction they had for a day or two, the better.

  She pieced Conn’s fish together with odds and ends of vibrant blue batik that reminded her of the color of the water outside her window. When the last light had faded from the sky she had a small quilt top, maybe thirty inches square, that shimmered with slightly lopsided but recognizable and very colorful fish. She brought it to Conn’s bed and laid it out so they could survey it together.

  “Not bad for an afternoon’s work,” she told him, ruffling his hair. Maybe it wasn’t high art, but it had made a small boy happy. Besides, it was appropriate for Mattaquason, where a sizeable part of the year-round population was involved in fishing or marine-related—that was it!

  “What?” Alasdair said, as if she’d spoken aloud.

  “You’ll see.” She found the box labeled “thread”—one of these days she really had to unpack—and rummaged inside it till she found a roll of thin gold cord. She cut several lengths, pinned them across the top of the quilt in rows, then began to knot them together at inch-and-a-half intervals. The metallic cord stood out against the dark blue fabric and enhanced the multi-hued fish like a setting for jewels while drawing the whole image together.

  “A net,” Alasdair said, craning his head to watch.

  “Of course. This is a fishing town. What else should there be?” She smiled down at her work as the fishnet took shape. All she’d have to do is layer it with the batting and backing and catch-stitch it at each knot to quilt it. It would be quick and, better yet, perfect.

  Conn leaned over the quilt top and intently watched her. He stroked an end of the shiny gold cord, then wiggled a finger under the corner of net she’d completed.

  “Don’t tug on it, please, big boy. It’s only held down by pins. You wouldn’t want the fabric to get torn, would you?” She cut the end of the cord and started on another row. Conn didn’t move.

  “Please, Conn?”

  He waggled his hand but didn’t remove it. The little scamp! He was pretending he’d been caught in the net. She chuckled. “Looks like I caught another fish for the quilt, didn’t I? Are you a big fish or a little—” she broke off as she glanced up at him.

  He wasn’t smiling. Instead, there was disbelief swiftly shifting into shock in his eyes as he tried, more frantically, to yank his fingers out from under the net. They didn’t budge.

  For a few seconds she stared at him in bemusement. Was it self-hypnosis? Had he convinced himself that this was a real net and that it would catch everything, even a curious finger?

  “Conn,” she said, and gently tugged his wrist. Just as gently, his fingers slipped out from under the cords. But for a fleeting second she’d felt them resist, as if they really were trapped by some enormous, unseen force.

  Self-hypnosis. It had to be. She caught him up and carried him over to the chair. He buried his face in her neck and though he didn’t cry, he drew a few ragged, sniffly breaths.

  “It’s okay, Conn. You’re all right,” she murmured, over and over.

  He lifted his head and glanced back at the quilt on the bed. She followed his look. “It’s just a quilt. It can’t hurt you.”

  He shivered and squirmed closer, if that were possible. Well, that was too bad. She’d already decided to give it to him when it was done. That probably wouldn’t be a good idea now. “I’m sorry,” she said to Alasdair. “I didn’t mean to frighten him.”

  On his bed, Alasdair still watched her thoughtfully. “When that quilt is done, may I have it?”

  Garland blinked and wanted to laugh. “Um, are you sure? I’m not sure somebody here likes it anymore. Unless you want to use it to keep him in line.”

  “No. I want to see if…” He looked at her, then shrugged carelessly. “As you wish. But I would be most honored if you would make one for me.”

  “You want me to make you a quilt?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  An odd sensation, part schoolgirl bashfulness and part pleasure, coursed through her. After so many years of stifling her creativity, people actually wanted her quilts.

  “I’d be happy to,” she said, then laughed. “I even know the design.” She rose and carried Conn over to him, then fetched her graph pad and shaded in a pattern of squares, diamonds, and triangles. “It’s called ‘Storm at Sea.’ I’ve always wanted to make one, and it would be perfect for you, under the circumstances.”

  “I suppose it would.” He looked at the design, then at her, his face solemn. “Will I be able to bear it?”

  Sometimes he said the oddest things. “I’m sure you will.”

  She went to her boxes. Where were those batiks she’d been looking at? In a few minutes she had slipped into her color trance, and blues of all shades and intensities filled her awareness. But even while she sorted and chose, and hearing and touch all seemed in some strange way to become different ways of seeing, she was aware of Alasdair watching her.

  * * *

  On Thursday Rob
appeared at Garland’s house in a cold driving rain. As she opened the door he stepped inside and produced a copy of the Mattaquason Mariner with a flourish.

  “Here you are, hot off the press. Ink’s still wet, even,” he said as he handed it to her and took off his streaming coat. Water puddled on the floor at his feet.

  “That’s just rain, silly.” Garland hung his coat on the Shaker coat rack and turned eagerly to read what Jim Barnes had decided to write.

  Rob followed her into the great room. “Hey—is that all the greeting I get?”

  Garland dropped the paper on the table behind the couch and turned to him. Even when he pouted he was adorable. “I’m sorry. I’m just dying to see what actually made it in here.” She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.

  “That’s better. I think I’ll be demanding more often.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him. “You’re damned huggable, you know.”

  “So are you.” But she couldn’t keep her eyes from straying to the newspaper on the table. He laughed and let her go.

  The Mariner was a typical small town paper: news in the first section, special interest stories in the middle, and advertisements in the third. Garland unfolded it and laid out the front page so they could both read the main headline:

  VANDALISM EPIDEMIC STRIKES SUMMER HOMES

  Police investigating, no leads

  Garland chuckled mirthlessly. “I guess I owe Captain Howe an apology. He wasn’t stonewalling after all.”

  “ ‘A rash of destruction over the last ten days in unoccupied summer homes on Bethlehem Neck and Eldredge Point have Mattaquason Police stymied,’ ” Rob read aloud. “ ‘Altogether, six residences have been attacked’—where’s 56 Point Road?”

  “That’s Don Grenham’s house, I think. Three houses down. Boy, I’ll bet he’s hopping mad. He doesn’t even like birds trespassing in his trees. Are you done reading?” She bent to turn the page.

  “Number 64 too, Garland. That’s right next door. Doesn’t that bother you?” His voice was incredulous.

  She looked up at him. “Well, of course it does. Poor Mrs. Lufford. I hope they didn’t mess things up too badly. She collects porcelain figures of hippopotamuses, you know. Has at least a hundred. I didn’t realize there were so many of them in the world. Now that I think of it, though, if I were a vandal, it would have been sorely tempting to see just how aerodynamic some of those little hippos actually were—”

  Rob made an exasperated sound. “That’s not what I meant.”

  He wouldn’t let himself be distracted, would he? “I’m sorry, Rob. But truly, I’m not worried. Vandals only go after empty houses—it’s probably a bunch of bored kids. They’re not going to risk getting caught breaking windows in an occupied house. Look—nothing about Alasdair here, either. I don’t know whether to be mad as hell or relieved.” She turned the next page and skimmed it. “Oh, here’s the police log…nothing there, either. I was sure there would be at least a mention.” She turned the page again and sighed. “Editorial and op ed. It won’t be there. Let’s see the second section.”

  The top half of the front page was taken up by an article about the plans for the upcoming celebrations to mark the hundred-and-twenty-fifth anniversary of the Mattaquason Public Library. But under that…

  ARTIST IN RESIDENCE: Quilter Captures Mattaquason

  with Needle and Thread

  by Jim Barnes

  “A little more saccharine than I’d like. Well, at least it was below the fold, and he didn’t have his camera.” Garland squinted at the column. “He’s calling me a ‘summer resident made good.’ That’s a little much, don’t you think?”

  There was nothing on the next page or the page after that. Garland gathered up the paper in disgust and tossed it into the basket by the fireplace. “The Mattaquason Congregational Church’s bake sale got more coverage than Alasdair.”

  “Garland, you just finished saying that it might be better if there were nothing there,” Rob said patiently.

  She slumped against the edge of the table. “I know I did. In a way, it is. It’s just that it feels like no one wants to help them but me. Why? Why won’t anyone else even look at him, much less help him?”

  “I helped him.”

  “I know you did. I didn’t mean you.” Garland turned to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “I meant everyone else.”

  He pulled her against him. “I don’t understand it either, if it makes you feel better. If you’d like, I’ll give Jim Barnes a call and see what’s up with him.”

  “Oh, thank you, Rob.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re one pretty terrific guy.”

  Rob’s arms tightened around her. “Not really. It’s pure selfishness. All I want is to finally find where Alasdair belongs and send him there, so we can concentrate on what’s really important. I started to fall for you two years ago, remember. It’s hard to be patient that long.” He bent and kissed her.

  Garland closed her eyes and cooperated with the kiss. Mmm, nice, but no fireworks…not yet, she hastily amended. Surely they would come soon.

  Chapter 8

  Garland mentally ran through her list as she pulled into a parking place on Main Street in Mattaquason. The grocery shopping was done. Now it was the library, Vernon’s Five and Ten for thread, Kathy’s gallery, and the Purser’s Shop, for clothes for Alasdair.

  Rob had given Alasdair and Conn the go-ahead to spend more time up and out of bed. Which meant that no matter how handsome Alasdair looked in the robe she’d given him—rather like a figure from a medieval illumination—he needed real clothes.

  When he’d come downstairs for the first time, Garland had felt a little like Mrs. Van Winkle introducing Rip to the wonders of modern technology that he’d missed out on during his twenty-year snooze. Even the refrigerator had surprised and confused him though oddly enough, cars and passing airplanes had not. She puzzled over his bizarrely selective technical amnesia as she reminded him not to stand in front of the freezer with the door open when he wanted to cool off. She had measured him because she wasn’t sure that he could handle a shopping trip, even to quiet, off-season Mattaquason.

  The sun was finally out after two days of rain that had culminated in a ferocious storm last night. Garland lifted her face to it as she walked. Well, the equinox would be here in a few days. Winter couldn’t last forever. Not even this one.

  The woman behind the counter at Vernon’s Five and Ten peered at Garland from behind a pair of enormous glasses. “All-cotton thread? I think so. You’ll have to look. All the dry goods are in aisle three, ‘bout halfway down. Say, are you the lady that’s moved into town with the quilts? I saw that story on you in the paper. My sister-in-law’s a quilter, too. There’s a quilt guild in Brewster she belongs to. You oughtta check it out some time. I’ll tell her you were in here.”

  After Garland had found and paid for her thread the clerk gave her a radiant smile and fished out her cell phone. As the door swung shut, Garland could just hear her say, “Maureen? Guess who I just met?”

  In the library, Garland returned a book that had somehow been overlooked last August and spent the winter on her bedside table. The volunteer behind the desk looked at the due date stamped in the back and raised her eyebrows.

  “Things were a little hectic when I left last summer,” Garland explained defensively.

  “Mm-hmm.” The woman scanned the barcode on the book and glanced at the screen on the circulation desk’s computer. “Well, after ten weeks we have a maximum late fine of—oh my goodness, you’re Garland Durrell! You’re on the board of the Friends of the Library, aren’t you? No late fees for you, Mrs. Durrell.” The woman patted her blue-rinsed hair and beamed at her.

  “Actually, I’m not on the board any more. I resigned last fall.” Garland dug her wallet out of her handbag to pay the late fee. She’d given up all the board positions she’d formerly held. There would be enough alimony from Derek to live on until she hopefully started sell
ing quilts, but not enough to maintain the high level of charitable giving that being on boards usually entailed.

  “I was so sorry to hear that. The library will miss your generosity, especially just now with the anniversary plans heating up for next fall. But your quilting, now—I did enjoy the story in the paper. After I read it I told my husband, ‘I did have to go and have an appointment down in Hyannis with the podiatrist on the day of the Women’s Club meeting and miss seeing Mrs. Durrell’s quilt, didn’t I?’ I suppose I’ll just have to wait for your show this summer.”

  “Er, thank you—”

  But the woman hadn’t finished. “Aren’t you down on Eldredge Point? How did you weather the storm last night?” She leaned on the counter and spoke in lower tones. “Did you hear about what happened down near Uncle Eb’s Beach? Seems like the wind was just in the right quarter with the waves, and dug the bank on the northern end out in a matter of hours. The Swains’ house went right into the drink. Mr. Swain got out all right but they’re still looking for his wife. They’re both in their eighties and she was dreadfully crippled with arthritis. Just terrible. I’ve always said that building so close to the water is a bad idea. But that house was over a hundred and fifty years old. You would have thought that if something like that were going to happen, it would have happened already. Just terrible,” she said again.

  Garland finally escaped after another five minutes of being enthusiastically talked at by the volunteer (“My name’s Shirley. Actually, both of them are. Shirley Shirley. I almost didn’t marry my husband because of it, but I’m used to it now.”) and after having her fourth attempt to pay the late fee refused. She took a few deep breaths on the library steps, then headed for the Purser’s Shop (Fine Gentlemen’s Clothing, est. 1921.)

  Garland found herself drifting to the soft, handsomely tailored designer-label khakis and pinpoint-weave button-down shirts rather than the more utilitarian athletic pants and sweatshirts she’d intended to buy. Somehow sweats and Alasdair just didn’t go together. He was too elegant, too unconsciously dignified, even when peering in amazement at the toaster as it popped his sixth piece of toast into the air.