Thread Herrings

by Lea Wait

  I picked up my phone. “I wonder if anyone will recognize the embroidery, or know anything about it?”

  “I’m glad Clem suggested people contact the studio, and not you,” he said. “Although you said she did use your name.”

  “She gave a plug for Mainely Needlepoint,” I agreed. “Probably no one will remember my name. I’m not in the phone book or even in online directories.”

  “But the business is, right?”

  “Right,” I admitted.

  “You should let calls from anyone you don’t know go to voice mail,” Patrick advised.

  Patrick’s mother was a famous actress. She got calls from crazy people. But Angie Curtis in Haven Harbor? “I don’t think there’ll be a problem, Patrick. I was only on the air for a few seconds.”

  “You may be right. Just be careful,” he advised. “Now, get on the phone and call all your friends and relations.”

  I spent the next few minutes telling Gram the whole story. She was as excited as I’d been. As I still was, I admitted to myself. I could hardly wait to see myself on television.

  “Gram said she’s going to invite all the needlepointers to her house so we can watch together. Can we stop and get some pizzas on the way home? They can stay warm in the oven until we eat. Gram’s going to invite people to come at five o’clock.”

  “No problem,” he said. “It’ll be like an Oscars party!”

  “Not exactly,” I admitted. “But it should be fun. And, after all, it’s February, and an excuse to get together with friends.” A few miles later I added, “In my excitement I didn’t even ask you. How was your meeting and lunch with Steve Jeffries?”

  “I offered to show half a dozen of his smaller pieces in May,” Patrick said. “He would have preferred a summer show.”

  “More people,” I put in.

  “Exactly. But I’d like to see the response to a few of his pieces before I commit to showing more.”

  “He should understand that,” I said.

  “I hope so,” said Patrick. “But artists have delicate feelings. He implied that either I loved his work or I hated it. It is interesting. But I’m not sure there’s a place for it in Haven Harbor. I’m a new gallerist, and I know I’ll make mistakes. I just don’t want them to be enormous mistakes. That’s why I offered him a smaller show than he would have liked. So . . . we’ll see. I left him a contract, and I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t sign it.

  “Are all artists that sensitive?” I teased.

  “Of course, my dear. Can’t you tell how fragile my ego is?”

  “Then I’m glad I’m a patron of the arts,” I added. “Or at least of your art. I love the painting you gave me for Christmas.”

  “Unfortunately, Steve isn’t giving us anything,” Patrick reminded me. “He has an idea his sculptures are worth more than I suspect customers at my gallery will pay.”

  “You get fifty percent of the sales prices, right?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Standard at galleries. But my predecessor in Haven Harbor showed only a few tabletop sculptures. He stuck to paintings. Steve Jeffries’s work is a whole new direction.”

  I settled back in my seat. “I’m glad you offered him a contract, though, even though Clem said she was going to break it off with him. Clem’s being a real friend about my embroidery mystery.”

  “Clem and Steve are breaking up? He didn’t mention that.”

  I shrugged. “He doesn’t know yet. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, so don’t say anything to him.”

  “I won’t say a word,” Patrick shot back. “His relationship to Clem is none of my business. I visited his gallery because I liked some of his work. He’s developing an interesting style. His sculptures have to stand on their own. Clem had nothing to do with it.” He glanced at me. “To tell the truth, I’m glad they’re not a couple anymore. Maybe Clem won’t be calling me as often.”

  “She’s been calling you?”

  “Asking me to give Steve a chance.”

  “I didn’t know she’d been doing that. I thought she was just calling me.”

  “Clem must make a lot of telephone calls,” Patrick said, drily.

  Most of the ice that had covered branches this morning had melted in the sun, although the snow on the side of the road still glittered. Ice floes crowded the Kennebec River at Bath.

  “Decide what kinds of pizza you want,” suggested Patrick. “And call ahead to order them so we can pick them up on our way.”

  I nodded and started figuring guests and slices and toppings. A pizza party for my first television appearance! My first auction was turning out to be more exciting than I’d anticipated. And maybe that television mention would result in some information about the embroidery and baby Charles.

  I called my favorite pizzeria and gave them a large order. If people weren’t hungry we could take extra slices home for breakfast. Or, better yet, Gram and Reverend Tom (since he was now my step-grandfather, he kept telling me to drop the reverend, but I kept forgetting) could take any leftovers to the soup kitchen at the Baptist church. Pizza went with soup, right?

  Pizza was good any time of day.

  Chapter 8

  “O may I heavenly treasure find,

  And choose the better part

  Give me an Humble Pious Mind

  A meek and lowly heart.”

  —Stitched by Eleanor Merrill (1818–1890) in 1826, when Eleanor was eight years old, the third of eight children. In 1843 Eleanor married Ithiel Homer Silsby. They lived with Ithiel’s father in Newton, Massachusetts.

  Gram and Reverend Tom had already preheated their oven to “warm” when Patrick and I arrived at the rectory carrying five pizzas (ranging from cheese to “extra everything”), large bottles of Pepsi and Moxie, and three six-packs of Sam Adams.

  Maine in February offered a lot more to do than most summer folks imagined. But, still, it would be fun to see everyone.

  “Bring those pizzas in, out of the cold,” Gram said, ushering Patrick and I inside. “Angie, put the pizzas in the oven, and, Patrick, there should be room for the drinks in the refrigerator. I rearranged a shelf when I heard you were coming.”

  Tom had already put out heavy paper plates, a stack of napkins, and an ice bucket (full) on the kitchen table, along with an assortment of glasses. He’d also selected two bottles of red wine. I suspected two bottles of white were chilling in the refrigerator.

  Gram and Tom enjoyed their wine, even though most people I knew preferred soda or beer with pizza.

  “Who’s coming?” I asked as soon as all our contributions were stowed.

  “All of the Mainely Needlepointers except Dave. He has a home and school meeting tonight,” Gram told me. “So we’ll have Ruth—Sarah’s going to bring her so she doesn’t have to cope with that walker and the snow by herself—Captain Ob and Anna, and Katie and Dr. Gus. Ten of us.”

  “Fun!” I said. I nodded as Reverend Tom pointed at the wine. Red wine before pizza was more than acceptable. Patrick and Gram joined me; we had about an hour before any of the others would arrive. “I hope I didn’t make a total fool of myself on camera.” I took a sip of wine. “But even if I did, it wasn’t for long. Clem said the whole segment would be a minute or less once it was edited.”

  “I’m sure you did fine, dear,” Gram assured me.

  “Don’t worry,” Patrick seconded. “Besides, you’re the first in your family to be on television!”

  No one said anything for a moment. Then Gram filled the space with, “On television for something fun, for sure!”

  She’d been reluctantly interviewed after Mama’s body was found. Being interviewed on television wasn’t always for a good reason..

  “Come, sit. Did you bring that mysterious embroidery and paper you bought at the auction?” said Tom, herding us toward the living room.

  “I did,” I said, reaching into the canvas bag I carried as a pocketbook and pulling out the padded envelope.

  I carefully put the embroidery, ribbon, a
nd fragile paper on their coffee table.

  Gram got a large magnifying glass (“on dark days it helps with small print,”) and carefully went over the coat of arms. “It’s in very poor shape, Angie,” she pronounced. “I’m not sure it can be restored. Where the threads are still visible they could be reinforced. But some parts are missing.”

  “What about the dirt?” I asked.

  “Cleaning might help; it could reveal needlemarks or stains from where threads were originally. But the linen is in poor shape, and very weak. Perhaps if it were backed with new, archival fabric, that might help. But I doubt the piece will ever be anything more than a curiosity. It would cost more to restore than it’s worth.”

  I shrugged. “I like it anyway. I didn’t buy it to display it or resell it. Sarah’s the one who does that. But I was fascinated by it.”

  Tom and Patrick had been looking at the foundling hospital receipt. “This is interesting, for sure,” said Tom. “I’d think a receipt like this would be kept at the institution, not given to someone, even if he or she had come back for a child. The British are organized. See the number on the receipt? Anyone checking records—back in the eighteenth century or even today—would question why one of the receipts was missing.”

  “The hospital is still in London,” I said, “although it operates under a different name now. They have a museum and a library with all the old records, I read online. So, you’re right. A missing record would stand out.”

  “But it can’t be a copy—they didn’t have copy machines or even carbon paper two hundred and fifty years ago,” Patrick pointed out.

  “Maybe someone at the hospital wrote everything twice?”

  “You told me earlier that over sixteen thousand infants were entrusted to the foundling hospital during one twenty-year period. I wouldn’t think anyone dealing with that many needy babies would have the time to make a copy of one receipt,” Patrick pointed out.

  “That many babies?” Gram shook her head. “How sad, for the children and the parents. I’m amazed the hospital was organized enough to record anything about each child, much less to include a piece of fabric, or an embroidered ribbon, like this one.” She hovered her magnifying glass above the ribbon. “This is beautifully embroidered. Someone took a lot of time with it—and used a very small needle.”

  “The flowers on the ribbon could have been embroidered separately, for a special woman—or one who could pay for the work—and then whoever gave baby Charles to the foundling hospital might have added the heart at the end,” I suggested.

  Gram looked more closely. “That’s possible. The heart is embroidered in a different ply silk than the flowers. But that could mean the embroiderer decided to emphasize the heart more.”

  “We’ll probably never know all the answers,” said Patrick. “But it’s interesting to guess.”

  Gram patted my knee. She’d known me when I’d been a child whose father was unknown and whose mother was gone.

  I sipped my wine and listened as Reverend Tom tried to convince Patrick (for the nth time) to join the Congregational Church choir. I’d be next on his list.

  “I’ll get it,” I said when the doorbell rang.

  Sarah had brought a plate of molasses cookies to add to our evening. She held Ruth Hopkins’s arm as Ruth navigated her pink walker into the front hall.

  “Good to see you, Angie,” Ruth said as I helped her off with her coat. “I can’t wait to see you on the television and hear all about this mysterious embroidery.”

  “Clem said I’d be on shortly after six o’clock,” I told her. “The embroidery is in the living room. As soon as everyone gets here, we’ll have some pizza and talk!”

  “Sounds good,” said Ruth. “Sarah was such a dear to come and get me. This time of year I’m nervous about going out, especially after dark, with all the ice and snow.”

  “Here, Ruth. I’ve saved the chair with the highest seat for you,” said Gram, joining us in the hall.

  “You’re becoming a real Mainer, Sarah,” I said. “Molasses cookies are the best!”

  “They’re your grandmother’s recipe,” she called back to me as I took the cookies to the kitchen table and she hung up her coat and scarf and hat and gloves and kicked off her boots in the entryway. “I’m dying of curiosity. I want to see what was behind the embroidery,” she said, and I pointed her toward the living room as Captain Ob and Anna arrived. They’d brought a six-pack of 633 beer, brewed in nearby Boothbay Harbor.

  Mainers seldom went anywhere for dinner without bringing something.

  Katie and her husband, Dr. Gus, weren’t an exception. They were the latest to arrive, but they brought a gorgeous amaryllis plant. “It bloomed today,” said Katie, “and I know how much your grandmother loves flowers.”

  “It’s spectacular,” said Gram. “I’m going to put it in the living room so we can all admire it!”

  I glanced at the clock. Almost five-thirty.

  “It’s time we all got our pizza and drinks,” I announced.

  “I’m getting Ruth two slices of mushroom and pepperoni and a Moxie. Everyone else is on their own,” said Patrick.

  Gram and I pulled the boxes of pizza out of the oven and spread them on the kitchen table, while Patrick added the drinks in the refrigerator to the counter and got Ruth her dinner.

  It didn’t take long. Five-thirty might be early for supper in some places, but we were pretty flexible in Maine, especially in months when it was dark by four in the afternoon.

  I moved my auction finds to a table away from the food and drinks, and we all focused on our pizza. I chose one slice of vegetarian and one of plain cheese and added some red pepper.

  “Thank you to Patrick for buying the pizza, and to everyone, for what they brought, and, most important, for joining us tonight. I hope no one will be disappointed,” I added, as I looked around the room.

  A year ago I’d been living in a one-room apartment in Mesa, Arizona, quite possibly eating pizza by myself, or in my boss’s car while we were following someone we’d been hired to “follow and photo.”

  True, February in Arizona was warm and bright, but nothing was warmer than this room full of friends on a snowy night in Haven Harbor.

  A year ago I would never have guessed what my life would be like now.

  I swallowed hard and sipped from my bottle of Sam Adams.

  “Everything okay, Angie?” said Sarah, who’d sat next to me.

  “Everything’s just fine,” I said. I raised my bottle to everyone in the room.

  “We’re curious to find out about your embroidery,” said Ruth.

  “It might be from a family with the last name Providence,” said Sarah. “The lots at yesterday’s auction came from one of two families, and the samplers and mourning art I bought were signed by girls with the last name Providence.”

  “What did the auctioneer say?” Anna asked.

  “He never identified the families,” I answered. “Although I’ll call him tomorrow and see if he’ll tell me off the record.”

  “If you want me to help with any genealogical research, let me know,” Ruth put in. “I’m bored with the book I’m writing now. Plots are hard to come by. I wouldn’t mind spending some time on family history sites.”

  “Thank you,” I said as Tom turned the television on.

  Suddenly I was nervous. Had I messed up? What would I look like on camera? Maybe we shouldn’t have invited all these people to see me make a fool of myself.

  I put down my beer and waited.

  The early weather report. Dara Richmond reporting on a fire in Portland and a bill not passed in Augusta. An advertisement for the Portland Boat Show. Then, there was Clem. She was sitting at the same desk where I’d seen her that afternoon, but in back of her was a giant enlargement of the embroidery.

  Then—there I was! I hardly had time to focus on whether my hair was in place or whether I’d stumbled on my words. Then my face was gone, and the receipt and ribbon were on the screen, and Cle
m was telling anyone with information to contact Channel 7.

  It was over quickly. Tom switched the television off, and Sarah and Patrick applauded. “Not bad for your debut appearance,” said Patrick. “You spoke clearly and succinctly and all went well.”

  “Absolutely,” Sarah agreed. “Clem got in a plug for Mainely Needlepoint, too.”

  “I don’t expect we’ll be getting in dozens of orders as a result,” Katie added. “But that was a nice plus. Now, we have to wait and see if anyone contacts Channel 7 with information.”

  “A coat of arms,” Ruth said, looking over at the embroidery. “And that paper is dated before the American Revolution. I wonder if it all belonged to a Royalist family.”

  “Didn’t most Royalists leave Maine during or just after the Revolution?” Gram asked. “Seems to me a lot of them headed for Nova Scotia or somewhere else in Canada—or went back to England. They weren’t welcomed with open arms here.”

  “But the auctioneer said everything in the sale was from old Maine families,” Sarah put in. “If the family had left Maine, that wouldn’t be true.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” said Tom, passing around the plate of molasses cookies Sarah had brought. “We know Angie’s good at solving mysteries. If anyone can figure this one out, she can.”

  “With a little help from my friends,” I said, taking a cookie. “Right now I’m not sure what direction to turn.”

  “You were going to call the auctioneer,” Captain Ob reminded me.

  “I will. Tomorrow,” I agreed. “But I don’t know if he’ll help.”

  My cell phone interrupted my thought.

  It was Clem.

  “It looked great, Clem!” I said. “We just watched it!”

  “Angie, this is crazy, but I had to warn you. That segment was only aired a few minutes ago, but someone called the station and left a message threatening to kill you and I and anyone else who tried to find out about that embroidery and the paper.”

  “What?” I said, incredulously.