by Lisa Harris
“How wonderful to be able to pass down treasures like that to your children.”
Caroline nodded. “Now it’s just her and her son. I believe he builds ships for a living, but the family was in the whaling business for several generations.”
Rebecca set the last piece of folded fabric on the pile. “Did you know my grandfather was the captain of a whaling vessel?”
“Really? I’ve always thought that would be such a romantic profession.”
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so romantic about waiting years for your husband to return from an expedition? The whaling and fishing industries are all horribly dangerous lines of work. My father once told me of a storm in which thirteen vessels went down carrying about a hundred and fifty fishermen. Think of all the widows and orphans those sailors left behind.”
“All right, you have a point.” Caroline’s hazel eyes sparkled. “I was thinking more about the lovelorn bride waiting anxiously day after day for her husband to return from sea.”
“Sounds like a tragedy to me.”
“All of Shakespeare’s romances ended in tragedy. Romeo and Juliet—“
“Enough.” Rebecca laughed as she added the entire pile of scraps to the bin that held other bits and pieces of leftover fabric. “You’re talking to a girl who only knows a tragic end to romance, unlike your happily-ever-after story with Philip.”
“Your day will come, Rebecca. I have no doubt about it.”
“Maybe, but for now I plan to leave tales of romance, tragic or not, to the storytellers.”
A warm breeze off the Atlantic seaboard ruffled Luke Hutton’s work shirt as he finished greasing the skids beneath the hardwood runners of the schooner he was building. He was eager for the day she would set sail. Boston’s shipyards were full of clipper ships, whaling vessels, private yachts, and commercial fishing boats, but this one he was helping to build with his own hands.
Luke gazed out across the harbor and watched the stately crafts bob in the sparkling blue coastal waters. Folding his arms across his chest, he let out a contented sigh. The smell of the ocean permeated the air, and he could taste the salt from the Atlantic on his lips. It was something he couldn’t deny. The sea was in his blood.
“She’s going to be a fine sailing vessel, young man.” Dwight Nevin stepped onto the deck behind Luke, inspecting the work he’d just completed.
“You’re right, sir.” Luke turned to greet his boss. “She’s a beauty.”
Working for Dwight Nevin as a ship’s carpenter had been a dream come true. In many ways Mr. Nevin was the father figure Luke had longed for after the death of his own. And he didn’t disapprove of Luke saying exactly what was on his mind. Something he was prone to do.
Luke grinned at the redheaded Irishman, who at fifty-five was as fit as any sailor. “I still predict that one day soon the demand for private yachts will overtake commercial boats.”
“Never.” Mr. Nevin shook his head and frowned, but Luke didn’t miss the sparkle in his eyes.
“With all due respect, sir, it’s already happening. Summer resorts are bringing in more tourists every year, while the fishing industry is dwindling. We’re seeing an increase in land values along the coast as towns are being influenced by the influx of visitors.”
The older man waved his hand in front of him. “A few tourists will never make that much of an impact. The entire commercial fishing industry will never die down.”
“Like the whaling industry, sir?”
“Okay, you’ve made your point.” Mr. Nevin groaned and started up the narrow wooden plank toward the small building used as an office for the modest shipbuilding company. “Let the tourists have their fun. Fishing’s been a way of life for my family for the past four generations. And your family, too. It’s in our blood.”
“Maybe, but the future isn’t in whaling anymore.” A seagull cried out above him as Luke hurried to follow his boss up the plank. “We—you—ought to be looking more into the private sector. You could double, triple, your business if you wanted to.”
“Business is fine.”
“True, but what about tomorrow? Just think about it. Twenty years ago whaling was a highly profitable business, but now kerosene has replaced the need for whale oil and candles.”
Mr. Nevin stopped and blew out a labored sigh. “What does your mother think about this?”
“My mother’s like you. She refuses to think that things might be changing.”
“You’re going out again on a whaling expedition, though, aren’t you?”
Luke tugged at his shirt collar, sorry for the reminder. It wasn’t as if he dreaded the trip. Sailing would always be a part of him, but lately his interest had focused on building the crafts. “I leave in a month. But this will be my last trip.”
“Have you told your mother it will be your final voyage?”
“My mother believes it’s God’s will for me to captain my own vessel someday. So far nothing I have said or done, including working for you, has helped alter what she believes to be true.”
“What you need to do is to find yourself a nice girl and settle down.”
Luke frowned at the older man. He’d heard the very same comment a dozen times. “What ‘nice girl’ is going to wait three years for me to come back?”
“Find the right girl, and she’ll wait.”
Luke scuffed the wooden plank with his boot and shook his head. “Not likely, sir.”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Luke Hutton. You’ve got initiative, that’s for sure. If you can survive the next few years battling the sea, and if I can survive my wife’s constant nagging, when you get back I’ll have a job waiting for you.”
Two hours later Luke stepped into Macintosh Furniture and Upholstery and breathed in the mixture of cedar, pine, and fresh wood shavings. While building boats was his passion, he’d dabbled with carpentry enough to respect the expertise it demanded. And from what he’d heard, Philip Macintosh’s craftsmanship was some of the finest in the area.
“May I help you?”
Luke’s gaze turned from a skillfully carved table and stopped at the dark-haired beauty who stood in the center of the showroom. “Yes. I’m—I’m here to pick up a table for my mother, Patience Hutton.”
Luke took a step backward, annoyed at his sudden awkwardness. What was wrong with him? His boss mentioned he should settle down, and suddenly the next pretty girl he sees is marriage material?
The young woman clasped her hands in front of her. “I was expecting her to come by.”
“It was on my way home. I hope it’s not a problem.”
She laughed then shook her head. “It’s not a problem who picks it up. I just meant that we were expecting her this afternoon. The table’s ready.”
“Good—I know she’ll be pleased.”
“But you haven’t seen the table yet.”
Luke cleared his throat. Why was everything he tried to say coming out wrong? “Is there a problem with it?”
“No, but I do want to make sure you’re satisfied with the work before you take it.”
“Of course.”
“If you’ll come with me, you can look at it.” She headed toward the back of the store, letting him follow. “It’s a beautiful piece.”
“It’s one of my mother’s favorites.” Luke stopped at the table and ran his fingers across the polished top. “Unfortunately, a recent guest of ours managed to knock it over, cracking the narrow leg.”
“That’s a shame, but if you take a close look, I don’t think you’ll even be able to tell where the crack was.”
Luke examined the curved leg of the table and smiled. “Excellent work. The wood has been matched to perfection, and the seam is even.”
“Do you know a lot about carpentry?”
“Not tables and chairs, per se.” Luke rubbed his hands together and caught her gaze. Dark brown eyes stared back at him, and he wondered suddenly what was hidden behind them. He’d heard the laughter in her voice but h
adn’t missed the unmistakable look of sadness. “I’ve been working for Dwight Nevin as his apprentice. Right now we’re building a fifty-foot, two-masted, rigged schooner.”
“For fishing or cargo shipments?”
Luke’s eyes widened in surprise at her question. “This one is going to be for fishing. Are you interested in the boating industry?”
A dimple appeared in her right cheek when she smiled. “My grandfather was the captain of a whaling vessel. While I never knew him, I’ve always been fascinated by the sea and the stories it has to tell.”
“I come from a long line of whalers, as well.” For some reason he didn’t want their conversation to end. The table was finished. There was nothing holding him here except one thing. “I’m Luke Hutton, by the way.”
“Rebecca Johnson.” She shook his hand then brushed back a wisp of her coal-black hair. “I’m related to Philip Macintosh by marriage. Actually, it’s a bit complicated. He’s the brother-in-law of my stepmother.”
“So you have a big family?” He picked up the small table and tried to tell himself her answer didn’t interest him. But it did.
Rebecca laughed again. “You could say that. Three brothers and two sisters. Then Anna was adopted into our family, making it seven.”
Luke let out a low whistle. “I’m an only child. My father passed away, so now it’s just me and my mother.” He needed to go, but something about her urged him to stay and prolong their talk. “Have you lived here long? I’ve been in the shop once or twice before. I don’t remember ever seeing you.”
“I recently moved here from Cranton.”
“Cranton.” He searched his memory for information on the small town in western Massachusetts. “That’s not too far from the Connecticut River, I believe?”
“Yes. It’s a beautiful place. Lush farmland, lazy brooks, apple orchards … I loved it there.”
He caught the look of sadness in her eyes again. Maybe she was simply homesick. He knew from experience that Boston could be an overwhelming city. Hadn’t he felt the same way on his last return from sea? The bustling metropolitan area was a stark contrast to the seclusion of life on deck. And Cranton was nothing more than a sleepy little farming community.
“Would it be too bold if I ask why you left?”
She started for the front of the shop. This time he matched her stride and walked beside her. “Caroline, Philip’s wife, decided it might be good for business to expand beyond tables and chairs and start offering custom-made slipcovers to their patrons. Business was growing so quickly that she needed the extra help. I thought Boston would be a nice change.”
“Slipcovers?”
Rebecca paused at a well-crafted mahogany sideboard and turned to him. “I know they don’t take nearly as much skill as fine furniture, but they do seem to be the rage right now—”
“No, it’s a great idea.” Luke hoisted the table against his hip. “Expanding on the clientele you already have. In fact, my mother mentioned just last week how she thought slipcovers would be perfect in the parlor.”
Her hand traced the carved inlay atop the sideboard. Long, slender fingers. Skin the color of cream—
“You could bring your mother by tomorrow if you’d like,” Rebecca said, putting a halt to his wandering thoughts. “I could show her samples of what we can do.”
He shouldn’t. He should turn and walk out of the shop and forget ever meeting Miss Rebecca Johnson. Instead he caught her gaze and smiled. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
Luke placed his mother’s table carefully in the back of the buggy, all the time wondering why he’d just told Miss Johnson he’d be back. He knew his return had nothing to do with showing his mother samples of slipcovers and everything to do with seeing her again.
He flicked the reins, urging his palomino to hurry home. His last whaling voyage had taken three and a half years, and considering he was weeks away from departing on his second trip, it made no sense to pursue this unexplained—and unwelcome—attraction to Rebecca Johnson.
It simply wasn’t possible. Problem was, he did yearn for a wife and a family. Yet by the time he returned from sea, he’d be close to thirty years old—and no closer to marriage than he was now.
two
Rebecca pulled out another piece of brightly printed cotton and held it up for Patience Hutton to examine. It was the fifth sample she’d shown the older woman in the last hour. Up to this point nothing had been acceptable.
“What do you think about this one?” Rebecca waited as Mrs. Hutton fingered the fabric.
In Rebecca’s opinion the color combination was perfect for the stylish parlor. The shades of light green, delft blue, and sunny yellow would make stunning slipcovers without overpowering the classical style of the room.
Rebecca leaned forward on the elegant Grecian sofa, watching the older woman’s reaction. She’d been disappointed when, instead of a visit from Luke Hutton, she’d received a message from his mother requesting her to come to their home. No matter how hard she tried, she hadn’t been able to forget those penetrating brown eyes that reminded her of the syrup her brother Adam made each winter from his sugar maple trees. Luke’s gaze had caused her heart to tremble, something she hadn’t expected—or wanted. Still, the thought of seeing the broad-shouldered, muscular shipbuilder again had kept her dreams flavored with the sweetness of his gaze.
Taking the sample of fabric from Rebecca, Mrs. Hutton walked toward the window, smoothing back a loose strand of silver hair that had fallen from the neat pile atop her head. The bustle of her elegant silk dress rustled as she turned to Rebecca and smiled. “This one is perfect.”
Rebecca let out a sigh of relief. After arriving at the Hutton home, she’d learned that not only did Patience Hutton have a stunning place as Caroline had told her, but she was also a woman who was hard to please. No doubt keeping her happy throughout the project would be a challenge.
“And what about the windows?” Mrs. Hutton held the fabric up to the light.
Rebecca nodded at the suggestion. “We could easily hang panels from a cornice using the same fabric.”
“Simple but elegant. I like that.” Mrs. Hutton sat back down on the sofa, still holding the fabric sample. “Funny, something about the colors reminds me of my childhood home. My mother was Dutch, and our home was filled with delft blue pieces of earthenware from Holland.”
“I believe I saw several of them in your curio cabinet?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Hutton smiled, obviously pleased Rebecca had noticed.
Those decorations hadn’t been the only thing Rebecca noted. In a brief tour of the downstairs, she’d studied the numerous pieces of furniture. Most of them, she judged, had been fabricated prior to the Revolution. A Baltimore clock with its fine inlaid design of vines and leaves, a Sheraton-styled secretary with painted-glass panels, and a number of ornately carved tables. The walls were filled with tapestries, portraits of family members, and a number of detailed needlework pieces.
“Have you always lived in Boston?” Rebecca began gathering the samples she’d brought with her, pleased that having chosen the fabric she could begin making the slipcovers.
“I spent most of my life on Nantucket Island. My late husband and I came to Boston only eighteen months before he died. For some reason I’ve never wanted to move back. Too many memories, I suppose.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened with interest. “My mother’s parents lived their whole lives on Nantucket Island.”
“Really? What were their names?”
“Edmund and Margaret Stevens, but only my grandmother is still alive.”
Her face beaming with delight, Mrs. Hutton clapped her hands. “I knew your grandparents well when my husband and I lived on the island. In fact, I still stay in touch with your grandmother.”
“Unfortunately, when my mother married my father, it caused a rift in the family.” Rebecca placed the last square of fabric, a blend of dark purple and gold, into her large tapestry bag. “I haven’t seen my gran
dmother since I was a little girl.”
“I admit, she rarely talked about her family but did mention your mother a few times.” Mrs. Hutton let out a soft laugh. “I truly am sorry to hear that you never got to know her, but Margaret always was stubborn. To be honest, it doesn’t surprise me one bit.”
“My mother used to tell me stories of my grandmother’s beautiful flower garden and my grandfather’s whaling ship, the Lady Amaryllis.” Rebecca smiled at the memories. “I’d love to hear more.”
“I have an idea. Why don’t you stay for lunch?” Mrs. Hutton patted Rebecca’s hand. “That will give us time to talk. I believe we’re having Irish stew.”
Thrilled for the opportunity to learn more about her grandparents, Rebecca nodded. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
“First, though, come with me. I want to show you something.”
Rebecca stood at the window of Mrs. Hutton’s bedroom, admiring the view of the blossoming gardens from the large windows while the older woman rummaged through the bottom drawer of the secretary. Massive oak trees rose up from the green earth, tall and proud, their leaves blowing in the soft wind. Flowers spilled across the edges of the manicured lawn, a stunning mosaic of yellows, oranges, pinks, and reds. Inside, the room was like the rest of the house, full of beautiful furniture, thick carpets, and heavy drapes.
With a large folder in her hands, Mrs. Hutton sat on a padded ottoman and motioned for Rebecca to join her. “I don’t even remember the last time I looked at these.”
“What are they?” Curious, Rebecca sat down beside her.
“My late husband, Isaac, was quite an artist. He never tired of drawing portraits of friends and family.” One by one she pulled out the illustrations, each full of remarkable detail.
“Here. This is what I wanted to show you. These are your grandparents.”
Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat as she took the drawing and held it. “When did he do this?”
“I’d say about twenty-five years ago. I remember this picture in particular. We’d just celebrated your grandmother’s fortieth birthday. Isaac sketched this portrait of them in the garden.”
