Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  Was Patrick expecting more deliveries?

  I looked out one of the front windows.

  To my horror, a Channel 7 News van was parked outside the gate to Aurora (which we’d left open), and several men were setting up lights focused on a short blond figure carrying a microphone.

  It was Clem. Hadn’t I made it clear Skye and Patrick were off-limits?

  Patrick joined me at the window. “What’s happening?”

  I sighed. “I’m afraid your mom’s house is going to be on Portland’s local news tonight.” I glanced at my phone. “Late news. She’s not in time for the early edition.”

  “But . . . why?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure. But one of Skye’s fans came to see me this morning about a needlepoint job. She said Show Business Daily has been reporting there’ve been problems on the set of Skye’s movie.”

  “So? What has that to do with the truck out front? The movie isn’t being filmed here.”

  “No, but that woman with the microphone?” I pointed. “That’s my friend Clem. Remember—she was at my house when you told us Skye and some of her colleagues were coming here for Christmas. I’ll bet she’s trying to scoop the national entertainment news.”

  Patrick headed for the door. “Well, she’s no friend of mine. I’m going to tell her this is private property.”

  I followed him, shivering in the cold and snow. “She’s not on your property,” I pointed out. “She and her crew are in the street.”

  “Enough!” Patrick called toward the news crew. “There’s no story here. Leave us alone! This is a private residence!”

  “And here’s Skye West’s son, Patrick. Is it true your mother and the stars of her new movie will be spending Christmas here in Haven Harbor?”

  I flinched as the lights and camera turned on Patrick.

  “That’s none of your business,” he said. “Now, leave. You’ve got a picture of the house, and that’s more than enough.”

  “We’re doing a segment on how homes on the coast of Maine are decorated for the holidays,” said Clem, sweetly. “This home is a lovely one.”

  “Out! Turn off those lights and the microphone!” Patrick yelled. “Get out of here!”

  “Clem, he’s serious,” I said. “I told you not to say anything about Skye.” To my horror I saw the camera light was still on. “Patrick, let’s get out of here.”

  I took his arm and turned him around. We headed back to the house, where our teenaged decorating helpers were standing on the front steps, cheering us on.

  It was a circus.

  I was embarrassed on behalf of the whole state.

  The cameras were my fault.

  Clem had been my high school friend.

  How had I imagined this would be a cozy and calm traditional Christmas?

  Chapter 7

  “Not Land but Learning

  Makes a man complete

  Not Birth but Breeding

  Makes him truly Great

  Not Wealth but Wisdom

  Does adorn the State

  Virtue not Honor

  Makes him Fortunate.

  Learning, Breeding, Wisdom

  Get these three

  Then Wealth and Honor

  Will attend on thee.”

  —Sampler worked by Harriet Taylor, aged seven, in 1813. She surrounded her words with four flying angels, a wreathed arch, and columns holding vases of flowering plants. This sampler may be seen at the South Kensington Museum in England.

  After apologizing too many times to Patrick for Clem’s behavior, to the amusement of the high school kids, I volunteered to drive them all home.

  Patrick didn’t need me for anything more today.

  Bev and Patrick were going to finalize the menu for the next few days and make out a shopping list for tomorrow morning.

  “You go along now, Angie. You’ve been a big help to Patrick. Let me take it from here,” she said quietly, patting me on the shoulder. “He needs time alone before the mob comes crashing in tomorrow.”

  I assumed she meant Skye and her guests—not more media or fans. But maybe not.

  “What time are they arriving?” I asked.

  “He says they’ve a plane all to themselves.” She looked up toward the ceiling. “‘The studio provided one.’ Not like us, these folks coming. They’re flying into the executive airport at Brunswick. Patrick’s going to meet them while I get the kitchen stocked and some chowder on to warm for when they get here.”

  “Which is?”

  “Noon, or thereabouts, he says. Depends on weather between here and Scotland, I’d guess.”

  Naturally. I should have thought of that.

  “Patrick!” I called to where he was stacking the ornament boxes in the cellar. “I’m going to take the guys home now.”

  “Thanks, Angie! I’ll call you later.”

  I herded the young men out to my little red Honda (at least it was a seasonal color). Haven Harbor covered a fair number of acres outside downtown. It took almost an hour to deliver my passengers, who were happily counting the fifty-dollar bills Patrick had handed out. They’d already agreed to come back and remove all the ornaments and the tree after the holidays.

  Driving back to town alone, I admired the sparkling white lights on homes and businesses. Arizona could be lovely, especially after the rains, but I’d missed fall colors, the sound of frosted snow crunching under my boots, and the emergence of snowdrops in the spring.

  But I was still getting used to living alone, without Gram. I should have left the Christmas lights on before I’d left.

  I was more relieved than I wanted to admit when Trixi met me at the door and then ran to her empty food dish. She looked from it to me. Is that what psychologists call “passive-aggressive”? I’d only taken a couple of courses at Arizona State, and I didn’t remember much from any of them. But I was glad to be needed.

  I obeyed her clear (if unspoken) command, filling her dish and refreshing her water. Then I walked through the house, turning on the window candles and tree lights, and most of the lights on the first floor. Light made the house feel less empty.

  Despite the moments of missing the house the way it used to be, full of bustle and smells of supper cooking and Gram’s lavender cologne, most days I enjoyed living alone. My home was my sanctuary, filled with memories reminding me of good and bad parts of the past. Gradually I was rearranging furniture and ornaments and pictures to reflect who I was now, or, I admitted to myself, who I wanted to be.

  Tonight, taking advantage of my status as an independent single adult, I decided not to cook dinner or eat anything virtuous. Instead, I nibbled Christmas cookies left from my tree-trimming party, poured a glass of wine, and picked up my needlepoint. Hanging the wreaths and decorating Aurora had tired me more than I’d thought.

  Now I had to make up for the time I’d lost. I’d planned to finish Patrick’s pillow today, and that stitching alone would take most of the evening. Trixi joined me in the living room, making herself comfortable on top of a bag of yarn. By some miracle she hadn’t yet figured out how to pull the skeins apart.

  She’d had a busy afternoon while I’d been with Patrick. Several ornaments were now under the tree. Luckily only two had broken. I checked her paws; no glass shards or fragments. I should have bought unbreakable ornaments for this year.

  I’d been working on Patrick’s pillow since early October. After I finished the stitching I’d still have to assemble it—I’d needlepointed a plain back and bought a pillow to fit inside. All fall I’d been imagining how surprised and pleased Patrick would be when he saw it. Now, selfishly, I hoped he wouldn’t be too distracted by the excitement at Aurora to appreciate my hours of work.

  Plus, now I had to stitch a balsam pillow for Paul Carmichael. The actor Gram (and Carly from Texas) seemed to know all about.

  Out of curiosity, I Googled him. Gram was right. He was good looking. Thirty-three . . . about Patrick’s age. Tall, a former college soccer player,
wavy dark hair that hung over his forehead. Not bad. He’d been the romantic interest in three recent films I hadn’t seen, been arrested for drunk driving in Nevada two years ago, and was linked to several young actresses, including, I noted, Blaze Buchanan. Was that for publicity, or was it more? Based purely on what I was reading I didn’t think he’d value a Maine balsam pillow, even a personalized one. But who was I to decide? I was just a Mainer who ran a custom needlepoint business.

  I glanced at the search options once more—and stopped. According to two fanzines and a newspaper in Edinburgh, Paul Carmichael has been kicked out of the Three Goats pub there for throwing a glass of whiskey at a bartender who’d refused to keep serving him. The article was unclear about what happened after that, but Carmichael had ended up in a local hospital for stitches after the police broke up what sounded like a small riot.

  No one else working on the Pride of Years set was mentioned.

  Maybe Paul’s behavior and injuries were why the movie “had problems,” as Patrick had said.

  In any case, Paul would have healed by now—the event had occurred a couple of weeks ago—and with his director and writers and Skye (and Blaze, if she was his current love, as the fanzines said) in attendance, he’d probably be on his best behavior in Haven Harbor.

  I hoped.

  But I decided not to work on his pillow tonight. It was getting late. Instead, I wrapped a couple of gifts for Gram and Reverend Tom: a bottle of Maine’s Cold River Vodka, made from Maine’s potatoes, two bottles of sparkling blueberry wine, and a locally handwoven red and green scarf for Gram I’d bought at a holiday craft fair the week before.

  It was only December nineteenth. Patrick would be busy with Skye and her guests for the next few days. That would give me time to finish my pillows for both Patrick and Paul, and make a loaf of orange nut bread to contribute to Gram’s Christmas breakfast.

  I was ready to call it a day, but first I called Clem. She had to hear how upset I was at her showing up at Aurora with a video crew.

  She didn’t answer, of course. She was probably in the studio in Portland right now, editing her footage of Patrick and me yelling at her. I left a message for her to call me. I doubted she would. I hoped I was wrong about where she was.

  I put the last stitch in Patrick’s pillow at 10:29. Moments later he called.

  “Thanks for your help this afternoon. Mrs. Clifford is a treasure! She understood exactly what had to be done with the house as well as the food. She’s made the beds, put towels in each room, and added tissues, paper, and pens. She even took pine sprigs left over from the garlands and filled small vases for each of the guest rooms. I’ll admit I was feeling overwhelmed with all that had to be done. She calmed me down and convinced me of one thing for sure: I’m never going to run an inn!”

  I laughed as I turned off the room lights and headed up to my bedroom, phone at my ear, Trixi at my heels.

  Patrick would be great at the hosting part, but I couldn’t imagine him taking care of—or even supervising—the day-to-day maintenance of an inn.

  “Just as well,” I assured him. “You’re an artist and a gallerist. That’s plenty.” I collapsed on my bed, the holiday lights from Haven Harbor’s Green shining in my windows and making patterns on the walls. I’d forgotten they did that at Christmastime.

  “Today I felt like a set decorator,” he admitted. “But it worked, thank goodness. Mom will be pleased.”

  “She’d better be,” I said lightly, but I meant it. “Bev told me Skye and her guests would be arriving about noon tomorrow.”

  “A little later than that,” said Patrick. “I got a text from Mom about an hour ago. Their departure from Edinburgh was delayed. Haar, she called it. She’s estimating they’ll arrive in Brunswick at about two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Could you be free in the morning? I’d like to look at Sarah’s needlepoint tools and have an early lunch before I leave for the airport.”

  “Don’t you have to help Mrs. Clifford with groceries?”

  “Told you she was a treasure! She figured out exactly what we’d need, called a butcher and a fishmonger (I didn’t know they still called them that!) tonight to place orders, and she’ll be at the local supermarket first thing in the morning. She’s also called a local winery and a farm that makes cheese, and placed orders so all she has to do is pick them up. She said she wouldn’t need me. I suspect she can work faster without my asking questions.”

  “I assume you gave her a credit card?” I said, smiling at Patrick’s easy solutions to what I would have thought major logistical challenges.

  “Right. So . . . Sarah opens her shop about ten?”

  “Nine in the morning this week, for the Christmas traffic,” I told him. “And I’d love to join you for lunch. But a needlepoint customer is bringing a chair over tomorrow morning at nine so I can measure it and take pictures. She’s talking about ordering six seat cushions, so that’s a big order. I have to be here.”

  “Understood. What about meeting me at the Harbor Haunts a little past eleven?” he asked.

  “See you then,” I agreed. “And you can fill me in on the needlepoint tools. I’d love to get something special for Gram for Christmas. I could use an extra gift for under her tree.”

  We said our good nights, and I glanced at the clock. Almost eleven. I turned on the local news. I hoped we weren’t expecting any heavy snow in the next couple of days.

  Maine doesn’t always have snow for Christmas, especially along the coast, where temperatures are warmer than inland or in the mountains. But this year it snowed on Thanksgiving, and despite a little melting and a lot of drifting, I hadn’t seen the ground since then. About half a foot was in most places, and drifts were considerably higher. Almost every day another inch or two fell; enough to keep the white world sparkling and clean. Temperatures had already been low enough to freeze the ocean spray on ledges near the lighthouse and rocks framing Pocket Cove Beach.

  I loved this time of year. The snow was fresh and clean. It covered up the good, the bad, and the ugly.

  The Channel 7 weatherman assured us that the possible nor’easter he’d been tracking wouldn’t affect Maine “for at least a few days. No guarantees after that. Better finish your Christmas shopping now.” He ended his broadcast with a collage of the brightly lit Portland Christmas tree across from the library, surrounded by shoppers listening to a local chorus singing carols.

  I reached for the remote, to turn the television off, when the picture changed.

  “In exclusive entertainment news,” the anchor was saying, “Channel 7 has learned that Hollywood actress Skye West, who earlier this year bought a home in Haven Harbor, and whose current movie project, Pride of Years, is rumored to be in major trouble, will be spending the holidays in Maine with her son and several close friends from the movie world.” The picture changed. There was Clem, dressed in her Channel 7 ski jacket and striped wool hat, microphone in hand.

  “Tonight, Skye West’s Haven Harbor home is decorated for her arrival” (cut to shot of the house, with Patrick and me leaving it and striding toward Clem and her crew). “Maine is buzzing about which show business luminaries may be celebrating Christmas here. And, perhaps even more interesting, why? What new project is Ms. West planning at her estate, known locally as Aurora? Details when we know them. Clem Walker, reporting from Haven Harbor.”

  The picture cut out before Patrick and I got to Clem. Back to the studio. “We welcome Skye West and all holiday visitors to Maine, and wish them a very happy stay in the Pine Tree State. What better place to be at this time of year?”

  I clicked the TV off. What better place? Lots of places. Places that would allow Skye and her friends some privacy.

  Damn Clem.

  At least she hadn’t mentioned the names of Skye’s guests.

  Who in town might have seen the broadcast? In a state traditionally populated by farmers and fishermen, where some diners opened at five or five-thirty in the morning and closed at two-thirty in the aft
ernoon, few people except retirees from away regularly stayed up for the late news. But this time of year people might be preparing for the holiday, or checking the weather because of friends and family traveling.

  I hoped Patrick hadn’t seen the broadcast.

  This was just the beginning. If one local channel covered Skye’s visit, other local channels would, too. And the New England network. And that Show Business Daily program. And . . . I turned off my bedside lamp and snuggled under my quilts.

  I needed to get a good night’s sleep.

  Skye was arriving tomorrow. And I had to meet with that fan of hers, Carly, have lunch with Patrick, and then, I hoped, work on Paul Carmichael’s balsam pillow.

  But all I could think about was Skye, who’d bought her house here at least partially because of Maine’s reputation for respecting the privacy of well-known residents and visitors.

  I hit my pillow again.

  Why had I impetuously invited Clem to my Christmas decorating party? Why hadn’t I left the past—and past friends—in the past?

  This was all my fault. But what could I do now?

  I visualized social media spreading the word from Maine to the rest of the world, as Skye’s plane left Scotland and headed for Brunswick.

  At least Clem hadn’t said when they were arriving. Or where.

  But anyone checking local airports could find that out.

  Trixi jumped up, purring and kneading my shoulder. Tonight I didn’t find her amusing.

  I pulled my pillow over my head.

  If only hiding from the press was as simple as hiding from my kitten.

  “Damn,” I muttered as Trixi snuggled her way under the pillow to find me.

  Turned out I couldn’t even hide from a four-pound black kitten.

  Chapter 8

  “An attractive sachet may be made of old-gold plush, embroidered with rosebuds and leaves, and trimmed with lace and bows of ribbon.”