Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  I shook my head. “I’ll bet that didn’t come from Maine.”

  “France, I’m pretty sure.”

  “And these are pin cushions?” They’d be more practical. And less expensive. About two dozen soft shapes, from apples to shoes, were in one group. But would Gram use a pin cushion?

  “This is fun,” said Sarah, handing me a silver and blue enameled thimble.

  It had a “D” on it. “Too bad Gram’s name is Charlotte,” I said, handing it back to her. “That would be perfect for someone whose name started with a D.”

  “It’s modern—the Thimble Society had it made as a memorial to Princess Diana,” said Sarah. “So many of these things have history. Some of them came with information, but I’ve been doing a lot of research, too.”

  The elaborate boxes of needlework tools and spool holders were the sort of pricey antiques Patrick had bought for his mother. They weren’t in my price range.

  “Charlotte stopped in yesterday,” Sarah said. “If I wanted to be a Christmas elf I could show you something she admired, but didn’t buy.”

  “Please!”

  She picked up a white oval china box painted with a floral border and a bee on the top. “This is a Limoges needle case. See?” She opened it. “It’s lined inside. There’s also a matching thimble case.” She pointed. “They’re not old—maybe nineteen eighties. But because of that, they’re not terribly expensive.”

  I held the needle case. “It’s beautiful,” I admitted. “And elegant, with the gold hinge. And Gram liked it?”

  “She did. She said she might come back after the holidays to see if it was still here.”

  “How much?” I hesitated. “For both the thimble case and the needle case.”

  Sarah looked at me for a moment. “For a friend? One hundred dollars should cover both of them.”

  I gulped. More than I’d planned to spend. But in this collection, a bargain. And Gram had liked them. “Sold!”

  “Good!” she said. “Charlotte will be surprised—and pleased! Would you like me to gift-wrap them?”

  She’d gift wrapped Patrick’s gifts. Why not? “Absolutely. You’re coming to the rectory for Christmas dinner, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “I told Charlotte I’d bring some Anzac biscuits—cookies. My Grandmum always made them at Christmastime. And a sausage dish she served then, too.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Gram usually has a big turkey, and a smoked salmon and potato casserole. And vegetables, of course. And pies.”

  “You can never have too much good food at the holidays,” Sarah agreed. “And if you have enough, you can enjoy leftovers for a week afterward.”

  “True,” I agreed, already thinking of Gram’s salmon and potato casserole.

  “I’m going to make cookies tonight. Want to come over?”

  Reluctantly, I shook my head. “I have to finish Patrick’s Christmas gift—and work on Paul Carmichael’s balsam pillow.”

  Sarah handed me a bag holding my (now-wrapped and beautifully bowed) gifts for Gram.

  “I’ll see you Christmas Eve, though, at Skye’s,” she said.

  “Probably before that! I don’t want to miss the Christmas parade on the twenty-second,” I said.

  “I’ll be in my shop. Maybe people will be intrigued by my window and stop in,” she said, raising crossed fingers.

  “Good luck!” I said. “And thank you for your advice.” I raised the bag in her direction as I headed for the door. “And for making the pillow for Marv.”

  “It’s kind of cool,” she called after me. “My work could end up tucked in the sweater drawer of an Oscar-winning director.”

  I waved as I left the store and headed home.

  The snow was falling harder than it had been earlier.

  I hoped Skye’s plane wouldn’t be delayed, and that Patrick would be able to cope with driving in the snow.

  He’d grown up near Los Angeles. Not a place anyone learned to drive on ice and snow. I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head.

  In Maine, driving in snow and ice was Driving 101.

  Chapter 11

  “On Earth Let My Example Shine

  And When I Leave This State

  May Heaven Receive This Soul of Mine

  To Bliss Divinely Great.”

  —In 1765, Sarah Doubt of Boston, Massachusetts, embroidered this verse in silk threads on linen. She included a scene of a man and woman holding hands, standing between two trees. Five dogs are sitting on the ground near them, and a bird is flying above them.

  I walked home, full of food and happy about the gifts I’d gotten for Gram. A win-win—a sale for Sarah and perfect gifts to put under the tree.

  I wondered again what Patrick would give me. If he gave me anything. If he didn’t, giving him the pillow I’d made could be embarrassing. But I’d spent weeks on it. I was going to give it to him, anyway. If he was embarrassed—tough.

  Jed had plowed my driveway. It had been snowing a little more today than usual.

  I wasn’t planning to go out again, anyway. I stomped on the mat outside my door to shake the snow off my boots, and went in and turned the tree lights on.

  My tree was beautiful. Perfect. Just the way I wanted it. I touched the angel Mama had given me, for luck and remembrance.

  Now all I had to do was figure out the rest of my life. And I wasn’t going to worry about that tonight.

  Trixi was sound asleep in the armchair near the fireplace. She had the right idea even though I was depending on my furnace today. For a moment I thought about lighting a fire. But, no. It would need tending.

  I needed to stitch.

  I turned on Christmas music, poured myself a cup of tea, added a little brandy (for warmth), and settled in on the couch across from the tree.

  Several hours passed easily.

  I was focusing so much on my work that the telephone’s ring startled me.

  “Angie! We’re home.”

  “Patrick?” I glanced at the clock. It was almost five o’clock. “You just got home now? I thought the plane was getting in about two.”

  “It was delayed because of the snow, and I drove home pretty slowly. There’s some ice under that snow out there.”

  Not unusual. “But you’re back, safe and sound. How’s your mom?”

  “Weary. But she loved all the decorations and the tree, and was delighted to find Mrs. Clifford in residence and a pot of chowder on the stove.”

  “Good.”

  “The only one not delighted was Blaze—the young actress? You should have seen her walking across the snowy airport runway in three-inch heels. She bitched the whole way home. And then she wouldn’t eat the chowder. Turns out she’s a vegetarian.”

  “She sounds charming.”

  “Mrs. Clifford made her a peanut butter sandwich. I figured that was good—after all, we’ll be having supper later tonight. But Blaze complained the peanut butter was too oily for her complexion.”

  “Really?”

  “I didn’t pay much attention, to tell the truth. I was too busy schlepping luggage.”

  “So you’re both the chauffeur and the bellboy?” I almost laughed, thinking of Patrick, who was used to having people take care of him, in those roles.

  “I’m whatever they need. Except cook. Mrs. Clifford has that job in hand, thank goodness. Which is why I’m calling you now. Mom is dying to see you. She wanted me to invite you for supper.”

  “Tonight? I don’t know any of her friends. And doesn’t she want some time with you alone?”

  “We talked a little in the car, although I was focusing on the road, not on her. I suspect she wants you to assure her I’m taking care of myself even when she’s across the pond.”

  “Does she remember you’re thirty-two years old? Old enough to take care of yourself?” I thought of the ten years I’d lived in Arizona. As far as I knew, Gram hadn’t been worried about me. If she had been, she hadn’t told me.

  “She got very
maternal last summer, when I was burned. But I know she wants you to come for supper.”

  “You get Maine native points for not calling it dinner.” I sighed and stretched my legs. Maybe it would be good to get out. Although I didn’t look forward to meeting all of Skye’s luminary friends. “What time is this meal?”

  “Eight. But the bar will open at six-thirty.”

  “Let me guess—you’re the bartender, too?”

  “Bonus points for guessing what supper will be.”

  “I have no clue.”

  “Mrs. Clifford had planned salmon for dinner. But since Blaze doesn’t eat fish . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a casual evening. Nothing fancy. She’s making individual pizzas—pick your own toppings. That way Blaze can have all the vegetables she wants, and everyone else can have local sausage or bacon on theirs.”

  “Mmmm. Sounds creative and good. I’d go for the sausages.”

  “Woman after my own heart. So—you’ll come? Early? So we can have a little time at the carriage house before I open the bar?”

  “It’s about five now,” I reminded him.

  “Then move that lovely rear end, lady! I turned the outside lights on, and the candles are glowing.”

  “I’ll feed Trixi and be on my way.”

  Feeding Trixi didn’t take long.

  But deciding what I’d wear was a challenge. I stared into my closet. Patrick had said supper at Aurora was casual. But what did Hollywood folks consider casual? Were individual pizzas considered worthy of a skirt? I didn’t even own a skirt.

  I glanced out the window. Members of the Chamber of Commerce had set small potted pine trees around the edges of the Green and wound their branches with hundreds of tiny white lights. The lights were reflected on the snow. It had snowed most of the day, although right now it was only flirting, as Gram would say.

  Christmas in Haven Harbor looked the way it always had.

  It was my town. I decided to dress as though I was going to have dinner at, say, Dave Percy’s house. If the others were more dressed up, they could consider me local color. It was a cold, snowy night, and I was going to be comfortable.

  Navy wool socks, jeans lined with red flannel, a red plaid flannel shirt, topped with a navy wool fisherman’s sweater. I looked in the mirror. I could have been in an L.L. Bean ad.

  But—okay. I’d add my Bean boots and make it official. Only Patrick would care who I was or what I was wearing, anyway. And he’d seen me in considerably less coordinated attire.

  My car was in the barn. I didn’t even have to brush the snow off the windshield.

  The roads were clear, if white. Maine road crews kept streets clear in all but blizzard conditions.

  He opened the door of the carriage house before I had a chance to knock.

  “I wasn’t sure what to wear,” I admitted.

  “You look beautiful as you are,” Patrick assured me. “You’re authentic.”

  Authentic? Was that like “an authentic Maine woman,” who lived in a “classically Maine home” decorated for a “traditional Maine Christmas”? I decided not to ask.

  Patrick looked up at the sky, which had suddenly cleared and was full of stars. “Tonight is beautiful. Don’t take your jacket off. I’ll get mine and let’s go for a walk.”

  Stars lit the sky, and the moon was full. He was right. It was a beautiful night.

  I loved when Patrick got excited about Maine—especially Maine winters. I’d been hoping he’d love them as I did, and not long for the warmth of southern California. So far his reactions had left no room for doubt.

  He reappeared in a few moments, fully equipped in a down jacket and his own L.L. Bean boots. He held out a gloved hand to me. “Let’s go over to the field in back of Aurora. Without trees nearby we should be able to really see the sky.”

  I squeezed his hand. “Don’t tell me you’re an amateur astronomer?”

  “Took a couple of courses in college. That’s all. I always loved the stars. They’re not just in Maine, you know. You can see them over the Pacific Ocean as well.”

  “They even had stars in Arizona,” I assured him as we headed toward the field. I squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you called me.” We walked a little farther. “I’ll admit, I’m nervous about this evening.”

  “Why? You know Mom. You’ve always gotten along with her.”

  “True enough. But these friends of hers . . . help me, Patrick. Cue me in so I know what to expect.”

  He sighed. “They’re people, Angie. Just people.”

  “People whose pictures are on television and in movies. People with fan clubs. Not people like me.”

  “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But I’d rather be with you than with any of them.” He tweaked my nose. “Except Mom. I like my mom.”

  “I do, too,” I agreed. “That’s why I want her to have a relaxing Christmas.”

  “I suspect that’s not going to happen. She doesn’t bring colleagues home with her unless it’s a special occasion. But this group of people? I’m guessing she hopes getting them into a different environment will ease tensions and let them resolve whatever their issues are.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a fun vacation.”

  “It doesn’t. I agree. All we can do is keep life flowing so Mom doesn’t have to worry about organizing anything, and stay out of the way if anything gets tense.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “It’ll be fine. I’m sure,” Patrick said again.

  Was he trying to convince himself?

  “So . . . tell me about these people. I Googled Paul Carmichael. According to fan magazines he’s handsome and charming, and was arrested for starting a small riot at an Edinburgh pub a couple of weeks ago. He also has a reputation as a ladies’ man.”

  “So . . . you’ve got the goods on him.” Patrick smiled. “I’d only met him a few times before today. I don’t remember he and Mom working together before, but the producer wanted him in this film. Last summer she told me he’d insisted Blaze Buchanan also be hired, as a condition of his employment. I assume she’s his latest lady friend.”

  “He must be a great actor, and really popular, to be able to sway the producers.”

  “He’s had several hits recently. Romantic suspense and action movies.” He glanced at me. “I don’t keep up with the fan magazines or show business news. Movies are Mom’s business, not mine.”

  “Okay. What about Thomas and Marie O’Day?”

  “Married. Writers. Not always a smooth marriage. Been divorced and remarried a couple of times, but always end up together, probably because they write well as a team. Mom’s been in their films before. I don’t remember any special problems. Nice people.”

  “And the director? Marv Mason?”

  Patrick hesitated. “Short. Stubby. A perfectionist; not easy to deal with. Mom’s always said he was full of ideas, some of which are crazy, but some of which are genius. He and she had a ‘close relationship’ once. Only temporary. Romances on movie sets can be intense. People are away from home and working together ten, twelve hours a day.”

  “I’ll meet them all soon.”

  “You will. Mom and Blaze said they were going to nap, Paul and Marv were making phone calls, and the O’Days were in their room when I left the house. And, thanks to you and the other Mainely Needlepointers, the house looks great, the food should be plentiful, and we’ll even have carolers unexpectedly arriving on Christmas Eve.”

  “Reverend Tom called you to confirm that?”

  “First thing this morning. The Haven Harbor Congregational Church choir will have new robes in January.”

  I shook my head. “Everyone has something to trade. It’s an old Maine tradition.”

  “Not unknown in Hollywood, either,” said Patrick. “Although this may be the first time the deal involves choir robes.”

  His shoulder touched mine. My nose was brittle with the cold, but I felt warm next to him.

  “Didn’t you once say you
liked the snow because it covered all the dirt and grime, and made the world sparkle?”

  “I did,” I agreed.

  “Then you’ll be pleased to know that the next few days will really sparkle. It’s going to snow again. And I heard there might be a nor’easter heading this way.” He grinned. “I hope it hits; it’ll be my first serious Maine storm.”

  I shook my head and smiled. It wouldn’t be my first.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured me. “Mom’s friends won’t be a problem.”

  He was probably right. After all, I liked Skye.

  I didn’t know what dealing with his “just people” meant. Or even what would happen in the next few minutes.

  Chapter 12

  “Diligence, Industry, And proper improvement of time are material duties of the young and the acquisition of Knowledge is one of the most honourable occupations of youth.”

  —Stitched by Catharine Willsey Van Cleve in 1829 at Mrs. Haywood’s School in Hackensack, New Jersey. Catharine was born May 30, 1819.

  The temperature was dropping. Patrick and my steps crunched into the thin layer of ice now covering the new snow. When we reached the highest point of the field behind Aurora, we stopped.

  Every room in the estate was lit, and the lights were reflected on the snow and nearby trees. A year ago Aurora had been a broken-down, deserted, Victorian house Haven Harbor considered an eyesore. Thanks to Skye West it had now been restored to its earlier glory.

  My personal plans might be discombobulated because Skye was here with her friends, but it was her home (or at least one of them), she was Patrick’s mom, and it was good to see Aurora welcoming guests, as it had for generations before being abandoned.

  On summer days you could see boats coming in and out of Haven Harbor from the field. This December night the view was of the Christmas lights on buildings downtown that ringed the harbor itself. Haven Harbor Light stood alone on the southern end of the C-shaped village, its blinking lights warning ships off the high ledges protecting the harbor.