Thread the Halls

by Lea Wait

  Patrick shrugged. “No way to know. Lots of ideas for movies die early. They’d have to have at least a storyboard, if not a full script, and then find backers. It’s nothing to be worried about now.”

  But what if they were serious? When would it be time to get worried?

  Paul was killed in Haven Harbor two days ago. How could his friends already be excited about a new movie?

  Chapter 34

  “LOST: on Tuesday afternoon last, the 18th, by one of Miss Sinnott’s pupils, on her way to school . . . a partly finished SAMPLER; it was folded up in a spotted blue and white handkerchief marked T.K. and enclosed in a black Bombazette bag. There were a half dozen different kinds of sewing silk also in the bag.”

  —Ad in the Washington (DC) Daily Intelligencer, November 21, 1823 (Bombazette is wool cloth finished without a glaze.)

  Sarah had large urns of coffee and hot water plugged in and ready to serve customers (or friends, in our case) with coffee, tea, or cocoa if they wanted a break from Christmas shopping. Or, better still, to sip while shopping in her shop.

  She looked surprised when Patrick and I walked in. “What’s the latest on the murder?” she whispered to me.

  “No updates. Last I heard the police thought the shooter could have been an out-of-season hunter with a bad aim.”

  She shook her head. “‘In this short life That only lasts an hour, How much—how little—is Within our power.’”

  “Emily?”

  She nodded.

  “If Paul was killed by a hunter, that would mean no one at Aurora would be arrested for murder,” I pointed out.

  “You’re right. That would be good. By the way, last night I finished needlepointing the pillow.”

  Patrick and I helped ourselves to cups of cocoa (me) and coffee (Patrick).

  “I can’t take it now,” I said. “Everyone from Aurora is downtown for the parade, and we have to meet to go back to Aurora together. I’m going to collect the other pillows tomorrow morning. I’ll stop for yours then.”

  “It’ll be right here, behind the counter,” Sarah said.

  “How’re sales?” Patrick said softly, so the couple checking out Sarah’s selection of antique iron banks wouldn’t hear him.

  “I’m not making enough to take a buying trip to Paris,” she answered, “but not bad. I was smart to buy that collection of needleworking tools. They’re walking out of the store for holiday gifts. And I sold my whole Schoenhut Circus yesterday.”

  Patrick and I exchanged glances. “What’s a Schoenhut Circus?” he asked.

  “An elaborate set of wooden animals, clowns, and other figures, all hand-colored, with movable limbs. They look like folk art, but they were toys manufactured at the beginning of the twentieth century. I had several dozen figures in inventory, but kept hoping to find more pieces, or an authentic tent, so I didn’t have them displayed. But a collector stopped in and asked if I had any, and I was happy to unpack mine. He bought every piece I had, including wooden stands for the animals and the dumbbells for the clowns. It was a good sale. This time of year sales are especially important so I have cash to buy more inventory for next summer. And speaking of the end of the year . . . did Angie ask you about what to wear Christmas Eve?”

  “She didn’t,” Patrick answered, nudging me.

  I threw up my hands. “Sorry, Sarah. I forgot.”

  “So I’ll ask. How dressy will the party be?”

  “Mom likes to celebrate. The men will be wearing dark suits, I assume, probably with red ties. Men are predictable. Mom’ll wear something fancy—but not an Oscar dress. Short cocktail should do it.”

  I groaned.

  “Is that a problem?” Patrick asked.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “No problem.” Except that I had absolutely nothing in my closet that remotely said “cocktail dress.”

  One more challenge to be figured out in the next forty-eight hours. Thank goodness Sarah had asked, or I would have shown up woefully underdressed.

  I made a mental note to warn Dave and Ruth about the dress code. Dave probably had a suit. But did Ruth have something dressy? I hoped so.

  We dropped our empty paper cups in Sarah’s wastebasket. “Now we’re going to the harbor to see the parade of lights,” I explained.

  “Enjoy! I’ve seen it several years, so I’ll be hanging here,” said Sarah. “Who knows? Other people might want to get warm and come in and find their dream Christmas gift!”

  “It’s Patrick’s first Christmas in town, so we’re doing the whole festival. I doubt if they have lobster boat parades in Los Angeles,” I said, taking his arm.

  “Good guess. I’m looking forward to this,” said Patrick.

  “And it’s my first Christmas back home. From what I’ve heard, the Christmas Cheer festival is more elaborate now than it used to be.”

  Sarah laughed. “The world is, Angie. You guys have fun! And I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Angie—and you on Christmas Eve, Patrick!”

  Patrick and I followed the crowd down to the Harbor. Several people waved at us and we waved back. Everyone in town seemed to be there, smiling with holiday spirit. Boats lining up across the harbor for the parade appeared and disappeared in lightly falling snow.

  “It’s magical,” said Patrick. “Like a movie.”

  I grimaced, and then smiled and took his arm, just in time for the official celebration to begin.

  The Haven Harbor High School band played “Jingle Bells” and “White Christmas” while the high school chorus sang until the crowd joined in. A dozen fishing and lobster boats circled the harbor. The Christmas lights on their decks and rigging, and Christmas trees on their decks sparkled. I spotted Alice and Arvin in their Little Lady and pointed them out to Patrick.

  As the parade of seasonally lit boats passed the town wharf, those on board waved at their friends and other onlookers snuggled in warm hats, boots, scarves, gloves, and fleece or down jackets along the waterfront.

  A cheer went up when the band switched to “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and the Emma Marie, which in summer months took tourists on day trips, appeared from where it had been hiding, behind Second Sister Island. Santa Claus waved from the deck as the boat approached the town dock.

  Next to us, a little girl in braids and a red stocking hat jumped up and down, chanting “Santa! Santa!” as the vessel docked, and Santa and his costumed friends (elves, Frosty, the usual Moose, and, new to me, Santa Claws, a large lobster) disembarked and made their way up the ramp to where Seth’s wagon was waiting.

  Patrick squeezed my hand in delight. “Does Santa Claus always arrive by boat on the coast of Maine?”

  “In a lot of towns,” I agreed. “But he arrives by train in some towns—and by helicopter at several lighthouses.”

  “Helicopter?”

  “Years ago, when lighthouse families were isolated in winter, their lights were navigation points for small planes, and pilots and lighthouse keepers became friends. In 1929 a pilot from Rockland decided to drop gifts and candies for the children in the lighthouses he passed. After that he made it a yearly event, visiting more lighthouses. People called him the ‘flying Santa.’”

  “Didn’t you say on our tour that no one lived in the lighthouses now? That they were all automated?”

  “True. But the tradition continues in some places. The man who began it all died years ago, but other pilots continue the tradition. Santa’s helicopter lands near a lighthouse, and he gives candy and sometimes small toys to local children on the peninsulas or islands. The tradition’s even spread to other states. Flying Santas deliver candy to lighthouses as far south as Long Island in New York.”

  Patrick grinned. “So many things to learn about Maine.”

  Santa and his friends climbed onto Seth’s wagon, along with the thrilled children Ed had recruited to accompany them. The band led the way, followed by what seemed like half the residents of Haven Harbor, from the high school and middle school cheerleaders to the library staff to re
presentatives of various service clubs. The other half of Haven Harbor’s population stood on the sidewalks and clapped or waved.

  I should pull a float together next year for the Mainely Needlepointers, I thought, as Patrick and I stomped our feet in the cold and cheered for all the participants, from the Pumpkin Patch Day Care Center to the Haven Harbor Hospital Auxiliary to the float of senior citizens from the local assisted living center.

  I waved at Gram and Reverend Tom, who were walking with the Congregational Church Choir that would lead the Carol Sing at the Town Hall.

  We stayed until the end of the parade. A couple of times I looked around for the others from Aurora, but didn’t see them. When all the floats and marchers had passed, Patrick and I joined the crowd heading up the hill to where a large tree-shaped stack of lobster traps lit with white lights was in the center of the Haven Harbor Town Hall lawn.

  When I was a child the tree had been made of wooden traps. Now wooden traps were “vintage,” as Sarah would put it. Summer visitors bought them, covered them with glass tops, and used them as coffee tables in summer cottages. Traps used by lobstermen today—and the tree in front of the Town Hall—were made of stainless steel. They were lighter to haul and lasted longer than the traditional wooden ones.

  The trap tree had been a part of Haven Harbor’s Christmas for as long as I remembered.

  Ahead of us the choir and the high school chorus were singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

  I reached up to kiss Patrick’s cheek.

  Haven Harbor was a wonderful place to live. How could I ever have left?

  And despite a few issues, it was December 22, and everything would work out perfectly.

  How could it not? Patrick was right. It was magic.

  Chapter 35

  “A garland of flowrets so gay

  The works of the God of all truth

  I have wrought with attempt to display

  While in the blest sunshine of youth.”

  —Words stitched in the center of a wreath of flowers by Ann Ward of “Washington City,” in 1826, in silk on linen. Ann was the daughter of Irish immigrants who operated a dry goods store on Pennsylvania Avenue. She married Joseph Little Peabody, another dry goods store owner, in 1834.

  Patrick began scanning the crowd for his mother and her guests as we waited for Santa to address his followers and the community Carol Sing to begin.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing toward a group of people standing slightly apart from the rest of the crowd. “Let’s join them.”

  I followed, reluctantly. I’d hoped to spend a little more time with Patrick.

  But as we approached the group, I realized the men and women surrounding Skye and Blaze weren’t waiting for the town sing to begin. They were asking for autographs and posing for selfies with the actresses. Carly Tremont was one of those in the crowd. That woman seemed to be everywhere! But where else would she be but at the festival? And now that Skye had invited her to the Christmas Eve party at Aurora, we’d be seeing her again at least once more this week.

  Skye’d often said she was a private person, but she’d been the one who’d decided to come to a public event where she was sure to be recognized. I remembered dreaming of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio after Gram bought me the VHS tape of Titanic. I watched it a dozen times when I was a young teenager. It was the most romantic and tragic story I’d ever seen. If Kate or Leonardo had come to Haven Harbor, I would have the first in line to meet them. A rolled-up Titanic poster was still in the back of my bedroom closet.

  On the other hand, most of those talking to Skye and Blaze weren’t teenagers.

  The photographers who’d been following the Hollywood group had withdrawn to the other side of the street. They’d taken dozens—maybe hundreds—of photos today, and Haven Harbor autograph-seekers weren’t subjects that would interest editors.

  Luckily, Skye and Blaze didn’t seem to be objecting.

  The fans were ignoring Thomas and Marie. . . . Who would recognize a screenwriter? They were standing to the side, conspicuously bored with the scene.

  Another group of Haven Harbor residents was surrounding Marv Mason, some of them pushing their children or teenagers forward. I recognized some of the families from church and others from around town, although none were close friends. Ed Campbell was with Marv, taking notes, as the director spoke with individuals and photographed some of them.

  I had a sinking feeling. “What’s that all about?” I asked Patrick.

  He shrugged. “I’m guessing Marv’s collecting names of potential extras for the movie he’s dreaming of setting here. That’ll start people buzzing. He likes buzz. And so do the producers he’ll be looking for to fund the production.”

  “Can’t you stop them?”

  “Me?” asked Patrick. “No way. You’re the one who introduced Marv to that Chamber of Commerce guy.”

  I had nothing to do with Marv’s screenplay fantasies—or Ed’s dreams of bringing the world to Haven Harbor and (maybe) selling them all cars. They were both taking advantage of each other and of people in town. Why get people excited about something that would never happen?

  Luckily, at the moment I was about to interrupt the fan group to talk with Skye, the chorus and choir began to sing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Skye took Blaze’s arm and they headed toward Seth’s hay wagon behind the Town Hall. Marv and the other Aurora guests followed her, and so did Patrick and I.

  It was cold, it was snowing, and Skye and her guests had gotten a peek at Haven Harbor.

  If my car hadn’t been at Aurora, I would have gone home now. Only one more day before Christmas Eve. I still had Christmas elf chores to do.

  Plus, Trixi would be missing me.

  I snuggled next to Patrick as we sat in the corner of the wagon and headed back to Aurora. Haven Harbor was at its Christmas best. Lights were bright, candles and wreaths shone from windows, and snow was gently falling in the glow of street lamps designed to look like gaslights.

  No one said much, although Skye mentioned they could watch the town fireworks from Aurora later. Everyone except Blaze was smiling and relaxed as we headed out of town. Blaze was shivering. I hoped she’d bought herself some warmer clothes; she’d retrieved three shopping bags that she or Seth had put in the wagon.

  Paul’s death hadn’t been mentioned all afternoon, and I wouldn’t be the one to bring it up.

  As the snowflakes swirled, I leaned on Patrick’s shoulder and wished I didn’t have to go home alone.

  No one should be alone on Christmas. But I wouldn’t be. Tomorrow was the twenty-third, and the twenty-fourth was Skye’s dinner party, and I still planned to spend Christmas Day with Gram and Reverend Tom.

  When I’d returned to Haven Harbor in May I promised Gram I’d stay for six months. It had already been seven.

  For better or worse, Haven Harbor, Maine, was again my home.

  At least for any future I could imagine tonight.

  Chapter 36

  “In the bloom of youth no ornament is so lovely as that of virtue, nor any employment equal to those of which we partake in fully resigning ourselves to the divine will.”

  —In about 1820 Sidney Fitz Randolphs (a twelve-year-old boy in Virginia) made this sampler that included five alphabets. In small schools and orphan asylums, boys as well as girls were taught needlework.

  I left Thomas O’Day adding wood to Aurora’s living room fireplace and Marie and Marv asking Skye questions about the history of her home. She’d said she didn’t want them writing about the death of her friend. But she was answering questions.

  Sarah had texted me; she’d found a dress she hoped would be perfect for me to wear Christmas Eve. Plus, she had cookies ready to taste. (When had she found the time to bake those?)

  I texted back that I was on my way.

  Patrick’s hug and whispered, “I’ll miss you,” made me hesitate. But I was going to see him the next day. I wanted to make sure I was ready for both Christ
mas Eve and Christmas Day.

  My phone buzzed twice on my way to Sarah’s apartment. Whoever was trying to reach me could wait. I was tired and cold and the roads were slippery. Ahead of me, a car with a North Carolina license plate skidded across two lanes. Someone visiting for the holidays wasn’t used to driving in wintery weather. Luckily, I was able to steer around them.

  I parked behind the building that held Sarah’s shop and apartment, and knocked on her door.

  Inside, smells of pine, from her Christmas tree, and cinnamon and vanilla, from her kitchen, greeted me as warmly as Sarah’s smile.

  “Glad you could come so quickly,” she said, handing me a glass of bright red Danish cherry wine.

  I dropped my coat on a chair near her door. “Brr! That wine looks delicious!”

  “It’s sweeter than the wines we usually drink,” she admitted, “but it looked so much like Christmas I couldn’t resist it.”

  “Your apartment smells amazing.”

  “Cookies,” she nodded.

  “But I saw you two hours ago in your shop!”

  “Mixed them up this morning and put the dough in the refrigerator. All I had to do was preheat the oven and put the cookies on a cookie sheet. Presto!” She pointed at two cooling racks, one covered with oatmeal cookies and one with sugar cookies decorated with red sprinkles. “But if you’re like me, you’re ready for some real food first. I sliced some pepperoni and mozzarella for sandwiches. Okay?”

  “Yum,” I answered. “How do you make those?”

  “Easy. Sip and watch,” she instructed. She turned her oven to broil, split two baguettes (“from the patisserie”), and put them under the broiler to toast. After they were slightly browned, she spread a thin layer of tomato sauce on each one, covered them with layers of thinly sliced onions, pepperoni, and mozzarella, and put everything back under the broiler for a few minutes. What emerged were two deliciously spicy sandwiches.