And then, as suddenly as the moment came, it passed. Gone. Poof. Disappeared. Pushed away in an instant.
Rose straightened up, shoulders back, and took a deep breath. Her shoulders shifted and fell into a comfortable place; her smile lifted to the sky. Head over heart. Namaste.
She took a step back from the curb as a freckled-faced boy flew by on a skateboard, his hair flying wildly and his grin proud and wide. Rose grinned back, feeling confidence fill her bones and her mind. She continued on down Harbor Road.
Parts of downtown Sea Harbor appeared untouched by the years. Sights and sounds were familiar: people heading home from work, fishmongers packaging up the day’s catch. And the incessant caw of the gulls and blasts of the lobster boats’ horns coming in after a long day. It was comfortable. Easy. Not foreboding.
She slowed as the familiar blend of garlic, olive oil, and tomato sauce assaulted her senses wondrously from Harry Garozzo’s deli. She stopped and looked through the window. It was still there, the ratty, slightly sun-bleached sign in the window. SEA HARBOR’S ONLY TRUE MUFFULETTA, it read. And the only one, people joked.
But what Rose remembered best was that Harry offered half muffulettas—for delicate appetites, he said—but Rose always got the whole roll, stuffed with briny, garlicky vegetables and every kind of salami and cheese known to man. Fat and thick and dripping with flavor. And she always finished it and it always made her happy, even when she went home with a button on her jeans loosened, her shirt pulled awkwardly over it. She pressed one hand on her abdomen, along with a grimace of shame. Even her dad only ordered the half.
Harry’s deli would be here forever, she thought. People like Harry Garozzo didn’t die. Without even looking, she could imagine the talkative Italian baker inside, his apron stained, his voice loud and welcoming as if he were standing in front of her, handing her the hefty sandwich.
The idea of coming back to Sea Harbor had rolled around in her mind for a long time, but always back in shadowy corners. Her mother talked about it, wished for it. Their reasons different, but both compelling and real. And necessary.
Rose would twist and turn the idea around until reasons for not returning had been smoothed away, erased completely, and revisiting the seaside town had been a given. Something she had to do.
It was true that she wanted to see the beauty of Sea Harbor through her mother’s eyes, to savor it in a way she never had. But the reason she needed to come back was to throw away fragments of the past that were no longer a part of Rose Woodley Chopra.
Her old therapist, and then friend, had weighed in heavily. Many times. “Do this,” Patti had intoned. “You’re one strong lady, Rose Chopra.”
Rose knew she was strong. Strong and mighty her dad used to say, his way of complimenting her height, the extra pounds she’d carried then, her strong face. But that same physique, when wrapped around a painfully shy preteen, was described differently by others.
She had stayed quiet and let Patti go on listing reasons why Rose needed some time near the sea, time to remember the places and pockets of the small seaside town that were truly magical. The place her mother loved so much she composed poems about walking by the sea.
The sea and me,
Its healing rush.
Infinity in its caress.
She had tuned back in to her therapist just as Patti finished her list.
You promised your mother you’d take her back to the sea. A promise that carried her through chemo and injections and excruciating days.
And you promised yourself, too. To do it for you, Rose. Patti’s soft voice was caring and loving, even when she asked, And what happened, Rosie? You waited too long. And she died.
Rose had felt the air being sucked out of the room.
And that’s when she packed her suitcase and headed to Massachusetts.
Rose realized she was now a block past Harry’s deli, standing still on the sidewalk again. Like a statue.
“What do you think?”
The voice wasn’t Patti’s and it was no longer inside her head. It came from near her elbow. Rose looked over.
The woman wasn’t looking at her, but at a shop window a yard or two in front of them. Her hands were on her hips, her head cocked to one side.
Rose was about to ask the woman what she was talking about. And then she stopped, her eyes concentrating on the stranger who had just spoken to her. The woman was about her own age, no, younger maybe, but that was where the similarities stopped. She was exquisite, that perfect beauty that stared out at you from the cover of magazines. Unnatural. Unreal. The woman’s looks made Rose feel naked—as if every one of her own imperfections was suddenly in bold relief as she stood near the stranger. She had an urge to turn and walk away.
It wasn’t until the woman’s expression turned to confusion that Rose realized she was staring at her.
“You don’t like the window display?” the woman asked. Then, as the woman brushed a strand of platinum hair over one shoulder, Rose realized her first impression was wrong. This wasn’t unnatural beauty. It was the opposite. Pure, natural. Unaffected. Not a spec of makeup. She wasn’t tall like a model, but small, delicate looking, but her tight jeans showed muscles beneath. And her Harvard sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, indicated the woman could probably hold her own. Rose wondered briefly if she even knew she was utterly stunning—or if she cared.
Rose pulled her eyes away and looked at the display window.
Her eyes widened. “Whoo,” she said, lifting one hand to her chest. The sound was more a breath than a word, like the sound one made when seeing a famous museum piece for the first time. She stepped closer.
On the other side of the window was a cave, a hollowed-out shape made of something Rose couldn’t identify. Papier-mâché, maybe? She had made some with her sister’s kids last Christmas. But this wasn’t a child’s molded rabbit or bird or a tree ornament.
The cavern-like structure was filled with gravity-defying formations—and they were all made from silky strands of fiber: icy gray and blue yarns. Stalagmites and stalactites knit into slender shapes, some that seemed to grow up from the floor, others hanging, shimmering from the ceiling of the cave. Tiny lights hidden in the crevices lit the cavern’s beauty.
Rose took off her sunglasses and looked more closely into the scene.
A movement on the floor of the display window pulled her eyes down to a calico cat, unfurling from a nap. It sat up and looked at Rose as if they’d met before.
Rose stared back. The cat tilted its head to one side, its green eyes keen and strangely insightful. So, it seemed to be saying, you’re here. Now what?
Rose shifted from one foot to the other. Finally she pulled away, embarrassed that she had almost answered the animal.
She turned to the woman, who was still standing next to her, waiting. “It’s amazing. What is this place? Heaven?”
“Sort of. Yes,” she said, a hint of a smile in her voice for the first time.
But her face was still, and Rose wondered if she was one of those models who was told not to smile, to keep the wrinkles away. Rose felt a reserve in the woman, or maybe, she supposed, it could be shyness, although why would someone who looked like she looked be shy?
The woman went on talking. “It’s a great yarn shop. I’m surprised there are still people in Sea Harbor who don’t know about it.” She paused, then looked directly at Rose as if assessing her. Finally she reached out her hand. “Hi. I’m Bree McIntosh.”
Rose took the outstretched hand, the woman’s friendly gesture a nice surprise, one that lessened the distance Rose had imposed between them. “I’m Rose Chopra. Did you create this window? These absolutely gorgeous pieces of art?”
“It’s nice you called it art. Some people might not see it that way. Yes, I helped. It’s a group effort,” she said. “I’m a disaster at knitting sweaters and
mittens. But I love to turn yarn into art, twisting and turning, playing with colors. We’re having a fiber art show over in the Canary Cove Art Colony, and the display is partly to advertise that. I’m glad you like it. Be sure you come to the show.”
“I love it and I will if I’m still here. It’s amazing. And so is the cat. Did you knit it, too?”
Bree laughed. “That’s Purl. She’s a love. The yarn shop mascot.”
“So you work here?” Rose asked.
“I help out when they need me. I’m teaching a class for Izzy and doing some things over in the art colony, too. Art is my therapy. Well, therapy on top of therapy. I’ve had both.”
Rose looked at her, for a minute surprised. But she shouldn’t be. Therapy wasn’t her private domain. But, even after her own years of therapy, it still surprised her when someone who looked perfect needed therapy, too.
“You should come to a class, Rose. They’re fun.” Her voice was warmer now, as if somehow Rose had passed a test and they were connected.
“Maybe I will,” she said. “Is the shop new?”
“I don’t think so—but I’ve only been in town a few months, so what do I know? Someone said it used to be a bait shack. Kids would sneak cigarettes and smoke behind the garbage cans near the seawall.”
A bait shop. Rose remembered it now. An ugly, smelly place with cracked windows and peeling paint. Her mother had warned her never to go inside—the smell would never come out of her school clothes, not to mention the danger that might lurk behind the bins of unsavory wiggly things. And she remembered the boys in the back, too. The cool boys. Smoking and sometimes worse things.
She had heeded her mother’s advice about the shack and instead sought the safe and quiet sanctuary of the bookstore next door. Rose glanced over, pleased to see it hadn’t changed much at all. A new paint job, maybe, but the gold painted letters on the glass door were the same—SEA HARBOR BOOKSTORE—with its creaky hardwood floor and the nice couple who didn’t mind Rose curling up in a chair for hours, a stack of books at her side and her shirt smudged from the chocolate-covered peanuts she’d pulled from her backpack.
She had loved that store. And the owner’s son, too. Her first silly crush. Danny, the tall, lanky popular kid, lots older and wiser than Rose. One day when he was helping his dad he’d noticed her huddled over a book, and he’d glanced down and read the title out loud. She still remembered it—Dandelion Wine. “Hmm,” he’d said. And then he said that he liked Ray Bradbury, too. When he walked on, Rose wondered if he had heard the pounding of her heart or knew that his words alone had elevated Ray Bradbury to the status of genius.
Beside her, Bree McIntosh was saying something as cars rushed by, horns honked, and late afternoon shoppers moved in and out of shops. But for a brief moment Rose’s memory blocked out all the sounds.
Finally she shook it off and turned back to Bree, but the blonde woman had turned away and was moving off down the street.
A man, leaning against a fence just a short distance from the yarn shop, seemed to be watching her. She probably got that a lot, Rose thought.
She watched as the slender, gangly-looking man pushed off the fence as Bree drew close. He stood tall, his thick hair pulled back in a ponytail. Everything about the man looked rough and messy to Rose. Even the bright orange bicycle next to him. He lifted up his sunglasses and continued to watch the woman coming toward him, and for a brief moment, Rose wondered if Bree would be all right. Then she scolded herself. She was in Sea Harbor. Of course she’d be all right.
She shook away the thought and turned back to the yarn shop, surveying it more carefully. Fresh paint, a bright blue awning, windows that sparkled. Everything about it was welcoming, including the sign above the door. THE SEASIDE KNITTING STUDIO.
At that moment, the shop door opened and several women walked out, laughing and carrying canvas bags with identical yarn logos printed on the side. One of the women glanced over at Rose and smiled. About Rose’s height but slightly broader in girth, the woman wore a bright yellow blouse, tied neatly at the neck with a small bow. She paused, then cocked her head and opened her mouth as if to say something.
Rose shifted uncomfortably beneath the woman’s look. But then the woman closed her mouth and shook her head slightly, as if apologizing for her stare. She turned away, stepping off the curb and following her friends across the street, horns honking to hurry them along. Rose watched their reflections in the yarn shop window as they gathered on the opposite sidewalk, mouthing good-byes before scattering in different directions.
The woman in the yellow blouse pulled open a heavy glass door between McGlucken’s Hardware Store and an ice cream shop and walked inside. It was a door Rose knew well. It led to creaky wooden steps, a musty hallway above, and small offices huddled above the shops.
Rose remembered climbing those steps every week, heading up to her orthodontist’s office, where her mouth had been filled with wires. Unconsciously she put a finger to her lips. The teeth were straight now, but the procedure never quite pulled her front teeth together. It didn’t matter, her mother said. Gladys Woodley could name—and frequently did—every movie star with the tiniest space between her teeth. It was distinctive, her mother told her. And Rose was distinctive and lovely, too.
A scratching on the window pulled her attention back to the calico cat, its mouth shaped into a meow. Waving at her, its small paws moving back and forth on the glass.
Rose leaned down and pressed her fingers to the window, mirroring the cat’s paws.
Come in, the cat seemed to be saying.
Rose smiled at the cat. Okay, she said, and headed to the door.
Read on for a preview of the next
Seaside Knitters Society mystery…
A MURDEROUS TANGLE
by Sally Goldenbaum
Birdie, Nell, Cat, and Izzy are prepping their coziest handiwork for a winter-themed fashion show in Sea Harbor, Massachusetts. But as murder makes waves in their tightly knit coastal village, can the Seaside Knitters prevent a deadly trend from catching on?
Available December 2019
Chapter 1
It would be days later, after the December days took on a new kind of chill, that Gabrielle Marietti would look back on the episode in the cove with a clarity—and a fear—that would startle her.
But on that day—a chilly December afternoon—she felt no alarm or fear or foreboding. Instead, what she experienced was a powerful sense of nature: of deep blue-black water, the salty taste of the air, and the shiver of the cold breeze as it lifted the dark hair on the back of her neck. She’d remember the sun coming through the pine trees and the voices that traveled across the cove. The power of nature.
And then another kind of power. Girl power. That’s what Gabby had thought that day.
But in hindsight, the colors and sounds would change. The breeze turned sinister, the wintry chill a warning. And the memory would make Gabby close her eyes and will it all to disappear.
It was a school day, but her grandmother knew she liked to loosen her legs, wander a bit after being cooped up for too many hours in a classroom. Some days Gabby would wander around the docks, where Cass Halloran’s lobster crews kept their traps and boats, and colorful fishermen wandered around. She loved their stories and jokes and how they welcomed her as if she were ageless, like so many of them.
Other days she and her friend Daisy would head over to Izzy’s yarn shop to help unpack boxes of yarn or watch customers’ kids in the shop’s playroom—the Magic Room, they called it. But the outdoors was Gabby’s natural habitat. That was where she felt truly free. And that was where, one day after school, she’d discovered the private cove that she soon claimed as her own.
Her nonna Birdie said that when she was young, she was that way, too—needing space and time for being alone with her thoughts and feelings. Her nonna liked stretching her arms out wide and shouting into the wind. Something they b
oth agreed didn’t play well in the middle of Harbor Road. But sitting in the cove all by herself, Gabby’s shouts were embraced fully by nature, sometimes with nature whistling or crooning right back at her. And she loved imagining her nonna doing the same thing.
It was through a different lens that Ella Sampson, Birdie Favazza’s housekeeper, saw twelve-year-old Gabby’s need to wander. “Your grandmother worries, Gabrielle Marietti. You keep in touch with her. Always. Always let her know your whereabouts.”
The housekeeper’s words echoed in her head as Gabby checked the time on her cell phone, then tapped in a message: Biking and writing—not at the same time. Heading home soon. What’s for dinner?
Gabby was never sure if the texts were for Ella or for her grandmother. Birdie had told Gabby often that she didn’t worry. Not really, she said. Or at least she tried not to. Pretended not to was Ella’s take. But Birdie was quick to coat both Ella’s comments and her own expressions with the fact that she trusted her granddaughter fully. She knew Gabby had common sense. She knew right from wrong. Gabby agreed.
But Ella had made Gabby swear on a Bible, anyway, promising to keep all worry away from her grandmother. Then Ella had hugged Gabby tightly and told her she loved her like her own child, but she loved her employer more. And if Gabby didn’t do as Ella said, she might be responsible for Birdie having a heart attack, painting the awful possibility vividly enough to give Gabby nightmares two nights in a row.
She loved her grandmother more than almost anyone alive, other than maybe her father. Killing her nonna was a seriously horrendous thought. But for a twelve-year-old who had mostly grown up in a New York penthouse with a globe-traveling father, no mother, and more freedom than God afforded birds (as the cook often told her), reporting in took great effort. But she did it. For her nonna.
And to escape Ella’s wrath.
She slipped her phone into a pocket of her backpack and pulled her knees up to her chest. The old dock rocked beneath the movement, the waves choppy as they hit the shore. Gabby shivered. Winter was in the air. The holidays beginning. She hugged her heavy jacket close.
A Bias for Murder Page 20
