Thread and Gone

by Lea Wait

  “How’s he doing?” I asked. Patrick and his mother, actress Skye West, had bought an old Victorian house in Haven Harbor last month and were restoring it. Unfortunately, Patrick had been burned in a fire that destroyed the carriage house he’d hoped to make his artist’s studio. “Wasn’t he planning to come back to Maine for physical therapy?”

  “That’s still the plan,” agreed Sarah.

  She’d been attracted to Patrick since the day they’d met. I’d been interested, too. How could a woman not be? He seemed like the whole package: good looking, kind, and even had money. But Sarah had spoken first, and he seemed to have made his choice. I was in touch with his mother, since she’d asked us to reproduce several needlepoint pillows of local birds. Dave had taken on that project. He’d already finished the puffin and was working on the laughing gull. I hadn’t heard directly from Patrick since his accident.

  “Mass General wants him to stay in the burn unit a little longer. He needs more skin grafts.”

  I shuddered. “I hope he’ll be able to come back soon.” And that he’d still be able to paint, I added to myself. Patrick’s hands and arms had been badly burned.

  “He seems to think so,” said Sarah. “His mom had hoped to be here this week, to check on the construction at their house, but her agent insisted she meet him in California. She had a meeting about her movie that starts filming in the fall.”

  Clearly Sarah was keeping in touch with both Patrick and his mother.

  “Oh, and he said to wish you a happy Fourth. I told him I’d be having dinner and seeing the fireworks with you.”

  So he hadn’t totally forgotten me.

  The sun was setting. Purple and orange streaks filled the sky, and were reflected in the harbor.

  “‘And still within a summer’s night / A something so transporting bright / I clap my hands to see,’” Sarah quoted as we watched the sun go down. The fireworks tonight had competition from the brilliant sunset.

  The tide was low, but brisk breezes blew incoming waves farther up the beach than usual. Excited voices calling back and forth to friends and family covered the sounds of the water and wind.

  I remembered standing in this spot, holding Mama’s hand. I’d loved the colors of the fireworks, but hated their loud noise. One year she’d brought my winter earmuffs with us on the Fourth, hoping they’d muffle the sound. They hadn’t. People near us had pointed and laughed. I’ve never seen a pair of earmuffs without remembering that Fourth of July.

  The first flares to go up were blood red. My mind went to other places, other times. The next flare was white, sending ghostlike tentacles across the sky. If I hadn’t been with Sarah I’d have turned and headed for home. I’d felt relaxed and happy today. I hadn’t thought about the past. I didn’t want to remember. But Sarah was smiling and clapping with the crowd.

  The third flare was an exploding blue chrysanthemum that turned the dark night sky a color I’d only seen in postcards of Caribbean waters. North Atlantic waters were deep blue gray or even black, on stormy days.

  Sarah nudged me. “Aren’t they wonderful?”

  I nodded. “Wonderful.” I didn’t tell her the images they’d brought to my mind. Images I hoped would soon fade, as quickly and as completely as the fireworks themselves. Mama’d been gone since I’d been ten. I needed to forget the empty days without her; remember the earmuffs and the warmth of her hand tightly holding mine.

  My life was going on.

  The crowd around us was “oohing” as the fireworks increased in size and complexity and number. Finally the last display filled the sky with colors, drowning out the cheers of the spectators and pushing my thoughts back into the past. We stood there until the last pinpricks of color mixed with the stars.

  “Time for that drink?” Sarah asked.

  We turned and followed the crowd toward the center of town.

  “Definitely,” I agreed. I could use a strong one. Why were good memories sometimes harder to deal with than bad ones?

  “Let’s get together tomorrow to talk about Mary Clough’s embroidery,” Sarah added, as the crowd swept us back up the hill, like a school of fishes pulled in by the tide. “When you bring me that piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie you promised.”

  The Harbor Haunts Café was open year round, and in winter months was a comfortable place to meet friends, get warm, and sip a hot toddy. On this Fourth of July night it was crowded with people I didn’t know commenting on the fireworks and the weather (only a visitor from away would say the weather was chilly on the Fourth) and asking for brands the bartender didn’t stock. A few small tables were outside, for the overflow crowd, but most people were packed in by the bar.

  “Beer?” Sarah called. She’d managed to maneuver herself closer to the bar than I had.

  “Fine,” I called back. Beer was my usual. I wasn’t picky about the brand.

  “Two Shipyards,” I heard her order. “Summer Ale.” I moved next to the wall, where there was a little more space. Or, I’d thought there was space. My arm bumped Nicole Thibodeau, one of the co-owners of our local patisserie. “So sorry,” I said, seeing her white wine dripping down the front of her sweatshirt. “This place is incredibly crowded.”

  “No problem,” she answered, wiping her chest with a napkin. “I was only going to have a few more sips before I headed for home anyway. If I’m lucky, all these people will crave croissants in the morning. This is our first big week of the season.”

  “Where’s Henri?” I asked, looking around for her husband.

  “Not here,” she said wryly. “So I’ll be up way before dawn tomorrow. Poor Henri’s mother has Alzheimer’s, and on top of that, two days ago she had a stroke. He went to see her. He’s talking to the doctors; seeing if she’ll be well enough to go back to assisted living.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, waving at Sarah, who was trying to make her way through the crowd to me carrying our two beers. “Does his mother live far from here?”

  “Quebec,” Nicole answered. “A five-hour drive. Too far to visit on a daily basis, or even weekly, especially in the tourist season. We haven’t seen her often since we opened the patisserie here four years ago. The store is demanding. Now Henri’s saying we should move her here, to be close to us. But medical costs in the US are so much greater than in Canada.”

  I nodded. “That makes it difficult for all of you. Tell Henri I’ll be thinking of him.”

  Nicole nodded. “Merci. I’m worried about her, of course. She’s almost ninety. But I’m hoping Henri can come back and start baking again in a day or two. Fourth of July week means nothing in Quebec. Here, it’s crazy time.”

  I reached for the cold bottle Sarah held out and took a deep swig.

  “Hi, Nicole,” said Sarah. “Was Angie telling you about our little challenge?”

  “Non; I’ve been telling her of mine,” said Nicole. “What challenge?”

  “We’ve been asked to identify a piece of embroidery. It’s old, and may be valuable.” Sarah leaned over toward Nicole and lowered her voice. “It looks Elizabethan to me.”

  “Vraiment?” said Nicole. “That’s fantastic.”

  “A note written in French was with it. We don’t know for sure the note is connected to the embroidery, but we need to have it translated,” Sarah explained, her voice rising a little as the noise of the crowd increased. “Do you think you could take a look at it for us? Translate it, if you could? If the note’s as old as the embroidery might be, it wouldn’t be in contemporary French.”

  “Mais oui,” Nicole answered immediately. “Such a thing could be very valuable. I would be delighted to help. But are you in a dreadful hurry? Because Henri is out of town, and I shouldn’t even be here now. I should be back at the patisserie.”

  “When Henri’s back, then,” I agreed. “And thank you. I’m going to ask Lenore Pendleton to hold the note and the embroidery for us, so nothing happens to them. Before I take the note to her I’ll make a copy for you.”

  “Bring it
down to the patisserie when you get a chance,” said Nicole, reaching around Sarah to add her empty glass to a tray near the door. “Henri should be home in two or three days. At least I hope so!”

  “Our best wishes to his mother,” I added, as Nicole nodded and headed for the door.

  “Henri’s not here?” asked Sarah.

  “His mother had a stroke. He’s with her in Quebec. Nicole was a little panicked about the crowds she’ll need to bake for this week. I’m glad you thought to ask her about that note. I’d already forgotten about it.”

  “I was just reminded,” said Sarah, trying to stay steady on her feet in the crowd.

  “Look who’s over at the bar.”

  I craned my head to see, but Sarah was taller than me. “Who? Liam Neeson?”

  “You wish! No—Rob Trask. He’s with Ob Winslow’s son, Josh, and Arvin Fraser.”

  “Is Mary with them?”

  “No. But Jude Curran, that new hairdresser at Maine Waves, is. And a pretty young woman with long dark hair and tight jeans who looks Indian. Or Pakistani.”

  “Not that you noticed.”

  Sarah grinned. “Actually, I noticed because I heard one of the guys say ‘needlepoint.’ Of course, he could have been discussing his latest sewing project.”

  “Likely. Didn’t we tell Rob not to talk about it?”

  “We did. But that was a couple of hours ago.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing we can do about it now. Rob said he was a sternman. He may work for Arvin. This place is too crowded,” I added as a tall man maneuvered his way between us. “There’s no room even to stand.”

  I drained my beer, and Sarah nodded and put her half-empty bottle on the tray. “Let’s get home.”

  I left her at the door to her store and apartment with a promise to see her in the morning, bearing strawberry-rhubarb pie, and headed back up the hill alone.

  The night was black, the town lit only by the full moon and the stars. Haven Harbor had installed a dozen streetlamps down on Main Street, but as soon as I’d left the commercial area I could have used a flashlight. I usually carried one in my pocket or bag, but tonight I’d only planned to be out for half an hour or so. I’d stuck my keys and a few dollars in my pocket and left everything else at home.

  My porch light was welcoming. So was Juno, who rubbed herself on my legs as soon as I got inside.

  I’d never had a pet. But since Gram’s wedding I’d understood why she’d adopted one. Having a cat meant you didn’t come home to an empty house, even if you lived alone.

  Juno would be moving to the rectory with Gram. Maybe I should think about getting a cat or dog of my own.

  In the meantime, Juno reminded me of my responsibilities. She led me to the kitchen and let me know she could use fresh water and a few treats. I obliged. Gram was going to have to put her on a diet when she got home, but I couldn’t resist Juno’s purrs.

  The dishes piled in the sink could wait until morning. I decided I could use a drink and a treat, too. I got a beer from the refrigerator, cut a piece of the strawberry-rhubarb pie, and sat down at the kitchen table.

  Juno jumped onto my lap and checked out what I was eating. I scratched behind her ears and then put her down. “Juno, it’s just you and me again. But this is my dinner, not yours. Happy Fourth of July.”

  She purred in acknowledgment.

  Despite the mixed memories, it had been a good evening. The food and company had been fine, and the fireworks dramatic. And now Mainely Needlepoint had a new job. I’d have to start working on that in the morning.

  Why hadn’t Rob Trask been with Mary tonight? If he’d been my fiancé I don’t think I would have been pleased at his leaving me on July Fourth to go drinking with his buddies.

  But who was I to judge? I didn’t have anyone to snuggle with tonight except Juno.

  Chapter 4

  Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye,

  And a long tail which she let fly

  And every time she went through a gap

  A bit of her tail she left in a trap.

  —Traditional English riddle/nursery rhyme

  My telephone woke me the next morning. “Gram?”

  “Tom and I were thinking of you last night. How’d your dinner party go?”

  I sat up in bed. “Really well. Your advice on baking the salmon was perfect. How’s the honeymoon going?”

  “We’ve been sightseeing, mostly. Been to a couple of wonderful museums. Now we’re checking antiques shops for Ouija boards Tom can add to his collection and local galleries and craft stores to find a perfect souvenir to bring home. Not that we’ll need anything to remember this trip! And we’re overindulging in French food. I may come home ten pounds heavier. I could become addicted to drinking a bowl of hot chocolate for breakfast, even in July.”

  “Yum. Sounds great!”

  “We’ll be home in a couple of days. Tom has to preach next Sunday.”

  “Don’t cut your trip short. Enjoy yourselves.”

  “Don’t worry. We are. Anything else new?”

  “One thing. We have another piece of needlepoint to identify.”

  “Yes?”

  “Two young people stopped in last night. Rob Trask, Ethan’s younger brother, and his fiancée.”

  “Mary Clough?”

  “You know her?” Silly question. Gram knew everyone in town.

  “I’ve known the Cloughs all my life. They’re one of the original Haven Harbor families. Mary’s the only one left in town now. Her parents died a couple of years ago and she moved in with the Currans to finish high school. You’ve met Jude, their oldest daughter.”

  Jude Curran. She was the girl Sarah had seen at the Harbor Haunts with Rob and Josh and Arvin.

  “She’s one of the hairdressers at Maine Waves,” Gram continued. “She’s a couple of years older than Mary. Cos Curran is closer to Mary’s age. They’ve been best friends since they walked to elementary school together.”

  Now I was sure. Jude was the twentyish hairdresser with the curly red hair who always wore an orange coverall at the salon.

  “Mary must be seventeen or eighteen by now, though,” Gram continued. “Near old enough to take ownership of the house she inherited.”

  “Eighteen in September,” I said. “And planning to sell it.”

  “Sell! Out of the family? That’s a big decision to make at eighteen. I’d heard she and Rob were engaged. She’s young, but maybe she’s looking for a new family. Someone to take care of her. The Trasks are good people. I hope she’s made the right choice. I don’t know why she and Rob wouldn’t live there, in her house. Rob still lives with his parents.”

  “They want to sell her house so Rob can buy a lobster boat. They’re planning to get a smaller place to live in.”

  The silence on the other end of the line told me of Gram’s disapproval. “I hope she knows what she’s doing. With the history that house has . . .”

  “What about the history?” I asked. “Of the house, or the family? Knowing the history might help us identify the needlepoint Mary’s found.”

  “She hasn’t told you?” Gram said. “I know young folks aren’t as interested in their heritage as they might be. But that family has a fascinating history, if my memory serves. You pay attention to anything she’s found in that house.” She paused. “My husband is telling me to get off the phone now. He’s actually found a list of galleries we haven’t visited yet, and he’s anxious to get started. I’ll fill you in on the Cloughs when I get home if you haven’t heard it all by then. Love you!”

  The history of the Clough house? If Mary wasn’t sure about it, who would be? I’d worry about that later. First I needed to get myself up and out of bed. Dirty dishes were waiting for me in the kitchen.

  As was my second piece of pie, along with two cups of coffee. Juno padded back and forth, following me from the dining room to the kitchen as I put everything from the party away except for the piece of pie I’d promised Sarah.

  Then I c
arefully photographed the leather packet, the letter, and the needlework itself, with close-ups, printed them out, and made copies. The first set of copies I added to the “Mary Clough” file I’d started with the contract/receipt we’d all signed last night. Thank goodness for the convenience and speed of computers and digital cameras.

  I could have photographed the items last night and returned them to Mary, but Sarah or I might need to examine them more closely once we were close to figuring out what they were. Plus, I’d had a hunch Rob might have tried to sell the needlepoint even before we’d figured out its story. He’d been a bit too interested in its value, not its history.

  Mary herself might decide to sell it. But she should be the one to make that decision.

  Not that it was any of my business.

  When I’d been her age, ten years ago, I was sure whatever I was feeling would never change. That if I didn’t make a decision immediately, I’d never have another chance.

  I’d taken every dime I had and left Haven Harbor behind. I wasn’t heading toward a specific place or person. All I knew was I wanted to get out of town, get out of a place where everyone knew me and my mother, and judged us both. I wanted a fresh start.

  If I’d owned this house, or the things in it, then, would I have sold them? I might have, I admitted to myself. But I’d been lucky. I’d had Gram. I hadn’t appreciated her then. I hadn’t realized Gram was looking out for the future me.

  Now I didn’t care what my house or its contents were worth to the world. I valued this place, and all it contained, for who’d lived here, and for the memories it held, good and bad.

  I hoped Mary wouldn’t be pushed into making a decision she’d regret. Holding the needlepoint for a few days, or even weeks, might help her think through what she wanted to do with it.

  Of course, she was in love, and especially at seventeen, love was more important than anything else. Especially to a girl who didn’t have a family.