by Lea Wait
I loved that painting. Maine sunsets were explosions of red and orange and purple, too, but they weren’t as showy.
New England constraint, no doubt.
My painting didn’t quite fit in Haven Harbor.
Did I?
Of course I did. This was my family home.
I’d let my mind get lost in the morning fog again.
I poured another cup of coffee and settled myself at the computer. I had bills to send to gift shops closing after the tourist season, and I needed to check on the progress of the needlework projects I’d assigned to the five Mainely Needlepointers.
I was most worried about Dave Percy. He’d taken on a large project—two seat covers and a matching wall hanging—for a woman from Iowa who wanted to take the work home with her at the beginning of September.
Labor Day was only three weeks away.
An hour later I stood and stretched.
It was a beautiful day, as beautiful as I remembered August days had always been in Maine.
I picked up the box holding the (now two) croissants and headed for Dave’s house.
Then I detoured to the post office.
“Morning, Angie.” Pax Henry was tall and thin, and had been the Haven Harbor postmaster since before his red beard was tinged with white. “What can I do for you this morning?”
“One book of stamps, please,” I said, taking money out of my pocket.
“I’ve got birds or flags today,” said Pax, showing me. “You like birds, as I recall.”
“I do,” I agreed. I slid the book into my pocket. “Say, Pax, I was by here early this morning and saw a man waiting for you to open.”
“Ayah,” he answered. “That’d be Jesse Lockhart, I imagine.”
“He the one who lives out on one of the islands?” I asked. The Solitary had a name.
“Does. King’s Island. Don’t have a post office out there, so he picks his mail up here.”
“Get much mail?”
“Now, you know mail’s private, Angie. Between the US government and the one getting it.” He leaned forward. “Gets the usual junk mail and what look like government checks, regular. Guess they’re disability, ’cause of his leg, you know. And letters from a Chicago bank, sometimes. That’s about it.” Pax shook his head. “Fellow don’t talk much. Stops in every week or ten days or such to get his mail. I hold it for him. That’s all I know.”
“He ever send any mail?”
Pax shook his head slowly. “Not that I remember. ’Course, he could be like you, buying stamps and mailing from anywhere.”
“Not from an island,” I pointed out.
“True enough,” agreed Pax. “I don’t know what he might send out. I only take care of what’s coming in.”
“Thanks, Pax,” I said, heading for the door. “I was just being nosy.”
“You and all of Haven Harbor,” Pax said. “You ain’t the first to be asking.”
“Morning, Angie. You’re out and about today.” Jed Fitch, a heavyset man who’d been a football star at Haven Harbor High years before, passed me on his way in to see Pax. “Say—I’ve been trying to reach Reverend Tom. If you see him or your grandmother, tell them Carole and I’ll be happy to be greeters at the church next Sunday. Tom doesn’t need to call me back. He can count on us.”
“I’ll tell her,” I said. In a small town, people knew each other. Jed and his wife had grown up in town, married, had kids, and he was now a part-time Realtor and part-time handy man. Two of the windows in my house were cracked. Maybe Jed could fix them. I turned to ask him, but he’d disappeared inside the post office.
My windows weren’t an emergency. Winter winds wouldn’t hit for three months or so. I’d see Jed again before then.
I headed for Dave’s house. Checking on the needlepoint Dave had committed to was partially an excuse to get out of the house, I admitted to myself, but I hadn’t seen him recently, and talking to Pax hadn’t filled my need for friendship. Dave was usually glad to see me.
July and August were busy months for everyone in Maine. I’d hardly seen anyone but Gram in the past weeks. As Reverend Tom’s new wife, many of her days had quickly been absorbed by the Ladies’ Guild and Summer Bible Camp at the church. She wasn’t known for her singing voice, but she’d even been talked into joining the choir.
Fellow needlepointer Sarah Byrne and I had seen a lot of each other earlier in the summer, but recently Sarah’d seemed tied to her antique shop seven days a week. Most times I suggested we get together in the evening she’d already made other plans.
Ob Winslow was out on his charter boat, and his wife, Anna, had been focusing on her garden and putting up vegetables for the winter. Katie Titicomb was still visiting her daughter Cindy in Blue Hill, and even Ruth Hopkins had been busy, finishing two of her manuscripts.
I was the only Mainely Needlepointer who seemed to feel at sixes and sevens.
Life would slow down after the leaves fell. But that wouldn’t be until mid-October.
Chapter 4
“Jesus permit thy gracious name to stand,
As the first effort of an infant hand,
And while her fingers on the canvas move,
Engage my tender heart to seek thy love.”
—English sampler, worked in wool by Susanna Ebins, age nine, 1839.
School would open in three weeks. Dave was probably already planning for this year’s crop of biology students at the high school.
I raised my hand to drop his brass lobster door knocker, when the door opened in front of me.
“Excuse me,” said a deep, startled voice. The tall man I’d seen at the town dock brushed by me, limping toward the street. Jesse Lockhart’s canvas bags were now full. On top of one I saw cans of vegetables, a large canister of oatmeal, and a box of matches. The other was full of bottled water.
I watched for a minute as he headed down the street. Then I called through the open door, “Dave? It’s Angie. Have a minute?”
“Come on in,” Dave answered. “I’m brewing more coffee. Want a mug?”
“Sure.” Dave made great dark coffee, the way I liked it. “You’ve already had company this morning,” I commented as I joined him in the kitchen. “That man practically knocked me over getting out of here.”
“He’s shy,” said Dave. “I’m sure he was as surprised to see someone as you were.” Two empty mugs were on the counter. He and his friend must have finished the pot he’d brewed earlier.
“Who is he?” I asked. “I saw him rowing down at the pier this morning. I thought I knew most people in town.” I didn’t want to admit I’d been questioning people about him all morning.
Dave poured two mugs of coffee. “He doesn’t live in town. And he doesn’t want to know most people.”
“Arvin Fraser said folks call him The Solitary.”
“Could be.” Dave pointed at a kitchen chair and sat in the other one.
“So who is he?”
“An old friend,” said Dave. “Now, what can I do for you this morning?”
“Everyone needs friends. I’m glad he has you.”
“I’m not going to tell you anything more about him, Angie. He’s had troubles in his life, but now he’s comfortable the way he’s living.”
“Alone? On an island?”
“That’s right.” Dave smiled, closing the subject. “I’m guessing you came to check on my needlepoint project.”
“I did.” I handed him the bakery box I’d been carrying. “And to bring you breakfast.”
He opened the box and offered me one of the croissants.
“No, thanks. I already had two this morning,” I admitted. “Those are yours.”
“Thank you. And you can relax. The seat covers are finished, and the wall hanging is close to done. I haven’t forgotten the client wanted the work done by Labor Day.”
“Great. I just wanted to check.”
“I promise I’ll have finished the order before I take attendance.”
My turn
to change the subject. “I’ve hardly seen you this past month. What’ve you been doing?”
“Needlepoint. Tending my garden. Freezing sauces and vegetables.”
I hesitated. “Food? From your garden?”
“Not exactly,” Dave said, smiling. “I’m a regular at the farmer’s market. My poison garden is one hobby. Cooking is another—separate—interest. Which I probably should emphasize after the couple of murders you were involved with this summer.”
“Which you helped me with,” I acknowledged. “I’m hoping that sort of excitement has died down.”
Dave winced.
“I mean, I hope I’m not pulled into any more investigations. They were my Arizona life. Maine is the way life should be. Right?”
“That’s what the bumper stickers say,” he agreed.
“And the way life should be should not include murders,” I declared. “Have you seen Sarah in the past month?”
“You’re asking me? You and Sarah are close.”
“I thought so,” I admitted. “We helped Skye West clean out her estate in June, and Sarah helped identify that old needlepoint Mary Clough found in July. But she’s hardly answered my calls since then.”
“It’s tourist time. If she’s lucky, her shop has been filled with antique buyers and collectors, and she’s had to add to her inventory. She’s open seven days a week, now, right?”
“From nine until six, like most Haven Harbor shops this time of year. And late Thursday nights during the art walk.”
“I’ve heard keeping all the shops open Thursday night has brought more customers to town,” said Dave. “The Harbor Haunts Café is packed then, too. I’ll be glad when the tourists go home and we get our town back. No wonder Sarah’s busy.”
“I hope that’s why she hasn’t been back in touch,” I agreed. “Still, I may stop in to check on her today.”
“Is she behind on the needlepoint you’ve assigned her?”
“No,” I admitted. “She even left several extra pillow covers on my porch the other day. I just miss seeing her. We used to do things together.”
“I live alone, and Ruth does, and we don’t talk to each other every day,” Dave said, logically. “I’m fine. Enjoying the warm weather and being outside. It’s tourist time. Sarah’s busy.”
“And Ruth’s been editing a book. I’ve called her several times a week, to check on her. The rest of us who live alone are young. I’m always afraid Ruth might fall, or need help.”
“I try to keep in touch, too,” agreed Dave. “And how’s Charlotte doing? I’m not a regular churchgoer, and I’ve only seen your grandmother once, at the post office, since her wedding.”
“She’s taking to married life at the rectory wholeheartedly,” I admitted. “Her new life is filling most of her time. I don’t see her as often as I used to.”
“So you’ve felt alone for the past month.”
Dave had nailed it. “I guess so.”
“Go check on Sarah, then. It’ll make you feel better. And if you don’t have other plans, why don’t you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
Was Dave feeling sorry for me? Was this a date? He was smart and patient, and not bad-looking. We always found things to talk about. But he was also a Mainely Needlepoint colleague. Seeing him socially might be confusing.
Which he picked up on immediately. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. But I’ve had dinner at your house with Sarah and Ruth. I’ve been thinking it’s about time for me to reciprocate. Besides, I have a new recipe for lasagna I’ve been wanting to test. Tomatoes and peppers and spinach are fresh this time of year. And it’s almost impossible to make lasagna for one.”
Dinner with Dave. Who knew what it might lead to? “You’re on,” I agreed. “I love lasagna. It’s one of the many things I’ve never made.”
“What do you think? Shall I invite Sarah and Ruth, too? All the single needlepointers.”
My dinner with Dave had changed to a group meeting. Part of me was relieved. A surprising part was disappointed. “Great idea. We could get caught up with one another before you’re back teaching and the leaf peepers arrive to distract Sarah. And Ruth should be almost finished with her book by now.”
“And you’ll be calling us with Christmas needlepoint orders for the shops soon. So we’re on. I’ll call Ruth and Sarah.” Dave smiled. He touched my hand, briefly. How long had it been since a man touched any part of me? I didn’t want to think. “It’s okay to feel alone, you know. But Haven Harbor’s a small place. There’s also safety in numbers. Friends need to hang together.”
I was smiling as I left his house. Friends. I was lucky to have found several of them since I’d come back to town.
And I was a little concerned about Sarah.
As I headed to Main Street my cell rang.
“Anna! How are you?” Anna Winslow wasn’t a close friend, but I liked her. Like me, she was taking needlepoint lessons from Gram. Her husband, Ob, was one of the Mainely Needlepointers when he wasn’t out on his charter fishing boat.
“Been a rough summer, as you know. But Ob and I are coping. Life’s coming together.”
“Glad to hear that. I’ve been thinking about you both.” And should have called, I added to myself. My being alone was at least partially my own fault.
“Not to worry. Everyone’s running hither and thither in July and August. I called to ask if you’d been in touch with Skye and Patrick West recently.”
“The last I heard Skye was studying a script for a movie she’s making this fall, and Patrick was still in Boston, having therapy for his burns. Why?”
“Because I’m looking out my living-room window right now. The men rebuilding their house have been there for the past couple of months, but the place looks close to finished, and right now there’s a limo over there. I don’t want to run over and ask, but I looked with my birding binoculars, and I’m pretty sure I saw Patrick. Skye, too.”
“I haven’t heard anything,” I admitted. “But I’m on my way to see Sarah. She might have heard. I’ll ask her and let you know.”
“Thanks, Angie. I don’t want to look like a nosy neighbor, but if they’re back, I’d like to take over a casserole or something. Welcome them back to town.”
“Of course. I’ll let you know as soon as I talk to Sarah.”
Skye and her son back in Haven Harbor? That could add some excitement to town. At least for Sarah.
I’d felt chemistry with Patrick West back in June, when he and his famous mother had bought Aurora, an old crumbling estate in Haven Harbor, but Sarah’d seen him first, and after he’d been burned in the fire that destroyed the carriage house he’d planned to live in, she was the one he’d kept in touch with.
Now I had another reason to see Sarah. I’d find out what she knew about Anna’s gossip.
Nothing like a small-towner to have her birding glasses at the ready when something interesting happened across the street.
Chapter 5
“Life is uncertain, death is sure;
Sin is the wound and Christ is the cure.”
—Verse stitched (with an alphabet) by Susan M. Brooks, age thirteen, born July 14, 1824, in Searsmount, Maine.
Sarah’s From Here and There antiques shop door was open. She nodded at me in greeting while she continued wrapping two flowered blue china teacups and saucers for a young woman.
“They’re fabulous,” the blue-jeaned woman was saying. “I’m collecting different patterns of blue cups to display on a shelf that goes all around my kitchen. I heard Martha Stewart collects cups, too. Did you know that?”
“Martha Stewart has a home in Maine farther down the coast, but I’ve never met her,” Sarah said, taking the woman’s credit card. “I’m glad you found these, then. Not many cups are blue and white. They’re special.”
“What a lovely accent you have! Are you from England?”
“Australia,” replied Sarah.
How many times on a typical day did she answer that question
? Sarah did stand out in a crowd. If her accent wasn’t memorable enough, her short white hair streaked with pink and blue was.
I’d asked her several times how she’d ended up here, an antiques dealer in Maine. She’d never answered me directly.
Everyone had secrets. Like The Solitary. Now I knew his name was Jesse Lockhart, and he had ties to Chicago, but neither of those facts explained why he lived alone on an isolated Maine island.
On the other hand, privacy was hard to maintain in a town where neighbors had binoculars.
I wandered around Sarah’s shop until she finished with her customer. I didn’t know much about antiques, but each time I visited From Here and There I learned a little more. I loved hearing her stories about what intriguing-looking items were, where they came from, and what they’d been used for.
Today an unusual doll under a glass globe caught my eye. The doll wasn’t a baby or child; it was a wrinkled old woman, dressed in a tattered brown dress, wearing a long red cloak and large straw hat, and carrying baskets and bags full of tiny toys, kitchenware, and sewing supplies.
I stared, trying to see all the small items in the doll’s basket.
Her customer’s purchase completed, Sarah came and stood next to me. “She’s a peddler doll.”
“Peddler doll?”
“They weren’t for children. In eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century England they were popular decorations for women’s workrooms. See? She’s carrying all sorts of goods to sell or trade.”
I shook my head. “Today we just go to a store.”
“Exactly. But in those days, if you lived outside of a town, peddlers brought what you might need. Plus, they carried gossip, news from other homes and towns they’d visited. Their arrival was a good excuse to stop work and have a good chat. ‘Can human nature not survive Without a listener?’”
Knowing Sarah, that last line was probably one of Emily Dickinson’s. Sarah quoted them at off moments. “Speaking of gossip,” I put in before she recited the entire poem, “Anna Winslow called me. There’s a limo over at Aurora. She thinks Skye and Patrick may be back.”
