by Lea Wait
Sarah walked back to her counter. “Patrick texted me a week or so ago that they hoped to be here soon. His therapy must be over, or can be continued here in Maine.”
“You didn’t tell me!” I said. “We could have prepared food, or filled their refrigerator, or brought flowers, to welcome them back.”
Sarah shrugged. “I’m sure Skye hired someone to get the houses set for them. Patrick picked out furniture for the carriage house from catalogs and ordered it from Boston. He hired a decorator from Portland to set it all up for him.”
I hadn’t known any of that. “So, when are you going to see him?”
“I’m pretty busy right now.”
“I thought he was the man you were looking for! And you’ve been the one he’s kept in touch with!” The one I’d resisted because you’d claimed him.
“I was being overly romantic a couple of months ago. Sure, he’s an attractive guy. But right now I have other things to think about.”
“Your business?” I looked around. It didn’t look as though Sarah was going to run out of inventory anytime soon. And Patrick had left Haven Harbor in a helicopter, heading for the burn center at Mass General. Surely he deserved a welcome back.
“Business. And other things,” said Sarah vaguely.
“Sarah Byrne, is there a new man in your life you haven’t told me about?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking of. Oh, and Dave called. He invited me to have dinner with you guys tomorrow night. I told him I had another commitment. Make sure he knows I really do. I felt bad having to say ‘no’ when he’s never invited us all before.”
“So are you going to tell me about this new person in your life?” I asked. “I’m curious, of course!”
“Not yet. It’s kind of personal.”
“Personal?” I asked.
“Don’t look that way. It’s not bad. It’s just something I’m not ready to talk about.”
“Even to me?”
“Even to you, Angie. But don’t worry. It’s nothing dreadful.” Sarah picked up a stack of business cards on her desk and began sorting them.
Today seemed a day for secrets.
“So, how would you feel if I stopped in to see Patrick and his mother?”
“Go ahead. You and he got along in June. I feel bad that I’ve been ignoring him, but right now I have too many things to think about. Please, be Patrick’s friend. After all he’s been through, I think he needs one.”
Chapter 6
“Make much of precious time while in your power,
Be careful to husband every hour.”
—Verse stitched in silk on fine linen by Mary Batchelor in 1817. Mary was nine years old and lived in Hampton, New Hampshire. She also stitched two alphabets, flower baskets, a deer, a self-portrait, and initials of members of her family.
“Gram, what do you think? Sarah’s acting odd. She has a secret she won’t tell me, and she said she didn’t mind if I spent time with Patrick West. She even encouraged me to stop in and welcome him back!”
Gram’s large yellow coon cat, Juno, filled my lap as I sat in the rectory kitchen while Gram made tomato and cheese sandwiches on oatmeal bread for lunch.
“You’re not in sixth grade anymore, Angel. Why are you asking me? Sarah’s your friend. You both liked Patrick. Before you do anything you’ll be sorry for, be sure she wanted you to pursue him. You know what you should do if your friend has her eye on a man.”
“I’ve never done anything to mess up Sarah’s relationship with Patrick,” I declared.
“You had dinner with him that night of the fire.”
“It was only one time. And it wasn’t planned. Sarah said she understood.”
“You and he had a good time. I could tell, when you told me about it.”
Gram was heating the sandwiches to melt the cheese. Despite the two croissants I’d had for breakfast, I could hardly wait for my sandwich. Gram’s cooking always tasted better than mine, even when I tried to follow her instructions. “You’re right,” I agreed. “We had a lovely evening. Until we got back to Aurora and found the carriage house on fire, and Patrick went in to try to save his mother.” That whole night was one I wanted to forget, despite how it had begun.
“On the other hand, if you’re sure Sarah’s stepping aside, for whatever reasons of her own, and you like the man, do something about it.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple.” Gram put our sandwiches on the table and handed me a napkin. “Tea?”
I nodded. “What if Patrick isn’t interested?”
“Then it won’t go anywhere. But if he’s going to be living in town you’ll be seeing him around anyway. Give the relationship a chance. If it’s meant to be, it’ll work out. If not . . . no harm done. You have plenty of years ahead of you to find the right man. Keep your mind open.”
She was right. But I wasn’t comfortable with the whole situation. “I was at Dave’s house this morning, to check on a needlepoint project he’s doing,” I said, changing the subject.
“Speaking of good men who aren’t attached,” Gram said pointedly, putting our two mugs of tea on the table.
“I like Dave. But he’s a friend,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich. “He’s invited Sarah and Ruth and me for dinner at his house tomorrow night.” Juno raised her head and nudged the edge of my plate. She smelled the cheese. I put her on the floor. This was my lunch.
“That should be fun. You haven’t gotten out much recently.”
“I told him I’d come. But Sarah’s busy. I hope Ruth will be there.”
“Angel, you’re twenty-seven years old. All grown up. You don’t need a chaperone.”
Gram knew me too well. “No,” I admitted. “But maybe I’m not ready for a serious relationship. I need to figure out what I want to do with my life first, before anyone else is a part of it. I don’t want to date someone just so I’m not by myself.”
“That makes sense,” Gram agreed. “You’ve made a lot of changes in your life in the past few months. You need time to settle in a little.” She sipped her tea. “But you don’t know what Patrick or Dave might be looking for. Could be they’re looking for casual companionship, too. Having dinner doesn’t commit you to a lifetime.”
Juno stopping rubbing against my legs and headed for her dish of dry food.
“You’re right. And—before I forget! I ran into Jed Fitch at the post office this morning. He said to tell you and Tom he and Carole would be greeters at the church this Sunday.”
“I’ll pass that on to Tom. Sounds like good news. Carole’s been having a hard time lately.”
“Oh?” I’d met Jed’s wife, Carole, earlier in the summer, but hadn’t seen her since then. Not even at church.
“She’s been to Portland several times for biopsies,” Gram continued. “Last I heard, they’d diagnosed breast cancer and she’d started chemo. Jed’s been taking care of her. I suspect they’re having money problems, too. When he’s with Carole, he isn’t working.”
“Sounds rough. I’m glad you told me. Next time I run into him I’ll ask about Carole.”
“Tom’s visited them a couple of times, and I’ve sent over bread and homemade soup. Their sons are both home this summer, too, although I don’t know how much help they are. And Carole’s said she doesn’t want any visitors yet. So it’s a good sign she’s feeling well enough to be a greeter this weekend.”
Gram and I were lucky. So far we were both healthy. I looked over at Juno, who was chomping on a mouthful of food. “I miss Juno being there when I get home.”
“You’re telling me you miss my cat, not me?”
“Now, Gram.”
“Don’t you ‘now, Gram’ me, Angela Curtis. You’re not sure what you want; that’s clear. Do you want to be an old lady living in that house with a cat or two, the way I was?”
I laughed. “I’m not an old lady yet, Gram. And you weren’t alone very long. Mom and I were with you after Grampa died, and I stayed af
ter Mama left. And after I went to Arizona you found Reverend Tom.”
“True enough. But when you were young, after you were in bed at night, that house was mighty quiet. I missed having someone to talk with. After you left for Arizona, Juno was good company, and a few years later I was lucky to find Tom. But I was a widow in my fifties. You’re young and single. Don’t pattern your life on mine!”
“Okay, Gram. Message received. By the way—when I got to Dave’s house he had a friend there. Or, his friend was leaving. A tall guy, long beard, looked a bit strange. I saw him at the wharf this morning.”
“Rowed in, did he?”
“You know who he is?”
“He arrived in town about two years back and moved out to King’s Island. Comes into town once a week or so for mail and supplies. Don’t know much more than that. Speaking of people who’re alone!”
“Arvin and Rob, down at the wharf, called him The Solitary.”
“I’ve heard folks call him that,” Gram said. “Could be worse names. Seems to want to be left alone, and we Mainers are good about accepting boundaries. If he doesn’t want folks to know anything about him, then, my guess is we won’t. If he was at Dave’s house, then he has one friend. I’m glad. That man’s worried people in town, living out there with only cormorants and gulls to keep him company. Especially in winter storms. Seems I remember the coast guard going to check on him in a nor’easter last winter, but he wouldn’t be rescued.” Gram shook her head. “Each to his own. He’s hurting nobody but maybe himself. And he has the right to do that. There are worse choices in life than preferring your own company to others’.”
If only I could decide whose company I preferred.
“Did you see the yacht in the harbor yesterday?” Gram asked. “Moored outside of Second Sister Island. Too big to anchor inside the harbor.”
I shook my head. “I was by the town wharf this morning, but the fog was heavy. Couldn’t see much. Who’d it belong to?”
“I heard it was Gerry Bentley’s.”
“Who?” I didn’t keep up with the news, and sometimes, I admitted to myself, it showed.
“I can’t explain exactly. I don’t understand all this new technology. But he designed special software for video games, back a while. Made millions. Maybe billions. I read about him in People magazine.”
“Nice,” I allowed. His yacht might make him stand out, but he didn’t have anything to do with my world.
“Ladies at the church said Bentley and his wife anchored their launch at the Yacht Club yesterday and had lunch there. They’re cruising Down East and wanted to take a look at Haven Harbor.”
“Not much to see here,” I said, finishing the last of my sandwich. “It’s not Portland or Camden or Bar Harbor. Just a small harbor town.”
“They stopped at Ted Lawrence’s art gallery, too.” Gram took our empty plates off the table. “Don’t know if they bought anything, though.”
Not that anyone in town paid attention to anyone else.
Ted Lawrence’s gallery was by far the highest-end gallery in town. I’d never ventured inside. Art galleries were beyond my means. I’d found the painting I’d bought in Arizona at a sidewalk art show.
“Lawrence’s customers are almost all people from away,” I guessed.
“His artists are out of my price range, for sure. Maybe the Bentleys were tired of cruising. Or they were curious about the town, or the gallery. They’re West Coast folks, I assume. Supposed to be pretty out there, but it’s not Maine. Good to see folks from there visiting, though. Especially when they spend money in town.”
“Unless they order a lot of needlepoint, I don’t care where they visit. But you’re right. Anyone’s welcome to come to Haven Harbor and spend a little time. And money.”
“A-men,” said a deep voice from the doorway.
“Hi, Reverend Tom,” I said.
“Good to see you, Angie.” He bent over Gram and kissed her lightly. “I think it’s time you dropped the ‘Reverend.’ Now we’re family. I’m Tom. Any chance of a man breaking into this party and getting some lunch?”
“No problem,” said Gram. “It’ll just take a minute. I didn’t know how long your Chamber of Commerce meeting would be so when Angie stopped in we went ahead and ate.” She got up and sliced cheese for another sandwich.
“Meetings are always too long,” said Tom, sitting. “So who’s coming to Haven Harbor to spend money?”
“Rumor is Gerry Bentley and his wife were in town yesterday,” I explained.
“I heard about the Bentleys,” said Reverend Tom. “Jed Fitch was at my meeting. He said they stopped at his real estate office yesterday.” Gram handed a cup of tea to Tom. “I can tell you that really got Ed Campbell excited.”
“Ed Campbell?”
“Maybe you haven’t run into him yet, Angel. He owns the big used car lot outside town. He’s also president of the Chamber.”
“The Bentleys are looking to buy a place in Haven Harbor?” asked Gram, putting Tom’s sandwich on the table.
“Jed wouldn’t exactly say. Whatever they’re thinking, it’s private right now. But why else visit a real estate office?” Tom bit into his sandwich. “Thanks for this. I was starving.”
“Looking at real estate is fine. But I’m not sure I like the idea of someone that well-known living in town,” said Gram. “I can’t imagine what house around here would be suitable for people with his money.”
“Skye West bought Aurora,” I pointed out. “She’s a movie star.”
“And made a generous donation to the church earlier this summer, too,” Tom said. “I wouldn’t mind having a few parishioners who could write checks for a new roof or an addition to the education building. The Bentleys would be welcome. Ed Campbell was imagining they’d invite their friends to visit, too. Friends with money.”
“As long as they don’t change the town. I like it the way it is. No expensive restaurants we can’t afford to eat in or stores full of designer clothing or folks who think they’re better than locals.” I was thinking of Scottsdale, Arizona, full of home decorating stores and art galleries and high-end jewelry stores. None I’d ever visited, except when I’d been on the job. Surveillance could take you anywhere.
“Hard to guess what the Bentleys would have in mind,” Tom said. “But no harm if they look around. Haven Harbor’s welcomed all sorts of people in the past. Seems to me we could welcome a couple more if they should decide to buy here.”
“Likely they’re checking out places all along the coast,” said Gram. “Nothing for anyone to get excited about. Some folks window-shop for houses.”
“Probably right, dear,” said Tom. “But I wouldn’t mind if someone that wealthy decided to share a little bit of it with Haven Harbor.”
“No need to think about it. Most likely they’ll head to Southwest Harbor or Dark Harbor where homes are more to the liking of multimillionaires than those around here.” I stood. “Thanks for lunch, Gram. Thinking of newcomers to town, I think I’ll take your advice and stop in at Aurora and welcome Skye and Patrick back to town.” I winked at Gram. “Neighbors should be friendly, right?”
Chapter 7
“Religion should our thoughts to engage
Amidst our youthful bloom.
’Twill fit us for declining age
And for the awful tomb.”
—Sampler stitched in 1832 by Abigail Bragdon (1820 – 1893) in Wells, Maine. Abigail also stitched four alphabets in different stitches, the names of the first twenty-four states, and when they were first settled. (Maine is first on her list, settled in 1630.) She married ship’s carpenter Benjamin Bonin in 1841 and they had nine children.
Until recently Aurora had been a large, deserted Victorian house, the sort people called a “white elephant” and suggested should be torn down. Instead, actress Skye West had bought it, and construction crews had been working on it all summer. Skye’s artist son, Patrick, planned to refurbish the estate’s carriage house and turn it into livin
g quarters and a studio.
I hadn’t seen him or his mother since June.
I hadn’t even driven by to see how the construction was coming along.
Maybe I should have.
At least on the outside, Aurora now looked like a different house than the one Sarah and I had helped clean out two months ago.
Its white clapboards had been scraped and repainted. New shutters replaced those that had been broken or missing. The driveway had been repaved. Where the foundation of a statue had once stood was now more space for parking. Today a dozen people were busy planting white pines along the stone wall that marked the street-side edge of the property.
Tall, straight white pines were the reason Maine was called The Pine Tree State. In colonial times representatives of the British Crown went through Maine’s forests, marking the tallest and best white pines with broad arrows to claim them for the British Crown, destined to be masts and spars for the Royal Navy. Anyone felling them for other purposes was severely punished.
Maine history books add that residents of the District of Maine, as the area was known then, pruned young white pines so they wouldn’t grow tall and straight, and so wouldn’t be claimed by the king.
Mainers were independent from the beginning.
I didn’t see the limo Anna’d mentioned, or any other vehicles but landscapers’ trucks, in front of Aurora, so I followed the drive to where the old carriage house had stood.
The new building’s exterior had been designed to look the way the carriage house must have when it was first built, over a hundred years ago. But now its front included large doors that I assumed concealed a garage . . . essential for Maine winters if you didn’t want to spend hours shoveling . . . and living quarters. In back of those areas was a modern two-story addition that included a glass roof and two glass walls.
Patrick’s dream studio?
