by Lea Wait
The limo Anna had seen, and a smaller car, were there. In June Skye and Patrick hadn’t used a limo.
Haven Harbor had accepted the presence of a celebrity in town and not bothered Skye. She’d been approachable, but busy, and although television told us regular folks that celebrities’ lives were different from ours, Skye hadn’t brought an entourage of drivers and personal assistants and bodyguards with her to Maine. Had that changed?
I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. I hadn’t let myself imagine what Patrick looked like after the fire.
Sure, Patrick and Skye had been friendly in June, when they were new in town and needed help with Aurora. But this was late August. Patrick had spent the summer in the hospital and rehab.
Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped in.
In Maine, people did that.
But Skye and Patrick weren’t from Maine.
I should have called first.
I’d turned around and was about to leave when the door opened.
Patrick’s broad smile told me I’d been right to come unannounced.
Chapter 8
“In vain we mourn those transitory days
Consumed in riot and licentious ways
’Tis temperance alone preserves our strength
And mind and body to life’s full length.”
—Stitched by fourteen-year-old Hadassah Thompson (1806 – 1832) in the school of Catherine Swain Lyman in Norridgewock, Maine. Although the temperance movement was gaining ground in 1820, it was unusual to stitch a verse like this on a sampler. Hadassah married James Wilder, a chair maker, and gave birth to a son, Francis, in 1831. She was twenty-six when she died in 1832.
Patrick’s deep brown eyes took me back to that evening in June. The evening we’d been high on wine and happiness and an elegant dinner together. The part of the evening before the fire.
I smiled back. Then I glanced at his hands.
Scarred and swollen. Skin grafts.
His eyes followed mine. He held out his hands. “They’re not beautiful, but they’re still mine. I’m teaching them to work again.”
“Can you paint?”
He flinched. “That’s a work in progress. Come in. We’re having drinks. Champagne? Something stronger?”
“Champagne sounds wonderful.” I followed him into the redesigned carriage house. The exterior had reflected the Victorian building it had been, but the furniture and fixtures inside were modern. “You did all this from Boston?” I asked, turning around to look. An oriental rug covered part of the polished pine floor, and the comfortable furniture and modern lighting fixtures fit perfectly together.
“On-line catalogs. The first thing I learned to do with my fingers was ‘search,’” he explained. “Planning the house gave me something to think about.”
“You have great taste.” I walked over to a large painting swirling with red and blue and yellow colors, like the flames that had consumed the old carriage house. “Yours?” I’d never seen any of Patrick’s work.
He nodded. “I had it sent from my studio in California.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “I don’t know anything about art, but I love it.”
“Then you have good taste.” The words weren’t Patrick’s.
I turned from the painting. An older man, gray hair, dressed elegantly in trim jeans and a silk shirt, had entered the room. He was holding a flute of champagne. Patrick waved and walked into another room.
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. I’m Ted Lawrence.”
“You own the art gallery downtown,” I said.
“Guilty as charged,” he agreed. “And a larger gallery in the barn out at my home. And you are?”
“Angie Curtis,” I said, holding out my hand.
“You’re right. We’ve never met. I would have remembered,” he said. “But you’re Sarah Byrne’s friend. You run the needlepoint business.”
“Yes.” How did he know Sarah, or Mainely Needlepoint? But the Lawrence Gallery wasn’t far from Sarah’s shop. Maybe he’d met her there.
He looked at the painting again. “I’m hoping I can get Patrick to show at my gallery when he has new work.”
“That would be wonderful,” I agreed.
Patrick reappeared, carefully holding out a glass of champagne. “For you,” he said. Had he been able to pour the champagne into the delicate flute? He wasn’t holding a glass himself.
I raised the flute to him. “Welcome home.” The champagne was tingly and delicious. Being wealthy must be nice.
“I see you’ve met Ted. I didn’t know whether you two knew each other. Now, come and see Mom and Uncle Gerry.” Patrick led the way into the second room.
Skye was dressed elegantly, in gray slacks, a loose gray tunic, and pearls. Her gray hair streaked with white looked perfectly coiffed. In June she’d worn dirty blue jeans and T-shirts.
Suddenly I felt self-conscious. I was wearing my usual worn jeans and a rumpled long-sleeved shirt. I hadn’t realized I’d be drinking champagne with my elegant neighbors.
Skye got up from the gray couch and came over and hugged me. “I’m so glad you stopped in, Angie. We’re celebrating being back in Haven Harbor. I’ve flown in and out a few times this summer to check on the work here, but this is the first time Patrick’s seen his plans come to life.”
“Your home looks terrific,” I agreed, taking another sip of champagne. “I stopped to welcome you both back to town. I didn’t know you had company.”
“You’re always welcome, Angie,” Skye said, putting her arm around me. “I see you’ve already met Ted, who’s a new friend. Here are Gerry and June Bentley, who’re visiting.”
Gerry Bentley. Uncle Gerry? The same Gerry Bentley whose yacht was off Haven Harbor? Skye indicated a couple comfortably sitting on chairs near the entrance to what I assumed was Patrick’s studio. The man was in his fifties although his wife looked considerably younger. And considerably pregnant. He wore tan slacks and a red shirt. She was wearing a long blue maternity dress embroidered in white.
“So pleased to meet you,” I said. What did you say to multimillionaires? Hi? How’s your money?
“Angie’s one of our first Haven Harbor friends,” Skye was saying. “She helped us out when we were cleaning Aurora in June, and her company did the restoration work on the large needlepoint panels you were admiring earlier.”
I felt out of my depth. Where had Patrick disappeared to?
“I’m going to show Angie my studio,” he said, coming back into the room and rescuing me. “If you’ll excuse us.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Bentley.
Patrick guided me around the furniture and through the wide doors leading into his two-story studio. How would he heat this place in winter? But, then, fuel costs weren’t a problem for him. As I’d suspected from the outside, the roof was one giant skylight, and two of the walls, those facing south and west, were glass. The wall on the street side of the building was solid, but included windows, and a door leading to a courtyard where sea stones were set in swirling patterns that reminded me of Patrick’s painting. Redwood chairs and lounges surrounded a large table.
“Like it?” he asked.
“I love it. It’s spectacular,” I said, walking over to the glass wall that overlooked the field between the estate and Haven Harbor. Then I turned back. “But where are your paints and easels?”
“They’ll come,” he said. “I didn’t want anyone else to arrange them. I’m having some supplies shipped from my studio in California and buying others here. That’s one reason Uncle Gerry brought Ted Lawrence to see me today. Ted knows the best Maine sources, the ones local artists use.”
“Uncle Gerry?”
“My father’s younger brother. He and his wife were boating up the coast, and when he heard Mom and I were coming home, he decided to stop in, see the house, and see me. He’s always been supportive of my art. And he wanted me to meet Ted.”
“Ted Lawrence really liked your painting.”
“I hope he meant it. I’d love to show in a Haven Harbor gallery. Especially one as prestigious as Ted Lawrence’s. But I won’t know if he’s serious until I’m ready to paint again.” He glanced down at his hands. “My therapist in Boston was encouraging, though.”
“You’ve been working hard.”
“I have. But it’s time to prove I can manage outside of a rehab center. Mom and I arrived yesterday. We planned to have some quiet time so I could settle in and find new therapists. And Mom needs time to study her script for the movie she’s doing this fall. The rest of August will be a test for me. She’ll be living in the big house. I’m hoping to prove I’ll be all right after she leaves.”
“So she isn’t staying long.”
“No. But assuming all goes well, I’m here for the winter. Mom plans to come back for the holidays, but I’m looking forward to having the place to myself for a while. In the hospital, I was never alone. I dreamed of being here, in my own house, with the beauty of Maine around me. Of painting again.” He stepped slightly closer to me and looked into my eyes. “Of seeing the friends I made here and getting to know them better.”
I tried not to look at his hands. His arms were covered by his shirt.
“Are you sure you’re ready to do that? Live alone and paint?” I asked bluntly.
“I’ll need help for a while. Mom insists I have a housekeeper come in once a week to clean, and she’s arranging for local restaurants to deliver meals once a day.” He looked at his hands. “I can make toast and coffee, but I’m not ready to chop vegetables or carve a turkey.”
“Sounds like a fancy version of Meals on Wheels.”
He laughed. “‘If it’s Tuesday, it must be Italian,’ more likely.”
No restaurant in Haven Harbor delivered food. At least not on a regular basis. But, then, Skye and Patrick had the money to make things happen other people didn’t. I’d seen that in June. I’d even been the beneficiary of two of their generous checks.
“I’ve often thought of you. Of that evening, before everything fell apart,” he said.
“I’ve thought about you, too.” He hadn’t called or texted. Was this a line? “But I’ve been busy, with Mainely Needlepoint and my grandmother’s wedding.”
“I remember your planning that,” Patrick agreed. “So you’re living by yourself now?”
“I am. If you need any help—shopping, or driving or doing anything here—I’d be happy to do whatever I can.” Why did I say that? He could afford all the help he needed. Would he think I was being presumptuous? I moved a little away from him.
“I can’t drive yet,” he said. “Mom’s arranged for me to have a driver. I hate that, but it should only be for a little while. And I’ll have help with the basics. But I could use a friend. Maybe you could join me for dinner? Here? Tomorrow night?”
I shook my head. “I have plans for tomorrow night.”
“Another time, then?”
“After you have a chance to get settled.”
“I’ll call you,” he promised.
We both stood, silent. Awkwardly.
“Your glass needs to be refilled,” said Patrick. “Why don’t we go back with the others?”
I would have loved more champagne. But I felt like an intruder. “No, thanks. I have work to do; I can’t stay,” I assured him. “But I’m glad to see you back here. Your home is lovely.”
“I hope you’ll be a frequent guest,” Patrick said. “And I could use needlepoint cushions for the couches and chairs.”
Was he trying to buy my time?
“But now I have to leave.”
He opened the sliding door onto the patio, and I fled to the front of the house where I’d left my car.
Everyone had been welcoming, especially Patrick.
But Patrick’s world wasn’t mine.
I headed my little red Honda back into the village, passing shops that advertised MAINE T-SHIRTS, DISCOUNTED! And LOCALLY MADE ICE CREAM and BEST LOBSTER AND CRABMEAT ROLLS! HERE! They were part of my world. They were my comfort zone.
And I hated to admit it, but his scarred, swollen hands made me uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable enough not to want to see him again? No, I told myself. I could get used to the way his hands were now.
Could he?
If he couldn’t paint as he had before the fire, how would he cope?
Was I strong and patient enough to be his friend as he fought his way back to normalcy?
I hardly noticed the rest of the drive home. I parked in my driveway, unlocked my door, and went straight to the refrigerator. White wine. It might not be champagne, but it was what I needed right now.
Chapter 9
“How pleasant ’tis to see kindred and friends agree
Each in their proper station move,
And each fulfill their part with sympathizing heart,
In all the cases of life and love.”
—In 1812 Sarah Moody (1786 – 1865) worked this sampler in Saco, Maine. She was twenty-six, and the head of a school where she taught embroidery as well as reading and writing.
I paid more attention than usual to my appearance before leaving for Dave’s dinner party. Dave would be dressed casually, and Ruth would wear slacks and a cotton sweater. But I was still self-conscious about what I’d been wearing at the Wests’ the day before.
When I was four or five I’d loved trying out Mama’s lipsticks and high heels. But when I was old enough to wear my own, she was gone, and makeup and heels reminded me too much of her. Women in Haven Harbor didn’t dress up much and rarely wore makeup.
I was afraid of trying too hard, the way Mama had. So, instead, I didn’t wear dresses or skirts. I never tried to look elegant. I told myself I was comfortable with who I was.
Most of the time I was.
But yesterday I’d felt out of place at Aurora.
I replaced my usual jeans with a pair of tan slacks, a pale blue T-shirt, and a tan sweater, promising myself I’d be careful not to drop or spill anything. Dave had said “lasagna,” so I chose a bottle of Italian red from the wine rack Gram had left in the dining room. (She and Tom had been given a much larger rack as a wedding gift, so they’d given me their old one.)
Tomato sauce and red wine. I almost changed back to jeans.
But I didn’t. I even put on lipstick and a little beige eye shadow.
I looked at myself critically and then wiped most of the eye shadow off.
I didn’t want Dave or Ruth to think I was trying too hard.
Sandals completed my outfit. I could walk to Dave’s.
His yellow Cape with green shutters and a white picket fence would have been too cute for a lot of men, but it suited Dave.
“Angie! So glad you came.”
I handed him the wine I’d brought.
“Valpolicella. Perfect. Come on in!”
I sniffed. “Yum! Garlic and tomato sauce.”
“And my apple pie,” said Ruth. She was already settled in the highest armchair in Dave’s living room, her wheeling pink walker next to her.
“You brought a pie?” I asked.
“I did. It’s a little early for apples, but I couldn’t resist Granny Smiths at the grocery yesterday.”
“I have a green salad and garlic bread to go with the lasagna,” said Dave. “When Ruth said she’d bring a pie I decided we could give up cheeses and crackers in favor of vanilla ice cream on top of the pie for dessert.”
I held my stomach. “Carb city. Dinner sounds—and smells—wicked good!”
“Ruth and I were about to have wine. You too?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Need help?”
“No, I’m fine. Go on in and keep Ruth company.”
I sat on a cozy corner of the couch, surrounded by needlepointed cushions. The cushions made for a comfortable and decorative room. Had Patrick been serious yesterday when he’d said his new house could use some? Tan and white living room furniture was elegant, but his living room could use color.
A pillow reflecting the colors and design of his painting? I made a mental note to ask him if he was serious about the cushions.
“Good to see you, Angie. I’m glad Dave invited us. I’ve been tied to that computer of mine most of the summer, and I could use a break from sex,” Ruth confided.
“Good thing we know what you’re writing, or people would talk, Ruth!” Dave said as he handed each of us a glass of red wine. “To us! Needlepointers and friends!”
I raised my glass. I felt comfortable with Ruth and Dave. “Will you make your deadline?” I asked Ruth.
“I set my own deadlines now. One book’s already finished. That one’s with the fellow who does my formatting and cover. The second manuscript’s almost done. Working without a publisher makes my schedule easier, but I have to edit tightly or my readers complain.”
“So you’re still self-publishing?” I asked as Dave put the wine bottle on his glass-topped coffee table.
“After years and years of traditional erotica publishing I’ve found most people today prefer e-books, for privacy. So why bother with the print version, or give most of the profits to a publishing company? My readers know what to expect in my books, and I deliver.”
“I finally read one of your Chastity Falls books,” I said. “It was . . . creative.” I was no innocent, but I blushed as I remembered.
Ruth laughed. “Well said, Angie. Some Sundays I sit in church and wonder what all those praying folks would think if they knew the little widow woman with the walker wrote books they only read in the privacy of their bedrooms. I’d love to know which of those sedate ladies and gentlemen in their Sunday best read Chastity’s latest the night before.”
“Sounds like I should check out your work, too,” said Dave. “My reading matter this summer has been limited to botanical journals and forensics articles about detecting poisons. Not exactly light reading on a Saturday or any other night.”
“I can’t believe school starts again in three weeks,” I said. “Summer has gone all too fast.”
“As always,” Ruth agreed. “But September and October are two of my favorite months in Maine. No humidity, cooler temperatures, fewer tourists, and brilliant colors. A grand finale before winter.”
