Nonetheless, he punched the number on speed dial for Mrs. Acres’s office. “Yes, uh, this is Tom Pereira. I’m at Gray House. There’s a lady here looking at a quilt. I’m wondering what that’s all about.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Acres is out at the moment,” said the female voice on the other end of the phone. “I really don’t know anything about the Gray House account. It’s restricted.”
“Restricted?”
“Mrs. Acres said only she handles this account, so I leave it to her.”
“I see. Well, if you could please have her call me when she returns to the office.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Pereira.”
He was left staring at his phone. Tom shook his head, then clipped his phone onto his belt. There was plenty enough to do outside, like trimming the rosebushes and pruning back the hedges. He ought to mention to Mrs. Acres that the side porch would likely need painting, and possibly a few of the planks replaced. One of three porches, this one faced the side closest to the driveway. It wrapped around the side of the house and ended at the old carriage house at the rear of the property.
Funny, after not quite six months, he’d developed an attach-ment to the grand old house, almost like a fondness for a great-aunt. An elegant lady, but a little rough around the edges. With love and attention, she’d be back to her prime.
Maybe that’s why the pretty stranger had come. Someone had taken an interest in the interior of the building—at long last. He didn’t envy them the tasks that awaited. Textiles were the least of the issues inside.
Tom paused at the dining room window where he’d first glimpsed Kelly. She sat hunched over the quilt, her nose inches from the fabric. She scribbled some notes, then sat up. Tom continued along before she caught him. That’s all he’d need, getting branded a stalker by someone he barely knew. Maybe he was a stalker, preferring to watch from a distance.
Most days, he didn’t feel disabled. Thirty-one was too young to be medically discharged from the Army. But when your coping skills weren’t the best and your back had more metal in it than a hardware store, thirty-one was plenty old enough.
Tom hopped off the porch and headed for the greenhouse. He’d known next to nothing about planting, but he figured getting fresh blooms started wasn’t that hard. His phone warbled. Mom.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Tommy, you going to be home for supper tonight? Nick and Angela are coming with the kids. Plus Bella’s arriving soon, toting all her junk home from the university.”
“Sure, why not?” He regretted his tone immediately.
“It’s been three weeks. A mother wants to see her son sometimes, especially living in the same town.”
He felt the sensation of a noose around his neck. “I know, I’m sorry.” There’d be three hours of seeing yet again how far he’d fallen short in his father’s eyes. Comparisons with Nick, and now even his baby sister Isabella, finishing her freshman year at UMass.
“See you at six, then?”
“I’ll be there.” He paused. “Love you, Ma.”
“I love you too, Son.”
Tom ended the call. Family reminded you of what you’d done right and didn’t let you forget where you’d gone wrong. He let out a pent-up breath. Lord, give me strength.
2
Kelly selected the next digital photo, then increased the size. “I’m looking at photo number 40, 125 percent magnification. It looks like silk thread, but I’m not sure. It could also be cotton. What do you think?” She knew the answer, but for old times’ sake thought she’d quiz her former intern.
“Um, it sort of does look like cotton to me,” said Willa. “But the density is different. I say it’s silk. Depending on which sections you choose, it seems like whoever sewed this used two different kinds of thread.”
“Good job, you’re right.” Kelly sighed. “Willa, I wish you could join me on this one, should I get the contract. It’s one of the biggest items I’ve ever bid on. For its size, it’s going to need a lot of work.”
“I’ll work for nothing.”
“You can’t risk your career by working for me, even for free,” Kelly said. “You’re going to make an awesome conservator. No, you already are.”
“Thanks, Kelly.” Willa’s voice was warm. “I learned so much from you that one semester.”
“Which is why I want you to go on to big things. But I really wanted you to see these photos. There’s old glue—I can’t imagine who would have tried to glue this quilt, or why. Plus the burn marks.”
“What do they want you to do?”
“They want me to make this into a usable quilt, and I can’t see how that can happen. Not realistically. There’s no way I can restore this to how it used to be. I’ll be doing well just to keep it from disintegrating further.”
“Well, thanks for calling me about this. I’m honored that you did. I won’t say anything to anyone that you’re bidding on this job, either.”
“Thank you. I have no idea who else is trying for this job. But I need it.” She didn’t want to tell Willa how badly she needed this quilt job. She’d had to cross her fingers that her credit card would be accepted at the New Bedford Inn.
“I’ll be praying that you get it.”
“Thanks, Willa.” Kelly ended the call, then resumed poring through the photographs she’d taken earlier that day, plus comparing the photos to her notes. This job could save more than her bank account.
She blinked, then stood and stretched. Hours at the computer had snuck up on her. She paced the room a bit, flexing her arms and bending her knees.
What a pretty hotel room. Under other circumstances, she’d have enjoyed the time in the historical setting, with the colonial features and elegant wood trim. She thought of the one-bedroom rented townhouse that waited for her back in Haverhill, over two hours north from here. She hadn’t thought about the commute to New Bedford or figuring out the logistics of this quilt job. Surely she’d be able to take it back to her studio, which currently amounted to her bedroom, with her sleeping on her own couch after losing her office space.
Then she shivered again, recalling the guy at the window today, who’d showed up banging the door wide open and scaring up ghosts she’d long since silenced. Or thought she had.
Get a grip. He wasn’t Jenks and she wasn’t anyone’s punching bag anymore, verbal or otherwise. Calming breaths, calming breaths. Of course, he assumed she was an intruder and had come on forcefully. She didn’t blame him.
Her heart rate slowed and the shivers fled. She moved back to the desk and the neat rows of prints she’d picked up at the drugstore’s photo lab.
What a find, this quilt. Logic screamed that unless this tattered scrap of patches with a pattern that formed five compasses had some strong sentimental value attached to it, spending in the low five figures to restore it was frivolous.
The series of photos reiterated the extent of the damage and neglect the quilt had withstood over the years. One close-up view of a corner made her look carefully at photo 35. Kelly held the photo up and squinted.
Then she set the photo down. She could zoom in with her computer software. She sank onto the cushioned desk chair and scrolled through the images she’d uploaded earlier from her camera. Photo 35.
She zoomed in to the upper left-hand corner, close to the tattered binding of the quilt not far from some scorch marks. She hadn’t imagined it. Tiny stitches, the same color as the original background fabric. Creamy white. With love always for Steban.
Interesting. Kelly sat up straighter and rubbed her eyes. Some early seamstresses would “write” dedications on the edges of the quilt, but this one was more hidden. Who would write a dedication without it being more obvious?
The quilt had lain inside the house for decades. Maybe Mrs. Acres would know more about it, how long it had been on that bed and why it had been left in such disrepair for so long.
“Focus, Kelly,” she said aloud inside the inn’s small, snug bedroom. She didn’t need to know t
he answers to those questions to formulate her estimate for the repair bid. The pictures in front of her, plus her notes, told her plenty enough. Some questions didn’t need answers. Not yet.
In the old days, the louder a Pereira gathering was, the better. Tom sat on his motorcycle as dusk fell outside his parents’ house. A few extra vehicles had taken up spots in the driveway, like homing pigeons gathered to roost after long journeys.
He’d removed his helmet but still straddled the bike. Tonight, the uproar would grate on his nerves, much like a brood of yapping Chihuahuas around his ankles. But he couldn’t swat anyone and tell them no, be quiet.
Tom shifted his weight to his left leg and slung his right leg across the back of the motorcycle, then popped the kickstand. This was his family, his familia, where he should feel the safest and be most comfortable. Safety and comfort. He shook his head as he tucked his helmet under his arm.
As he took the steps to the porch, two figures banged open the screen door. “Uncle Tom!”
“Who in the world are you two?” he said to the boy and girl that flung their arms around him.
The oldest child, a boy, laughed. “You know me. I’m Hunter.”
“And I’m Hailey,” the little girl said.
He kissed them both on the tops of their heads. “But you’re too tall. You were shorter the last time I saw you.”
“Christmas was a long time ago, Uncle Tom,” Hailey said matter-of-factly. “Mom said almost five months. I growed an inch.”
“I almost didn’t recognize you.” He pulled open the screen door, and his niece and nephew scampered inside behind him.
Hunter tugged on his arm. “What does ‘Uncle Tom time’ mean?”
“Ha!” Tom let out a chuckle. “It means I don’t use a clock like everybody else does.”
“How do you know when to go places if you don’t use a clock?” Hailey’s big brown eyes were serious.
“I just know, Miss Hailey, I just know.” Tom glanced at Hunter. “And I do use a clock.”
Music pounded from behind a closed door upstairs. Bella, home after the spring semester. How times had changed. His parents would have never let him leave the dining room if people were still at the table.
Laughter rang out from the dining room, lined with wood paneling. The craftsman-style home was Pop’s pride and joy. Little had changed since Tom left home for the Army thirteen years before, fresh out of high school. How much about him had! No wonder the idea of Uncle Tom time had crept into his life. The house reminded him of everything he’d left behind and of everything that had changed, especially him.
“I was wondering when you’d get here.” His mother enveloped him in a hug. “Come on, there’s plenty of chanfana to eat.” She gestured to the sideboard, a carved elegant fixture that had held tons of food over his parents’ nearly thirty-five years of marriage. There still remained a giant covered Dutch oven that contained his mother’s favorite stew.
“About time you got here.” Nick rose and clapped him on the arm. “Good to see you.”
“Hey, Tom,” said his sister-in-law, Angela.
“Hi, everyone.” All faces brightened, except for his father’s. Pop looked down at his empty plate with a leftover puddle of gravy from his mashed potatoes.
The two little leeches that had met him at the door followed him to the sideboard. They chattered the entire time about school, about the pair of puppies they’d gotten at Christmas and how the dogs were “going everywhere” inside the house if people didn’t let them out in time, and about how they could hardly wait for school to get over with.
“You okay, Tom?” his sister-in-law, Angela, said at his elbow. “These two will talk your ears off if you’re around them for long.”
“I’m fine. I don’t mind listening.” That wasn’t entirely the truth, but he knew that pushing his own personal preferences aside for family was the right thing to do. He might regret it later, but nothing that a long ride on the bike or a good hike wouldn’t cure. The kids didn’t know any better, and before he knew it they’d both be grown up and uninterested in the old people. Old in their eyes, like he’d be in about ten years or so. He’d best enjoy their worshipful chatter now.
“Uncle Tom, did you hear us?” Hunter poked his arm. “You seem a million miles away.”
Female laughter exploded in the room, both mother and grandmother. “Wherever did you hear that? A million miles away . . .” Angela tousled Hunter’s hair.
“He sounds forty, not ten,” Mom said, shaking her head.
“A million miles away? Nah.” Tom shrugged as he placed some chanfana on his plate. “I was thinking of when you and Hailey will be grown up.”
“That’s a long time away, Uncle Tom.” Hunter pulled a carrot stick from the vegetable tray and crunched down.
“Oh hush.” Angela helped herself to a celery stalk. “It’s sooner than you realize.”
“That’s right, kids,” Nick called to them. “Before you know it, you’ll be as old as me and your Uncle Tom here.”
“I can’t wait.” Hunter plopped onto his chair. “In ten years I’ll be twenty. Like Aunt Bella.”
“I’ll be . . .”—Hailey counted on her fingers—“fifteen.”
Tom piled one of his mother’s homemade rolls on top of the heap. He took the closest vacant seat next to Nick. “Wow, that’s really old.”
“I’m going to be in college,” Hunter announced.
“That’s the plan, buddy,” Nick said. “He’s already talking about a major.”
“At ten? That’ll change.” Tom took a generous bite of the stew. He wasn’t sure what the special occasion was that Mom had cooked up the Portuguese dish, but he wasn’t going to complain.
“I’m going to be a paleontologist.” Hunter sipped from his cup. “I’m going to unearth a new species.” More chuckles from around the table but still silence from Pop. Tom let his gaze slide sideways.
“Hope your college fund is ready for that, Bro,” Tom said as he nudged his brother. “That’s a long road of education.”
“We’ll be ready as we can be.” Nick smiled across the table at Hunter.
“What did you want to be when you grew up, Uncle Tom?”
The question hung in the air.
“I wanted to be a soldier.” He took another bite before he was expected to say more.
“But you’re not a soldier no more.” Hailey’s voice rang out.
“No, not anymore.” Reality bit into him once again, in front of the ones who should buoy him up the most. “Hey, Ma, is there fresh coffee in the kitchen?”
“Sure, Tommy. I can get it for you.” She shifted on her chair.
“No, I’ll get it. Thanks, Ma.” He left the table and pushed through the swinging door that separated the dining room from the kitchen.
Of course, his father’s unspoken disapproval rang out. No, his crash and burn in the armed forces wasn’t his fault. A myriad of things that could go wrong, did. Sort of like the sinking of the Titanic.
“Go to college,” he’d been told after his medical discharge. The thought of being in a classroom with kids ten years younger than him, the self-absorbed generation that they were, grated on his nerves.
He poured a cup of coffee and inhaled the aroma. Nothing beat a good strong cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. The fluorescent light over the kitchen sink buzzed, the sound covered up by more laughter from the dining room.
The door creaked open behind him. “Ah, Tommy . . .”
He turned around. “Ma.”
“It seems like you and Nick were right around Hunter and Hailey’s age, and now look at you.” She carried a stack of plates to the counter.
“Here, I’ll take care of these.” Tommy turned on the faucet and took the plates from his mother.
“But thirty-one . . . you’re still so young . . .” His mother pulled open the dishwasher door. “Your father . . . he’s old school. He doesn’t understand there are many ways to get where you want to be.”
&nbs
p; That was precisely the problem. He didn’t know where he wanted to be.
The old man’s chest rose and fell as a tube supplied life-sustaining oxygen to the figure lying on the bed. Earlier that day, the visiting physician had recommended that hospice come in and evaluate the old man for comfort measures.
“Do whatever you think is best to keep him comfortable,” he had said to the doctor. The old man protested, just once.
“Is she there, at the house?” the old man asked.
“She was. We’re expecting her bid at any time,” he replied. “If you’re sure she’s the one . . .”
“She is.” The two words held a bite that made him glance at the old man. “She is.”
“Say what you will, but my responsibility is to protect your interests.” His own words surprised him.
“My interests are not long for this earth.” The old man’s voice resumed its normal placid tone.
“You’ve said that for years.”
“I’ve had to. My interests are all I have left.”
3
Kelly clicked the send button on the e-mail and shot the bid for the quilt project into cyberspace. Either she would score the biggest job of her shaky career or she’d just committed career suicide. In her written report, she was honest about the damage to the quilt and what would be necessary to keep it from disintegrating further. She determined not to sell herself short, either, so as not to be accused of underbidding.
Her cell phone warbled. She glanced at the number and tried not to roll her eyes. Jonna Spivey, her rival, her nemesis. What now? “Jonna, hello.”
“Kelly. I heard you’re at the south shore right now.” Her voice sounded silken, smooth as cream. “I’m in Newport, Rhode Island.”
“Ah, right down the road. You’re working on a job, I take it.”
“Yes. Just landed a job that’ll keep me and my staff occupied through next year. A tapestry collection. You should see the faded threads and the polyester someone used to patch the wool. We’re scheduling transport of the first item to the workshop.”
Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series Page 2
