Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series

by Lynette Sowell

  “Don’t waste time counting sheep when you can’t sleep; talk to the Shepherd,” Lottie used to tell the children whenever anyone had a hard time sleeping.

  It used to work for her during those six years under Lottie and Chuck’s watchful care. She’d whisper away to the unseen Heavenly Father, just as Lottie suggested, and somehow to her teenage soul, the practice was like a balm. Back then, she clung to whatever anchor she could find, and this one worked.

  She found her cell phone charger and plugged it into the nearest empty outlet. Surely Mr. Chandler would have mentioned if there was an issue with the electricity, but then again maybe not. She plugged her phone into the charger. One missed call. Lottie. And one new voice mail.

  “Three thirty-five p.m. Hi, Kelly. It’s Lottie. Just wanted to make sure you arrived okay and all’s going well. Call me when you get a chance.”

  Her heart swelled at the sound of Lottie’s voice. She set the phone down. As she did so, a floorboard creaked in the hallway, then another. She tiptoed to the bedroom door, then stopped, listening at the door. She yanked it open, only to see an empty hallway filled with moonlight. Silly. There was no one in the house with her except antiques and memories.

  Five hundred dollars. It was an odd six-month bonus for a mere outdoor maintenance guy. The weight of the five bills was like a brick in Tom’s back pocket as he drove through town the next morning. Sure, who couldn’t use an extra five hundred? But it wasn’t nice to feel as if the money were a bunch of carrots dangling from a stick, coaxing him along somewhere he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

  Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Just in case, though, he’d hang on to the money. He pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot of Patillo’s Marina. Mac had called last night, giving him the number of a guy who might have a possible job for him.The guy by the name of Dave Winthrop would meet him at the marina the following morning, aboard the Peggy Sue. Evidently he lived on a houseboat and had just bought a townhouse but needed some changes made to the place before his wife would move in.

  Hand-to-mouth living, job to job. Tom shrugged off the sensation of scrounging. People should be coming to him, not him going to them, carrying his proverbial hat as if he wanted a handout.

  “You can go to college,” someone had said. “It’ll all be paid for, and then some.”

  He wasn’t college material. High school had been hard enough. Tests made him freeze. Numbers ran together and rearranged themselves on the page. Dyslexia had been easy enough to diagnose, but that didn’t make his life easier.

  There it was, the Peggy Sue, bobbing in place, her sails tied down. A man waited at the edge of the pier.

  “Tom Pereira?” the guy called out.

  “That’s me.” Tom ambled along the pier, and shook hands with the man. “My buddy John MacGraw said you needed help with your new townhouse.”

  “Dave Winthrop. Nice to meet you, and I do need a hand.”

  “What’s wrong with the place?”

  “The carpeting’s old, and my wife wants hardwood throughout the living areas and tile in the kitchen. Do you have any floor laying or tiling experience?”

  “I’ve worked on my brother’s house. We renovated the entire first floor. Also, I’ve helped John on a few jobs.” His brother’s floor didn’t turn out half-bad, either. He had a good eye for straight lines and occasionally needed to recheck his measurements, but the floor gleamed, as did the travertine in the kitchen.

  “Well, I know you have to work today, but can you meet me at the townhouse at five? That way you can take some measurements and hear it straight from my wife’s mouth what she wants so you can give us an estimate.” Dave squinted out across the water toward the city. “Pereira . . . what nationality is that last name?”

  “Portuguese. You’ll find a lot of us around here.” Tom shrugged. “I’m a mix, though. Italian’s in there somewhere along the family tree, too. Grew up here in New Bedford.”

  “I know the question was a little odd. I’m a genealogy buff. It’s sort of a hobby of mine, so I can’t help but ask. I traced my father’s family back to fourteenth-century England. It took a while, but I now have a framed family tree.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive.” Tom hoped that wasn’t a lie. He figured their meeting later today would involve a display of the family tree. Not that that kind of thing didn’t interest him, it was just strange to find out something like that when first meeting someone.

  “Well, I’ll see you at five.” Dave handed him a card. “Here’s the address.”

  “All right, then, thanks.”

  He left with a lighter step than he’d had in a while. Maybe this was part of his new start. He could do flooring, and he could do tile. If this project worked out for him, it could be a whole new venture in his life.

  By the time Tom got to Gray House, the morning clouds had lifted and he had a ton of work ahead of him. Chandler’s request from yesterday niggled at him once again. Character issues, he’d said. Tom realized he didn’t know much about Kelly Frost. He also realized he’d developed a soft spot for the old whaling captain’s house. Although whatever character issues Kelly had, Tom wasn’t sure how they could affect her job at Gray House.

  Kelly’s vehicle was still half on the parking slab, half on the grass. Great, one more thing he’d forgotten. First thing, he’d get her vehicle running, or at least see what the problem was. He killed the motorcycle engine after he’d parked close to the greenhouse. Chandler had asked that he work on some fresh summer plantings to get the gardens back to what they were in their glory days. They could probably wait a few hours longer. They’d waited decades already.

  Tom climbed off the bike, then took off his helmet and placed it on the seat. The sooner he got her car running, the sooner he could get back to his own work. He walked up to the kitchen door and pounded. Who knows where she was in the massive old house? He noticed a small button set into the wooden door frame. He pushed, just in case the ancient doorbell worked.

  The door flew open. “Good morning.” Kelly wore a shirt that had seen better days, with stains and was at least two sizes too large and hid her curves. Her pink toenails peeked out from under the hem of her worn jeans.

  “Do you mind if I have your car keys back, so I can pop the hood?”

  “Oh, that’s right . . . my car. I was getting started on the quilt this morning and the car slipped my mind.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll grab the keys.” She turned and trotted from the kitchen.

  Within seconds she reemerged. “Here.” She handed him the keys and followed him to her car. “Do you know much about cars?”

  “Ah, I’ve tinkered here and there. I can at least tell you what the problem isn’t.”

  “Well, once you figure out what it is, I need to get a few groceries from the store and essentials, like a coffeepot.” She rubbed her forehead. “I think I’m having caffeine withdrawal this morning.”

  “Ouch.” He tried not to chuckle, but he knew what that was like. Once he’d unlocked the car and popped the hood, he tried the first logical thing, the ignition. He noticed the dome light didn’t come on when he opened the door.

  No life from the battery. “I think it’s your battery,” he said.

  She bit her lip. “Think?”

  “I can take it out and run it to an auto supply store so they can test it for you. If it’s a dud, I can pick up a new one.” An easy fix.

  “It figures, once I get here, money starts draining away.” Kelly shook her head. “Sorry. I appreciate your help. Do you think fifty bucks ought to do it for a battery? Or should I send more?”

  “Fifty is fine to start with. If it ends up being more, I’ll take care of it and you can pay me back.”

  “Thank you, thank you. I’m just trying to keep some kind of a budget here . . . Hang on while I grab some cash.” Off she sped again, into the house.

  Yes, he definitely knew about keeping a budget. He had a feeling, too, she’d pay him every last cent she owed him, that
she kept a strict accounting on what she owed anyone. Pride did that to someone, especially someone wanting to make sure they carved their own way in the world.

  Tom fished a wrench out of his tool bag and soon had the battery taken out of Kelly’s car and strapped onto his motorcycle. The nearest auto supply store that he knew of was a good fifteen-minute ride away.

  Kelly pounded down the steps. “Here.” She pressed the money into his hand. “Thanks for helping. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

  “You’d have figured something out.” He stood there, staring down at her hand that had clamped a folded bill into his palm. “I have a feeling you’re that kind of woman.”

  6

  The quilt was spread open to its full width and length as it air-dried on a layer of cotton towels. It had taken Kelly three hours of careful, gentle pulls and tugs to get the poor thing washed that morning, braced between layers of netting that could bear the brunt of Kelly’s pulls and tugs. Simply lukewarm water in the claw-foot bathtub of the lady’s bathroom upstairs, and she’d had to change the water three times.

  The idea of washing the quilt terrified her. The whole thing could dissolve into a heap of quilt blocks and threads. There wasn’t much she could do right now except wait for the quilt to dry and see what she could start to work on rescuing.

  Underneath the soft lights she’d set up on tripods surrounding the quilt, Kelly could see that although much of the surface grime was gone with the gentle washing, there were numerous torn stitches across the entire Mariner’s Compass. Every little triangle and block that made up the arms of the five stars had frayed or missing stitches. The binding had nearly fallen apart or disintegrated. Dozens of the triangular quilt blocks, originally hand pieced, were missing from the quilt altogether.

  “Mary Gray, your quilt is a wreck, but I promise you, I’ll do my best to put it back together again,” Kelly said aloud. Truly, the hand stitching made this quilt priceless in the eyes of the right collector. A good number of Kelly’s hand stitches would help give new life to the piece.

  Tom’s words before he’d gone to fetch a new car battery rang in her ears. You’d have figured something out. I have a feeling you’re that kind of woman.

  Yep, he had her pegged right. She wasn’t used to having someone there in a pinch. She’d learned to figure things out for herself. After determining the problem was a dead car battery, she’d paid Tom back and he’d disappeared into the greenhouse, leaving her to the quilt, at last.

  Kelly yawned. After hearing the floor creak throughout the night, then being awakened by the dawn peeking through an open shutter, she would welcome a nap this afternoon. She sat cross-legged on the tile floor in the bathroom, listening to the gulls call from the harbor.

  Her phone remained silent after her voice mail to Mr. Chandler, asking yet again for more information about the quilt. The ink was dry on the contract, but she should have demanded more history about the quilt and its owners before proceeding. Its sorry state should have provided information enough. Plus, she hadn’t counted on the whole living-on-site stipulation. The setup was the oddest she’d ever encountered. And yet Mary Gray’s journal enticed her from its perch on the bedroom bureau.

  The words haunted her even now in the morning light.

  . . . I have accepted my lot with Hiram Gray and know my place. The only troubling of the waters is that he leaves again, and soon. Misdirected and delayed letters that arrive from him shall be the only things I can clasp to my bosom over the next long many months, years. ’Tis the whales that call to him. He must answer, for all the opportunities it gives to us and those who depend on Hiram. He is a good Christian man, of Quaker descent. Not unusual for the sea, but not typical, either. The fact that he should marry me, an orphan with nothing, speaks to his Christian background.

  Hiram has given me this Gray House to shelter and keep me while he is away. I shall have enough to stay busy while Hiram chases the leviathan across the globe. Perhaps he shall also leave me with child. He has come to me these many nights since our wedding. Should I bear Hiram’s child, my joy should be complete.

  Mary, Mary. Kelly shook her head and stood, heading for the bathroom window. Thinking that a child would preserve a marriage, would halt any abuse. Her own mother had thought the same, once. It hadn’t helped any of them. Funny, she hadn’t thought of her mother in a year or more. What woman would surrender her own child to the state and not fight for her? She’d died in a drunken stupor when Kelly was twelve, one week after Kelly had moved in with Lottie and Chuck.

  Part of her wondered if Mary Gray ever found the peace she sought with having a child. Sleep had overcome Kelly, and she told herself the answers for the quilt weren’t inside Mary’s journal.

  Kelly leaned on the windowsill. This window had a view of the gardens, still coming into bloom. The lush green lawn was thicker than when she’d first paid a visit to Gray House. There was Tom, pouring something at the base of the rosebushes from a box. Then he reached with his strong hands to pour from a watering can.

  A tough guy, a gardener. Tom straightened, then glanced around the yard. He looked at a blooming rosebush, then leaned in to sniff. The gentle gesture made her chuckle. How a man acted when he thought no one was looking said a lot about him.

  There were men like Peyton Greaves, who kept up quite an appearance and fooled a lot of people. Probably still fooled some people, even though Kelly had resisted the temptation to drag his name publicly through the hog pen and see how he liked mud sticking to his name.

  Then there were men like Jenks, who didn’t care what anyone thought. But he couldn’t hurt her anymore, nor any child under his roof.

  But Tom Pereira . . . he made her feel safe, after only a few encounters. Quite a contrast from that first day when she saw his face in the window. She moved from her spot at the window before he saw her face in the glass. As she did so, she saw Tom grab his head and sink to the grass.

  Kelly shoved all thoughts of the quilt aside and ran, her feet skidding on the parquet floor. She pounded down the stairs, whirling around the balustrade and down the hall toward the kitchen. Blasting the back door open with a bang, Kelly stumbled on the back steps but caught her balance as she ran for Tom.

  Tom lay prostrate on the ground, his arms at his sides, his body clenching as if in an enormous spasm. Kelly fell to her knees at his side. What was the thing to do when someone had a seizure? Lottie once had a foster child with epilepsy. They’d been told to let Jana alone, but make sure she couldn’t hurt herself on anything.

  “Hang on, Tom.” She pulled out her phone and called 911. After speaking with the dispatcher, Kelly set the phone to the side while the phone line was live. A few more seconds, and Tom fell limp.

  Kelly allowed herself to touch his forehead. “Tom, I called an ambulance. It’ll be here soon. I hope you’re not mad at me for calling someone.” The faint wail of a siren emerged from the sounds of the city.

  “Shouldn’t have called,” he mumbled. “I’m fine . . .”

  “No, collapsing into a seizure in the backyard is not fine.” She studied his face. His eyes were closed, his forehead wet with perspiration. She reached for his cheek, clammy to her touch.

  The siren’s wail bit into the air as it intensified, the ambulance rolling to a halt in the driveway. Kelly stood as the first EMT left the vehicle.

  “He started having a seizure.” She gestured to Tom’s form on the grass. “He stopped about a minute or so ago. He said something to me, but he’s out again.”

  The EMTs moved past her, one of them pushing a gurney. The tallest male looked at her and asked, “Do you know anything about his medical history?”

  She shook her head. “I really don’t know. I’ve only just met him, really.”

  The shorter EMT reached for Tom’s wrist. “He’s got a medic alert bracelet. Tom Pereira, age thirty-one. Seizures and TBI.”

  “TBI?” Kelly asked, but not really expecting an answer from the
m as they checked vital signs and radioed information to the hospital.

  The tall one looked up at her somberly. “Traumatic brain injury.”

  “We’re bringing him in.” The young one stood.

  “Which hospital?” She knew she couldn’t go with him, but at least she could follow and he could wake up to a familiar face. Also, if he had family, maybe she could reach them.

  “New Bedford General.”

  Tom opened his eyes to see an ambulance ceiling. The engine roared, siren blared, and the gurney shook. “Take me back.”

  “Mr. Pereira, we’re almost to the hospital,” said a trim young man who looked barely out of high school. A high wind could snap him like a twig.

  “I don’t want to go. I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off. This has happened before.” Honestly, Kelly should have listened to him. He knew he’d babbled something to her before he zoned out. He did remember how soft her hand was as she touched his cheek. Of course, she’d worried. He hadn’t told her anything about his history. Didn’t think he needed to. Maybe that had been a mistake.

  But if his neurologist heard about this . . . Tom tried to sit up.

  “Oh no you don’t.” Twig-boy pushed him down with a capable wiry hand. The kid had strength. “You’re going to get checked out before they send you home.”

  “Great.” He knew he was making a tough patient, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Do you have a headache, Mr. Pereira?”

  “A little.”

  “Intensity level on a scale of one to ten, one being almost none and ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt?”

  “Uh, maybe a six.” His head pounded a little, but he could handle it. He hadn’t had a headache in several months.

  “Okay.” As the EMT made a note, the radio squawked.