Kelly nodded. “That’s sad.”
“That’s how it goes.” He paused for a moment. “Look, if you don’t really want to go to my family’s for supper tonight, that’s okay.”
“You sound like you don’t want me there.”
“I, uh . . .” His ears turned red. “No, it’s not that. My mother comes on a little strong.”
“You should thank God every day that you have a mother who loves you like that.” Kelly cleared her throat. “I need to check on something upstairs. Holler at me when you’re ready to go for supper and I’ll be ready.”
She left before he could say more. Tom Pereira was a blessed man. Maybe he knew it, maybe his mother’s concern bugged him a little. But for some reason, seeing Tom’s mother had reawakened the old ache. Frances Frost had taken her issues with her to the grave, but Kelly still wrestled with them sometimes, like now.
She scaled the stairs and entered her room, the lady’s room, and picked up Mary Gray’s journal once again. Maybe she could read some more about Gray House itself. Tom mentioned a fire at one point. She recalled the scent of smoke in the little boy’s closet. Could smoke smell linger that long?
Kelly situated herself in the side chair close to the window and opened the journal.
December 1850
I cradle an infant, much as Mary did in Bethlehem that first Christmas morn. What thoughts she must have had, looking upon the Savior, nestled in a manger. I share his mother’s name, but my child sleeps in a handcrafted cradle, made by one of the carpenters in town. My son. Nay, our son, Hiram, bears his father’s name. Only one letter since Hiram’s departure in March. I wrote him as soon as I thought it safe, while carrying a child. One must be careful in such matters, my mother told me once. Little Hiram shall likely be walking by the time his father returns.
So Mary had her longed-for child. Kelly smiled. The woman sounded contented. Maybe Mary had a happy ending after all, or at least a measure of peace while her husband was thousands of miles away, hunting whales.
Kelly read a few more entries, speaking of the baby’s growth, the long winter, and how Mary longed to hear from the captain.
January 1851
I have started another quilt, the Mariner’s Compass. It is more difficult than most patterns, but its symbol gives me hope. The Lord directs our steps, the Master over the course through our sea of life. We look to His Word as our compass. Hiram would most definitely approve of this theme. I fear my sewing skills are not up to the challenge, but my seamstress Leonora will help fix any of my shortcomings. Leonora is a Godsend, the sister of the carpenter who built little Hiram’s cradle. I am thankful for God’s providence.
Kelly had to smile at Mary’s upbeat attitude. Having an upbeat attitude was easy when it seemed all was going your way. But what thrilled her most of all was reading the reference to the quilt. The idea of touching fabric that Mary had touched, well over a century before, gave her goose bumps.
February 1851
One year, and Hiram has been gone. I can see him in our young one’s face, with the furrowed brow and loud cries. He seems to have been born with the same sense of right and wrong. How a child knows such deep things is a mystery to me. From his nursery chair, he seems to scold me with his infant’s glare.
Esteban Delgado, a local craftsman, built a beautiful infant’s bed for him, from timbers from an old ship. He is a good man from a humble family. He inquired last week about young Hiram and his solid bed. I told him that Hiram thrived and rested well.
Before he left, he made one more inquiry. “My English is not so good, I know. But I wish to learn to read. Will you teach me?”
I could not say no to his dark eyes.
8
The old man was having a good day and was seated by the window that looked out onto a busy street. The late afternoon traffic zoomed along, snaking north to south, south to north along the coast.
“So, so busy we all are,” the old man said as he entered the room. “Here today, gone tomorrow, life is but a vapor.”
He loosened his tie and plunked himself down on the spare chair beside the bed. “Did you have everything you need?”
“I need nothing but to know that the past is set right.”
He tried not to roll his eyes. Gestures like that were only fitting for an unruly, disrespectful teenager. And he had always respected the old man. Why not? He’d given him everything, from youth on up.
“It’s not your job to set the past right,” he said as gently as he could. “Some things just . . . are. I have a feeling that the universe makes it so. We all get what we deserve in the end.”
The old man waved off his words. “Not always . . . not always. I don’t have much time left, and I’m going to do what I can to upset the apple cart.”
Now this wasn’t what he expected. “Don’t do anything rash. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Better than I have in weeks. You’re my lawyer, so don’t give me any grief over what I’m going to ask you to do.”
The old man’s next words made his hands turn into fists. Delirious and unstable. He should call the old man’s doctor right away.
“So, what do you know about your family tree?” Dave Winthrop asked at the conclusion of their brief meeting. They’d already walked the inside of the townhouse, and Tom made his measurements. He’d get the permits and do the best he could on this job.
The dining room contained, as Tom had expected, a framed parchment outlining the Winthrop family tree for several centuries. The family tree looked strong, generations stretching back.
“I don’t know much, just that we’ve been here in New Bedford for a long, long time,” Tom said. “We had some shipbuilders and seamen in our ranks, a few factory workers. Blue collar people. That’s about all I know.”
“Sometimes it helps a man to know where he comes from, Tom.” Dave clapped him on the back. “You strike me as the kind of man who could use a little direction.”
“How do you know about me? We’ve only met once.”
“I always check up on people I hire,” said Dave. “You’re from good stock, better than you might imagine. There’s no shame in hard work, and I think you know that. Plus, you served your country.”
“Yes, I was in the military.” What was the guy getting at?
“I was West Point, class of ’72. Spent thirty years in the Army, retired. Worked civil service for a while until I decided there was plenty of life left to live and not behind a desk, so I retired again.”
Tom nodded. “You got your years in. The problem is, I didn’t. I’m not college material. So all I have are these.” He held up his hands.
“As long as you keep that in mind, you’ll do well. Don’t give up on the idea of your education, though.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Tom closed his notepad. Mom would keep supper waiting for him and Kelly, who waited outside in her car. She’d been stubborn enough not to let him drive his motorcycle to the house and he figured he wouldn’t fight her about it.
“I can see you have places to go, things to do, and people waiting for you, like the pretty lady in the car outside.” Dave shook hands with him. “But take a look back on your tree, then look ahead. You might be surprised at what you find.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll get you an estimate and call you tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a plan.” Dave nodded.
Tom joined Kelly outside, and off they want to his parents’ house. Maybe it wouldn’t turn out so bad after all. Tonight she’d be everyone’s focus instead of him. That could be a problem, especially if his family chose to link them romantically. However, maybe his health wouldn’t be their main subject of conversation tonight.
He gave her a sideways glance and let it linger. Of course, she was beautiful. Not the model, knock-you-over looker type. But more of the once you starting looking at her, you didn’t want to stop type. Proportioned nose, full lips, yet not pouty—why some younger women persisted in taking �
��duck face” photos of themselves was beyond his understanding—and her eyes . . .
She met his gaze. “Are you feeling okay? Did I make a wrong turn? I’m sure you’d speak up and make some crack about women drivers if I did.” She grinned, then snapped her attention back to the road.
“I’m . . . I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “I know I mentioned bracing yourself for my family. They might start to think we’re, uh, a couple or something.”
“Well, I thought about that, too.”
“My family’s reaction or us being a couple?” He couldn’t resist teasing her.
“Uh . . .” Her face flushed red. “I’m going to let them know I’ve only moved here for the summer and you and I have only just met. Of course, your mother had a hand in supper tonight, both literally and figuratively. I’m willing to guess she’s probably playing matchmaker.”
He released his breath. “Good. We’ll just go with the flow, then.”
“That’s fine with me.”
Tom might as well not have been there tonight, as much as Kelly was peppered with questions about her family, her career, how she’d gotten the job here. She stammered a bit when admitting her foster child background, but her face glowed when speaking of Lottie and Chuck, the couple she considered parents. Chuck had passed away two years ago after years of heart trouble. When she said the words, a shadow flickered across her face.
Meanwhile, Tom’s own father scarcely said five words to him during the meal. What was it with his dad? What would be enough for him to say, “Son, you did good. Life dealt you a poor hand, but with God’s help, you’ve made it through.” Maybe because Tom wasn’t satisfied with only making it through. Not when his own brother had far excelled him. But if anything were to happen to Pop . . . The idea made him grip his fork a little tighter.
“So, Kelly, you’re working on a quilt, did you say?” his mother asked.
“Yes. I don’t get too many of those to work on, actually. I’ll definitely have the chance to brush up on my fine needlework. I’ve been instructed to find matching fabric and repair all the holes in the quilt blocks, but I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple.”
“Why’s that?”
“The newer fabric and stitches are strong, which ends up making the older needlework more vulnerable.” Kelly swept a strand of hair over one ear. “If you want something to break, you want it to be at the newer stitching, not do further damage to the old. Which is why sometimes trying to restore something only hastens its deterioration.”
“Well, Miss Frost,” Tom’s father spoke up. “I’m glad you were there for my son. He’s a bit stubborn, don’t know where he gets that from. But supper doesn’t seem to be thank-you enough.”
“This is fine, Mr. Pereira. It’s nice to be able to sit among a family tonight.” She grinned that smile of hers at them. Tom hadn’t paid enough attention to it now, but it almost had that Julia Roberts megawatt quality to it. He yanked his focus back to his nephew, who was tugging at his elbow. Hopefully, his father would quit pointing out Tom’s “issues,” as he liked to call them.
“What’s going on, Hunter?” He asked his nephew.
“You plant gardens, right?”
“I’m learning.”
“My mom’s plant that I gave her for Mother’s Day is dying,” Hunter said, his face drooping.
“What kind of plant are we talking here?”
“It’s an anwall.”
“Anwall?”
“I mean annual.” His nephew’s face reddened.
“Annuals only live one season, buddy.”
“You should see my garden,” Mom called from two seats down. “It’s growing like crazy. Maybe you and Kelly can go take a look at it while we get the dishes in the dishwasher and coffee brewing. Got some fresh Dunkin at the store.”
Tom looked down at his empty plate. It was a setup, for sure. So long as Kelly understood that, they should both be fine. “I guess I’m ready if you are.”
Kelly nodded. “I’ll take our plates to the kitchen.” As he followed her into the kitchen, she whispered over her shoulder, “Might as well get this over with.”
The dishes left for the others to fight over, Tom led Kelly out the back door. “And now, for the garden.” He held the door open and gestured for her to pass.
“For the garden,” she said in mock low tones.
The twilight air outside held a fair amount of humidity. Maybe there’d be more rain in the forecast. Tom hadn’t noticed the forecast, and he ought to. Much as he’d joked about gardening, he knew that the powers that be over Gray House took the garden very seriously. As did he, he realized.
His parents had tilled up a large section of ground, taking up the corner where he and his brother had once knocked a baseball around and passed the football back and forth. Change had come to the family home.
“It’s nice out here,” Kelly said.
“You mean the quiet is nice,” Tom countered. “I have only one niece and nephew, but when they’re spending time with Mom and Pop, their noise multiplies.”
“You don’t mind it one bit, though, do you?”
“Nah. They’re great kids. It seems like they were just born, and now Hunter is getting closer to the top of my shoulder every time I see him.” Tom eyed the first row of plants, shooting tall like his brother’s children. His parents’ tomato plants were thriving, with little green misshaped spheres promising plenty of red fruit in the next few weeks.
“I had lots of brothers and sisters growing up, sort of.” Kelly bent over to inspect the radishes, still petite. “The ones I count, probably twelve altogether.”
“Do you keep in touch with any of them?” He couldn’t help but ask.
“Only through Lottie. I get pretty busy with my job . . .” Her voice drifted off. “They’ve done the same. Some of them ended up doing pretty well for themselves, others not so well. Some we don’t hear from at all.”
“Ah.” He inspected a row of lettuce.
“Your parents are neat.” Kelly stood up straight and faced him, then eyed the house behind them. “It must’ve been great to grow up here. Your parents’ home just . . . just oozes love.”
“Yeah. They’ve been good parents.”
“And your dad, I know he must be so proud of you.”
“Proud of me? For what?” The words came out more sharply than he’d meant.
“You’re not a quitter, in spite of everything you’ve been through.” Kelly’s chin lifted a fraction of an inch. “You could have given up, not even attempted to have a life, played the woe-is-me card. But here you are.”
“A glorified gardener. Ha.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and continued along the garden path.
Kelly trotted along beside him. “That’s better than a lot of things you could have been. One of my former ‘brothers’ is serving a life sentence in prison because of a stupid bar fight. Another one of my former foster sisters is, well, we don’t know how or where she is. Lottie ended up taking care of her children, both born with classic symptoms of being exposed to crack before birth. I could go on, but I won’t.”
“Tell that to my father. Did you hear him in there? Talking about me as if I were a child.”
“You’re still his son. He probably sees you that way. I bet you were the one always getting your knees skinned.”
Her humor cooled his aggravation just a few degrees, as long shadows from the house devoured the remaining patches of light in the backyard. “Ha.” He bit back any number of things he could say to her, none of which would help anything. “I’m still just a gardener.”
“Goodness, Eeyore. Maybe I’ll take back what I said about the woe-is-me attitude. Don’t you remember where we were earlier? A man wants to pay you to install flooring and tile in his beautiful but likely outdated townhouse.” She poked his arm.
He caught her hand in his, and he allowed himself to brush back some of those wispy strands of hair from her cheek, the same strands that had kept drifting into
her way at supper. “You’re sweet, Kelly Frost. And funny. I like that.”
“Thanks . . .”
The back door banged. Tom released Kelly’s hand and turned toward the house.
Hunter pounded down the back steps, off the deck, and approached them at a full run. “Uncle Tom! Did you see the squash?”
Kelly wrangled the six-foot table into the center of the ballroom and slid it next to the matching table. This would give her at least a hard surface to support the quilt as she worked on repairs. Nothing would restore it to its former glory, but she would strive to keep Firstborn Holdings happy. Of course, Mr. William Chandler hadn’t returned her call for a request for more information.
Her phone buzzed atop the marble mantel, so she trotted off to answer. Mr. Chandler. Finally. “This is Kelly Frost.”
“Ms. Frost, I received your message. Is there an issue with the quilt?”
“Not exactly. I’m a bit hesitant, however, to use this new fabric on the blocks. I’m making some templates of the pattern so I can cut—”
“I really don’t need an explanation. Just continue on the project. That’s what you’re being paid for.”
In times past, Kelly would have slung her phone against the wall. That was the impulsiveness of youth. She thought better of it now. “I understand. I’m going to complete this project to the best of my ability, but often I find that clients have unrealistic expectations of the results.”
“Keep me apprised of your progress. Have a nice day, Ms. Frost.”
“You too, thank you.” She was talking to a broken connection. “That figures,” she said to the silent phone.
Ever since the disaster with Peyton and the Boston Fine Arts Museum, she found herself doubting her skill. She pulled on a clean pair of acid-free work gloves, then removed the quilt from the acid-free cardboard box where she’d stored it once it was dry.
Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series Page 7
