If Jonna had still been an amiable colleague, Kelly would have asked her if she had anything suitable in her supplies. But Kelly decided to go it alone and not ask for help. It was better that way.
The balmy summer temperatures drew her outside. She decided to venture a walk along County Street toward the real estate office where Mrs. Acres worked. The fresh air would help her, and so would leaving the atmosphere of the house.
Gray House groaned in the wind some days. During the day, it was strange. At night, it made Kelly want to bolt her bedroom door closed, except there was no lock on the door. She shivered. Never afraid of the dark, unless it was an enclosed space where she felt she couldn’t breathe.
She locked the front door behind her and ambled to the front iron gate, which she unlocked as well, then relocked once she was on the sidewalk. With its tall stone walls and gated front, Gray House’s grounds were almost like a compound that took up half a block. Kelly left the odd feeling behind her and kept along County toward Main Street and Acres and Acres Real Estate.
If Mrs. Acres couldn’t give her information, she could always head over a few blocks to the historic district, close to the water. There was some sort of museum and a library, she’d read online. Surely someone knew something about Gray House.
She found the office of Acres and Acres and went inside. The air conditioning was on full blast, sucking the humidity out of the air. Mrs. Acres sprang up from behind her maple desk and met Kelly at the entryway.
“Ms. Frost, how are you? I’ve been meaning to pop by to make sure you and the house are getting along.” Mrs. Acres beamed. Her hair was now a platinum blond. The Maltese lying in a basket in the corner had matching locks.
“I’m doing well, thanks. I think we’re getting along fine so far.” Kelly rubbed her arms. Goosebumps had popped up as soon as she entered the office. “I’ve been preparing the quilt and gathering supplies to make repairs.”
“Well, I don’t envy you a bit.” Mrs. Acres shook her head. “Although I’ve been known to stitch a few baby quilts over time. If you ever need a hand, I’m willing to help.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the offer. I’ll keep that in mind if I do.” The idea of the older woman hovering around the quilt nearly made hives break out among her goose bumps. Kelly didn’t plan on needing any help.
“So what brings you here? The pretty weather? Or is there an issue with the house?” Mrs. Acres asked.
“The lookout has a leaky roof on the inside, I’ve been meaning to let you or Mr. Chandler know.”
At the mention of William Chandler, Mrs. Acres stood up straighter, her back stiffening. “Don’t call him unless you absolutely must.”
“Okay, I did call him, but he hasn’t responded.”
“That’s just as well. I’m glad you came to me about this.”
“Well, that’s not the only reason I came by. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about the original owners of Gray House.” She almost felt silly at the next words she was going to say. “There’s a story with the quilt, you know.”
“It’s part of the historic district,” Mrs. Acres moved to a file drawer. “County Street was the place to build your home if you were a whaling captain or any of those whale oil industry giants back in the day. They said it was upwind from the smells of the harbor.”
“That makes sense to me.” Kelly nodded. “But do you have anything that can tell me more about the Grays? When did they sell the home? When did Firstborn Holdings take control of the property?”
“Ah, I see.” Mrs. Acres pulled out a file and returned to where Kelly stood. “This is all I have, all that can be shared publicly, that is.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Make yourself comfortable over there on the couch.” Mrs. Acres gestured to the corner of the office where a leather living room suite waited, complete with coffee table that sported a set of magazines. “Would you like some bottled water?”
“Sure, I’d like that.” Kelly carried the file over to the couch and sank onto its buttery softness. The first document in the folder contained an agreement between Acres and Acres for managing the property of Gray House. Nothing new to her here. Mrs. Acres had been managing the property for fifteen years. There were old contracts for lawn care, pouring concrete for the parking slab at the back of the property. But nothing about the Grays, or of Firstborn Holdings.
“Here’s your water.” Mrs. Acres stood by the arm of the couch. “Have you found anything useful? I’m afraid our records only go back as far as we’ve been managing the property.”
“Thank you.” Kelly took a sip from the open plastic bottle. She could see that she’d have to look at the local property records to find some real information. “I don’t see anything, really. But maybe you know more than you realize. Did the company ever say why they wanted to hire someone to restore the quilt?”
“No, I can’t say as they did. Mr. Chandler is my main contact with Firstborn Holdings. He told me in May, right before I took you to see the quilt,” Mrs. Acres replied.
“Out of curiosity, how many others came to Gray House to see the quilt?”
“No one else came. You were the only one.”
If she was the only one who came to Gray House to inspect the quilt, that meant she was a sole bidder. She couldn’t see how a conservator wouldn’t take the time to assess a future project. Why had she been singled out?
The old man was on oxygen now, all the time and not just to sleep at night. He stood at the old man’s bedside as he checked his phone.
“I just received a telephone call,” he told the old man. “Kelly Frost showed up at the office, asking questions about the house.”
“Let her ask.” The old man punctuated the statement with a cough. “She is keeping her end of the deal, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Then that’s all I need to know.” The old man then commenced with a coughing fit.
“Do I need to call someone?”
The old man raised a wrinkled hand with prominent blue veins. “No. Just let me be.”
“All right.” He shook his head. He wouldn’t say his concern aloud to the old man, but Kelly Frost had better keep her focus on the quilt and leave Gray House alone.
10
June 1851
My student has accomplished much, as he is a ready learner. I cannot help but feel that what we do is forbidden, even though our time together consists of letters and sounds and words on a page. Esteban is smart and picks up the new words quickly, far more quickly than I would have learned Portuguese.
Somehow I do not miss Hiram’s letters. Letters do not come, and my money is running short. I fear for the future at all times, except when Esteban is near. He makes me laugh, and even little Hiram laughs, too. In weaker moments, I imagine that the three of us are a family. I then pray for release from the guilt of such thoughts.
August 1851
Esteban claims my thoughts. I can scarcely quilt, scarcely tend to the house, without memories of his eyes, his smile, his voice following me through my day. Such agony. Such sinfulness. It is like a nectar that tastes heavenly as it courses down my throat, yet later on when I think of it, fills my stomach with bile. He has stayed away for nearly a month. I fear that I cannot breathe without him. I pray to God for mercy and forgiveness.
Kelly closed the journal, her cheeks tinged with flames. After a morning’s worth of cutting new blocks for the quilt, she decided to give her hands and shoulders a rest. She’d managed to shove the queasiness aside when she kept thinking about Mrs. Acres’s revelation, that she was the only bidder for the quilt. Part of her thought she should have asked for more money if she’d known that. Another part felt as if she were under a microscope. Now, reading Mary Gray’s journal, she felt as if she were the voyeur, peering into Mary’s life.
Looking from the outside in, it wasn’t hard to see that Mrs. Hiram Gray was heading down a path that could only end in heartache. Kelly almost spoke a warning
to Mary, aloud, as she read the fine script.
But how well she knew the feeling, the giddiness of love. She once imagined a future with Peyton Greaves, even as they walked the corridors of the Boston Fine Arts Museum and stole the kisses of new love behind the statues. Somehow, the chance of them being discovered made the kisses taste sweeter.
Then when she saw the real Mrs. Peyton Greaves one night, Kelly realized she would never bear that name. The woman had been at the spring exhibit opening and the two of them nearly collided at the entrance to the ladies’ room. She remembered tugging the short-capped sleeves of her little black dress into place and assessing the other woman.
Nope, she was the other woman. After an awkward smile and nod, Kelly had scurried back to the gallery and sucked down some fruit punch the color of her cheeks. Betrayal. Lies.
Amid the crowd nibbling appetizers and sipping champagne, Peyton had found her. He cupped her elbow and whispered in her ear. “That dress should be illegal.” His breath sent tingles down her spine and she fought against the sensation. “Maybe later we can spend some time together in the main gallery. The couch is nicely cushioned.”
Their backs to the wall, he’d slid his hand over the fabric of her dress and rested it on the small of her back. Even through the dress, every nerve ending in her body screamed, Cheater. Adulteress.
This man is not yours, her mind told her. She’d become, unwittingly, the woman she swore she’d never be. Every kiss they’d shared, every embrace, every night spent together had come at a cost she didn’t realize she was paying.
Kelly stared at the cover of the closed journal. But she wasn’t like Mary Gray. Mary had stepped, knowingly, into a relationship outside of her marriage vows. She could have said no, could have sent Esteban away, even though each cell of her cried out for him.
Just as part of Kelly cried out for Peyton now. If only, if only . . . She thought she had purged the rest of him from her system, and retreating into hiding had done that, for a while. Of course, Jonna had to be the one to figure out the connection between Kelly and Peyton, plus Peyton’s acceptance of Kelly’s bid for the ancient woven rugs found in what was once Gaul. Then Jonna had run straight to the top administrators of the Boston Fine Arts Museum and spilled the whole sorry tale.
God, please don’t let my wrongdoing continue to follow me like this. Kelly remembered whispered prayers as a young teen, prayers with Lottie for the man she’d one day marry, would give herself to. Maybe that was another reason she’d avoided Lottie. God had blessed her with a family, and she’d let them down. Not only had she given Peyton her once carefully guarded innocence, but she’d given herself to a liar.
Tom wiped his brow and surveyed the kitchen floor. Bamboo hardwood. More than he could afford if he owned his own home. Winthrop had the bucks, and so far the guy’s checks cleared, for which he was thankful. He shifted from his knees, then moved over to the air compressor and turned it off. Another pair of hands could have helped him get the floor set down, but so far he’d done fine on his own, slower but steady.
When Kelly dropped him off at the Winthrops’ place, he almost asked her to meet him back here for lunch. Instead, he said, “See you around five.”
She left him with a wave and a sunshiny smile, off to work on her old quilt.
He’d snooped around online out of curiosity to see how much she could be making on a job like that. The amount ranged from five grand to a cool twenty-five thousand. All that for scraps of fabric that someone had cared nothing about for years. Why throw money at something like that? He shook his head. Sure, he was glad for Kelly benefiting from the project. She’d had a hard life and it sounded like some tough breaks recently that she wouldn’t tell him about.
He could respect that. He’d had his own tough breaks and wasn’t eager to spill his guts. Tom stepped carefully on the bare subfloor and headed for his work table, where his bottled water waited for him. That, and a container of leftovers his mother had sent home with him the other night.
As he chowed down, his mind drifted back to his pastor’s message on Sunday morning, about God’s ways. God’s ways aren’t like ours. We try to understand things that are beyond our human comprehension. How can we give and receive more in return? How can turning the cheek be rewarded? How can a servant be the greatest of all? How can God bring order out of chaos in our lives?
Tom wanted to holler, “That last one is the million-dollar question, Pastor.” He remembered long ago being read the first chapter of Genesis. “And the earth was without form and void, and darkness hovered over the face of the deep. And God said, ‘Let there be light, and there was light.’ ” One sentence, one command was all it took. He still begged for that one command from above to produce something in his own life.
Yet Pastor’s words continued replaying in his brain. “So many people ask God for His will in their lives when they should be asking God what He’s doing in this world and joining in on what He’s doing.”
What are you doing, God? Somber thought for lunchtime. Sometimes Tom couldn’t see what God was doing. No, a lot of the time he couldn’t see it. At least he wasn’t doing nothing with his time. He earned a decent paycheck working at Gray House, and this newest job would help his savings account.
“Hello, hello,” a voice boomed as the front door opened. “How’s my kitchen floor coming?”
“It’s right on track, Dave,” Tom said as Dave Winthrop entered the dining room. He carried a manila folder and hummed a tune.
“My wife is going to love this. Bamboo is so ‘green,’ as they say, and will last a long time.” Winthrop stopped at the kitchen threshold. “Nice work, good attention to detail.”
“Thank you. I’m enjoying the work. If all goes well, I’ll start on the rest of the downstairs this week.”
“Great job.” Winthrop slapped his palm with the folder he carried. “I brought something for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Your family tree,” Winthrop said, “or at least part of it.”
“Really? Wow.” Tom’s stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. Once Winthrop was gone, he could grab lunch.
“Easy-peasy.” Winthrop handed him the folder with a flourish. “Here’s part of your family’s history, all the way back a hundred and fifty years or so, on your father’s side. Census records, mostly. Easy to find.”
Tom opened the folder. Inside were printed copies of handwritten census records, plus a few other copies of old-looking papers. “Thank you. I told you my father doesn’t talk much about his side of the family. His dad died young, and he was raised by an aunt when his mother walked out on the family.” He hadn’t intended to say that much. Last time Winthrop had asked about Tom’s family, Tom had only said he didn’t know much about either side other than they’d been in New Bedford “forever” and were pretty much a blue-collar family.
“You’ll see the census records name heads of household, spouses, and children with ages. They go back every ten years or so.”
Tom studied the top page. There was his name with the 2010 census. His parents were listed, too. He paged back to 1950. There was his pop, listed as twelve years old. His father’s name was Albert Pereira, his mother Dolores Pereira. Tom’s grandfather was listed as a “carpenter,” his grandmother as a “housewife.”
Carpenter, huh? A grin tugged at his mouth. So working with their hands ran in the family. “This is something else.”
Winthrop nodded. “There are variations on the name somewhere back there. And then one of the families has no sons to carry on the name, and . . . well, you’ll see. You have a fine lineage back there. This was just the start of it.”
“Thank you.” Tom closed the folder and placed it on the table. “Do I owe you some money for this or something?”
“Nah.” Winthrop waved off the question. “It was as easy as typing in a name and a birth date, and the paper trail revealed itself.”
“Well, thank you. Thank you very much. I, uh, was just having my lunch br
eak when you stopped by.” Tom picked up his food container.
“Go right ahead. I’m passing through. I have some appointments this afternoon in Newport, but if you need anything or have questions, I’ll have my cell phone on.”
“All right. I’ll remember that.” Tom stirred his food, but didn’t take a bite while Winthrop was there. “I know I’m the only one working on this, but I promise I’ll get this done in good time.”
“I don’t doubt that. I also don’t doubt that if you need a hand, you’ll find one.” Winthrop tapped the folder. “I hope you enjoy exploring your family history. Like I said, this is just the start.”
“Thanks again.” Tom nodded. “I’ll have to show this to my father.” Not that his father would have much interest in the family tree, but it wouldn’t hurt to show him. If he liked it, fine. If not, Tom had plenty of other things to occupy his time.
Winthrop took his leave, and Tom inhaled the rest of his lunch so he could hit overdrive and get the kitchen floor finished. He turned up the music on his MP3 player dock and flipped the switch for his pneumatic nail gun. Time to get cranking and get the floor done.
He shoved his gloomy questions aside plus his curiosity about his family’s records for now. The present needed his attention more than anything else. He lost himself in the cutting and measuring, then realized someone was banging on the front door.
Tom unlatched the door and pulled it open. “Kelly.”
She stood on the doorstep, blinking at him. “You did say to come by at five, right?”
“Is it five already?” He hadn’t finished his goal for the day. A four-foot-by-room-length patch of subfloor still lay exposed.
“Yes, it is. Almost five-thirty, actually. I tried calling you, but it went straight to voice mail.”
It was bad enough she had to give him rides to the Winthrops’ house, worse that she showed up and he hadn’t finished what he’d hoped to accomplish that day.
Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series Page 9
