Tightening the Threads

by Lea Wait

  “You will. I’m sure of it.”

  He sighed. “I hope you’re right. In the meantime I’m glad to be helping out at Ted’s gallery downtown. In the past few weeks I’ve learned an incredible amount about what it means to be a gallerist. What has to be done to find excellent work, to market it—and, ultimately, to sell it. I’d always seen galleries from an artist’s point of view. Ted and Jeremy have a very different perspective—one I really appreciate. Plus spending all day with different types of paintings has itself been educational. I can almost inhale the paintings hung there, and talking with possible customers makes me more conscious of what people are looking for when they’re ready to purchase.”

  “Lighthouses and surf as souvenirs?” I guessed.

  “Sure, that’s what some customers look for. Nothing wrong with that. But Ted has other work in the gallery, too. Different artists. Different styles. What amazes me are the people who come into the gallery looking for, say, an eight-foot-long painting—because they have an eight-foot couch.”

  “I’d never have guessed that.”

  “It’s true; believe me. In any case, the paintings in this gallery aren’t for over couches.”

  I walked over to admire one of a sunrise over the ocean. At least, that’s what I thought it was. The colors were stunning, as they merged with each other into glorious shades of pink and white and orange. How much would a painting like that cost? “I don’t see any price tags.”

  “Not one,” he agreed. “As they say, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

  “How is your own painting coming?”

  Patrick glanced down self-consciously at his hands. “I’m still healing, they say. I started a couple of canvasses, but they didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped. I don’t have the control over my fingers—or my brushes—that I used to take for granted. But working at the gallery gets me out of the house, and talking and thinking about art. It’s tiring—I’m still not as strong as I like to think I am. But it’s a good transition until I can paint again.” He winked at me. “Only one problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “It leaves Bette alone a lot of the time.”

  Bette was Patrick’s kitten, my Trixi’s sister. We’d adopted our housemates in August.

  “How’s she coping?”

  “I suspect sleeping most of the time. Although sometimes I come home and find a drawer pulled open a bit, or cat toys blocking the front door.”

  “Sounds normal to me! Trixi’s decided the bottom drawer of my file cabinet makes a great bed. I’m just afraid someday she’ll get stuck in there. Kittens!”

  “And I haven’t had a chance to invite any friends over to have dinner with me recently, either,” he continued. “I’m now allowed to drive, so maybe I could find a pretty lady to go restaurant exploring with me in October, when the gallery business slows down a bit.”

  “Sounds possible.” I smiled back. “I could probably think of someone who’d like to do that. Especially if a gentleman artist were to invite her.”

  “Hold that thought for a few days,” he said. “Right now I’m focusing on this weekend.” He opened an almost-invisible door in the wall and put the broom away in a closet. “So tonight we’ll celebrate Ted’s birthday. Do you know the schedule for tomorrow? Ted said he wanted Jeremy and me to be around, available.”

  “I don’t know what’s scheduled for Saturday morning or early afternoon, if anything. Later in the afternoon Sarah said he planned to have a lobster bake down on the beach. I guess that’s something his family did a lot when the children were growing up.”

  “I suspect Jeremy and I will be assigned to buying lobsters and clams then,” said Patrick.

  “You sound very knowledgeable about lobster bakes,” I teased. He’d been to his first bake just weeks before. That one had been catered.

  “I’m a fast learner,” he agreed.

  “I’ll be dispatched to the farmer’s market for fresh corn and potatoes,” I guessed.

  “Makes sense. Besides, you can’t come to the coast of Maine from New York City and not have lobster. Even the County isn’t the best place for fresh seafood.”

  He was learning fast. The County, eh? Pretty good for someone who’d just moved to Maine a few months before.

  Sarah stood in the doorway, looking at both of us. “I can’t stay still,” she blurted. She glanced at Patrick. “Ted just told me he has several important things to say tonight,” she said, looking at me. “And that he’s bought a few fireworks to set off on the beach tomorrow, after the lobster bake. I’m just hoping we don’t have any unexpected explosions tonight.”

  Chapter Five

  “On Earth let my example shine

  And when I leave this state

  May heaven receive this soul of mine

  To bliss divinely great.”

  —Sampler decorated with flowers in vases and a blooming tree, made by eleven-year-old Sally Martin Brown in silk thread on linen in Marblehead, Massachusetts, about 1800.

  Patrick held up his hand. “I hear a car. Or is that a truck?”

  “Abbie and Silas!” Sarah turned and raced through the connecting rooms toward the main house.

  “I guess Ted’s birthday weekend has officially started,” said Patrick.

  “Might as well go meet the guests,” I agreed.

  “They can wait a minute.” Patrick looked into my eyes, and moved toward me. As his arms surrounded me, my mind filled with a kaleidoscope of images. The first time he’d kissed me. The feel of his body next to mine. The hope that he wouldn’t let go.

  But then he did.

  “I couldn’t wait any longer. I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I got back from Boston,” he said, his lips touching my hair.

  I reached up and kissed him, gently. And then not as gently.

  Then I stepped back. “Sarah will wonder why we haven’t joined her.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about Sarah.” He looked down at me and kissed my forehead. “But you’re right. Let’s go.” He put his hand lightly on my back as we walked through the connecting rooms toward the main house.

  All I could think about was turning around and kissing him again.

  But I didn’t. Not now.

  In the living room Ted was awkwardly hugging a plump middle-aged woman whose hair and makeup were immaculately arranged, but whose hands were chaffed and red.

  “Abbie, thank you for coming,” said Ted. “And Silas, too. It means a lot.”

  Silas, a huge bear of a man, complete with black beard, worn jeans, and a flannel shirt, nodded in response. “We made good time. Leaves haven’t turned so far. No leaf-peepers on the turnpike.”

  “Can I get you something to eat? Or drink?” Sarah said. She stood in the hallway between the living room and kitchen. I assumed she’d already been introduced.

  “No need,” said Silas. “We stopped at the Micky D’s right outside town. We’re set for the moment. Although I could always do with a beer, if you’ve got any. Or some Bradley’s with milk would taste real good.”

  Maine’s favorite drink: Bradley’s Coffee Flavored Brandy. Fishermen added it to their hot coffee and teenagers snuck it into milkshakes. I hadn’t thought of it in years.

  “I’ll get you something,” said Sarah, turning toward the kitchen.

  “Good-lookin’ housekeeper you’ve got,” Silas added to Ted.

  “Sarah’s not my housekeeper. She’s my . . . friend,” said Ted. “I invited a couple of friends to help out this weekend. Those other two young folks in the hallway there are Angie Curtis and Patrick West. Com’on in. Meet my daughter, Abbie, and her husband, Silas.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Abbie. Then she turned to her father. “I thought this was going to be a family gathering.”

  “These folks are my Haven Harbor family now,” said Ted firmly. “I can’t run both galleries and the house by myself anymore. These three friends, and Jeremy, keep my life in order.”

  He’d exaggerated my re
lationship to the group, but hey. It was his family, and his birthday.

  “Jeremy? That strange fellow who used to work for you is still around?” said Abbie.

  “He’s not strange, and yes. Jeremy’s been with me almost fifteen years now. Couldn’t run the gallery without him. You’d know that, Abbie, if you visited more often.”

  “We got crops to get out, Ted,” said Silas. “And this time of year Abbie’s busy with her teaching as well as the canning and freezing and such. Wasn’t easy to take the time to get down here now. But you seemed to think it was important.”

  “I brought you two jars of my bread-and-butter pickles,” said Abbie. “They’re in the kitchen. I remembered how much you loved Mother’s pickles.”

  “Thank you, Abbie,” said Ted. “Kind of you to think of that.”

  “Here’s your beer,” said Sarah, handing Silas a tall frosted glass.

  “Can would’ve been good enough,” said Silas.

  His wife shot a look at him.

  “But thank you, Sarah.” He took a long drink. “Where is it you started out? Wasn’t in Maine.”

  “I was born in Australia,” said Sarah.

  “Long way from here,” said Abbie, smiling at her.

  “It is,” Sarah agreed. “Can I get anyone else something?”

  “Scotch would be good,” said Ted. “You know how I like it.”

  Sarah nodded. “And you, Abbie?”

  “Maybe a diet soda? I’ll come with you and see.” She followed Sarah to the kitchen.

  “So where’re the newlyweds?” asked Silas. “Limo hasn’t arrived from New York City yet?”

  “Jeremy’s picking Luke and Harold and Michael up at the Jetport,” said Ted. “They should be here in a couple of hours. We’ll have dinner after they arrive.”

  “Abbie and me usually go to bed by about nine-thirty or thereabouts,” said Silas.

  “Well, I hope you’ll be able to stay up a little later than that tonight,” said Ted, sitting back down in his chair by the fireplace. “For the occasion.”

  The floor-to-ceiling bookcases on either side of the fireplace were filled with large books on art and artists. I wondered how often Ted’s children had looked at them when they were growing up.

  “Why don’t I get you a drink, Angie?” Patrick asked. “I think I’d like one, too.”

  I nodded. “White wine, please.”

  He followed Sarah and Abbie to the kitchen.

  “So, Angie. Where’re you from?” Silas asked.

  “Right here. Born in Haven Harbor,” I said. “You?”

  “Presque Isle. Seven generations of Reeds up there. Lots of Reeds down here on the mid-coast, too.”

  “I suspect there are,” I agreed. “So you’re a farmer?”

  “Organic. Only way to go,” he said. “Some folks don’t believe it makes a difference. But Abbie and me want things as natural as we can get ’em. Healthier, you know. And when we sell the crops, we can ask more for ’em. It’s harder to grow organic vegetables, and have free-range chickens. Always chasing those chickens out of where they shouldn’t be. But they eat the bugs, and that’s good for the crops, and good for us. Nothing healthier than eating a chicken raised on bugs!” He grinned.

  Where was Patrick with my wine? I hadn’t imagined any of Ted’s children would be like Abbie and Silas.

  Abbie was making an effort, I could tell, by the way she’d dressed and put on makeup. But her husband was from another part of Maine. Many Mainers were farmers. Silas just wasn’t what I’d expected someone in the elegant and prestigious Lawrence family to be like.

  The Point was spectacular, and I assumed Ted had plenty of money. But it didn’t look as though Abbie or Silas were benefitting from any of it.

  “Where did you and Abbie meet?” I asked, as Abbie rejoined us and Patrick pressed a glass of wine into my hand and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Orono.”

  “You both went to the University of Maine?”

  Silas laughed loudly, and slurped his beer before putting his glass on a mahogany table.

  Ted winced. That glass would stain.

  “Nope. I was taking an extension course on new methods of potato farming. Good course, as I recall. Abbie came for the weekend to hear a rock concert at the university. That’s where we met.”

  “At the concert?”

  “Right. Love at first sight.” He looked over at Ted, who was staring into the fireplace. “She was a real looker then. Prettiest girl I’d ever met. Not fat, like she is now.”

  Abbie’s smile froze.

  Silas didn’t seem to notice. “We got married two weeks later. Didn’t even tell her dad what we were doing.”

  “They surprised me, for sure. But Abbie promised she’d get her degree, and she did,” said Ted, turning toward us. I couldn’t tell if he were proud of his daughter, or still incredulous that she’d married Silas.

  “She was real good about that promise,” Silas agreed. “I’ll admit I wasn’t too happy about it at first. I could’ve used her at home more then, to help out. But she went to UMPI and got her degree and certificate, and that teaching has come in handy in tough crop years.”

  “UMPI?” asked Patrick, coming back into the room and handing Ted his scotch.

  “University of Maine in Presque Isle,” explained Abbie. “Those first few years were a bit rugged, but we’re still married.”

  “Sure are,” agreed Silas.

  “Dad, I’d like to go upstairs and rest a little before the boys arrive. Okay with you?”

  “You do whatever you want, Abbie. After all, you’re at home now.” Ted’s smile said that so far, all was well.

  I hoped it stayed that way.

  As Abbie and Silas picked up their bags and headed up the wide staircase, I looked past Ted to the painting over the fireplace. I’d only been in the living room briefly before, and I hadn’t paid attention to it.

  “Is that Abbie?” I asked, pointing at the portrait of a seated woman and a young girl leaning against her.

  Ted looked up. “Abbie and Lily, my wife. Dad painted it. He said they both glowed.”

  “They do,” I agreed. Lily was stunning. Her long blond hair was curled slightly at the ends, and it exactly matched her daughter’s. Artists might exaggerate beauty in a portrait, particularly a portrait of someone they loved. But both mother and daughter in this painting were exceptional. Patrick or Ted, the artists in the house, might give technical explanations for the way both Lily and Abbie glowed, but they’d be wrong. The mother’s and daughter’s love for each other was what made the painting come alive. “They were both beautiful.”

  “Abbie grew up to look just like her mother,” Ted said, raising his glass to the painting, and then to his lips. “When she was younger.”

  Then Silas had been right. Abbie had indeed been “the prettiest girl” he’d ever met. What had happened since then? Time, I suspected. And hard work. The Abbie I’d just met wasn’t unattractive, but her hair color had darkened, her figure had thickened, and her skin was already lined.

  She was probably ten years older than I was. Maybe a little more.

  I resolved to go back to using the sunblock I’d slathered on daily in Arizona. I’d never been beautiful the way Lily and Abbie had been. But I wasn’t ready to be middle-aged. I sipped my wine. Not that I’d have a choice in a few years.

  “I still miss her,” said Ted. He was still looking at the painting. “When Lily died, the love went out of this house.”

  Chapter Six

  “We stand exposed to every sin

  While idle and without employ

  But business holds our passions in

  And keeps out all unlawful joy.”

  —Sampler stitched by twelve-year-old Sarah Todd in 1807. Sarah probably lived in northern Massachusetts or southern New Hampshire. She stitched a wide border of flowers and birds around her sampler of alphabets and numbers.

  “Angie, would you help me with supper?”
Sarah called from the kitchen.

  “I’ve been summoned,” I explained to Ted. I left him staring at the painting over his fireplace.

  He nodded, but I wasn’t sure he heard me.

  “I thought we had supper under control,” I said to Sarah.

  “We do,” she agreed. “But I overheard you talking with Ted about Lily. Tonight he has to focus on today, and the future. Not on the past.”

  “When did she die?” I asked, as Sarah handed me a large bowl.

  “In 1981. Fill this with chowder crackers. Ted said you could never have too many.”

  Sarah was focused on today. But I didn’t know the Lawrences, and I was curious about them.

  “Is Patrick back yet?” Sarah asked, looking out the back kitchen window.

  “He left?” I asked. “He was just handing out drinks in the living room.”

  “I checked. We only have seven bottles of champagne, and there’ll be ten of us. Plus, Silas wants Bradley’s Coffee Brandy. I asked Patrick to make a run to the State Store.”

  “Seven bottles of champagne sounds adequate. Especially since some people are drinking already.” I put down my wineglass.

  “I don’t know how much these people drink. And Ted and his family will be staying here tonight. They won’t have to drive. I told Patrick to get two cases of champagne, and several bottles of Bradley’s.”

  “That much?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t want Ted to run out. And there are only six bottles of champagne in a case.”

  Of course. Everyone knew that. I always ordered my champagne by the case.

  “Sarah, you’ve got to relax!”

  “I know, I know. I’ll feel better when supper is ready. So fill the bowl with crackers!”

  I obeyed. It wasn’t an exacting task. “Is the table set?”

  She nodded. “Since this is family, I thought each person could fill their bowls out here in the kitchen and carry them to their places. If they want more, we can leave the pot on low.”