Tightening the Threads

by Lea Wait

  Sarah had borrowed Gram’s classic (and delicious) recipe for haddock chowder, but also planned to add lobster, shrimp, scallops, and mussels, which she’d already prepared and were in a large bowl in the refrigerator. I peeked into the refrigerator. “No clams?” I teased.

  “I couldn’t find any for some reason,” she said.

  “The chowder smells wonderful.”

  “All I have to do is add the rest of the seafood and heat it,” she said, as though reminding herself.

  “It will be fine, Sarah. Really, it will be.”

  “Ted insisted on chowder. He said Lily always had a pot of chowder on the stove when company was expected. She said it was easy, she could heat it up whenever the guests arrived, and it tasted of Maine.”

  “Gram does the same,” I agreed. “It’s a New England thing. But her chowder just had haddock. Your chowder will be over the top.” And not authentic, I said to myself. But maybe the way Lily had made it. “You didn’t tell me. What happened to Lily?”

  “She drowned.”

  “A boating accident?”

  “She was swimming.” Sarah pointed generally in the direction of the Lawrences’ private beach. “I don’t know any details. Ted doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  That I understood. “Thanks for telling me. I almost asked him in there, when he was telling me about her portrait.”

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Sarah. “It’s hard to believe she isn’t still alive, and right here in the house with us.”

  I felt a slight chill. “Are you saying her ghost is here?”

  I’d lost Mama when I was ten—maybe close to the age Abbie had been when her mother died. But although I often thought about Mama, I’d never thought of her still being in the house with me.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Sarah said. “But I think Ted feels Lily is still with him, one way or another.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Jesus permit thy gracious name to stand

  As the first efforts of Rebekah’s hand.

  And while my fingers on the canvas move

  Incline my youthful heart to seek thy love,

  With thy dear children, Lord, give me a part

  And write thy name, blest Saviour, on my heart.”

  —Sampler worked by Rebekah Ursula Ousby of Raleigh, North Carolina, when she was twelve years old, in 1834.

  “Here’s the first carton,” said Patrick, putting the champagne on the counter. “Do you want all the bottles in the kitchen?”

  “Please,” said Sarah, as she opened the carton and started trying to find places for the bottles in the wine refrigerator.

  “They won’t all fit in there,” I pointed out.

  “You’re right. We’ll put the others in the pantry. When there’s space we’ll fill in the empty spots. Champagne we don’t drink tonight can be for the lobster bake tomorrow.”

  A weekend of champagne. And I’d been tempted to dig up rocks and rebuild a stone wall instead. Clearly I’d had my priorities confused.

  Patrick dropped the second carton of champagne and a bag of Bradley’s bottles on the kitchen table. “Anything else need doing?”

  “Someone could bring me another scotch!” Ted’s voice came from inside the living room.

  “Right away,” said Patrick, heading for the corner of the large kitchen equipped with cabinets of glasses, a small sink, shelves of bottles, and a large wine refrigerator. I’d seen restaurant bars less equipped.

  Sarah was now putting the extra champagne in the pantry, a small pine-paneled room next to the kitchen. She’d made room for the Bradley’s on the bar.

  “The wine refrigerator’s full,” she said, over her shoulder. “And some people will want wine.”

  Like me. I took another sip. Usually I’d have finished my glass by now. But the evening was full of uncertainty. I wanted to be totally together if Sarah should need me. And I was several miles out of town. I’d have to drive home.

  The back door opened again.

  “Ted, they’re here!” Sarah called out.

  She and I stood out of the way as Ted greeted his sons. No hugs for them.

  “Luke, you’ve been putting on a little weight,” said his dad, looking him over and grinning.

  So Luke was the slim (despite his father’s comment) dark-haired one wearing what Brooks Brothers probably sold in their “casual” department: a maroon cashmere sweater, over a tan Oxford shirt and tan slacks. He looked fine to me. “Good to see you, too, Dad. Harold’s too good a cook, and I’ve been skipping workouts.”

  “So where’s that husband of yours?” asked Ted.

  “He sends his apologies. He couldn’t make it this time. He got a part in a show down on Bleecker Street—near Michael’s place, actually. The show must go on, you know.”

  “Good for him. You tell him he was missed. But you’re here, and that makes me really happy.” Ted clapped Luke on the shoulder.

  “Michael’s here, too,” Luke pointed out.

  “Glad you could make it, too,” said Ted, putting his hand out for Michael to shake.

  Instead of returning the gesture, Michael pointed at the bags he’d dropped on the floor. “I think I’ll take these upstairs. What room have you assigned me?”

  “The one you had when you were growing up,” said Sarah, from the corner.

  “Fine. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He looked over at the bar. “Have any single malts?”

  “Several,” Patrick answered. He seemed to have taken over bar duty. “Oban okay?”

  “Perfect. Pour me one. Straight.”

  Jeremy finally came in, carrying a garment bag.

  “Would you put that in my room?” Luke asked, as though Jeremy was a porter.

  “Sure,” said Jeremy. He shrugged at Patrick and followed Michael up the stairs.

  “A drink for you, Luke?” asked Patrick, who’d just poured Michael’s Oban.

  “Wine’s fine. Malbec, if you have it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Flight all right?” asked Ted.

  “Cab to LaGuardia took longer than the flight to Portland. Longer still to drive here. You didn’t need to send Jeremy for us, Dad. We could have rented a car.”

  “Jeremy volunteered. Glad you were both able to get on the same flight.”

  “I booked our tickets. It was easier that way,” Luke explained.

  Patrick handed him his wine.

  “Why don’t we go and sit in the living room and wait for Michael to join us? Abbie and Silas are here, too. They went up to rest before you boys got here.”

  “Haven’t seen Abbie in years,” Luke said, following his dad into the living room.

  “Living in the County’s a little different from living on the Upper East Side,” Ted pointed out.

  Sarah and Patrick and I stood in the kitchen, looking at each other. No one said anything. A few minutes later Jeremy joined us.

  “How does it feel to be treated like help?” he asked, looking at all of us. “You’d think those men thought I was their chauffeur.”

  “And I’m the bartender,” said Patrick. “Although I suspect they could all fix their own drinks more easily that I can.”

  I’d noticed he’d had trouble opening Luke’s Malbec bottle. I made a mental note to help when it was time for the champagne toast.

  “He didn’t even introduce me,” said Sarah, “except to Abbie, who thought I was the housekeeper.”

  Or me, I thought. But I wasn’t important to this weekend, or to Ted’s life. Sarah was.

  “Should be an interesting evening,” said Jeremy. “Hey, bartender. How about a vodka martini for the chauffeur? Straight up.”

  “Right away,” said Patrick. “And a refill, Angie?” I put my wineglass on the bar.

  “That martini sounds good,” said Sarah. “Make that two.”

  It was going to be an interesting evening.

  Maybe more interesting than I’d anticipated.

  Chapter Eight
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br />   “Map of the State of New York”

  —This unusual embroidery, now owned by the Cooper-Hewitt Museum of Design in New York City, was stitched by Elizabeth Ann Goldin in New York and dated May 21, 1822. It outlines not only New York State, but all of its counties and bordering lakes, rivers, and parts of New Jersey. Elizabeth Ann also included historical facts about the state and its population: 1,372,812 in 1820.

  By seven-thirty everyone was downstairs, relatively lubricated, and ready for supper.

  Abbie and Ted had taken a short walk together, but after that all the Lawrences had stayed together in the living room.

  Michael had been doing more drinking than talking. Luke focused the conversation on his father, asking about the gallery, recent sales, and the art market. If he hadn’t been Ted’s son, I would have thought he was thinking of buying a painting.

  Sarah smiled a lot, but spent most of her time adding the finishing touches to the dinner. She had me remove the place setting planned for Harold and polish the champagne glasses to be brought out when the cake was served.

  I didn’t think the flutes needed polishing, but I did it anyway. Whatever helped Sarah relax.

  Patrick had continued playing bartender and refilling glasses as needed.

  Jeremy was sitting near Ted in the living room, but saying little unless Ted specifically drew him into the conversation. He didn’t look any more comfortable than I felt. Or that I knew Sarah was. But he’d positioned himself with Ted and his family, not with those of us in the kitchen.

  Patrick was the only one who seemed totally at ease. Occasionally he’d flash me a smile and I’d feel the same warmth I had when he’d kissed me.

  I wished he’d kiss me again.

  But this definitely wasn’t the time.

  While Sarah added sherry and cream to the chowder, along with the rest of the seafood, I put together individual salads. Sarah’d decided the salads would be served at the same time as the chowder. The bowl of chowder crackers and two loaves of the patisserie’s French bread were in the middle of the table.

  I watched the family from a distance. Had they any clue about what their father was going to announce tonight? I didn’t think so.

  What I overheard of their conversation seemed stilted, and emphasized how out of touch they’d all been with each other. I heard Abbie lament the lack of a new tractor, and Michael mention (several times) how expensive it was to live in Manhattan.

  “How close are you to getting your doctorate?” Abbie asked him the third time Michael mentioned how high his expenses were. “When you’re Dr. Lawrence you could get a job teaching in some place less expensive, like Iowa. Or you could come back to Maine. I hear Portland’s changed a lot since we were growing up, and several colleges and universities are near there.”

  “The power of New York City’s excitement and diversity feeds my creativity,” said Michael as Patrick silently handed him what was at least his fourth Oban. “I’d feel stifled anywhere else.”

  “Some of us manage,” was all Abbie had to say in response. Then she added, “But I guess we don’t all have creative minds to feed. Just hungry stomachs.”

  I could tell Silas was about ready to bring up organic food as a way to feed both your brain and your body when Sarah stood in the doorway and announced, “Supper’s ready. Chowder’s self-serve, in the kitchen. Salads and bread are on the table.”

  Sarah had (I assumed at Ted’s request) put place cards on the table. Ted, of course, was at the head of the table. The rest of us, family or “outsiders,” as I was pretty sure the family saw the rest of us, were alternated at the table. Sarah was given the place of honor at Ted’s right hand.

  I was sitting between Silas and Jeremy, wishing one of them had been Patrick.

  No one questioned serving themselves chowder.

  “Excellent chowder,” said Luke, nodding at Sarah in thanks.

  “It’s not the way Mom made it,” said Abbie. “But it’s not bad.”

  “It’s the way I like it now,” Ted said quietly. “Your mother’s been gone a long time.”

  Which initiated the first toast of the evening. “To Mom!” said Michael. “Gone, but never forgotten.”

  We all raised our glasses. “To Lily, my love, who gave me three children, but not enough years,” Ted added.

  Sarah had done a masterful job with the chowder. I made a mental note to ask for her version of Gram’s recipe. Patrick had filled wineglasses at each place setting, and for the most part the table was quiet as the chowder and bread and salad disappeared. Several people took their chowder bowls back to the kitchen for refills. Sarah refilled Ted’s bowl for him.

  He was quiet; perhaps tired, or perhaps he too was nervous about the announcement he’d promised to make tonight.

  When everyone was finished Sarah and I took the dirty dishes to the kitchen to be washed later, and Patrick distributed the champagne flutes. I stayed in the kitchen and opened a couple of bottles.

  “Wow. We really are celebrating tonight, Dad,” Abbie commented. “I haven’t had champagne in years.”

  “Then it’s about time,” Ted said, smiling. “And after all, I’m only going to have one seventy-fifth birthday. Who knows when we’ll all be together again?”

  “It’s a celebration of family, then,” put in Luke. “I so wish Harold had been able to be here. He’s the only one missing. He’d really have loved Sarah’s chowder.”

  I could tell Sarah was pleased. I didn’t know what she was thinking about these cousins of hers, but so far Luke had been the most polite to her.

  As Patrick poured the champagne, Sarah brought in an enormous birthday cake. Different colored brushes were painted vertically around the sides and on the top it said, simply, “Happy 75th.”

  “There’s only one candle, Ted,” Sarah explained. “Because you often say, ‘Just take one day, one year, at a time.’”

  “And so I do, dear Sarah,” said Ted. He stood and blew out the candle.

  “And a toast to Father. With thanks for years well lived, and hopes of many more to come,” said Luke. We all stood and drank the toast together.

  “Sarah, would you mind cutting the cake for me?” asked Ted.

  She handed around pieces of the lemon cake with raspberry filling.

  I wasn’t sure I could eat anything more until I tasted it. Nicole at the patisserie had outdone herself.

  I’d almost finished my piece when Ted stood again.

  “I called you together this weekend not just to celebrate my birthday, but because I have a few things to tell you.”

  Chapter Nine

  “While God Does Spare

  For Death Prepare.”

  —Part of Mary Batchelder’s elaborately stitched sampler, which includes birds and flowers. Mary also listed her birthdate (June 13, 1757) and the year she completed her work (1773).

  “Patrick, would you mind refilling everyone’s champagne glasses?” As Patrick did, Ted continued. “First, I want to thank all of you for being here tonight, whether you came from down the street or from hundreds of miles away. You are my family, whether by birth or by friendship, and no celebration of my birthday would be complete without every one of you. And Luke—Harold would also have been welcome, as I think you know.”

  He took a sip of his own champagne. “Thank you to Sarah and Patrick and Angie and Jeremy who made this weekend possible. They cleaned this old house of ours and ordered or made the food. They brought in all the libations we’re enjoying tonight. And, most important, they’re the ones I depend on every day to help with the many parts of my life and business that are not celebrations. They deserve to be here.”

  Not me, I thought. But I do have a role to play. I’m here for Sarah. When was he going to tell them about Sarah?

  “Now, I told you I had some announcements to make tonight. And I do. I want you to hear me out, because what I have to say is important to all of you.”

  He looked around the table.

  “I’
ve been around this planet long enough to know that speakers often have to choose whether to announce the good news or the bad news first. Tonight I have some of each. But before I start, I want you to know I’ve thought through what I’m going to say, and I’ve made my decisions. This is not a weekend to negotiate with any part of life. It’s a weekend to celebrate family, and the past, and think a little about the future.”

  “Oh, shit,” Silas whispered. “What does he want?”

  “First, the good news. You’ve all met Sarah Byrne tonight. You’ve complimented her on her chowder. And some of you have wondered what a young Australian woman is doing in our home in Haven Harbor. Well”—he smiled down at Sarah, whose hands were clasped tightly together in her lap—“it turns out that my father, your grandfather, had an adventure when he was serving in London during World War II. He and a young English woman fell in love, and she had a child. I’m sure you’d like to know more details, and we have the weekend to explain this whole amazing story, but Sarah’s father was my half brother. A brother I never had the privilege of knowing. But I’m very happy to now know his daughter. Sarah is my niece and yes, Abbie and Luke and Michael, she’s your cousin.”

  “A story is all well and good, but what proof do we have that this woman isn’t just conning you?” Michael interrupted. “She doesn’t look like us. Hell, she doesn’t even sound like us. What right has she to pop up in Haven Harbor and claim she’s a member of our family?”

  I glanced around the table.

  Silas’s hands were clenched. Abbie looked furious. Jeremy was flushed. Luke drained his fresh glass of champagne.

  Patrick refilled it.

  Ted wasn’t finished. Ignoring Michael’s outburst, he continued.

  “As I said, we can get into the particulars of Sarah’s story, and her journey to find us, later this weekend. But for now, just know I believe with all my heart that Sarah is my niece. And that, because I knew questions would be asked about such an amazing story, I convinced her that we should have DNA tests. And, yes, they proved that, despite her name and accent, Sarah is a Lawrence. I might add that during the few months I’ve known her she’s more than proven herself worthy of our family. Sarah”—he raised his glass—“I drink to you, and officially, in the presence of my children, welcome you to our family.”