Tightening the Threads

by Lea Wait

  No one else said anything. Then Jeremy also stood and raised his glass. “To Sarah.”

  The others followed, slowly.

  So far this was not going as well as I’d hoped.

  Ted motioned everyone to sit. “Sarah, as you’ve probably guessed, knew I was bringing you all together and was going to introduce her to you. But I have several other announcements no one knows about.”

  Jeremy sat up straight.

  Luke and Abbie glanced at each other. Silas and Michael finished their latest glasses of champagne. Sarah looked puzzled as Patrick continued filling glasses. He was holding the bottles with two hands, I noted. He hadn’t spilled a drop.

  “My second announcement, although it shouldn’t come as a shock to any of you, considering that we’ve just eaten a good part of my seventy-fifth birthday cake and that no one lives forever, is that I’m dying.”

  Gasps all around. Jeremy paled.

  “No!” said Sarah, rising slightly.

  Ted gently pushed her down. “I have stage four lung cancer. Yes, I’ve seen doctors. No, there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ve accepted that I won’t be around much longer. I haven’t been the best father.” No one commented on that. “And I wasn’t a great artist, like my father. But I was lucky enough to be loved by a wonderful woman, and to have had responsibility for bringing the genius of Robert Lawrence’s work to the world. I’ve had the joy of working with creative people, and of living in this wonderful home, in this spectacular state. And of being a parent to three children, all of whom I love, and whom I hope love me in some way.”

  None of Ted’s children looked at each other. Jeremy crumpled his napkin. Sarah started crying.

  “I wouldn’t be a very wise man if I didn’t know that my children expected to receive a fair degree of wealth after my death. None of you have settled in this part of Maine. You’ve all made your own lives. So after I’m gone, this home, and all that is in it, will be sold, and the profit divided evenly between the three of you. That’s the first part of the plan.”

  “Grandfather’s paintings?” Abbie asked.

  “I’ve thought hard about those,” Ted said. “Over many years all of us in the family have benefitted from the sale of Father’s paintings. This house was his; his paintings paid for us to continue living here, for the schools you went to or”—he looked at Michael—“still attend. They paid for me to open my gallery in Haven Harbor. The paintings of Robert Lawrence have supported everyone in our family for over fifty years.” He paused. “Everyone in our family except Sarah.”

  Sarah started shaking her head. Abbie’s mouth was actually open.

  “So at my death, all unsold Robert Lawrence paintings will go to Sarah, except for the portrait of your mother and Abbie. That will go to Abbie.”

  “What will happen to the gallery?” Jeremy asked. “To both galleries?”

  “The gallery in this house will be emptied of the Lawrences—the Robert Lawrences. Any paintings of mine that my children or Sarah would like they can have. The others will be sold or destroyed, as they see fit. I suggest any of my paintings or, Sarah, any of my father’s that you choose not to keep, be sold one at a time, or given to the Portland Museum of Art. They’ve been hounding me for years to give them my collection of Lawrences.”

  “And your gallery in Haven Harbor?” Jeremy looked ashen.

  “I haven’t decided what to do with the gallery. You’ve worked for me for many years, Jeremy. You know the artists we represent and their work. Whether you continue that gallery, or whether it’s sold as part of my estate and you start over somewhere else, you have the knowledge and skill to be an excellent gallerist.”

  Jeremy sank back in his seat. His face had turned from ashen to red.

  Sarah just sat, tears dripping down her face. She looked as though she was in shock.

  Luke was the one who spoke. “That’s what you ‘plan,’ Father? Have you already rewritten your will?”

  “Not yet, son. I have an appointment with my lawyer on Tuesday. But I wanted you all to know what I was going to do, and why. If any of you have questions, we have the weekend to talk them through. But right now I’m a sick old man, and I’m going to bed. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll have a lobster bake down on the beach, for old times’ sake. I haven’t planned anything until then.” He looked around the table. “I suspect some of you may want to talk about what I’ve just said. That’s fine. But don’t wake me until the morning. Then you can ask me any questions you’ve come up with.”

  Wasn’t anyone going to react to Ted’s news that he was dying? Were they all just concerned about his will? I waited for someone—anyone—to say something.

  But everyone sat silently as Ted walked around the table and into the hall. We could hear his footsteps slowly heading upstairs, and the door of his bedroom closing.

  Then everyone spoke at once.

  Chapter Ten

  “Leah Gallagher and Rachel Armstrong the Daughters of George and Sarah Bratten was born at one birth near Wilmington (Del). They opened School in Lancaster (PA) on the First Day of May 1792 and had this sampler made by one of her scholars viz Sarah Holsworth in the year of our Lord 1799.”

  —This sample is part of the American needlework collection of the Winterthur Museum in Delaware. In addition to the words, it pictures the Lancaster County Poorhouse, with birds on its roof.

  “Who the hell are you, to come out of nowhere and mess up our father’s life?” Michael looked at Sarah, but didn’t wait for her answer. He threw his napkin down on the table and stomped off.

  “He said they had DNA tests!” Abbie called after him. She turned to Sarah. “We should at least listen to your story.”

  “She’s not even an American.” Silas stood up. “Is any Bradley’s on that bar?”

  This time Patrick didn’t volunteer to get a drink for him. “Yes,” he replied calmly.

  Before Silas got to the dining room door, Sarah had broken down, her quiet tears turning to sobs.

  I went to her immediately and put my hand on her shoulder. “Sarah, they don’t mean it. They’re in shock.”

  “I don’t care about them, or his paintings, or any of it.” She looked up, her face red and wet with tears. “Didn’t any of you listen? Ted’s dying! I spent all those years trying to find my family, and now he’s dying.”

  Luke and Abbie exchanged glances.

  “Sarah, why don’t you come into the living room? Maybe Patrick could get you a cognac or something else you’d like. I’d like to hear your story,” said Luke.

  “I agree. We’re all in shock. This is a lot to absorb. A new cousin, and Dad sick,” agreed Abbie.

  “Plus the changes in what we all thought were in the will.” That was Jeremy. “He’d promised me a share of the paintings, and the gallery. All the years I’ve worked for that man and a pretty face shows up and everything changes.” He got up and left the room. We heard the kitchen door slam.

  Sarah’s cheeks and nose were red. She looked on the verge of hysteria.

  “Come on, cousin,” said Abbie. “Come talk with us.”

  Sarah got up. “I should have guessed he was sick. He’s been so tired recently, and he’s asked me to help him with the house, and with this party . . . things he’d always done himself. I just thought he was getting old. I never guessed he was dying!” She looked at me. “I never should have left Australia. As soon as I find a relative, they die. I’ve had too many deaths.”

  Abbie went over and put her arm around Sarah. “Come with me. Come and sit down and tell us about it.”

  She and Luke led Sarah out of the dining room.

  Patrick and I just looked at each other.

  “Did you know he was sick?” I asked quietly.

  “Not a clue. Did you know Sarah was his niece?”

  “She told me ten days ago and swore me to secrecy. She was afraid of how Ted’s children would react.”

  Patrick looked after them. “Well, now she knows for sure.”

/>   “What can we do?”

  “We can start by cleaning up the dinner.”

  I nodded. “Ted has a dishwasher, and leftover chowder can go in the refrigerator.”

  I could work faster than Patrick. I had two good hands. Together we managed to clean the dining room and put the kitchen back into a semblance of order. Every time I walked past the living room door, I eavesdropped for a few seconds. Sarah was telling her story, and the others seemed to be listening.

  I hope they believed her, for all their sakes.

  “So, now everyone will know but me. How are Sarah and Ted related?” asked Patrick.

  For a rich guy, he knew how to wipe down counters and fill garbage bins, I noted. He’d even separated the recyclables. I wasn’t always good about that.

  “Robert Lawrence had an affair when he was stationed in London during World War II. His girlfriend got pregnant, but he was engaged to someone here at home, so they broke up. She sent him pictures of her son, and he sometimes sent money. But those were the late forties and early fifties, before he was famous. I suspect he didn’t send much. By the time the child was five or six his mother was destitute. She took him to a children’s home, a place he could be cared for until she got her life together. When she went back to see him, she was told he’d died.”

  “That’s awful.” Patrick sat at the kitchen table while I finished washing the last of the pans. “So the child died.”

  “No, actually, he didn’t. It’s complicated, but there was what they called a ‘child migrant’ program in the UK then. They sent children to British colonies. Robert Lawrence’s son was one of those children.”

  “But I thought he’d died!”

  “That’s what they told his mother. And she told Robert. The social service people told the boy that he was an orphan, and he was sent to Australia. Eventually he grew up, married an Australian woman, and had a daughter. But his wife died when the baby—Sarah—was very young, and then he committed suicide.”

  “What a horrible story.”

  “Unbelievable, actually. Except for that DNA proof.” And a photograph and a painting.

  “So how did Sarah end up in Haven Harbor?”

  “Her grandmum, as she calls her, her mother’s mother, raised her in Australia. After her grandmother died she contacted the social service organization to see if they could find her biological family in England. After two years, they found her father’s mother.”

  “That’s a miracle in itself.”

  I nodded. “Sarah went to England, but her grandmother there was very ill and died soon after they’d met. When she was there she found out Robert Lawrence was her grandfather, and saw letters from him postmarked in Haven Harbor. So she came here.”

  “And found Ted.”

  “Robert Lawrence had already died. Sarah was shy about introducing herself to Ted, as a relative out of nowhere—tonight you could see why. Especially since by then she’d learned her grandfather had become a famous, and wealthy, artist. She lived here for several years without telling anyone who she was—including Ted.”

  “And?”

  “She told him earlier this summer. He believed her right away, because he’d found a portrait of an English woman his father had painted, and several letters which mentioned their son. Sarah had a picture of her grandmother and her father, and a couple of letters from Robert. She told me Ted was prepared to accept her immediately. But he was afraid of what his children would say, so they had DNA tests to make sure.”

  “And the tests confirmed it.”

  I nodded. “He even gave her one of Robert Lawrence’s paintings.”

  “I did know that. Jeremy and I took it to her apartment and hung it there. I thought it was strange; maybe it was a loan? Clearly Ted liked Sarah, and she was hanging around the gallery a lot. But I only met Ted in August. You were there when my uncle introduced us. For all I knew Sarah’d been his friend for years.” He looked embarrassed. “I guess I wondered if that’s all they were. Friends, I mean.”

  “I suspect you aren’t the only one in Haven Harbor who’s wondered about that,” I agreed. “I thought of it, too. But, of course, he’s so much older than she is. . . .”

  “And he’s leaving her all his Robert Lawrence paintings? Sarah will be a millionaire if she sells only one or two.”

  Patrick had plenty of money himself. He would know.

  “Paintings like that are an immense responsibility. No matter what she decides, in the meantime she’ll have to find some climate-controlled place to store or hang them.” Patrick sat back a moment. “Maybe I could help her with that.”

  “She’s going to need help, for sure,” I agreed. Patrick was an artist, and I trusted him. He’d have contacts who could help Sarah.

  He glanced toward the living room. “I hope they’re being kind to her. She’s in a difficult position.”

  I nodded. “She wanted so much to have a family. But families aren’t always easy.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “A Sampler resembles an elegant mind,

  Whose passions by reason subdu’d and refin’d,

  Move only in lines of affection and duty,

  Reflecting a picture of order and beauty.”

  —From sampler stitched by Lucy Turpen in 1815 in Woodbury, New Jersey.

  “This is where you guys are.” Sarah looked pale and exhausted, but she was smiling as she entered the kitchen.

  “How’s it been going in there?”

  “Abbie seems nice,” Sarah whispered. “She’s a needlepointer, too. Silas passed out on the couch. Michael didn’t want to talk much, but for some reason he took notes when I was telling my story. Then he went upstairs. Luke’s being almost too nice to me. I don’t know whether to believe them when they say kind things.” She paused. “I hope they’re accepting me, but I don’t think any of them are going to be my best friends. And Ted’s dying. . . .” Her eyes filled up again. “It’s all a dream turned into a nightmare.”

  I gave her a hug.

  Footsteps clomped down the main staircase. Seconds later Michael appeared, carrying a towel. “Late-night swim, new cousin? Lawrence family tradition.”

  “The water’s cold in September. And this time of night it’s not safe,” Sarah answered.

  “Sure it is. I’ve been swimming at night down at our beach since I was a kid.” He rummaged through a closet in the hallway and emerged holding a large flashlight. “Maybe I’ll write a poem in your honor. “‘Out of the night she came, forgotten family returned. ’” He flicked the torch on. “Let there be light! But if you’re chicken. . . .” He dangled the light in front of Sarah’s face. I could smell the alcohol on his breath from where I was sitting.

  “No, thank you. Not tonight.”

  “Maybe tomorrow then. I’ll see if any of the others are game.” He headed for the living room.

  Sarah looked after him. “‘The Things that never can come back, are several—Childhood—some forms of Hope—the Dead—’”

  Quoting Emily was a good sign Sarah was beginning to cope.

  “I think it’s time I went home,” I said, checking my watch. It was close to eleven. I’d been at The Point all day. No wonder I was exhausted. “Trixi needs to be fed.”

  Patrick nodded. “Makes sense to me. We’re expected back here tomorrow morning, right, Sarah?”

  “About nine should work.”

  “Coming?” I asked.

  She hesitated. “Maybe I should stay.”

  “Why don’t you let them be on their own to talk? It’s late; they’ll be going to sleep soon anyway. Didn’t Abbie and Silas say they usually went to bed early?”

  Sarah grinned slightly. “Silas is already in the land of the unconscious. And I sure don’t want to go midnight dipping with a drunk, even if he is a poet. And a cousin. Okay. You’re right. I’m coming, too.”

  The three of us headed for our cars in the parking area in back of Ted’s house. As I drove down his long drive I saw the light from a flashligh
t moving down the lawn toward the beach.

  Michael was heading for his midnight swim. Maybe it would sober him up.

  It had been an exhausting day. I suspected tomorrow would be one, too.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Now, when she had dined, then she might go seke out her examplers, and to peruse which worke would be beste in a ruffe, which in a gorget, which in a sleeve, which in a quaife, which in a caule, which in a handkerchief; what lace would be best to edge it, what stitche, what seme, what cut, what garde; and to sit her downe and take it forthe little by little, and there with her needle to pass the afternoon with devising things for her own wearynge.”

  —Description of woman consulting a sampler to decide which stitches to use for her next project. Written by Barnabe Riche (1540-1617), an English author and soldier, in his Of Phylotus and Emilia, in 1581. This is one of the first literary references to samplers.

  Trixi’s tongue, earnestly trying to clean my face, woke me at six in the morning. “It’s too early,” I moaned.

  She purred in response. Clearly it was not too early for her. And where had I been most of Friday, when I should have been at home, providing strokes and entertainment? And, most important, a consistently full dish of her favorite canned food: salmon pâté.

  Her morning ablutions proved successful. I groaned, stretched, got up, and washed my face myself before stumbling downstairs. Trixi was already sitting patiently next to her food dish, in case I hadn’t remembered. She got her pâté and some dry food before I turned on the coffeepot.