by Lea Wait
“Couldn’t miss an event like that! I noticed you and Sarah were pretty busy that day.”
“We’ve been out there for the past week. We organized the sale for Skye.”
He looked at me quizzically. “A new sideline for Mainely Needlepoint?”
“Sarah was hired to appraise and price what was in the house, and she took me along,” I explained. I didn’t mention how much we’d been paid, or that Sarah would probably have done it for nothing to get to know Patrick better.
“I’m new enough to town that I hadn’t heard anything about that place before. I’d just seen it standing there, sadly decaying. My students filled me in on all the gory details. Did you see any of the ghosts reputed to live there when you were sorting through things?”
I liked his smile. “Not a one,” I assured him. “But it is sad that Jasmine Gardener died there.”
“And her mother was either crazy or a witch,” Dave added.
“What?”
“According to certain of my more romantic-minded students, you understand,” he continued, “she never left the house, and had three black cats.”
“Interesting! She did stay there alone for years after Jasmine died, but she left the house at least occasionally until she was ill, at the end. The black cats? That’s a wrinkle I hadn’t heard until now. I suppose she could have had a cat to keep her company. But I didn’t see any broomsticks around that might have been used for transportation.”
“Ah, so the exciting story loses interest when confused with reality,” he said. “But what has that to do with why you’re here?”
“Mrs. Gardener may not have been a witch, but she was a needlepointer.” I unwrapped the package I’d brought with me. “A lot of her work couldn’t be saved, although some people bought it, anyway, on Saturday.”
“Me among them.” Dave smiled. “Prices were pretty low. I figured I’d try to repair one of her table runners.”
“Good luck! But here’s another opportunity for you. Her best work was ten scenes of Aurora—that’s the name of the estate—and Haven Harbor.” I held up one of them. “Skye West would like us to restore all ten panels for her. Gram’s managed to kill the mildew, but torn or missing threads need to be removed or stitched over, depending on their condition. I’ve divided the work up, and hoped you’d be able to do these two.”
Dave sat down next to me on the couch and looked at the panels we’d chosen for him: the one of the fountain, and one of Haven Harbor itself, from the lighthouse to the yacht club on the other side of the harbor. That one was elaborate, with boats in the water and even a few tiny people on the wharves.
Dave examined both carefully. “She was good with a needle. No doubt. But I can handle this if we have yarn that matches or is close in color.”
I showed him what else was in the package. “Sarah and I tried to find remnants of the threads she used in the pictures in her stash of needlepoint materials. We didn’t always succeed, but what we found is in here, along with some other floss and yarn Gram thought you might be able to blend in.”
“This looks like fun,” he said. “A good start for summer vacation. I don’t think it’ll take me too long, since I’ll have days free of anything but gardening and enjoying the warmth of summer in Maine.”
“Good!” I said. “Then I’ll leave all of this with you.” I got up to go before I remembered. “Oh, and you’re coming to Gram’s wedding in two weeks, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he assured me.
“Well, I’m having a shower for her and Tom on Saturday. It’s a surprise. Tom knows about it, though, and it’ll be at the rectory in the afternoon. I’ll let you know what time when I know for sure.”
“A shower for both of them? Very modern.” He nodded. “Sounds like fun.”
“It’s a wine shower. Something else to imbibe would be okay, too, but they want to start a wine cellar.”
“Great idea! I was planning a trip to the Cellar Door Winery sometime soon, anyway. I’ll move that trip up on my schedule. They’re doing some wonderful work there. Whoever thought there would be wineries in Maine?”
“And now we have at least a half-dozen,” I agreed. “Local wines, as well as those from California or France.”
“Or Italy, South Africa, Australia, or—”
“Okay!” I laughed. “So there’ll be lots of choices. I’ll let you know about the time of the shower. See you then, if not before.”
“Looking forward,” said Dave, showing me to the door. “I’m hoping to see you often this summer.”
I glanced at him. Is that an invitation?
“Especially if you bring me interesting needlepoint projects like the one today.”
Well, not necessarily an invitation, but maybe an invitation to friendship? I could do with a few more friends, of either sex. “For sure, I’ll see you Saturday, then.” I waved as I headed to my next stop.
Chapter 26
Dame Wiggins of Lee was a worthy old soul
As e’er threaded a needle or washed in a bowl;
She held mice and rats in such antipathy,
That seven fine cats kept Dame Wiggins of Lee.
—Anonymous, Nursery rhyme, 1823, said to have been written by a 90-year-old woman
Katie Titicomb didn’t answer her door, but I knew she had a garden. I followed the brick path around her house into her backyard. As I suspected, Katie was there, kneeling on a gardening pad in the dirt, setting out tomato plants. She wore gardening gloves and a large straw hat, and, other than her face, her pale skin was covered from head to toe.
“Katie?” I said softly so as not to startle her.
“Yes?” She looked up. “Angie! It’s you. I couldn’t imagine who’d be calling on such a beautiful afternoon.” She got up slowly, testing her knees as she stood. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m ready for a break. I love gardening best in January and February, when I’m reading the Burpee and White Flower Farm catalogs and planning for summer. Now that it’s actually time to plant, my body rebels.”
“Gram’s at home, planting her tomatoes, too.”
“And she won’t even be living there in two weeks. Goodness, it’s hard to believe her wedding is that soon.”
“I’m planning a shower for her and Reverend Tom next Saturday afternoon at the rectory. Tom knows, but it’ll be a surprise for her, I hope.”
“Fun! I haven’t been to a bridal shower since Cindy got married,” said Katie. “You weren’t here for that, were you?”
I shook my head. Katie’s daughter, Cindy, had married while I was in Arizona.
“It was a lovely occasion. Balloons and umbrellas and lace baskets, and so many gifts! And a cake, of course, and pink punch.”
Thanks to Sarah, at least I now knew about umbrellas. Somehow I didn’t mourn missing Cindy’s big day. “The shower’s going to be for both Gram and Tom, and it’ll be focused on wine. Turns out they’ve always dreamed of having a wine cellar.”
“What a wonderful idea!” said Katie. “Can I help? I love showers.”
“Could you help me decorate? I’m afraid I’m not a shower maven. But I do want it to be fun for Gram and Tom.”
“I’d love to help! What’s your color scheme?”
Color scheme? “Gram’s wedding dress is pale blue. Pale blue and white?”
“That sounds elegant. Silk ribbons for Charlotte—she’s too old for crepe paper. I’m going to Portland to do some errands tomorrow. Would you like me to pick up some decorations? Sophisticated ones. And nothing extravagant.”
“I would love that,” I said with relief. “I’ve never planned a party like this. It sounds as though you know what to do.”
Katie came over and patted me on the arm. “Don’t you worry a bit about it, then. I’ll take care of the theme and decorations. You just figure out the refreshments.”
Food. Cake? Cupcakes? Or something a little more substantial? Cheeses. Breads. Crackers. And it was a wine shower. There should be wine. I certainly w
ould want a glass. “I can handle refreshments,” I assured her. With Sarah’s help, I added silently to myself. Detective work I could handle. I was out of my depth at planning a bridal shower.
“So? Anything else happening?”
“Yes, actually. You’ve heard Skye West bought the old Gardener estate, Aurora.”
Katie nodded.
“She’s asked Mainely Needlepoint to preserve and repair ten needlework panels that Mrs. Gardener made. We’re going to line and reframe them, but before then, they need some repair work. Would you have time to work on two of them?”
“Only two?”
“Several only need cleaning, and we’re dividing the others among you and Sarah and Dave. That way we can get them all framed and back to Ms. West as soon as possible.”
Katie agreed. “I have time. I finished three more lighthouse pillows for Harbor Lights last week, and I’ve practically finished the headboard Nautical Decorators in South Portland asked for. I’ll be glad to finish that one up. I’ve been working on it, off and on, since February.”
“I’ll let them know they’ll have it soon,” I said, nodding. “Shall I get you the two panels for Skye West? They’re in my car.”
“Thank you. That’ll be fine.”
I turned to go, when she called out, “What do the panels picture?”
“The Congregational Church,” I called. “And fireworks.”
By the time I got back, Katie’s hands were clean and she was sitting on a dark green lawn chair. I handed her the package containing the panels.
“The fireworks,” she said, looking at that one. “They’re the ones they used to have at Aurora.”
Fireworks were fireworks to me. “How can you tell?”
“See how they’re high in the sky, and gold?”
I looked.
“And over in this corner are three pine trees, and a lone pine on the other side is silhouetted against the sky.”
“Yes.”
“Every year the Gardeners ended their fireworks display at the end of their big Labor Day party with a fantastic group of explosions at once, almost all of them gold. It had something to do with the name of their house, Aurora. And if you sat on the back hill, looking out at the harbor where the fireworks were, you would see those pine trees, exactly as they are in the needlepoint.”
“You went to their parties, then.”
“Every year. My mother didn’t like the crowds, but I’d beg, and my father would always take me.”
“Were you at the last party?”
“The night Jasmine Gardener died? Oh, yes. I was only eleven, you understand. What I remember most is, despite what my father warned me about, I ate too many hot dogs and cotton candy and felt horribly sick. It was right before the fireworks started. I didn’t know what to do. My father was talking to some friends. He’d told me to stay on the old green army blanket we’d brought to sit on during the fireworks. But I felt so awful. I ran to the corner of the field, away from everyone else, and threw up, right there, outside.” Katie paused. “I was so embarrassed. I thought everyone would know. But the only one who saw me was Jasmine. She took me inside the big house with her and washed my face and then sent me back to my father.” Katie smiled sadly. “She was so kind. And she looked so beautiful in her bright yellow-and-orange jumpsuit. They were all the style then, you know. It happened so suddenly. My father didn’t even know I’d been away. Later, when we were walking to our car, we heard about Jasmine. We thought she was just sick. We moved aside so the ambulance could get to her.” Katie sighed. “The next day we heard she’d died. I begged to go to her funeral. Lots of people in town were going. But my father said I didn’t even know her, and I was too young to start going to funerals. But I did know her. I must have been one of the last people to see Jasmine Gardener before she died.”
Chapter 27
My life at best is but a span;
Few are the days allowed to man
To number here in pain.
Each moment clips the little space,
Contracts the span, cuts short the race
And winds the mortal chain.
—Sampler worked by Sarah Hupman, age eighteen, Mad River Township, Ohio, 1846 (Sarah never married and lived to be eighty-four.)
Katie Titicomb—she’d been on Skye’s list of people who’d been at the Gardeners’ last party. And she’d definitely seen Jasmine.
“Did Jasmine seem drunk to you that evening?” I had to ask. The answer to that question seemed key to understanding what happened that night of September 5.
Katie shrugged. “I was young. Only six years younger than Jasmine, though. I was focused on being sick . . . and embarrassed. If she’d had a couple of drinks, I didn’t realize it. She certainly seemed in control. She realized what had happened to me, she took charge, and she helped me. If she’d been drinking heavily, which a lot of the young people were doing, then I doubt she’d have been able to do all that.”
“That makes sense.” Katie had only been eleven. She might not have noticed. But when I was younger than that, I’d known when someone had drunk too much. I’d seen and smelled my mother after a late night, and I’d watched from my bedroom window as a few of her “gentlemen friends” stumbled from our door at odd hours. Eleven-year-olds were young, but they weren’t oblivious.
I thanked Katie for sharing her story and, needlepoint panels delivered, decided to stop and visit Ruth Hopkins. She was probably tired from her two weeks of tending Sarah’s shop. In the past year she’d started using a walker instead of a cane, afraid her knees or hips would give out and she’d fall.
Ruth’s house was in the shadow of the church steeple.
I gave her plenty of time to answer her door.
“Angie! I didn’t expect company this afternoon,” she said when she finally saw me. “Come in! Come in!”
Ruth’s living room was arranged so she could easily maneuver her walker to the chair with the highest seat, where she was most comfortable. “I have some lemonade in the refrigerator. If you’d like a glass, feel free to go in and pour yourself some. I’m a bit weary today, so I’m giving myself a day off.”
“No, thank you. I’m not thirsty. And you deserve more than one day off! It was kind of you to help Sarah and me out for the past two weeks.”
“I’m glad Sarah called. Shopkeeping for her was fun. I’ve gotten used to staying at home by myself, between the ‘Arthur Itis,’ as my aunt used to call it, and my writing. I should force myself out more often. I liked talking with the customers. I even managed to make a few sales.”
“Which she was very pleased about. I’m sure she’s told you.”
“She has. And she even insisted on paying me for my time. At first, I wouldn’t accept anything, but then I decided I would. I did lose writing time, and she would have lost sales if I hadn’t been there. Plus, I missed three afternoon Red Sox games. That requires compensation,” Ruth deadpanned.
“You’re absolutely right,” I said. Two weeks out of Ruth’s schedule was a good chunk of time. “Have you a manuscript deadline soon?”
“Only one I set myself,” she answered. “I’m doing my books digitally now. Saves the hassle of dealing with an agent and editor. After publishing for forty years, I know what I’m doing. Plus, a lot of my readers don’t want the evidence of what they’re reading to be sitting on their coffee tables. They love e-readers.”
I was one of the few in Haven Harbor who knew seventy-nine-year-old Ruth wrote erotica. It wasn’t something she advertised widely, except to her fans online. “I haven’t downloaded one of your books yet. But I plan to do that. Soon. After Gram’s wedding. Also, her wedding is one reason I’m here.” I explained about the shower, and Ruth accepted her invitation quickly.
“That should be fun. And the rectory is close enough so I can walk there, unless we have a heavy storm that day.”
“You know,” I said, changing the subject, “Sarah and I spent the past week at the old Gardener house. People there tal
ked about Jasmine Gardener’s death. I understand you were there, at the final party they had, back in 1970.”
“I was. Ben, my husband, and I were there together. It’s strange that some events in your life are forgotten, and others assume much more importance in memory.”
“And that’s one you remember?”
“Oh, yes. Because of Jasmine’s death, of course, and because that was the last Gardener party. But also because Ben and I had been married about ten years by then. They weren’t easy years. At first, we had so many plans. We wanted children, a house. I wanted to write . . . and Ben wanted to support me. He didn’t want me to work. But life didn’t work out that way. He was one of the first drafted and sent to Vietnam. Instead of starting our life together, I lived with my parents here in Haven Harbor. And then Ben was injured. Badly. He lost a leg, and we lost the possibility of ever having children together. I went out to Texas to stay with him while he recuperated.”
“That must have been horrible.”
“It was hard on both of us, for sure. I’d started writing and publishing while he was away, and he wasn’t happy about that. But we needed the money. And we weren’t sure he could get a decent job with his disability. In those days they didn’t have the wonderful prostheses they have today. He’d always been an outdoor sort . . . fishing and camping and hiking.” Ruth looked off into the distance, remembering. “It was a hard time. But we came back to Maine, and because of my writing, we were able to buy this little house in the summer of 1970. Our life was beginning to work out. I remember our going to the Gardeners’ party, drinking wine, eating lobsters and corn, and laughing a lot.” She paused. “That night was one of the best times we’d had in a long time.”
“Do you remember seeing Jasmine there?”
“Oh, yes. When we arrived, she was greeting people, with her parents. Later on, I saw her handing out balloons to the children. She was laughing and joking with them. Everyone loved Jasmine.”
