Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  Even then, I’d questioned its powers, but it was my first piece of jewelry. After she’d disappeared, I’d worn it all the time. Each time the thin gold chain had broken, I’d replaced it. As the reverend went on about families and love that had no end, I reached up and held the angel for a moment before slipping it down inside the top of my dress.

  Mama might not have had what others would call “religious faith,” but she’d believed in herself, and in me. When times had been tough during the past ten years, I’d worn the angel, and somehow felt that wherever Mama was, she was looking out for me. Sappy, I know. But it helped.

  Gram, on the other hand, had always attended services. When I’d been little she’d taken me with her. We’d sat here together at the beginning of the service, until the children would be called forward to hear a brief message and then be herded to the family room for Sunday school to draw pictures of Noah’s Ark or cut out snowflakes for the church’s Christmas tree.

  After Mama disappeared, I’d refused to come. People stared and went out of their way to be kind to me. I’d hated that. I didn’t want to be pointed out, to be known as “that poor girl whose mother deserted her. Although you know her mother . . . so maybe it was for the best.” School was bad enough, but church was worse. All their good intentions did was remind me I was known for Mama’s life. Not my own.

  But despite my not attending services for years, this was the church I’d always pictured when, like every little girl, I’d dreamed of walking down the aisle in a white dress, seeing at the altar a man who’d love me forever.

  Had Mama ever imagined a day when she’d wear a white dress and the sun would shine through those tall, clear windows onto her life? She’d never said. And she’d disappeared before I was old enough to ask her all the questions I’d had over the years. Today the flowers at the altar were in memory, despite Reverend McCully’s words about “the celebration of her life.”

  I hoped some of her dreams had come true. But who dreams of being pregnant when you graduate from high school, and then living with your mother and flirting for tips from men who sometimes followed you home after they’d had a few too many?

  No. That couldn’t be anyone’s dream.

  It certainly wasn’t mine.

  What was mine? I wasn’t sure. But I knew it wasn’t my mother’s life. Or death.

  The service was brief. Reverend McCully read a few verses, and we sang “I Would Be True” and “Amazing Grace,” Mama’s favorite hymns, in quavering off-key voices. That was it. No one stood up to talk about her.

  After the service we walked the few steps to the family room, where I’d eaten many Saturday-night church suppers. True to Haven Harbor form, today the ladies of the church had filled a long table with cookies and cakes and small sandwiches. A woman I didn’t know handed me a plastic glass full of sickly-sweet fruit punch.

  I wasn’t thirsty, but I accepted it. No one would try to hug me while I held a glass of punch.

  I smiled and nodded as people came up to me and said the required words: “We’re so sorry”; “Such a sad ending to the story”; “Good to see you back in town”; “You look wonderful”; “Your grandmother is so proud of you”; “You look just like your mother did at your age.”

  When she’d been my age, my mother had been the town slut. When she was my age, my mother had been shot and put in a freezer.

  I kept smiling.

  After the first dozen greetings I forced myself to pay attention to who these people actually were. No one from the media had been allowed in, thank goodness. Ethan Trask was standing in the back of the room. As our eyes met, he nodded slightly. But he wasn’t munching cookies or sipping punch. He was watching everyone, taking mental notes. What did he see in this room?

  I tried to place long-forgotten names with faces. Few there were my age. People I’d gone to school with had left Maine for larger cities, higher salaries, and bigger dreams, just as I had. Those still here, like Ethan, had claimed positions in the old order.

  Knowing these people was now his business. People greeted him, I noted, but then walked on. He wasn’t here to socialize, and they recognized and respected his role.

  I didn’t remember most of their faces, even when a name was attached to the face.

  One exception was Lauren Greene (now Decker).

  “Oh, Angie, I’m so glad you came. For Charlotte’s sake. She’s missed you so much,” she said, touching my hand that wasn’t holding the punch. “But under such horrible circumstances. I know your work has kept you from visiting before, but I hope now you’ll be staying awhile.” Lauren had put on weight. It wasn’t flattering. And I was glad. We’d been close friends until Mama’d disappeared, but I hadn’t forgotten how she’d turned her back on me after that. At the very moment I’d needed her most, she’d found new friends. I hadn’t forgotten the times she’d giggled and called me “Little Orphan Angie” behind my back, just loud enough so I’d hear it. I hadn’t forgiven her cruelty.

  My relationship with Gram was none of her business.

  “A while,” I agreed, noting she’d called Gram by her first name, and not committing to a departure date. There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. I wondered what she thought about her father’s being the prime suspect in Mama’s murder.

  “You look great. Tan and all. That must be from living out in the desert. You know Maine. We won’t be getting enough sun to make a difference until June.” She smoothed her long brown hair. “I wish I had time to take better care of myself. There’s just no time between keeping house and taking care of my husband and working. You’re not married, so you have no idea.”

  Maybe I did have an idea. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t married.

  I hated small talk. Lauren clearly excelled at it. “You haven’t changed since high school,” I assured her. In high school she’d been plagued with acne and curled her hair until it frizzed.

  “Charlotte’s such an absolutely wonderful person. You were lucky to have her to live with after your mom . . . well, you know. You didn’t have to end up in foster care or anything. She talks about you all the time. Worries about you living so far from home. If she’d been my grandmother, why, I don’t think I could have left her by herself for this long, in that big old house. Of course, I love working with her, and I try to stop in and check up on her a couple of times a week, but you never know what might happen to someone her age. She could fall, or have a stroke, and you wouldn’t even know, being so far away.”

  “Gram and I stay in touch.” She might be right, though. Gram was getting on, although she seemed fine to me. Right now she was at the center of a group of people, accepting their condolences. She looked calmer than I felt. After nineteen years I hadn’t thought there were many tears left. I’d been wrong.

  Lauren was still chattering. “You know, I wasn’t sure I’d like needlepoint, but she’s taught me, and it’s so relaxing and creative. I’ll bet I burn more calories on my needlework than I do when I’m waitressing. I work so fast now!” She giggled a little.

  I forced myself to smile.

  “Growing up with her, you must be good at it. I still have a lot of stitches to learn. The basic ones are simple, but the fancier ones really take concentration.”

  “I never learned needlepoint,” I said. “Gram tried to teach me once, but I couldn’t sit still long enough to focus on it.”

  Probably because I was missing my mother, who was in your dad’s freezer. Or dreading the overheard gossip in the school corridors. Or following in my mother’s footsteps, and hoping I, too, wouldn’t get pregnant at seventeen.

  “Well, you should try it again! It’s terribly relaxing.” Lauren reached out and squeezed my hand. “You look a little tense. Although, who wouldn’t, under the circumstances? I know I cried my eyes out at my mother’s funeral. And then later, when Dad died—”

  “Where was the key to the storage unit?” I interrupted. I needed to talk about what was real. Not keep smiling at people I’d left t
own to escape ten years ago.

  “What?” Lauren stopped in midgesture. “The key?”

  “Ethan Trask told me you found the key to your father’s storage unit in Union. Where you found my mother. Where was the key?”

  Lauren stepped back slightly and glanced to my left, as though planning her escape. “It was in an envelope stuck at the back of one of his file cabinet drawers. What does it matter where I found it?”

  “Ethan said you’d had it for a while before you went to see what was in the unit.”

  “Angie, this isn’t the time to talk about that. My dad’s gone. So’s your mother. We’ll never know what happened between them, and I don’t care. It’s over. We can’t bring either of them back.”

  “But the case is still open,” I pointed out. “That’s why Ethan’s here. It’s not over. Not yet. Do you think your dad killed my mother?”

  Her mouth closed at that. Her lips tightened. “I don’t think we should be talking about that. You’re right. The police are investigating. We’re survivors. We have to go on.”

  “But don’t you want to know the truth? If my mother had been accused of murdering someone, I’d want to know for sure whether or not she did it.”

  Lauren took another step backward. “It’s over, Angie. Years over. If you need to talk about what happened, that’s your problem. Talk to Ethan Trask. As I remember, you had a real crush on him. Now you have an excuse to call him. I’ve already told him everything I know. I’m trying to put it behind me. You need to do the same.” She turned and headed for the table covered with food, where she started chatting with a young woman I didn’t recognize.

  “Angie!” A slim blonde ignored my cup of punch and hugged me. Luckily, not much spilled. “It’s so good to see you!”

  I stared. Her voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place her face.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” she bubbled. “What fun! I’m Clementine Walker!”

  I blinked and looked again. “Clem?”

  “I’ve changed, haven’t I?”

  Gradually the pieces came together as she laughed at my discomfort.

  “You’re a blonde. And skinny!” I blurted. Clem Walker had been the one friend who’d stuck by me. Her family hadn’t lived in Haven Harbor for generations. They’d moved to Maine from Boston when we were in fifth grade. She hadn’t known my mother.

  She’d also been pudgy, with short brown hair and glasses.

  “I don’t believe it! You’ve totally changed!”

  “Just on the outside, Angie. Just on the outside. I was a disaster in high school, wasn’t I?”

  “Oh, Clem!” This time I hugged her. My punch glass was almost empty. “It’s so good to see you. Are you still living in town?”

  “In Portland. I work for one of the TV stations there.”

  I backed off immediately. “You were my best friend, but I’m not giving any interviews.”

  “No, no. I’m not a reporter or a producer. I work in the office there. For now, anyway. You look great, too!” She looked around. “I saw you talking to Lauren Greene. Lauren Decker, now. She’s aged. But being married to Caleb probably hasn’t helped.”

  “And you?” I glanced at her hand. “Married? Engaged?”

  “Independent.” She smiled. “You?”

  “The same.” I saw Gram heading in my direction. “I’d love us to get together. Talk. Catch up.”

  “Give me your cell,” she said. I fished it out and she tapped her number into it. “Now you can reach me. And do! Promise!”

  “I will.” I watched her cross the room to the refreshment table. Others watched her, too. If it took looks to be on television, Clem was on the right track. And she’d always been bright. She’d headed for Orono, to the University of Maine, when I’d headed west.

  How would my life have been different if I’d taken her path? But my grades weren’t great, so a scholarship was out of the question, and Gram didn’t have enough money to send me. Truth was, I hadn’t been interested in college. Those couple of courses I’d taken in Arizona had bored me to death. Looked like higher education and serious attention to her appearance had paid off for Clem, though.

  “How’re you holding up?” Gram asked. “I saw you talking with Lauren and Clem.”

  “I was glad to see Clem,” I said. “That was a surprise. But this whole memorial is a lie. All these people, pretending they were Mama’s friends. Pretending they care what happened to her. They probably haven’t even thought of her in years. When she was alive, most of them didn’t speak to her, or only pretended to like her.”

  Gram’s eyes filled, but she held back her tears. “It’s not all that bad, Angel. I know this is hard for you. And you’re right—even I don’t know everyone here, and certainly some came out of curiosity. But you’ve been gone a long time. Many of these people are here to give us their support. We should give them the benefit of the doubt. Be pleasant.”

  I looked around the room. “How can you tell the difference? By the number of cookies they’re eating? That woman in the purple dress hasn’t spoken to anyone. She hasn’t had time. She’s eaten three plates of food and just filled her plate again. Does she think this is an all-you-can-eat buffet?”

  “Have faith,” Gram answered, not even turning to see which woman I was describing. “Can you hold it together a little longer? Before we go, I’d like you to meet the other Mainely Needlepointers. They sent most of the flowers in the church, and they’ve heard me talk about you, and how well you’ve been doing. They’d like to meet you.”

  I nodded. “I’m okay. Don’t worry.”

  She gestured to three people standing near one of the windows. “After you meet them, we’ll leave. We’ve given everyone a chance to say something to us. Some took it; some didn’t. We’ll let Tom handle those still here. He’ll know how to deal with them.” She smiled as her friends came closer. “And here are three of my fellow Needlepointers.” She touched the arm of a man who looked about forty-five, although his wavy hair was gray. In his navy suit and red tie, he could have been a stockbroker or lawyer or banker who started every day at the gym. “This is Dave Percy. He teaches biology at the high school now, but he learned needlepointing when he was in the navy. Not much to do when you’re off duty in a submarine.”

  Dave put out his hand and I shook it. His handshake was firm. “Sorry about your mother. I’m glad to finally meet you. Your grandmother got me involved with Mainely Needlepoint, and I keep busy with that, summers and winters, after school. Or I did keep busy until our problems with Lattimore.”

  “And you remember Katie Titicomb? Your friend Cindy’s mother.”

  I did. “You used to win awards for your quilts at the Common Ground Country Fair every year. I remember. They were gorgeous.”

  She looked pleased. “I’m surprised you remember. Young folks don’t pay crafts so much attention anymore.”

  “Cindy used to brag about you,” I said. Bragged that she had a wonderful and talented mother who cared about her—and wasn’t it too bad my mother had up and deserted me? And then by junior high school Cindy had left Haven Harbor for private school. Yes, I remembered Cindy and her mother.

  “Well, Cindy’s married and lives down to Blue Hill now. Has three little ones. Doesn’t get back to Haven Harbor as often as I’d like.”

  “Are you still quilting?”

  She shook her head. “Not much. A person can only use so many quilts. And quilting eats up time, even if you do it by machine, like most folks do now. Charlotte’s talked me into going into the needlepoint business.”

  “Katie’s one of our biggest producers,” Gram put in.

  “Maybe you remember my husband, Gus? Dr. Titicomb?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, just as well. He’s a surgeon. No one you want to meet professionally unless you have to. He learned needlepoint in medical school, to practice stitching with a needle. Taught me how to do it, too.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, turnin
g to the third member of the group. “And I’m pretty sure I remember you. Captain Winslow?”

  “That’s me. You were a cunning thing when you were little. You’ve grown up wicked pretty.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled at his phrasing—high praise from a Mainer.

  “Real sorry about your mother.”

  Ob’s hands were calloused and hard and tanned like leather. The hands of a man who made a living by the sea.

  “Thank you. And have you done needlepoint for years, too?”

  “Not me. Lauren and I are the beginners in the group. I still run my charter fishing boat in summer, and used to carve decoys for the tourists in winter. But my back was givin’ me problems about five years ago. I talked to Dr. Gus, Katie here’s husband, and he recommended the needlepointing. It keeps my hands and brain busy and I can sit and relax, ’stead of standing like I do when I’m carving, and I can still make money in winter.”

  “At first, he put up such a fight,” Katie said, giving Ob a gentle shove. “Men and embroidery, you know. He didn’t see it. But my Gus kept after him, and he finally decided to give it a try.”

  “Have to admit, the doc was right,” said Ob.

  “Now I’m making more money than I did with decoys. Or I was,” he said, looking over at Gram, “until our problem.”

  “I’ve told Angie about Jacques. She worked with a private investigator in Arizona.” Gram was beaming with pride. “She’s going to find him for us, and try to get the money he owes us.”

  “Thank you, Angie. That would mean a lot”—Katie’s hands swept to include all of them—“to all of us.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised. I couldn’t let these people down. “And thank you for coming today.”

  Gram put her arm around me. “You go on to the car now, Angie. I’ll let Tom know we’re going home.”

  I started moving toward the door, watching as Gram went over to the reverend. He nodded and they both looked over at me. No doubt I was Gram’s excuse for leaving a little earlier than expected.