Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  I sat at the old red Formica counter. Lauren was waiting on tables. A young woman I didn’t know took my order.

  Mama was working here when she left. Had she been on her way here that day? She wasn’t dressed for work, but maybe she was planning to meet someone later, after the café closed. In May the customers would have been a combination of people who lived or worked in town and snowbirds, back from winters in the south. Snowbirds, who wintered in North Carolina or Florida, or even Vermont for the skiing, returned as early as April.

  I spun around on my stool, looking at the tables. The place hadn’t changed much, although Ethan had mentioned it had changed hands.

  Once in a while Mama had brought me here as a special treat. We’d always sat on the end of the counter, right by the kitchen, and she’d order me hot chocolate with marshmallows or a peppermint stick in the winter, or a one-scoop hot-fudge sundae in summer. Lemonade too. I remembered drinking lemonade here and adding sugar because it wasn’t as sweet as Gram’s.

  In high school I’d come here with friends. We’d order Pepsis or Moxies or, if we had a little more money, root beer floats. In the winter we could sit here for an hour or two with our sodas, sharing an order of french fries. In the summer we knew better. Tables then were for folks ordering lobster rolls or fried clams. But we didn’t need the shelter of the café in the summer. We had the beach, and the piers, and were too busy with jobs, helping in family businesses or restaurants or keeping the beach clean, to idle time away. It took a lot of hands to keep a small town spruced up for the tourists.

  I watched Lauren smiling and talking with a couple whose toddler was in a high chair.

  I’d finished my coffee and was pulling out my wallet when she stepped behind the counter.

  “Glad you were able to squeeze a few dollars out of that Jacques Lattimore. And congratulations. I heard you’ve agreed to replace him at Mainely Needlepoint.”

  “On a trial basis. We’ll see how it works out.”

  She leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “How soon will I be getting my share of the money you got from Lattimore? I really need it.”

  “Soon. One day, maybe two.”

  “I sure hope so,” Lauren answered as the waitress who’d taken my order moved back behind the counter. She raised her voice a little. “You’re not going back to . . . Arizona? That’s where you were, right? Before you decided to come home.”

  I’d come home because she’d found my mother’s body. Because, maybe, her father had killed my mother. Not totally my own decision. “I lived outside of Phoenix. I worked for an investigator there.”

  “So you’re giving up your job to stay here?”

  “I want to take care of some business here. And I hope I can be a help at Mainely Needlepoint.”

  “You don’t even do needlepoint.”

  “True. I’m not good at crafts.” I looked down at my hands. “I’m not good with my hands.” Unless there’s a gun in them. “But Gram asked me. And Lattimore didn’t do needlepoint, either. I’ll be working with the accounts and orders, and talking to customers. I won’t be creating the products.”

  “The ‘products’?” She looked at me disdainfully. “Needlepoint is a highly skilled craft. An art. One that deserves more respect than it gets.”

  “I have a lot to learn, but I admire beautiful needlepoint. It connects us to all the women in the past who did it to add beauty to their lives. It’s part of our heritage.”

  “Maybe. You make it sound romantic. Remember, our needlepoint is a way of paying bills—if we get enough orders.”

  “Gram said you’re talented. She’s going to try to teach me, too, so I’ll understand more about it.”

  Lauren picked up my empty coffee cup and swept the counter with a damp rag. As she stretched, I noticed a large purple bruise on the back of her right arm. “That’s a nasty bruise. A fall?”

  ”Right. I was clumsy.” She turned to go back into the kitchen. “Well, I’ll be waiting for my share of Jacques’ money, and for the chance to get new orders to fill. I can make as much doing that as I can breaking my back carrying trays of dirty dishes here.”

  “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk with you. About . . . the storage locker. About Mama. And your father.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. My father’s dead. His locker had some junk in it, and one of those big white freezers most folks have in their barns for venison and tomato sauce and blueberries. The kind you open from the top.” She paused. “You know what was in there. That’s all. There’s nothing more to say. I’m sorry about your mother. Now I have to get my orders.”

  Lauren went back into the kitchen and picked up two plates. I could see the thick cheeseburgers and onion rings from a distance. She put them in front of an older couple sitting in the far corner. Then she went back to the kitchen. She didn’t look at me again.

  I paid my check and left a decent tip.

  I’d have to start over here. People knew who I was, but they also knew I’d had baggage when I left, and they didn’t know whether that load had increased when I’d been away, or whether I was ready to settle into Maine ways.

  Truth to tell, I didn’t blame them. I wasn’t sure myself.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Since every man is born in Sin

  O lord renew my Soul within

  Prepare me in my youthful day.

  Humbly to walk in wisdom’s ways

  In all requirements of Thy Laws

  And from Thy word my comforts

  May thy good Sprit guide my youth

  And lead me in the way of truth

  Disclose the evils of my heart

  Direct me how with sin to part

  O let me not Thy spirit grieve

  Come Let me now thy grace receive

  Kindly Thy pardoning love bestow

  So That I may my savior know.

  —An acrostic sampler stitched by Sophia Maddocks, Cape Newagen, Boothbay, Maine, 1821

  Lauren wasn’t going to help me. I couldn’t blame her. If her father had killed Mama, that didn’t augur well for a solid family history. She’d have to live with being the daughter of a murderer.

  That had to be even harder than being the daughter of a victim.

  I turned toward home. The wind had shifted. It was now brisk, and coming from the northeast. I hoped a storm wasn’t brewing. I pulled my jacket closer.

  I hadn’t liked the heat of Arizona summers, but I’d gotten used to them. I’d forgotten the chill of afternoon sea breezes.

  I wasn’t convinced Ethan was taking Mama’s cold case seriously. Especially since now he’d been distracted by the possible situation with Jacques Lattimore.

  Why couldn’t I feel like Gram, and get on with my life, whether that life was going to be here in Haven Harbor, or back in Mesa, or somewhere else? Why did I feel such an obligation to the past?

  I’d held Mama’s hand and skipped along this sidewalk, knowing that people sometimes looked at us and whispered. I’d thought it was because Mama was pretty. It wasn’t until the years just before she disappeared that I’d begun to notice she was different from other Haven Harbor mothers. Her clothes were tighter, and lower in front, and she wore bright colors when others favored more subtle hues. Women in Haven Harbor considered themselves dressed up when they combed their hair and put on lipstick. Mama wore bright eye shadow and curled her long, layered hair until it looked like a movie star’s.

  She was beautiful. I’d wished I looked like her.

  Everything about her sparkled: her blond hair, the bright colors she wore, her shiny fingernails, the gold jewelry she wore.

  “With my coloring, silver looks dull,” she’d told me once. “Gold jewelry goes with my hair.”

  I’d nodded, seriously taking in her lesson.

  Then she’d whispered, “Someday maybe my jewelry will be real gold, not just gold-colored. Gold colors wear off. Real gold stays forever.”

  “What color jewelry should I wear?”
I’d asked her, looking in her dressing-room mirror at the two of us. My straight brown hair was a fashion world away from her curls.

  She’d tilted her head a bit, considering. Then, “Silver is your color, Angel. Bright silver. It doesn’t cost as much as gold, so you’ll be able to buy the real thing. Make sure you do. Don’t waste your money on imitations. You’re worth the real thing.”

  And then she’d laughed and hugged me.

  Silver might have been my color, but the angel necklace she’d given me was gold. Real gold. Fourteen karat.

  But on the rare occasions when I bought jewelry for myself now, I always bought silver. Mama had said it was my color.

  Hugging myself in my light jacket as I walked, I wondered whether her clothes were still in her closet. Would any of them fit me? I didn’t want to wear them, but I was curious. I was pretty sure I was an inch or two taller than she’d been. Maybe trying on her clothes would bring me closer to her.

  I looked in the window of what had been Joe Greene’s Bakery. The wind grew even brisker. Or maybe I just noticed it more.

  How many times had I been in that store? Hundreds? Likely. Mama’d bought me cookies there, or cupcakes, when I was little. When I was older I’d be sent on errands there: “Pick up a loaf of bread and a sweet for dessert.”

  Sometimes I’d refused, but then Gram would get angry.

  What little girl wouldn’t want to go to the bakery? It was only three blocks from home. Nothing bad could happen in three blocks.

  I stood outside the window. They were right. Nothing bad had happened in those three blocks. At least nothing I knew about.

  I took a deep breath and went in. The little bell on the back of the door, which announced customers, was still there. Its sound stopped me.

  But I was grown up now. This was a patisserie. Whatever had happened in the past was over. Gone.

  I walked to the familiar display case, now filled with fancier pastries than the Greenes had ever sold.

  “May I help you?” said the young woman in back of the counter.

  “Two éclairs,” I said, pointing at a tray behind the glass.

  “I’ll put them in a box for you,” she replied, reaching into the cabinet.

  I pulled out my money.

  Who else could I talk to? Did anyone else remember what this town was like?

  “Thank you,” I said, accepting the white box tied with red string. “They look delicious. I’ve been away for a few years. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “My husband and I bought the building from the Greenes,” she said, smiling. “You probably knew them. We love Haven Harbor. I’m glad you stopped in. I hope you’ll be back.”

  “Most likely,” I said. “The éclairs look delicious.”

  “They’re one of our top sellers,” she confirmed. “Nice to meet you. And have a good day!” I’d almost gotten to the door when she added, “Welcome home!”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Work is inspiring where there is not too much of it, and sewing is a restful occupation if taken up and put down when the inspiration is upon one. It becomes a cross when the tyranny of fashion demands too much of nervous fingers, and when the hours spent at it are taken from nobler pursuits.

  —Laura C. Holloway, The Hearthstone, or Life At Home: A Household Manual, 1888

  “Those look delicious,” said Gram, peeking into the bakery box at the éclairs I’d bought. “But we’ll save them for tomorrow. Tom’s invited us to his home for dinner tonight.”

  “I don’t have to go,” I answered. “I’m sure he’s just asking me because I’m your granddaughter. You go. I’ll make my own dinner here at home.”

  “Nonsense! He invited you specifically. And I’d like you to get to know him, Angel. After all, soon he’ll be your stepgrandfather!”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  “He’s an excellent cook, and a kind and interesting man,” she continued. “I know what people think when they hear he’s a minister, but that’s only part of his life. He doesn’t spend every hour of the day reading the Bible or ministering to the poor and indigent.”

  Or to older women, I thought.

  “How old is he, Gram? He’s good-looking, but he doesn’t—”

  “Doesn’t look my age? Heavens, no. Tom’s ten years younger than I am. He’s fifty-two.” Since Gram was sixty-five, she seemed to have a little problem with subtraction.

  “Gram! You’re a cougar!”

  “What?”

  It wasn’t the moment to mention I’d once dated a man who was fifty-two. Jonathan had been bright and interesting, but he’d been in love with me because I was twenty-five. He’d left when I couldn’t promise never to change.

  “A cougar, Gram. What people call a woman who dates a man much younger than she is.”

  “People can call me what they want. I call myself ‘smart.’ Everyone knows men don’t live as long as women. Smarter to pick one who’s younger. We’ll have more years together, and he might be around to take care of me someday, instead of the other way around. Have you noticed how many widows there are, compared to widowers?”

  What could I say?

  “You’re thinking I’m a little crazy in the head and I shouldn’t be thinking of getting sick and dying. But at my age it’s natural that those thoughts pop up more often than they do for you,” Gram said. She looked at the kitchen clock. “We’ll leave about five-thirty. Did you have much time to go over those accounts?”

  “I started. The records you’ve kept are clear. The problem is merging what you’ve been recording with what Lattimore did. You focused on each person contributing to the business, what they’d been assigned, and how long it took them. He focused on the people who’d ordered the work. It’s hard to get it all to match up. Like, Mrs. Sam Bailey ordered needlepoint seats for her dining-room set. Eight straight chairs, which had smaller seats, and two armchairs for the ends of the table. All that’s clear. And I found the floral pattern to be used. Your binders keep those in order, but I couldn’t figure out who was working on the actual pieces. According to Lattimore, they haven’t been completed.”

  “They hadn’t been finished when he vanished a few months ago, but they’re done now. Let me show you,” said Gram, and she and I headed into the living-room office.

  Heavy knocking at the front door interrupted us.

  The man standing outside was huge. My first impression was that he was in his thirties, but life hadn’t been kind to him. His hair needed a cut, his arms and neck were covered with tattoos, and his skin was the permanent tan of a man who’d spent his life on the water. Most important, he was furious.

  Furious enough that I wished I had my gun close at hand. I moved closer to the sideboard, where I’d left it. But then I was afraid he’d think I was backing away from him. I didn’t want him to know how afraid I was.

  “I suppose you’re the granddaughter. Angela.”

  “I’m Angela. Who are you?”

  “Caleb Decker. I’m here to get the money due my wife.”

  Caleb Decker. Lauren’s husband. “We haven’t gone through all the accounts yet. Lauren will get her money as soon as we finish.”

  He pushed the door open wider and strode past me into the living room. “Charlotte, we’ve been owed that money for months now. I want it now.”

  Gram stood up. “Caleb, Angie’s told you the truth. We’ve just started to go over the accounts.”

  “Lauren said that agent of yours gave you a fistful of dollars yesterday. How long’s it take? Just give me the cash.”

  The money was in the desk drawer of the living room. I hoped Gram wouldn’t mention that. I put my hand on the drawer holding my gun.

  “Probably tomorrow, Caleb. Take it easy. Lauren’ll get her share of the money when everyone else does. Not before.”

  He took a step toward her. She didn’t move. “Tomorrow, Caleb. No later than the day after. I promise you.”

  He looked at me, my hand on the sideboard drawer,
and at Gram. “It had better be soon. Or I’ll be back.” He stomped past me, slamming the front door in back of him.

  “Wow,” I said, relieved that the situation seemed to have resolved itself. “That’s Lauren’s husband? He’s off the wall. I’m proud of you, Gram. You stood up to him.”

  “That’s the only way to deal with bullies,” she said. “Call their bluff.”

  “How can Lauren live with someone like that?” I wondered out loud.

  “She hasn’t had an easy life,” Gram confirmed. “And, for the record, make sure the money she’s owed goes to her. Not to Caleb. Keep that in mind for the future, too.”

  I nodded. “Absolutely.” I didn’t have to ask her why.

  We spent what was left of the afternoon going over the pattern books and correlating the work done with the work delivered and the work paid for. Some work had been completed, but not delivered. A few pieces had been delivered, but were not paid for. I’d have my hands full getting it all sorted out, without even beginning to try to find new work.

  “We have a lot of repeat customers and referrals,” Gram assured me. “We can all work on gift shop items for now. We’ll be getting calls for those any day now, and shops will ask for backup items later in the summer if sales have been good. Those orders don’t pay as much as the special ones, but they’ll keep people in soup and hamburger for the moment.”

  There was no more time to think about Mama’s murder before Gram and I left for the rectory.

  “Glad you could both come,” Reverend Tom said, greeting Gram with a hug and a kiss and me with a touch on the arm. “Dinner is cooking. I decided to make something simple.” I sniffed. Whatever it was smelled fantastic. “Boeuf Bourguignon.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said. The reverend was wearing close-cut jeans and a beige sweater. He didn’t look like my idea of a minister.

  “Don’t be. It’s not complicated. Just beef stew with mushrooms and red wine.”

  “I told you he could cook,” Gram said, nodding. “Wait until you taste it.”