Twisted Threads

by Lea Wait

  “Clem suggested we all have lunch Monday at noon in Bath. It should be fun! So we can talk then. I’m here for ten days. Hubby went to a medical conference in San Diego.”

  I smiled. “You married a doctor, like your dad?”

  “Not quite. But in the same business. Clive’s a pharmaceutical rep. Doctors are his customers.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  Not really, I thought. But lucrative.

  “Actually, it’s fascinating. He’s on the cutting edge of all the new medical technologies. It’s an important field, especially with baby boomers aging. Drugs are critically important,” she stated.

  “Lunch Monday then?”

  “I was about to check with Mom,” she said, looking over at her mother.

  “No problem for me,” said Katie Titicomb. “Take time with your friends, Cindy. I’ll keep an eye on the kids. I don’t get to see them often enough.”

  “It’s a deal, then,” Clem said. “See you Monday, when we have more time to catch up.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  While beauty and pleasure are now in their prime

  And folly and fashion expect our whole time.

  Ah, let not these phantoms our wishes engage

  Let us live so in youth that we blush not in age.

  —Part of verse embroidered by Mary Ann McLellan, four years old, Portland, Maine, 1807

  Lauren was at her camp. How large a camp would her parents have been able to afford? In Maine, the term “camp” was used for any structure a Mainer used as a vacation home. Lauren was lucky to have inherited both an in-town home and a camp. I felt a twinge of jealousy. Although I didn’t envy her the storage facility she’d also been left by her father.

  Two more needlepointers on Gram’s list: Sarah Byrne and Ob Winslow. Ob’s home was on the outskirts of town. I decided to visit Sarah first.

  The lilies of the valley were still part of her store window display. After visiting with Dave and hearing about the dangers of those delicate May flowers, I hoped Sarah didn’t have a cat.

  She waved from behind her counter, where she continued wrapping two teacups and saucers for a woman wearing yoga pants and a Maine T-shirt. Out-of-stater, for sure.

  Her store smelled comfortably of old, beloved things. I wondered when Beatles posters had become antiques, and how many people collected flowered teacups. Sarah had three shelves of them. She also had shelves of old leather-bound books. Did anyone read books like those anymore? Maybe people bought them as investments. Or, most likely, as decorative accessories.

  I didn’t know much about antiques, but I knew about tourists. They shopped. And almost all of them wanted to take a piece of their holiday home with them. Something tangible to remind them of their favorite vacation spot. For some that meant a T-shirt or baseball cap embroidered with the word “Maine.” For others it was an antique, a painting, or a piece of sea glass. Or even a rounded stone from their favorite beach that would find new life as a paperweight. People who bought antiques from Sarah might be looking for links to the past, or they might want a souvenir of Haven Harbor.

  I valued the dishes and paintings in our house precisely because they were in our house. I’d grown up with them, and, in some cases, so had Gram. And so had her mother. And maybe back further. I had no idea what their market value was, and I didn’t care. I did know old furniture was often better made than a piece you’d buy at Ikea. But I’d never been attracted to the miscellaneous bits of china and glass that Sarah displayed in her shop.

  I stopped at two small rectangular framed pictures. Then I looked closer. They looked a little like embroidery, but they were incredibly delicate. One showed a coach being pulled by six horses; the other was of a horse race.

  A few minutes later the woman buying the teacups left and Sarah joined me. “Like something?”

  “Just curious. What are those?” Then I looked at their price tags. They were marked $350 and $400. Whatever they were, I hoped Sarah found a customer who really liked them.

  “They’re Stevengraphs. Very popular in the 1860s and 1870s in England, and to a lesser degree in this country.”

  “But what are they? At first I thought they were delicate needlepoint. But up close they look more like fabrics.”

  “They’re woven silk ribbons. About 1860, Thomas Stevens, a weaver in Coventry, England, started making woven silk bookmarks showing scenes of various sorts. They were sold in bookstores and stationery stores, as you’d expect. They were so popular that about ten years later he started to make matted pictures, like the ones you’re looking at. He wove over two hundred different pictures and over five hundred different bookmarks.”

  “Are they all as small as these?” I bent over to examine one of the intricate scenes.

  “Pretty much. The largest pictures are about seven by thirteen inches. Most are smaller. They’re all silk, and many have faded over the years, or the silk has deteriorated. Since they were matted and framed, though, quite a few are still around. Their prices vary. Scenes of carriages and horses and sporting events are popular.”

  “Are they still being made?”

  Sarah shook her head. “The Stevens factory was bombed in 1940. That was the end of the Stevengraphs.”

  “Interesting,” I said, quickly surveying the room. “Does everything in here have a story like that?”

  “Probably,” Sarah agreed. “Trouble is, we don’t always know what the stories are.” She gestured at a group of iron banks and mechanical toys. “But you could make up your own stories. You could imagine who first bought these toys, for instance, and who played with them. And who must have treasured them, or they wouldn’t have lasted as long.”

  “I can see I’d better clean our attic out more carefully,” I said, looking at the price tag on one mechanical bank.

  “You should. If you find any antiques that look interesting, let me know and I’ll give you an estimate. Maybe even make you an offer.”

  “Here,” I said, handing Sarah her envelope. “I brought your share of the money we got back from Jacques Lattimore.”

  “I can use that,” she said. “Have you any new orders yet?”

  “I haven’t started going through the customer lists,” I admitted. “I need a little time, but I will.”

  “I’m ready and willing, any time you do get an order. Now that I’ve opened the store for the summer, I sit here and read or do needlepoint between customers. I like to read. After all, as Emily wrote, ‘There is no frigate like a book.’ But the needlepoint brings in money.”

  “I understand. I liked those Christmas sachets you brought to our house the other day. Maybe you could make up more of those. Lobsters and lighthouses always sell,” I said, remembering what Gram had stitched when I was growing up.

  “I’m tired of lobsters and lighthouses. But you’re right. They sell. Maybe I’ll try a boat. Or a crab. Or moose. So not all the sachets look the same.”

  “Fine with me,” I agreed. “I’ll try to get all your work placed in a gift or craft shop.”

  “And I’ve been meaning to call you. I’ve been researching that old piece of needlework I brought to your house the other day. I agree with Charlotte. I think the design is one from Maine. Possibly late eighteenth century.”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t think that little piece was originally meant to be displayed. I think it was a practice piece, for someone learning her stitches. That’s why it wasn’t signed. But I’m still learning. Your grandmother loaned me one book on nineteenth-century needlecrafts, and I’ve put in an inter-library loan for several books the library listed on traditional New England needlecrafts.”

  “Great! Gram has a whole shelf of them. I’m sure she’d lend you more if you need them. I’m going to start reading, too. I’m guessing you aren’t the only one in Maine who has a piece of embroidery she’d like to save and know more about.”

  “If we learn enough, we could advertise in the antique trade journals,” Sarah added. “I th
ink that’s a wonderful idea.”

  “And, of course, you’d get the profits from any customers you brought in,” I told her. “If they came to the business and we referred them to you, we’d take a percentage.”

  “It’s too early to plan that,” she said. “But I’ll let you know when I’ve learned more, and keep my eyes out for other pieces of old stitchery.”

  “Good,” I said. I glanced at an old clock hanging on the wall. “I have to get going. I still have to deliver Ob’s envelope.”

  “On your way, then,” Sarah said. “I’m glad you stopped in. You know where to find me.”

  I borrowed Gram’s car to get to Ob’s house. He lived in a farmhouse, complete with a barn and an ell that attached the barn to the house. The house “next door” was a couple of acres away. And much more modern. Ob had probably sold off part of the farmland connected with his home to someone who wanted to build. Across the street was a nineteenth-century mansion that had been empty for years. The old Gardener place, Haven Harbor’s ghost house.

  I parked by Ob’s barn. Within a few minutes he appeared, dusting sawdust off his apron. “Angie Curtis! What brings you out here?”

  “Brought you your share of the Lattimore money,” I said, handing him the envelope. “How’s your back? Gram said you were having problems with it.”

  “Oh, your grandmother talks too much,” he said with a smile. “I’m pretty good today. Chopping wood, as you can see.”

  “What for?”

  “What for? Girl, you’ve been out of Maine too long. For the woodstove next winter. If I split the wood now and stack it so it dries over the summer, it won’t smoke much next winter. Got to do it now, ’cause next week I’m putting the Anna Mae back in the water, and I’ll be polishing her up and getting the gear ready for summer. Already got my first reservation in, for Memorial Day weekend.”

  “You planning on doing any more needlepoint soon?”

  He shook his head. “Not ’til fall, if the fishing’s good this season. My druthers are to spend time on the water. Course, a long spell of fog or rain might change my mind. My wife, though, she’s been watching what I’ve been doing, and she might be interested in learning, if your grandmother would take her as another student. I know she taught Lauren Decker a while back.”

  “I’ll ask her,” I said.

  “I’d appreciate that. I haven’t the patience to teach anyone. And I’m on the water so much in summer, the wife gets bored. By August she’ll be canning and freezing up a storm, but before that, it’d be good for her to have a new hobby to fill her hours.” He leaned over. “Tell Charlotte my Anna wants to learn. I don’t know as she wants to learn well enough to be a full-fledged needlepointer. Just well enough to make a Christmas ornament for the grandkids or a little pillow for the guest room. You know what I mean.”

  “I’m learning, Ob,” I said. A carved sign hung above his workbench in the back of the barn: OBADIAH WINSLOW, MASTER CARVER.

  His eyes followed mine. “Yup. I did that. Did it to impress the customers when I was carving decoys and such. Some folks wanted carved letters or numbers to put on their houses. That was to show I could handle that work. Don’t do much of the carving anymore, between my back and the Anna Mae and the work Charlotte’s been getting for me. Working with a needle is like working with a tiny chisel . . . making something from nothing. I like that part of it.”

  “You do beautiful work,” I agreed. “Don’t strain your back chopping.”

  He shrugged. “It’s got to be done, and looks like I’m the man with the axe. You say hello to your grandmother for me. And have her call Anna about those lessons.”

  “I will,” I said, climbing back into the car.

  Needlepoint lessons? Maybe that’s another sideline that could work for Mainely Needlepoint.

  I drove back downtown, feeling as though I was working my way back into the community.

  Chapter Thirty

  Let virtue prove your never fading bloom

  For mental beauty will survive the tomb.

  —Text from a sampler stitched by Mary Chase, age eleven, Augusta, Maine

  “I’m home!” I called.

  “In the kitchen,” Gram called back. “Did you get all those envelopes delivered?”

  “I did. I’m glad you suggested I go in person. It gave me a chance to get to know everyone better.”

  She nodded. “A good group.”

  “Seemed so. Although I gathered they work more at certain times of the year, most are free to work in the winter. If we got in several large orders during the summer, we might be hard-pressed to get them done.”

  “True,” said Gram, who was stuffing haddock for supper. “Sometimes we need to juggle assignments a little.”

  I stepped over Juno, who was keeping a close watch on Gram. I wondered if Gram was making enough for three for dinner. “Oh, and Ob Winslow’s wife would like to learn needlepoint. She wondered if you’d teach her.”

  “I could do that.” Gram put the haddock in a deep casserole dish, covered it with bread crumbs and onion and garlic, and squeezed fresh lemon juice over the crumbs and seasonings.

  “I was thinking, maybe we could advertise that you’d teach needlepoint classes. It might be a sideline for the business, and you might end up training people to work at Mainely Needlepoint in the future.” I poured myself a glass of ice water. “I should learn, although I’d still rather stick to the business end rather than the creative side of the business.”

  “Classes might be a good idea.” Gram nodded. “A year or so back the local adult school wanted me to teach a course for them, but at the time I wasn’t free when they needed me. If we could decide when the classes were held, I’d be able to do it.” She paused. “Of course, after I’m married, I don’t know what my schedule will be.” She shrugged, smiling. “The downside of falling in love with a minister.” She took a mess of fiddleheads out of the refrigerator and rinsed them off.

  “You’ve been single a long time, Gram, since before I was born. Are you sure you want to lose that independence?”

  “Every woman needs to know she can survive without a partner. I’ve proved I can. After your grandfather died, God bless him and his life insurance, I raised one daughter and one granddaughter, kept this house going, and started a business. I’ve done my bit. Got nothing to prove to myself or the world about independence.”

  “Being on your own has advantages,” I suggested. “Deciding what you’re going to do, and where you’ll go, and who you’ll take time to see. Even just choosing what you’ll have for dinner and what time you go to bed and get up in the morning. No one to tell you your chicken was too dry or yell at you because you forgot to pick up clothes at the cleaners.” I surprised myself by being so adamant.

  Gram raised her eyebrows. “An interesting perspective. I won’t ask you where you came up with those examples. I remember being young, centuries ago as it might seem to you. Marrying then meant choosing who was going to be the father of your children, and who’d share your dreams with you.”

  I nodded.

  “When I married your grandfather, we planned our future together. . . .” She paused, remembering. “It was a wonderful time. As the saying goes, we didn’t have much money, but love and joy made up for it.” She put the haddock in the oven, the fiddleheads in a steamer, and sat down at the kitchen table. “But at my age, the ‘till death us do part’ aspect of marriage is what’s important. I’m looking forward to sharing my life with someone. And then, when the time comes, we’ll take care of each other.” She looked at me. “Couples in their twenties don’t usually think about that. When you’re older, you know that’s part of your future. Tom and I’ve talked about it. We’re both ready to make that commitment to each other.”

  “Gram! If you were sick, I’d take care of you!”

  Doesn’t she trust me to do that? Is that the reason she’s getting married?

  “That’s all well and good. You might want to. But you have your li
fe ahead of you. You’ll have a job, maybe a husband and children. Although I’d love to have you settle nearby, I don’t want you ever to feel obligated to take care of me. I want you to live your life the way you want to, not the way you have to.”

  I was silent for a few minutes. “You don’t have to worry about that, Gram. I wouldn’t take care of you because I felt obligated. I’d take care of you because I love you.”

  “Thank you for that, Angel. But don’t you worry! I’m not planning on being disabled immediately.” She shook her head, smiling. “Tom and I hope we’ll have a lot of years ahead to enjoy life together. So you liked the needlepointers?”

  Conversation change. “I did. Ob is a bit of a character, and Ruth seemed lonely. I’m going to try to stop and see her every week or two.”

  “Good call.”

  “I still have Lauren’s envelope. Her neighbor said she and her family went up to their camp for a few days.”

  “Caleb must have calmed down a bit,” Gram said dryly. “They didn’t wait for Lauren’s money, and he didn’t insist she work today. He’s been pushing her to work as many hours as possible.”

  “And Cindy was visiting her parents. She confirmed we’re going to have lunch with Clem on Monday.”

  “Good. I’m glad that worked out.”

  “I liked Dave Percy, although his poison garden is a little strange. And I loved the needlepoint he was working on . . . a matching cushion for an old chair?”

  “Yes. He’s had that for a while.”

  “He’s been working on other pieces, too. I saw a half-finished canvas of a skiff in his living room.”

  Gram stopped. “What did it look like?”

  “I didn’t look closely. A red skiff, in water, with a lighthouse in the background. About a twelve-inch square canvas.”

  “That’s not one of Dave’s projects,” Gram said. “It’s one I assigned to Lauren.”