Stitches in Time (29 page)

It took almost that long to set up the arrangement she had in mind. Cheryl used fiberglass screening framed in wood to support delicate articles while they dried; the weight of the wet fabric could strain old threads. None of these were large enough or sturdy enough to suit Kara. “The fabric isn't a modern synthetic,” she explained. “It's cotton, heavy as lead when it's wet. We'll try brushing and vacuuming first, before we wash it. In cold water! Put it on that long table, Adam. Don't try to pull it straight, you'll break the threads.”

The soft brush Rachel had used earlier had no effect at all this time. Kara reached for another, stiffer-bristled brush, and attacked the fabric ruthlessly. Gray dust rose in a fine cloud, and she let out a murmur of satisfaction.

“You'll get your suit dirty,” Rachel said. “Let me do that.”

“It'll have to wait till later. Hear the dogs? One of the customers must be here. Mrs. Femcliffe, I'll bet. She's always early, damn her eyes.”

“Want me to give it a try?” Adam asked.

“No, keep your hands off it.” Kara bent over and blew gently at the loosened dirt. “It's left a stain,” she announced dispiritedly.

“We've got the photographs,” Pat reminded her. “Come on, Adam, leave women's work to women. They won't thank you for…Kara? What's the matter?”

Raising her hands to her face, Kara bent over in a paroxysm of coughing. Rachel put an arm around her heaving shoulders.

“Slap her on the back,” Pat suggested.

Kara straightened, lowering her hands. Her face was red and her eyes streamed with tears. “Something…caught in my throat,” she gasped. “It's all right.”

The shop bell was ringing, in long peremptory peals. “I'll get it,” Rachel said. “Sit down and catch your breath.”

“Wait.” Kara's breath was still uneven. Instead of wiping away the tears that had overflowed her eyes, she went to the sink and washed her hands, scrubbing them like a surgeon preparing for an operation, before blotting her face with a paper towel.

“Okay,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “Everybody out.”

“Go ahead, I'll lock up,” Adam offered.

“I said, everybody out. Don't touch that quilt. Don't even go near it.”

Pat's heavy brows drew together. “What happened?”

“I don't know. I can't talk about it now, Pat. Louisa is going to break that door down if I don't answer it.”

She herded them out. After she had locked the door she put the key in her pocket.

Mrs. Femcliffe was not pleased to have been kept waiting and she kept up a grumbled monologue of complaint as she rummaged through the racks looking for bargains. She bought a number of items, however, including some that had not been on sale. Half a dozen other sale-wise cus
tomers arrived during the first hour; they knew the early birds got the choicest items. It was well after two o'clock before the last of them left.

Stacking the sales slips, Kara looked pleased. “We've done better than I expected. There will be a lull now, then another rush during the last hour, when people hope for further markdowns.”

“Why don't you go and get something to eat?” Rachel suggested. “I can keep an eye on things here.”

“All right. I guess I should take Alexander out. Straighten up the sales tables, will you please? What slobs people are! I'll bring you a sandwich, or maybe I can talk Adam into playing chef.”

They had been too busy all morning to talk privately, but the task of refolding and rearranging the scattered linens wasn't demanding enough to keep Rachel's thoughts from returning to Kara's odd behavior. Inhaling some of that gritty dust might induce a coughing fit, but Kara's reaction had been more than a simple physical reflex. She didn't seem to be eager to discuss it.

The sound of footsteps on the porch made Rachel's heart jump, and she scolded herself silently as the door opened to admit a pair of giggling female teenagers. Would she ever stop starting at the sound of feet on that porch? The girls were “just looking,” and they were still at it when Kara came back. She put the tray she carried on the desk and advanced, smiling fixedly, on one of the young women, who was reaching for the Callot Soeurs peignoir, ignoring the discreet sign that read, “Please ask for assistance.”

“It is lovely, isn't it? There are a few like it in museums, but this is the only one of that quality we've ever had. Let me hold it for you.”

Her tone, even more than the words themselves, got the point across. The girls left, without buying anything, and
Rachel began, “I'm sorry. I thought they might be regulars, and Cheryl said—”

“Stop apologizing for everything.” Kara took a bite of her sandwich. “You'll learn. Our regulars know better than to grab at expensive items, and girls that age aren't likely to buy designer originals. I don't mind them looking, but some kids treat the merchandise the same way they do the ready-mades in department stores—and the clerks will tell you how much damage they can do. Cheryl should have put the peignoir in a display case, like our other treasures.”

There were three such garments on display, in shallow cases like oversized shadow boxes. The glass had been treated in order to cut out damaging sunlight. Rachel took a sandwich from the plate Kara offered and studied one of the gowns, a glittering shape of silver tissue. The paste gems studding the wide hip sash sparkled in the light—emerald and ruby, topaz and jet.

“Is that one of Mrs. Mac's?” she asked.

“Right. An Egyptian model of Poiret's. It's not for sale.”

“I doubt if I could afford it anyhow.”

“Do I detect a slight note of regret in your voice? I thought you didn't like vintage clothes.”

“Seeing and handling them has changed my viewpoint,” Rachel admitted. “They are so beautiful. Impractical, though, for a person like me.”

“Not all of them.” Kara hesitated and then said, “Would you be offended if I picked out a few for you? Just to try on, not to buy—unless you wanted to. You're entitled to a hefty discount.”

A few weeks earlier the suggestion would have struck Rachel as both patronizing and insulting. Now she understood what had prompted it, and responded readily, “That's kind of you. Someday, maybe. After…”

“Okay.” A shadow fell across Kara's face. She selected another sandwich, crustless, daintily frilled with lettuce.

“Adam didn't make these,” Rachel said.

“He wasn't there. Neither was Pat.”

“Pat said he was going to Charlottesville. Didn't Adam leave a note?”

“Uh-huh. ‘Gone out. Back later.'”

“Sounds like Adam. What happened this morning, Kara?”

Kara took her time about answering, chewing methodically and swallowing before she spoke. “I breathed in some of the dust, as you probably surmised. Dumb of me, I wasn't thinking. The coughing was an involuntary reflex, but…It's hard to describe. Every time my breath went out, I felt something like…like cold, dank air touching my face.”

“God bless you,” Rachel murmured.

“What?”

“That's what people say when someone sneezes. When the breath goes out, the soul goes with it. You call down a blessing to keep the soul from getting lost and something…different…from going in.”

“God.” Kara stared at her. “What a horrible thought.”

“That's the origin of the superstition. I know something about superstitions,” Rachel said wryly. “They have an underlying logic—of sorts.”

“Was it like that for you?”

The question came so naturally Rachel answered without thinking. “I did breathe in some of the dust. I must have, I was bending over the quilt and brushing it, just as you were. I didn't notice anything at the time, though. It wasn't until that night, when he put the quilt around my shoulders, that…” Rachel looked down at her clasped hands. “I made the first move. Not Tony. He barely touched me, it was only a kind gesture. I stood up. The quilt seemed to wrap itself around me, I don't even remember taking hold of it.”

“Are you all right?” Kara asked apprehensively. “I shouldn't have asked. I forgot—”

“I wasn't expecting it the first time.
We
weren't expecting it. Anyway, he knows now—Pat—everybody knows, don't they? I can't talk to him the way I can to you,” she added querulously. “He doesn't understand. You understand.”

“Understand what?”

“How it is to love someone that way. When you've got no right, when it's wrong. When he hurts you and you want to hurt him back.”

“Rachel? Rachel, can you hear me?”

The voice was barely audible, as distant as a whisper from another room. “He's so tall,” Rachel said dreamily. “He had to lift me up, I was standing on tiptoe—I remember—I knew—how soft his hair felt, would feel, between my fingers, the curve of his head under my hands, the shape of his mouth and the way it fit, would-fit, against mine, it hurt, but I didn't care, and his arm—his arms—held me so hard
I couldn't breathe, and I tried to get away and I couldn't, and then he—he
…”

Kara's palm struck her cheek with enough force to drive the remaining air from her straining lungs. Reflexively she sucked in her breath.

“God bless you!” Kara sounded the words like a shout.

“Thanks.” Rachel rubbed her cheek. “What happened? What did I say?”

The skin framing Kara's mouth had gone white. “You weren't talking about Tony. Not after a while. The one sort of…flowed into the other. At the end your face was so distorted I wouldn't have recognized it if I hadn't seen it change. Did he strike you?”

“He pushed me away.”

“I see.” Kara's eyes were fixed on the hand Rachel had raised to her breast. “Okay. Enough already.”

She went to the door, opened it, and turned the sign over.

“You're closing?” Rachel asked. “I thought you said—”

“The hell with the sale and the customers. I should have called it off. I didn't realize…” She was still pale and her voice was unsteady. “I never saw anything like that before. Sara told me and Pat told me, but it's impossible to understand unless you actually…Let's get at that quilt. I'd do it myself, but to tell the truth I'm terrified of being in there alone.”

She wasn't joking. The precautions she took would not have been inappropriate for dealing with hazardous waste. They both wore rubber gloves and masks—Cheryl had a supply of the throwaway variety—and Kara used the vacuum cleaner instead of a brush, moving it hard and quickly across the fabric. When she had covered the entire surface she put the vacuum aside. Now restored to her normal self, she said sardonically, “God knows what I'm going to do with the bag. Bury it?”

“The quilt is still stained. The photographs are clearer than the original.”

“We'll try one more trick.” Kara gathered up the quilt, tossed it into the sink, and turned on the cold water. “It can't make it any worse.”

When the fabric was thoroughly saturated she let the water out and lifted the soggy, dripping bundle onto the mesh frame. Between them they smoothed it out as best they could.

“It's a little better, but not much,” Kara said. “Well, we've done all we can. Let's get out of here.”

Someone, presumably a belated customer, was pounding on the front door, but Kara didn't even glance in that direction. “I'm going to shower and change. I'll bring Alexander downstairs with me, if that's all right with you. He gets lonely. And he hardly ever bites people more than once.”

When she returned carrying the woolly bundle, Rachel was feeding the dogs. Alexander looked even nastier than usual; one eye was visible, set in a glare as cold and malevolent as that of a crocodile, and when he saw the dogs he started squirming and wheezing.

“I'll take him out,” Kara said. “Then when I bring him in, you let the dogs out.”

“They wouldn't attack him, would they?” Rachel held the door for her.

“No. He attacks them.”

“But he hasn't got any teeth!”

“It's moral intimidation,” Kara explained, rather proudly. “They cower and whine and try to climb in people's laps.”

Rachel was inclined to sympathize with the dogs. Probably they didn't know what to make of Alexander; he didn't look or behave like any creature they had ever beheld.

The canine exchange was made without difficulty, and after the dogs had had their run Rachel shut them in the pantry. The cats had sensibly retreated to the tops of various articles of furniture, leaving Alexander in sole possession. Staggering purposefully around the room, he completed the survey of his temporary domain before collapsing onto the rag at Kara's feet.

She had the photographs spread out on the coffee table and was arranging them in order. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” Rachel asked.

“No, I'd like a drink. But I'll have coffee. Did you look at these?”

“Not closely.”

“There's a magnifying glass in the drawer. Get it.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Finally Kara leaned back. “Well?”

“It's worse than I thought.” Rachel put down the magni
fying glass and replaced the photo she had been examining—a charming pink Cupid with feathery wings and a head of curls that almost hid the pointed horns. “There's something wrong with every one of them, isn't there?”

“Uh-huh. Maybe it's just as well Mrs. Wilson wrecked the quilt. I couldn't sell it in good conscience. Not to a bride, certainly.”

“It is a bride's quilt, isn't it?”

“Has to be. Which raises an interesting question. Who was the bride?”

“I thought of that too.” Rachel saw Kara stiffen, and smiled reassuringly. “No, I'm not getting psychic flashes. It's just common sense and familiarity with the field. According to Miss Ora, all three quilts were made by her ancestress. But brides didn't make these quilts for themselves. They were joint projects; each square was made by a different friend or relative. But in this case the blocks all appear to be the work of a single person. Mary Elizabeth was a remarkably gifted seamstress, so she might have made an entire quilt for a close friend, but if so, why didn't she give it to her?”