Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series

Cover

Tempest’s Course

Other books in the Quilts of Love Series

Beyond the Storm

Carolyn Zane

A Wild Goose Chase Christmas

Jennifer AlLee

Path of Freedom

Jennifer Hudson Taylor

For Love of Eli

Loree Lough

Threads of Hope

Christa Allan

A Healing Heart

Angela Breidenbach

A Heartbeat Away

S. Dionne Moore

Pieces of the Heart

Bonnie S. Calhoun

Pattern for Romance

Carla Olson Gade

Raw Edges

Sandra D. Bricker

The Christmas Quilt

Vannetta Chapman

Aloha Rose

Lisa Carter

Scraps of Evidence

Barbara Cameron

A Sky Without Stars

Linda S. Clare

Maybelle in Stitches

Joyce Magnin

A Promise in Pieces

Emily Wierenga

A Stitch and a Prayer

Eva Gibson

Rival Hearts

Tara Randel

A Grand Design

Amber Stockton

Hidden in the Stars

Robin Caroll

Quilted by Christmas

Jodie Bailey

Swept Away

Laura V. Hilton & Cindy Loven

Masterpiece Marriage

Gina Wellborn

A Stitch in Crime

Cathy Elliott

Tempest’s Course

Quilts of Love Series

Lynette Sowell

Tempest’s Course

Copyright © 2013 by Lynette Sowell

ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-7813-1

Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com

Published in association with the MacGregor Literary Agency.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website,or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital,electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Scripture quotations noted CEB are taken from the Common English Bible. Copyright © 2011 by the Common English Bible. Used by permission. All rights reserved. www.CommonEnglishBible.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Printed in the United States of America

For C.J., who always makes me feel like I’ve just come home. Thanks for letting me drag you around New Bedford’s cobblestone streets in December when it was only thirty degrees outside.

Acknowledgments

With many thanks to Camille Breeze and her crew at
Museum Textile Services of Andover, Massachusetts. You wel
comed me to your studio, let me pick your brain about textile conservation, taught me about the different personalities of con
servators, and offered me many resources to help my heroine deal with a 150-year-old quilt. Any omissions or inaccuracies
are entirely my own.

I am grateful for the help of the staff at the New Bedford Whaling National Historical Park for answering my questions and letting me peek at the world of a whaling captain’s family, as well as the New Bedford that once was.

To the staff of the Rotch-Jones-Duff House on famous County Street in New Bedford, thank you for letting us feel like we had the run of the place when we visited. I felt like I’d truly discovered the inside of Gray House.

Lastly, kudos to Destination Soups of New Bedford for making a “wicked” clam chowder that warmed us up on a very chilly research day.

God settles the lonely in their homes;

he sets prisoners free with happiness,

but the rebellious dwell in a parched land.

—Psalm 68:6

Prologue

April 1853

New Bedford, Massachusetts

T
hey say a madwoman cannot make sense of the world around her, let alone write about it, but I can. My empty arms are now full, but my heart tells me that it will never be full again. The one light of my life is gone from me, and I have no embers from which to coax a new spark.

My atonement is futile. I have no other choice than the one before me. If Almighty God is listening from Heaven, surely He will accept this sacrifice. Perhaps the generations to follow will as well.

1

Present Day

K
elly Frost tried not to shiver as she stood on the sidewalk in front of Gray House, but she did anyway. The breeze drifting from New Bedford’s waterfront had some bite in it, even for May. Kelly squinted against the sun’s glare reflecting off a car door, now slammed shut.

An efficient-looking woman made her way with precise steps to the gate that protected the front lawn of Gray House from nosy passersby and visitors. “Sorry I’m late. I would have told you to meet me at the real estate office, but the house is closer.” She unlocked the gate and swung it open. The ironwork complained at the disturbance.

“Not a problem,” Kelly said as she followed the woman—Mrs. Acres, was it?—up the cobbled sidewalk, then the wooden steps.

“I’ve been instructed to open the house for you while you complete your assessment of the piece, then lock up when you’re ready to go.” Mrs. Acres now worked the front door lock with an ancient key. “How long do you think you’ll need?”

“An hour, most likely.” She’d made assessments of antique and ancient textiles before, and this current request should be little different from other times in the past.

“I’ll be back in two. Mincie’s at the groomers, and she’ll be done before you will be.” Mrs. Acres leaned on the front door, then bumped it with her shoulder. “Stubborn door. I can’t tell you the last time we opened the place up.”

The heavy wooden door swung inward, and the scent of closed-up house—stale air and dust—struck them. Something tickled the inside of Kelly’s nose, but it was Mrs. Acres who sneezed.

“Oh my, the dust.” Mrs. Acres shook her head. “Do you know where the quilt is?”

Kelly nodded. “I was told the quilt should be in the master bedroom on the second floor. The one with the Italian marble fireplace.” She hoped the lady wouldn’t start a long conversation. Small talk made her itch, like freshly mown grass. She shifted her tote bag on her shoulder.

“Two hours, and I’ll be back.” Mrs. Acres turned on her heel, then paused before she exited the house. “Don’t steal the silver. We count it.” With that, she gave a little giggle and shut the front door behind her.

The entryway alone made Kelly stare. What woodwork. The curved banister of the great main staircase snaked upward to the second floor. As she stood in the entryway, she could see down a long hallway with rooms off each side. Immediately to her right stood a set of wooden pocket doors. Her curious bent made her want to start walking, room by room, to see what treasures lay inside. Or dust magnets, rather. Now it was her turn to sneeze.

Instead, thoughts of her skinny bank account spurred her to take the creaking stairs to the second floor and find the master bedroom. Depending on the work required to restore the quilt, she hoped to at least pay the bills for the rest of the year. Beyond that, well, she’d figure something out. She always did, because she’d always had to.

The wood of the banister was cool and smooth under her fingertips. Again, the history hanging in the air made her pause at the top of the steps. The house supposedly hadn’t had a resident in at least fifty years, perhaps longer. Or so Mrs. Acres had guessed. Kelly stepped from room to room, to see which one had the marble fireplace. Furniture draped in heavy cloth would probably resemble ghosts at night, with moonbeams streaming through the window glass. Even in the daytime, her overactive imagination caused another shiver, this one not from a cool breeze. Which room? She’d counted no less than four chimneys sprouting from the rooftop when she stood outside. That meant at least eight fireplaces, possibly more.

Master bedroom. There were two bedrooms that could have qualified. She found the right room, with its dark mahogany furniture uncovered, a folded-up piece of cream-colored cloth on the bed. The quilt.

Kelly set her tote bag on the bed and took out some gloves. As if the oil from her fingertips would cause any more damage to this poor, tattered, sewn mass of patches. Dirt, the age of years, and what looked to be singes from a fire—all qualified this work for the rag bag. Yet someone, namely the head of Firstborn Holdings, LLC, had sent her a request for a bid to restore the neglected and abused fabric.

“All you need is a little love and careful handling,” she said aloud, her voice echoing in the room. The folded-up layers of fabric needed to be inspected, inch by inch, which meant Kelly needed to find a place to spread out the quilt. Somewhere with better lighting than the bedroom. One of the inner shutters that covered the windowpanes effectively blocked out the sunlight, but even with both shutters open, the light wouldn’t nearly be enough.

She should have ventured enough small talk to ask Mrs. Acres if the electricity was connected in the vacant whaling captain’s mansion. She tried a light switch. Nothing. Downstairs there was likely a dining room and a table, with better natural light. Kelly refolded the quilt, then grabbed her tote bag and headed downstairs.

Time to see what was behind those double pocket doors. With the quilt tucked under one elbow, Kelly tugged on the right door. It groaned and complained as it slid on its track but disappeared as it entered the pocket in the wall. A living room, with more furniture draped with sheets, covered by a room-size wool carpet, Persian if she was correct on the pattern. Now
that
was something worth restoring. But then she’d need a studio to do that, and staff willing to help her. The woven pattern was the height of interior decoration at its time, its Middle Eastern influences apparent. Had the owner of the house purchased it on one of his expeditions, or traded for it in some exotic port of call?

Diagonally across the room lay another set of pocket doors, so Kelly headed for those, and slid one of them open. Pay dirt.

A mahogany dining room table ran the length of the space and could comfortably sit sixteen diners. Its flat surface would be ideal to inspect the quilt, and a quartet of windows would give plenty of light. Kelly arranged the quilt on the table before she opened the shutters to let some sunlight into the room, taking care not to let the light fall directly onto the old fabric waiting for her on the table.

She removed her notebook and pen from her tote bag, along with a measuring tape. Yes, this was the first real nibble of work she’d had since the disaster with the Boston Fine Arts Museum. Maybe if she got this bid, the owner might want the other textiles in the home seen to as well. Maybe she could scrounge up a few interns to help her for free, if they’d be brave enough to put her name on their résumé.

The frayed binding told her that the quilt was mere stitches away from disintegrating. When she stepped back and looked at the whole design, she saw the classic Mariner’s Compass pattern. The design made her smile. How appropriate for New Bedford. Gray House was situated on County Street, close to the historic district of the former whaling capital of the world. The rays of five compasses spread out from five points on the quilt’s field. The muted hues of the diamond-shaped blocks that made the compass patterns told her that someone had used this quilt quite a lot in its day.

She took out her telephone and punched in the number for the contact she had at Firstborn Holdings, a Mr. William Chandler. A voice mail message answered.

“Mr. Chandler, this is Kelly Frost of Frost Textile Services. I’m at Gray House in New Bedford and I’m looking at the quilt. I need to know more information about it, if you could find out for me. Where was it stored? Has anyone else ever worked on it? Please call me back when you have a few moments and I’ll give you all my questions.”

She set down her phone and continued inspecting the piece. One edge of the quilt, the one frayed and pulling away from the binding, had an uneven edge. Burn marks. Had someone tried to burn it once? The batting had all but disintegrated.

Maybe she didn’t need to know the entire history of the quilt, but if some “helpful” person had tried gluing it or using the wrong thread to hold it together, she needed to know that. She continued assessing the quilt and making notes, along with taking digital photographs that she could refer to later. From there she’d tally the sum of her restoration services and give William Chandler and his cohorts an estimate of services.

She pulled out her camera and photographed the quilt section by section, zooming in on some particularly troubled areas. If someone saw this rumpled up cloth in a pile, it would appear ready for the ragbag.

A shadow passed by one of the windows. Kelly jumped. No one could enter the yard except through the iron gate, or unless they hopped the wall-like fence of bricks almost five feet tall that surrounded the property. Or could they indeed hop the fence? She set down her pen.

Then a man’s face appeared in the next window. Dark eyes with furrowed dark brows, topped by unruly hair. Kelly bit back a scream. The face disappeared. Another one entered her mind’s eye.

Kelly Frost, you good-for-nothing piece of trash. Get your hind end out of the house and into the garage.

She clutched at her throat as she struggled to breathe. She hated being jumpy. Her former staff of workers knew better than to sneak up behind her as she worked. No one ever dared to hide behind doors or jumped out and said “boo.” That resulted in spilled coffee.

Kelly snatched up her phone. Should she dial 911? Or was that too drastic? Mrs. Acres? She would know if someone had access to the grounds. The front door banged open. The phone slipped from Kelly’s fingers and hit the woven rug with a thump.

Tom Pereira winced as the front door struck the chair rail in the entryway. He hadn’t intended the large bang that followed. Well, maybe he had. If there was some punk in this house squatting, Tom could deal with them. Unless they were armed. He hadn’t thought about that before charging into Gray House. His responsibility was the grounds and exterior, not the interior.

The place smelled like old people and dust, and Tom tried not to cough.

“Whatever you’re doing in here, I can have the boys of New Bedford on the doorstep this side of three minutes,” he called out. Okay, so that was probably an overstatement on his part. “So get out here and tell me what’s going on.”

One of the pocket doors to the front parlor was open. The sound of rustling fabric came from beyond. “Did you hear me? In case you didn’t know, I push one button and the cops are here.”

He strode across a fancy, ancient rug and through another set of pocket doors and stopped in the doorway separating the parlor from the dining room.

A figure with hair the color of pale sunlight with golden undertones stood beside the immense dining room table. “Same here, whoever you are.” She held a cell phone in one hand, her thumb at the ready. Her glare could freeze the harbor water.

“How’d you get in here?”

“Just like you. Through the front door.” The young woman stuck her chin out. “I have business here. Mrs. Acres at the property management office let me in.”

Tom backed off. No one had told him someone was going to access the house today. But then, they didn’t have to. He was only maintenance and groundskeeping, exterior of the building issues only. “All right, then. What kind of business?”

“Why is it your business to find out mine?” Her gaze didn’t flinch from meeting his eyes.

He stepped forward, extending his hand. “We’re starting off all wrong here. I’m Tom Pereira. I work for the owner of the house. Lawn work, landscaping, the greenhouses, outdoor maintenance. I saw someone inside, didn’t know you were coming. Mrs. Acres didn’t mention it.”

She set her phone down on the dining table. “Kelly Frost.” They shook hands. Her fingertips had calluses. Tom glanced down at her slim hands. “Frost Textile Services. I’ve been invited to make a bid on restoring this quilt, sewn by Captain Gray’s wife. Mrs. Acres brought me here so I can inspect the quilt on-site and then write up my recommendations.”

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You didn’t scare me.” But her posture when he entered the room told him she was lying. She blinked at him, her icy expression thawing a few degrees.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your work. I’ll be outside if you need anything.” He retreated toward the open pocket doors, trying not to clomp his work boots on the parquet floor.

“Thanks.” She turned her attention back to the fabric spread across the dining room table. Tom watched her long enough to see her right hand tremble as she reached for the old fabric. She clenched her hand into a fist.

Back outside in the sunshine, Tom took a deep breath. The longer he worked at Gray House, the more questions he had about its absent owner. When a guy needed work and the perfect job opening came up, he didn’t ask questions. Snow plowing the driveway and clearing the sidewalks and roof during the winter had turned into repairing holes in the stone walls surrounding the historic property, then fixing the leak in the koi pond in the backyard. All this attention, for a house no one lived in or used, that he knew of.

But then, Tom didn’t care, really, as long as his money was deposited the first of each month into his account. The job was an answer to prayers that he’d bombarded heaven with ever since his discharge from the military. No crowds, no office politics. Just a chance to get his hands dirty and get paid for it.