Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series (14 page)

It certainly wasn’t boding well for his own personal wallet. After all these years, after all he’d done, his own future was changing faster than his stock portfolio, which had taken a hit in the last few years.

The old man had better come through in the end. Otherwise, he didn’t know what he was going to do.

14

Y
ou have certainly had your work cut out for you, no pun intended,” said Megan Hughes as she studied the quilt, spread out on the tables in the ballroom.

Kelly nodded. “Because of the damage and neglect over the years, and the natural process of aging, it’s been quite a job. So far I’ve completed repairs on three of the five compasses, as much as I can. I have two stars to complete, then the background, and I’m going to attach a new binding to the edges.” She frowned. There was really nothing else she could do for the piece, but it irked her to have to add so much new to the old.

“So how long have you been working in this business?”

“Not counting my undergraduate internships, I’ve been full time for nearly seven years.”

“And you’ve worked for some familiar names? The Boston Fine Arts Museum, for starters.”

Kelly nodded and tried not to flinch. “Yes, there was a two-year project we wrapped up about six months ago.”

“Now, when did you receive notice about the job here at Gray House?” Megan’s pen scribbled furiously on a notepad.

“It was in May, and that’s when I first came out here to see the quilt.” It seemed like years ago, and not mere months.

A knock sounded at the front door. Megan stopped writing long enough to glance at her phone. “I’ll bet that’s Mr. Plummer from the company. He’s going to give a tour of the house.”

Kelly nodded, for the first time in weeks feeling like an outsider here. She’d grown accustomed to the house’s noises and knew the halls well enough to go through them in the dark—not that she’d try it. Having the new security system helped her peace of mind, too.

Kelly was the one to get the door. She opened it to see an old man, propped up against a rolling walker. A young woman stood behind him, looking efficient yet ready to hover over him if needed.

“Mr. Plummer?”

He nodded. “Ms. Frost. May I come in?”

“Of course. Come in. The reporter is in the ballroom already and I’ve been showing her the quilt.”

With a heave of the walker and a grunt, Mr. Plummer waved off both Kelly’s assistance and that of his official assistant, nurse, or whoever she was.

“Tara, you can wait here in the front sitting room.” Mr. Plummer waved her toward the front room.

“But, Mister—”

“No ‘but Mister.’ Ms. Frost looks strong enough to catch me if I start to topple over.” His words had a bite to them, but Kelly caught a glimmer in the old man’s eyes.

“Of course.” Tara the assistant skittered into the sitting room.

“Now, show me the way, and show me what you’ve been doing with my quilt.”

“Your quilt?”

“Yes, I’m the CEO of Firstborn Holdings. Jonas Plummer.”

She froze. CEO? “Nice to meet you.”

“Don’t lie, young lady. I’m sure you don’t think it’s very nice to meet me and you probably have dozens of questions to ask me.”

At that, she did laugh. “I wasn’t lying, just being polite. And you’re right, I do have some questions for you.” This man was a switch from Mr. Chandler, a good switch.

He leaned on his rolling walker, stopping every so often. “Phew. This walk didn’t seem so long eighty-five years ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“I grew up here, in Gray House. Lived here until, well, that doesn’t matter so much.” He paused, wheezing. “One moment, please.”

He’d grown up here? Kelly tried to guess at his age. “What about the rest of your family?”

“Had a sister, who had a son. I married once, had a daughter. My wife died too young, when our daughter was barely a teenager. Something died inside me, too.” He rolled along a few more feet, then paused again. “I’m one hundred two years old.”

She’d never met anyone that old before. He was right, too. She brimmed with questions, but held herself back. She’d learn some answers when he spoke to the reporter, or so she hoped.

“We used to slide on the carpets that lined this hall, Tildie and me.” Mr. Plummer continued on his way. “The banister also had plenty of polish, us sliding down when no one was looking.”

“I—I like this old place.” She almost blurted out about Mary Gray’s diary, but didn’t want that topic to trail into the interview. It felt almost like betraying a confidence.

“Has it shared any of its secrets with you?” He halted again, this time staring at her, his dark blue eyes watery yet probing.

“As a matter of fact, it has.” She could tell him that much. “The first day I moved in.”

“Ah, she has a lot of secrets. Happy ones, sad ones.” Mr. Plummer sighed as they continued down the hallway. “I used to spend hours in the lookout at the top of the house. A great hiding place from nosy people. It was where I proposed to my sweetheart.”

“I’m glad this house has had some happy memories,” Kelly said. “It’s had plenty of sad ones.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Kelly glanced toward the ballroom. “I . . . I found Mary Gray’s diary.”

“Mary Gray’s diary?” His voice rang out, louder than she expected. She tried not to cringe.

“Yes, I’ve been reading it.” Which would probably stop, now that he was here.

“She was my great-grandmother.” Mr. Plummer shook his head. “You would probably do well to not read it. She went insane not long after my grandfather was born.”

“Insane?” The hair on Kelly’s forearms prickled. Hiram Junior, little Hiram, was Mr. Plummer’s grandfather? If Mr. Plummer was ninety-five now . . . she clicked back with the math. Hiram could have been sixty-one when Mr. Plummer was born.

“Best not talk about it now, not with the reporter here.” Mr. Plummer tightened his grip on the rolling walker and continued his shuffle. “One thing I’ve learned, you don’t have to share everything you know. Not until the right time, anyway.”

“I see.” She moved ahead of him to open the pocket door to the ballroom a little wider.

“Are you sure you see? I’ll share this with you.” He glanced toward Megan, who was typing on her phone, then back at Kelly. “Come closer.”

She took a step so the rolling walker was the only thing between her and the elderly man, then leaned her head toward his.

“I know your secret, too,” he whispered.

Kelly snapped upright, then forced herself to be still.

“You must be Mr. Plummer,” Megan was saying as she crossed the ballroom, her right hand extended. “Thank you for coming today.”

Somehow, Kelly found her way to the edge of the table closest to her. The quilt lay there, as if waiting for her to sit down and work on it.

I know your secret, too.
What could he mean by that? He knew about Peyton and the museum disaster that nearly tanked her career? She couldn’t think of anything else she’d like to bury about herself. Lots of people had families who were losers. They usually didn’t end up in foster care, but it seemed most families had elements of dysfunction. So it couldn’t be that.

She wanted to talk to Tom, but he’d been scarce lately, especially after the night at the waterfront. They’d inched closer to each other, literally and figuratively speaking, and the quick kiss had been an impulse of the moment that had paid her back with a few sleepless nights. But now she wanted nothing more than to talk to him about the odd Mr. Plummer.

The old man even now was making a sweep around the room with his rolling walker, Megan nodding and taking notes in his wake.

“Ah, the parties we would have here. One time, I even rode my horse through the room. There are double doors, or were, that opened onto a patio that overlooks the gardens.” At that comment, Kelly fixed her attention back on Mr. Plummer.

“Which is why I hired someone to get the grounds back in shape. This is a big place that needs lots of nurturing, or TLC as the younger ones would say.”

“Do you want to talk to Ms. Frost about the quilt before we leave the room?”

“Of course I do.” He shuffled back in Kelly’s direction, who braced herself.

“Look at this. Look at what you’ve done.” Mr. Plummer was shaking his head. “I can see it from when I was a youngster. Never could get rid of the smoke smell. When I was little, my mother tried to clean it, but stopped because it started falling apart.”

“It’s quite fragile,” Kelly agreed. “I’ve hesitated to do too much to it because I don’t want to weaken it further. I’ve used vintage fabrics to replace some of the missing or frayed compass pieces. Not an ideal fix, but it works, I think.”

“When the house opens officially, I want this to be on display on one of the beds. Perhaps the guest bed. Or the lady’s bedroom.” Mr. Plummer tapped the table. “Ms. Frost, you have done excellent work, and I will be happy to refer you to anyplace you’d like to go. Except, maybe there are other pieces in this house that could use your touch? Time is of the essence, as they say.”

“I’m . . . I’m sure there are.” Her mind flew back to the woven carpet in the drawing room.

“We can talk another time about future projects. But soon, soon.”

She nodded and watched as the two of them left the ballroom. A chance to stay here, if she wanted? Maybe she could get her own apartment or studio, if Plummer would relax the on-site requirement. The man certainly seemed more approachable than Mr. Chandler.

Kelly went to the nearest window that overlooked the gardens. They flourished, the lawn a striking shade of emerald with Tom’s care. Despite his reluctant gardener status, he was a natural.

She squinted out at the sunlit grounds. Was he there today? Surely he must be, with the reporter visiting. Megan also took her own photos as well. Kelly forced herself to stand naturally instead of freezing up in front of the camera.

Again, Mr. Plummer’s words came back.
I know your secret, too.

Free at last! Tom felt the wind rush past him on his motorcycle. MRI—scheduled early—clear. Neurologist gave him the news yesterday, and adjusted his medications.
Thank you, God. Thank you.

His bank account was aided by the check that Dave Winthrop had given him after finishing the flooring and tile job at the townhouse. He would take the positive approach and count his blessings, one by one.

This was one of the few times since waking up in a hospital in Kuwait that he’d felt that glimmer of hope. He was on track again, even if he wasn’t exactly sure where the track was taking him. Pop and the whole genealogy records from Winthrop helped too. Sometimes looking back helped nudge you forward, even just a little.

And the other night, jazz at the waterfront with Kelly. Nights like that he’d like to record so he could watch over and over. He and Kelly had both let some of their guard down and realized they’d found common ground between them.

Her project was more than two-thirds complete, and after that, there was nothing to tie her to New Bedford. Part of him wanted to ask her to stay, to see what else happened between them. Whatever it was, it was brand-new, sweet as the simple kiss she’d given him.

But part of him still held back. Self-preservation had taught him to be careful. Maybe it was part of his suspicious nature that he still had to deal with, or maybe there was something to it. Chandler had asked him to keep an eye on Kelly. Tom thought it ludicrous, but still.

What if there was something about Kelly he’d rather not know, that he’d discover? She knew most of his dirty laundry, thanks to his family’s intervention in their friendship that had morphed into . . . well, he wasn’t sure what.

Tom shoved thoughts of Kelly aside for the moment as he zipped along the streets in the direction of County Street and its rows of nineteenth-century homes. Owning something like that was out of his budget, but he did know one day he wanted to own something with history, something he could fix up and customize yet keep some of the original character.

One day this, one day that. He pulled into the rear entrance to the Gray House property after passing a pair of vehicles parked out front at the curb. Visitors?

Then he wanted to slap his forehead after parking his motorcycle. The reporter. Plus someone from Firstborn Holdings. Not Chandler this time, who’d contacted Tom about the interview date. He didn’t sound too happy about the event, but nothing that uptight lawyer could do about it.

This all meant he needed to be prepared to show off the grounds. The automatic sprinklers he’d installed had left sparkling water drops across the lawn. Nice touch. The rosebushes were clipped a tad short, but there had been years of old dead growth left on them. The greenhouse was full of herbs and vegetables, with a few orchids he was coaxing to grow.

He’d signed up for a class at the community college, a local horticulture class, that would start sometime in late August. He wanted to learn more. There was little to risk by taking the non-credit class, but everything to gain.

He parked the motorcycle and removed his helmet. The back door opened and an unfamiliar woman emerged first. She turned to help an elderly man across the covered porch, then down the wide steps. Kelly followed, carrying a rolling walker.

Weak in body, the man rolled his way across to the motorcycle. “Jonas Plummer. You must be Thomas Pereira.”

“I am.” He shot Kelly a questioning look, and she nodded.

“I’m CEO of Firstborn Holdings, and I’m taking these pretty ladies on a tour of my home.”