Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series (3 page)

The old man’s chest rose and fell as a tube supplied life-sustaining oxygen to the figure lying on the bed. Earlier that day, the visiting physician had recommended that hospice come in and evaluate the old man for comfort measures.

“Do whatever you think is best to keep him comfortable,” he had said to the doctor. The old man protested, just once.

“Is she there, at the house?” the old man asked.

“She was. We’re expecting her bid at any time,” he replied. “If you’re sure she’s the one . . .”

“She is.” The two words held a bite that made him glance at the old man. “She is.”

“Say what you will, but my responsibility is to protect your interests.” His own words surprised him.

“My interests are not long for this earth.” The old man’s voice resumed its normal placid tone.

“You’ve said that for years.”

“I’ve had to. My interests are all I have left.”

3

K
elly clicked the send button on the e-mail and shot the bid for the quilt project into cyberspace. Either she would score the biggest job of her shaky career or she’d just committed career suicide. In her written report, she was honest about the damage to the quilt and what would be necessary to keep it from disintegrating further. She determined not to sell herself short, either, so as not to be accused of underbidding.

Her cell phone warbled. She glanced at the number and tried not to roll her eyes. Jonna Spivey, her rival, her nemesis. What now? “Jonna, hello.”

“Kelly. I heard you’re at the south shore right now.” Her voice sounded silken, smooth as cream. “I’m in Newport, Rhode Island.”

“Ah, right down the road. You’re working on a job, I take it.”

“Yes. Just landed a job that’ll keep me and my staff occupied through next year. A tapestry collection. You should see the faded threads and the polyester someone used to patch the wool. We’re scheduling transport of the first item to the workshop.”

Small talk, huh? Of course, there was more to the call today than keeping in touch. Jonna wasn’t a colleague who liked to “keep in touch.” Jonna was still probably blistering with anger over the last job she’d lost out to Kelly.

“So what are you up to this far south? Your studio hours away.”

Be wise as a serpent
. . . the phrase from the Bible came to her mind. “I’m checking out a prospect. I’m only in town for a few days.” She wanted to add,
You’re safe from me
, but thought better of it.

“I see. Well, do everyone a favor and don’t undercut the bid. Cheapest isn’t the best in our industry, but I suspect you know that.” The words nipped at her across the airwaves.

“Of course, cheapest isn’t the best. Look, I hope you enjoy that new contract of yours. I really need to go.”

“Bye, Kelly.” The phone went silent.

Kelly allowed herself a sigh. Textile conservators were a unique lot. There were the divas, the self-appointed authorities like Jonna Spivey who saw themselves as the queen bees of a small hive. Then there were the free spirits, like Kelly. They worked alone or in small groups, employing interns and graduate student volunteers, to help shepherd the next generation of conservators. Both had the same goal but had very different ways of reaching it.

Who was she kidding? Free spirit. Lone wolf was probably more accurate. If she got this job, she’d be paid handsomely for her work. Twenty grand would help a lot. But she’d have to do this one alone.

She quit ruminating and rose from the desk chair and went to the window. Instead of checking for new e-mail every five minutes, she ought to take a walk by the harbor. The ocean breeze and call of the gulls used to soothe her as a child. She’d been so busy lately that she hadn’t taken time at the waterfront. The Lord knew what He was doing by creating so much ocean. Probably He knew the world would need a lot of soothing.

Kelly was in her car and heading for the historic district and the harbor front before she reasoned herself out of it. Yes, maybe the free-spirit tag fit. She had no one to claim her time, no one to answer to except God above. She should be thankful.

She angled her car into an empty parking spot and watched as another car passed on the cobblestoned street. Nice, how New Bedford maintained the charm in its historic district. The city had a lot of history, though she had her rough edges. Kelly chuckled to herself and kicked a wayward shell on the pier. So did Haverhill, so did most cities with their mixture of good and evil.

Her phone buzzed. She almost jumped and dropped the phone. But it wasn’t a call. Instead, a calendar reminder set for twelve noon, May 5. Lottie’s birthday. Lottie was turning sixty today, Lottie who had given Kelly her first sewing machine when she was twelve and allowed her to sequester herself in the junk room of the five-bedroom house that brimmed with foster children. She owed Lottie so much more than sharing a slice of birthday cake with the sweet woman. A phone call wasn’t nearly enough.

The breeze cut through her jacket, so she made her way up a couple of blocks from the harbor. A few shops lined the street. A carved wooden sign swung above one storefront, Soup Nation. Someone opened the door, and a swirl of scents drifted onto the sidewalk.

Kelly’s stomach growled. She’d skipped breakfast while making the final touches on her bid that morning. She entered and inhaled the mouthwatering aroma. Someone had just pulled a loaf of bread from the oven, too.

She ordered half a grilled cheese panini and a bowl of the fresh tomato soup, then slid into an empty booth. The tiny restaurant enveloped her with its warmth as she sipped her soup and enjoyed the tang of the cheese sandwich. Lottie would greet her with a grilled cheese sandwich after school, once she and the posse of kids walked from the school bus.

Kelly lifted her soup as if in a silent toast, then set it on the table in front of her. A whoosh of air made her look up as the door opened.

The curly-haired grouch from the other day stood in the doorway. He stopped when their gazes collided. He nodded at her.

“Hey,” he said as he passed by on his way to the counter.

She returned his nod. Mrs. Acres had apologized all over herself the other day for not telling Kelly about Tom Pereira. Kelly said it wasn’t a bother, just a few tense moments. A few tense moments. Ah, she dealt with her own demons enough that she didn’t allow them to drift into the forefront of conversations. Playing poor alone-in-the-world Harry Potter never appealed to her, either.

“So, is it going to live?” Tom Pereira asked when he stopped by her table.

“Is what going to live?” She looked up at him and blinked.

“The quilt or whatever you were there to look at the other day.”

“Ah, the quilt. I hope so. I won’t know for sure, unless I get the bid.”

“Bid, huh? If you get the job, we’ll have the same boss.”

“Firstborn Holdings, LLC, and the elusive Mr. Chandler?” He’d not responded to any of her phone calls about the quilt, except for a terse e-mail requesting the bid before any discussion took place.

He nodded. Then he gestured to the other side of the booth. “Mind if I sit for a minute while I wait on my order?”

“Um, no. Go right ahead.” Although she’d planned to enjoy her lunch in silence, Tom would only be there a few moments. In better daylight, she realized he was younger than he’d seemed the other day, closer to her age. His eyes looked tired with tiny lines around the edges, but their warm brown tone looked guarded yet curious. He folded his callused hands on top of the table.

“I’m down here working on another job today. You won’t tell Mr. Chandler, will you?” A light entered his eyes.

“Of course not. I might not hear from him anyway. Besides, if there’s anything I’ve learned, sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, just to get the bills paid.” She shrugged and wiped her lips with a napkin.

“That’s so very true. So . . . what in the world does a textile conservator do, exactly?”

“We repair and restore old fabrics. I’ve worked on everything from vintage clothing to samplers to medieval tapestries. Most of the time, though, I spend time repairing backfired attempts to patch a piece together.” Ah, here she went, yammering about her job. His eyes weren’t quite glazing over, so she figured she’d quit while she was ahead.

“I see.”

Of course, he didn’t see. But that was fine by her. “So, how long have you worked for Mr. Chandler and company?”

“About six months. They needed someone to help with snow removal over the winter, and I needed the job.” His gaze drifted over her shoulder and in the direction of the counter. “My order’s up. Good talking to you.”

“Same here.” She turned her focus back to her cooling soup as Tom stood and headed for the counter. Handsome. A bit unpolished. Moody. Not her type at all. Yet, her type had left her heart with a gash that had taken far too long to heal.

Tom passed by her booth on his way from the counter, carrying a cardboard container stacked with sandwiches and covered cups of soup. He didn’t acknowledge her. If she got the job, she might see him again. If not, yet another stranger passing through her life.

God, if you’re listening . . .
She stopped her silent prayer. Ever since she’d come to New Bedford, a restlessness had bitten into her with slow nibbles. It had to be that today was Lottie’s birthday. That, or the fresh reminder that she was between jobs.

. . . I need something to change, but I don’t know what.
The sunlight streaming in the wall of windows warmed her, but she fought the shiver that wanted to come.

Her phone buzzed . . . William Chandler. Her pulse rate shot up into the stratosphere. “This is Kelly Frost.”

“Ms. Frost, William Chandler with Firstborn Holdings. The CEO has reviewed your bid and accepted it. The Gray House job is yours.”

“Thank you, thank you!” She tried to modulate her voice, but the words came out in a quaver.

“I’ve e-mailed you further details, but you may pick up your key from Mrs. Acres at the management company and move in on June one.”

“Move in?”

“Nothing is to be removed from the house. All work will be completed on site.”

She fought for the right words. He could yank the bid away from her if she flubbed her response. Nothing had been signed yet . . . but moving to New Bedford? Not that she had anything to tie her to Haverhill, but—

“Ms. Frost?”

“Yes. I’ll be looking for that e-mail.”

“You don’t have a problem working on-site?”

“I . . . I honestly hadn’t anticipated that. But, you’re sending more details in an e-mail?”

“Yes, including an agreement which must be signed and notarized and overnighted to our offices within seven days or you will forfeit the contract.”

“I understand. I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead. Moving to New Bedford, even temporarily for up to four months? How would she find a place to live that fit her skinny budget? But then Mr. Chandler had mentioned something about moving in? Moving
into
Gray House? The place was creepy, even in the daytime.

“You took long enough getting lunch,” Mac leaned on the pickup truck in front of the house they were roofing not two blocks from the café.

“Soup Nation, made to order. You wanted the chowder, and it wasn’t done yet.” Tom set the cardboard tray of food on the truck hood. “So here it is.”

“Well, we need to eat fast. Lenny’s going to be back in fifteen minutes, and we’ll finish this job today.” Mac grabbed the nearest container of fresh chowder and a plastic spoon. “Rain’s coming in tonight, so we’ve gotta get a move on.”

Tom nodded. “Thanks for calling me about this job. I’m ready anytime you need a hand.” He didn’t want to sound desperate, but if he could get in full time with a good contractor, maybe he could quit the Gray House job.

“That’s the thing . . . I was going to tell you later, but not when Lenny’s here. Might as well do it now.” Mac set his soup down on the truck and rubbed his forehead. “I hate to say it, but I won’t need your help after this job’s over, probably not for a while.”

“You won’t?” Tom tried not to show it, but shock jolted through him like electricity. Couldn’t a guy ever get a break?

“No, I’m cutting back on my helpers. I’ve got to cut costs somehow.” Mac put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “You’re the last one I hired.”

“I understand.” Sure, he understood Mac’s reasoning. But he didn’t like it one bit.

“Maybe if I can find a way to cut costs, I could ask you back. But I don’t see how.”

Tom nodded. He wanted to sling his sandwich into the street and just leave, go anywhere. But he’d done that before and burned at least one bridge to a final crisp.

“I’ll pay you your cut today, even though I haven’t seen the rest of my own payment.”

“Thanks.”
Thanks for nothing, for four weeks’ worth of jobs . . .

“You still have your other job, the outdoor caretaker?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I bet you’re getting a lot of experience with that one.”

“Here and there. Mostly landscaping right now.” And he wasn’t even the gardening type, either. But Chandler had told him to tend the roses while he was at it. “Not much of a green thumb, either.” He chuckled at the irony.

“Maybe God’s pushing you out of your comfort zone,”said Mac.

“Maybe.” If Mac knew anything about him, he considered comfort a friend who’d deserted him a long time ago.