Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series (7 page)

“There’s Lottie, my last foster mother, and her husband, Chuck. I fostered out of their care after I graduated high school, but I kept in touch with her.” She should have called Lottie again, she realized, since her arrival in New Bedford.

“Ah, I see.” Mrs. Pereira patted her hand. “If you ever need anything, call me.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

They fell into silence, but it didn’t feel as if she waited with a stranger. The sensation was a nice one. An open invitation to call the woman. Well, she wouldn’t if she didn’t have to. One lesson learned over the years: counting on people didn’t work very well. She had her own motto of sorts. If it was just her and God, she’d manage okay because He was watching out for her.

The buzz of the waiting room surrounded them, and Kelly watched Mrs. Pereira’s chin sink lower toward her chest. She settled back on her own chair. She could leave now, knowing that Tom had a ride home once he was through. She could check on the quilt and see if it was dry yet. It probably was. But if Mrs. Pereira woke, Kelly didn’t want to leave her alone.

At last Tom emerged from behind one of the large double doors that led back to the treatment rooms. Kelly sat up straight and gently tapped Mrs. Pereira’s arm. “Tom’s done.”

He scanned the room, then caught sight of them and nodded. “I’m fine. They wanted to do an MRI, but I said no.”

“Oh, Tommy . . . ,” Mrs. Pereira said as she rose. “Couldn’t you have waited?”

“No, I’m feeling better now, and they told me I need to see my VA doc. So I will.” He gave his mother a hug. “You didn’t need to come. How’d you know?” He released his mother and shot a look at Kelly.

“Uh, Mrs. Acres,” Kelly said. “She gave me your emergency contact information. I . . . I hope you didn’t mind.”

Tom paused. He glanced from his mother, to Kelly, then back to his mother again. “No. And thanks.”

“So, you’ll both come for supper tonight?” Mrs. Pereira looked at both of them.

“Well, I . . . ,” Kelly began.

“I don’t know . . . ,” Tom said.

“Kelly is new in town. The least we can do is show her some kindness, especially since she took such good care of you today. Imagine if you’d been alone.” Mrs. Pereira looped her arm through her son’s, then tugged Kelly closer with her other hand.

“It wasn’t anything, really,” Kelly said.

“But it was.” Mrs. Pereira nodded.

“Ma, don’t worry about it. Kelly’s pretty busy . . .”

“Humor me. Your niece and nephew are at the house. They’re staying for a couple of days of spoiling.” Mrs. Pereira plucked Tom’s arm. “We might have a dominoes tournament, playing to one hundred. Winner does dishes.”

“All right, I’ll be there.” Tom smiled. “She’s pretty insistent.” He glanced at Kelly.

“You’re still coming for supper, young lady.” Mrs. Pereira nodded.

“All right, then. I . . . I’ll see you tonight.”

7

T
om kept quiet all the way back to Gray House, and thankfully Kelly respected his silence. She’d retreated into her own thoughts as well, it seemed.

He glanced down at the discharge papers on his lap. No driving until seen by his neurologist. Did that mean no motorcycle, either? Technically riding a motorcycle wasn’t driving. The ER doc hadn’t seen the humor in his challenge, though.

Maybe Kelly coming for supper wasn’t a bad idea. They would focus on her instead of asking him the same questions here and there. He could minimize the focus on his seizure today.

He thought ahead to the follow-up visit with the neurologist. It was bad enough that the ER doctor had said no driving until his appointment in a week. He only hoped the neurologist didn’t bar him from driving for a longer period of time. Of course, he understood the need for safety and all that. He didn’t want to endanger anyone because of his stubbornness.

Kelly pulled into the driveway at Gray House and turned off the engine. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she said, “Your mother is very sweet.”

He nodded. “She’s the best. She really is.”

“I’m sorry if I overstepped today, but I didn’t know . . .”

“Of course you didn’t, and that’s okay.” The faint traces of a headache pricked his temples. “I guess you should know about the seizures. Did my mother tell you anything?”

“Just that you’d had an injury while in the military.”

He sighed and looked across at the lawn, the rosebushes, and the knocked-over box of rose food where he’d collapsed earlier. “Yes, it was an accident. I had a hematoma on my brain after a fall from the back of a tall truck. That plus some fractures in my back gave me a medical discharge from the Army. I’ve been home about a year now, trying to get life figured out. I . . . I’m a Christian, but sometimes God feels pretty far away.”

He watched her nod slowly. Now that he’d spilled as much as he was going to for now, he’d let that bit of info sit with her.

“I’m sorry” was all she could manage at first. “I know how it feels, trying to get life figured out. I’m a Christian, too. One thing I’ve learned is that in the end, God is all I have.”

It was his turn to nod. “This is why I can’t go backwards. I’m getting things figured out, little by little. My pastor said something about me getting used to my new reality. This isn’t what I was looking for. I wanted to make a career out of serving my country.”

“I know what you mean. I never thought I’d end up here.” She exhaled sharply, her breath fluffing the ends of her hair that had escaped her ponytail and dangled as wisps in front of her eyes.

“Guess we’d better get back to work.”

“I guess so.” She looked at him and blinked. “I figure it won’t do much good to tell you to be careful.”

He gave her a rueful grin. “Probably not. But I’ll pace myself as long as you don’t call my mother again.”

“Deal,” she said, opening the driver’s side door. “Besides, I have too much to do this afternoon.”

He snapped to attention at her remark, then realized she was joking as she grinned at him.

Kelly sauntered into the house, flying on her little wave of orneriness. He was getting to her, and she needed to make herself quit. She refused to listen to that
something
she felt was calling out inside her when Tom admitted his life wasn’t going the direction he’d intended, through circumstances beyond his control. She always liked cheering for the underdog, the fighter, the one who looked at the world like they had something to prove.

Because the world could be cruel. So, so cruel. She carried her purse and keys up to the room she called hers. The house was massive and she didn’t feel comfortable leaving her purse and keys casually on the countertop or in the front hallway.

She glimpsed Mary Gray’s journal on the chest of drawers. Much as she’d love to sit for a while and puzzle out some of Mary’s fine script, she should return her attention to the quilt. Kelly entered the hallway and headed for the bathroom once belonging to Captain Gray.

The quilt lay where she left it, on its layer of towels. She touched the delicate fibers. Still damp. Perhaps she’d better transfer it to another set of towels. She laid another rectangle of dry towels on the floor, then tiptoed around the edge of the quilt. Lifting the corners slowly, she folded the cloth over itself in half, then half again. The backing had been white, or at least a shade of ecru. The burn marks showed up on this side of the quilt as well.

She laid the folded quilt on the layer of fresh towels, then kicked the soggy towels out of the way. Then she knelt beside the quilt and felt the folded layers again. She unfolded the quilt and ran her fingers across the surface.

This was it for the day. The poor quilt had seen enough trauma after being cast off for so long. Tomorrow the real work began. She needed to set up a workroom, likely in the drawing room downstairs.

Kelly left the quilt drying in the semi-darkened room and went to check her e-mail. Lottie had written, and Kelly’s conscience pinged her. She still hadn’t called Lottie back.

Dear Kelly,

I hope you arrived safely in New Bedford. If you need anything, let me know. Sewing supplies, anything. I know that you have traveled for your work before, but this feels different. Please call when you can. I hope to hear from you soon.

Love,

Lottie

P.S. Someone called yesterday, asking about your mother. I thought that was extremely odd.

So did she. Kelly bit her lip. Who would be asking about Frances Simmons Frost, dead and gone for sixteen years?

Kelly picked up her phone and called Lottie, who answered after the second ring.

“Kelly!”

“Hi, I got your message yesterday, and your e-mail. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

“Not to worry. I knew you would. So, tell me about the house. I bet it looks like a museum.”

“It does, sort of. One that hasn’t been taken care of for quite some time. I’m sure back in the day it was the best in New Bedford. Right now, it needs some TLC.”

“Maybe this will be the first of more jobs for you.”

“Now that would be amazing,” Kelly said. “Not to change the subject, but you said someone called, asking about my mother?”

“Yes. It was the strangest thing. I told them you’d been part of our family since you were twelve, and before that I wasn’t sure where you lived.”

Kelly shivered. “I don’t like the idea of someone hunting for information about me or my family. Such as it is. Or was.”

“Well, they didn’t say who they were, and I didn’t give them any more information than that.”

“Did they ask where I am now?”

“No, they didn’t. And don’t you worry. I won’t tell them where you are.”

“Thank you.” She almost brought up the issue of Peyton and the Boston Fine Arts Museum, but Lottie would know she was leaving out part of the whole painful story.

“Are you doing okay, dear?”

“Yes, I am. It’s good to hear from you.”

“I’m praying for you, Kelly. You find yourself a good church while you’re away.”

“Thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll try.”

They ended the call and Kelly set her phone down on the chest of drawers next to Mary Gray’s journal. Lottie knew her better than anyone.
Find yourself a good church
. Easier said than done, at least for her. And she’d told Lottie she would try. As far as the prayers were concerned, Kelly welcomed them.

Before the fidgets set in, Kelly decided to walk the house and clear a space in the drawing room to make a workshop. She’d told Mr. Chandler and Firstborn Holdings that she needed certain supplies that she couldn’t bring from Haverhill. They’d arrived and were tucked into a corner of the butler’s pantry, along with four six-foot folding tables.

She descended the stairs and entered the front sitting room that overlooked County Street. Too much light, not enough control over the ultraviolet rays that came through the glass, even covered with inner shutters. Exposure over time would harm the delicate fabric—not that it could be injured much more.

She moved past the dining room where she’d laid the quilt on the table that first day, and pulled open yet another set of wooden pocket doors. The opening doors echoed off an expanse of wooden floor. A ballroom. Not large by her imagination, but large enough for a dozen couples to make their way around the room, with a small platform in the corner for musicians.

The fireplace had to be marble, coal black with creamy white striations and veins running through it. Kelly had visited the mansions of Newport, Rhode Island, as an undergraduate student. This fireplace wasn’t nearly as grand, but for its time and for New Bedford, it was colossal.

Heavy curtains framed floor-to-ceiling windows. Kelly tugged on the thick fabric of one pair, and pulled the edges together. The level of light in the room decreased. She could work in this room just fine. The windows looked out on the side gardens, green with new growth, thanks to Tom’s hard work.

She resisted the urge to check up on him. He was a grown man. Yet, a grown man who’d suffered a head injury and had just had a seizure that morning. She squinted out the window to see if Tom was working among the rows of plants and shrubs, or in the greenhouse.

Kelly pried herself away from the windowpane, pulled the curtains back into place, and slipped the tiebacks around them. She already knew the main floor contained the kitchen, a parlor, a drawing room, a music room, a dining room, and a ballroom. The second floor held four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a study. She’d already seen the third floor with its servants’ quarters, and the lookout room that capped off the space of the house.

She ambled to the kitchen and pulled out the takeout leftovers. There went Tom, heading from the greenhouse and in the direction of the back door to Gray House.

He rapped on the door before he opened it. “I thought I’d get some water. It’s a little warm in that greenhouse.”

“Sure. I’ll get you a glass.”

“I can do it. Just point me in the direction of the right cabinet.”

“Bottom shelf, by the sink.” Kelly nodded toward the cabinet. “There’s ice in the freezer, bottled water in the fridge.”

His movements were smooth as he crossed the kitchen, denying any evidence of the seizure. She didn’t ask him how he felt because she already knew the answer.

“The gardens look good.”

Tom nodded. “There was a ton of overgrowth. I had to prune, a lot. It looks pretty decent now, but next year it’ll be back to its prior glory.”

“You sound like you’ll probably be around here by then.”

He pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and poured some into the glass, then plunked in a trio of ice cubes. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“The inside of this place is amazing. Some dust and polish, some TLC to the textiles, and it’ll be a showpiece again. I found a ballroom, and that’s where I’ll set up a workshop for the quilt.” She hesitated a moment. Tom glanced at her. “I also found Mary Gray’s journal.”

“Mary Gray?”

“Captain Hiram Gray’s wife. He’s the one who built this house.”

Tom nodded. “I’ve heard stories about him. He actually went to seminary, then left the preacher-hood, so to speak, and went to the ocean instead.”

“Huh.” Kelly thought for a moment. “A pretty righteous man, then. I started reading Mary’s journal. I’ve read at least one section where he hit her for speaking out of turn. But what else do you know about this place?”

“It was owned by the Grays until a fire sometime in the 1800s.” He took a swallow of water. “Now Firstborn Holdings owns it.”

“Too bad it didn’t stay in the family.”

“It happens to a lot of old places like this.” Tom shrugged. “Some families couldn’t keep up with the lifestyle after the whale oil industry died, so unless there was another moneymaker, the property would change hands and leave the family.”

Kelly nodded. “That’s sad.”

“That’s how it goes.” He paused for a moment. “Look, if you don’t really want to go to my family’s for supper tonight, that’s okay.”

“You sound like you don’t want me there.”

“I, uh . . .” His ears turned red. “No, it’s not that. My mother comes on a little strong.”

“You should thank God every day that you have a mother who loves you like that.” Kelly cleared her throat. “I need to check on something upstairs. Holler at me when you’re ready to go for supper and I’ll be ready.”

She left before he could say more. Tom Pereira was a blessed man. Maybe he knew it, maybe his mother’s concern bugged him a little. But for some reason, seeing Tom’s mother had reawakened the old ache. Frances Frost had taken her issues with her to the grave, but Kelly still wrestled with them sometimes, like now.

She scaled the stairs and entered her room, the lady’s room, and picked up Mary Gray’s journal once again. Maybe she could read some more about Gray House itself. Tom mentioned a fire at one point. She recalled the scent of smoke in the little boy’s closet. Could smoke smell linger that long?

Kelly situated herself in the side chair close to the window and opened the journal.

December 1850

I cradle an infant, much as Mary did in Bethlehem that first Christmas morn. What thoughts she must have had, looking upon the Savior, nestled in a manger. I share his mother’s name, but my child sleeps in a handcrafted cradle, made by one of the carpenters in town. My son. Nay, our son, Hiram, bears his father’s name. Only one letter since Hiram’s departure in March. I wrote him as soon as I thought it safe, while carrying a child. One must be careful in such matters, my mother told me once. Little Hiram shall likely be walking by the time his father returns.