Stitches in Time (14 page)

“Yes, but…You aren't going to find manure or any other gardening things this time of year.”

“Oh.” Adam looked chagrined. “Any suggestions?”

“You're on your own, buster.”

They had to circle the parking garage for twenty minutes before they found a space, and they wouldn't have gotten that one if Adam had not outbluffed two other drivers. One of them got out of his car, prepared to debate the case, but when Adam emerged and rose to his full height, his beard bristling, the combative gentleman beat a hasty retreat.

Otherwise Adam was the soul of courtesy, stopping to pick up a parcel a woman had dropped, holding the door for laden shoppers.

“I'll meet you here in an hour,” he said. “Right inside the door.”

“Make it an hour and a half.”

The stores were crowded, the clerks harried, and the merchandise limited, but carols blared from the loudspeakers and people were in a holiday mood, good-natured and smiling. Even the cheap decorations, the swags of plastic holly and gold tinsel, had a tacky, insouciant charm. After Rachel had dropped off her film she squared her shoulders and plunged into the crowd. She knew it wouldn't be easy to find appropriate gifts; the others were well-to-do people with excellent taste.

Except Adam. She rather enjoyed selecting gifts for him—a new pair of mittens, a heavy cap with ear flaps, a bright tartan muffler and, the pièce de résistance, a pair of socks with a smirking blonde female on one and a grinning Santa on the other, with a concealed tape that played “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” The presents she chose for the others were boring but safe—gloves, scarves, stationery.

When she returned to the photo shop the pictures weren't ready; she had to wait another fifteen minutes, and since she was already late she didn't examine them closely, only shuffled quickly through the pack to make sure they had come out. Hurrying to the door, she saw Adam waiting. His promptness surprised her a little; even more surprising was the fact that Adam the unsociable was deep in animated conversation with another man. Then the latter let out a booming laugh that rang out over the Christmas music, and she recognized Pat MacDougal.

“Look who I found,” Adam said happily.

“Wrong. He didn't find me, I found him—wild-eyed and aimlessly wandering.” He held out his hand. “Hello, Rachel. Somebody should have warned you not to go out in public with this—”

Rachel shifted her shopping bag to her left hand and offered her right. As he took it in his, he stopped speaking so suddenly that the last word ended in a gasp of expelled breath, and his grip tightened like a tourniquet. Rachel cried out.

He released her at once. “Sorry. Don't know my own strength.” He was smiling, but he had stepped back, a quick, involuntary movement, and his narrowed eyes, intent on her face, were cold and unsmiling.

Adam stared at Pat. “What's the matter?”

“What's the matter with what? Take him home, Rachel, he's becoming incoherent. See you both tomorrow.”

He moved quickly and rather clumsily, shouldering his way through the crowds of people, not looking back.

He knows. Watch out for him
.

The words sounded so distinctly Rachel glanced over her shoulder to see who had spoken. No one was looking at her or talking to her. Except Adam, and he was saying something quite different in quite a different tone of voice.

“Quick, let's get out of here before she sees me.”

“Who?” Rachel grabbed her shopping bag and let him tow her toward the exit.

“One of the Wiccas.” He let out a breath of relief when they reached the parking garage unaccosted. “I was at that meeting under what you might call false pretenses, and I'd just as soon not—”

“You used a false name?”

She meant it as a joke until she saw his sheepish expression. “One of them might have known who I was. As I told Tom, they're a well-informed lot, they read the literature, and—well, uh…”

“What would they do, curse you?”

“They don't do curses,” Adam said seriously. “They're very high-minded and pure. But it would have been
embarrassing. It was kind of a low-down trick.” He brightened. “She didn't notice me, though, so it's okay.”

Rachel looked up at him. Big, as a bear, covered with hair…“I don't see how she could have missed you.”

She unlocked the car; he had two shopping bags in each hand and a large lumpy parcel—could it be manure?—under one arm. A roll of gaudy green and red wrapping protruded from one of the bags.

Adam ignored this rude remark. “We need to find a liquor store,” he said cheerfully, tossing his purchases into the backseat. “I'm going to get Pat a bottle of whisky. Tonight we'll wrap presents and listen to carols and I'll make eggnog and chowder—”

“I'm going out.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right.” Adam started the wipers as snowflakes appeared on the windshield. “It's supposed to snow tonight. Maybe we'll have a blizzard and then you'll have to stay home.”

Home. A strange word for him to use; the Leesburg house was home to neither of them.

Snow began to fall heavily during the afternoon, but the weather was not responsible for the alteration of her plans. Tom called shortly before five to say he had to work.

“On Christmas Eve?” Rachel exclaimed.

“A policeman's lot. And,” Tom said, “the lot of a policeman's wife. Ask Cheryl. I'm sorry, Rachel.”

“It's not your fault. I hope it's nothing serious?”

“All in a day's work,” Tom said. There was a note in his voice that warned her not to pursue the subject. “Rain check?”

She reassured him, sympathized, and hung up to find Adam watching her.

“Well, you got your wish,” she said shortly.

“I admit I was thinking negative thoughts, but I don't know enough magic to implement them. What happened?”

“It must have been something grisly, he wouldn't tell me.”

She turned on the television. The story was the lead feature on the local news; murders always claim top spot. A liquor store hold-up gone awry, a semiautomatic rifle, a store full of holiday shoppers…

Adam reached the set in a single long stride and switched it off. “Not tonight,” he said.

“My God.” Rachel dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

“I said, not tonight. You can't do the victims, or Tom, any good by agonizing over them. Come here.” He lifted her, unresisting, out of the chair and led her to the door. The dogs took its opening as an invitation and rushed out; Adam drew her onto the porch and held her there, one arm around her. “Look.”

Falling snow made a lacy curtain against the dark. The ground was already covered and every twig was outlined in white. The dogs ran in delighted circles, rolling and kicking the soft covering into drifts. Bright against the dark and the snow, the lighted trees along the street shone scarlet and green, blue and golden yellow. Barely audible, on the farthest boundary of hearing, came faint sounds that might have been birdsong or the distant echo of music.

“It's so beautiful,” Rachel murmured. “So peaceful. And less than five miles away—”

“Cut it out.” His arm tightened, drawing her closer. It was a friendly, passionless embrace and she yielded to it, resting her head against his shoulder. “There's plenty of tragedy and sorrow out there. You've had your share and you'll have more, and so will I and a lot of other people. All the more reason to enjoy the good times.”

“You're quite the philosopher, aren't you?”

“I have many talents,” Adam said. “Want me to say some poetry?”

“‘The Night Before Christmas'?”

Expecting a joke or a flippant response, she was surprised to hear something quite different.

“‘Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes, Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm.'”

“That's lovely,” Rachel said.

“It's an incantation. Against the powers of darkness. Not witches and fairies, dark thoughts and nasty people.”

“Then…” Rachel had to stop and take a deep breath. “Then it's not working.”

“Huh?”

He saw it, and let out a faint scream. Pale against the night, enveloped in white from its shoulders to its feet, it glided slowly toward the gate. Long silvery hair floated out around its head, which was crowned with a wreath of dark leaves.

Adam recovered his breath. “Shades of Charlie Dickens! It's the Spirit of Christmas Past!”

“I didn't mean to do that,” Adam mumbled. “How did I do
that? A harmless snatch of poetry! If Shakespeare's not safe, who is?”

“Stop babbling.” She kicked him firmly but impersonally in the shin, as she would have kicked a malfunctioning machine.

Two other figures followed the first. They wore prosaic, practical coats, one of fuzzy faux fur, the other of padded blue down, over what appeared to be long robes. No spirits these, Rachel thought, ashamed of that moment of weakness. A magical moment though, in its way.

The dogs, belatedly aware of their responsibilities, rushed toward the fence, and the visitors stopped at a safe distance from the gate, huddling nervously together. The leader looked up. The light fell clearly and unflatteringly on features that were unquestionably female and on the red berries and dark green leaves on her head. Straightening the wreath, which had slipped over one eye, she raised her hand.

Rachel saw her lips move, but couldn't hear the words because of the racket the dogs were making. One of the
acolytes jumped back as Worth reared up on his hind legs, front paws on the fence, massive head thrust forward.

Adam had recovered himself. “Dogs in!” he bellowed.

The dogs loved company. They were reluctant to leave their newfound friends, but eventually Adam persuaded them onto the porch and the little group bravely advanced.

“Come in and close the door,” Rachel said out of the corner of her mouth.

“That would be rude.”

“Rude, schmude. You know who they are, don't you?”

“Uh-huh. The least I can do is listen to what they have to say.” He raised his voice. “Good evening, ladies and—uh.”

The Spirit of Christmas Past cleared her throat and tried again. “May Her blessing be upon you,” she intoned.

“Thank you,” Adam said politely.

“We come in love,” the woman went on.

An unconvincing murmur from the other two seconded the sentiment. Both had long dark hair and long while skirts, but Adam's uncertainty as to their gender was understandable. The leader had to be wearing several layers of woollies under her robe; she wasn't shivering, though her face was so red with cold that it rivaled the holly berries.

“May we enter this house?” She put her hand on the gate.

“No.”

The word came promptly and forcibly, not from Adam but from Rachel.

Seeing him that afternoon with Pat, one of the “witches” must have realized their new recruit was a spy and an unbeliever. They had tracked him down—followed him, perhaps—and now they had come to tell him what they thought of him—in the kindest possible terms, of course.
Adam was such a soft touch, he was already squirming and looking guilty. If she hadn't spoken up, Adam would have let them in, Rachel thought.

Once you invite them in they have power over you. They can't come in unless you let them
.

Adam was poking her and murmuring under his breath. One of the acolytes had fixed her with a glare that didn't look very loving. “I'm sorry,” Rachel said firmly. “But we're busy this evening. What do you want?”

She sensed that the leader was accustomed to such rebuffs. With a shrug, she launched into a speech. There were a number of references to the Goddess, to love, forgiveness, and the spirit of peace. The gist of it seemed to be that they had come to forgive Adam for the cruel trick he had played upon them, to return good for evil, and to assure him they would pray for him.

“That's nice,” Rachel said. “Good night and happy…whatever it is you celebrate.”

She shoved Adam back into the house and slammed the door.

“Did you have to be so rude?” he asked reproachfully.

“Yes. Have they gone?”

Adam peered out through the window. “They're holding hands and chanting. Or singing. It's freezing out there, shouldn't we at least offer them—”

“No! If they want to stand around and catch pneumonia that's their decision.”

“They're going now,” Adam said, relieved. “How about a hot buttered rum to start the festivities?”

He hadn't overlooked a single holiday cliché. Since he hadn't known she would be there, Rachel had to assume the schedule had been arranged for his solitary enjoyment, but he was delighted to have someone to share it with, and his enjoyment was contagious. Sipping their drinks and eating cookies, with Christmas music playing in the back
ground, they wrapped their presents. Adam made her go into the hall while he wrapped hers. She was tempted to peek; after seeing what he had bought for the others, she was immensely curious.

“Why did you get Mark a sausage?” she demanded.

“It's not a sausage, it's some fancy kind of wurst.” Adam swathed the fat foot-long cylinder in gold paper and tied a ribbon around its middle.

“You got one for Pat too?”

“I got one for everybody,” Adam said. “I couldn't find any of the things on my list. Can you imagine a huge mall like that not having any manure or dried fish? I was lucky to find the wurst place.”

He looked so pleased Rachel had to laugh, but she said firmly, “I don't like wurst.”

“It's a good thing I didn't get you one, then.”

After the presents had been wrapped Adam served his clam chowder, settled her in a chair in front of the television set, and put on a tape.
The Nutcracker
. Of course, Rachel thought; what else? Tschaikovsky was too saccharine for her tastes, and it had been years since she had seen the ballet; but that night the magic took hold, and the sheer beauty of the final pas de deux brought tears to her eyes. Even the sight of Adam solemnly sucking a candy cane didn't spoil her mood. He had turned the lights low and they sat in silence for a few moments after it ended.

“My mother took me to see it every year,” Rachel said softly.

“Is she dead?” It was like Adam to avoid the cowardly euphemisms—deceased, gone, departed.

“Oh, no. Alive and flourishing.” Her laugh struck a jarring note. “She lives in England with her second husband and their family.”

“Oh. That's who the packages are from. I couldn't help
noticing,” he added hastily. “The stamps and the customs forms and—”

“Of course you couldn't help noticing. Don't be so defensive.”

“Aren't you going to open them?”

“Now?”

“Well, you don't want to drag them all the way out to Ruth's and back again, do you? Come on, I want to see what's in them even if you don't.”

“Why?”

“I love presents,” Adam said happily. “Everybody's presents.”

An anticipatory grin appeared in the middle of the beard. Rachel shrugged. “Oh, all right.”

“Don't get up. I'll bring them.”

He carried them to her, opened the outer boxes, and unloaded the contents, package by package. They had been beautifully wrapped, with bright bows and tags bearing affectionate messages. “To my dearest daughter with love from Mum”; “To Rachel from Alison, have a happy Christmas.”

Adam had given up all pretense of respecting her privacy. There was a childish greediness in his interest. “Who's Alison?” he asked, watching Rachel unwrap a white jeweler's box.

“My half sister.”

The box contained a bracelet of twisted gold mesh. Adam took it from her hand and fastened it on her wrist. “Looks good on you. She's got good taste.”

“Mother picked it out. Alison is only three.”

The gifts piled up—a cashmere sweater, a necklace to match the bracelet, a stuffed cat wearing a straw hat and an imbecilic expression, books, tins of tea and cookies and crackers from a famous London shop—and a bed of tissue from which Rachel drew a cloud of filmy pink chiffon.

Adam had been chuckling over the cat. He let out a low whistle. “Wow. That's the fanciest party dress I ever saw. Are you going to wear it tomorrow?”

“It's not a dress, you idiot. It's a robe.” Pink chiffon—polyester, probably, not even her mother would be silly enough to send a garment that would have to be dry-cleaned every time it was worn—trimmed with satin rosebuds, it bore a striking and certainly coincidental resemblance to the Callot Soeurs peignoir.

Rachel bundled the full sleeves and flowing skirts back into the box. The yards of fabric were so fine they compressed into a small space. “I'll probably never wear it. What a waste of money.”

“It's pretty,” Adam said. One big finger stroked a satin rosebud.

“I never wear things like this. That's the last, isn't it?”

She tossed the box onto the floor and settled back.

“You want more?” He put the cat on a shelf near the TV, straightened its hat, and then began picking up the discarded wrappings. “‘We'll miss you,'” he read aloud. “‘Sorry you couldn't make it…?'” The questioning note in his voice elicited a grudging response from Rachel.

“They sent me a plane ticket.”

“And you didn't use it?”

“I couldn't spare the time.” She met his mild, astonished gaze squarely, and he caught the message this time, closing his mouth on the words he had been about to say.

He had been more fascinated by the gifts than she—laughing over the cat, admiring the bracelet, skimming through the books. Smarting under his unspoken criticism, Rachel was tempted to retaliate by asking him about his family; but watching his absorbed face as he folded the bright wrapping paper and smoothed the ribbons, she couldn't commit that cruelty. It was odd, though, that he hadn't responded to her statements, grudging though they
had been, with reminiscences about his parents. Had he cared so deeply for them that the loss was still unbearable? None of my business, she told herself.

When Rachel announced her intention of going to bed it was still early, but she had had as much seasonal jollity as she could stand, and Adam's suggestion that they watch
Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street
was the last straw. He looked disappointed, but rallied bravely. “I'll read A
Christmas Carol
instead.” Ignoring Rachel's nauseated expression, he went on, “Um—if it's all right with you I'm going to sleep upstairs from now on. Tony said it would be okay. In fact, he suggested it.”

“I don't see the need for it, but it's all right with me. So long as you don't insist on reading aloud.”

“You won't hear me, I'll be at the other end of the hall.” He looked at the cats. “Any of you guys want to listen to A
Christmas Carol
?”

Figgin appeared receptive to the idea, or possibly to the glass of milk and plate of cookies Adam carried. Tail switching, he preceded them up the stairs.

“Which room are you using?” Rachel asked.

“The master bedroom, what else? Nothing but the best.”

“I haven't cleaned it. Or changed the sheets, or—”

“Lady, you are speaking to a man who slept on the floor of a tent in the desert for three months. But if it will make you happier, I'll change the sheets. Where's the linen closet?”

“Oh, I'll do it,” Rachel said irritably. “No, don't put that glass of milk on the floor, Figgin will knock it over. I'll get the door for you.”

Both hands encumbered, Adam allowed her to open it and switch on the light. “Looks clean to me,” he said.

In fact, the room was immaculate. The rug still showed the tracks of the vacuum cleaner, the surfaces of the furni
ture gleamed with polish. The bed had been made and not a wrinkle marred the smooth surfaces of the ruffled and embroidered pillows. Cheryl liked to use the lovely old linens, even if they did require hours of ironing. Rachel doubted that Tony, masculine to the core, appreciated the ruffles and lace and frilly bed curtains tied back by big bows, but his protests, if any, had been private and ineffectual.

Adam was less critical. “Wow! I never slept in a fancy antique bed like that. Is that what you call a canopy?”

“Half canopy.” In Rachel's opinion the bed was a particularly ugly piece of furniture, dating from a period when the austere influence of Chippendale and Hepplewhite was being replaced by Victorian extravagance. The heavy posts and brackets that supported the half-tester were carved with vines and fat flowers. “The sheets certainly don't need changing. Cheryl must have done it before she left. Well…Good night. Try not to spill the milk or get crumbs all over that knit bedspread.”

She left him admiring the bed with a grin of childish pleasure. All that innocent enjoyment had to be an act, she thought sourly. No grown man could be so ingenuous. A
Christmas Carol
, yet.

Her own bedtime reading was a heavy, folio-sized volume about quilts, which she had borrowed from Cheryl's collection. Earlier that afternoon she had retreated to her room and examined the snapshots of the album quilt, spreading them out across the table and arranging them in the original order. The photos had turned out quite well; most of the details were clean and clear.

It had to be a bride's quilt; the theme of love and/or marriage recurred in almost every block. Unlike patchwork quilts, in which the pieces of the pattern were seamed together, the designs had been appliquéd, sewn to the background of plain fabric. Embroidery added fine
details. Traditionally the squares were made by different friends of the bride. Sewn together and enclosed in an appliquéd border, they formed the top of the quilt, which was composed of three layers: the upper surface, the inner padding, and the plain back. An overall pattern of fine stitches, the quilting, held the three layers together. The trick to good quilting was to keep the stitches even and close together. It wasn't so hard to accomplish this with a single layer of thin fabric, but when the needle had to penetrate three layers, one of them fairly thick, the technique took practice and a lot of skill.

This example had been beautifully quilted, but Rachel was more interested in the patterns of the blocks. Unlike the Baltimore album quilts with their complex formalized patterns, these designs were unique and more naturalistic. A pair of bluebirds had been rendered with such fidelity that the female's paler coloring was distinguished from the brighter blue of the male. The birds' eyes were French knots, the feathers delicately indicated by embroidery in a slightly darker blue. Cheryl had been correct; the quilt was a masterpiece, worth thousands of dollars to a serious collector. If they could just get rid of that strange, dulling gray film…