Stitches in Time (15 page)

Rachel got into bed and began leafing through the book, looking for similar examples. So far she had found nothing to compare with the quilt, and she found nothing in this book either. Finally she put it aside and turned out the light.

She was still in the shadowy interface between waking and sleep when a reverberating crash brought her abruptly back to consciousness. Whether it was courage or the knowledge of Adam's nearness or some deeper instinct that moved her, she didn't know, but she reacted instantaneously, jumping out of bed and running to the door. Opening it, she encountered Figgin, whose headlong rush set her staggering as he bolted for the bed and went under it.

Another louder crash oriented her. It had come from the master bedroom.

The door was open and the room was dark until her hand found the light switch.

What she saw left her speechless, but there was no need to ask what had happened. It was only too evident.

The frame of the canopy lay on the floor beside the bed. The attached curtains had fallen with it; they were twisted around the wooden rectangle and around Adam, who had raised himself on one elbow. His eyes were hazel. She hadn't noticed their color before, but now his eyes were wide with surprise and shock.

Rachel found her voice. “Thank God it missed you.”

“Actually, it didn't,” Adam said. He sat up, slowly and carefully. Instead of pajamas he was wearing a heavy wool shin over a pair of sweats. “I pushed it off onto the floor after it landed on top of me. Luckily I was lying on my face with a pillow over my head. I always sleep that way,” he added defensively, mistaking her expression for one of criticism.

“Luckily.” Rachel's voice shook. “How could it have happened? Did you lean against one of the posts, or jar it in some way?”

“I didn't do anything,” Adam said plaintively. “Except roll over. Some of the screws must have worked loose. Is the cat all right? He was on the pillow next to me.”

The concern in his voice touched her. “His reflexes must be better than yours. He was already at my door before you shoved the thing off you. Are you sure you're all right? Even with a pillow over it, your head took quite a blow.”

“Not really. The framework is almost a foot deep and it only goes around three sides of the thing—the canopy. It was the lower edge of the frame that landed on my back.”

“Let me see.”

Meekly, trying not to wince, Adam stretched out across the bed. “Why do you have to wear so many clothes?” she demanded, pushing the shirt and sweatshirt up.

“I'm cold-blooded. Ow,” he added, his voice muffled by the comforter.

“Does this hurt?” She pressed down on a lower rib.

“Yes!”

The reddening mark ran in an uneven line from his left hip to his right side, midway between waist and armpit. The screws on one side of the canopy must have given way and pulled the others out when it collapsed. Instead of falling straight down it had struck on the diagonal; the lower part of the long bruise was more sharply defined.

Adam continued to complain as she pressed and poked, but the scream of pain she feared didn't materialize. His body was less heavily built than the multilayered garments had led her to expect. No wonder he felt the cold; there wasn't an ounce of fat over those bones and well-developed muscles. There were a number of scars, though.

“What have you been doing?” she asked, tracing a long white line with her forefinger.

Adam let out a muffled gurgle of laughter. “Don't do that, I'm very ticklish. What do you mean, what have I been doing?”

“All those scratches and scars.”

“Nothing romantic or adventurous, I'm afraid. I fall over and into things a lot. Rocks, thorny bushes, goats—”

“Oh. Well, I don't think anything is broken, but I'm no doctor. Maybe you should get some X rays.”

“No, thanks. I'm damned if I'll spend Christmas Day sitting around some emergency room. That feels good,” he added. “Don't stop. A little higher and to your right, please.”

Rachel removed her hands from his shoulder blades.
“You don't need a back rub, you need an ice pack. Reduce the swelling. I'll fix one for you.”

Adam refused to examine the ruins of the canopy or even move to another room. “What for?” he asked reasonably. “There's nothing else to fall on me here and I wouldn't try to repair that thing even if it weren't two o'clock in the morning. It's a job for an expert. I'm pretty good at putting up tents, but—”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Rachel said, recognizing the start of another monologue.

It wasn't easy for her to follow her own advice. Even if he did have a cracked rib or three, Adam had been incredibly fortunate. The framework of the canopy was deep, but it was backed with solid pieces of wood. If it had fallen on a sleeper's upturned, unprotected face…

Cheryl's face. She slept upstairs to be near the children. Adam was heavier than Cheryl, and maybe he was a restless sleeper, but if the canopy was that unstable it would have fallen sooner or later. Probably sooner. It would be several weeks before the cast was removed and Tony joined his wife in the antique bed.

 

“
You sure it's big enough? That's a right wide bed
.”

“
It will be.” The needle moved in and out, mechanical as a machine and almost as quickly. “When I put the border on
.”

The other woman picked up one of the four strips that would form the border. The appliqué was done: a pattern of vines and flowers, butterflies and bees and birds. “Never seen this kind of leaf before. Not around here
.”

“
Maybe it's not from around here.” She pulled the thread tight and knotted it, reached for another block
.

“
You got it from a book?
”

She didn't answer right away
. “
From…someplace. I don't know where ideas come from
.”

“
It's right pretty
.”
The older woman watched the flashing needle
. “
Don't know how you're gonna get it done in time, though. I could help, if you want
.”

“
I'll get it done,” she said softly. “I don't need help. I have to do this all by myself.
”

 

Adam was already in the family room when Rachel came down the next morning. His movements were slow and cautious, but when Rachel asked how he felt he assured her he was suffering from nothing worse than aches and pains.

“What's that?” she asked as he bent carefully to open the oven door and remove a round baking pan.

“I thought I'd take Ruth a cake. For dessert.” Adam studied the object doubtfully. A pale yellow mound, it had overflowed the pan, and to judge by the strong smell of burned batter that permeated the room, dripped down onto the bottom of the oven.

“The pan's too small.”

“So it would appear. Oh, well, I'll just trim it, and the frosting will cover the rough spots.” Adam picked up a knife and plunged it into the cake.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Taking it out of the pan. It's ran over the edges and I need to—”

“Don't do that!”

Adam stopped sawing and looked hopefully at her over his shoulder. Rachel's mouth twitched. “It has to cool before you take it out,” she said. “I'll do it. What kind of frosting do you want?”

“White. The decorations will show up better on white. I found some cherries and sprinkles and stuff.”

“Are you doing this deliberately?” Rachel asked.

“What?”

“Making a big show of your ineptness so I'll offer to take over a traditionally female job.”

“Oh.” Adam thought about it. “Like one of those coded messages women send when they burn the dinner or sew buttons on backward? Fascinating idea. I don't think I did it deliberately—”

“That's the whole point about coded messages, they are often unconscious. Protests.”

“‘All over America there is the smell of burning food.'”

Rachel stared at him in surprise. “You've read Adrienne Rich? She's a feminist.”

“I read all sorts of things,” Adam said equably. “In order to prove that I am consciously unencumbered by macho prejudices, I will make the frosting. Where's the powdered sugar?”

They managed to put the cake together. Since it was Christmas Day, Rachel refrained from pointing out that Ruth probably had already planned dessert, and that the end product of Adam's labors would not appeal to anyone over ten years old. He used all the cherries and all the sprinkles and finished it off with a scattering of silver dragées. Rachel grabbed the cake while he was considering the pros and cons of a handful of chocolate kisses, and put it in the refrigerator to harden the icing.

“What time are we supposed to be there?” she asked.

“Any time.”

“I'll go and change, then.”

“Why? You look fine.”

“I can't wear jeans and a ratty old sweater to their house!”

“I always do.” He studied his ensemble doubtfully. “You think I should—”

“No. I expect your back is pretty sore,” she added charitably. “You could use that as an excuse if you feel the need for one.”

“I hadn't planned to mention it.”

“All right, if you'd rather not. Did you look at the canopy?”

“Uh-huh.” His eyes were fixed on her face. There was the oddest look in them—questioning, even challenging, as if he were waiting for her to speak. When she didn't, he said, “The screws pulled out. It's getting late, we'd better hurry. I'll load the car while you change.”

Snow had whitened the ground, and continued to fall gently as they drove. Gleefully and unnecessarily Adam pointed out that they were having a white Christmas. He started to sing. Holding the cake, whose icing was still in a tenuous condition, Rachel gamely joined in. She felt she owed him something for Adrienne Rich.

The MacDougal house was between Leesburg and Middleburg, in an area known to Washingtonians as “horse country,” and when they passed between two stone gateposts onto a winding drive, Rachel braced herself for an uncomfortably elegant and expensive ambience. Since she was old enough to know that defiance of convention is sometimes not courageous but just plain rude, she was wearing pantyhose and a skirt and sweater. The sweater was the one her mother had sent. It was a little too small, but the soft golden brown set off her dark hair.

The house was less pretentious than she had expected, a simple two-story wooden structure with a screened porch on one side. The plantings were more indicative of the age of the place: high hedges of boxwood, and a tall oak that had taken at least a century to reach its present girth. Adam pulled up behind another car and stopped. “The others are already here.”

“Who else is coming?” Rachel asked, with a prickle of stage fright.

“Just the Brinckleys.”

“That's his car?” It was a Ford Taurus, several years old.

Easing himself out from behind the steering wheel, Adam grinned. “Unpretentious and American made. What else would you expect a smart politician to drive?”

It was a surprisingly cynical statement from that source, Rachel thought, and then realized she was guilty of superficial judgments. Adam might be sentimental but he wasn't stupid.

Pat had been watching for them. He had the door open before they reached it. “Late again,” he said, reaching for the cake tin Rachel carried.

She held onto it. “I can manage, thanks. It needs to be kept level, the frosting isn't completely set. I'm sorry we're late.”

“I wasn't blaming you.” He was smiling, but his keen blue eyes fixed her with an intent stare.

“Aren't you going to let us in?” Adam demanded, clutching his armful of packages.

Pat stepped back. “Welcome,” he said, waving them in with a formal, almost ritualistic gesture.

The room into which he led them had the graceful proportions and fine details of eighteenth-century manor house architecture, but the furniture was a comfortable blend of antique and modern. The overstuffed chairs and long sofa were covered with faded chintz and dog hairs. A fire burned bright under the carved mantel, and a golden retriever lay stretched on the hearth, its tail moving in rapturous circles as Kara, seated cross-legged on the floor next to it, stroked its head.

Following Pat's directions, Rachel carried the cake into the kitchen. Shirtsleeves rolled up, a ruffled apron tied around his waist, Mark was peeling potatoes while Ruth basted the turkey. She closed the oven door and turned, face becomingly flushed, to greet Rachel.

“How nice of you, dear,” she said, taking the cake tin.

“The thanks are due to Adam. It was his idea.”

“I could have deduced that.” Mark laughed as Ruth removed the top to display Adam's decorating. “What, no chocolate kisses?”

“I stopped him in time,” Rachel said. “What can I do to help?”

“Not a thing,” Ruth said. “Everything is under control. You two join the others, I'll be with you in a minute.”

Mark held the door for Rachel and they went through the butler's pantry, lined with cupboards filled with glass and china, into the hall. “Aren't you going to take off your apron?” she asked.

“I think it looks rather fetching, don't you?” He twirled in a pirouette, arms extended, and Rachel laughed, appreciating his effort to make her feel at ease.

“Unquestionably. Where are the servants?”

“At home with their families.” He didn't add, “Of course,” but his tone implied it.

They reached the living room in time to hear Kara say loudly, “I don't want to talk about witches. Not on Christmas Day.”

“But they're good witches,” Adam said. “They don't—”

Pat interrupted, waving his glass. “What'll you have, Rachel? Wine, beer, scotch—”