Stitches in Time (27 page)

“Mary Elizabeth,” Rachel repeated. She was conscious of an odd feeling of anticlimax. The name should have struck a chord, shouldn't it? Recognition, empathy, acknowledgment? “Does Miss Ora say anything about her?”

“Quite a bit.”

“Well?”

“Well. Um. It would make a good opening paragraph for a sentimental Southern novel. Want to hear it?”

“Of course,” Kara said impatiently.

“‘She was exquisitely beautiful, with silver-gilt hair and eyes as blue as the Virginia heavens, and as talented as she was lovely. Her mother having died when she was twelve years of age, she assumed the manifold duties of a plantation mistress, supervising the food, clothing, and medical needs of family and servants. Yet she found the time to become a skilled performer on harp and piano and a fine needlewoman—'”

“All the womanly arts,” said Kara. “I wonder if she ever read a book?”

“She probably didn't have time,” Adam said fairly. “‘Unfortunately the only examples of her skill that have come down to me are the three quilts. Her other descendants did not appreciate them as I do.' Shall I go on? There's a pretty description of Mary Elizabeth sitting and sewing with her maids—a polite euphemism for the female slaves, I assume.”

“Spare me.” Kara's foot was heavy on the gas.

When they reached the house there was another vehicle parked in front. “Pat's truck,” Adam said unnecessarily.

They found Pat comfortably ensconced in the family room, studying the quilt photographs, which he had laid out on the coffee table like a pack of cards. Two cats, unable to find room on his lap, crouched at his feet waiting for him to lean back.

“Where've you been?” he demanded. “You could at least leave a note.”

“You could at least tell someone you're coming,” Kara retorted. “Have you found anything interesting?”

“Oh, definitely.” Pat leaned back. “Somebody really had it in for the recipient of this quilt. Take a look.”

“With luck we'll have the quilt itself tonight or tomorrow.” Kara slung her jacket onto a chair.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“What have you been up to? And what's that?” He indicated the carton Adam was carrying.

Kara gave him a concise summary of their recent activities while Adam investigated the refrigerator. “Turkey sandwiches?” he offered.

“Ham, cheese, bologna, anything but turkey.” Pat grimaced. “I've eaten turkey for two days and Ruth is making soup out of the bones at this very moment. So you found
the book, did you? If you're waiting for compliments, Kara, you won't get them. I prefer to sulk.”

“You and Adam can sulk together—and investigate the contents of that carton.” Kara whipped out her notebook. “You've got a date and a name now; concentrate on that, but don't overlook any possible reference—”

“Don't tell me how to do research.” Pat bared his teeth and then bit into the sandwich Adam offered him. “What esoteric bit of evidence are you going to pursue while we're slogging?”

“I'm going to be working in the shop. Dammit, I'm already a day behind,” she added defensively. “Life goes on. If Rachel can give me a hand…”

She didn't finish the sentence. Rachel said quietly, “Yes, of course. I'd forgotten about the inventory.”

“It's not the inventory,” Kara admitted. “Cheryl's got everything on the computer; she's good at that sort of thing, all I have to do is bring it up to date. The problem is the sale tomorrow. Had I but known I wouldn't have scheduled it, but it's too late to cancel now.”

“Of course,” Rachel repeated. “Shall we start right away?”

“Not until you've had something to eat,” Kara said. “You still look a little peaked.”

Pat's eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

“Nothing of concern to you,” Kara answered. “It was a depressing, neglected house and any sensitive person would have felt uncomfortable at the scene of the poor old woman's death.”

“If it was her house—Mary Elizabeth's,” Pat began.

“It's not that old,” Kara said. “Honestly, Pat, your imagination is getting out of hand. Are you finished, Rachel? I don't want to hurry you—”

Rachel rose obediently. She wasn't hungry anyway.

Kara
was
in a hurry. She went through the racks and
drawers at top speed, removing objects and handing them to Rachel. Her memory was remarkable; with only a few exceptions, for which she had to refer to the inventory, she knew when every article had been purchased and how long it had been in stock.

“That should do it,” she said at last. “We'll make that the sale rack; get the other items off it and into the nonsale section. And clear another table, this luncheon cloth can go, it's been here for over six months. And the basket of fake flowers and feathers, and these gloves, and this…”

Rachel had already had occasion to admire Cheryl's methodical arrangement of the records. Everything was cross-referenced, by date, type, and number; all she had to do was find the number Kara read off and enter the new price, which Kara was writing on the tag attached to the garment or piece of linen.

She had just begun this process when the door opened and Pat put his head in. “Adam wants to know,” he began.

“Close that door!” Kara swooped down on Figgin, who was heading for a silk nightgown draped over a chair, along with other items intended for the sale rack. His abstracted expression was meant to suggest he was just out for a stroll with no ulterior purpose in mind.

“If you want coffee,” Pat went on imperturbably. “How much longer are you going to be at this?”

“At least another hour.” Kara thrust the cat at him. “No coffee. Go away.”

“Actually, we're going out,” Pat said. “And don't ask me where.”

“I don't care where. How long will you be gone?”

“Couple of hours.” He took a firmer grip on Figgin and backed away. “Shall we meet for tea at four?”

“All right,” Kara said ungraciously. “Where were we, Rachel?”

Pat slammed the door.

It was almost four before Kara was satisfied. The last item she added to the rack of sale items was a christening dress trimmed with eyelet embroidery and finished with a lace frill around the high neck. “Mark it down to ninety bucks,” she said. “We sell a lot of these. Though why anybody would cram a poor inoffensive baby into a tight, scratchy, tickly thing like this I can't imagine.”

Her hands lingered on the little dress, however, straightening the long skirt and smoothing the neck frill.

The men hadn't returned. Rachel put the kettle on and Kara headed for the answering machine. The telephone had rung several times, but she had refused to interrupt her work to answer it. Most of the messages were from customers inquiring about the sale; Kara jotted down the numbers, muttering disagreeably. “All the information was on the notice I sent. Can't they read?”

Her face brightened when she heard Mrs. Wilson's voice, oily with triumph. “I got 'em. My lawyer says there won't be any trouble about selling 'em to you, seeing as how your brother-in-law is a cop and all. So as soon as we can agree on a price…Are you there? I guess not. Well, you better call me back. There are a couple other people interested.”

Kara switched off the machine. “That's a lie. She must really be hard up for cash. Her son probably wants a new pair of sneakers or a Jag…Oh, thanks.” She took the cup Rachel offered her and sat back with a sigh. “I wonder what Pat and Adam are doing. I'm just as glad they aren't back, though; I could do with a breather, and I expect you could too. You're a hard worker. I appreciate your help.”

Rachel seated herself on the couch. The photographs lay on the table, but they had been disarranged, probably by one of the cats. Slowly she began putting them back in order. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, too tired to be less than direct. “You could just fire me. I would, if I were
in your shoes. Is it because I remind you of yourself as you used to be?”

A few sips of tea had restored Kara to her usual energy. She leaned forward, her eyes bright with amusement. “My dear girl, at your worst you weren't as frumpy and grumpy and unattractive as I was. And you've changed. You're more…Oh, hell, I don't know what it is, but I'm not the only one who's noticed it. Adam, Tom…” She hesitated only briefly before adding, “And Tony. Don't shy away, Rachel, we need to talk about it and I'm not anxious to let my hair down in front of Pat and Adam. I don't think even Pat realizes how extraordinary Tony's behavior that night was. He can't help being gorgeous and kind and lovable, but he goes out of his way to avoid problems because he's only too well aware of the effect he has on women. You aren't the first, not by a damn sight. I was half in love with him once myself.”

“Was he in love with you?”

“He thought he was.” Kara kicked off her shoes and curled up in the big chair. “Or to be more accurate, he tried to believe he was. It was Cherry he wanted all along, but he thought he couldn't have her. So…Luckily we both had sense enough to know it wouldn't work, but there's still a touch of the old feeling; there always will be. Tony's biggest problem is that he's the kind of guy a woman turns to when another relationship goes sour.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Rachel said slowly. “But I think you're right. I had just broken up with Phil.”

“The point is that since he was married Tony has never made a pass at another woman—including me. And there have been times when…”

“When you wanted him to?”

“I'd put it a little more strongly than that.”

“You mean—”

“I mean I made a pass at
him
.” Kara laughed shortly.
“Nice, huh? My best friend's husband. I'd like to think I took the chance because I knew he wouldn't respond, and because all I really wanted was affection and understanding.”

“And to get back at—” Rachel stopped with a gulp. Not since her undergraduate days had she had a conversation like this, with friends who weren't afraid to talk freely about their feelings and experiences. She had done it too—then. “I'm sorry!”

“There you go, apologizing again. I brought the subject up. And you're absolutely right. It's terrifying how closely love and anger can be interwoven. I do love Mark, but I get so furious with him sometimes. You can probably guess what the bone of contention is. You saw me pawing that baby dress.”

“He doesn't want children?”

“He says he does. But somehow the time is never convenient, and my good old biological clock is running down, and he's never home, and his solution to that little difficulty is for me to give up the business. If I were a lawyer or a professor he probably wouldn't expect me to abandon my career, but a shop full of old clothes and castoffs…Mark can't understand why I won't give it up. You understand, though, don't you? It's a symbol of independence and achievement, a concrete demonstration of how far I've come from that crawling, spineless thing I once was. Something I did myself—oh, not without help, I couldn't have succeeded without Cherry, and Ruth's encouragement, and Pat's financial help, and the enthusiastic cooperation of Pat's mother, God rest her soul. Alexander belonged to her. I have several reasons for cherishing that disgusting old dog, but the chief reason is that he reminds me of Mrs. Mac.” Kara laughed shakily. “Even his looks; she was one of the homeliest women I've ever seen. I miss her even more than Pat does, I think.”

“I wish I'd known her.”

“You'd have adored her. Or been terrified of her. Or both, as I was. I still have some of the designer clothes she gave me to start the business. I'll never sell them.”

Kara reached for a tissue and blew her nose loudly. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“Stop apologizing,” Rachel said firmly.

They exchanged smiles. “I got off the subject, didn't I?” Kara said. “God, that felt good! I haven't unburdened myself for a long time. I can't let it all hang out with Cherry, Tony isn't too crazy about the business either, and she's so goofy about him she gets redfaced and defensive if I criticize him.”

“She's worried about him,” Rachel said. “About his job.”

“I worry about that too. But she's going about it the wrong way. You don't get a man like Tony to do what you want by nagging him and fussing over him. Anyhow, that's a decision he has to make for himself. She knew what he did for a living before she married him, knew how much it meant to him. She has no right to demand that he give it up, any more than Mark has the right to expect me to give up the shop.” Kara looked faintly surprised. “Funny, I never thought of it that way before. Well, enough of this. If you ever feel like dumping on me, remember I owe you.”

“No, I still owe you. You don't have to do this.” Rachel gestured at the photographs of the quilt. “I should get the hell out of here, leave all of you in peace.”

“You're doing it again,” Kara said in exasperation. “I just wanted you to know that you're not the only sucker in town, and that taking the blame for everything that happens to you is stupid.”

Rachel began, “Responsibility—”

“That's different. Responsibility implies action. If you don't like your life it's up to you to change it. You may not
be able to change some things, but sitting in a helpless huddle feeling guilty won't change anything.” Kara laughed self-consciously. “I even changed my first name. Every time someone called me Karen, I heard my ex-husband saying it, in that critical, contemptuous voice of his. It was a small change, and I suppose rather silly, but—”

“No, not silly. Every little bit helps, right?”

One of the dogs jumped up, and Kara started. “Damn that animal! The guys must be back. Let me conclude my lecture. You are not to blame for this situation. You
are
responsible for trying to get yourself out of it.”