Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series (18 page)

19

K
elly’s head swam. She woke to a flash of lightning in the window. What had happened? She was talking to William Chandler . . . who was insane. She tried to move her arms, then realized she’d been tied, hands and feet, to the bed. She caught a whiff of kerosene, heard the trickle of liquid into a container.

“No.” She pulled at the bonds that held her wrists. A floorboard creaked and a flashlight clicked on.

William Chandler stood steps from the side of the bed, a flashlight illuminating the room. “You’re not going to get any of this. Come around, thinking that Jonas Plummer is going to give you a handout. But I know all about you. You will never be worthy of this legacy.”

“What are you talking about?” Kelly tugged at the bonds. “I’m only here to restore a quilt.” She saw a glass lantern in his hands.

“Right. You and Tom Pereira are only here to do your jobs.” Mr. Chandler shook his head. “You have no rights to what I’ve claimed my whole life. I’m the one who put up with the old man’s ramblings as he’s slipped closer to the grave. The cancer will take him before his heart will, I think. And then I’m ready. Ready for all of it.” He set the lantern on the bureau next to Mary Gray’s priceless, tragic journal.

“Let me go, please. I’m used to making it without money. Lots of it, anyway. I don’t even know anything about my family because I don’t have one.”

Mr. Chandler shook his head. “Everyone has a family.”

“Where’s Tom?”

“Your boyfriend is no longer a concern of yours.”

Except he wasn’t her boyfriend. She’d never had a chance to explain about Peyton, not that it mattered. She didn’t care if Tom wasn’t a college graduate, didn’t have “prospects” and such. As long as he worked hard, she’d take him like he was. Her throat hurt.
Lord, please let me get the chance to tell him. I love him.

Aloud, she said, “He’s not my boyfriend.” Her voice held the tiniest quaver. “Don’t hurt him.”

“He’ll be fine . . . if he wakes up in time, that is.” Mr. Chandler set the flashlight on the bureau. “A pity the power’s out, with the storm getting ready to break. Lucky me, just in the right time.”

He struck a match and lit the lantern. “There. Here’s a bit of light for you.”

Her breath came in gasps, flickers of memory from Jenks. A thunderstorm. A dark closet. A locked door. Mom’s screams. “Let me go, please.”

“Say goodnight, Ms. Frost.” He picked up the lantern, and let it gently roll onto its side on the wool carpet. With a whoosh, flames rose up from the antique fabric. “Au revoir.” He turned on his heel and left.

Kelly screamed. All she could hear was the whoosh of flames devouring the curtains, the sound swallowing up William Chandler’s footsteps descending the stairs. She heard a door close.

“Help me!” She didn’t know if anyone could hear her. One of her legs felt as if the rope was loosening. She kept kicking. Okay. Her left foot came free of the rope. But how long before smoke would claim the rest of the oxygen in the room?

She worked at the rope tying her other ankle, jamming her left toes into her ankle. He’d tied the knots, but not too tight. Clever man. If he knew she could free herself in time, the smoke might get her, and then it would look as if she’d died crawling for safety.

She screamed again. As if anyone could hear her. Enough of that, using precious oxygen. Her other ankle was free now. She tried to sling her legs off the bed. If she could somehow pull the posters from the bed, maybe she’d have a chance. That was a big if.

The thick curtains went up like two pairs of torches. Maybe, just maybe, someone could see that from the street. Except she’d closed the front shutters that faced east, so the sun wouldn’t bother her first thing in the morning.

The security system. Didn’t it have a panic button to call the fire department? If she could make it down to the entryway . . .

Her breath came in wheezes. Where was Tom? What had Chandler done to him? Drugged his drink, like he’d drugged hers? She should have known, should have listened to that warning inside that told her the man was up to no good. But then, she was a suspicious person anyway . . .

She heard pounding and the sound of splintering wood. Her breath was worth one more scream. Oh, what would they tell Lottie? Tears burned her eyes as she inhaled a lungful of acrid air and tried to form a sound. It came out more like a moan than a scream.

Someone stumbled into the room.

“Help me,” Kelly said. Her eyes burned.

It was Tom, and his hands were bleeding. “Kelly.”

“He’s crazy, gone crazy.” She yanked at the ropes.

“Hang on.” Tom worked at one of the knots and it came free. “He was . . . never a Boy Scout.”

Kelly reached for her other wrist, but her hands refused to work. “Tom . . .”

“Hush. Save your breath. There’s not much air left.”

Panes of glass shattered, making both of them duck. Flames danced across the ceiling, devouring fresh oxygen from outside, reaching for her hair. Kelly grabbed Mary’s journal from the top of the chest.

“The quilt,” she managed to gasp. “We’ve got to get Mary’s quilt.”

They stumbled into the hallway. Flames raced up the front staircase to meet them.

“No good,” Tom said. “The back stairs, from the servants’ quarters to the kitchen.”

At least the air was relatively clear. Kelly stumbled. Tom slid his arm around her waist, pulling her to his side. They skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and collided with the wooden door, blocking them from the kitchen.

Tom pushed the door. “He’s boarded it shut or something.” He rammed it with his shoulder. The air grew thick, warm.

Kelly glanced over her shoulder. An orange glow lit the hallway above. “We’re running out of time.” A faint wail of a siren drifted down the stairwell.

“I hope not.” Tom aimed, then kicked at the door again.

“Let me try, too.” She joined him at the bottom step, the closed door flush with the step’s edge. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead. She took some breaths of the smoke-filled air, as if she were sucking through a broken straw.

“Okay, on three.” Tom angled his body so it faced her. “Give it . . . all you’ve got.”

Kelly nodded.

“One, two, three.”

They rammed into the door. Pain exploded through Kelly’s shoulder. She gasped, stumbled on the bottom step. Her head cracked on something hard.

Tom landed on the vintage black-and-white kitchen tile. Kelly lay sprawled out beside him, her eyes closed. He touched her arm, and she moaned.

“Get the quilt . . . it’s important. Please . . .” She coughed.

“We’ve got to leave it, get out of here.” He tugged on her arm, and she screamed, grabbing her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Here.” He reached for her other side, hauled her to her feet.

“I can’t leave it.” She reached for Mary’s journal on the floor. “It’s in the ballroom.”

Which was next to the dining room, one room away from the front of the house in flames. “I doubt they’ll sue you for something that’s not your fault.”

“If you don’t get it, I will.” She leaned on him and he pulled her close.

“Stubborn woman.” But he hauled her to the back door.

“No.” She stumbled toward the ballroom, away from safety. “You don’t understand. It’s for your family, too. Our family.”

He followed her to the ballroom, noticing his bloody hands for the first time. “I can’t touch it.”

The smell of smoke filled the hallway, and yellow flames met them halfway. Kelly darted into the ballroom, headed for the worktable. “You’re coming with me.” She unbound it from the rack.

The sound of splintering wood filled the air. “The front of the house is going to collapse. We need to move.”

Kelly freed the quilt. “Got it,” she gasped. She limped toward him. “I . . . I can’t breathe.”

His own breaths made his lungs burn. He coughed, sucking in more of the deadly air. “We’re almost home free.” He turned to see the way they’d come engulfed in flames. “We’re not going that way.” He tugged Kelly’s hand and pulled her across the ballroom toward one of the large doors.

“How?” Kelly stopped, her weight sinking against him.

“Give me the quilt.” He took it from her hands. “Wrap up.”

“What?”

He wheezed as he pulled the quilt over her head. He had so much to say, when lately he couldn’t think of anything other than her apparent betrayal. His words would keep for later. “Hold on tight.”

Covered with the quilt, she almost looked like a ghost in his arms. He picked her up and ran for the nearest floor to ceiling ballroom window. Shattering glass, splintering wood, more pain. Kelly’s scream.

Cool air, mercifully cooler, rushed into his lungs. Tom and Kelly landed on the patio that ran the length of the house. Shouts filled the air. The flashing strobe of fire trucks lit the night. Lightning flashed, thunder pulsed. The downpour started as if an unseen hand turned a faucet above them.

Thank you, thank you, Lord.
Tom lay on his back, coughed, and reached for Kelly.

The quilt lay around her shoulders. She moved as if in a daze, sat up and pushed the quilt away. “Tom . . .”

“You folks stay right where you are,” a voice said. “EMS is on the way. Is there anyone else in the house?” A firefighter approached, clad in his gear.

“No.” Tom shook his head. “But this is arson, deliberately set. William Chandler did it. Find him.” His voice rose, but then cut off when the cough started.

“Calm down, now.” The man’s focus shifted to Kelly. “Miss, are you all right?”

Kelly sank back onto the grass, half on the quilt, half off, wheezing and coughing. Tom leaned over her, brushing her hair away from her forehead. “Kelly?”

She gave a gasp, and sucked in a rattling breath. “I love you, Tom.”

The sound of shattering glass made Tom look toward the house. When he looked back at Kelly, her breathing was still.

“No!” His shout sounded like a man in agony.

20

H
er cough followed her all the way to Lottie’s home in Haver-hill. On Saturday morning, Kelly woke up in her old bedroom that had been occupied by at least four more foster children since she had lived there. Or maybe it wasn’t Saturday. After time in the hospital, her days had run together, unmeasured.

Black gunk kept coming up with the worst of the coughing fits and whenever she blew her nose. She sat up when she saw the clock on the nightstand. Ten a.m. . . . She never let herself sleep that late. The quick movement triggered another coughing spasm. Kelly grabbed a tissue from the nightstand.

The door burst open and Lottie came in. “You’re awake.”

Kelly nodded. “The quilt? Where’s the quilt?” She glanced around the room.

“It’s here, right here. I found a box and got some acid-free tissue.” Lottie shook her head. “It smells like smoke and it’s a mess.”

But it had helped save her life, helped both her and Tom fight their way through the smoke. She didn’t care if Firstborn Holdings, LLC, came after her. They could have the quilt. They were the ones who’d assigned a whack-job to keep tabs on Gray House.

“I haven’t decided what to do with it yet.”

“Well, you have a visitor coming soon, someone you’ll want to meet, I’m sure.”

“Not a reporter or anything . . .” She recalled the flash of cameras and news trucks on County Street, filming Gray House as it burned. “Say, how did you get the quilt?” She’d lost track of it somewhere in the ambulance.

“Tom Pereira. What a wonderful young man,” said Lottie. “He was frantic to know how you were, but I told him to give you some time.”

“Thank you.” The memory of their kiss in the rose garden, right before Peyton showed up to spoil everything, made her cheeks grow hot. What Tom must think of her. She remembered her gasped confession of her love, right after he’d helped rescue her from the house and right before she passed out. Of course, he’d rescued her. Guys like Tom Pereira were the good ones. And she’d told him she loved him, without any explanation about Peyton.

Like Mary Gray, she wrestled with absolution from what she had done in her moments of weakness. Unlike Mary Gray, she’d been deceived. Mary had walked into things with Esteban with her eyes wide open and carrying an empty heart. Ironic that her descendant, William Chandler, had also tried to burn away what he couldn’t deal with anymore.

The idea of Gray House in ruins made her heart hurt. The place should be open for all to see and hear the story of Mary Gray, not locked up like a mausoleum.

“So,” she found her voice at last. “Who’s coming?”

“Your great-great-grandfather.”

“My what?” The man would have to be at least one hundred years old. And she never knew anything about a great-great-grandfather. She supposed she had eight of them at one time but never imagined she would know one.

“Jonas Plummer is the owner of Firstborn Holdings,” Lottie said with a sigh. She sank onto the small wooden chair where Kelly had sat and worked at her homework eons ago.

“I’ve met Jonas Plummer.” Kelly’s head began to pound. “The owner of Gray House is my great-great-grandfather? I don’t understand.”

“He was the one who checked up on you here and called when you first moved to New Bedford.” Lottie frowned. “He sounds like he’s not well, but he was determined to speak to you in person.”

Kelly nodded as she studied Lottie’s downcast expression. “Lottie, what’s wrong?”

“It’s silly.” The older woman shook her head.

“What is it? Is it about Mr. Plummer?”

“He’s your blood family. I know how you’ve been aching inside for a family, a real family.” Lottie’s eyes filled with tears. “But sweetie, Chuck and I, we always wanted you for our family.”

“But . . . but you never adopted me.”

“You were already almost grown. We always had a special place for you in our hearts, never having a daughter of our own.” A tear rolled down Lottie’s cheek. “We were never supposed to prefer one of our kids over the other, but you were always our favorite. Our girl. Our Kelly.”

“I . . . I didn’t know.” But of course she’d known, deep down, and she’d pushed it away.

“Then you were done with high school and so determined to make it on your own, without anyone’s help.” Lottie shrugged. “What could we do but let you go? And now, here comes Mr. Plummer.”

Now Kelly wiped a tear away. “Lottie, I’m sorry.” She rose from the bed and winced, remembering her sprained ankle. “I didn’t mean to push you away like I did. I don’t know why I did. I always felt like I was on the outside looking in.”

“You were never outside with us,” Lottie whispered.

Kelly hugged her. “Thanks . . . Momma.” The word shot into a tender place in her heart and she sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I wish Chuck were still alive to know.”

“It’s okay. He always told me you’d realize it one day. He knew.” Lottie nodded after they ended the hug. “Well, Mr. Plummer should be here soon. I’d get myself ready if I were you.”

A million questions rattled in Kelly’s brain. How long had this man known about her? Why didn’t he come for her, rescue her out of the horror she’d lived in with her mother and a countless string of boyfriends?
God, please, help me stay calm.
But her hands shook as she picked up a fresh bath towel on her way to the shower.

Tom tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Driving through Boston had been enough to make a man break out in hives. Forget the seizures. This was enough to drive a man crazy.

“We’re almost there, Mr. Plummer.”

The elderly man in the passenger seat nodded slowly. “No rush. This has been a lifetime in the making.”

“A lifetime, huh?”

“It’s time to right some wrongs.” He sucked down some oxygen from the portable tank beside him. “The doctor would have a fit if he knew I was traveling like this.”

“You told me you could travel.” Tom found it easy not to be irritated by the man. But still, what if something were to happen to him?

“Of course I can.” Mr. Plummer shifted on the seat. “I can do whatever I want. I’m half-dead already.”

“That’s not a nice way to joke, sir.” Tom shook his head, and the GPS chimed for him to turn. “Why didn’t you just summon us to meet you instead of having your wacko nephew do it?”

“Protocol, Son, protocol. Or should I call you my cousin, how many times removed?” Mr. Plummer cleared his throat. “Don’t you young people know anything about protocol? I needed to see if you were genuine. Many people would like to be a part of this, and I can’t let it go to just anyone. Not even my nephew.”

Tom gritted his teeth. Chandler had been caught, and they’d found evidence enough to hold him in jail, without bail. Arson, two counts of attempted murder. And that was just the short list. Tom shoved his anger aside. He’d missed Kelly so bad it was a physical ailment. What they’d been through together, and how he’d treated her after that scumbag Peyton had shown up. He should have known better than to fall for the guy’s song and dance about how he and Kelly should get back together.

He had a lot to apologize for. But his turn would come after the elderly man beside him had his chance.

“You going to stay on, Son?” asked the old man.

“Stay on?”

“Groundskeeper of Gray House.”

“Uh, if you didn’t notice, Gray House is literally half the place it used to be.” Sad it was, really, to see the gaping hole in the front portion of the house where the bulk of the fire had raged. Between the fire department and a downpour, the flames had gone, leaving scars behind.

“You’re going to rebuild though, correct?”

“Me? I’m not a builder.” Tom followed the GPS. Another half mile, according to the screen. Zigzagging through the Haverhill streets, they’d be there soon enough.

“But you can supervise.” The old man coughed again, this time spasms of coughing interrupting his speech. “The lawn is in rough shape, too, after all those firefighters dragged hoses and stomped all over it.”

“Huh. Well, I’ll have to think about it.” He just wanted to hop on his bike and go. Somewhere, anywhere. But here he was, driving up to a modest two-story home on a narrow street. Not upscale, and not the hood, either.

“Here we go, then,” said the old man.

Tom killed the engine, then got out and helped the old man from the vehicle. He crept slowly, slowly, up the front walk, then carefully scaled the steps one by one. He stopped once, hanging on to the stair railing and swaying like a drunken sailor. Tom was about to reach out and help him along, but kept his hand at his side.

He let the old man reach the front door first and ring the bell. D-day for all of them, in more than one way. He’d been hard on Kelly, and now he was facing her for the first time since the fire. He had no idea what to say.

The inner door opened, and Kelly stood there looking fresh and clean, her hair smooth and shining as it draped past her shoulders.

“Come in.” Her voice sounded tight as she opened the storm door. “Lottie’s made some sandwiches, three kinds. Plus her homemade lemonade, which is the best. She’s on the back porch, setting things up.”

She watched them enter, the old man shuffling and Tom contemplating whether or not to bolt and hop back in the car. Only it wasn’t his car, and he wasn’t about to get arrested for car theft.

He followed them through the house that smelled like pie, with a whiff of lemon cleaner. “This is where you grew up?”

“Uh, sort of,” Kelly said as she faced him. “I lived here during junior high and high school. Never knew how good I had it, either.” She shrugged and gave him a half grin.

The old man shuffled to a stop. “I think you two young people need to have a chat. I’ll find my way to Miss Lottie and some lemonade.”

“But, sir—,” Tom began.

“No buts. I might be an invalid, but I’m not dead just yet.” The old man waved at him and continued along the hallway.

Kelly folded her arms across her chest. “So, he is my great-great-grandfather, right?”

“Your great-great-grandfather?” Tom gazed after the man.

She nodded. “Through my mother’s side of the family. We verified it for sure. It turns out there’s more to the story. He’s, uh . . . he’s directly related to Captain Hiram Gray.”

“Whaa?” Tom shook his head.

“I was looking for Mary Gray’s baby, the one she gave away to her lover’s family to raise.”

“My great-great-great grandfather?” Tom shook his head. “Whoa. This is a lot to process. So we’re related, distantly, via Mary Gray way, way back there.”

“I’m a closer relative. Little Hiram Junior was my great-great-grandfather. Hiram grew up and fathered a daughter, who married a Plummer. Only children, girls, straight down the family line to me. Except for Chandler’s mother.” She let her arms relax. “So when Chandler was checking up on his great-uncle’s choices of employees—you and me—he freaked out when he realized we’re both connected to Gray House. Then Plummer decided to change his will and include us. Or so I’ve heard.”

Tom allowed himself to reach for her hand. “Kelly.”

She stared at his hand. “Tom, I didn’t know Peyton was married. He kept it from me. I’d . . . I’d never had a real boyfriend before. I’d been too shy, too scared. I think toward the end with Peyton, I was in denial, and then I was so ashamed, and then Jonna found out, and I should have told you—”

He pulled her close and silenced her with a kiss. He let himself run his fingers through the silken strands of her hair, not cutting short the kiss like last time in the garden. Her arm crept around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t want to listen.”

“Apology accepted.” Then she coughed.

“Are you okay?” he asked, still holding her in his arms.

“Much better now.” Then she kissed him back.