The Stolen Canvas (10 page)

Tara had reached the door and was about to go through. Carla felt a wave of panic. “Can you start on Monday?” she called.

Tara turned and her voice came back like a wave breaking over the surf. “I will. And thank you, Miss … uh … Carla.”

As the door closed, another opened, and Carla stepped again into the past. The sun dropped lower and lower over the bay like a field of wilting roses in a blue china bowl. They had explored the coves and caves around Stony Point and watched the whales breaching in the distant bay. They’d come as close as they dared to the seals, wanting to touch the sleek gray bodies on the sun-drenched rocks. They picked wild daisies and made flower wreaths for their hair.
“He loves me, he loves me not.”
Carla could feel the thick curly locks in her fingers as she tucked a wreath into that mass of hair.

“Do you think you’ll fall in love, and get married some day? Have kids?”
In answer, Corky lay back with her arms flung over her head and stared into the blood-red sky. What was love anyway?

The bellowing and barking from the pens broke through her reverie. Boomer bounded in again, crookedly, pressing his wet nose against her leg. How long she sat there after Tara Frasier left she couldn’t have said, but it was time to pay attention to the four-legged orphans who needed her; time to stop the memories stirred by the girl who looked so much like Corky. So much like the girl who had destined her to a life of unabated guilt.

10

Annie woke to the aroma of coffee brewing. A glance at the clock revealed she’d slept longer than usual; maybe that was because she’d spent several hours in the attic looking through boxes for information about Tara’s mother.

She hadn’t found any mention of anyone with the name Claire, but she had located a number of small, carefully stored cross-stitch pieces she hadn’t known existed. Several pictured cats that might have been inspired by Boots. Annie suddenly realized that Boots had started her day without her—usually the hungry cat pawed her mistress awake. Her mind drifted back to the small cross-stitch pieces; they would be just the ticket for the shelter benefit. They could be framed or inserted in covers of jewelry boxes. As Betsy Originals they’d bring a good price.

She threw on jeans and a light knit top, and headed for the kitchen. Tara had been with her almost a week and a half; she had finally made herself at home as Annie had urged her to do.

She turned around to face Annie when she entered the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind,” Tara said. “I started the coffee.” She wore jeans and the same blousy top she’d worn the day before. It still looked clean and fresh, so she must have washed it. Her mass of curls was held back with combs, and her complexion shone with delicate color.

She’d come a long way since the night she’d stumbled, ashen and weak, up the hill to Grey Gables. The previous day she’d even insisted on walking the two miles to the shelter “to save you the trouble of driving me.”

“I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’m glad to take you; I usually have some errands to do in that direction anyway.”

Not only had Tara started the coffee, but two places were set at the table, and the butter and jam were in place for toast.

“Will it be cinnamon raisin or wheat?”

“I’ll have the raisin. Thank you, Tara, but you don’t need to wait on me.”

“But you’ve done so much for me, Annie. I want to help. And just for the record, I’m going to pay you back for all these meals you’ve been giving me when I get my first check … that is, if Carla doesn’t fire me first.” She arched her eyebrows and gave a small smile.

Annie slipped into a chair. “And how
did
your first two days go?”

“OK, I think,” Tara said, buttering a piece of toast. “I keyed in a lot of records and worked on a website for her; it should be up and running in a day or two. She’s hoping to spread the word about the animals in order to find good homes for them. She gave me a bunch of photos to post on the site.”

“Wow, you
have
been busy. Did she like the website you designed?”

“Well, I don’t think she hated it, but Carla isn’t much for compliments.”

Annie sighed, understanding. Her encounter with Carla Calloway had been awkward at best the day she’d introduced Tara. The woman could do with a course on winning friends and influencing people. “She’s a strange one,” she said. “No one seems to know anything about her really. She hasn’t been in town long and has no relatives here … that we know of. Ian’s been out to welcome her; he even helped her with some business details for the shelter. He said she wasn’t much for compliments either.”

“She hardly talks to me all day, but I can tell she’s watching me. It makes me nervous, like she’s waiting for me to make a mistake or something. I look up and find her eyes on me. Then she mumbles something and walks away. She yells her head off at Vanessa, though. But I think she likes her.”

“Vanessa can hold her own,” Annie said with a smile. “And she’ll put up with anything to be around animals. It’s a shame Kate’s so allergic. Bet she makes Vanessa change clothes in the mudroom and shower before dinner after a day at the shelter.”

“Carla gives her a huge apron to wear when she’s in the pens. That should help some.” Tara took a sip of her coffee and added, “The kittens at A Stitch in Time are so cute; are you going to take one?”

“Boots might have a thing or two to say about that,” Annie said drily.

As though her name had been taken in vain, the cat left her window seat and leaped up on Annie’s lap. “My, what big ears we have!” Annie laughed softly and stroked the silken fur. “Never mind, your kingdom is secure—at least for now.”

Annie and Tara finished breakfast in companionable silence. There was something very likable about Tara, but disturbing too. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps it had something to do with Tara’s failure to be straightforward at first about why she’d come. She’d explained it reasonably, and yet … Annie directed her gaze out the bay window where busy sparrows laced in and out of the hydrangeas. What would the mysterious Claire Andrews tell them if she could?

“Tara,” she said, pushing her dishes forward and giving Boots a gentle shove off her lap, “I did some searching in the attic yesterday.” At the sudden lift of wide brown eyes, she added quickly. “I didn’t find anything about your mother yet.” She’d feel better about things if she could corroborate Tara’s story about her mother. Still, why should she doubt it?

A little silence passed between them. Then Annie corralled her thoughts. “I’m sure between the ladies of the Hook and Needle Club and a bit more exploring, we’ll learn something. There’s still a ton of stuff to go through up in the attic.”

Tara said nothing. She began clearing the dishes and placing them slowly in the drain board. Boots reclaimed her seat in the window and watched through heavy eyes as the sun streamed over her back.

“Tara, would you like to help me with a little project for the shelter benefit? You don’t go to work until one—right?”

“Sure,” Tara responded, turning.

“I found some cross-stitch pieces of Gram’s that are perfect for framing or jewelry boxes. The girls at A Stitch in Time will help too, once the pieces are cleaned and straightened. They’re beautiful originals—a lot of them with animals as subjects. We can set up a table upstairs with the supplies. Are you game?”

“I don’t know anything about needlework, but I’m willing to learn,” Tara said. “I love the picture of the ocean that hangs in the bedroom—with the porch and geraniums and the white sailboat on the water. Your grandmother was such an artist. I bet she made lots of pictures like that …”

She broke off as though she’d spoken out of turn or something. Tara was a strange mix of mouse and lion. Annie smiled. Perhaps everyone was. “Let the dishes go. I can’t wait for you to see the little cross-stitch canvases.”

Upstairs, in one of the extra bedrooms, Tara helped Annie set up a table and assemble the things they needed: thick terry towels, a wide shallow bowl for warm water and mild detergent, and the blocking board. The board, which she had ordered from Mary Beth, was covered with heavy-duty fabric that was printed with a grid of squares. Before its advent, Annie had used a towel-covered pine board and a T-square for blocking.

“Actually, a person could pin a canvas to a clean, carpeted floor, but the blocking board is much better,” Annie said. “Now all we need are these heavy-duty rustproof T-pins and an iron.” She plugged in her Steam Master and moved the dial to the dry setting. Annie went up the steps and into the attic to get the box of small cross-stitch canvases she had found. “Go ahead,” she said to Tara when she returned to the bedroom, “take a few out and set them on the table. We’ll see which ones are soiled and need a bath.”

“Oh, these are beautiful, Annie.” Tara traced her finger over a watering can in which a curious kitten peered over the edge. Annie’s grandmother had stitched vibrant purple petunias spilling over a clay pot near the kitten. “I’m a novice with my watercolors, but your grandmother was truly an artist.”

“Well, these are simple pieces. Her true masterworks are the large canvases. She stitched some of them on ratchet frames. You can buy some wonderful modern frames with two-way rail systems, but Grandpa made the first one for her with his own hands, and it was always her pet frame.” Annie had found six finished canvases that had been stored in fancy embroidered pillowcases favored by women in earlier years. Some embroidery spelled out the days of the week, and other cases were bordered with lace.

Tara’s gaze rested on the doorway to the attic. “How many do you suppose are stored in there?” she asked, almost reverently.

“I haven’t counted,” Annie said, laughing. “But Gram was very prolific with her needle. And she stored her canvases in homemade pillowcases, so they wouldn’t get damaged. I found some others wrapped in acid-free tissue and kept in cardboard tubes. I’m still in the process of going through things; Gram lived a long time, and she was seldom without her needle.”

Tara took the watering can and kitten piece out of the water and rolled it in a thick towel, as Annie had showed her. She was about to pin it to one end of the blocking board when the doorbell rang. She jumped at the sound.

Tara had exhibited such skittishness from the start. She acted a lot like Boots when anyone came to the door, Annie thought, amused. The day Boots had knocked the pot of geraniums off the porch, Tara had practically jumped out of her skin. “That’s just Wally,” Annie said gently. “I asked him to come and have a look at my pantry; it desperately needs new shelves. Come on down. I want you to meet him.”

“Morning!” Wally called before she had opened the screen door. He was dressed in his usual blue shirt and faded jeans, his handmade toolbox clutched in one deeply tanned hand. He smiled shyly and lowered his head.

“Oh!” Annie said in surprise, for he wasn’t alone. A tall, muscular man, somewhere in his late thirties, stood beside Wally. Unruly black hair dipped over one of his deep-set eyes, giving him a roguish look. But his smile was as broad as his shoulders.

“This is my brother, Je—J.C.,” Wally said, dipping his head toward the man. “He’s visiting me and Peggy. He said he wanted to see Grey Gables again. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Annie said. “I’m pleased to meet you.” She shook his hand and looked up inquiringly. “You’ve been here before?”

“A very long time ago, I’m afraid. My—uh—business keeps me on the move, but I spent some good years here in my youth. I remember your grandmother. And I’m very pleased to meet you too.”

Annie stepped back to admit them, charmed by the stranger’s rather over-gallant manner. At least he didn’t have any trouble expressing himself. She turned, aware that Tara had followed her obediently down the stairs. “Wally, I don’t think you have met my guest.”

A deer-in-the-headlights stare passed over Tara’s face. She looked as though she might break and run. She was skittish indeed.

“This is Tara Frasier,” she said to Wally, who had placed his toolbox inside the hall and was wiping his boots on the mat. “Tara met your Peggy at A Stitch in Time the other day. Now she can meet you and your brother—J.C. is it?”

“Folks in town might remember me as Jeremiah, but the name’s a little hard to get around. J.C.’s simpler. Besides, some folks might not want to remember the wild kid I was in those days. I hope I’ve improved.” He laughed, setting off a spark in his deep-set eyes.

Tara didn’t move to take the hand offered to her but nodded stiffly, her face drained of color.

“Pleased to meet you too, young lady,” said Jem. Turning away, he clapped his brother amiably on the back. “Yup, old Wally and me had some good times here in Stony Point.”

Annie suppressed the urge to correct his grammar, which detracted from his charm.

“When we weren’t getting up to mischief we did an errand here and there. We liked doing chores for Mrs. Holden. Fine lady. And this house …” He made a sweeping gesture and looked around the room in open admiration, his eyes coming to rest on the large over-the-couch canvas of flowers. “This house is still an eye-popper—inside and out.”

Annie turned to Tara who hadn’t moved from the spot. “Tara, will you see if there’s still some coffee in the pot?” She gave her a reassuring pat on the arm and turned to her guests. “Won’t you come in and have a cup of coffee?” She indicated the way to the kitchen. “I might have some oatmeal cookies in the cupboard. Tara and I were working on something upstairs, but a morning coffee break would not go amiss, would it, Tara?”

“That would be great,” Tara said, hurrying away to busy herself at the counter.

By the time they were seated around the table, Wally and Jem were reminiscing about their days hauling lobsters in the old dory that belonged to Wally’s dad. Not surprisingly, Jem did most of the talking. Tara had recovered and had gotten cups down from the cabinet above the stove.

“Wally is a fine craftsman,” Annie said. “You can be proud of your brother. What line of work are you in, J.C.?”

“Real estate,” he replied, and then he stroked his jaw thoughtfully as though contemplating what to say. “As you know, things have been a little slow, what with banks not wanting to make loans, but it will pick up. Already has, as a matter of fact. I look for the market to rally any day now.”

“Ayuh,” Wally put in. “J.C. had an import/export business before that. He …”

“So, I thought it would be a good time for a little R and R,” Jem said, ignoring Wally’s remark. “And what could be better than the coast of Maine in the good old U.S. of A.?”

Annie noticed the way Tara’s fingers trembled on the coffeepot. If a couple of visitors could get her so rattled, how did Tara cope with Carla Calloway, pit bull of the animal shelter? Or was it just men who unnerved her? She had said something about a marriage and being abandoned. Once burned …

“I’ve heard that Mrs. Holden’s become famous these days,” J.C. rambled on. “When I saw that gorgeous picture in the Brown Library I wondered if it was done by the same Mrs. Holden I knew. Sure enough, there was a plaque right next to it telling all about her being from Stony Point and all.”

Was it odd that a man like Jem would notice a hand-worked canvas? Maybe he was a collector besides a real estate broker. Annie was sometimes surprised when a stranger spoke glowingly of Gram’s talent—surprised but eminently pleased. She felt a lump in her throat and missed Gram anew.

“I suppose there are galleries where you can buy one,” he continued. “Sure would be honored to have a Betsy Original hanging in my home someday.” Jem’s eyes wandered about the room as though he might see one hanging on the kitchen wall. The term “Betsy Original” seemed strange on this young man’s lips; it almost seemed that he intruded on some private territory. Perhaps Gram’s work was more widely known than she had thought.