The Stolen Canvas (4 page)

“Well, you should get some rest. We can talk in the morning. I’m just down the hall—to the left—if you need anything.”

“Yes,” Tara said, her eyes still riveted on the cross-stitch. “Thank you.”

Annie closed the door. Boots had come up the stairs with them and now followed Annie down with a little murmuring half-meow. “What?” she asked. “I just did what your former mistress would have done in my place.” She reached down and stroked the cat from head to tail in one swift motion.

Actually, Gram had taken in many visitors. As she cleared away the tea things in the kitchen, Annie wondered if taking in strangers was the wisest thing to do these days. She picked up the cordless telephone and dialed the familiar number.

“It’s me,” Annie said into the phone.

“What’s up?” From the sound of it, Alice was putting dishes away with the phone cradled against her shoulder.

“I have a visitor,” Annie said. “I just thought I should tell someone, since I don’t have a clue who she is.”

Silence. Even the tinkling of crystal stopped.

“She just showed up at Grey Gables with a duffle bag, and believe me, she was in no shape to move on. She practically fainted at the top of the hill. Says her car broke down in Petersgrove. Then she took the bus as far as Stony Point and started walking.”

“You mean, you’re putting her up overnight?” Alice asked with mild incredulity. “Why didn’t she walk to a motel?”

“She thought Grey Gables might be a bed and breakfast. At any rate, she’s worn out, and from what I can gather, she has no money. Her name’s Tara Frasier, and she’s from Portland.” Annie paused, aware how strange this all sounded—indeed how strange it really was. “She’s a grown woman, but she’s pretty upset. Her mother just passed away. Anyway, she needs help. I—I just wanted you to know …”

“You mean, in case you’re murdered in your sleep? Honestly, Annie, you’re such a pushover.” The clatter of dishes ensued.

“Come over tomorrow, and I’ll introduce you,” Annie said. She hung up with a smile. She wasn’t afraid, but it was good to know Alice was nearby. She was glad that her best friend had not reminded her of the time the stranger who’d filled in for Wally turned out to be a jewel thief. She switched off the kitchen light and went upstairs, curiously lighthearted.

No one could say her life was dull.

4

Tara Frasier woke with a start—disoriented. She squinted into the sunlight that penetrated the window blinds. It was a strange room … soft almond walls, muted coral accents, and valances trimmed with green ivy. Directly in front of her hung the finely cross-stitched canvas of a sun-spattered patio with a white wicker chair and red geraniums. The blue ocean, dotted with white caps, stretched endlessly in the background. It was beautiful, haunting, strange.

And then she remembered. She fell back against the soft sheets so delicately fragrant that she suddenly wanted to cry. She’d been taken in, given shelter in this lovely place, and warmed with tea and kindness.

“She’s just one of those rich widows with more money than sense.” Jem’s rich baritone, made flat with derision, echoed in her mind. “Probably never had to worry a day in her life like the rest of us. Well, maybe it’s time she spread a little of it around.”

“But, Jem …” she had protested.

“I told you, it’s J.C.! Jem Carson was that dumb kid cutting traps on the dock. I’m not that kid any more. You and me … together we’re going places. You and me, honey …”

Then he had buried his head in her shoulder, her curly plume of hair a cushion between them. And her heart had swelled with tenderness. Poor Jem. Nothing seemed to work out for him, no matter how hard he tried. His mother had died when he was a child; his father’s death allowed him and his brother, Wally, to run amok. They’d had to grow up quickly, to fight their way into a world that gave them little welcome. Wally had married Peggy, and the responsibilities of marriage and fatherhood had smoothed his rough edges. Jem was still just rough.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he had told Tara more than once. He had said other things too, but that was the drink talking. The angry bullish man he sometimes became wasn’t really who he was. Jem was sweet and strong, and he loved her.
Didn’t he?

Her head felt fuzzy. She pillowed deeper into the soft fabric of the bedclothes and wished Jem were with her now. But they were not to be seen together. No one must know they knew each other.

“But couldn’t we meet sometime?” she had asked him.

“Listen, honey,” he had interrupted. “It’s got to be this way. You have to make that lady trust you so you can help me. She’s got plenty of those fancy pictures hidden up there. What’s one or two? For us, baby.”

Tara sat up on the edge of the bed, tucked her feet into the soft plush rug, and felt a wave of dizziness come over her. She had to be strong; she had to think. Surely today, Annie Dawson would want to take her to Petersgrove to recover her disabled car—the car that didn’t exist. She’d be eager to get rid of her unwelcome houseguest. Tara sighed. What was she going to do?

She rose gingerly, taking a deep breath of the scented air. The window had been left open just enough to usher in the ocean breeze. It smelled heavenly. Pink and white roses blooming beneath the window added a luxurious fragrance. She felt like Alice in some sort of wonderland that wasn’t altogether new. She had been here in some long-ago dream never quite forgotten.

I pray for you every day and for Tara.
The woman named Elizabeth Holden had known about her as well as her mother. She had invited her mother to come here. Had she ever come? And if she had, why would she choose to leave?

Tara looked out on the idyllic view. The ocean shimmered beneath a radiant, blue sky. Reluctantly, she let the blind fall back in place. Her future here was nothing if not bleak and unpromising. Why was she allowing herself such foolish flights of mind? She could hear Annie moving about downstairs, perhaps wondering what her guest was up to. She’d have to get up, face her brief benefactress and explain herself. How long had she slept?

She fumbled through her bag for a clean pair of jeans. Steadying herself on the edge of the dresser, she wriggled into a clean jersey shirt. How could she possibly keep up this charade? What would she tell Annie? Jem had dropped her off as close to Grey Gables as he dared, and she had walked the rest of the way and climbed up the hill. There was no broken-down car. But that she had felt ill and breathless when she arrived was very much the truth. What was making her so tired these days? Had the old anemia returned? Would she have to take those big red iron pills again? She hated pills, recalling the bottles lined up on her mother’s scarred dresser.

A soft scratching at the door broke in on her thoughts. She opened it to find Boots looking at her with a quizzical expression on her gray, whiskery face. The cat waited demurely, as though to ask why she was still in bed on a glorious summer day. Tara had no idea of the time, but the sun had begun its climb into the blue reaches of sky.

She sprayed her hair to calm the wild curls and secured her headband over it. She applied some quick blush to her cheeks and descended the carpeted stairs. She forced herself to remain calm, but her heart was beating a wild tattoo in her chest as she approached the kitchen.

Her hostess was dressed in blue jeans and a white polo shirt over which a denim apron had been hastily secured. Blonde hair with silvery traces gleamed in the light from a bay window. A boy and a girl of kindergarten age grinned from photos on the refrigerator door. Pictures obviously drawn by their small hands clustered around the photos. On the counter and table, vases of flowers shed bright splashes of color. The woman’s movements were vibrant and energetic. Hardly the picture of the rich, spoiled widow Jem had drawn.

“Good morning, Tara,” Annie said as she pulled a tray of delicious-smelling muffins from the oven rack. She dropped an oven mitt on the table and extended a hand. “Please sit down. I have coffee—or tea, if you prefer it. I hope you slept well.”

Tara swallowed, clasping her hands to keep them from trembling. “I—I did sleep well, Mrs. Dawson. I …”

“It’s Annie. Just Annie, and I’m glad you slept well, but truthfully, you still look a bit peaked.” She studied Tara’s face.

Tara looked away, anxious lest Annie Dawson see beneath the pale skin and the dark-ringed eyes directly into her heart. She straightened her shoulders and smiled. “I’m much better … thanks to you.”

“So, will it be coffee or tea?” Annie asked. “Now, Miss Boots, keep out from under my feet,” she quipped to the cat circling her ankles. She placed two muffins on delicately painted blue plates.

“Tea, if it’s not too much trouble,” she replied, taking the offered chair and savoring the aroma of the muffins.

She was surprised to realize she was actually hungry. For days she’d had little or no appetite. Maybe she
was
getting better. The dizziness would pass; she’d feel more like her old self. Jem had tickled her protruding ribs the last time he’d held her in his arms. He’d frowned and told her she was getting as skinny as a cadaver. She shuddered at the grim comparison.

Annie handed her a cup of the same blue china in which last night’s tea had been served. She sat down across from her. “Welcome to Grey Gables. It’s a lovely day,” she said with a smile.

Tara was grateful not to be riddled with questions as they ate companionably in the brightly lit kitchen. The white tablecloth, edged with red and lime green accents, was set with matching place mats and napkins. Boots had jumped up onto the window ledge and sat sunning herself, occasionally licking delicate white paws.

Tara longed to remain in that tranquil space without speaking, but she had to say something to explain herself. Last night she’d been too tired, too ill; but Annie Dawson would want to know who she was and what her plans were. She would surely be anxious to see the back of the troublesome guest who had been thrust upon her.

She tried her best smile. “Mrs. … uh … Annie,” she corrected herself. “I want to thank you for letting me stay last night. I’m much improved this morning, and after this delicious breakfast, I feel even better. I’ll just get on my way and …” She let the words fall away because she had no idea what to say next. Her pulse began to race.

“Tara,” Annie began matter-of-factly. She moved her plate and cup to one side and leaned forward, slender hands folded on the table. “There’s no hurry. You just enjoy your breakfast. When you feel rested enough, I’ll take you to Petersgrove to see about your car. Likely, it’s been towed into town by now and …”

“There is no car,” Tara stated, looking directly at Annie. She twined her fingers together in her lap and looked away. She bit her lower lip. After a few seconds of silence she repeated, “There’s no car. I hitchhiked. You see, I lost my job. I couldn’t make the payments on my car. Then my mother got sick. When she died, I didn’t know what to do.”

Annie’s face registered surprise, but something more—gentleness, concern. Tara looked down again, amazed at how easily the lies came. Oh, it was true enough she’d lost her job, and she had no car, but she hadn’t gone to Portland to care for her ill mother. She’d come to dispose of her things and seal up the apartment in which she had died—alone.

“I’m so sorry,” Annie breathed. “But hitchhiking! That’s so dangerous. Wasn’t there someone you could call? A sister or an aunt or someone?”

Tara shook her head. “I don’t have any family. There was just my mother and me. I was married, but we were divorced after only a few years, and we never had kids.” It was perhaps the only thing she was grateful for and the only thing that saddened her—often to the point of tears.

God, if there is one, must have known that I couldn’t have cared for a child,
she thought. The needle-worked pillow with the cradle surrounded by pink roses in a crystal vase pushed its way into her mind.

“I’m sorry,” Annie said gently. A little furrow between her green eyes deepened. “But sometimes friends can be as close as family. What about
your
friends, Tara?”

She gave a little laugh and hoped she didn’t sound as bitter as she felt. She had casual acquaintances at work, companions to have a good time with for an evening, but there was no one to really talk to—no one but Jem. And lately that had been less than comforting.

“Your job, Tara. What did you do before you were let go?”

Had Annie thought a career kept her too busy for friends or family? The truth was she’d had a lot of jobs—waitressing, retail sales, whatever she could find. She’d never gone to college; she’d drifted from one entry level job to another. The best job was her most recent, but you could hardly call working for Wolverine Sign Incorporated a career.

She’d done service banners, truck lettering—all sorts of interior and exterior signs. She had been one of several workers they’d had to let go when the recession hit.
Last hired, first fired,
she thought. She couldn’t blame them. Besides, she’d called in sick too many times in recent weeks. Tara licked her dry lips, knowing Annie was waiting for an answer to her question. “I worked for a sign company—I did some hand lettering, and I set the machines for styles and designs. Routine work mostly, but I’m pretty good with computers. I don’t have any formal training though.”

Annie lifted the delicate cup to her lips and drank. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

Tara sipped from her own china cup, glad for a pause in the conversation. She was supposed to make friends with the lady of Grey Gables and secure her trust. She knew she was making a bad start, but she had no idea how to proceed. Jem would be furious.

“So you hitchhiked to Stony Point.” It was a statement more than a question, and Annie appeared to mull that idea around in her mind.

A woman looking for work would have stayed in Portland or traveled to Boston or some large city, but she had moved down the coast, and ended up in a small town. Tara knew it was hardly believable. “I guess it wasn’t the best idea, but I just had to get away after mother …” She let the sentence drop, lowering her head.

Annie rose to switch on the electric teakettle. She paused at the window seat to stroke Boots’s silken fur and no doubt to ponder how she might gracefully tell her houseguest it was time to move on. That she hadn’t yet done so surprised Tara. In fact, it amazed her that she, a stranger of no apparent means, had been given shelter in the first place.

In the space of seconds an idea unfolded in Tara’s mind. “I’m—grateful for your kindness, but I have to tell you something. I didn’t just happen to come here. I came on purpose.”

The atmosphere was suddenly charged. Her hostess returned to the table. She sat down and looked at Tara, her expression registering confusion.

“I came to Grey Gables because of a letter I found in my mother’s things. Actually, there were several letters over the last five or six years. They were from Elizabeth Holden of this address.” Tara hurried on, hoping her story was believable. Well, this part was true, at least. “It was obvious that my mother had spent some time in Stony Point and that Mrs. Holden was a friend. I just wanted to find her and thank her for being so kind to my mother. I didn’t say anything last night because … well, you weren’t her. And then you told me she had passed away, and I realized that I wouldn’t be able to thank her.”

Annie’s eyes widened; the light sprinkling of freckles stood out on her nose. She had to be shocked by this revelation and angry at being lied to.

Tara raced on: “I should have told you this right away. I’m sorry I made up the story about my car. I thought if you knew I was a hitchhiker you wouldn’t help me. I was really tired. Lately, I’ve not been feeling very well. I hope you’ll forgive me …” She looked down at her hands, waited for Mrs. Annie Dawson of Grey Gables to politely ask her to leave.

The silence stretched out. It could all be over in an instant. She saw everything falling apart—Jem’s plans, her place in his heart when he learned of her botched efforts. This time he might leave her for good. And something in the back of her mind teased at an even greater loss. Well, she’d lost her self-respect long ago, hadn’t she?

“Tell me about your mother.” The words fell softly between them.

Tara looked up, expecting to see anger—or at least censure—in her hostess’s green gaze. She blinked, breathing deeply to stop the whirling in her head. “Her name was Claire Andrews. She was …”