Authors: Arlene Sachitano
She took a shower, towel-dried her hair and quickly blew it dry. She dressed and was waiting in her front room when Harold arrived.
"You look lovely,” he said when she opened the front door. She handed him the tan trench coat she'd found in the entryway closet. He held it while she slipped it on, overlapping the front and securing the extra width with the belt. If she was going to go out at night, she would have to go shopping, and not at Wal-Mart, either.
She quickly chased that thought from her mind. She wasn't going to be here long enough to need a dating wardrobe.
Harold was the perfect gentleman. He opened and closed doors, made polite small talk about the weather in Foggy Point and drove a consistent five miles under the speed limit. What he didn't talk about was Avanell, the Vitamin Factory or any other topic that might elicit an emotional reaction.
Harriet felt both relief and guilt that he didn't want to discuss Avanell. She'd spent every waking hour since she'd found her obsessing about what she could have done differently that might have changed the outcome. So far, she hadn't come up with anything but a headache.
When they arrived at the restaurant, he had reserved a table by the window. The owner of the restaurant, James, greeted them at the door, surrounded by the faint aroma of baked garlic.
"How nice to see you, Harold,” he said. “And who is this vision of loveliness?"
Harold introduced Harriet. He had neglected to mention that he and James had been fraternity brothers. James seemed pleased to see Harold with a date in a way that made her uncomfortable.
James seated them and immediately brought a plate of crostini with a pork liver pate.
"So, tell me about the quilting business,” Harold said when James had retreated into the kitchen. “The chamber dinner wasn't really conducive to conversation. You said you work at a studio in your home, but what does that entail?"
Harriet proceeded to tell him all about the long-arm quilting business—or at least as much as she knew about it with her month of experience. He asked intelligent questions and leaned attentively forward as he listened. She explained how her first week on her own in the business was made more difficult by the Tacoma quilt show.
Not wanting to appear self-centered, she asked what he did for fun.
"Calculations,” he replied.
"Uh, what sort of calculations?” She tried to think what she could possibly ask as a follow-up.
"Differential equations, usually, although I do branch out into combinatorial analysis sometimes for fun,” he replied.
I'm a dead woman, Harriet thought.
"That sounds interesting,” she said.
She was saved by James bringing a steaming poached salmon dish to their table. He followed this with roast squab; and then, after a palate-cleansing course of grapefruit sorbet, petit filet mignon with a blue cheese peppercorn sauce. The beef was served with garlic mashed potatoes and sauteed string beans. A salad of fresh wild greens was served after the beef.
Harriet had to assume either Harold or James was a tea-totaler. Italian sparkling water was served at the start of the meal, followed by an excellent French sparkling cider. The usual coffee and tea selections were offered, and they both chose tea.
The flow of food had made conversation not only impossible but also unnecessary. When James offered to bring a dessert tray for their perusal, Harriet spoke up.
"This dinner is the best I've had in years or maybe even in my lifetime, but if I eat another bite, I'll burst. I'd love to come by another time and maybe just have dessert and coffee."
James brightened, and she realized he was thinking she was suggesting another date with Harold.
Harold handed him a charge card.
"I'd like to pay for mine,” Harriet said.
"That isn't necessary. Besides, this was my idea. When you invite me out, if you insist, you can pay."
"Thank you, then. The food was truly delicious."
"It's been my pleasure. Now, however, I'm afraid I have to return to work."
Harriet imagined herself flopping onto her bed and lying immobile, reliving the pleasure of the meal until she fell asleep. She couldn't fathom going back to work after a six-course meal.
Harold delivered her to her doorstep at exactly ten o'clock. He got out of the car and walked her up the steps and onto the porch. Any fear about awkwardness at the front door was quickly laid aside. He squeezed her hand, thanked her for coming to dinner and left.
"Fred!” she called. The cat came running downstairs. “Dinner was really, really good, but can you see us with a guy who does differential equations for fun?"
She kicked off her shoes, picked up the cat and went to bed.
Harriet was in the studio when Mavis arrived the next morning. She'd gathered a bundle of cotton quilt bags, a pad of sticky notes and a couple of markers. She wasn't sure what the usual procedure was for the group, but she believed you could never go wrong with sticky notes and permanent markers.
"Avanell probably has a shocking amount of fabric in her stash,” Mavis said when they were settled in the front seat of her powder-blue Town Car. “Most of us have either husbands or budgets that prevent us from going overboard. After Ed died, she had neither. She made plenty of money, and stitching was her only vice."
"So, what do you usually do with the fabric?"
"There is no usual, thank the good Lord, but the Loose Threads are mostly seniors, so the subject naturally comes up now and then. Avanell made it clear that while she was willing to donate a fair share to the charity projects, she wanted her best stuff to go to members of our group who would appreciate it."
The car groaned as it climbed the long, steep road that led to Avanell Jalbert's home. The Queen Anne Victorian house had been built by Cornelius Fogg in 1851; its location overlooking the tip of the peninsula was no accident. It was rumored that, before he became the beloved founder of Foggy Point, Cornelius had been the notorious pirate Silver Beard. Some local historians believed he never gave up his thieving ways but used his ongoing proceeds to fund the development of his namesake.
The house had views of both the hidden inlets of Pirate's Cove and the deepwater channel of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. When Harriet was young, the local children told her there were tunnels from the basement of the house to the cove below. She had eagerly believed the tales back then but as an adult knew that almost every coastal town had rumors of tunnels that were nearly never true.
Jenny's black BMW was already parked in front of the house when Mavis pulled to a stop. Jenny took a large stack of clear plastic bins from the backseat and handed them into Aiden's waiting arms.
"Hi,” she called out when Mavis and Harriet got out of the car. “Connie and Robin are inside, and we're still waiting for DeAnn and Lauren."
"What about Sarah?” Mavis asked.
"She had a meeting she couldn't get out of.” Jenny rolled her eyes skyward as she said it. “Michelle has us in the upstairs parlor. We were just getting our stuff organized while we were waiting for you."
Aiden carried the boxes into the house, his broad shoulders disappearing as he climbed a narrow staircase off the entry. Jenny followed him up the stairs.
"Hi,” said a petite dark-haired woman as she crossed the polished marble entry. “I'm Michelle.” She held her hand out. “You must be Harriet."
Harriet took the offered hand. It was cold and hard, and the fingers circled hers in a claw-like grip.
"I'm so sorry about your mother,” she said, and had to force herself not to rub her hand to restore the circulation.
"Yes, I understand you were the one who found her.” She said it as if it were an accusation.
"Are you coming?” Mavis called from the stairwell. Harriet turned and climbed the stairs, leaving Michelle where she stood.
"Don't let Michelle get to you. She's grown a bit prickly since she left Foggy Point, but she's a good girl under all that."
Harriet wasn't so sure. She'd met dozens of good Foggy Point girls during her childhood whenever her parents got tired of playing the parental role and dumped her here. She had learned that kids can be cruel to anyone who is different, and when you spend your formative years bouncing between the capitols of Europe and Foggy Point, Washington, you were definitely different.
"Harriet,” Connie yelled from across the room. “Come here."
Connie met her halfway across the large room and embraced her in a warm hug. It had to be a conspiracy. These women were trying to make up for a lifetime of missed hugs in Harriet's life all in a few weeks.
"Are you getting things straightened out in the studio?” Connie continued without waiting for a reply. “It must have been so awful for you, finding Avanell like that.” She patted Harriet's hand. “Come over here.” She led her to an ornate sofa table behind a forest green velvet settee. “I brought some tea."
She pulled a cardboard cup from a stack and picked up a black carafe, poured dark liquid into the cup and handed it to her. A spicy aroma invaded Harriet's nose.
"This is my own special blend,” Connie said as Harriet took a sip of the orange-flavored tea.
She didn't really like spiced teas, but she smiled and thanked Connie anyway.
"Lauren called and said she was going to be a little late,” DeAnn informed them as she joined the group. “Have you started yet?"
"No, we were waiting until everybody was here,” Jenny said. “Michelle thought we could set up folding tables in this room to do our sorting."
Aiden chose that moment to arrive.
"Michelle said something about moving furniture for you ladies,” he said, his cool gaze on Harriet. She felt heat creeping up her neck.
"If you could move the sofa and table against the wall and then bring down two of those eight-foot folding tables, we can put them end-to-end in the middle of the room and put folding chairs around them,” Jenny suggested. “Maybe Harriet can help you with the chairs."
"Will do, chief.” Aiden saluted her. “Come on,” he said to Harriet. “Mom's workroom is on the third floor."
He led her down a long hallway that had three closed doors on each side. At the end was a dark flight of steeply pitched stairs.
"Mom used the servant's quarters for her quilting. Apparently, old Cornelius didn't worry too much about his servants’ comfort—at least not when he put the stairs in. Michelle was afraid the climb would be too hard for some of the ladies, in case you were wondering why we're dragging everything down to the parlor."
She had been curious but had decided not to ask. The stairs were a hard climb, but they opened onto a spacious landing.
"I'm not sure how many servants the old man had, or even if this was the original configuration of the space, but they seem to have had the whole floor. Mom uses their parlor...” He caught himself. “She used the parlor,” he corrected. “Anyway, she had her machines in here, and then back there is a kitchen she used for wet stuff. There are a couple of bedrooms and bathrooms over there."
He pointed toward a short hallway. Harriet wasn't sure what direction they were facing.
"Come over here,” he said. “You have to see her office."
He led her to a round room that opened off the parlor. This had to be the tower she'd seen from the outside. The room had windows all the way around. Each window had a stained glass header that had to be Tiffany, or at least one of his imitators. The clear leaded glass pane in the center of each panel revealed an incredible vista. She could see across the strait to Vancouver Island.
She crossed the room. From the opposite side, she could see the cove Aunt Beth's house looked onto, but from a different angle.
Aiden came up behind her. His proximity sent a warming shiver through her. He rested one hand on her left shoulder and pointed over her right with the other.
"See that dark area where the water disappears into the wood?"
"There where it looks like a river or creek or something?” she said, trying to focus on what he was showing her.
"That's where Cornelius kept his pirate ship. Or at least, that's the local legend."
"Do you believe the legend?"
"I believe anything's possible,” he said, and with a hand on each shoulder, spun her around.
Harriet was pretty sure they weren't talking about pirates anymore. She lingered a moment longer than she should have then broke away and escaped across the room.
Aiden retreated to the next room, and she heard what she imagined was the sound of folding tables being moved. She took one last look at the view and started to leave the tower.
Avanell's ornately carved dark cherry desk sat in the center of the room. It must have allowed her to enjoy the view without being so close she would be chilled by the draft off the single-pane windows. Harriet couldn't help glancing at the two neat stacks of papers on the blotter. The top one on the left looked like a balance sheet. She wasn't an accountant, but she knew what red ink meant.
The older women in the quilting group sat around the folding table sorting Avanell's fabric into piles. Harriet and DeAnn had carried box after box from the attic workroom down to the parlor, and they still hadn't touched half of Avanell's stash.
They used the center of each table to hold the sorted piles; Harriet's sticky notes came in handy labeling the various categories. One table held batiks, hand-dyed fabrics, Asian prints, Civil War reproduction fabric and other premium cuts that would be re-divided among the Loose Threads members. The second table held groups of fabric that would be donated to several charity quilt projects.
The end of the second table held what made up the dark underbelly of every stash—the “what was I thinking?” pile. Avanell had been old enough this last group not only included neon colors but polyester. These would be taken to the Goodwill store in Port Angeles. Harriet vowed to herself that, when this was all over, she and Aunt Beth were going to purge this category from the studio stash before their friends had a chance to see the extent of their mutual bad judgment.