Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series (13 page)

Footsteps on the lawn made them look toward the house. The serviceman approached, holding a clipboard. “Mr. Chandler?”

With that, Kelly headed toward the house, Tom following.

“Hey,” he said, falling into step beside her.

“I’m a little cranky this morning, I’m warning you. I think someone was in the house last night, my neck and shoulders are killing me, and I’ve hardly slept.” She paused at the back steps and faced him.

“You should have called me last night,” he said.

“But how would you have gotten over here?”

“I would have figured something out. Either that, or had someone come for you. My parents have an extra room you could have crashed in.”

“Thanks, that’s really nice of you.” She gave him half a smile.

He couldn’t figure out what was with her. Sometimes she opened up like the morning sun coming from behind the clouds and it made him stop and stare. Other times like now, she acted as if they’d only just met.

“If it helps you to know, I’m not a fan of Chandler, either. But I have a job and I like it. I want to keep it.” His words surprised him, about liking the job. But the realization was true.

“Me too, me too.” She opened the back door, and winced.

“Are you okay?”

“I overdid it a little, sat too long without stretching.” She stood in the doorway, looking down at him.

“Ah.” He took the plunge. “There’s a jazz fest tonight at the harbor park. I need a ride.”

“Oh. You do?”

“Think you can take a night off from this big old house?”

Now a full smile crept across her face. “I think I can.”

“Pick me up at seven?” He never imagined he’d be glad to be the one waiting on a ride.

“I’ll be there.”

13

December 1851

One year ago, I cradled an infant. Little Hiram walks the floors of Gray House now as the child inside me grows. Esteban’s child. No one else knows and that is as it should be. I shall tell Esteban soon, if he has not surmised my state already. He stays at the house now, away from the eyes of the servants. I have let all but one couple go. My funds are short and the others’ prying eyes I could not risk betraying us.

Mrs. Walter Woodhouse came calling, telling me she has missed seeing me these many weeks at a church service. It used to be that I would walk to the house of God with my neighbors on the block, or we would proceed carriage by carriage. Those holy halls have no place for me now. Others may enter with clean attire and sin-filled hearts inside, but I know better. At least I am honest with my state as an adulteress. I have taken to heading to the lookout to see if Hiram’s ship is returning. At one time he said spring, he hoped.

K
elly set the journal down and covered her mouth with her hand. Oh, Mary. She shouldn’t have been surprised at this turn in the lady’s story. Maybe it wasn’t fair. Times were different back then, and people didn’t marry for love, but for money, convenience, companionship, or part of a business transaction. And then, were you to meet someone that you “connected with . . .”

She shoved the thought aside. It was modern thinking, “connecting with” someone. But Mary and Esteban had definitely connected. Call it the hormones of youth spurred on by loneliness. Still, Mary had taken vows. She should have known better. Generations were affected by her and Esteban’s actions.

Kelly glanced at her phone. She’d knocked off work early, listening to her aching muscles and tired body. She had time yet before getting ready to take Tom to the jazz festival. Not a date, she reminded herself. Just two friends, enjoying some time together. She needed to learn to have more fun. Sometimes the instinct for survival drowned out the fun.

She picked up the journal again and focused on Mary’s story.

April 1852

On a stormy night with Steban at my side, I gave birth to another son. Wild dark hair like his father’s, skin fairer than his father’s and more like mine. I cannot think of what the future holds. Esteban tells me that we will find a way, somehow, to be together. Yet I cannot leave my little Hiram behind. Two brothers, one darker, one lighter. I see no resolution, but Esteban says to be patient. We name our little one Peter, or Pedro.

August 1852

The news I once longed for and now dread has arrived: a letter from Hiram. Its passionless instructions tell me that I should expect him by the time the leaves fall from the trees. I cry myself to sleep every night in the security of Steban’s arms. He has thought of a plan, but I do not like it. We can tell him of our intentions, with
out telling him of little Peter. His youngest brother is but two years old, and his mother is used to caring for a brood of children. The Delgados are good people. He will take Peter to his mother, who will care for him without question, until he and I can settle things with Hiram.

The shadows in the sitting room were long. Kelly sniffled, then brushed the tears from her cheeks. Mary, giving up her child. She set the journal on the small round table, the words on the page.
He will take Peter to his mother
.

What must Esteban’s mother have thought, seeing her son carrying an infant through the door, and placing him in her arms? Did she love him like one of her own? Esteban had mentioned to Mary that his mother still had small children in the home, which might be possible, if Esteban had been in his early twenties when Peter, or Pedro, was born.

There truly was nothing new under the sun. Parents failed their children, children were removed from homes to grow up somewhere else because of their parents’ failures. Kelly had always thought she was on the outside, as were her fellow foster siblings. They didn’t really have a “home,” like in the Hallmark movies.

She used to dream about having a mother and a father, sitting around the table at Thanksgiving and Christmas, having cousins come to visit. Family vacations, road trips in the car. Slumber parties.

One night Lottie had found her in tears, around age fourteen or so. She hadn’t been invited to someone’s party at school. Her hand-me-down jeans and off-brand sneakers hadn’t passed the fashion muster, so she’d been excluded from the “inner circle.”

“I don’t feel like I belong, Lottie,” she’d wailed. “Even if my clothes were the right kind, I still think they’d laugh me off.” But it was more than not belonging because of clothes.

“You belong in the best way possible,” Lottie had said. She stroked her hair. “I know it hurts and I wish I could make it stop. You’re part of God’s family and you are never alone, and you never have to worry if your clothes are just right.”

No easy choice then, or now. Life hadn’t dealt Mary Gray the hand she’d expected, and Kelly had learned a long time ago not to expect too much. She was sorry for her unbelief, proba-bly more than Mary was about her goings-on with Esteban.

She made herself cut the pity party short. Lottie had always talked about counting her blessings. Right now, Kelly figured she ought to do the same. A good place to stay, plenty of work for the moment, her needs met. She had people who loved her, even if that group was small. She had some new friends she liked—a lot, especially Tom. Her face flushed. The past was just that—past.

Time to pick out some clothes for this evening. The sun had baked the outside with midsummer heat, but with the lengthening shadows, a breeze drifted through the open window.

Her phone buzzed, an unfamiliar number, but she took the call.

“Ms. Frost, this is Megan Hughes, the reporter from the
New Bedford
Star
.”

“I remember you.”

“I’m calling to let you know that Firstborn Holdings has approved my interview with you, so I can see the quilt and have a tour of the house.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m prepared for a tour.”

“That’s all right. A Mr. Plummer is supposed to meet me at the house and give me the tour. We’ve set it up for next Tuesday at eleven a.m., if that works for you, too.”

“My schedule is flexible, so that’s fine.”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you then.”

After the call ended, Kelly stared at the phone. Mr. Plummer? What about Chandler? Well, it shouldn’t surprise her that the company would send someone a little more personable. At least, though, they weren’t depending on her to give a tour.

Tom closed his eyes and listened to the music echoing off the harbor. Kelly sat beside him on a lawn chair that he’d found while scrounging in the tool shed on his property. He hadn’t thought he’d need them at the time, but now he realized the convenient turn of insignificant events.

“That was beautiful,” Kelly said as the last strains of the song drifted away. She smiled at him. “I’m glad I came tonight.”

“Me too. A change of scenery is a good thing sometimes, my mom likes to say.”

“She’s right.” Kelly took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I guess they’re going for an intermission right now?”

“It looks that way.” He studied her face. “So, what’s up? You look like you want to say something.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been reading Mary Gray’s diary. I can’t stop thinking about it. I got to the part tonight where she had an illegitimate son by a young carpenter she was tutoring in English.”

Tom shook his head. “Wow. I wonder if that’s in the records officially anywhere.”

“I don’t know. It would be interesting to find out. It’s sad, really. She ended up letting her lover’s family take the baby while she dealt with her husband’s return. And get this, the guy’s family is Portuguese.” Kelly shifted on the seat, slowly, as if giving her muscles a chance to stretch.

“I bet Dave Winthrop would know where to look.” At her questioning glance, he continued. “The bamboo floor guy.”

“Oh, that’s right. But how would he know where to look?”

“He’s really into genealogy,” Tom replied. “He’s traced my pop’s side of the family back to the 1850s. When I get a chance, I might start looking farther back, to see when they first came to the United States.”

She nodded. “That’s neat, that you have that history you can search through.”

Ah. Tom remembered about Kelly’s family tree, or lack thereof. “It was easier than I thought it would be. Winthrop found some census records.”

She looked as though she was going to say something else, then stopped. He let the silence fall between them, with sounds of the harbor and other concertgoers swirling around their self-imposed bubble.

“Are you almost through with the job on that townhouse?”

“One more day, tomorrow. Then it’s back to Gray House full time.”

“I’m glad.” Her face flushed, she glanced down at her lap.

“Walk with me for a few minutes?” He stood, his legs reminding him he’d been sitting still for too long. If he stretched his legs, his back might not flare up and he’d be grateful to get out of bed in the morning.

“Sure.” They left the lawn chairs and ambled closer to the water. “What did you think you’d find, looking back at your family?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t looked more closely at it yet. The census records show I’ve got a long line of hardworking people behind me.” He stopped at the edge of the pier that ran the length of the waterfront.

“That’s something to be proud of.” She smiled at him, then glanced toward the harbor waters with sad eyes.

He nudged her shoulder with his own, not wanting to risk anything more than casual. “I bet you have something special back in your family tree.”

“I’ve never cared to look.”

“Well, you should. I mean, just because your parents were, ah . . .” He couldn’t find the right word, but didn’t want to say anything like “failures” since he didn’t really know much about them, other than their daughter lived in foster care for a good chunk of her younger years.

“Failures, losers.” Kelly glanced back at him. “I’ve said those words and others before. I honestly don’t know if I want to look back to see what I can find. I never met my grand-parents, either side, that I remember. Or maybe I did, once. Mom stopped at a pretty house, somewhere south of Boston. She, ah, she walked me to the front door and we knocked. She asked the lady at the door for some money and asked if she wanted to meet me. I think it was her mother.”

“What happened?”

Kelly shrugged. “We went inside, and the lady gave me a glass of milk and a Pop-Tart. I really don’t remember much of what they talked about, but I know she gave my mother some money before we left. We never went back again, once my mother got another boyfriend.” She crossed her arms and rubbed away a shiver. “Jenks didn’t want Mom to have anything to do with anyone but him. Our house was a prison until Mom died.” Her voice had grown tight.

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine living like that.”

Kelly shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Here, you invite me to this beautiful evening, and I’m spouting off a bunch of ick.”

He drew on his courage and allowed himself to slip his arm around her waist. “I like Kelly Frost, spouting off and all. God knows I’ve done enough spouting myself, it’s a wonder people would want to be around me sometimes.”

She leaned against him, but kept her arms around herself. “You’re not so bad.”

“Ha. You missed the worst of it.”

“Really. I admire your courage, after what you’ve been through.”

He caught a whiff of her shampoo, something like fresh flowers. “I’m a work in progress. I’ll just be glad when I can get cleared to drive again. A couple of weeks.”

“I’m glad you needed a ride tonight.”

“Me too. And I’m glad you’re the one who brought me.” He surprised himself by turning his head toward her and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

“Now, you can do better than that.” Kelly slid her arm around him, then pulled him close for a quick kiss on the lips.

The old man was getting his way again. He’d never before allowed anyone into the house, not until Ms. Frost. And with the latest news, the old man had been quite feisty. The visiting physician said he was making a remarkable comeback, something that none of them had expected.