Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series (17 page)

He took the Garden State Parkway until the exit for the beach. The lowered speed limit made his pace mimic a crawl. In the next town, a billboard promised a simple motor hotel with rooms “just blocks from the beach.” Fine with him. He easily found the horseshoe shaped one-story structure with a small rectangular swimming pool. The place reminded him of a retro motor court from an old movie. One last room available, and Tom paid for it with cash.

The room, simply furnished with beach-themed rattan furniture, felt stuffy and closed in. Tom switched on the window A/C unit. A walk would help him keep the fidgets away while the room temperature cooled.

He locked the door behind him and headed onto the sidewalk in the direction of the surf’s call. One of the many restaurants along the boardwalk was still open, this one with saxophone music drifting out the open doors. They’d rebuilt after last fall’s hurricane that flooded the town.

Tom wished he could rebuild what was damaged with Kelly, but didn’t know how.

Tom’s stomach growled. He’d missed his evening dose of medicine and supper, too. Neither of those were good things, and his doctor’s chiding reminded him to take care of himself. He stepped into the restaurant and found an empty table. An old man played the saxophone, accompanied by a pianist in the background.

A server stopped at his table. “Something to drink?”

“Just coffee. Black. And a burger and fries, if your kitchen is still open.”

“It is. I’ll get your coffee for you now.” His server disappeared into the rear of the restaurant.

His restless itch had brought him here, but nothing had changed. Maybe just for tonight he could forget what had happened.

He took out the folder of genealogy, looking back at the highlighted names, all the way back to Delgado on his father’s side. The handwritten notes said Peter Delgado, but the census read Pedro. Coincidence?

The names from Kelly’s tales of the journal came back to him. Mary and Esteban had a child together that she’d passed along to Esteban. Now what kind of a mother would do that? His name was Peter, or Pedro. Delgado.

His father’s great-great-grandfather? Yet there it was on the census, Pedro Delgado, eight years old, listed on the census for the first time. The names matched up, too. Esteban was there, only twenty-two, listed below his parents as a separate head of household with the occupation of carpenter. He hadn’t noticed that before.

He didn’t think he’d bother telling his parents about that just yet. Which meant he was related to Mary Gray. His first impulse was to tell Kelly. No. He wouldn’t do it. Eventually, he would. He owed her that much of the story.

“Your coffee.” The server set down a mug in front of him on the plastic tabletop. “I’ll be back soon with your food.”

“Thanks.” It was a sticky late-August night, maybe too hot for coffee, but Tom didn’t want anything stronger.

He took a sip and let the heat slide down his throat. Better. He leaned back in his chair and listened to the saxophone’s call.

One day he’d have to stop running. From people, from memories, from regrets. From his fear. Truth be told, he was terrified of pulling himself out of the shambles and holding pattern he’d lived in. It was easier to push things off on his scars. And then there was Kelly.

He’d fallen for her despite his resolve to stay uninvolved, to not let anyone in. But here he was, hundreds of miles from home. That showed him he was more than involved. She’d wormed her way into his heart, without any effort on her part.

He sipped his coffee and closed his eyes. The saxophone’s music fell silent, and he and the few people gathered in the restaurant applauded. Good stuff, such soulful music. He heard the joy and pain, even longing, in the melody.

Someone stopped at his table, and he opened his eyes.

“You dining alone?” asked the saxophone player, with skin as dark as the coffee Tom drank.

Tom nodded. “Just had to get out for a while, and found this place.” It was the shortest of the explanations he could come up with.

“You mind if I join you for a few moments?”

“Not at all, Mister . . . ?”

“Thompson. Billie Ray Thompson, originally of Memphis, Tennessee.”

“You’re a long way from Tennessee,” Tom said.

“You’re a long way from home yourself.” Billie Ray squinted at Tom’s clothing. “You don’t look dressed for the beach, either.”

“Nah. I had some troubles at home and figured I’d leave them behind for a while.”

“For a while, huh?” Billie Ray grinned. “You know they’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

“Sometimes we need a breather.”

“That we do, that we do. So, what are you running from?”

Tom shrugged. “There’s this woman . . . ”

“A woman, huh? Now this is worth sittin’ down for.” Billie Ray pulled up a spare chair. “Those ladies, they heap plenty o’ troubles on us, don’t they?”

“I should have seen it coming.”

“She run around on you, is that it?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“She spent your money?”

“No.”

“Killed your dog?”

“Now, that’s ridiculous.” The corners of Tom’s mouth twitched. “No, she wouldn’t do that.”

“So what’s she done that’s so bad, that made you come all the way to the shore?”

“She made me fall in love with her.”

“Made you, did she?” Billie Ray looked up.

A server held a plate of burger and fries. “Thanks,” Tom said, as she placed it in front of him. “Yes, made me.”

“What’s wrong with that? Everybody needs somebody.”

“Maybe they don’t.”

“Of course you do. And if the good Lord has seen fit to send you somebody, you should walk into it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. ’Cause I wish I had.” Billie Ray sighed. “I waited too long. She got tired of waiting. I wanted to be one-hundred percent sure. I didn’t want to make a mistake. I seen too many bad marriages.”

“What’s wrong with being one-hundred percent sure?”

“Because love doesn’t always give us the best percentages. We gotta rely on us working to love and God working through us to love.” Billie Ray smiled up at the server, who placed a glass of ice water in front of him.

“You don’t say.”

“No, I do say.” Billie Ray glanced at his watch. “I’ve got about five more minutes.”

“Thanks for sitting with me.”

“Thanks for listening to me. Don’t wait too long, my friend.”

“I’ll think about it” was all Tom could say.

18

T
om drove the lawnmower into the storage shed, then cut the engine. He’d finished the lawn, right at twilight. What twilight there was tonight, that is. Clouds were rolling in from the northwest, and a rumble of thunder punctuated the humid atmosphere. Late August and the sticky heat clung to him, just like his shirt.

His Friday night ride to the Jersey shore behind him, and Monday had come and gone, with plenty to do at Gray House.

He hadn’t spoken to Kelly since that Peyton character had shown up. Finally, he’d found the right time to kiss her, to feel as if they were truly together. Her work on the quilt was drawing to a close, and she wasn’t sure what would come next. Tom wasn’t sure if he could ask her to stay, to set up a studio in New Bedford and keep working with her special touch on her fabrics. He didn’t understand it all, but he knew he wanted her to stay.

Then Peyton, the jerk, came in and ruined everything. Kelly had wavered with Peyton’s assurances that he was ready to go back to the way they were. Why couldn’t women see through a player’s big talk? A cheater would always cheat.

The images he’d seen online, of Boston parties and the museum crowd, had plenty of Peyton and Kelly. Then the photos of Peyton and his wife. What a mess. He’d seen the confusion written on Kelly’s face, too.

“Give her a chance,” Ma had said. “She’s hurting and healing. But I can tell she cares for you more than she’s ready to say.”

“I don’t know . . .” Chandler’s warning rang in his ears. Yet how many times had people given him another chance, more than once?

Billie Ray’s warning also came to him.
Don’t wait too long
.

A car rolled up onto the parking slab. Chandler. Good timing, like a root canal.

The man exited the vehicle. It was the first time that Tom had ever seen him not wear a suit jacket and tie. He looked ready for a clambake at the Vineyard in his khakis and polo shirt.

“Chandler.”

“Pereira.”

“What brings you here today? The lawn’s trimmed, the garden’s weeded, and the roses are free of black spot.” He tried to remind himself that this was his boss’s representative, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.

“Business. As always, business.” Chandler gestured toward the greenhouse. “May I see your progress on the native plants?”

Tom nodded. It was sort of odd, the guy having more than a passing interest in the grounds at Gray House. “Right this way.” His head throbbed, probably due to the humidity and changing barometric pressure with a storm coming.

“So, here’s the turn-of-the-twentieth-century herbs that your boss wanted.” Tom pointed at the row of terracotta planters. “Soon we’ll have a collection that any cook one hundred years ago would love to use.”

“Well done.” Chandler shook his head. “I never would have thought you’d put up with this job for so long.”

“Times are tough. A job’s a job.” Tom shrugged. “Plus, what can I say? The place has grown on me. No pun intended. I think there’s life in the old gray house.”

“I see.” Chandler started walking the aisles of the greenhouse, surveying the plants.

Tom picked up his courage. Finishing the townhouse project had given him some courage. If he could do the floors, surely he could round up a couple of friends to help him work on the ancient roof of Gray House.

“Say, Chandler. I noticed that the roof needs repairs, possibly replacement altogether. I’ve already been part of several roofing projects this past spring.” Tom paused, waiting to see what Chandler would say. He didn’t particularly like the guy, but he knew he was the go-between for the head of the company.

Silence. Chandler was studying the roses, the more than one-hundred-year-old bush that Tom had been coaxing back to life. A solitary bud had appeared on one of the spindly branches. The same one he’d shown Kelly the other night had now started to open.

“Resilient, isn’t it?” Chandler asked.

“Ah, the rosebush.” Tom nodded. “It’s taken all summer. But I think this original bush will be ready to introduce back to the garden soon.”

“Nothing like the original, is there? Any new plant is a hybrid, an imposter.” Chandler’s voice held a detached tone.

“What are you getting at?” The guy’s attitude was a bit freaky. They were just plants. The old plant was irreplaceable, but really . . .

“The old man thinks you deserve his birthright.” Chandler was shaking his head. “After all I’ve done for him, and I’m part of the
legitimate
line. Legitimate is the key word here.”

“What are you talking about?” How did Chandler learn about his illegitimate connection to Gray House through Mary Gray?

Chandler pulled out a leather-bound book.

“How’d you get that?” Tom demanded.

“It’s none of your concern.” Chandler shook the journal. “See? This tells the whole story. The old man wants to give it all to you and that—that cheating—”

“Cheating what?” Tom clenched his hands into fists. “You don’t talk about Kelly that way.”

Chandler spoke one word, and it was enough for Tom to rush at him, slamming him into the door frame. The journal flew from his hand and thudded onto the packed-dirt floor.

“I can see you’re in denial about Kelly Frost’s true character. Remember, I wanted you to keep an eye on her.” Chandler wheezed. Tom resisted the urge to land a punch. Lightning flashed in the windows.

“I don’t care. But you’ll not talk like that about her again.” Tom’s head swam. Likely his blood pressure had just shot up. He grabbed his forehead.

“It doesn’t matter what you tell me. I’ve got the true bloodline. Ironic, that Captain Gray’s progeny has fallen so far.” Thunder cracked through the clouds outside, as if agreeing with Chandler’s rant.

“Chandler, you need to get some help, or something.”

“Right. I’ll press charges for you attacking me as well.”

Tom froze. Chandler had a point. He’d been the one to lose his cool when Chandler made the comment about Kelly.

“I can sue you for that. Remember, I’m a lawyer.” Chandler took a few steps forward. “Last I knew, it was illegal to slam a man against a door frame for insulting his girlfriend.”

Tom turned to face away from Chandler. A whooshing noise came to his ears. Then a searing pain, and nothing.

The lightning flash pulled Kelly’s focus from the quilt.
Two, three, four
. . . She’d never dropped the childhood habit of counting the seconds until the crack of thunder followed. The storm was close. Good. Anything to break the late summer heat wave and its accompanying humidity. If only the coming storm could wash away the wall between her and Tom.

Sure, he was back from wherever he’d gone. But he didn’t share anything with her. She’d met Angela for coffee, who’d encouraged her to give Tom some time.

If he was going to be stubborn, fine. There was nothing she could do about it.

A knock sounded at the front door. Hopefully, it wasn’t someone else asking for a tour of Gray House. The media attention had garnered some interest for her about future conservation work, but also had pulled up its share of nosy neighbors who wanted to see the old house and hear about the quilt firsthand.

She headed for the front hallway, then unlatched the front door. “Mr. Chandler.”

“May I . . . may I come in?” He sounded friendlier than she’d ever seen him.

“Of course. This isn’t my home.” She stepped back, allowing him into the entryway.

“Do you have a few moments? I know you’ve been working on the quilt, but I wanted to say thank you, and apologize.” He lowered his head, nodding at her.

“I’m about ready to stop for the evening, so, sure.” She figured she’d do the courteous thing. “Would you like some lemonade or iced tea? Or coffee? I can make a fresh pot.”

“Something cold to drink would be fine.” He gestured for her to walk ahead of him. “I won’t be but a few minutes.”

Kelly led him to the kitchen. Maybe he’d realized what a jerk he’d been this summer. Or maybe someone at work had told him to be polite. Either way, she’d take it. She wouldn’t be here much longer anyway.

“I’ve made some fresh iced tea. It should be cool right about now.”

“That’s fine with me.” Chandler sat down at one of the four wooden chairs that stood in front of the breakfast table.

She was fighting to stay polite, but this time it wasn’t hard. The guy was actually acting half human for a change. She took out a pair of glass tumblers, set them on the counter, then fished the iced tea out of the refrigerator and poured them each a glass.

“You seem quite comfortable in this kitchen.”

An odd change of subject. She shrugged. “As comfortable as I can be, I guess.” She was going to say something about not being much of a cook, but her cell phone ringing made her pause. “If you’ll hold on a minute, I’ll be right back.”

She scurried down the hall toward the ballroom where she’d left her phone. Give the guy his cold drink, send him on his way after she heard whatever his apology contained. Many times she’d been on the giving end of an apology. If he was going to apologize, she’d listen to him.

Private caller
. That could be anyone. She tucked her phone into her pocket and returned to the kitchen. “Sorry about that.” The grayness of twilight descended outside, so Kelly switched on the kitchen light.

“We’ve got quite a storm coming in, I imagine,” said Chandler.

Kelly nodded. “I’m looking forward to a break from the heat.”

“As we all are.” Chandler took a sip of his tea.

She picked up her own glass and took a swallow. “So, you said you wanted to apologize?”

Chandler nodded. “I realize I’ve been unfair in my attitude toward you. I questioned your motives for coming here, to Gray House.”

“I came because I needed the money.” She took another drink. “This is really going to boost my career, especially with the press surrounding the quilt and the house. I’m thankful to you and your company for helping with that.”

“I know that your time here is coming to an end, but I’ll be happy to write a letter of recommendation in the future regarding your work.”

“Thanks, I appreciate . . . that.” Her head had suddenly developed a swimmy feeling, like the time she’d gotten dehydrated. She took another sip of tea. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re nothing but a money-grabbing little minx. You think that Jonas Plummer will give you his inheritance, you who’ve never been a part of his life?”

“What are you talking about? Jonas Plummer?”

“Your mother’s great-grandfather.”

Her brain had turned to marshmallow and her limbs had grown weak, but this news snapped her to attention. “He’s my family?” She licked her lips and took another swig of tea. Maybe she’d been dehydrated and didn’t realize it.

A slow nod from Chandler. “He wants you to have all this, but you deserve none of it. You’re garbage, just like your mother.”

She blinked at Chandler. There were two of him now across the table in front of her. “You did something . . . to the tea . . .”The man was bonkers, crazy for Cocoa Puffs, talking about her family. She pulled out her phone, which he yanked from her weakened fingers.

His nod was the last clear thing she saw before she slumped over the table, her fingertips brushing the glass of tea. Spilling liquid, then shattering glass.

Kelly fought against the blackness. A pair of hands gripped her by the shoulders.

“Don’t fight me. It’s better this way.” Chandler’s voice came from the end of some kind of tunnel.

Or pit. She was trapped in a pit and couldn’t move, couldn’t talk. With the last shreds of her consciousness, she struggled against the encroaching oblivion.

“No,” she managed to moan. “Let me go. I don’t care about the house.” But that was too close to a lie for her comfort.

“Don’t fight me on this,” Chandler said as he dragged her up the stairs.

Oblivion won.