“Where is this mark?”
She looked. Then looked again.
It was gone.
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“I felt like a fool. Fortunately, I thought to get one of Samantha's magnifying glasses and I showed him where the holes were. There had definitely been something sewn there.”
The first thing Pix had done after the police car had pulled away from the house was call Faith. She was at work.
“But this proves that the marks mean something.” Faith was excited. “Why am I stuck down here making blueberry pies and coleslaw, not to mention a cake in the shape of an eagle some patriotic soul has ordered, while you're having all the fun!”
Pix thought of Mitch and the incidents at the camp. It wasn't exactly what she'd call fun, but Faith tended to view life a bit differently.
“I wish you were here, too. Sam has to leave after the parade. He's got a client coming in early Thursday morning. It must be someone important, because it's not like Sam to miss the fireworks. Since he's been here, I've realized how nice it is to have another adult around. Samantha is wonderful company, but she's at work or off with her friends. In fact, I think she's doing too much. She looked terrible at breakfastâas if she hadn't slept a wink, but she says she's fine.”
“Well, what did you used to tell your mother? Speaking of whom, she certainly qualifies as an adult. Why don't you get her to come over for a while? No, that's not right. That's not what you need.”
Faith knew her so well, Pix thought. Much as she loved her mother, it would not provide the ease she was seeking.
“Even before we got here, I asked her to come until my brother arrives. I don't like to think of her alone in that big
house, but she wants to be on her own, and when we're her age, we'll be exactly the same.”
“I should hope so. Now, back to the quilt. Obviously, nothing else in the cottage was disturbed or you would have said so.”
“Right, and yes, I did leave the door unlocked as usual. There's nothing of value here, and it's such a nuisance for Samantha to carry a key. I have one with my car keys, but I can't remember the last time I used it.”
These New Englanders, Faith thought to herself. The unlocked door represented their trust in humankind and belief in a certain way of life: “Come in; it's off the latch.” And she knew Pix would still keep her doors unlocked even now. What would it take? Faith hoped Pix would never find out.
“I've been doing some detective work for you in between shucking corn for corn pudding and the like. There was an article on quilt making in the paper. You remember that controversy about the Smithsonian's decision to reproduce some of the quilts in their collection using overseas labor? That's what it's about mainly, however it started me thinking. These new quilts could be made to look old, particularly if they are unmarked. I think the Smithsonian ones have an indelible tag on the back, but a lot of mail-order companies and department stores offer quilts. I doubt they're all labeled so conscientiously. Anyway, I mailed the article to you and you should get it by Thursday.”
“It's pretty easy to spot some of the reproduction quilts, even if they are made by hand, because the stitching is uneven and there are fewer stitches to the inch. Handmade quilts, like the one I got in Pennsylvania last year, have ten to twelve stitches.”
“What about this one? How many does it have?”
“Ten in most places, more in a few others.”
“But it could still be a new one made to look old.”
“Yes, and that's what I have to do nowâfigure out for sure if it's a fake. Then I can tell Earl to have an expert look at the
one the police have. I also thought I might do some more antiquing and see if I turn up any more marked quilts.”
“So what else is going on up thereâor I should say down there?”
Pix had patiently explained to Faith her first summer on the island what Down East meant. The term dated from the days when the coastal towns of Maine were part of an active exchange of goods with the port of Boston. Timber, quarried stone, and of course fish were sold to purchase manufactured goods from Massachusetts. Since the coast curves eastward as it heads north to Nova Scotia and since the prevailing winds from Boston to Maine are southerly, a sloop sailing before the wind, downwind, from Boston to Bangor was headed down east. Pix made Faith learn it until she was letter-perfect, but although she was sure she had the words right, it had never made a whole lot of sense to Faith. Up was north and down was south. And Maine was north.
“The clambake was great, but the weather's been much too hot.”
“It's the same here. Thank goodness this place is air-conditioned. It's a relief to come to work. The parsonage may self ignite, it's so stuffyâeven with fans going. Tom's afraid the window frames are too fragile for an air conditioner, but if the heat keeps up, I will personally pay to have the old ones ripped out and new ones put in, never mind the blasphemy. I know God allows New Englanders to be very cold in the winter and very hot in the summer because they prefer to suffer in this way, but I'm tired of taking the kids to work or to a movie when I want them to cool off!”
Pix felt a twinge of guilt. She was on the Parish Buildings and Grounds Committee, which, among other things, saw to the upkeep of the parsonage. No one had ever raised the notion of air conditioning. The Millers had never had it, and Faith was no doubt rightâsome of Pix's fellow committee members would definitely classify it as wickedly self-indulgent.
They talked a bit more, then Faith let out a shriek. “Got to go! Amy's at the pies!”
With a vivid picture of a toddler smeared from head to toe with blueberry pie, gleefully licking her hands, Pix hung up. She was on her own.
She spread the quilt out on the floor and opened her book,
Clues in the Calico
by Barbara Brackman. It had been bedtime reading the last few nights. She leafed through it, then set to work. First, she considered the fabric: lots of small-figured calicos, some shirting material. The abundance of brown-colored triangles indicated a pre-1900 quilt, a time when this was a very popular color. It wasn't used much again until the 1960s and was still favored. She took her scissors and turned the quilt over, snipping a piece of thread, then pulling out a few stitches. With a fine needle, she unraveled it and looked at the strands through Samantha's magnifying glassâSix-ply. That meant post-1860. She was narrowing the date down. Maybe the quilt was genuine after all and she had scored a terrific coup. She teased a bit of the batting from between the top and backing and rubbed the fibers between her fingers.
Her heart sank. It was very cleverly done. The thickness of the batting mimicked what would have been used earlier. But they did not have polyester in the late 1800s. It could be an old top newly quilted. With that optimistic thought, she turned the quilt over and spread it out again. On hands and knees she looked at each and every triangle and at one fabric design in particular. It appealed to her, as it had when she bought a yard of it herself last year.
Pix closed the book and carefully folded up her quilt, laying it across the back of the couch. She stroked the fabric. No question, no question at all: The whole thing was as phony as a three-dollar bill.
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The Miller family was quiet at dinner that night. Pix had set the table, rather than eat on the deck, in honor of her husband's presence and also as a nod to the gracious living à la
Valerie Atherton that Samantha continued to espouse. They had cold blueberry soup, a big salad with fresh crabmeat, rice, sweet red peppers, and plenty of lettuce. There were some of Luella Prescott's rolls and ice cream for dessert. Nothing was even remotely connected with Pix's having to turn on her stove.
“This is good, Mom. Did you make it?” Samantha asked, tilting her bowl to get the last of the soup.
Pix was tempted to reply, “No, the fairies left it on my doorstep,” but chagrin at her culinary reputation and the soft glow of the candles she'd put on the table tempered her reply.
“Yes, I did.” She paused. “Faith gave me the recipe.”
Sam and his daughter both laughed and Sam said, “The important thing is that you made it and we're eating it. You have many other talents.”
Which were? Pix waited for him to go on. When he didn't, she got up to get the salad. Samantha followed with the soup bowlsâthe unmatched ones.
“I was at the Atherton's house today. Jim asked me to take some mail over to Valerie that had come to the camp by mistake. You should see it. It's like something from a magazine.”
Jim and Valerie, it had come to this.
Oblivious to her mother's lack of interest, Samantha prattled on and on about the house: the two-story fieldstone fireplaceâ“And Valerie selected every rock herself”âthe artwork, the Italian leather couch, apparently large enough to accommodate Michelangelo's
David
âif he could sit, of course. Pix felt increasing giddy as she listened to her daughter repeat the tour Valerie Atherton had given her. Simpler to put it on video.
“Salad's ready. Get the plates, will you?”
Samantha placed the three plain white ironstone plates on the table. One had a tiny chip.
“Get another one, Samantha, and put that one aside, please,” Pix said grandly. She'd stick it back in the pile when Samantha was otherwise occupied.
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The Fourth of July was supposed to be sunny and it was. The sky was supposed to be blue and it was. The Millers were supposed to be sitting on lawn chairs brought from home, waiting for the parade to start at 10:00 A.M., and they were. The only thing that felt odd to Pix was that she didn't have any children to remind not to run into the street or get overheated. Samantha was lined up with the camp at the far end of Main Street, waiting to march, and of course her other two were far, far away. Not even a postcard or a call yet. Such was a mother's fate.
Her own mother was on one side, Sam on the other. Various friends and relatives of the Bainbridges, as well as the B and B guests were strung out in a line. Pix waved to Elliot Frazier, who was perched with the other judges in chairs set up on the porch roof of the old Masonic Hall. It was the ultimate viewing platform. Louise was down on the ground next to Ursula.
“I think Elliot agrees to judge every year just so he can go up on the roof,” Louise said. “The view must be magnificent.”
“Where's Adelaide?” Ursula asked Rebecca, who was coming down the lawn carrying a big pitcher of cold lemonade and some cups. It was already hot and she was greeted enthusiastically.
“She'll be along. She's feeling a little poorly this morning. Must be the humidity.”
Pix didn't wonder Adelaide was suffering. With all the extra weight she carried, this weather must be brutal.
John Eggleston appeared, chairless, and plopped down at Pix's feet.
“Am I in your way?”
“Not at all. It's good to see you.”
Pix had always liked John, despite his being odd, even for a place that tolerated a wide range of differences in human nature. It wasn't merely his appearance, his shoulder-length
wiry red hair and bushy red beard made him unique, especially since there was usually sawdust, and occasionally wood shavings, in both. Nor was it his reluctance to discuss his past life, although Pix knew that as a priest he had served a large church somewhere in the South. She'd also learned something about why he left, but not from himârather, from Faith. There were lots of people who came to Maine to start fresh, leaving certain doors firmly closed. In his present incarnation as wood sculptor, John's talent was enormous and widely recognized. He received orders for carvings from all over the world and specialized in religious objects. The last time she'd been in his studio, he was working on a huge menorah. “I did not lose my faith,” he'd told her once, “just my head.”
But what made him unusual was his unpredictability. You never knew what kind of mood he would be in. Pix had seen towering rage and quiet gentleness. The kids on the island flocked to him for advice and it was only with them that he seemed able to maintain his equilibrium. Pix thought of these younger people as his new parish. Arlene had told the Millers many stories about the help John had quietly given to one or another child. Today he seemed mellow and gave Ursula a big smile. She was a favorite.
“What's the theme this year?” he asked her.
“I believe it's storybook characters, but I think it's being interpreted rather loosely in some cases. I know the Fishermen's Wives Association has constructed a lobster boat, and I can't think of a book to go with that.”
Ursula was managing to look completely cool in a crisp white blouse and navy skirt. She'd tied a red silk scarf around her neck in honor of the day. A sunshade was clipped to the side of her chair and its resemblance to a parasol lent Mrs. Rowe a timeless air.
“It's a new book, Mother, based on a true story. Two twenty-pound lobsters got caught in a dragger's net and ended up way down in Rhode Island. They were sold to a seafood
dealer and eventually went on display in some fish store in Philadelphia. Somewhere along the line, someone named them Bob and Shirley. Anyway, people got upset seeing them in the tank and wanted the owner to set them free. They were flown back up here and released!”