The Lady in the Attic Page 3

  She inhaled the pleasant aroma of polished wood, fabric dye, and glue, scents that Annie had grown up with and associated with her grandmother. Stepping farther into the cool interior, her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. She stopped beside the counter, her gaze roving from the shelves of color-coordinated yarn, to a free-standing display featuring embroidery floss and aida cloth. An entire wall housed pattern books for cross-stitch, knitting and crocheting, quilting and scrapbooking, as well as another wall holding a selection of needles, hooks, scissors, and other essentials for craftwork. Deeper into the store were bolts of fabric and a wide array of quilting supplies.

  “May I help you?” a voice asked from the back of the store.

  Annie turned in that direction. A stocky woman with salt-and-pepper hair approached, stopping by the front counter to replace the receiver of a wireless phone. “I’m Mary Beth Brock. Welcome to A Stitch in Time.”

  “Your store is wonderful. I don’t know where to start browsing.”

  “Spoken like a true needlecraft enthusiast.”

  “All my life. I’m Annie Dawson.”

  The woman smiled and tilted her head toward the counter. “So I just heard.”

  Annie realized the woman must have just gotten off the phone with someone at the diner. “News travels fast.”

  “In Stony Point, it does.”

  “Then you must have also heard that my grandmother was Betsy Holden.”

  “Dear Betsy. Oh, I just loved her.” She reached over to pat Annie’s arm. “I’m so sorry about her passing.”

  “Thanks. Did my grandmother spend time here?”

  “Not lately, but in years past we spent many hours together. She taught beginner classes and eventually formed the New England Stitch Club right here. Did you know there are about fifty chapters in the region now?”

  “That many? No, she never mentioned it. I knew about the club, though. She loved visiting other needlecrafters, but I didn’t realize how far the stitching network extended.”

  “That was Betsy. Big ideas and yet modest to a fault. She loved sharing her gift.”

  “And it was a wonderful gift. Her cross-stitch designs always resembled watercolor paintings to me. I don’t know how she did it. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but the depth of her scenes always amazed me.”

  “And the stitches she used.” Mary Beth shook her head. “Very innovative. Always just a bit different from the usual cross-stitch to give it a little something … special. And secret. She wouldn’t share her special technique with anyone. Which always made her work in demand. I wouldn’t be surprised if a book featuring a compilation of her designs comes out now that she’s passed.” Mary Beth sighed. “A Betsy Original is always quite popular and will be even more so now that there won’t be any new works.”

  Annie’s thoughts flashed to the cross-stitch she’d come across in the attic. Should she tell Mary Beth? It could very well have been her final piece. Annie made a mental note to really study it thoroughly once she got home before saying anything.

  “Betsy was a remarkable woman, and I’m glad you’ve come here,” said Mary Beth. “She spoke quite highly of you over the years, you know.”

  Touched, Annie placed her hand over her heart. “She did?”

  “Yes. She was proud of the life you’d created, and bragged often about her granddaughter and great-grandchildren. She always stopped in whenever you sent new pictures.”

  “Which was as often as I could take them.”

  “She missed you,” Mary Beth said quietly.

  “And I missed her. Even talking to her once or twice a week wasn’t enough.”

  “Hey, she was happy with those calls. She knew your life was in Texas. I guess she just got lonely once in a while.”

  Annie could certainly relate to that. After Wayne died, she thought she’d go crazy with the loneliness. “But you kept her busy?”

  “More like the other way around!” Mary Beth’s eyes grew moist. She cleared her throat. “So what’s your favorite needlecraft?”

  “I love to crochet.” She nodded at the wall of yarn. A rainbow of colors, captured in multiple skeins and different textures, would lure any needlecraft lover. “You have serious inventory here.”

  “As you might say in Texas, ‘We aim to please.’”

  Annie chuckled. “You’d be right about that.” She pointed to the bolts of fabric in pastels, rich hues, and bold colors and patterns. “I began quilting a few years ago but never devoted much time to it.”

  “If you plan on staying in town, now might be the time to start a quilting project. The summer classes I offer will begin soon.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to swing it. I was planning on visiting only a few weeks, but I’m surprised at the condition of the house. So I may have to lengthen my stay.”

  “And we’re thrilled to have you.”

  “Thanks.” Annie wandered toward a circle of chairs to the right of the front door. Bright sunshine spilled in from the big picture window, casting the furniture in a warm, welcoming pool of light. “Do many people come here to relax?”

  “Sometimes. Folks drop in to browse and visit, but the circle is usually reserved for the needlecraft club that meets here every Tuesday at eleven. We call ourselves the Hook and Needle Club. You should come.”

  The thought of meeting and making new friends appealed to Annie. A way to connect with her grandmother by spending time with other women who knew her. Maybe find a place to fit in. Figure out the next step in her life.

  A tingling of anticipation warmed her. “I could use the company.”

  “Then it’s set. I won’t accept no for an answer.”

  Annie didn’t doubt it. Mary Beth seemed more than capable of making sure Annie joined the group.

  “And while I’m here, I need some yarn.” Annie glanced over at the wall of color. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “You’re talking to the right person.” Mary Beth, the consummate shop owner, strode briskly to the yarn section. “Just tell me what you’re working on, and we’ll go from there.”

  “A baby blanket,” she told Mary Beth, following her to the yarns. As Annie passed a dressmaker’s mannequin adorned with a beautiful crocheted jacket, she stopped. Deep magenta, rose, and pink in a striped design, edged in chocolate brown; it rivaled anything she’d seen in trendy boutiques back home.

  “This is gorgeous.”

  “Thanks,” Mary Beth beamed. “I can’t take the credit, though. Kate Stevens, my employee, designed and crocheted this.”

  “She’s quite talented.”

  “Yes, she is. And modest about her talent as well. I finally talked her into displaying her work for customers. She’s even gotten a few custom orders. She’s also part of Hook and Needle. You’ll meet her Tuesday.”

  Annie fingered the soft yarn and grinned. “How could I resist?”

  * * *

  An hour later, loaded down with grocery bags, Annie pushed open the front door with her foot and made her way down the hallway. Boots nearly tripped her once as she entered the kitchen, her loud meows demanding lunch.

  “Hold your horses there, kitty. I’ll get to you.”

  She filled the cat bowl with crunches, then put the groceries away, thinking the entire time about the cross-stitch upstairs in the attic. Once finished with the kitchen task, she headed up to the attic instead of making lunch. After talking to Mary Beth, curiosity burned in her, and she knew she couldn’t eat a thing until she checked it out to see if this was indeed Gram’s work.

  Carefully making her way to the light, she pulled the string and headed straight to the covered frame. Slowly, she pulled off the sheet. The dim lighting did little to illuminate the cross-stitch, so she picked up the framed piece to carry down to the living room. The natural light there would be much better to examine the piece.

  A plain envelope fluttered to the ground as she lifted the frame from the stand. Had it been tucked into the wood, disturbed when
Annie lifted the frame? With her arms full, she ignored her growing curiosity. The envelope would have to wait. Once downstairs, she set the frame on the couch and hurried back for the frame stand, picking up the envelope along the way.

  Back in the living room, she dropped the envelope on an end table and placed the stand at an angle near the window--not too close to ruin the material--with the best diffused lighting. She set the frame with the cross-stitch against it. Stepping back, she viewed the project. “Gram, how beautiful.”

  In this lighting, Annie could make out more clearly a young woman seated in profile on a porch swing, next to a window, staring off into the distance. How did Gram capture the soulful gaze of the woman in the stitchery? The image had an ethereal quality that drew her in. Annie couldn’t help but wonder, what was the woman--well, young lady really--thinking at that moment?

  The woman gazed off into the distance. The clothes were of a different era, a pale pink blouse with a high collar and a navy skirt. Her hair, swept up at the back of her head and fastened by a filigree barrette was too formal for today’s woman. She couldn’t have been more than a teen.

  As she stepped back to get a better view of the cross-stitch, Annie assumed the location was Grey Gables. Just to make sure her guess was correct, she went out to the porch and hunted for the spot that featured the swing. When she found the general direction the young woman in the stitching was staring at, the hill at the end of the property leading down toward the rocky shoreline, she was sure she’d found the exact window beside the woman stitched on the cloth.

  Okay, she’d found the window, but no porch swing. This had to be the spot. The details on the cloth were as clear as a snapshot. Looking up, Annie spied holes in the ceiling that might have anchored a porch swing at one time. She compared the view again. No doubt about it, the woman was indeed at Grey Gables. Satisfied with her search, she hurried inside.

  Annie puzzled over the young woman in the cross-stitch once more, trying to discern the source of the feeling that something was … off. And then it hit her. Gram never stitched people. Only places.

  Which moved this piece into a whole new realm.

  She continued studying the woman and eventually noticed small individual scenes that she initially overlooked while concentrating on the young lady. The stitches were so small and precise that when she moved to the other side of the room, the finished scenes resembled a photograph. A beach, a barn, a storefront, and a house. None of the images looked familiar to her. She’d covered a lot of ground when she was younger and thought she knew Stony Point well. Still, nothing came to mind in her patchwork childhood memories. Could they be local places or just part of a pattern? This was Gram’s work, of that Annie had no doubt, especially with her initials neatly stitched into the bottom right-hand corner. And her grandmother had always patterned her scenes after real places. Just because she didn’t recognize the ones stitched here didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

  What did all this mean? And who was the woman? It certainly wasn’t Gram. Or anyone Annie recognized as family. Yet the girl’s gaze haunted her. The emotion stitched there was so real. Annie longed to know what it meant.

  Wasn’t it just like Gram to keep Annie busy even though she wasn’t here? Just like all the summers Gram would come up with a plan to keep Annie occupied, either with a new crochet project, redoing the vegetable garden, or digging a new flower bed. There hadn’t been one summer when Annie had been bored.

  “Looks like you came up with another project for me, Gram.”

  And, as usual, Gram’s timing was right on the mark. Annie needed a distraction from her indecision about the direction of her life. What better way to forget her problems than by figuring out what Gram had meant by this cross-stitch piece?

  Totally hooked, Annie studied the woman again.

  “Who are you?”

  3

  With a whirlwind of questions running through her head and hunger growling in her stomach,Annie decided to take a break. Heading to the kitchen with the intention of making lunch, she passed an antique wall clock, only to realize it was nearing three o’ clock. she’d been so caught up in the mystery cross-stitch that the afternoon had flown by. She decided to slice Colby Jack cheese to snack on with crackers while Boots weaved between her feet, clearly angling for more food. “Don’t get any ideas, cat.”

  Making her way back to the living room with her snack and a glass of lemonade, she took a few bites before noticing the forgotten envelope on the end table. Setting the plate down, she reached for it just as the doorbell rang.

  “Hold your horses,” she called out as she jogged into the foyer, opening the door on the third ring.

  “Hey, neighbor.”

  “Alice. What a nice surprise. What brings you over here?”

  “Heard you were in town today.”

  “It’s uncanny how fast news travels around here.” She chuckled as she ushered her friend inside. “I feel like a celebrity with the buzz going on about my presence.”

  “It’s just that people are surprised you’re here. They’re worried about what you’re going to do with Grey Gables.” A genuine grin relaxed Alice’s taut features. “Besides, they don’t really take well to outsiders. Tourists passing through--in inns and bed and breakfasts--are one thing. Newcomers with out-of-state plates in their neighbors’ driveways, that’s something else. It’s not a mean thing, just the small-town attitude. People are cautious, that’s all. But on the plus side, Mary Beth enjoyed your visit.”

  Annie smiled inwardly. She could imagine the shop owner calling her friends the minute Annie left the yarn shop, giving the details of their conversation. “Come sit down,” Annie invited, leading the way into the living room.

  The moment Alice walked into the room she caught a glimpse of the framed cross-stitch. “Oh, is that a Betsy Original?”

  “Yes. I found it up in the attic.”

  Alice crossed the room, stopping before the frame. “I’ve never seen this.”

  “Neither have I. I sort of stumbled over it.” Annie explained how she’d chased Boots into the attic and found the cross-stitch.

  “Your grandmother always did such beautiful work.”

  Annie joined her friend, standing to one side. “Every time I see one of her designs, it takes me back to a different place and time. When I’m at home, and something is troubling me, I sit and stare at a meadow scene Gram stitched. It was a favorite spot for my husband and me. I’d sent her a picture, and she created the scene on cloth. After my husband died, I have to admit, I took refuge in staring at that meadow. I can’t tell you how much comfort I got from her work. It was like I was transported to that spot, so caught up in the beauty of her work that I forgot about my troubles.”

  “It must be very peaceful.”

  “Incredibly so. And I’m proud that she shared her gift with others.”

  Alice tucked her fingers into the front pockets on her cotton crop pants. “A few months after I moved in next door, Betsy brought over a sampler she’d done for me. I was at a really low point, and the words she stitched were so encouraging: ‘To everything there is a season. A time for every purpose under heaven. Keep your head held high and your heart ready for love.’ She had a knack for knowing just what to do or say to uplift a person. She’ll be missed.”

  Yes, Gram had that effect on people. Lost in thought, Annie could only imagine the many lives she’d touched with her kindness and grace.

  “Huh.” Alice cocked her head to one side as she contemplated the cross-stitch.

  “What is it?”

  “Something is odd. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  Annie grinned knowingly. “Keep trying.”

  “Wait. Betsy never stitched people.”

  “Bingo.”

  Alice moved closer. “And the little scenes. What do they mean?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure it out myself,” Annie said, taking a seat on the sofa. “So far, no luck.”

  Alice joined he
r, kicking off her sandals and tucking one leg under her to get comfortable. “Who’s the girl?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t look familiar.” Annie glanced at Alice. “How about you? Recognize her?”

  “Hmm. No.” She continued to study the picture. “And with the way her head is turned, you really can’t get the total appearance of her face. This doesn’t leave much to go by.”

  “I’ve been debating if it’s someone in the family or if Gram just made up the design in her imagination. Knowing how Gram only stitched the things she loved, it’s my guess she knew this young lady.”

  “Is there any way to find out?”

  Annie shook her head. “All Gram’s siblings died years ago. She was the youngest of the family. As they all got older and married or moved on, the family pretty much scattered.”

  “What a shame you can’t find out who she is.”

  “Who says I can’t?”

  Alice’s brow rose. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “I can ask questions. See if anyone knew about this project.”

  “Have you learned nothing about our fair town?” Alice wagged a finger at her. “You’re an outsider, remember?”

  “How much of an outsider can I be? Betsy was my grandmother, and she lived here forever.”

  “She did. You didn’t. Big difference.”

  “I’m related.”

  “That won’t loosen tongues.”

  Annie quieted. As a thought occurred to her, a slow smile spread over her lips. “You aren’t an outsider, though, now are you? You could help me.”

  Alice held up one hand. “Hold on a minute. I may have lived here my whole life, but since the divorce, things are… strained.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Alice shrugged. “I’m getting used to it.”

  Alice might act as though it--whatever it was--was no big deal, but Annie begged to differ. She knew a thing or two about deflecting one’s true feelings. And if she didn’t know any better, she’d say Alice was covering up the depth of hurt over her divorce. But Annie wasn’t going to get into that now, at least not until she had a few more facts. And more time spent with her friend.