Читать книгу Historically Dead - Greta McKennan - Страница 9

Chapter One

“What do you think? Do I look like an eighteenth-century lady?”

I stepped back to survey my client’s gown and overall appearance. Straight sleeves ending in a cascade of white organdy and lace—check. Flowered lavender petticoat falling over a hoopskirt stiffened with real whalebone—check. White linen fichu covering the stooped shoulders—check.

Orthopedic athletic shoes—not so much.

“You look gorgeous, Miss Priscilla,” I said. “General Washington himself would bow and kiss your hand if he could see you.”

She inclined her head and dropped a deep curtsy, no mean feat for a woman of eighty-odd years. “Of course, General Washington would never see this dress, my dear. This is only a house dress, after all.” She straightened up and held herself still and erect as I knelt at her feet and pinned up the endless hem.

A sigh escaped my lips at the thought of the hours of hand sewing ahead of me. I contemplated breaking my cardinal rule and running the hem up by machine instead of setting it in by hand, but I knew I wouldn’t. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice those little touches of craftsmanship that set my work apart. My historical sewing business, A Stitch in Time, was taking off nicely, and I wasn’t about to let any shoddy shortcuts drag me down.

My pins slid into the silky fabric. I’d stepped back in time on this job. The wooden floorboards I knelt on dated from the mid-1700s. Their lustrous surface was wavy from the passage of years and many a booted foot. The spacious living room had been emptied of its twentieth-century furnishings, leaving only a few graceful antiques. A drop-leaf table balanced the two tall windows, which were still covered by nothing but mini-blinds. A small arrangement of wingback chairs grouped around an occasional table stood before the cozy hearth. A tall chest of drawers in dark mahogany wood stood on spindly legs against the opposite wall.

Priscilla Compton, the quiet, reclusive mistress of this estate, was a tiny woman in her eighties. Content to sit knitting on her front porch, dressed in long calico gowns, she’d been a fixture in our small Pennsylvania town for a quarter of a century, almost the entirety of my lifetime. As a child, I’d always thought of her as the crazy old lady in the haunted house on the hill, practically a ghost herself. Nobody bothered much with old Priscilla Compton, until she gained notoriety through the reality TV show My House in History. Now the whole town watched while she transformed her home to its original eighteenth-century condition.

“When you get the hem pinned up, my dear, shall we talk about the curtains?”

I bit back a smile. Priscilla always called me “my dear,” as if I were her beloved granddaughter rather than a hired seamstress. She probably didn’t even know that my name was Daria.

“Yes, curtains. Were you thinking heavy, or light and airy?” I slid in the final pin and scrambled to my feet. I paced around her, checking the drape of the skirt. Perfect. “You can slip that off now, and I’ll have it hemmed up by tomorrow.” I moved to unfasten the row of hooks and eyes on the back of the bodice, and helped Priscilla ease the gown off her shoulders.

She pulled on her everyday clothing, a simple gown of sprigged muslin that fell to her ankles. “Light and airy for the parlor, I believe. Professor Burbridge has the drawings we’re working off of. Such a delight to have a learned historian on our team, isn’t it, my dear?”

Her enthusiasm for the project was what delighted me the most. “I’ll check in with the professor later.”

“Will you be around this evening, my dear? The new attorney is coming to meet all of us. He’s a delightful young man who Ruth has hired to tell us what all the lovely things in this house are worth.”

I glanced around the living room, noting the silver tea service arranged on the antique side table, and the framed coat of arms above it that proclaimed the honor of the Compton line. They were only a few of the “lovely things” that filled Compton Hall. The newly hired attorney would have plenty of work to occupy himself in this house.

I smiled at Priscilla. “I’ll probably leave around dinnertime. Maybe I’ll get the chance to meet the new attorney tomorrow.”

I bundled up her gown, gathered up my pincushion and sewing gauge, and turned to leave the room when an insistent knocking sounded on the front door.

“Oh, dear, the door must be locked. Poor Ruth gets so upset when she can’t get in.” Priscilla gathered up the flowing folds of her skirt in her knobby hands and made her slow way toward the door. She paused with a hand to her chest as the knocking continued. “Just open the door for her, would you, my dear?”

I hastened to the door, still clutching my sewing implements. The wood shivered under the force of the knocking outside. I opened it to reveal a tall and very thin old woman on the step, gold-tipped cane poised to assault the door again. She wore a fur coat on this muggy August afternoon. Straight, blunt-cut gray hair fell just below her long earlobes, which were dragged down by heavy pearl earrings. Those oversized earlobes were the only resemblance I could see between Ruth Ellis, widow of the late philanthropist Thurman Ellis, and her older sister Priscilla. She drew herself up to a formidable height and frowned down at me.

“I could have finished one of Tolstoy’s novels standing out here.” She brushed past me into the foyer, pulling tight brown gloves from her hands. “Where is my sister?”

I felt an absurd urge to curtsy and say, “Follow me.” Instead, I indicated the living room with a wave of the hand. “She’s just in there. She’s waiting for you.”

She shot me a sharp glance. “And getting older every wasted minute.” She headed across the foyer, leaning heavily upon her elegant cane. I was dismissed.

I shrugged, and headed for the stairs. Priscilla had set me up in the sewing room on the third floor to do her historical sewing, so I could do all my work on-site. It was certainly more convenient for fittings, and I could get my cardio workout from all my trips up and down the curving staircase. I felt a sense of self-importance at being a seamstress-in-residence.

The sewing room was lovely. A small room compared to the rest of the mansion, it still eclipsed my fitting room back home. Faded floral wallpaper covered the walls, and a white-painted chair rail encircled the entire room. A small oak side table held a large bowl that was probably silver under its layer of brassy tarnish. An antique treadle sewing machine occupied the place of honor opposite the door. The head was incredibly well preserved, despite the layer of dust that had coated it when I first arrived two weeks earlier. I’d cleaned and oiled the whole machine, replaced a belt or two, and adjusted the tension until the needle rose and fell smoothly with the tap of a foot. I’d made a deal with Priscilla that I could use the treadle machine for any seams that wouldn’t show, reserving the hand stitching for hems and other details on the outside of each garment. It was a compromise between her desire for authentic details in the process of refurbishing her life to reflect an eighteenth-century way of life, and the need for speed in the transformation. The TV show’s schedule dictated the frenzied pace of the work.

I settled down to my hemming, my needle flashing through the silky fabric. The time sped by as I toyed with the idea of making myself a quick homespun gown to wear while working at Compton Hall. I was wondering what sort of sandal one would wear with an eighteenth-century gown and apron when my phone rang. Welcoming the break, I scooped up the phone. It was my renter and roommate, Aileen.

“Hey, your four o’clock appointment is here, wondering why you ran off with her wedding gown.”

Fiona! I couldn’t believe I forgot about her fitting. I could hear Fiona’s soft voice protesting in the background, seemingly ignored by Aileen.

“So, are you on your way home, or what?” Aileen said.

I gathered up the silken gown with one hand and stuffed it into my spacious shoulder bag. “Yes, yes. Tell Fiona I—”

“Tell her yourself,” she cut in. I could hear fumbling, and then Fiona came on the line.

“I never said you ran off with my wedding gown, Daria.”

I chuckled. “Of course you didn’t. That’s Aileen for you. Fiona, I’m so sorry I forgot your fitting. I can be home in twenty minutes, unless you want to reschedule.”

“No, I can wait. Don’t worry, I’ve got hours of reading to get through, so it’s no trouble.”

I was already out the door and hurrying down the stairs. “Bless you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I heard the shouting as soon as I hit the first floor. Despite my haste, I paused in front of the living room door, my heartbeats accelerating like they always did at the sound of raised voices. Could Priscilla be in the middle of an argument? I couldn’t picture it, any more than I could picture the First Lady yelling at her children in public. I could hear the querulous tones of Ruth Ellis, ridden over by a man’s deep voice.

“I won’t be silenced!”

No chance of that—he was shouting loud enough to disturb the next-door neighbors. I jumped out of the way as the door flung open and Professor Burbridge stormed out.

Burbridge’s face was mottled with anger. A tall, thin man save for his prominent paunch, full of boundless, caffeinated energy, he slammed past me without acknowledging my existence. His sparse black hair shot with gray stuck out in all directions, churned up by a frustrated hand. His ever-present tweed coat with the leather elbow patches was flung over his shoulder, and he clutched a bulging leather briefcase in one hand. I could hear him muttering, “I have every right—they can’t stop me....” He stormed up the stairs and disappeared down the second floor hallway.

Obviously not a time to ask him for historical drawings.

I hesitated in the front hall, wondering if I should check to make sure Priscilla was okay. But with Fiona waiting at home, I couldn’t risk the delay. I hurried out the door, checking the lock to make sure the door was unlocked this time.

I halted on the doorstep when I saw what was happening outside. Priscilla’s Japanese maple trees were famous in town, rising fifteen feet to frame the front of the house around the living room windows with their scarlet leaves. But not today. I watched in horror as Jamison Royce from Laurel Landscape Arts, who had been hired to renovate the gardens and landscaping, tossed an uprooted maple tree onto a growing pile. He was tearing out every one of Priscilla’s prized Japanese maples!

“What are you doing?” I gasped.

A big man in his middle fifties, Royce looked me over with a shrug. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m pulling up these plants.” He wiped his hands on his dirt-covered jeans, adjusted his odd-looking work cap with flaps that covered his ears, and turned to tackle the one remaining maple tree.

“Why?”

Royce leaned on his shovel, pushing the blade into the ground at the root of the tree. He scratched his chin, which was covered by an unfashionably long beard. “Japanese maples didn’t exist in Pennsylvania gardens in 1770. We’re going back in time here, remember? Out with the new, in with the old.” He spaded up a load of dirt. “Seems a shame, but it’s all about the money, now isn’t it? Money and fame, fame and money. Can’t get enough of either, can we?”

The Japanese maple appeared to shiver as he laid hands on it to rip it out of the ground. Fragile red leaves showered down by my feet. The soft murmur of voices drifted out the open window around the corner of the house. Ruth and Priscilla seemed to be talking earnestly. For an instant I wondered if Priscilla really knew what was happening to her beloved maples. But I didn’t have time to find out. I only had two minutes to make it to the bus. “What’s going to happen to these trees?”

“I’m hauling them off to the dump. You want one?”

“Yes! I have to run—can you save me one or two? I can collect them this evening.”

He nodded with a shrug. “Suit yourself. I’ll leave you a couple by the side door. If they’re still there in the morning, they’re history.”

I called my thanks over my shoulder and sprinted for the bus stop. I made it in time for the 4:05 bus and got home barely within the twenty minutes I’d promised. It was only a five-minute drive from the Highlands where Compton Hall overlooked the Schuylkill River valley to the tree-lined downtown neighborhood where I lived, but the bus took much longer. It was the price I had to pay for my enduring fear of driving. True, I’d saved my life in a wild car chase through the streets of Laurel Springs not one month earlier, but I still hated driving with a passion. Me behind the wheel of two tons of steel was an accident waiting to happen, and I knew it. Best to simply say, “I don’t drive,” and deal with the consequences. In this case, they weren’t severe—merely a few extra minutes of studying for a forgiving client, and a little more egg on the face for me. I could live with that.

As I dashed up the cockeyed concrete steps to my front porch, I could hear the heavy bass beat of the band coming from the basement. Aileen and the Twisted Armpits must be in full swing. Poor Fiona; I’d forgotten to warn her about the noise. I hurried into my fitting room, the formal dining room of my nineteenth-century three-story house.

I paused on the threshold. Despite the muffled booms from beneath the floorboards, Fiona had fallen fast asleep in one of my comfy chairs, her book open on her chest. During a pause in the band’s clamor I could hear Fiona’s soft breathing. With her smooth brown curls swept back from a broad forehead and her mouth slightly open in sleep, she looked far too young and innocent to be an honors law student, much less a bride-to-be. She exuded peace and serenity. Not wanting to catch her in such a vulnerable state, I backed out of the doorway and stepped right onto the tail of my long-suffering cat. Mohair yowled and streaked off into the kitchen in an orange blur, and I jumped and dropped my shoulder bag with a clatter. No worries about having to wake Fiona now! I gathered up the spilled contents of my bag and entered the room with a cheery hello.

Fiona got to her feet and greeted me with a smile. “I must have dozed off there. So much for catching up on my reading.”

“So sorry for forgetting about you.” I rummaged through the rack of wedding gowns hanging in the corner, and pulled out the plastic-wrapped hanger labeled “Fiona Tuckerman.” “It’s a big day—you get to put this on for the first time.” I pointed her to the curtained-off corner reserved for changing. “Don’t worry about the back—I’ll fit it for the buttons today.”

While Fiona changed I took a minute to set some hot cider to bubbling on the sideboard, breathing in its spicy aroma. In my experience, brides-to-be were happier with my work when they felt relaxed, a neat trick to achieve between the normal stresses of wedding preparations combined with a metal band rehearsing in the basement. I hoped to scale back on my wedding gowns as the historical sewing increased, but I had yet to achieve that level of specialization.

Fiona emerged from the changing area, clutching the bodice of her dress so the whole thing wouldn’t fall right off her. I quickly pinned up the back and steered her to the three-way mirror. She turned and swayed and admired the shining folds of her wedding gown. She’d chosen a custom-made design based on drawings I’d done from her specifications. The gown featured a striking strapless neckline with diagonal shirring through the bodice to provide the only ornamentation. The wide, flowing skirt trailed on the floor in just a hint of a train. The heavy satin glowed with a luster of its own, needing no adornment of lace or sequins. It was a sophisticated, lovely look that well suited this professional young woman.

I gave Fiona a few minutes to admire the possibilities, and then instructed her to stand still while I marked the back for the line of satin-covered buttons. When she winced, I nearly dropped the whole pincushion.

“Oh, no, did I poke you?”

She gave me a puzzled glance over her shoulder. “No, I’m good.”

A second later she flinched again. I wasn’t even touching her. “Is everything all right, Fiona?”

“It’s just, that noise. How can you stand it?”

It was my turn to look puzzled, until I registered the howling emanating from the basement where the Twisted Armpits held sway. The unrelenting bass of the band had become such a backdrop to my daily life that it didn’t bother me anymore. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it. I’ll ask Aileen to knock it off for a few minutes.”

“No, no, it’s okay. We’re just about done, right?” She checked her watch. “I’m meeting Randy in half an hour for dinner.” She held her arms out obediently for me to finish with the back. “I hope you’ll get a chance to meet Randy soon. He’s starting work for a client here in Laurel Springs, so we’ll be able to see each other every day instead of just on the weekends.” She checked her watch again, and I instinctively tried to speed up my work. So much for the relaxing effect of the cider aroma.

“He lives out of town, then?”

“Philly. You wouldn’t think that would be too far, but between my studies and his caseload, we can only get together on the weekends. I usually go into the city, so it’s a treat to have him come live with me for a bit. He used to live here, so it won’t be such a shock for him to hang out in the backwoods for a while.”

Fiona jumped as the basement door slammed against the wall, letting loose the cacophony of a truly colossal drum solo. Aileen appeared in the doorway, having characteristically neglected to shut the basement door behind her. Her skintight purple leather short-shorts and red lace-covered corset suited the sultry August day. Her ever-changing pixie hairdo sported streaks of fluorescent red, yellow, and purple today, on a base of jet black. Brass chains looped over her shoulder, snaked around her waist, and twined down her right thigh. A pair of black cracked-leather platform boots added a good seven inches to her over-six-foot frame. If you wanted to sum up Aileen in one word, “intimidating” would work nicely.

“We’re calling out for pizza, Daria. Do you want to go in on it?”

After the peanut butter incident, in which Aileen slathered a perfectly good pepperoni pizza with crunchy peanut butter topped with hot sauce and dried mango slices, I’d learned to never, never share food with her, of any description. Whatever she was planning to top her pizza with today, I wanted no part of it. “No, thanks, I’ll pass.”

She shrugged and said, “Your loss,” before clomping into the kitchen.

I turned back to Fiona, who was checking her watch yet again. “Two more pins and we’re done.” I set the pins, marked the center back line with dressmaking chalk, and quickly unpinned her.

While Fiona changed, I flipped through my planner, taking stock of my projects. With Fiona’s wedding in a little over two weeks, I needed to have her in for another fitting to pin up the hem, and then one final time when she would collect her gown and make her last payment. Just in time, with my mortgage payment coming due at the end of the month. For the umpteenth time I prayed for success with my historical sewing business, so I could gain some financial security after all these years. I had also assured Priscilla that her gown would be hemmed by tomorrow—looked like a long night for me. But I still needed to eat, right? My finger ran down the page for today, coming to rest on the entry “Sean M—dinner (?).” I didn’t know where he planned to take me, but it had been three weeks since I’d seen McCarthy and I wasn’t about to forgo that date in favor of an endless hem!

I sent Fiona on her way with an appointment for the following week for the final fitting of her gown, then ran upstairs to change for dinner.

My bedroom was on the second floor of my Federal-style house, the only thing left of my failed relationship with my former fiancé. It boasted three stories and a total of six bedrooms complete with fireplaces in every one. Despite my bitter memories of Randall, I loved the house with my whole heart. Its quirky closets, unexpected stained-glass window in the sole bathroom, and promise of hidey-holes behind the eaves gave it a charm that new construction could never offer. The price for charm was felt in the exorbitant heating bills needed to keep the high-ceilinged rooms livable in the winter. I’d solved this problem by taking in Aileen as a renter, and then welcoming my brother Pete to the mix when he returned to Laurel Springs after his disastrous attempt to make it big in Hollywood. Pete got the big third-floor bedroom, Aileen had one on the second floor as well as her band’s practice space in the basement, and I had a bedroom and sewing workroom on the second floor. Technically we had two empty bedrooms, but I resisted Aileen’s suggestion that her four bandmates could move in with us. One crazy guitarist in the household was enough!

My cozy bedroom, furnished in collegiate style with bricks and boards bookcases and a desk and chair scavenged from yard sales, suited me just fine. I kept a padded rocking chair in front of the hearth. Even though the fireplace was bricked over, it was a comfy place to read a novel. Of course, I usually spent my late evenings at the sewing machine, but I could always dream. But tonight, at least my early evening would be spent in stimulating company.

I slipped on a pale blue cotton blouse and a swingy skirt that fell just above the knee, paired with my favorite strappy sandals. Not too dressy, but ready for dancing if that was what McCarthy had in mind. I shook out the bobby pins holding back my flyaway brown hair, and studied the possibilities in the mirror. No matter how much I brushed and coaxed, my unruly mop was not so much smooth and shiny as rough and ready. I remember standing in the girls’ bathroom with my high school buddies, the three of us brushing and primping before fourth period math class. Suzanne had poked me and said, “It doesn’t matter if you brush your hair or not, it looks the same either way.” I’d sulked over that statement for weeks afterward, but now at the wise old age of twenty-nine I had to admit she’d been right. No sense wasting time over it! I swept up the sides into two carved bamboo combs and let the back fall free. I smiled at my reflection: wide brown eyes, teeth a titch crooked through lack of middle school braces, cheeks soft and rounded. Standing tall at five foot three, I was repeatedly cast as the young ingénue in high school drama productions. “You’ve got that fresh-faced look we want,” was the mantra. Fair enough. I scooped up a light cotton sweater and headed down the stairs to meet McCarthy.

He was waiting for me on the front porch. Any other man would be sitting on the porch swing, or leaning on the rail checking messages on his phone. Not McCarthy! He lay on his stomach on the floorboards, his camera lens trained on some point off the corner of the porch. He didn’t notice me in the doorway. He scootched along on his belly, heedless of his white shirt, murmuring, “Come on now, you’ve got this.” He chuckled softly, his camera clicking away.

The familiar sight of his comfortably worn jeans, customary white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and dark blond ponytail tied back with a thick rubber band made me smile. I hadn’t admitted to myself how much I’d missed him while he was away these past three weeks.

Sean McCarthy took pictures for the local newspaper, the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle. I’d met him a month earlier, when he was covering a Civil War reenactment for which I was sewing uniforms. The heady mix of romantic historical reenacting and violent death at the encampment threw us together into an intense relationship. I’d welcomed McCarthy’s recent absence as a chance to sort out my feelings for him. Now, faced with the man himself, I knew I had come to no conclusion. Would it be so bad if I just went along for the ride?

I must have made some noise coming out the door, for McCarthy rolled onto his left shoulder and peered up at me. His camera caught a quick image of my face, and then he scrambled to his feet. “Spidey’s got a wasp in his web. It’s struggling like crazy, but it hasn’t got a chance. Look, you can see him ejecting the poison.” He fiddled with the buttons on the back of his camera and held it out to me. Indeed, his magnificent close-up shots revealed a showy black-and-yellow spider locked in a death dance with a half-wrapped wasp. A rapid-fire series of photos caught a strand of the web separating from the whole, falling away from the struggle. As always, I marveled at the magical world that McCarthy’s lens unveiled.

“Are you rooting for the spider, you bloodthirsty voyeur?”

He grinned, and brushed some dust off his shirt. “This is a story of survival, and I’m on the spider’s side all the way. I was ambushed by wasps once, when I was eight. True, I had just trampled on their nest, but they shouldn’t have taken that so personally. It left me scarred for life.”

I laughed and gave him a quick hug. “It’s good to see you.”

With the awkwardness averted, we hopped in his car and drove across town to the Commons to find a place to eat. As usual, the street parking was full, but McCarthy managed to find a place to park in a sketchy-looking alley. I watched my step until we reached the brick pavement of the Commons.

McCarthy chatted about his trip to the Catskills to photograph a local Boy Scout troop’s high adventure white-water rafting excursion. “They hope to get a feature in Boys’ Life magazine. It’s hardly the Pulitzer, but they’re pretty pumped.” He took my hand and swung our arms between us as we walked. “I hear you’re working on the historical makeover of the old Compton house. Do you suppose those TV folks will let me hang around and take some photos?”

I gently disengaged my hand. “Would it stop you if they said no?”

His eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled at me. “There is that.”

We settled on Fortni’s Pizzeria, a cozy storefront with round tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths and decorated with candles planted in wine bottles dripping with multicolored wax. We ordered spinach and mushroom pizza, paired with a pitcher of sangria garnished with peaches.

“So, what’s it like to work on a reality TV show set?” McCarthy pulled out his notebook, but only to doodle on a blank page while we talked.

“It’s kind of cool, and kind of creepy at the same time. You never know when someone’s going to start filming you and asking a bunch of questions about what you’re doing. Everyone’s hyped up about the money.”

“Money?”

“What, you don’t know how this whole thing works?”

He laughed. “I’ve been in the wilds of upstate New York, camping on the banks of a raging river. I’m a bit out of touch.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. Priscilla’s house was chosen by My House in History to compete with maybe a dozen other historic houses. They’re all challenged to restore the houses to the time period in which they were built, which in this case was 1770. Film crews are documenting the work along the way, and when it’s all done the TV viewers get to vote on their favorite historic house. The winner gets a million dollars and the chance to be on the sequel show, My Life in History. In this one they have to live in their historical time period, with film crews documenting their daily activities.”

I stared at McCarthy’s paper, watching in fascination as he doodled a series of complex snowflakes radiating out from a central point. He caught me looking, and started drawing a line of dollar signs. “A million dollars is a lot of money.”

“Sure. It might be worth all the upheaval at Compton Hall. But there’s always the chance that someone else will win, and Priscilla will be left with an eighteenth-century house with no running water or electricity.”

“Poor old lady. It’s hard to imagine her being motivated by a million dollars. She’s always seemed so unsophisticated.”

“She’s a darling.” I moved the salt and pepper shakers out of the way so the waitress could set down our pizza. “Do you know her?”

McCarthy snagged a piece of pizza and picked off a big slice of mushroom to pop into his mouth. “I photographed her last year during the Laurel Springs House Tour. It was the first time she’d put Compton Hall on the tour in thirty years, or so the organizers told me. They were stoked to offer tours of a house on the National Register of Historic Places. Priscilla suffered the onslaught of visitors with quiet dignity.”

“How did she deal with an obnoxious photographer pestering her for yet another close up?”

He grinned. “I was on my best behavior, I’ll have you know. She reminded me of my grandmother, who died when I was eleven years old. Sweet lady.”

I wasn’t sure if the sweet lady was Priscilla or his grandmother, but either way, I enjoyed the tender tone in McCarthy’s voice. It vanished in an instant.

“So, can you get me in for a story on the reality show? The Daily Chronicle would love to run a feature, and I imagine the TV folks would welcome some free publicity.”

I took a drink of sangria, surprised to find that the sweet, fruity wine was giving me a buzz. “What’s in it for me?”

“For you...a page one photo, in color, of the town’s premier historical seamstress at work.”

I laughed, and drained my glass. “I’m the town’s only historical seamstress, who has to get back to finish setting in the biggest hem in history. But let’s walk down the Commons and back before we head home.”

The evening air was cooling down, making for quite a pleasant walk. I loved window-shopping on the Commons, a pedestrian mall created by closing off a two-block section of downtown, paving the street over with bricks, and installing decorative lampposts to shine outside the quaint, artsy shops. I never spent much money on the Commons, as neither my lifestyle nor my budget allowed for stained-glass hanging candelabras or fairy statues for garden paths, but I always enjoyed looking.

We strolled past the equestrian statue of Major Samuel Compton, Revolutionary War hero and ancestor to Priscilla and Ruth. Compton Hall had been his home before he was killed in the famous Battle of Laurel Springs. Famous to us in this town, I guess. I stopped to glance at the plaque at the base of the statue.

“‘Dedicated to the heroism of Major Samuel F. Compton, savior of the town of Laurel Springs at cost of his own life.’ I always love that line.”

McCarthy trained the lens of his camera on the plaque. “I don’t know, it seems like it would make a better story if he could have made it out alive.”

“Hey, don’t go criticizing our town hero. You didn’t grow up here. You can’t possibly understand the devotion of the born and bred Laurel Springsian for our own Major Samuel Compton.”

He laughed, and I laughed with him. But I was partly serious about the sense of pride that I felt for the town hero.

We strolled on down the Commons.

“Look, Sean, the new Italian restaurant is open.”

“La Trattoria,” McCarthy proclaimed, eyeing the elegant script letters on the hand-painted sign. “Looks pretty ritzy.”

Indeed, the dining room looked opulent, with its white linen tablecloths set with shining gold silverware and bud vases with a single rose in each. Well-dressed couples out for a special evening filled the small space, the waiting line spilling over to the sidewalk outside. As McCarthy and I lingered outside, appraising this new addition to our small town, Fiona emerged from the crowded restaurant arm in arm with a tall, dark-haired man sporting a charcoal-gray suit and red power tie. In passing a full table, he leaned over the shoulders of two of the men, tossing out a comment that set them all to laughing. When he turned his head to speak to Fiona, I got a better look at him. I knew that face! Sharp nose, thick bushy eyebrows, and a wide, sensuous mouth—once the face of my dreams.

Fiona spotted me and weaved through the crowd. “Daria! I’d like you to meet Randy—Randall Flint, my fiancé.” Fiona squeezed his arm lightly and beamed at him. “This is Daria Dembrowski. She’s making my wedding gown.”

I held my head high as Randall’s eyes fell on me. A wide smile curved his lips as he extended a hand to me. “How nice.”

His fingers scarcely grazed mine before I pulled my hand away. I could feel my cheeks flaming, but I tried not to lose my cool. “Do you know Sean McCarthy? He’s a photographer for the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle.”

McCarthy seized Randall’s hand with a sure grip. “Pleasure.” He glanced down at me, clearly sensing my discomfort. “Daria and I were just scoping out the new restaurant. Hot entertainment in a small town.”

I laughed a shade too loudly. “You should have seen the crowds that turned out to tour the new post office downtown last month. Stamp sales spiked at their highest level since the Forever Stamp was created.”

“Hmm.” Randall twined his fingers in Fiona’s and drew her hand close to his chest. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about any spike in Italian food consumption. Dinner was mediocre at best, and the service was extremely slow.” He caught Fiona’s eye. “Shall we, darling?”

She threw me a bright smile. “Gotta go!” She waved as the two departed.

McCarthy took my hand and twined his fingers around mine in an obvious imitation of Randall. He pulled me in close, his eyes twinkling. “So?”

I snatched my hand away and shoved both fists into my sweater pockets. “So, I hoped I would never see him again.” I stalked off down the brick walkway, with McCarthy trotting along to keep up. “I used to date him. We split up.” Or rather, he split, taking the balance of our joint bank account with him, leaving me with a broken heart and a pile of debt. But I didn’t feel like hashing through the whole sordid tale with McCarthy.

Surprisingly, his journalistic instincts did not kick in at this point. He refrained from putting me through the “who, what, where, when, why” litany. Instead, he just eased my hand out of my pocket and held it lightly as we walked through the Commons. “Next time, let’s give La Trattoria a try. I think I just heard a positive review, considering the source.”

I squeezed his hand gratefully.

* * * *

McCarthy dropped me off at home and then took off so I could get to work on Priscilla’s hem. I settled in on the couch in the living room for the long haul. Several yards of hand stitching later, Pete wandered in and turned on the TV. “Phillies game is on tonight.” He sank down on the couch next to me and offered me an open bag of potato chips.

I swept the voluminous skirt away from him. “Don’t get your greasy fingerprints all over my handiwork here.”

He grinned and wiped his hands on his jeans. He wore a soft flannel shirt covering a nondescript T-shirt, with a Phillies cap proclaiming his passion. My brother read baseball statistics books for fun when he was twelve years old, and he never outgrew his love for the game. “Nuts! They’re losing seven to three to the Reds.” He slouched down in his seat and scowled at the TV.

“How’s the filming going for that new movie you’re working on?”

Pete shoved a fistful of chips into his mouth. “We spent all day at the arboretum today, shooting thirty-seven takes of cardinals landing on tree branches. Pretty cool, actually.”

I dropped my needle with a start. “Oh, that reminds me. I need to pick up one of those Japanese maples before Royce throws them all away.”

On the TV, one of the Reds players hit a triple, and two runs scored. Pete groaned.

It seemed like a good time to ask, “Could you give me a ride in your truck? Just up to Compton Hall in the Highlands.”

He stood up and snapped off the TV in disgust. “Sure, why not?”

* * * *

Pete drove with his eyes fixed on the road, his hands drumming meditatively on the steering wheel. I watched him in silence for a few minutes. He looked a lot better than he did a month ago when he had just come home from Hollywood, fresh out of jail on drug charges. He’d gained a healthy amount of weight and the hollow look had just about left his eyes. There was nothing he could do about his broken nose at this point, but still, it felt like the old Pete was nearly back, as if he’d really closed the door on that chapter in his life.

He caught me looking, and threw me a smile. “Checking up on me?”

“You’ll pass. Except for those potato chip crumbs all over your shirt. Disgusting.”

He laughed and swiped at his flannel shirt. “What’s the deal with these maple trees?” He pulled into the sweeping driveway of Compton Hall.

“Royce was pulling them all out to make way for historically correct plantings. He was going to leave them on the side of the house for me to take whatever I want. They’re Priscilla’s prize-winning Japanese maples—I can’t believe she’s letting them go.”

We picked our way through the darkness to the side of the house. I pulled out my phone to light the way. Royce had left an obstacle course of tools and cuttings strewn across the path. The light from my phone illuminated a large pile where he must have left the maple trees for me to root through. I bent over the pile, checking the bases for a healthy root ball that might survive replanting. I shifted around to the back side of the heap, searching. Something brushed against my foot, and I jumped with a gasp. I shined the light down to catch the tail of a mouse disappearing into the tangled pile. I sprang backward, and collided with Pete standing behind me.

“Not scared of an itty-bitty mouse, are we?” The light from his phone revealed two or three more roaming through the pile.

I tried to play off a shudder. “Who, me?” I shifted a few more branches to uncover a passable specimen. “Gimme a hand with this one.”

Between the two of us we were able to extricate the tree from the pile and load it into the back of Pete’s truck. I would have stopped there, but the vision of twin Japanese maples arching over my front stoop led me back to the pile, despite the ever-present threat of mice. I circled around the pile, scanning for a matching tree. I kept shining the light at the ground by my feet, in case another mouse wanted to get too close. All I saw was an old red brick lying on top of a tangle of maple branches.

I found a second Japanese maple that I thought would work, although it was a good two feet taller than the first. It wouldn’t make a completely balanced pair, but the distinctive red leaves would definitely brighten up my front yard. I got Pete to help me load it into the truck, and called it good. I still had a marathon hem to finish.

* * * *

It took me until two thirty in the morning to get through the entire hem. Then I slept fitfully, dreaming of a needle flashing through flowered silk all night long. Morning came much too soon.

The sun was shining as I waited for the bus up to the Highlands. I hoped the good weather would hold, so I could get my new Japanese maples planted when I got back home.

Priscilla’s house sparkled in the morning sunshine. The staff was already hard at work. Jamison Royce was working on the side of the house, loading the rest of the Japanese maples into the back of a pickup truck. I knew I had no room for any more, but the thought of those prize-winning trees headed for the dump just about broke my heart. I averted my eyes and hurried up the walkway to the house.

I heard a commotion when I entered the hall. I peeked into the kitchen, now the domain of Carl Harper, the contractor who had been tasked with the removal of all the modern appliances from the kitchen. He was perched atop a ladder, his head and shoulders hidden inside the stainless steel hood over the stovetop. A big, powerful man, clad in dirty brown work pants and heavy army boots, Harper was a force to be reckoned with. A steady stream of swearing emanated from inside the oven hood, amplified by the gleaming metal. As I watched, he smacked the inside of the hood with a heavy hand, cursing all the while. An industrial-sized wrench slammed to the floor, and I backed away from the door, leaving him to struggle with his work.

I sought out Priscilla in her sitting room at the back of the house. She sat at a tiny writing table by the window, a pile of papers spread out in front of her. Her long white hair was caught up in a chignon at the base of her neck. She greeted me with a sweet smile.

“Good morning, my dear. Such a lovely day, isn’t it? Did you see the fairy footprints in the garden on your way in?” She winked at me. “I think it was a night of magic last night.”

I stood rooted in the doorway, not sure what to say. But I didn’t get a chance to reply. Ruth Ellis entered the room, a massive frown distorting her features. “Don’t encourage her,” she growled at me. “Priscilla, the seamstress is here with your new dress.” She glared at me. “Show her.”

I pulled out the flowered gown with a flourish. “It’s all finished and ready for you to wear.”

Priscilla gazed at the dress in delight. “How lovely! I’ll put it on right away.” She stood up and gathered the soft garment into her arms. “Please ask Louise to meet me in my bedroom.”

“Of course.” I hurried out of the room, pursued by Ruth’s baleful glare.

I searched throughout the house, finally locating Priscilla’s caregiver, Louise Pritchard, on the back patio enjoying a cigarette. Late middle age had fallen heavy on her, exacerbated by a two-pack-a-day habit. Her thinning black hair was overtaken by gray, and her leathery skin was seamed by fine wrinkles. Bent on resisting the changes in the household, she wore an oversized cotton T-shirt and elastic waist pants with dark blue tennis shoes. I’d offered to make her a period dress and apron, but she’d refused me flat out. “I won’t wear no maid’s mobcap, and that’s final.”

I put as much cheeriness as I could into my voice. “Hi, Louise. Miss Priscilla asked if you could help her dress in her bedroom.”

“She already got dressed once.” She took a last drag on her cigarette and threw the butt into the flower bed. “Next time, bring the new clothes first thing, so I don’t have to dress her twice.” She turned without another word and disappeared inside.

I bent to locate the still smoldering cigarette butt among the goldenrod and ground it out with my foot. I found a large leaf to shield my fingers so I could pick it up without touching it. I ducked into the kitchen to drop the nasty butt in the trash.

Carl Harper had succeeded in dismantling the shiny oven hood, which now lay in a heap of metal on the kitchen floor. He leaned his elbow on the counter, deep in conversation on his cell phone. I heard him say, “The job’s done, dammit! It’s too late to change that now,” before I nipped back out the door. I figured I could take a few minutes while Priscilla dressed to check in with Professor Burbridge about the curtains.

Priscilla had set the professor up in the private library on the second floor. This small room was distinguished from the main library on the first floor in that it held the personal volumes of the Compton family. Diaries, business ledgers, family Bibles, and the like filled the shelves of the private library. Priscilla told me there was a portfolio of drawings of butterflies made by her great-great-grandmother, and a series of books of limericks collected by her great-great-great-uncle, who had penciled in an explicit set of definitions for each one. I envied the professor his access to such quirky documents.

The library door was closed, with a small wooden sign hung over the door handle that read “Interruption-free zone.” I lingered outside, wondering how serious he was about his desire to be undisturbed. I fingered the sign, which read “Enter at your own risk” on the flip side. I laid my ear to the door, but didn’t hear any sounds at all coming from within. Finally I decided to risk the professor’s wrath, and knocked softly on the door. No answer.

I knocked a bit louder, but no one answered. After a few more tries, I jiggled the door handle. It turned stiffly, and the door creaked open. I slipped inside.

“Excuse me, Professor Bur...” My words died on my lips. No worries about interrupting Professor Burbridge. He lay sprawled facedown on the floor, clutching a pile of papers in one hand. A patch of blood stained his cheek.