Quilt As Desired Read online

  She pulled a cardboard cup from a stack and picked up a black carafe, poured dark liquid into the cup and handed it to her. A spicy aroma invaded Harriet's nose.

  "This is my own special blend,” Connie said as Harriet took a sip of the orange-flavored tea.

  She didn't really like spiced teas, but she smiled and thanked Connie anyway.

  "Lauren called and said she was going to be a little late,” DeAnn informed them as she joined the group. “Have you started yet?"

  "No, we were waiting until everybody was here,” Jenny said. “Michelle thought we could set up folding tables in this room to do our sorting."

  Aiden chose that moment to arrive.

  "Michelle said something about moving furniture for you ladies,” he said, his cool gaze on Harriet. She felt heat creeping up her neck.

  "If you could move the sofa and table against the wall and then bring down two of those eight-foot folding tables, we can put them end-to-end in the middle of the room and put folding chairs around them,” Jenny suggested. “Maybe Harriet can help you with the chairs."

  "Will do, chief.” Aiden saluted her. “Come on,” he said to Harriet. “Mom's workroom is on the third floor."

  He led her down a long hallway that had three closed doors on each side. At the end was a dark flight of steeply pitched stairs.

  "Mom used the servant's quarters for her quilting. Apparently, old Cornelius didn't worry too much about his servants’ comfort—at least not when he put the stairs in. Michelle was afraid the climb would be too hard for some of the ladies, in case you were wondering why we're dragging everything down to the parlor."

  She had been curious but had decided not to ask. The stairs were a hard climb, but they opened onto a spacious landing.

  "I'm not sure how many servants the old man had, or even if this was the original configuration of the space, but they seem to have had the whole floor. Mom uses their parlor...” He caught himself. “She used the parlor,” he corrected. “Anyway, she had her machines in here, and then back there is a kitchen she used for wet stuff. There are a couple of bedrooms and bathrooms over there."

  He pointed toward a short hallway. Harriet wasn't sure what direction they were facing.

  "Come over here,” he said. “You have to see her office."

  He led her to a round room that opened off the parlor. This had to be the tower she'd seen from the outside. The room had windows all the way around. Each window had a stained glass header that had to be Tiffany, or at least one of his imitators. The clear leaded glass pane in the center of each panel revealed an incredible vista. She could see across the strait to Vancouver Island.

  She crossed the room. From the opposite side, she could see the cove Aunt Beth's house looked onto, but from a different angle.

  Aiden came up behind her. His proximity sent a warming shiver through her. He rested one hand on her left shoulder and pointed over her right with the other.

  "See that dark area where the water disappears into the wood?"

  "There where it looks like a river or creek or something?” she said, trying to focus on what he was showing her.

  "That's where Cornelius kept his pirate ship. Or at least, that's the local legend."

  "Do you believe the legend?"

  "I believe anything's possible,” he said, and with a hand on each shoulder, spun her around.

  Harriet was pretty sure they weren't talking about pirates anymore. She lingered a moment longer than she should have then broke away and escaped across the room.

  Aiden retreated to the next room, and she heard what she imagined was the sound of folding tables being moved. She took one last look at the view and started to leave the tower.

  Avanell's ornately carved dark cherry desk sat in the center of the room. It must have allowed her to enjoy the view without being so close she would be chilled by the draft off the single-pane windows. Harriet couldn't help glancing at the two neat stacks of papers on the blotter. The top one on the left looked like a balance sheet. She wasn't an accountant, but she knew what red ink meant.

  * * * *

  The older women in the quilting group sat around the folding table sorting Avanell's fabric into piles. Harriet and DeAnn had carried box after box from the attic workroom down to the parlor, and they still hadn't touched half of Avanell's stash.

  They used the center of each table to hold the sorted piles; Harriet's sticky notes came in handy labeling the various categories. One table held batiks, hand-dyed fabrics, Asian prints, Civil War reproduction fabric and other premium cuts that would be re-divided among the Loose Threads members. The second table held groups of fabric that would be donated to several charity quilt projects.

  The end of the second table held what made up the dark underbelly of every stash—the “what was I thinking?” pile. Avanell had been old enough this last group not only included neon colors but polyester. These would be taken to the Goodwill store in Port Angeles. Harriet vowed to herself that, when this was all over, she and Aunt Beth were going to purge this category from the studio stash before their friends had a chance to see the extent of their mutual bad judgment.

  DeAnn brought out a plate of tea cookies she'd made. Robin carried them around to everyone, Connie following her with the tea carafe, refilling cups as needed.

  "Harriet,” Robin said, “was that you I saw last night in a black Cadillac heading toward Smuggler's Cove?"

  Harriet flushed. “Yes, it must have been.” She stumbled over her words. “I went to dinner at Pirate's Treasure down there."

  "Don't make us beg, chiquita,” Connie said. “Spill it. Who was the guy?"

  "And what is Pirate's Treasure?” Mavis asked.

  Harriet wasn't used to discussing her private life in a group, but then, she hadn't made enough good friends in California to comprise a group.

  "The man was Harold Minter. He's some kind of finance guy at The Vitamin Factory. I went to a Chamber of Commerce dinner with him in Avanell's place on Wednesday. A friend of his opened a new restaurant called Pirate's Treasure, and he wanted to try it out. He'd noticed my appreciation for good food and asked me if I'd like to go with him."

  "And?” Connie said.

  "And nothing,” Harriet said. “We ate, he brought me home, end of story."

  "Are you going to see him again?” Connie pushed.

  "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it,” she lied. She had thought about it. She imagined going out to delicious dinners and then going home to Harold's house and working differential equations together. A small part of her was attracted to the scenario.

  She and Steve had shared a love of fine food, and the Bay area had no shortage of options. Their evenings were spent at bistros and cafes, dining rooms and trattorias enjoying beef Wellington and chicken cacciatore, pad Thai and provolone, all followed by rich wines, liqueurs and chocolate in every shape and form you could imagine—and some you couldn't. They would return home talking and laughing and collapse into bed, where they would make love until dawn.

  What they hadn't shared was the knowledge Steve had a terminal disease.

  Harriet knew she and Harold would never share a passion like she'd had with Steve; but then again, he would never be able to hurt her as deeply.

  She shook her head. What was she thinking? She'd been on one date with the guy.

  "Are you okay, honey?” Mavis asked and glared at Connie. “You want some more tea, or another cookie?"

  "I'm fine,” Harriet said stiffly.

  An awkward silence fell over the group. The women returned to their work, heads down, focused on the piles they were sorting. Harriet went upstairs to retrieve another box, and when she returned, she had the distinct impression a discussion had taken place in her absence.

  "Anyone feel like pizza?” Mavis asked.

  DeAnn sat back and looked at the piles on the table. “I hate to stop now. I feel like we're just getting rolling,” she said.

  "I could go down to Mama Theresa's and
pick up pizza for us to eat here,” Harriet volunteered.

  "Are you sure you don't mind?” Jenny said.

  "Not at all. I'll just bring another box down from the workroom first so you won't run out while I'm gone."

  "That sounds like a plan,” Mavis said. “I'll call in our order while you're doing that."

  Harriet got up, went down the dark hallway and climbed the steep stairs one more time. She started toward Avanell's workroom but found herself drawn to the tower room. She looked around, as if someone might have sneaked up behind her, then entered the round room.

  With one more glance over her shoulder, she went to the desk and picked up the first stack of papers. She quickly ruffled through them. They seemed to be some sort of monthly balance sheet. She scanned the categories.

  There seemed to be the usual ones you might expect to be associated with running a vitamin business. Raw materials purchases, labor expenses, utility costs, transportation payments were in one column, and payments for deliveries received in the other.

  What didn't make sense was a series of write-offs that were taken each month. One month it was damaged goods, the next it was depreciated equipment. Every month had a write-off, and they were all five- or six-figure amounts. With those added to the mix, The Vitamin Factory was losing money at an alarming rate. No wonder Avanell had seemed troubled.

  Harriet quickly scanned the other stack of papers. They were receipts for goods shipped. Without knowing more about the business, she couldn't tell if they were significant or not.

  She set the papers back on the desk and tried to remember if they had been neatly aligned or not. She heard a noise and quickly arranged each stack then went into Avanell's workroom to get another box. She had just started for the stairs with a large plastic tub in her arms when her load was suddenly lightened.

  "I'll get it,” Aiden said. “Mavis thought you might be lost, so I came to check."

  "Very funny,” she retorted, trying to think of a reason she would have taken so long. “I was in the bathroom."

  She hoped he hadn't been close enough to notice the lack of plumbing noises.

  "Jenny said you were going to pick up pizza for the group. I didn't see your car out front. Were you going to walk?"

  "I rode with Mavis and assumed I could take her car."

  "That boat? Do you have your captain's license?"

  She couldn't help smiling.

  "How about I drive you?” he offered. “I need to stop by the clinic and pick up my schedule anyway. It'll only take a minute, and it's on the way."

  He disappeared down a back set of stairs that must have been the servants’ route to the first floor. Harriet stopped in the upstairs parlor to collect her purse and get last-minute instructions from Jenny. She came down the main staircase but found the entry hall empty. A quick glance through the etched glass insert in the front door verified that Aiden hadn't gone out without her. His rental car was still in the driveway.

  She paced the length of the foyer. The downstairs parlor was empty. Several doors opened off the entry on the opposite wall. The second one she passed was slightly ajar. She could hear raised voices coming from an interior room.

  "You put Mom's house on the market without even telling me?” Aiden said. “She's not even buried yet, and you've scheduled an estate sale? What about Marcel? Does he know about this?"

  She didn't hear the reply, but from what he said next, it sounded like Marcel did know.

  "Were either of you going to tell me? Or was I just going to drive up one day and find my stuff gone and someone else living here?"

  "Look, Aiden, you haven't been here. Don't play the injured party with me. You've been half a world away playing Dr. Dolittle while the business has been crumbling out from under us. Mom was going to have to sell the house anyway. And frankly, we need the estate sale to pay for the funeral. They want cash, and Mom doesn't have any. Uncle Bertie is barely keeping the business going while he looks for a qualified buyer. He can't help—he already sold his house. He and Sheryl are living in a two-bedroom apartment over Green's Tavern out on Shore Road."

  "How could this happen?” Aiden demanded. “When I left we were getting quarterly payments that were substantial."

  "Things change, little bro. That was three years ago. Have you looked at your statements lately? We haven't gotten anything in a year and a half. While you were off chasing Simba through the brush, Marcel was loaning Mom money so she could meet the payroll."

  "What about the insurance money from Dad? And I know Mom had insurance. What about the money from Grandma Binoche?"

  "Are you thick? It's gone,” Michelle said, her voice rising in pitch. “All of it—spent, borrowed against, gone."

  "Everything?” Aiden said in a tone of disbelief.

  "Not Grandma Binoche's money, but that didn't do Mom any good, because Grandma set it up so Mom couldn't touch it, so it doesn't matter. If you ask me, it's a good thing Mom died when she did."

  "Shut up,” Aiden shouted. “Just shut up."

  "Don't be naive. After Daddy died, Mom lived for The Vitamin Factory. It was failing, and she couldn't bear to go down with the ship."

  "You're not trying to tell me she shot herself in the back of the head, are you?"

  "Of course not. I'm just telling you how things are."

  Harriet heard footsteps. She returned to the front door and was gazing out at the driveway when Aiden stormed into the entryway.

  "Come on,” he said, and went out without waiting for her.

  He climbed into a black Jeep Cherokee. Harriet got into the passenger seat, and he accelerated down the steep driveway as she buckled her seatbelt.

  "Is everything okay? I mean, I know it isn't okay, but is there anything I can do?” Her words sounded false in her ears. She knew nothing she could say or do would change the pain he was feeling.

  He pierced her with an icy glance but said nothing. They were off the hill and driving down Main Street before he spoke.

  "I can't believe Mom's business could go into such a steep decline in just three years. Has the economy been that bad while I've been gone?"

  "Things were slow when the dot-com bubble burst, but that's been more than three years ago. It's hard to imagine that would impact the vitamin business. I don't know what to tell you. Can you look at the company books?"

  "Technically, I suppose I could—when my dad died he left us each a share of the company. His will stated we didn't get to participate in the management unless Mom became disabled or invited us to participate. Uncle Bertie has the other share of the company, though."

  "Is that a problem?"

  "Well, let's just say he and I aren't on the best of terms."

  "You could do some research on the internet. I assume The Vitamin Factory was privately held, but you might be able to find a public competitor and get an idea of how the industry has been over the last few years."

  She wanted to tell him he needed to look at some rather large losses the company had incurred over the last year, but she couldn't figure out a way to work it into the conversation.

  "Could you talk to the family attorney?"

  "Do you think he would tell me anything? I've had nothing to do with the business. And then there's confidentiality. Isn't that the excuse lawyers always use so they don't have to answer any uncomfortable questions?"

  "He's your lawyer, too, though. That should count for something, shouldn't it?"

  He pulled up in front of the Main Street Veterinary Clinic.

  "Want to see where I'm going to work?” he asked, ending the discussion.

  Harriet followed him around the building to a side door. They entered into what looked like the employee breakroom. A long wooden table was pushed against the wall with the street-side window. The opposite wall held a sink, microwave and two-burner stove.

  They passed through into a hallway. Harriet's nose was immediately assaulted with the pungent odor of disinfectant.

  One wall had doors spaced eve
nly along its length. Aiden went to the third door, opened it and entered. She followed him.

  "This will be my office,” he said and spread his arms to indicate the small space. A scarred wooden desk dominated the room. A mismatched bookcase filled one wall, battered file cabinets the other.

  "It's...” She paused searching for the right word. “Charming,” she finished.

  His mouth curved into a wry smile.

  "The low man on the totem pole gets the leftovers,” he said. “I have to pay my dues.” A few papers were scattered on the surface of the desk. He picked them up and looked at each one in turn. “I'll have to go up front. None of these are my schedule."

  He led the way down the hallway and through another door into the front office and reception area.

  "Aiden,” called a high-pitched voice from the waiting room. “Over here."

  Harriet looked across the reception counter and saw Sarah Ness clutching a fabric-and-nylon-netting pet carrier containing a yowling cat. She was waving to Aiden.

  He went to the counter. “Hi."

  "I brought Rachel in to have her sneezing looked at. You said you weren't going to be here, so I made an appointment for her with Dr. Romig, but I have to wait because they are fitting her in. Can you examine her instead?"

  Aiden looked around for help.

  "I haven't really started working yet,” he began, but was interrupted by Helen Martin, the veterinary technician who ran patient intake.

  "Dr. Romig's schedule is stacked, and it would be doing us all a favor if you could look at the cat.” Her expression finished the thought.

  Aiden looked at Harriet.

  "I'll call Mama Theresa's,” she said and pulled out her cell phone.

  "Here, use ours,” Helen offered and pushed a desk phone toward her. “Come on back here, and I'll get you a lab coat and an exam room,” she said to Aiden, and took him through another door into the bowels of the clinic.

  "What are you doing here?” Sarah asked as soon as Harriet hung the phone up.