Thread on Arrival
THREAD ON ARRIVAL
“I think a simple design would be best—white on navy blue,” Dave suggested.
I agreed. “It would have to be one of our medium-sized pillows, like the cormorant ones. That many words wouldn’t fit on our smaller pillows. Make it as simple as you can. If the design works, we could advertise in one of the yachting magazines. We’ve never done that. But for Christmas this year . . .”
We heard a heavy, repeated knock on the door.
Dave frowned. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else today,” he added as he went to the door.
Leo, the boy we’d seen with Ike Hamilton yesterday, was breathing hard, as if he’d just stopped running. His shirt and hands were covered with blood. “You’re the one Ike said was a good man. You said you’d help me.”
“Come in, Leo,” said Dave.
Leo backed up when he saw me, then glanced over his shoulder. Was someone chasing him? He looked as though he was ready to run at any moment. What had happened to him?
“This is Angie Curtis, Leo. Remember? She was with me yesterday. You can talk in front of her. How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s not me that’s hurt.” Leo’s voice cracked with emotion. “It’s Ike. He’s dead . . . ”
Books by Lea Wait
TWISTED THREADS
THREADS OF EVIDENCE
THREAD AND GONE
DANGLING BY A THREAD
TIGHTENING THE THREADS
THREAD THE HALLS
THREAD HERRINGS
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Thread on Arrival
Lea Wait
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
THREAD ON ARRIVAL
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Please turn the page to enjoy recipes!
Acknowledgments
Also by
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Lea Wait
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1673-6
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1674-3 (ebooks)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1674-4 (ebook)
To my husband and love, Bob Thomas (1945-2018), my most faithful supporter, who, despite his illness during the last three years of his life, continued to cheer me on and encourage me to write and edit. He made it all possible. And thank you to the doctors, especially Rob Hunold, who were always available to talk when Bob or I had a question or concern, and to everyone at hospice who helped make the hardest days easier.
Chapter One
Ornamental Accomplishments will but indifferently qualify a woman to perform the duties of life, though it is highly proper she should possess them for amusement.
—Hannah More (1745–1833), The Ladies Pocket Library, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1792
“How many from Haven Harbor died?”
Patrick held my hand as we joined the crowd of Haven Harbor residents walking toward the waterfront.
The bright sunshine of a late April day would have warmed us, even here on the coast of Maine, if a stiff sea breeze hadn’t been blowing from around the Three Sisters, islands that protected our harbor from the full brunt of the ocean.
“One hundred and twenty-three. The first, a twelve-year-old boy who fell from the rigging, and the most recent, Arwin Fraser’s father. His ankle caught in a trap rope and pulled him overboard two years ago. Gram wrote to me about it when I was in Arizona.” I shivered, despite the heavy sweatshirt I was wearing. Five of my ancestors’ names were carved on the large granite memorial near the town wharf.
“But Arwin lobsters,” Patrick pointed out. “His father’s death didn’t discourage him.”
“Men in his family have always fished or lobstered. He inherited his father’s boat.” Those who worked the waters knew the risks. Arwin had probably never considered another profession.
The words LOST AT SEA NOT FORGOTTEN were carved at the top of the granite memorial above the outline of a three-masted schooner and the list of names and years. The memorial had been raised in 1890, with ample space left to be filled in the future. So far all the names were of Haven Harbor men and boys, but more women fished and lobstered every year. Inevitably, some of their names would be added. The sea was an equal opportunity killer.
Like most Harbor residents, I’d attended the annual reading of the names and Blessing of the Fleet since I was a child, walking down from our house on the Green with Mama and Gram. Walking from the same home two of those men hadn’t returned to.
Gram always reminded me that Blessing of the Fleet day was both a time to remember and a time to pray for the safety of those who still tempted nature’s power every day by making their living from the sea. I remembered imagining the lives of those who’d been lost, many of them not much older than I was, but also enjoying the Blessing ceremony and knowing that our small community was praying together.
At a Blessing Day one hundred years ago the islands and the harbor and the streets of Haven Harbor would have been the same. But women gathering at the waterfront would have worn ankle-length skirts and their long hair would have been pinned under big hats decorated with the feathers of now-extinct birds. Men would have been so
mber in their best suits with high collars, or perhaps in their World War I uniforms. They’d be remembering comrades who’d fallen during the war, as well as those lost at sea.
Clothing might have changed over the years, but the parade of mourners hoping their prayers and the Blessing of the Fleet would protect our men from the sea’s power was the same. As long as men and women made a living from the waters, mourning and remembering would continue, and names would continue to be carved on the monument.
No wonder the Greeks and Romans prayed to gods of the sea. Waters were unpredictable.
I shook my head, chasing pictures of the past away, and smiled at Patrick. Because of my ten years in Arizona I hadn’t attended a Blessing since my senior year in high school. Certainly the reading of the names was one of the more somber yearly occasions in Haven Harbor, but the prayers that followed were joyful, hoping for fair winds and following seas, a good catch, and safe harbors for all those who made their living from cold Maine waters.
“Will Reverend Tom be reading the names and conducting the Blessing?” asked Patrick.
This was Patrick’s first spring in Haven Harbor; his first Blessing.
“Local pastors, priests, rabbis, and imams take turns. They’ll all be on the wharf today, but it’s Reverend Tom’s year. He and Gram went down to the town wharf a couple of hours ago to talk with the captains of the boats to be blessed and arrange the parade.”
“The parade?”
“The order of the boats to sail by and be blessed,” I explained.
“Looks like everyone in town is here.”
I nodded. Ed Campbell, head of the Chamber of Commerce, and his wife, Diane, were talking to Reverend Tom, while Gram was chatting with Sandra and Jim Lewis, who lived near me. I’d seen them around town and in church but didn’t know them well. I’d admired their yard, though, filled with bright daffodils, late-blooming crocuses, and wide patches of lilies of the valley. Sandra must be a hard worker. She managed to take care of Jim, who was in a wheelchair, and garden too.
Across Main Street, Dave Percy and Sarah Byrne were walking slowly next to Ruth Hopkins. I waved as the crowd parted for Ruth and her walker. Dave and Sarah and Ruth were Mainely Needlepointers, along with Gram and me and Captain Ob and his wife, Anna, who were undoubtedly out on their fishing boat in the harbor now, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
Mary Clough and Cos Curran, who’d graduate from Haven Harbor High in June, were chatting with several of their classmates near Gus Gleason’s Book Nook, where Cos has been working part-time this spring. Gus and his wife, Nancy, were talking to Henri and Nicole Thibodeau, owners of the local patisserie. Their hot cross buns had been even more spectacular than usual this year. I wished they made them all year round. Cindy Bouchard, the home health aide who took care of Henri’s mother, who had Alzheimer’s, was wheeling Madame Thibodeau.
Sergeant Pete Lambert was trying to direct traffic so a few cars could make their way through the crowd now filling the streets leading to the waterfront.
“Let’s join Sarah and Dave and Ruth,” I suggested, and Patrick and I maneuvered our way through the crowd to where our friends had stopped.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Patrick said to Dave as I hugged Sarah and Ruth.
“Seven weeks to go before school’s over. Then I can see people other than teachers and students,” Dave agreed. He taught biology at Haven Harbor High. “I don’t know who’s more ready for summer vacation, the kids or me.”
“Good to see you out and about,” I said to Ruth.
“Glad to be here,” she agreed. “My arthritis is much better in summer, so I’m looking forward to warmer days. But this past winter you and Sarah and Dave were wonderful about making sure I got out of my house, even in snow and ice.”
“Everyone needs to breathe fresh air sometimes,” I agreed, looking around. “It looks as though everyone in town is here.”
I held up my phone and snapped pictures of all the Mainely Needlepointers.
“Don’t take pictures of me,” said Ruth, trying to duck. “I’m too old. I don’t want anyone to see what I look like now.”
“We see you, and we love you,” Sarah assured her. “But why the pictures, Angie?”
I shrugged. “Some of our website’s out-of-state customers have said they’re curious about us and our lives here. Someday I may come up with a newsletter, or put some pictures on our website. Or start a Facebook page.”
“I suspect they’re more interested in how our custom needlepoint will fit into their homes,” Sarah answered, making a face as I clicked my phone. It was going to be harder than I’d thought to get relaxed, candid photos of the needlepointers.
“Probably a dozen students reminded me about the Blessing and told me to look for them,” said Dave, looking over our heads toward the harbor. “Most will be with their families on working boats in the harbor today, but I was surprised at the number who said they’d be in their own.”
“Kids planning to be lobstermen often start with their own skiffs when they’re eleven or twelve,” said Ruth. “Or they could be having sailboats or kayaks blessed. Used to be just fishermen and lobstermen who came for the Blessing. But every year more people in town get their recreational boats in the water in April and join the ceremony.”
We’d found a spot near the wharf where we could hear Reverend Tom and see the growing line of boats. Fewer men lobstered now than when I was a child, so fewer lobster boats were in the line than I remembered, but Ruth was right. Their places had been taken by other, usually smaller, crafts. Most were normally anchored here in the harbor, but a few were moored at or near private piers outside the harbor. No one wanted to miss the Blessing.
“Look!” I pointed to the water. “Male eider ducks with the females!”
Patrick looked and then looked back at me. “So?”
“The males are the ones with the dramatic black and white coloring. Females are brown. We see males this close to land only during mating season, when they’re courting.”
“What happens after that?”
“The males go back out to sea. The females lay eggs and take care of their nests. When their ducklings are born, the females band together, like an extended family. In the summer you see maybe half a dozen females with forty or fifty ducklings. The group is called a raft of eiders.”
“So the male eiders are handsome cads?” said Patrick, nudging me suggestively as he looked out at the ducks. “Like some human males?”
“Maybe. But today it’s spring, and both sexes are together, and courting.” I loved seeing the ducks together, even if it was for a short time, and then seeing the ducklings that followed.
Patrick was more interested in people than in ducks. He nodded toward a gray-haired man who was bent over and dressed in layers of torn and stained sweatshirts. “I’ve seen that man walking around town, and I keep forgetting to ask you who he is.”
“That’s Ike Hamilton,” I said quietly. Ike had been around town since I’d been a child. I’d taken his presence for granted.
“I’ve seen him forage for empty bottles and cans,” Patrick added. “See? He has a garbage bag, as usual, in that old grocery cart he pushes.”
“That’s one of the ways Ike supports himself,” Dave put in. “He redeems the bottles. A good number of people in town save their wine, soda, beer, and liquor bottles and cans for him, and he makes rounds to pick them up. Five cents a bottle isn’t much to most people, but it adds to Ike’s Social Security disability income.”
“Do you save bottles for him?” I asked.
Dave nodded. “I leave mine in a corner of my barn. He knows where they are and stops in every week or two to collect them. Saves me the pain of having to take them to the redemption center, and it helps him out.”
“How does he get to the redemption center?” I asked out of curiosity. “Does he have a car?”
“Pax Henry, the postmaster, takes him and his bottles there every Saturday at noon, after the post of
fice closes. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
“Guess I just never paid attention,” I admitted. “Maybe I should be saving bottles for Ike too.”
“It’s a good deed,” Ruth agreed. “When he stops to pick up my bottles, we chat a little. He always has a story to tell, or a bit of gossip he’s collected along with his bottles. I suspect he stops at my house about lunchtime because I always invite him in to have a sandwich with me.”
“Who’s the boy with him?” Patrick asked. We all turned toward the end of the wharf parking lot, where Ike was standing.
A skinny teenager with long, straggly hair dropped a couple of bottles in Ike’s bag. I assumed he’d then move on, but he didn’t. He stayed with Ike. I took a couple of pictures of them together.
“I know all the kids in the high school,” said Dave. “I’ve never seen that boy before.”
He looked sixteen or seventeen and was wearing grungy jeans and a Windbreaker with a tear on the side. He and Ike talked a little, and then the pair moved on, together, toward the blue barrels Haven Harbor set out to collect recyclable bottles and cans on the wharf.
People moved aside to let the pair look inside the barrels, and the boy reached in, pulled out the empties, and tossed them into the bag Ike held toward him. After he’d emptied the barrel, they moved on through the crowd.
“That’s Ike’s young friend,” said Ruth. “I’ve known that man for twenty years and never saw anyone helping him like that boy does. Some of us in town keep an eye on Ike, but I couldn’t say he ever had any real friends except Jim Lewis.”
“I don‘t know the boy,” Sarah agreed. “But I’ve seen him around town with Ike the past couple of weeks. And you’re right, Ruth. Before that, Ike was always alone. But that Ike sure can talk! Once I commented to him about the weather and he talked my ear off for fifteen minutes.”