The Wedding Shawl (7 page)

In the back of the yard, she watched Claire uncurl her body and stand tall, her hands on her narrow hips, admiring her work.

Claire had shown up to work early that morning, while Ben was just pouring his first cup of coffee. He had seen her through the window and urged her up to the kitchen to share a cup. While Nell was still getting dressed upstairs, Ben suggested to the gardener that she move into the guesthouse until her apartment opened up.

Nell heard the end of his sentence as she came down the back steps and added her encouragement, insisting that Claire say yes.

It took less than a cup of coffee for Claire to accept their offer with promises to somehow pay them back.

They promised to check out the cottage to be sure everything worked, and Claire could move in later that day. To seal the deal, Ben took a key from a hook on the wall and slipped it into her slightly shaking hand.

Nell added that using the key was optional. They rarely locked things up on Sandswept Lane.

Nell waved at Claire now to get her attention. “I feel like I’ve abandoned you,” she called out.

“No, of course not.” Claire looked up to the deck. “I love it here—and you must have a million wedding details to work out. That’s your job. I can handle this.” She dropped her trowel in the wheelbarrow and began walking up the path toward the deck. “This has become my meditation garden, Nell. I don’t know what I’ll do when the wedding is over.”

“You’ll come over often and simply
sit
in the yard for a change. Enjoy what you’ve nurtured here. That’s what you’ll do.”

“You and Ben … you’re unusual, you know? Your generosity—”

Nell cut her off. “No, no, we’re not. This just makes sense. We have a nice guesthouse with the most comfortable bed in Sea Harbor, and it’s not being used right now. It would be silly not to offer it to someone who needs a good place to sleep. I’m glad you said yes. And somehow it makes me feel more secure about all this wedding planning. I don’t know why. It just does. Having you close will be nice.”

Claire looked at Nell for a moment, as if she wanted to say more. Instead, she smiled a quiet, grateful smile that started in her eyes and spread quickly to her lips.

Her lips quivered slightly, but then she took a deep breath, peeled off her gloves, and spoke evenly, her composure intact.

“Do you have a minute? There are a few more things we should tackle before the wedding. I want to be sure we’re on the same page.”

Nell nodded, and Claire walked up the steps, pulling a rumpled yellow sheet of paper from her jeans pocket. She handed it to Nell. “See what you think.”

Claire walked over to an Adirondack chair at the side of the deck and sat while Nell began to read through the list. Two blooming hibiscuses towered over the chair, brilliant peach blossoms as big as grapefruits opening up to the sun. It created a private nook on the open deck, a lovely place to curl up and read. Or take a nap. Claire reached up absently and deadheaded a shriveled bloom.

Nell stood apart, giving the list her full attention. Claire was so organized. Each item was treated as a task with a timetable attached.

She should really have her own business,
Nell thought as she went from item to item. She had at least a dozen friends who would love to work side by side with Claire, learning from her as they tilled the soil, prepared compost piles, rid their yards of chemicals. Maybe Claire would consider a community-center class in gardening. Or a community garden. Nell suspected she’d be as good with vegetables as she was with hostas and gerbera daisies. Perhaps once this wedding was over she’d talk to her about it.

Izzy stuck her head out the door, squinting into the sunlight and scattering Nell’s thoughts.

“I’m leaving, Aunt Nell. Headed back to the shop.”

Tiffany was a step behind her. “Me, too. And thanks for understanding about yesterday. No more missed appointments, I promise. I had … I had some things on my mind, but I think I’ve taken care of them.” She hesitated for a minute as if wanting to say more. But instead, she took a few steps toward Nell and hugged her awkwardly. Then she spun around on her clunky red shoes and walked back into the house.

The sound of their footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Nell stood there for a moment, looking into the empty room. Tiffany was certainly shy, slightly reserved even. Not a hugger. Not with someone she barely knew. The gesture had touched Nell. Perhaps it was a result of the magic that seemed to fill the Endicott home these days. And if not magic, certainly happy vibes.

Nell turned back to the list, and then remembered Claire, sitting in the shadows. “The list looks great… .”

Her sentence dropped off.

Claire was sitting in the deck chair, staring at the house, her mouth slightly open and her face twisted into a grimace.

An awful look. Pain? Anger? Nell couldn’t be sure.

She hurried to Claire’s side. “Are you all right? What is it?”

There was no answer.

Claire’s chest rose and fell as she inhaled huge gulps of air. She bit down on her bottom lip and waved away Nell’s ministrations. “I’ll be fine. Please. But I need to leave. I’m sorry, Nell. I’m just not feeling too well. I didn’t eat this morning; that’s probably all it is.”

“Well, then sit for a minute. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

But when Nell returned just seconds later with the water, Claire was down the steps and around the side of the deck. Nell glimpsed a flap of her green shirt as she rounded the corner of the house.

The only sign that she’d been there at all was a pair of flowered garden gloves, dropped to the floor as she had fled.

Nell picked them up and stared at the corner of the house. For two weeks she and Claire had worked side by side, digging in the dirt, sharing views, and talking about life. She found in Claire a kindred spirit.

“A gentle gardener” was how she described her to Ben one night.

But it wasn’t gentleness she had read on Claire’s face minutes ago.

The mixture of emotions on her face were ones Nell couldn’t readily pull apart and describe. But the strength of them made her wonder if she really knew this woman who would soon be staying in their guesthouse. A gentle gardener? Or a mystery woman, someone she didn’t know at all.

Chapter 7

“I
t was as if she’d seen a ghost,” Nell said to Izzy that night. “A rather awful ghost.” She stood next to the wooden table in the Seaside Knitting Studio’s back room, pulling containers of food from her cloth bag.

“I saw the same thing,” Izzy said. “She was standing at the corner of the garage as I started to back out of the driveway, staring at me, at my car.”

“Staring at you? Did she say anything?”

“Not a word. I smiled at her, gave a small wave. But she didn’t respond. It gave me goose bumps. Like in a movie. If looks could have caused my car to crash directly into your giant maple tree, I might not have made it back to work.”

“That’s not like Claire. She’s usually so soft and gentle.”

“I suppose I’m exaggerating a little. But it wasn’t pleasant, Aunt Nell.”

“What did Tiffany say?”

“Nothing. But she didn’t have her glasses on. Which, by the way, we need to make sure she does when she’s working on Nana Chambers’ hair. She can’t see without them. All she could see of Claire was a fuzzy figure.” Izzy scooped up stray knitting needles and rulers as she talked and tossed them into a wicker basket in the middle of the table.

Birdie settled down near the fireplace next to Purl, the yarn studio’s resident cat. Purl immediately hopped onto her lap, curled herself into a ball, and began purring. “Claire seems to be a lovely person,” Birdie said, her fingers trailing up and down Purl’s back. “But she does seem to have some quirks. It bothered her when I mentioned seeing her at the book club that day, which was a bit odd. Now this.”

Cass pried the lid off one of Nell’s glass bowls, listening, but her senses tuned in to Nell’s delights. She breathed in the scent of garlic and mint and sighed dramatically.

Nell laughed and handed her a fork. She looked back at Birdie. “She came back a few hours later with a battered suitcase and cardboard box. I think Claire’s life has had some rough moments.”

“A suitcase?” Birdie’s brows lifted.

“She’s taken us up on our invitation to use the cottage for a few days.”

Izzy looked up, surprised. “Your guest cottage?”

Nell nodded. “She’s been staying over at the nursery in that back building. I think Fred used it as a storage room before he expanded. He lets workers stay there now and then. But it can’t be very nice.”

“Did she explain why she left so abruptly?” Izzy asked.

“She hadn’t eaten anything before coming to work that day. Low blood sugar.” Nell hadn’t asked any more questions. Claire made it clear that she’d put the episode behind her and that was where she wanted it to stay.

“Blood sugar seems to cover a lot of sins these days.” Birdie leaned forward and poured four glasses of wine. She settled back into the leather chair, her fingers still playing with Purl’s fine coat. “I am not sure that’s what it was at all. I think she’s complicated. Something is going on with Claire Russell. First there was the eavesdropping on the book-club discussion. Now this.”

“She wasn’t eavesdropping.” Nell wasn’t sure where it came from, but she had a sudden compulsion to defend Claire in her absence. “As you just said, it was an open discussion.”

“I think there’s more to your gardener than meets the eye.”

Nell laughed. “That sounds downright mysterious, Birdie. I think you’re itching for a mystery.”

“Maybe the book club did it to you. Danny’s cold case.” Izzy set a pitcher of water and some glasses on the table.

“It certainly created some controversy. A few people weren’t happy Danny brought that up,” Birdie said.

“He felt bad about it later,” Cass said. She picked up the salad tongs and began piling the basil, mint, and cilantro salad into bowls. “He hadn’t expected it to stir up memories the way it did. He was gone during that time, just like a lot of us. I was in college, and I only remember it because my mom was religious about sending local news clippings to me, no matter what the topic. It was her way of making sure we didn’t forget from whence we came.”

Nell laughed and took the bowls Cass handed her, spooning grilled scallops on top of the greens.

“It will die down soon,” Birdie said. “The past has passed. Now, let’s enjoy this meal so we can move on to the pièce de résistance. I’ve finished twenty more rows on Izzy’s wedding shawl but will not allow it in this room until every bit of tomato sauce has disappeared, hands have been washed, and soft music is heralding this week’s unveiling.”

Izzy had opened the bay windows to catch the breeze, and evening harbor sounds drifted in, coating their conversation—the screech of gulls mixed with voices of tired fishermen hollering to shore.

The Thursday night ritual brought comfort into each of their lives. A chance encounter several years before—shortly after Izzy had abandoned her Boston law firm and followed a lifelong dream of owning a yarn shop—had resulted in a Thursday night knitting club that celebrated knitting and friendship over Nell’s seafood pastas and Birdie’s pinot gris.

“It was a miracle,” Cass often said. And they’d all laugh, because for Cass, it was exactly that. She was a lobsterwoman by trade, and her knowledge of knitting back then had rivaled her ability to fly. But none of them contested her sense of smell for food, nor her utter enjoyment in eating it. When she’d walked by Izzy’s knitting shop that night, the combined aromas of Nell’s wine and garlic fettuccine had wrapped around her and refused to let go, she’d said. She was in heaven, and if being privy to this group meant she had to learn how to hold a pair of bamboo needles in the same hands that hours before had dragged a lobster trap onto the dock, she’d do it. Oh so happily.

Birdie had stopped in for new knitting needles that night, and when Nell insisted she stay for a taste, she’d folded her nearly eightyyear-old body into one of Izzy’s chairs and declared herself a charter member of the Thursday night knitting group.

And that was the auspicious beginning of the Seaside Knitters, as they’d tell anyone who asked them. Their ages spanned several decades, which fueled their amazing friendship—that, they’d say with a laugh, and Birdie’s finest pinot grigio.

That was how it all began.

Yarn, food, wine, and friendship.

Tonight, the food disappeared before the sky completely darkened. A faint moon fought for its rightful place against the lingering light. Food was cleared, hands washed in anticipation.

Twenty more lacy waves of the most luxurious yarn that they could find.

Birdie brought the shawl into the room with great ceremony. It had been worked on for months, carrying the Seaside Knitters through a snowy winter and sensational spring. Together they’d knit—carefully, lovingly, with the attention friendship wrought.

And now, with the wedding just weeks away, they were working their way to the fine scalloped ends and the tiny beads that they’d stitch on last.

They worried at first that three women knitting the same piece would create a mismatch of tensions, uneven loops, and errors in the lacy design.

But it hadn’t been so—Birdie, Nell, and Cass were proving age-old wisdom wrong: six hands
can
work on the same piece and produce a beautiful, perfectly measured garment.

In recent weeks the pattern had emerged—an exquisite circle design that moved and curved with the grace of seaweed in a breeze, shimmering like sunlight on sand.

“Damn, but we’re good,” Cass said.

“Yes, we are. It’s beautiful.” Birdie draped the shawl over the back of the couch so it would be in place when Izzy returned from rinsing off their plates.

Nell picked up an edge and fingered the rippling design. A familiar flutter stirred deep down inside of her.

“This is exactly the way every summer should begin,” Birdie said.

“With a wedding?” Cass frowned. She grasped a handful of thick black hair and slipped a band around it. Her face was flushed from a day on the water checking her traps. “Well, just don’t be looking at me. I don’t plan on getting married, maybe never.”