Patterns in the Sand Read online

  Birdie had complied under protest, but soon discovered the bike could get her places the car could not. Soon she was a familiar figure tooling down the winding roads of Sea Harbor, her lined face tilted to the wind. Nell marveled at her friend’s stamina. If twenty years hence she had half the energy that was bottled up in Birdie’s small frame, she’d consider herself blessed. But even so, her friend was at an age when most people slowed down considerably, and moving from a gallop to a trot might be something Birdie should consider. “Birdie, can I get you anything?”

  “Oh, pshaw. I’m fit as a fiddle. All I need is a little gossip. Do tell me about the young girl. I stopped at the deli to get a loaf of rye, and Harry filled me in on some of it—how he’d spotted her curled up in Izzy’s shop window and thought she was dead. Lordy, as if our Izzy needs a dead body in her store window.”

  “She was asleep, poor thing. She’s like a waif.”

  “The Saturday crowd at Coffee’s had several versions of your waif. Jake Risso thought she’d probably escaped from the women’s prison up in Goffstown. Gracie Santos suggested she was a starlet hoping to get in a movie filmed on our Cape. And Laura Danvers was sure that she was smoking something or another. A runaway, Laura said, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint what she’d run away from.”

  “I suspect the truth is a little less dramatic.” Nell looked down toward the cottage again. The thought that perhaps Willow had disappeared just as she had arrived—without announcement or notice—hovered like an irritating fly, but Nell brushed the thought away with a shake of her head. She had a feeling about Willow. She didn’t fit any of the roles Coffee’s customers suggested, and she surely wouldn’t run off again without saying thank you or at least good-bye. Nell felt sure of that.

  Birdie was intrigued to learn that Willow was a fiber artist, but horrified at the hitchhiking story. “Though I must confess,” she said, “I hitchhiked a time or two in my day. But things were quite different back then.”

  “Willow was determined to get to Sea Harbor, it seems.”

  “That’s a tad odd, isn’t it?” Birdie said. “Not that seeing Izzy’s lovely shop isn’t worth the trip from wherever on earth she came. But breaking into it? That shows a rather surprising determination. What do you suppose she was thinking?”

  “That there might be a place inside to sleep, I suspect. And maybe that someone who was nice enough to send her a complimentary e-mail about her art—and someone who loved yarn on top of that—would surely understand.”

  “And of course she was right. Though it must have scared everyone half to death to find her in the window like that.”

  “Except Purl. Purl seemed to accept it all in good spirits. She seemed quite fond of Willow and happy to have the company.”

  “That’s definitely in Willow’s favor. Our Purl is a fine judge of character.”

  “The true mystery to me is where Willow is right now. You’d think she’d be at the Seaside Knitting Studio—or here in the cottage sleeping. Or at the least, that she’d have stopped in to say good morning or ask directions or something.”

  “I suspect she’s out exploring Sea Harbor. If I were Willow and had dropped into this amazing village unexpectedly, I would be out soaking in every minute of it.” Birdie leaned forward and patted Nell on the knee. “You don’t know her well enough to worry about her yet. Give it a day or two.”

  Nell’s husky laugh floated across the deck. Her penchant for taking on the problems of people’s lives was the object of continuous teasing among the Seaside knitters, and Nell was quite adept at brushing it off. It was genetic, she would tell her friends, and there simply wasn’t anything she could do about it.

  “Since we’ve determined Willow is alive and well, how about you give me a ride to the farmer’s market?” Birdie said. She checked the large round watch that dwarfed her wrist. “It’s already midday and I’ve a list a mile long. My bike basket isn’t nearly big enough to carry it all.”

  The summer market at the pier was one of Nell’s and Birdie’s favorite Saturday things to do. It wasn’t just the smell of the fruits and vegetables piled high on the farmers’ stands. It was the people watching, greeting neighbors, the music and kites flying and icy containers of clams, lobsters, and oysters being sold by local fishermen. It was Peggy Garner’s stand, filled with freshly baked blueberry, rhubarb, and cherry pies, and Frank and Lucy Staff’s Mason jars of fresh homemade salsa—pineapple and raspberry and spicy tomato. And it was even the incongruous appearance of Joe Quigley, who appeared every summer in the seaside town and hawked his Chicago dogs, piled high with onions and mustard and pickles, from a tiny booth right beside the pier.

  Birdie’s sack was nearly full by the time she and Nell had walked halfway through the maze of stands.

  “Birdie, how will you eat all that in a week?” Nell asked, eyeing the array of vegetables and fruits.

  But Nell knew how she’d do it. By handing it over to Ella Sampson, who worked for Birdie and lived with her husband, Harold, in Birdie’s carriage house. Ella would do magical things with whatever Birdie brought home. At Birdie’s suggestion, she’d make large quantities, enough for a crowd, and after dinner each night, Harold would quietly drive over to the homeless shelter near the highway and leave healthy dinners in the back kitchen.

  “There’s Cass,” Nell said, waving above the heads of a clump of teenagers.

  Cass wove her way to their side. “I finally met her.”

  “Who?” Nell asked.

  “Willow, that’s who. The star of the night. The window dressing.”

  “She’s here at the market?”

  “No. I went over to the cove to deliver some lobsters to Jane and Ham—my traps were overloaded and I owe them lobsters for life for that painting Ham gave me of my boat.” Cass slipped a band from her wrist and twisted it around a thick handful of hair.

  “So Willow was with Jane and Ham?”

  “No. She was sitting on a little bench in that grassy area near Aidan Peabody’s Fishtail Gallery. She had on huge sunglasses—like a movie star or something—but Tommy Porter pointed her out to me. He said he was sure that’s who it was behind the shades—the gal who broke into Izzy’s shop—but the one whom Izzy didn’t press charges against. Typical Izzy. No wonder she quit her law practice. She’s way too soft for a lawyer.

  “When you called last night to say things were okay, you didn’t say you’d be bringing her home. We’d have stuck around longer, if we knew there was going to be drama.”

  “No drama, except what the police provided. Willow was exhausted, poor thing, and we sent her to bed as soon as we got home.”

  “What was she doing in Canary Cove?” Birdie asked.

  Cass shrugged. “Things were bustling around the colony because of the Art at Night tomorrow night. Jane said she’d seen Willow peering in open doors, looking into the studios and galleries, but no one paid much attention to her because they were busy. She seemed intent on a brochure of the area, almost like she was looking for something to buy or find. She had a notebook and was taking notes, maybe names of the shops she liked?”

  “I guess it makes sense she’d head toward Canary Cove. She’s an artist, after all, and in addition to the lovely posters Brendan put up on his way home last night, Harbor Road was full of makeshift notices about tomorrow’s open studios. I should have thought of that myself when I started worrying about her disappearing.”

  “Did you talk to her?” Birdie asked.

  “Yep. I introduced myself, told her we were all friends. She was a little uncomfortable, fidgety, as if she shouldn’t be there. Or at least didn’t want anyone to know she was there.”

  “You didn’t ask her why she was there?”

  “No. And I got the feeling it would be better if I didn’t. I figured she had as much right to be there as anyone else. Ellen Marks walked by and stopped to thank me for some lobsters I dropped off for her and Rebecca, so I introduced them. Willow perked up when Ellen invited her to stop
by the Lampworks Gallery and see Rebecca’s new glass bead collection. She told Ellen about her own fiber art, and Ellen grooved on it, asked lots of questions. Willow seemed to come alive when she talked about her art, just like Jane and Ham and Aidan do when they talk about theirs.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well, that was curious. While they were talking, I ran over to the tea shop to get a couple cold drinks—I was sweating up a storm. I told Willow I’d be right back with one for her. But when I came back out, she was gone.” Cass snapped her fingers. “Just like that. Disappeared into thin air. I spotted Ellen through the window of Lampworks, talking to a customer, so I knew she wasn’t there. She had simply disappeared. ”

  “Strange,” Birdie said.

  “She seemed comfortable talking to Ellen, but even with her sunglasses on, I could tell she was checking things out while they talked, looking at people walking by, checking traffic in and out of the galleries—Aidan’s and others down the road.”

  “As if she were looking for someone?” Birdie wondered.

  “Could be. As I walked back to my truck, I thought I caught a glimpse of her yellow T-shirt walking back up that alley next to Aidan’s. But I had more lobsters to deliver, so I moved on—I had promised Joe the hot dog guy I’d bring him some before the market closed—the thought of the Chicago hot dog king craving lobsters was just goofy enough for me to promise him a couple.”

  “Catherine, you have a heart of gold,” Birdie said.

  “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret.”

  A vibration in the pocket of Nell’s slacks pulled her attention away, and she pulled the cell phone from her pocket. She stepped away, leaving Cass and Birdie admiring a pile of melons, and snapped the phone open, frowning at the unfamiliar number.

  It wasn’t what Nell had supposed. Not Polly’s Salon reminding her of a hair appointment next week, or Nancy Hughes with a question about the historical society’s last board meeting, or Ben calling from a friend’s sailboat just to check in.

  It was Willow, her voice so soft Nell could barely hear what she was saying. She was crying.

  At first, Nell wondered how Willow got her cell phone number. Perhaps Izzy had passed both their numbers along, wanting to be sure Willow had someone to call if she needed anything. And then she remembered the little card she kept near the guesthouse phone. Her number was on it—a way for guests to reach her if they had a question, needed an extra blanket, or just wanted to know if the coffee was on yet. Just like the finest B and B, Ben had teased her. She was glad Willow had seen it. And used it.

  “Nell,” Willow began, “I didn’t steal your bike.”

  “No, of course you didn’t.”

  “I shouldn’t have just taken it without asking.”

  “It’s fine, Willow.”

  The silence that followed was so long that Nell thought Willow had hung up.

  And then she heard her blow her nose.

  “It’s been a long day, is all,” she said softly. Then added. “I’ll be leaving in a couple days, but . . .”

  “Of course. The guesthouse is all yours.”

  She heard Willow breath again, sucking in air, as if steadying herself.

  “For just a few more days?”

  “Of course. And the bicycle, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  The last two works were so soft that Nell wasn’t sure what she’d heard.

  And then the line went dead.

  Chapter 5

  “ It was odd, Ben. I’d swear she’d been crying. And the abrupt way she hung up was almost to cut me off so I wouldn’t ask any more questions.”

  After receiving Willow’s call, Nell was hopeful that when she got home, she’d find Willow on the deck with Ben, drinking a cold beer and filling him in on her life, her home, her art. Or who she was, Nell thought.

  A name. An artist. That was absolutely all they knew so far of this enigmatic wisp who had fallen into their lives.

  But there was no bike in the drive or on the guesthouse porch, and a knock on the door went unanswered.

  “Maybe it’s not so strange.” Ben sipped a small glass of brandy and slipped his other arm around Nell’s shoulder. They sat together on the deck, the black sky above and their feet lifted onto the stool Ben had pulled over. “The fact that she found her way to Canary Cove, for example—that makes sense to me. Artists find one another. And I’m sure she was intrigued with the colony, more intrigued than she’d be sticking around here to have breakfast with two people twice her age whom she doesn’t know from Adam.”

  Nell leaned back into the curve of Ben’s arm and looked up at the sky. A late-night breeze was gently sweeping away the heat of the day, and in the distance, just beyond the thick wooded area that ran down to the edge of the Endicott land, the sound of the waves against the shore soothed the day’s jumble of events.

  “And she broke into Izzy’s shop and fell asleep in the window because—”

  “Because she was tired. Which is exactly what I am, love.” Ben rolled his head sideways on the back of the double chaise and kissed Nell on the forehead, then pulled himself from the chair. He looked down at Nell. “Are you coming?”

  “In a minute. I’ll get the lights.”

  Nell watched Ben walk back into the house.

  Nightly rituals. And with them came a rush of comfort that Nell couldn’t begin to explain. She pushed herself up from the chair and walked over to the edge of the deck, the wind flapping her loose cotton blouse around her body. She looked down again at the guest cottage nestled at the edge of the woods.

  Where could Willow have gone tonight? Maybe she’d finally connected with Izzy to plan the presentation she’d offered to give. Or maybe they were looking over Willow’s pieces of art, which Nell herself was anxious to see.

  But as Nell’s gaze strayed across the deep yard, a cloud shifted overhead and a sliver of moonlight highlighted the cottage. Then Nell heard the sound. An animal? There were reports of coyotes on Cape Ann—Ben had seen one following their neighbor down the street last winter. She listened carefully. The sound carried on the breeze—a soft howling sound.

  Nell walked down the deck steps and toward the flagstone path leading to the back of the yard. A sliver of fear shot through her. She wondered if Ben had heard the sound through the open upstairs windows.

  But as she walked farther down toward the guesthouse, she spotted a slight figure, dressed in a familiar yellow T-shirt and jeans and hunched down on the floor of the narrow porch. Her knees were bent, and she hugged them tightly to her chest—and from beneath the thick tangle of hair that fell across her arms and legs came a mournful, muffled keening of grief.

  Willow seemed to feel Nell’s presence before Nell said a word. She lifted her head slowly and looked up at Nell, tears running down her cheeks and her hair tangled and unbrushed.

  “Willow, can I help?”

  But before Nell had a chance to act on instinct and gather the young woman up in her arms, Willow uncurled herself, wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, and stood up.

  “It’s silly to cry, isn’t it? I don’t do it often. I’m through crying, Nell. I’ve cried so much.”

  Willow forced a smile to her face. And with a slight gesture toward Nell, a touch to her arm, and a nod, she turned and walked through the door of the guest cottage, disappearing into the darkness within.

  Chapter 6

  Later, Nell would remember that it was an unusual night, that Sunday. The crowds were the same—a jolly mix of summer folks, Sea Harbor residents, and others from the Cape who drove in or motored their boats over to Sea Harbor because they enjoyed the festive atmosphere that Art at Night created.

  There was music, as usual, from the deck of the Artist’s Palate, as Pete Halloran’s band filled the air with old Beatles music. “When I’m Sixty-four” and “Come Together” rolled down the winding street like a red carpet, welcoming people and fashioning the evening’s mood.

 
But the air was sultry, with little breeze. Only a few stars dotted the sky, and a strange current—“anxious” was the word that stayed with Nell—ran beneath the light banter of friends and neighbors or the more serious discussions that the gallery owners and artists engaged in with customers.

  But that was only in memory, only after the evening had played its course. A memory colored by what happened that Sunday night. And how valid such memory was, Nell had no way of being sure.

  Join us tonight, Nell’s note to Willow had read. She taped it to the door of the guest cottage early Sunday, not wanting to disturb Willow if she were sleeping. I think you’ll love the art, the people, and the night air. It’s a good time.

  To her surprise, Willow stopped by the house on her way to Izzy’s knitting shop a few hours later, and they settled on a time. Willow’s face was scrubbed, and she wore a clean white T-shirt and denim shorts. A thick braid down the center of her back took more years off her face, and if Nell didn’t know better, she’d wonder if she should carpool Willow to soccer practice or the swim team.

  The familiar Birkenstocks looked a little too big for her narrow feet, Nell thought, as Willow took the cup of coffee Ben offered her and slid up on a kitchen island stool, her feet pigeon-toed on the rung. Her mood was pleasant, if not upbeat—and she never mentioned the night before, when Nell had found her huddled beneath the stars, her young body seeped in sadness.

  Nell didn’t mention it either, relieved that what had bothered the young woman seemed to have lessened. Homesickness, perhaps? Or a relationship problem. They knew next to nothing about Willow, after all, and, admittedly, she’d lived nearly two dozen years before stepping into their lives so recently.