The Wedding Shawl Page 6

  “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.”

  Nell looked up and started to say something, but Cass filled in the words before she had a chance. “Never say never. But I can say maybe never, right?” Then she laughed, a slightly too-loud laugh that made the others laugh, too. She looked again at the shawl. “But I must admit, if there’d be a shawl like that in my future, I might be forced to reconsider.”

  Izzy took the three steps down into the room as one, then came to a sudden stop. She stood in front of the table, hand covering her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered.

  “You will look so lovely, Izzy,” Birdie said. She rested one small hand on Izzy’s arm.

  Izzy’s eyes traveled over the intricately stitched rows. She had watched the shawl grow as it passed from Birdie to Nell to Cass and then began its round again.

  It was a sacred ritual, passing from hand to hand.

  But each week it was a surprise. Each week the rippling effect was more real and the lacy design more lovely. Each week it brought the ocean to life.

  Birdie sat down on the couch with the end of the shawl stretched across her knees.

  Nell brought her bag over and pulled out a bright green sweater, but her eyes shifted between Izzy and the wedding shawl.

  Izzy was sitting in silence, her eyes following Birdie’s fingers as they knit, slipped stitches, performed yarn overs, all with ease and expertise.

  And they were all imagining her in her simple white dress, the shawl loose around her shoulders.

  The ceremony would be simple. No bridesmaids, Izzy had decided after much distress. But blessings from friends. Her circle of friends. They’d each pick out a simple black summer dress—and Izzy would provide them each with a touch of color. A surprise, she said.

  Cass reached over and fingered the soft, silky yarn, then settled back with a much smaller project, her annual hat collection that she doled out to her fellow fisherm
en every fall. She’d advanced to cables this year and worked carefully on a thick, wooly blend of black and gold.

  No one noticed the time until Birdie complained that if she didn’t get up soon, she’d be permanently anchored to the well-worn leather couch.

  “Me, too,” Nell said. “I should check on Claire and make sure she has what she needs.”

  “Aunt Nell, you’re not running a hotel,” Izzy said.

  Nell brushed away the teasing. Izzy was right. Claire was a grown woman and could make herself at home just fine. And if she needed anything, she’d ask. She rummaged in her purse, looking for keys.

  “Voilà,” she said, dangling them in the air. “Come, Birdie, your chariot awaits.”

  Although Birdie had several cars at her disposal, including the gas-guzzling Lincoln Town Car, Ben Endicott’s private campaign to keep their lively friend off the road at night had met with some success. That and several speeding tickets had convinced Birdie that sometimes having someone cater to your every whim was lovely. So she graciously took over the passenger seat, issuing directives on the most pleasant way to get from here to there.

  All along Harbor Road, people walked beneath tall black gaslights, in and out of restaurants, the ice cream shop. In the distance, music blared from the open door of Jake Risso’s Gull Tavern.

  Next door to Izzy’s knitting studio, Archie Brandley waved at them as he turned his sign around to CLOSED, pulled down the blinds, and locked the bookstore’s door. Other shops along the block had closed earlier, but Archie never kept to the hours printed on his sign. “Who am I to stop someone in the middle of some fine line of text,” he’d say.

  “Look, Nell.” Birdie pointed across the street. “Isn’t that Claire Russell?”

  Nell looked over and saw Auggie McClucken first. He was pulling down the blinds on the hardware store’s front window.

  And then she spotted Claire, directly beneath a gaslight. Her shadow fell out into the street, long and wavy. She wore a pair of jeans and the same green T-shirt she had worn that morning. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face and fastened at her neck. She walked slowly, looking at the doors of the shops along the way.

  Auggie nodded at her as she passed, his thick white beard moving up and down against his chins.

  Claire didn’t seem to notice him, and Auggie lifted his beefy shoulders in a shrug and walked back inside.

  Nell waved, then called out to her, but Claire didn’t look over. Instead, her footsteps quickened.

  A group of teenagers piled out of the ice cream store, nearly knocking Claire over, then gathering like a gaggle of birds beneath the lamplight. When they moved again, Claire was a shadow floating down the road.

  “I guess she didn’t hear you,” Birdie said.

  “I guess not.” Nell continued to look down the street, straining to see beyond the young teen bodies now filling the sidewalk. Claire hadn’t looked back, but Nell glimpsed her green shirt, and then she disappeared from sight.

  Maybe Birdie was right. Maybe she hadn’t heard her. Or maybe she didn’t want to hear her.

  Late that night, she and Ben sat together in the darkness of their deck, looking out over the world and sharing their day. It was a ritual as old as their marriage. “Settling the night,” Ben called it.

  Claire had installed tiny solar lights in the backyard that shined now in the blackness, casting narrow beams of light up into the pine trees and lighting the leaves of the hostas.

  Ben handed her a cup of tea, then sat down beside her on the double chaise and stretched his legs out. “You like her, don’t you?” he said, looking out over the yard.

  “I do.” And then she told him about seeing her alone, walking along Harbor Road.

  “Lots of people do that. Me included.” Ben chuckled softly, his way of easing away the worried tone that crept into Nell’s voice. He rubbed the back of her hand.

  “I know. It’s silly. But I swear when I called out her name, she heard me. I could tell by the movement of her head. And then she hurried on, as if I were going to stop her.”

  Ben leaned his head against the back of the chair. “Sometimes, you find the damndest things to worry about.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “You’re something. I can hear it in your voice.”

  Nell sipped her tea and closed her eyes. Something. Yes. And then she told Ben about the day. About the look that twisted Claire’s attractive face when Izzy walked out onto the deck. She’d been sitting off to the side, behind that huge hibiscus, so Izzy didn’t even know she was there, Nell said.

  “Do you think she was looking at Izzy?”

  “No,” Nell said, surprising herself with her sudden certainty. Claire had been hearing about Izzy for weeks as they worked on the yard and had met her just a couple of days earlier. There would be no way that seeing Izzy would cause such emotion on the gardener’s face.

  “So who?”

  Nell grew silent then. Who?

  There was only one other person within sight.

  Tiffany Ciccolo, the shy hairstylist.

  Chapter 8

  If Birdie Favazza’s hair hadn’t turned pink that June morning, it might have been days before they found the body—the storage cellar wasn’t an everyday trip. At least that was the thought of those who worked at the salon. But as sometimes happens, certain things fall into place so perfectly that one small move—like taking the wrong conditioning agent from a shelf—can transform an ordinary day into another kind altogether.

  Normally Birdie left her gleaming cap of white hair alone. A shake of her head and a quick brush and she was set for the day. And that was just the way she liked it.

  But this Friday, Lynn Holmes, M.J.’s energetic assistant, suggested a new conditioner. “Perfect for your hair, Mrs. Favazza,” the young woman said.

  She spoke with such enthusiasm that Birdie smiled into the muted light of the shampoo room. She was stretched out in the reclining chair, her sneakers barely touching the end. A towel cushioned her neck, and she was utterly comfortable. “Cushioned and coddled,” she told Lynn. A lovely way to begin the weekend. New Age music and Lynn’s hands caused her body to relax into weightlessness.

  “Your hair will shine,” Lynn whispered into her ear.

  Birdie had no desire to shine, but she didn’t want to hurt Lynn’s feelings, and if a conditioner would prolong the amazing neck massage another few minutes, that would be fine.

  It wasn’t until she was seated back in the light of M.J.’s station that she looked into the mirror.

  Nell was sitting in the chair next to her, waiting her turn. She looked over.

  “Good lord, Birdie,” she said, one hand flying to her own head as if whatever Birdie had might be catching.

  Birdie’s hands flew to her face. She leaned forward.

  “A flamingo,” she whispered into the mirror. “I look like a flamingo.”

  “You’re not tall enough, dearie,” Esther Gibson said, getting up in the middle of her own cut and ambling over to Birdie’s chair. Her black smock flapped around her hips.

  A shocked M.J. raced into the shampoo room to find Lynn. She was back in a minute, with the assistant trailing behind her looking like she’d lost her best friend.

  M.J. held up the offending bottle in one hand and the new conditioner in the other. “The numbers are nearly the same,” she said. “Oh, Birdie, I’m so sorry.”

  Behind her, Lynn stood in silence, tears welling up in her huge brown eyes.

  Birdie turned toward the young girl. “Now, stop that, Lynn. It could be aubergine—not a good color for me at all. Or worse, kelly green. My Sonny would haunt me for the rest of my life if I turned up with Irish hair.” She coaxed a smile out of Lynn.

  “I’ve had blue hair once or twice,” Esther offered.

  “And M.J. often has red,” Nell said.

  “Colors are in,” Birdie agreed.

  “Well, this one is coming out,” M.J. declared, stifling their optimistic over
tures. “We have a solution that will clean this up in no time. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Birdie smiled into the mirror. “I don’t believe I will, dear.” She patted the soft pink cap of hair framing her lined face.

  Nell followed M.J. out of the room, offering to help.

  “We keep all our extra solutions in the basement. It’s out back.” M.J. rummaged around on the front desk, mumbling about finding a key.

  Tanya handed her one and called out as M.J. disappeared down the hallway to the back door, “Just FYI, your golden girl is MIA again. Third time this week.”

  The expression on M.J.’s face as she opened the back door told Nell exactly what she thought of Tanya’s keeping a tally of other staff members’ time—it didn’t sit nicely with the salon owner.

  They stepped out into the gravel alley that ran behind the shops, and M.J. turned toward the heavy storm cellar door beside the back steps.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Nell. Don’t say it. It’s foolish to have to go outside to get down here. But the cellar is always cool. It’s a perfect place for the hair chemicals. Or wine,” she added with a laugh. She leaned over and started to unlock the heavy metal lock, then frowned.

  “Something wrong?” Nell stood just behind her.

  “It’s not locked. It’s Tanya’s job to lock things up.” M.J.’s voice was clipped, disapproving. Two strikes against Tanya.

  M.J. lifted the heavy lid and braced it back against the building. She walked down the stone steps, flipping on a light at the bottom. “You don’t need to come down, Nell. I’m doing great things to the front of the basement, but, unfortunately, this part is still a dungeon.”

  But Nell was already on the bottom step. “Ben’s family had one of those bulkhead doors on their house that led to the basement. We kept it, but during the remodeling we built an inside staircase.”

  M.J. laughed. “Yes. Yes. I get your message. It’s on my list of redos. I’ve actually finished off one room down here in the back for Tiff to use as an office. It’s pretty nice. She loves it. I just haven’t gotten around to giving her an inside entrance. I think I might eventually make this whole area a spa. So much to do, so little time. Soon, soon.” One hand fluttered in the air. “Now, where’s that toner? Tiffany keeps things in order down here, but sometimes Tanya likes to change things around. I think just on principle.”