“It's the same here. Thank goodness this place is air-conditioned. It's a relief to come to work. The parsonage may self-ignite, it's so stuffy—even with fans going. Tom's afraid the window frames are too fragile for an air conditioner, but if the heat keeps' up, I wil personal y pay to have the old ones ripped out and new ones put in, never mind the blasphemy. I know God al ows New Englanders to be very cold in the winter and very hot in the summer because they prefer to suffer in this way, but I'm tired of taking the kids to work or to a movie when I want them to cool off!”
Pix felt a twinge of guilt. She was on the Parish Buildings and Grounds Committee, which, among other things, saw to the upkeep of the parsonage. No one had ever raised the notion of air conditioning. The Mil ers had never had it, and Faith was no doubt right—some of Pix's fel ow committee members would definitely classify it as wickedly self-indulgent.
They talked a bit more, then Faith let out a shriek. "Got to go! Amy's at the pies!”
With a vivid picture of a toddler smeared from head to toe with blueberry pie, gleeful y licking her hands, Pix hung up. She was on her own.
She spread the quilt out on the floor and opened her book, Clues in the Calico by Barbara Bradman. It had been bedtime reading the last few nights. She leafed through it, then set to work. First, she considered the fabric: lots of smal -figured calicos, some shirting material. The abundance of brown-colored triangles indicated a pre-1900 quilt, a time when this was a very popular color. It wasn't used much again until the 1960s and was stil favored. She took her scissors and turned the quilt over, snipping a piece of thread, then pul ing out a few stitches.
With a fine needle, she unraveled it and looked at the strands through Samantha's magnifying glass—Six-ply.
That meant post-1860. She was narrowing the date down.
Maybe the quilt was genuine after al and she had scored a terrific coup. She teased a bit of the batting from between the top and backing and rubbed the fibers between her fingers.
Her heart sank. It was very cleverly done. The thick ness of the batting mimicked what would have been used earlier. But they did not have polyester in the late 1800s. It could be an old top newly quilted. With that optimistic thought, she turned the quilt over and spread it out again.
On hands and knees she looked at each and every triangle and at one fabric design in particular. It appealed to her, as it had when she bought a yard of it herself last year.
Pix closed the book and careful y folded up her quilt, laying it across the back of the couch. She stroked the fabric. No question, no question at al : The whole thing was as phony as a three-dol ar bil .
The Mil er family was quiet at dinner that night. Pix had set the table, rather than eat on the deck, in honor of her husband's presence and also as a nod to the gracious living à la Valerie Atherton that Samantha continued to espouse. They had cold blueberry soup, a big salad with fresh crabmeat, rice, sweet red peppers, and plenty of lettuce. There were some of Luel a Prescott's rol s and ice cream for dessert. Nothing was even remotely connected with Pix's having to turn on her stove.
“This is good, Mom. Did you make it?" Samantha asked, tilting her bowl to get the last of the soup.
Pix was tempted to reply, "No, the fairies left it on my doorstep," but chagrin at her culinary reputation and the soft glow of the candles she'd put on the table tempered her reply.
“Yes, I did." She paused. "Faith gave me the recipe.”
Sam and his daughter both laughed and Sam said,
"The important thing is that you made it and we're eating it.
You have many other talents.”
Which were? Pix waited for him to go on. When he didn't, she got up to get the salad. Samantha fol owed with the soup bowls—the unmatched ones.
“I was at the Athertons' house today. Jim asked me to take some mail over to Valerie that had come to the camp by mistake. You should see it. It's like something from a magazine”
Jim and Valerie, it had come to this.
Oblivious to her mother's lack of interest, Samantha prattled on and on about the house: the two-story fieldstone fireplace—"And Valerie selected every rock herself "—the artwork, the Italian leather couch, apparently large enough to accommodate Michelangelo's David—if he could sit, of course. Pix felt increasingly giddy as she listened to her daughter repeat the tour Valerie Atherton had given her.
Simpler to put it on video.
“Salad's ready. Get the plates, wil you?”
Samantha placed the three plain white ironstone plates on the table. One had a tiny chip.
“Get another one, Samantha, and put that one aside, please," Pix said grandly. She'd stick it back in the pile when Samantha was otherwise occupied.
The Fourth of July was supposed to be sunny and it was. The sky was supposed to be blue and it was. The Mil ers were supposed to be sitting on lawn chairs brought from home, waiting for the parade to start at 10:00 A.M., and they were. The only thing that felt odd to Pix was that she didn't have any children to remind not to run into the street or get overheated. Samantha was lined up with the camp at the far end of Main Street, waiting to march, and of course her other two were far, far away. Not even a postcard or a cal yet. Such was a mother's fate.
Her own mother was on one side, Sam on the other.
Various friends and relatives of the Bainbridges, as wel as the B and B guests were strung out in a line. Pix waved to El iot Frazier, who was perched with the other judges in chairs set up on the porch roof of the old Masonic Hal . It was the ultimate viewing platform. Louise was down on the ground next to Ursula.
“I think El iot agrees to judge every year just so he can go up on the roof," Louise said. "The view must be magnificent."
“Where's Adelaide?" Ursula asked Rebecca, who was coming down the lawn carrying a big pitcher of cold lemonade and some cups. It was already hot and she was greeted enthusiastical y.
“She'l be along. She's feeling a little poorly this morning. Must be the humidity.”
Pix didn't wonder Adelaide was suffering. With al the extra weight she carried, this weather must be brutal.
John Eggleston appeared, chairless, and plopped down at Pix's feet.
“Am I in your way?"
“Not at al . It's good to see you.”
Pix had always liked John, despite his being odd, even for a place that tolerated a wide range of differences in human nature. It wasn't merely his appearance; his shoulder-length wiry red hair and bushy red beard made him unique, especial y since there was usual y sawdust, and occasional y wood shavings, in both. Nor was it his reluctance to discuss his past life, although Pix knew that as a priest he had served a large church somewhere in the South. She'd also learned something about why he left, but not from him—rather, from Faith. There were lots of people who came to Maine to start fresh, leaving certain doors firmly closed. In his present incarnation as wood sculptor, John's talent was enormous and widely recognized. He received orders for carvings from al over the world and specialized in religious objects. The last time she'd been in his studio, he was working on a huge menorah. "I did not lose my faith," he'd told her once, "just my head.”
But what made him unusual was his unpredictability.
You never knew what kind of mood he would be in. Pix had seen towering rage and quiet gentleness. The kids on the island flocked to him for advice and it was only with them that he seemed able to maintain his equilibrium. Pix thought of these younger people as his new parish. Arlene had told the Mil ers many stories about the help John had quietly given to one or another child. Today he seemed mel ow and gave Ursula a big smile. She was a favorite.
“What's the theme this year?" he asked her.
“I believe it's storybook characters, but I think it's being interpreted rather loosely in some cases. I know the Fishermen's Wives Association has constructed a lobster boat, and I can't think of a book to go with that.”