Ben was up at the crack of dawn, and for once Faith was glad to get up with him. He came running gleefully into her room, his soaked nighttime diaper swaying between his legs. He had taken his sleeper off. It was probably wet too.
“Mommee, Mommee," he cried, and stretched out his little arms for Faith to pull him into her warm bed for a cuddle.
“Not a prayer," she answered as she got up and swooped him into her arms and off for a bath. He laughed in delight. She could do no wrong. At least not for many years to come. She was his own "Mommee" and he loved her passionately. This is why women have sons, Faith reminded herself as she turned on the taps.
It was a brief detour from the all-important task of the morning. She had outlined the plan to Pix the night before and lost no time, once Ben was dressed and fed, in executing it. As she came downstairs with Ben and his Brio Spool Wagon to keep him occupied, she heard the other baby crying again. Faith was a little hazy on when babies were supposed to have things, but she thought Zoë was too old for colic. It could be teething. That was a reasonable answer for a few years when anyone asked why your child was screaming. It sounded better than "bad temper" or "horrible personality." She turned to the matter at hand, happy she wasn't the one futilely pacing the floor or rocking in a chair.
First she spread the quilt on the floor in the living room and carefully photographed each square with Samantha's Polaroid Impulse, which Pix had brought over when she had delivered Dusty and the quilt top. Then Faith numbered the pictures, put them in an envelope, and stuffed the envelope in the folds of one of the diapers in Benjamin's diaper bag.
Afterward she wrote a short note to her friend Charley MacIsaac. He also happened to be the chief of police in Ale-ford, the place she was still startled to call home.
Dear Charley,
Please put the enclosed in a safe place. Don't give it or show it to anyone. I'll explain when I get home. It's nice here and everyone is fine. See you soon.
Love, Faith
The good thing about Charley was that he would do it and not feel he had to call her up and ask a lot of questions. Like Tom.
Next she opened one of the desk drawers, which she had discovered earlier contained enough brown paper and string to send the Queen Mary by parcel post, and took out what she needed. She wrapped the quilt and tied it, taped the letter to it, and wrapped the whole thing again. If Charley didn't know what was in it, it was all the better. She addressed it to "C. MacIsaac, 1776 Revere Street, Aleford, Massachusetts." Then she called Pix, who she figured should be back after taking Bill Fox home from the garage in Granville.
“Everything's ready. Can you come with, me now?"
“No problem, and Samantha wants to take Ben for a walk."
“Perfect. We wouldn't want to cut things short because of a restless child, and if he's behaving well, he might upstage us.”
A half hour later Pix and Faith were standing in line at the IGA in Sanpere Village. Pix had filled a basket with things she didn't need and Faith was holding the unwieldy package. Pix went first.
“Faith," she said, managing to sound genuinely reproachful, "you know Louise and I would have been happy to help you get started. There is really no need to have someone else quilt your top."
“Oh, Pix, I am very grateful, but you know that I'm hopeless with a needle and thread. You can teach me something else like basket weaving. I really would like to have it finished in my lifetime, and his woman is a fine quilter. I remember she finished a quilt for a friend of mine, and when I called her, she said she could start right away. That's why I want to get it off this morning." Faith was deliberately ambiguous as to name and place. Plus she never minded a few fibs in the cause of justice.
“I do understand, Faith, and it's such a lovely quilt, it deserves to be finished quickly. I wonder what color she'll choose for the backing. Did you tell her what color to pick?”
And they were off on a discussion of colors, patterns, and textures which took them through the checkout and into the street.
“Now for Part Two," Faith said under her breath as they strolled through the village with their packages.
Pix had something more on her mind. "You know, you might enjoy basket weaving. It's fun and very relaxing. I could start you on a melon basket.”
Faith knew where the thought was going. "Pix," she said gently but firmly, "I don't carry my melons in baskets. At least not in this country." Some ideas had to be ruthlessly nipped in the bud.
People with post office boxes generally came to get their mail in the late morning, and Sanpere Village bustled with their activity. Even if one's mail was delivered, there was always something to pick up. Something from Prescott's Hardware, the IGA, or The Blueberry Patch.
There were two other enterprises in the village, an art gallery started by an off-islander who now lived on Sanpere year round and an antique shop operated by one of the Sanfords, who purportedly got most of her stock from picking the dump. But these two shops were strictly for summer people and Faith and Pix walked by them quickly.
Jill stocked newspapers and magazines and had lately added a small section of paperback books. Faith stopped to buy a paper and managed to pass the news to the four or five people in the store, then conveyed it to three more in Prescott's while she picked up some batteries for one of the dozen or so flashlights that had come with the cottage, everything from penlight to searchlight. John Eggleston was busy buying nails, but paused to emit a bark of polite interest before turning back to the infinitely more fascinating display in front of him. Faith filed a thought to pull out later. It was unlikely that he had amassed much in the way of earthly goods as a minister, "poor as church mice" being the rule rather than the exception. Was he a successful enough sculptor to support himself? What did he live on?
By the time they walked up the worn wooden post office stairs, which had once been red like the rest of the building, it was almost pointless to keep talking. Most of the island, from the top of the old serpentine quarry at South Beach to the town wharf at Granville, already knew that Mrs. Fairchild was mailing that quilt of Matilda Prescott's up to Massachusetts to be finished.
There were only two people in the post office, but one of them was Sonny Prescott, and Faith and Pix went through the whole thing again for his benefit. The other was Eric, standing with studied care as far away as possible from Sonny as he could in the tiny room. It was to him that Faith addressed her remarks, with Pix providing backup.
Sonny left after a nod to the ladies. Possibly the conversation was not as riveting as they thought, but when the package, which had already made quite a journey, was finally sent on its way and they emerged into the sunlight, they were pleased to note Sonny earnestly talking into his CB in the cab of his pickup.
“Mission accomplished, n'est-ce pas?" Faith murmured to Pix.
“But oui, mon capitaine," she replied.
They both felt terribly smug.
Eric was following closely behind them, and they walked together toward Faith's car.
“I've decided to move into the Prescott house—my house, that is," he told them. "I think Roger would have wanted it."
“That's wonderful." Pix put her hand on his arm. "Of course Roger would have wanted it and we want it. You mustn't be driven away by all this."