this room to do our sorting.'
Aiden chose that moment to arrive.
'Michelle said something about moving furniture for you ladies,” he said, his cool gaze on Harriet. She felt heat creeping up her neck.
'If you could move the sofa and table against the wall and then bring down two of those eight-foot folding tables, we can put them end-to-end in the middle of the room and put folding chairs around them,” Jenny suggested. “Maybe Harriet can help you with the chairs.'
'Will do, chief.” Aiden saluted her. “Come on,” he said to Harriet. “Mom's workroom is on the third floor.'
He led her down a long hallway that had three closed doors on each side. At the end was a dark flight of steeply pitched stairs.
'Mom used the servant's quarters for her quilting. Apparently, old Cornelius didn't worry too much about his servants’ comfort-at least not when he put the stairs in. Michelle was afraid the climb would be too hard for some of the ladies, in case you were wondering why we're dragging everything down to the parlor.'
She had been curious but had decided not to ask. The stairs were a hard climb, but they opened onto a spacious landing.
'I'm not sure how many servants the old man had, or even if this was the original configuration of the space, but they seem to have had the whole floor. Mom uses their parlor…” He caught himself. “She used the parlor,” he corrected. “Anyway, she had her machines in here, and then back there is a kitchen she used for wet stuff. There are a couple of bedrooms and bathrooms over there.'
He pointed toward a short hallway. Harriet wasn't sure what direction they were facing.
'Come over here,” he said. “You have to see her office.'
He led her to a round room that opened off the parlor. This had to be the tower she'd seen from the outside. The room had windows all the way around. Each window had a stained glass header that had to be Tiffany, or at least one of his imitators. The clear leaded glass pane in the center of each panel revealed an incredible vista. She could see across the strait to Vancouver Island.
She crossed the room. From the opposite side, she could see the cove Aunt Beth's house looked onto, but from a different angle.
Aiden came up behind her. His proximity sent a warming shiver through her. He rested one hand on her left shoulder and pointed over her right with the other.
'See that dark area where the water disappears into the wood?'
'There where it looks like a river or creek or something?” she said, trying to focus on what he was showing her.
'That's where Cornelius kept his pirate ship. Or at least, that's the local legend.'
'Do you believe the legend?'
'I believe anything's possible,” he said, and with a hand on each shoulder, spun her around.
Harriet was pretty sure they weren't talking about pirates anymore. She lingered a moment longer than she should have then broke away and escaped across the room.
Aiden retreated to the next room, and she heard what she imagined was the sound of folding tables being moved. She took one last look at the view and started to leave the tower.
Avanell's ornately carved dark cherry desk sat in the center of the room. It must have allowed her to enjoy the view without being so close she would be chilled by the draft off the single-pane windows. Harriet couldn't help glancing at the two neat stacks of papers on the blotter. The top one on the left looked like a balance sheet. She wasn't an accountant, but she knew what red ink meant.
The older women in the quilting group sat around the folding table sorting Avanell's fabric into piles. Harriet and DeAnn had carried box after box from the attic workroom down to the parlor, and they still hadn't touched half of Avanell's stash.
They used the center of each table to hold the sorted piles; Harriet's sticky notes came in handy labeling the various categories. One table held batiks, hand-dyed fabrics, Asian prints, Civil War reproduction fabric and other premium cuts that would be re-divided among the Loose Threads members. The second table held groups of fabric that would be donated to several charity quilt projects.
The end of the second table held what made up the dark underbelly of every stash-the “what was I thinking?” pile. Avanell had been old enough this last group not only included neon colors but polyester. These would be taken to the Goodwill store in Port Angeles. Harriet vowed to herself that, when this was all over, she and Aunt Beth were going to purge this category from the studio stash before their friends had a chance to see the extent of their mutual bad judgment.
DeAnn brought out a plate of tea cookies she'd made. Robin carried them around to everyone, Connie following her with the tea carafe, refilling cups as needed.
'Harriet,” Robin said, “was that you I saw last night in a black Cadillac heading toward Smuggler's Cove?'
Harriet flushed. “Yes, it must have been.” She stumbled over her words. “I went to dinner at Pirate's Treasure down there.'
'Don't make us beg, chiquita,” Connie said. “Spill it. Who was the guy?'
'And what is Pirate's Treasure?” Mavis asked.
Harriet wasn't used to discussing her private life in a group, but then, she hadn't made enough good friends in California to comprise a group.
'The man was Harold Minter. He's some kind of finance guy at The Vitamin Factory. I went to a Chamber of Commerce dinner with him in Avanell's place on Wednesday. A friend of his opened a new restaurant called Pirate's Treasure, and he wanted to try it out. He'd noticed my appreciation for good food and asked me if I'd like to go with him.'
'And?” Connie said.
'And nothing,” Harriet said. “We ate, he brought me home, end of story.'
'Are you going to see him again?” Connie pushed.
'I don't know. I haven't really thought about it,” she lied. She had thought about it. She imagined going out to delicious dinners and then going home to Harold's house and working differential equations together. A small part of her was attracted to the scenario.
She and Steve had shared a love of fine food, and the Bay area had no shortage of options. Their evenings were spent at bistros and cafes, dining rooms and trattorias enjoying beef Wellington and chicken cacciatore, pad Thai and provolone, all followed by rich wines, liqueurs and chocolate in every shape and form you could imagine-and some you couldn't. They would return home talking and laughing and collapse into bed, where they would make love until dawn.
What they hadn't shared was the knowledge Steve had a terminal disease.
Harriet knew she and Harold would never share a passion like she'd had with Steve; but then again, he would never be able to hurt her as deeply.
She shook her head. What was she thinking? She'd been on one date with the guy.
'Are you okay, honey?” Mavis asked and glared at Connie. “You want some more tea, or another cookie?'
'I'm fine,” Harriet said stiffly.
An awkward silence fell over the group. The women returned to their work, heads down, focused on the piles they were sorting. Harriet went upstairs to retrieve another box, and when she returned, she had the distinct impression a discussion had taken place in her absence.
'Anyone feel like pizza?” Mavis asked.
DeAnn sat back and looked at the piles on the table. “I hate to stop now. I feel like we're just getting rolling,” she said.
'I could go down to Mama Theresa's and pick up pizza for us to eat here,” Harriet volunteered.
'Are you sure you don't mind?” Jenny said.
'Not at all. I'll just bring another box down from the workroom first so you won't run out while I'm gone.'
'That sounds like a plan,” Mavis said. “I'll call in our order while you're doing that.'
Harriet got up, went down the dark hallway and climbed the steep stairs one more time. She started toward
