Loralee shook her head. “In a little while. Since your daddy died, I find that I can’t sleep through the night anymore. I think I’ll watch a little TV for a bit. Hopefully there will be something good on one of the three channels that have any reception.”
“Good luck with that.” Merritt paused in the doorway, almost swaying with indecision. “Thanks for the sundae.”
“You’re welcome.” She stared into her stepdaughter’s blue eyes, and saw her son’s. “Thank you for letting Owen and me stay here.”
Merritt gave a perfunctory nod. “Good night, Loralee.”
“Good night, Merritt.”
She waited until Merritt’s slow footsteps reached the top of the stairs, followed by the quiet click of her bedroom door closing. Then Loralee turned off the kitchen light and let herself out into the back garden.
The smell of rain hung heavy in the air, the cloud-covered sky above a moonless and starless dome of black. A storm-born breeze trickled into the garden, the sea-glass wind chimes waltzing in slow circles.
Loralee looked up at the sky, realizing that what Merritt had told Owen wasn’t completely true—that sometimes the dark simply absorbed all the light you couldn’t see, and you just had to have enough love and faith in your heart to trust that it was there.
She sat on the bench for a long time, her eyes dry as she studied the darkened sky even after the rain began to fall.
chapter 20
MERRITT
I fed the red and white checked material through the sewing machine, the pulsing needle like the mouth of a baby bird. My first two attempts had been disastrous, ending up with knotted thread and clumped fabric. Despite popular opinion, operating a sewing machine wasn’t like riding a bicycle. The needle jammed again, pulling on the fabric, my foot lifting from the pedal a fraction of a minute too late to prevent another train wreck.
I knew part of the problem was my lack of concentration. Each inch of fabric, each tiny stitch, every whir of the motor reminded me of my grandmother. Not just of us sewing together, but of the joy we’d felt in creating something. Which brought to mind the letter she’d received, and the handkerchiefs, and how I’d never seen the sewing machine again after that day. I stared down at the knot of fabric bunched beneath the needle, but saw only bright red monograms on a white linen handkerchief.
“What are you making?”
I looked up at Owen and Maris, who’d approached without my being aware, and felt a little offended that they couldn’t tell what it was. “A tablecloth.”
“Or maybe a drop cloth?” Gibbes moved to stand behind the children, looking over their heads at the red and white disaster.
“Why are you here?” I asked, too annoyed to check my manners.
“It’s good to see you, too. I rang the doorbell and Rocky let me in. I just saw my last patient of the day and figured now would be a good time to pick up all the recycling boxes.” He indicated the sewing machine. “You need to hold the fabric with a really light touch—don’t try to feed it into the needle. Slowly press the pedal to gently pull it forward and you just let the fabric move so it doesn’t bunch. Makes it a lot easier.”
I remembered my mother and grandmother both telling me the same thing: that I needed to slow down and focus. I sometimes wondered whether they would even recognize me now. Except for the decision to move to Beaufort, my life for the last decade had been a plodding and deliberate existence, every day planned to go unnoticed and unremarked.
Frustrated, I turned off the machine and slid back the chair. “And how would you know so much about sewing?”
Gibbes stepped back as I stood. “Everybody had to take home ec in high school. And shop. So I know how to use a needle and thread as well as a hammer and nail.”
“I’m guessing the needle-and-thread thing works out great for you in your chosen profession.”
“Yes, ma’am. And I’ve been told that I’m pretty handy with my tools, too.”
Our eyes met as we both realized what he’d actually said.
He laughed, not looking embarrassed at all. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it that way. Although I refuse to retract my statement.”
I put a hand over my mouth, trying to hide my own laugh, and for a brief moment I thought he might actually be flirting with me. My laugh died quickly as I remembered that I wasn’t the kind of woman men flirted with. At least, not according to Cal.
Flustered, I tried to gather the fabric to tuck it out of the way. I managed to do nothing more than bunch it up so that it would require ironing if and when I ever finished it, but at least I had time to allow my face to return to normal.
“Mrs. Heyward?”
“Yes, Maris?”
“Can you take us to the marina? Rocky says he hasn’t been there yet.”
“I, um . . . Will we need life jackets?”