The Stolen Canvas

1

Annie Dawson stepped onto the front porch of Grey Gables. Before her, summer lay full blown in shim- mering waves of heat. She drew in the scent of the ocean mingled with fragrant rose and lavender. Her gray cat, Boots, scampered past, took a few brief steps and spun around on delicate white paws to regard her. Then, lifting a well-groomed tail in the air, she padded off into the sunshine.

Annie dropped down on a wicker chair, feeling sublimely at home. The sun’s fingers cupped her face and wrapped her body in golden warmth. Who would have thought it? She certainly had not expected it when she’d first taken on the estate of her grandmother, Betsy Holden, that repairing the graying old house with its cache of dubious treasures and neglected gardens would turn from duty to pleasure.

She had planned a quick disposition of Gram’s things, none of which she needed or wanted—at least not then. She would put the house at 1 Ocean Drive up for sale and go back to Texas. After all, Stony Point was two thousand miles away from her family, and Maine winters were terrible to contemplate, let alone survive.

But she’d done more than survive. She stayed only part of the winter at Grey Gables. She’d reveled in the artful symmetry of the land when snow turned its contours into a wild white sea, and the sun made it sparkle like a faceted diamond. She’d relished walks along the ice-encrusted beach and learned to listen to a silence so deep it felt like a physical presence. She understood now why Gram had been so reluctant to go south in winter. Right up to the end she’d preferred the comfort of her own fireplace and let the elements rage and blow.

Annie had chosen to go home to Texas for Christmas and extended her holiday well past February. Alice MacFarlane, her best friend and childhood companion from summers spent with Gram, had watched over the house faithfully in her absence, and had taken care of Boots. Wally Carson, handyman par excellence, was only a phone call away to check the furnace or pipes. When Annie had come back in early March, winter still clung to the landscape with the tenacity of a white bulldog. While she enjoyed every minute in Texas, she had been anxious about the well-being of Grey Gables.

She had been eager to see her friends in Stony Point too—especially her fellow Hook and Needle Club members. She watched the slow birth of spring and took to Gram’s garden with a vengeance. Now the fruits of her labor flowered along the walkway and in the circular gardens she had so patiently dug. Peonies flourished among purple and red salvia; hydrangea and Michaelmas daisies blossomed with unrestrained ardor.

“Good to be home, isn’t it, Boots?” She glanced at Gram’s gray cat preening her white paws in a patch of sunlight. They’d long since adopted each other but took care not to intrude when one or the other preferred solitude. Now, Boots gave her an indulgent stare, her feline face resembling a smile.

Annie sighed. It wasn’t that she hadn’t enjoyed spending time with her daughter LeeAnn, Herb and the twins. She had delighted in the games and banter of John and Joanna. She was delighted to see them in the matching sweaters she had crocheted. She begrudged not one stitch of the difficult design she’d labored over the long year past. She was so proud of the twins; she had soaked up their developing personalities, each so different from the other. Both excelled in school and gave every indication of becoming heads of Fortune 500 companies or even president of the United States. Of course, they’d have to learn their times tables first and grow permanent teeth.

They had been full of questions. “Grandma,” Joanna had asked, “what was it like in the olden days?” LeeAnn had giggled behind her hands, and Annie had given her daughter a swat with a towel. Olden days! She was only in her forties, for goodness sake. She was no gray old lady yet. And if claiming John and Joanna was the price for being called “Grandma,” it was worth it and more.

Serious-minded John, who loved to draw, wanted to know, “Was Gram Holden really an artist?”

LeeAnn had been quick to respond, her blue eyes taking on a proud luster. “She was one of the best! She hand-painted her own canvases and stitched them in the most gorgeous colors you can imagine! Why, she’s as famous as Florida’s Jane Nichols or Kaffe Fassett of England.”

The children had no idea that Nichols or Fassett drew world scrutiny for their original canvases. Still, they seemed suitably impressed.

To illustrate, LeeAnn pointed to the large wall hanging of children playing on a beach. The stitching was so fine and uniform that one had to look closely to be sure it wasn’t a grand painting.

It was one of the first major pieces Gram had stitched, a gift to Annie’s mother when Annie was born. Annie passed it on to LeeAnn at the birth of the twins. The canvas was large—at least 24 by 36 inches—and needed a large airy spot, which LeeAnn had found in her high-ceilinged dining room. The heirloom was beautifully crafted with a delicate gray-blue ocean in the background and sand in rich hues of gold, brown, and ivory. You could almost feel the warm grains beneath your feet and hear the lapping of the waves against the shore.