“She hardly talks to me all day, but I can tell she’s watching me. It makes me nervous, like she’s waiting for me to make a mistake or something. I look up and find her eyes on me. Then she mumbles something and walks away. She yells her head off at Vanessa, though. But I think she likes her.”
“Vanessa can hold her own,” Annie said with a smile. “And she’ll put up with anything to be around animals. It’s a shame Kate’s so allergic. Bet she makes Vanessa change clothes in the mudroom and shower before dinner after a day at the shelter.”
“Carla gives her a huge apron to wear when she’s in the pens. That should help some.” Tara took a sip of her coffee and added, “The kittens at A Stitch in Time are so cute; are you going to take one?”
“Boots might have a thing or two to say about that,” Annie said drily.
As though her name had been taken in vain, the cat left her window seat and leaped up on Annie’s lap. “My, what big ears we have!” Annie laughed softly and stroked the silken fur. “Never mind, your kingdom is secure—at least for now.”
Annie and Tara finished breakfast in companionable silence. There was something very likable about Tara, but disturbing too. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps it had something to do with Tara’s failure to be straightforward at first about why she’d come. She’d explained it reasonably, and yet … Annie directed her gaze out the bay window where busy sparrows laced in and out of the hydrangeas. What would the mysterious Claire Andrews tell them if she could?
“Tara,” she said, pushing her dishes forward and giving Boots a gentle shove off her lap, “I did some searching in the attic yesterday.” At the sudden lift of wide brown eyes, she added quickly. “I didn’t find anything about your mother yet.” She’d feel better about things if she could corroborate Tara’s story about her mother. Still, why should she doubt it?
A little silence passed between them. Then Annie corralled her thoughts. “I’m sure between the ladies of the Hook and Needle Club and a bit more exploring, we’ll learn something. There’s still a ton of stuff to go through up in the attic.”
Tara said nothing. She began clearing the dishes and placing them slowly in the drain board. Boots reclaimed her seat in the window and watched through heavy eyes as the sun streamed over her back.
“Tara, would you like to help me with a little project for the shelter benefit? You don’t go to work until one—right?”
“Sure,” Tara responded, turning.
“I found some cross-stitch pieces of Gram’s that are perfect for framing or jewelry boxes. The girls at A Stitch in Time will help too, once the pieces are cleaned and straightened. They’re beautiful originals—a lot of them with animals as subjects. We can set up a table upstairs with the supplies. Are you game?”
“I don’t know anything about needlework, but I’m willing to learn,” Tara said. “I love the picture of the ocean that hangs in the bedroom—with the porch and geraniums and the white sailboat on the water. Your grandmother was such an artist. I bet she made lots of pictures like that …”
She broke off as though she’d spoken out of turn or something. Tara was a strange mix of mouse and lion. Annie smiled. Perhaps everyone was. “Let the dishes go. I can’t wait for you to see the little cross-stitch canvases.”
Upstairs, in one of the extra bedrooms, Tara helped Annie set up a table and assemble the things they needed: thick terry towels, a wide shallow bowl for warm water and mild detergent, and the blocking board. The board, which she had ordered from Mary Beth, was covered with heavy-duty fabric that was printed with a grid of squares. Before its advent, Annie had used a towel-covered pine board and a T-square for blocking.
“Actually, a person could pin a canvas to a clean, carpeted floor, but the blocking board is much better,” Annie said. “Now all we need are these heavy-duty rustproof T-pins and an iron.” She plugged in her Steam Master and moved the dial to the dry setting. Annie went up the steps and into the attic to get the box of small cross-stitch canvases she had found. “Go ahead,” she said to Tara when she returned to the bedroom, “take a few out and set them on the table. We’ll see which ones are soiled and need a bath.”
“Oh, these are beautiful, Annie.” Tara traced her finger over a watering can in which a curious kitten peered over the edge. Annie’s grandmother had stitched vibrant purple petunias spilling over a clay pot near the kitten. “I’m a novice with my watercolors, but your grandmother was truly an artist.”