Boxed In Page 9

  11

  The early morning sun was slung low over the water, a slash of heavy clouds hovered above it, as though it threatened to keep the sphere from rising any higher. Annie decided she had picked the best time of the day for a quick walk among the beach roses to check how close they were to perfect ripeness. As she gently squeezed a hip, a gust of wind tore at her. The hips were almost ripe for picking, and the day seemed ripe for rain. A good day for working in the house.

  “Don’t ripen too fast, you rose hips. I still have some setup to accomplish.” Annie moved farther down hill, noting she’d have a bumper crop to cook up, if she found Gram’s recipe and equipment soon, and if she could harvest the hips before they went mushy. Wind swirled around her again, setting the hardy beach roses swaying side to side like the ladies in the Zumba class at the community center. As Annie hiked back up the hill, she marveled at the strong beauty of beach roses. No hothouse flowers for this hill, tended by a diligent gardener keeping pests at bay. No human caretaker, anyway. And yet the blooms’ charm matched those of cherished rare flowers to Annie.

  Annie paused at the boot scrape, which had stood beside the back porch steps as long as she could remember, and wiped the bottom of her shoes clean. A horn beeped twice—it was Alice on her way to her first Princessa and Divine Décor parties of the day. Annie put a hand up to wave, but ended up clapping it to the top of her head instead, as yet another blast of wind tried to snatch her cap. Alice better hold on tight to her samples while she’s unloading today! Annie thought as she darted inside to the kitchen.

  After fortifying her resolve with a cup of Irish Breakfast tea, Annie climbed the stairs to the attic with a bucket filled with microfiber cloths and a spray bottle of wood cleaner dangling from her arm. As she stood in the doorway of the attic, the clouds scuttling across the sun gave a strobe effect to the dim light coming in through the window. “Thank you, Grandpa, for wiring the attic for electricity when you bought Grey Gables,” Annie whispered, pulling the string on the ceiling light fixture.

  She wove through the stacks to the baker’s rack, realizing she would need to clear a wider pathway to the door, or she’d never be able to maneuver the rack anywhere near it. But the first thing to be cleared was the rack itself.

  Annie set the bucket and spray down on the floor next to the rack. Wanting to avoid any flying objects this time, she looked around for something to climb on to ensure the top of the rack was completely empty. She spied a sturdy-looking bench pushed up under an old vanity and slid it over to the rack. Resting her right knee on top of the bench, Annie leaned her weight onto the bench to see if it was as sturdy as it looked. There were no groaning or splintering sounds, so she grabbed a couple of cloths and the spray bottle and climbed up on the bench. There was nothing there but enough dust to stuff a duvet. One cloth was sacrificed in collecting the majority of the dust. Annie sprayed the other with the wood cleaner and wiped away the remaining dust and grime, leaving behind the pleasant smell of cedar wood and bergamot essential oils. Stepping down off the bench, she dragged it back to the vanity table and moved on to the next shelf.

  A solid wood crate occupied the left side of the shelf. Annie tested its weight by grasping it by the wood trim and lifting it up a couple of inches. The crate proved lighter than she expected for its size and was easily moved. Lowering it to the floor, Annie removed the lid to find a garland of red, white, and blue fabric. Pulling a couple of handfuls of the garland from the crate, Annie saw rosettes were attached about every four feet. She had seen this garland every Independence Day during her childhood, when her grandparents celebrated the blessings of America’s freedom by festooning Grey Gables’s expansive porch. She wished she had found it earlier in the summer to carry on the tradition, but she was determined to find a place for the crate where she would be able to locate it the next summer. For the time being, Annie slid it under the vanity bench.

  The next occupant to be relocated from the baker’s rack was a bushel basket bearing the stamp of Bailey’s Orchard, Whitefield, Maine. It bristled with gardening stakes and plant markers labeled in Betsy’s handwriting—basil, thyme, sage, oregano, lavender, zucchini, green peppers, and such. Annie carefully removed the basket from the shelf and set it to the right of the vanity, hoping she’d remember to use them next planting season.

  “Two shelves down, two to go.” On the third shelf, a dark gray, open-blade fan stood atop a rectangular cardboard box, sitting a few degrees to the left. Annie saw that the base of the fan extended across a ridge made by the flaps of the box, having been alternated and tucked in rather than taped. She moved the metal fan to the top of the vanity where it stood as straight as a West Point cadet during inspection. Inserting several fingers into the tucked flaps of the box, Annie pulled up and let out a soft “Yes!” of triumph when she realized what was inside. Betsy’s canning jars, the very size she and Annie used for the rose-hip jelly. Not one jar was missing a ring or lid. Tucking the flaps closed once again, Annie carried the box and set it next to the attic door to bring down to the kitchen when she was done. Heightened curiosity spurred her on to the next item, a round tin the color of dairy cream with brown speckles. The words “Charles Chips” in the same cream color stood out against a splotch of dark brown. Many a childhood summer evening was spent on the porch listening to the waves, sharing stories, and passing the speckled tin of potato chips between them—Gram, Grandpa, and Annie.

  Annie pried off the lid, delighted to find Gram’s jelly bags nesting there. Used for draining the juice from the boiled rose hips, frugal canners used all sorts of things to make their own bags. Some used old stockings, worn pillowcases or even cloth diapers, but Gram had sewn her own from muslin. Annie pulled out three folded bags, each bottom section a faint orangey pink from the juice, before reaching in to feel a different kind of fabric. Much thicker than the jelly-bag muslin, the folds fell open as Annie lifted it free from the tin. It was a child-sized apron, the one Betsy had made for Annie when she was six years old. When she had first put it on, the hem fell to below her knees, and the ties made giant bows as they drew the sides of the apron to almost meet in the back. No matter what kind of mess Annie made, the clothes beneath remained pristine. Each summer that followed, the apron’s length was a bit shorter and the back bows a little smaller. Gram’s foresight had given Annie an apron she had used until adolescence hit, and her last growth spurt had finally forced her to exchange the special apron for a larger one.

  Annie spread the apron out on the shelf, looking for tears or worn areas. The cheery fabric was a touch faded, but the seams were strong with no broken threads. Gram had sewn it with her usual meticulousness, and Annie had no doubt Joanna would be able to wear it for several years, just as she had. Refolding the apron, she placed it, and the jelly bags, back into the tin and set the tin on top of the box of jelly jars. She removed the final item from the third shelf, a box of miscellaneous old linens and doilies, and slid it on top of the bench. Only one shelf remained to be cleared, and Annie didn’t waste any time digging into the boxes that lined the bottom of the rack. Two boxes—one wide and squat, and one tall and narrow—contained various instruments and supplies from her grandfather’s veterinary practice. As Annie carried them over to pile in a wedge of space near the vanity, she wondered if Cecil had held any of the things as he helped Grandpa with the animals around the Stony Point area.

  The last two boxes, containing the jelly-bag tripod Grandpa had rigged for Gram and quart-size canning jars, joined the collection by the door to be carried downstairs. Only one thing remained to be found before Annie could start picking the rose hips—Gram’s recipe. Annie finished cleaning each of the rack’s shelves and stepped back to admire her work. Free of decades-old dust and grime, the oak’s warm tone would look cozy and inviting against the jersey cream color of the kitchen walls.

  Her last task of the morning was to clear the path for the rack to be moved downstairs when Alice came later to help. The solid piece of furniture was
heavy enough without it catching on a box or dragging a bench along with it. By the time Annie had shifted the piles of miscellany to one side of the attic space or the other, her muscles were ready for a break. Sliding the bucket over her left arm, she curled her right arm around the Charles Chips tin to carry it down to the kitchen. The pasta salad had been calling her for the past hour, and Annie’s throat was parched.

  A squall dashed rain at a slant against the windows of the house. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Annie saw Boots curled up, napping on the couch, and she felt like curling up next to her. But she went to the kitchen instead and dipped up a bowl of pasta salad and poured a giant glass of cool water, adding a long squeeze of lemon. The simple meal didn’t take long to finish, but its effect was almost immediate. Annie decided, rather than napping, to use her renewed energy to work on the pillow until Alice arrived. She settled down on the unoccupied end of the couch and lost herself in the steady rhythm of champagne Tunisian knit stitch and French blue Tunisian purl stitch. After several rows, Annie fastened off the French blue, completed a forward pass with champagne, turned it, and began working with the cream yarn for the return pass. “Hmmmm, nice,” Annie nodded to herself. “But will it reflect the urchin basket design? I just can’t tell.” Boots opened one eye, as though about to weigh in with her opinion, only to shut it again.

  As the afternoon wore on, the rain wore out. By the time Alice came knocking at the door the water was dripping from the eaves sporadically.

  “Wouldn’t you know it, the rain stops as soon as I make it home and change into comfortable clothes,” Alice said as she stepped into the hall.

  “Terrible weather for heels.” Annie took Alice’s anorak to hang it on the coatrack. “Did any of your profits blow away with the wind?”

  “Thankfully, the profits stayed put and made the messiness all worthwhile. My hostesses were thrilled. I think they’ll be regulars.” Alice combed her fingers through her hair. “So while I’m in a good mood, tell me what we’re tackling tonight.”

  “I spent the morning cleaning the baker’s rack in the attic and clearing a path to the door. The first thing I want us to do is carry it down to the kitchen. You’ll be happy to know I found the canning jars, jelly bags, and the tripod all stored on the rack—almost everything I need for jelly making.”

  “Have you found Betsy’s recipe yet?” asked Alice, as they started up the stairs.

  “Not yet, but I’m hopeful after finding the other things. If the rose hips get to the point where they’re almost past their peak, and if I still haven’t found the recipe, I’ll look up a recipe online. Then I’ll have a whole year to find Gram’s.”

  “With the intimate relationship I maintained over the years with Betsy’s rose-hip jelly, I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” Alice said.

  “I will make it my mission to reunite the two of you before the season is over,” Annie said as she opened the attic door.

  “Whoa! I wasn’t the only woman working hard this morning.” Alice punctuated her approval with a low whistle. “I’ve never seen this much of the attic floor boards in my life.”

  “At least I didn’t have to wear heels all day like you. For that difficult feat, I’ll let you have the forward-facing end of this chore.” Annie plucked an old tablecloth from a box of old linens, rolled it into a tube, and bent to wedge it under the attic door to keep it from closing.

  “If you insist.” Alice placed herself at the left side of the rack, trying different holding positions for the easiest lifting. She bent her knees and grabbed the vertical posts under the second shelf from the bottom. “I’m ready when you are.”

  Annie moved into position. “OK, lift!” Both women raised their side of the rack, Annie glancing behind her to make sure they were not veering away from the clear path. She shuffled backward at a steady pace so she wouldn’t jerk the rack out of Alice’s grip. When they reached the door, Annie gasped, “Set it down for a minute.”

  “That’s one wicked solid piece of furniture!” Alice exclaimed. “It could stand up in any nor’easter.”

  “Good thing too, since I have two sou’westers named Joanna and John heading our way.” Annie paused to access the best way to maneuver the rack down the two flights of stairs. “Let’s turn the rack horizontal.” Annie stepped through the doorway and down one step.

  “Are you ready for me to tilt it toward you?” Alice asked, bending to look at Annie between the shelves.

  “Tilt away.” Annie raised her hands to grab the top of the rack as soon as it was close enough. They descended cautiously, reaching the landing of the second floor without a problem. After catching their breath and shaking out their arms for a moment, Annie and Alice hefted the piece again for the trip down the main staircase. The generous foyer on the first floor gave them ample space to bring the rack easily around the corner for the trip down the hallway to the kitchen. Once they had the rack positioned in its former spot, Annie and Alice collapsed onto kitchen chairs.

  Alice looked around the kitchen at the updates Annie had made since she inherited Grey Gables from Betsy. “The baker’s rack is exactly what was missing. There’s a perfect balance between new and old now.”

  “I think so too,” said Annie. “And just picture a shelf or two filled with jars of Gram’s jelly.” Annie snapped two fingers. “Oh, almost forgot! I put together a meatloaf this morning for our dinner.” She left her chair to set the oven to preheat. Before returning to the table, she put the kettle on for tea and served up two slices of corn bread.

  “This is a meatloaf kind of day, if ever there was one,” said Alice, “and a snack kind of afternoon too. I never eat enough on a double- or triple-booked day. Bring on the corn bread and don’t forget the honey bear!”

  The two friends enjoyed their tea and bread before diving into the charming mess that was the library.

  12

  “My goal for the library is to arrange everything so John and Joanna can reach books and things that might interest them. And are appropriate, of course.” Annie and Alice stood facing a wall of built-ins crammed with reading material. Over the years, what had begun as an organized collection had been multiplied, shifted, separated, and put back together so many times it resembled a reading jungle. Determined not to be overwhelmed by the size of the goal, Annie had narrowed her focus. “Let’s begin by going shelf by shelf and pulling anything the kids might like. We’ll tackle the desk another time.”

  Alice turned to scan the other side of the room, lined with identical stuffed built-ins. “Do you still have the step stool that used to be in here? We’re going to need it.”

  “It’s in the family room, very handy for dusting the moldings.” Annie went to fetch the stool as Alice began removing books from a few of the lower shelves, stacking them next to a leather reading chair. Annie returned with the white metal, three-step stool and placed it in front of the first stack of shelves. “I’ll climb up and look through the books. When I hand one to you, dust it and give it a place on a lower shelf.” Annie climbed up to the highest step.

  “Do you want me to separate fiction books from nonfiction?” Alice asked as she wiped the dust from the shelves she had just emptied.

  “Yes! John loves looking at the pictures in encyclopedias, field guides, and other nonfiction books about animals, boats, oceans, you name it. Having them all in one low section will be really helpful.” Annie ran her eyes along the top shelf, while she ran a lamb’s-wool wand along the tops and spines of the books. “Nothing suitable on this shelf.” On the next highest shelf Annie found some nonfiction animal books and a couple of classics—Heidi and Mr. Popper’s Penguins—and handed them down to Alice. Once they were in a rhythm of scan, pull, dust, and reshelve, Annie asked Alice, “Did you have a chance to start your place mats?”

  “I only had a little time last night after I had everything packed for the shows today.” Alice reached up for the book Annie was dangling down toward her, Birds of the Eastern United States.
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  “How is the pattern looking in the actual stitches? Does it look like you thought it would?” Annie stretched over to snag a book at the end of the row, a collection of Beatrix Potter stories. “Of course, I’m asking because I’m the one who’s not so confident about her project.”

  “I’ve only done one side of the border, so it’s probably too early to know how it’s going to look when it’s completed. My main concern isn’t if the pattern will look nice, because the colors are looking beautiful together already.” Alice settled the dust-free story collection on its new shelf. “But what if I copied the pattern wrong, and it comes out looking unlike any Micmac pattern ever used? I would hate that.”

  “Exactly! I don’t want to put something in the Harvest sale that’s as off-kilter as a three-legged armadillo.”

  A muffled snort escaped Alice. “First of all, no self-respecting armadillo would be caught dead—three-legged or not—up here in Maine! Secondly, I don’t think anything you make will be that off!” She dusted a book about clipper ships and slipped it onto the nonfiction side of the shelf. “Hmmm, I wonder if any of the others are second-guessing themselves as much as we are. How about I give everyone a quick call and ask?”

  Annie stepped down off the stool. “Good, you can do that while I check on the meatloaf and put the stewed tomatoes and green beans on to cook.” Alice followed her into the kitchen and retrieved her cell phone from her purse. She had entered all the Hook and Needle Club members into her speed-dial list. Annie followed the one-sided conversations, surprised at the evidence that almost all the members were having doubts about their pieces, even Kate.

  Alice’s phone shut with a soft click. “Congratulations, we’re normal! What do you think about an emergency meeting tomorrow during Peggy’s afternoon break? Together, maybe we can figure out a solution so we can all finish our pieces by the Harvest on the Harbor celebration.”