The Stolen Canvas Read Online Free Page B

… Grey Gables.
    Tara rifled through more letters, each similar in tone, containing uplifting thoughts, expressing concern, giving assurances of prayer, along with little asides about the life of an elderly woman in a house where ocean breezes wafted through the windows … . I can still see well enough to work my needle. I hope you like this cushion cover I made for you. I stitched one like this for my daughter many years ago; perhaps it will remind you of your own child. And the signature … Love .
    Tara looked down. The cushion had slipped off the chair and fallen to the threadbare carpet. She stared at the beautifully worked design that featured a cradle near an open window. No face could be seen, but inside it a baby must be asleep. On a table next to the cradle, pink roses flourished in a crystal vase. Filmy wind-swept curtains revealed a cobalt blue ocean on which a distant white sail glinted beneath a summer sky.
    She imagined her mother holding that cushion and looking into the cradle. Did she see small curved lips and wide trusting eyes beneath a cap of curly hair? She swallowed. Did she think of her? What had she done to so disappoint her mother? What could she have done to make her mother love her? Well, it hardly mattered now.
    Jem pulled himself out of the chair and strode over to her. “Pack it up, and let’s get out of here!” He released a long disgusted sigh. “What are you doing now?”
    His words were slurred, and she realized that he was slightly drunk. He’d had a couple of beers in the car on the way and another while he watched the football game. “It’s these letters my mother saved,” Tara stammered, drawing her shoulders in. It was a reflex whenever Jem had been drinking. He was as likely to give her a shove as a kiss, especially when he got impatient. “And this pillow. It’s beautiful, and it’s got initials in the corner. See, E.H—Elizabeth Holden … like the signature on these letters.”
    “Lot of sentimental claptrap.” He grabbed the pillow from her hand and seemed about to fling it across the room. Suddenly he stopped. “Hey! Wait a minute. I know that name.”
    He snapped the letter from her hand. Knitting dark brows together, he studied it first, and then the handworked cushion. “Yeah. That’s the old lady from Stony Point! Well, can you beat that? Imagine your mother knowing Mrs. Holden, the grand lady of Grey Gables.”
    He grabbed up the little stack of letters and the cushion, and strode back to the easy chair. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he poured over the letters with the cushion on his lap. He began stroking his left jaw, a gesture that meant he was planning something, and that meant trouble.
    She got up, pushed a carton to the front door with the side of her foot, wishing she hadn’t come. And yet, she was glad she’d seen the letters—there was comfort in them. Her mother had died alone in a stuffy apartment, but she had known the hand of love in her final years … even if it was just an old woman, miles away. Elizabeth Holden had known her and had not forgotten. I pray for you … and for Tara .
    “Yeah, it just might work,” Jem was mumbling, more to himself than to her. “This could be just the luck I need.” He continued to rub his long, stubbly jaw as he refolded the letters. “Here, tie these back up and find something to put this pillow in. And be careful with it.”
    Tara felt a chill in spite of the airless heat in her mother’s apartment. She tucked her arms into her old blue sweater. “Jem, what are you talking about?”
    “It’s J.C.! I’ve told you a million times. Not ‘Jem’ or that ridiculous ‘Jeremiah.’ Can’t you get it right?” He put his fist down on the arm of the chair, bobbing his head in frustration. A strand of black hair fell over his forehead. “Jeremiah Carson was a dumb kid cutting traps on the dock, falling over his big stupid feet while his puny brother followed him around like a lost puppy