Thread and Gone Read Online Free

wax would have protected it, kept the air and dampness out. But the seal had been broken. Who knows? It could have been broken two hundred years ago.”
    â€œOr ten years ago,” I said.
    Ruth turned her walker toward the front door. “Well, it’s a mystery to me. And fascinating. But nothing we’re going to solve tonight. Angie, your dinner was wonderful, but I’m feeling my age. Would you feel insulted if I asked to take a piece of your pie home with me? I’d hate to miss a piece of strawberry-rhubarb. The arthritis in my hands keeps me from doing much baking these days, but I do love desserts. I can sit upstairs and see the overhead fireworks from my bedroom window while I’m indulging.”
    â€œI’ll drive you home,” said Dave. “But only if Angie’ll give me a piece of pie, too.”
    â€œI’ll fix you each a piece to go,” I promised, opening the pantry door to find heavy paper plates. “I can’t eat a whole pie. How about you, Sarah?”
    â€œI’d still like to see the fireworks,” said Sarah. “And then come back here later for pie?”
    â€œGood. Because I’d like to go down to the waterfront. I haven’t seen Haven Harbor fireworks since I was in high school.”
    I cut generous slices of pie and wrapped them for Dave and Ruth.
    â€œI’ll walk out with you and carry the pie to your car,” suggested Sarah.
    Dave nodded agreement as he helped Ruth slowly start for the front door.
    â€œI’ll put the embroidery away while you’re doing that,” I agreed.
    â€œThank you again for the supper. It was delicious. I haven’t had a traditional New England Fourth supper in years,” Ruth said as she and Dave left.
    I watched as he helped her and her walker get down the three steps from my porch to the walk. Then I went to get the embroidery.
    It was beautifully crafted, although the outline of the bird used as a pattern was still visible and some silver threads were broken. Could it be as old as Ruth and Sarah wondered?
    I tucked the packet and letter with the embroidery into one of the bureau drawers in Gram’s front hall. The drawer next to the one where I’d hidden my gun.
    No one would break into the house on the Fourth of July and steal a piece of embroidery.
    Many Haven Harbor residents left their doors unlocked during winter months. Most families had known their neighbors for years. Burglaries were rare. But this time of year the town was filled with tourists. Doors were locked more often, just in case. The majority of people from away were good folks, and their credit cards were critical to Haven Harbor’s economy. But “better safe than sorry,” as Gram would say.
    And I’d promised to keep the packet and its contents safe.
    â€œReady to head down to the waterfront?” I grabbed my sweater from a chair in the living room and pulled it on. Maine days were beginning to warm up. This evening the temperature would probably be in the fifties, with chilly sea breezes.
    Sarah nodded, and we started down the hill toward the harbor.
    Most Haven Harbor stores, including Sarah’s, were on Main Street. A few were on Wharf Street, the parallel street that ran along the working waterfront. Light was fading. Stores normally were closed by this time of night. But not on the Fourth of July.
    The fireworks display was a time to attract tourists (and local folks) to restaurants and gift shops. Tonight almost every store was open, from the hardware store to the patisserie to the bookstore. A table outside one of the gift shops was piled with “Haven Harbor, Maine” sweatshirts, hoping people from away would realize being comfortable on a July evening in Maine would require more warmth than their shorts and T-shirts supplied. One enterprising young man had set up a stand on the way down to the town pier to sell mosquito repellant.
    Not a bad idea. I remembered fighting