that instantly.
“Honestly, Caro, I can’t say I knew Tony all that well.” She’d sounded troubled. “We worked on a couple of charity events together, and I knew basically what everyone else did—that he was smart, charming, well connected. As for any problems…well, did you think he might have been gambling?”
“That would be an explanation, wouldn’t it?” She’d felt her way, trying that on for size. “I never saw any proof, one way or the other.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Francine about the disappearance of her own money, but something held her back. Loyalty, maybe, after the wedding promises she’d made. Or just because it revealed how stupid she’d been.
“One thing I’m sure of,” Francine said. “If Tony did fake his death in some bizarre need to get out of a difficult situation, he’d find some way to let you know he’s still alive. You can be sure of that.”
She hadn’t found that as comforting as Francine had obviously intended. How could she?
“Caroline.” Rachel’s voice suggested that she’d said Caro’s name several times. “Where are you? You look a thousand miles away.” Her expression changed. “I’m sorry. Were you thinking about your husband?”
“Yes, I guess I was.” But her thoughts hadn’t been what Rachel probably imagined. She went to help her lift a sheet-wrapped bundle from a trunk. “I’m all right. Really.” Her mind flicked back to that conversation over the dinner table. “No matter what Andrea might think.”
“Oh, honey, Andrea didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Don’t be mad at her.”
“I’m not.” She found herself smiling. “You were always the buffer, weren’t you? Sometimes you’d side with me, sometimes with Andrea, but usually you were the peacemaker.”
“Well, somebody had to be.” Smiling back, Rachel began unwrapping the sheet.
The urge to confide in Rachel swept over her, so strong it startled her. She could tell Rachel, because Rachel had always been the understanding one.
But it wasn’t fair to ask Rachel to keep her secrets. And she wasn’t ready to risk trusting anyone with her troubles and mistakes.
“There.” Rachel unrolled the quilt, exposing the vibrant colors of the design. “It’s a Log Cabin quilt, one of the ones Emma’s mother made, I think.”
“It’s beautiful.” She touched the edge carefully, aware of the damage skin oils could do to aged fabric. “If you’re sure you don’t mind—”
“It’s as much yours as mine,” Rachel said. “There might be something you’d like better, though.” She pulled out the next bundle, this one wrapped in a yellowing linen sheet. “Goodness, this is really an old one.” She squinted at a faded note pinned to the fabric. “According to this, it was made by Grandfather’s grandmother in 1856.”
“It should be on display, not stored away.” The sheet fell back, exposing the quilt. She frowned. “That’s an unusual design, isn’t it?”
Rachel pointed to the triangles that soared up the fabric. “Flying geese, combined with a star. I don’t know enough about antique quilts to have any idea.” She folded the sheet back over it.
Caro felt an almost physical pang as the quilt disappeared from view. To actually hold something that had been made by an ancestress almost 150 years ago—had she been as captivated by color and pattern as Caro was? Had she lost herself in her work, too?
“Well, it certainly needs to be better preserved than it is. If you don’t mind, I’ll see if I can find out how it should be kept.”
“Be my guest. That’s more your domain than mine.” Rachel laid the bundle gently back in the trunk.
Taking the Log Cabin quilt, Caroline stood, stretching. “I’ll run this down first and then come back and help carry the—”
Her words died as she passed the attic window. She hadn’t realized that from this height she could see over the outbuildings to the barn, even to the walk that curved
“Honestly, Caro, I can’t say I knew Tony all that well.” She’d sounded troubled. “We worked on a couple of charity events together, and I knew basically what everyone else did—that he was smart, charming, well connected. As for any problems…well, did you think he might have been gambling?”
“That would be an explanation, wouldn’t it?” She’d felt her way, trying that on for size. “I never saw any proof, one way or the other.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Francine about the disappearance of her own money, but something held her back. Loyalty, maybe, after the wedding promises she’d made. Or just because it revealed how stupid she’d been.
“One thing I’m sure of,” Francine said. “If Tony did fake his death in some bizarre need to get out of a difficult situation, he’d find some way to let you know he’s still alive. You can be sure of that.”
She hadn’t found that as comforting as Francine had obviously intended. How could she?
“Caroline.” Rachel’s voice suggested that she’d said Caro’s name several times. “Where are you? You look a thousand miles away.” Her expression changed. “I’m sorry. Were you thinking about your husband?”
“Yes, I guess I was.” But her thoughts hadn’t been what Rachel probably imagined. She went to help her lift a sheet-wrapped bundle from a trunk. “I’m all right. Really.” Her mind flicked back to that conversation over the dinner table. “No matter what Andrea might think.”
“Oh, honey, Andrea didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Don’t be mad at her.”
“I’m not.” She found herself smiling. “You were always the buffer, weren’t you? Sometimes you’d side with me, sometimes with Andrea, but usually you were the peacemaker.”
“Well, somebody had to be.” Smiling back, Rachel began unwrapping the sheet.
The urge to confide in Rachel swept over her, so strong it startled her. She could tell Rachel, because Rachel had always been the understanding one.
But it wasn’t fair to ask Rachel to keep her secrets. And she wasn’t ready to risk trusting anyone with her troubles and mistakes.
“There.” Rachel unrolled the quilt, exposing the vibrant colors of the design. “It’s a Log Cabin quilt, one of the ones Emma’s mother made, I think.”
“It’s beautiful.” She touched the edge carefully, aware of the damage skin oils could do to aged fabric. “If you’re sure you don’t mind—”
“It’s as much yours as mine,” Rachel said. “There might be something you’d like better, though.” She pulled out the next bundle, this one wrapped in a yellowing linen sheet. “Goodness, this is really an old one.” She squinted at a faded note pinned to the fabric. “According to this, it was made by Grandfather’s grandmother in 1856.”
“It should be on display, not stored away.” The sheet fell back, exposing the quilt. She frowned. “That’s an unusual design, isn’t it?”
Rachel pointed to the triangles that soared up the fabric. “Flying geese, combined with a star. I don’t know enough about antique quilts to have any idea.” She folded the sheet back over it.
Caro felt an almost physical pang as the quilt disappeared from view. To actually hold something that had been made by an ancestress almost 150 years ago—had she been as captivated by color and pattern as Caro was? Had she lost herself in her work, too?
“Well, it certainly needs to be better preserved than it is. If you don’t mind, I’ll see if I can find out how it should be kept.”
“Be my guest. That’s more your domain than mine.” Rachel laid the bundle gently back in the trunk.
Taking the Log Cabin quilt, Caroline stood, stretching. “I’ll run this down first and then come back and help carry the—”
Her words died as she passed the attic window. She hadn’t realized that from this height she could see over the outbuildings to the barn, even to the walk that curved
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