it’s all my fault, Angel. I’m the one agreed to work with him. And now the needlepointers are angry, and people—Ob and Lauren, especially—need the money owed them. I’d pay them myself if I had it. But I don’t. I don’t know what to do.” She looked up. “Until you said you’d find out about Jacques, where he is, and when he’s going to pay back the money that’s owed.”
“I promise, Gram. I’m pretty good at finding people. But this sounds like a mess. You may need a lawyer and have to do a lot of paperwork to get him to pay up.”
Gram nodded. “Don’t I just know it. But first things first. You’ll find him for me, right, Angel? Then I’ll get a lawyer. Or a gun.”
I knew—at least I thought I knew—Gram was kidding about the gun. We were about the only family in town that hadn’t had one. I remembered Lauren bragging after she’d shot her first deer, and even newcomer Clem had her own rifle.
Guns were taken for granted in Maine.
Chapter Eight
Home tis the name of all that sweetens life.
It speaks the warm affections of a wife.
Oh! Tis a word of more than magic spell
Whose sacred power the wanderer can tell.
He who long distant from his native land
Feels at the name of home his soul expand.
Whether as patriot husband, father, friend,
To that dear point his fondest wishes bend.
And still he owns where ere his footsteps roam
Life’s choisest blessings centre still at Home.
—Sampler stitched by Martha Agnes Ramsay, age twenty-three, Preble County, Ohio, 1849
At that point Gram declared she needed a nap. I probably should have slowed down, too. Between Mama’s funeral and feeling like an outsider in my own hometown and then hearing Gram’s business woes, my mind was moving too fast. But I couldn’t relax. I needed to do something.
I decided to risk running into any members of the press still remaining in Haven Harbor, and go for a walk. I left a note for Gram, went out the back door, and took a shortcut through a neighbor’s yard on a path that used to be well-worn but was now nonexistent. I headed for the harbor.
I might not have missed all the people in Haven Harbor, but, especially on Arizona’s simmering-hot August days, I’d longed for harbor views and breezes.
Outside of the houses and church and police station and municipal buildings, the working waterfront and commercial district of Haven Harbor was basically two streets, both of which paralleled the small harbor. Most of the shops were on Main Street. Some catered to tourists and were full of seagull and moose and lobster Tshirts and postcards and souvenir Christmas ornaments and cheap balsam pillows with MAINE painted on them. Not at all the sort Gram made. Those shops were open only when the customers from away (“visitors,” Mainers call them, to be polite, but we know what they really are) were here, from about Memorial Day to Columbus Day. Other businesses, like The Book Nook, which specialized in books set in Maine or by Maine writers, were open year-round. Both the art gallery and the shop that sold high-end crafts closed in January and February.
Stewart’s still displayed gold and silver jewelry, much of it made by Maine craftsmen. During the summers they featured rings and necklaces set with tourmaline (Maine’s state gem) or sea glass, or “beach pebbles,” for tourists with full wallets or checkbooks to take home as souvenirs. In winter they cut their staff and focused on plainer pieces of gold and silver, with a few diamond rings available for engagements or anniversaries. I’d been very proud that my gold angel necklace had come in a Stewart’s box.
Hubbel Clothing was where you bought clothes when you couldn’t get to the Freeport or Kittery outlets, or to branches of discount stores like Marden’s or Renys. Hubbel could fill your needs for sweatshirts and flannels and wool jackets, as well as bright yellow bib pants and slickers for fishing and blaze orange hats and vests for
“I promise, Gram. I’m pretty good at finding people. But this sounds like a mess. You may need a lawyer and have to do a lot of paperwork to get him to pay up.”
Gram nodded. “Don’t I just know it. But first things first. You’ll find him for me, right, Angel? Then I’ll get a lawyer. Or a gun.”
I knew—at least I thought I knew—Gram was kidding about the gun. We were about the only family in town that hadn’t had one. I remembered Lauren bragging after she’d shot her first deer, and even newcomer Clem had her own rifle.
Guns were taken for granted in Maine.
Chapter Eight
Home tis the name of all that sweetens life.
It speaks the warm affections of a wife.
Oh! Tis a word of more than magic spell
Whose sacred power the wanderer can tell.
He who long distant from his native land
Feels at the name of home his soul expand.
Whether as patriot husband, father, friend,
To that dear point his fondest wishes bend.
And still he owns where ere his footsteps roam
Life’s choisest blessings centre still at Home.
—Sampler stitched by Martha Agnes Ramsay, age twenty-three, Preble County, Ohio, 1849
At that point Gram declared she needed a nap. I probably should have slowed down, too. Between Mama’s funeral and feeling like an outsider in my own hometown and then hearing Gram’s business woes, my mind was moving too fast. But I couldn’t relax. I needed to do something.
I decided to risk running into any members of the press still remaining in Haven Harbor, and go for a walk. I left a note for Gram, went out the back door, and took a shortcut through a neighbor’s yard on a path that used to be well-worn but was now nonexistent. I headed for the harbor.
I might not have missed all the people in Haven Harbor, but, especially on Arizona’s simmering-hot August days, I’d longed for harbor views and breezes.
Outside of the houses and church and police station and municipal buildings, the working waterfront and commercial district of Haven Harbor was basically two streets, both of which paralleled the small harbor. Most of the shops were on Main Street. Some catered to tourists and were full of seagull and moose and lobster Tshirts and postcards and souvenir Christmas ornaments and cheap balsam pillows with MAINE painted on them. Not at all the sort Gram made. Those shops were open only when the customers from away (“visitors,” Mainers call them, to be polite, but we know what they really are) were here, from about Memorial Day to Columbus Day. Other businesses, like The Book Nook, which specialized in books set in Maine or by Maine writers, were open year-round. Both the art gallery and the shop that sold high-end crafts closed in January and February.
Stewart’s still displayed gold and silver jewelry, much of it made by Maine craftsmen. During the summers they featured rings and necklaces set with tourmaline (Maine’s state gem) or sea glass, or “beach pebbles,” for tourists with full wallets or checkbooks to take home as souvenirs. In winter they cut their staff and focused on plainer pieces of gold and silver, with a few diamond rings available for engagements or anniversaries. I’d been very proud that my gold angel necklace had come in a Stewart’s box.
Hubbel Clothing was where you bought clothes when you couldn’t get to the Freeport or Kittery outlets, or to branches of discount stores like Marden’s or Renys. Hubbel could fill your needs for sweatshirts and flannels and wool jackets, as well as bright yellow bib pants and slickers for fishing and blaze orange hats and vests for
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