Free Tempest's Course: Quilts of Love Series by Lynette Sowell

like a museum.”
    “It does, sort of. One that hasn’t been taken care of for quite some time. I’m sure back in the day it was the best in New Bedford. Right now, it needs some TLC.”
    “Maybe this will be the first of more jobs for you.”
    “Now that would be amazing,” Kelly said. “Not to change the subject, but you said someone called, asking about my mother?”
    “Yes. It was the strangest thing. I told them you’d been part of our family since you were twelve, and before that I wasn’t sure where you lived.”
    Kelly shivered. “I don’t like the idea of someone hunting for information about me or my family. Such as it is. Or was.”
    “Well, they didn’t say who they were, and I didn’t give them any more information than that.”
    “Did they ask where I am now?”
    “No, they didn’t. And don’t you worry. I won’t tell them where you are.”
    “Thank you.” She almost brought up the issue of Peyton and the Boston Fine Arts Museum, but Lottie would know she was leaving out part of the whole painful story.
    “Are you doing okay, dear?”
    “Yes, I am. It’s good to hear from you.”
    “I’m praying for you, Kelly. You find yourself a good church while you’re away.”
    “Thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll try.”
    They ended the call and Kelly set her phone down on the chest of drawers next to Mary Gray’s journal. Lottie knew her better than anyone. Find yourself a good church . Easier said than done, at least for her. And she’d told Lottie she would try. As far as the prayers were concerned, Kelly welcomed them.
    Before the fidgets set in, Kelly decided to walk the house and clear a space in the drawing room to make a workshop. She’d told Mr. Chandler and Firstborn Holdings that she needed certain supplies that she couldn’t bring from Haverhill. They’d arrived and were tucked into a corner of the butler’s pantry, along with four six-foot folding tables.
    She descended the stairs and entered the front sitting room that overlooked County Street. Too much light, not enough control over the ultraviolet rays that came through the glass, even covered with inner shutters. Exposure over time would harm the delicate fabric—not that it could be injured much more.
    She moved past the dining room where she’d laid the quilt on the table that first day, and pulled open yet another set of wooden pocket doors. The opening doors echoed off an expanse of wooden floor. A ballroom. Not large by her imagination, but large enough for a dozen couples to make their way around the room, with a small platform in the corner for musicians.
    The fireplace had to be marble, coal black with creamy white striations and veins running through it. Kelly had visited the mansions of Newport, Rhode Island, as an undergraduate student. This fireplace wasn’t nearly as grand, but for its time and for New Bedford, it was colossal.
    Heavy curtains framed floor-to-ceiling windows. Kelly tugged on the thick fabric of one pair, and pulled the edges together. The level of light in the room decreased. She could work in this room just fine. The windows looked out on the side gardens, green with new growth, thanks to Tom’s hard work.
    She resisted the urge to check up on him. He was a grown man. Yet, a grown man who’d suffered a head injury and had just had a seizure that morning. She squinted out the window to see if Tom was working among the rows of plants and shrubs, or in the greenhouse.
    Kelly pried herself away from the windowpane, pulled the curtains back into place, and slipped the tiebacks around them. She already knew the main floor contained the kitchen, a parlor, a drawing room, a music room, a dining room, and a ballroom. The second floor held four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a study. She’d already seen the third floor with its servants’ quarters, and the lookout room that capped off the space of the house.
    She ambled to the kitchen and pulled out the takeout leftovers. There went Tom, heading from the