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

likely be walking by the time his father returns.
    So Mary had her longed-for child. Kelly smiled. The woman sounded contented. Maybe Mary had a happy ending after all, or at least a measure of peace while her husband was thousands of miles away, hunting whales.
    Kelly read a few more entries, speaking of the baby’s growth, the long winter, and how Mary longed to hear from the captain.

    January 1851
    I have started another quilt, the Mariner’s Compass. It is more difficult than most patterns, but its symbol gives me hope. The Lord directs our steps, the Master over the course through our sea of life. We look to His Word as our compass. Hiram would most definitely approve of this theme. I fear my sewing skills are not up to the challenge, but my seamstress Leonora will help fix any of my shortcomings. Leonora is a Godsend, the sister of the carpenter who built little Hiram’s cradle. I am thankful for God’s providence.
    Kelly had to smile at Mary’s upbeat attitude. Having an upbeat attitude was easy when it seemed all was going your way. But what thrilled her most of all was reading the reference to the quilt. The idea of touching fabric that Mary had touched, well over a century before, gave her goose bumps.

    February 1851
    One year, and Hiram has been gone. I can see him in our young one’s face, with the furrowed brow and loud cries. He seems to have been born with the same sense of right and wrong. How a child knows such deep things is a mystery to me. From his nursery chair, he seems to scold me with his infant’s glare.
    Esteban Delgado, a local craftsman, built a beautiful infant’s bed for him, from timbers from an old ship. He is a good man from a humble family. He inquired last week about young Hiram and his solid bed. I told him that Hiram thrived and rested well.
    Before he left, he made one more inquiry. “My English is not so good, I know. But I wish to learn to read. Will you teach me?”
    I could not say no to his dark eyes.

8
    T he old man was having a good day and was seated by the window that looked out onto a busy street. The late afternoon traffic zoomed along, snaking north to south, south to north along the coast.
    “So, so busy we all are,” the old man said as he entered the room. “Here today, gone tomorrow, life is but a vapor.”
    He loosened his tie and plunked himself down on the spare chair beside the bed. “Did you have everything you need?”
    “I need nothing but to know that the past is set right.”
    He tried not to roll his eyes. Gestures like that were only fitting for an unruly, disrespectful teenager. And he had always respected the old man. Why not? He’d given him everything, from youth on up.
    “It’s not your job to set the past right,” he said as gently as he could. “Some things just . . . are. I have a feeling that the universe makes it so. We all get what we deserve in the end.”
    The old man waved off his words. “Not always . . . not always. I don’t have much time left, and I’m going to do what I can to upset the apple cart.”
    Now this wasn’t what he expected. “Don’t do anything rash. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
    “Better than I have in weeks. You’re my lawyer, so don’t give me any grief over what I’m going to ask you to do.”
    The old man’s next words made his hands turn into fists. Delirious and unstable. He should call the old man’s doctor right away.

    “So, what do you know about your family tree?” Dave Winthrop asked at the conclusion of their brief meeting. They’d already walked the inside of the townhouse, and Tom made his measurements. He’d get the permits and do the best he could on this job.
    The dining room contained, as Tom had expected, a framed parchment outlining the Winthrop family tree for several centuries. The family tree looked strong, generations stretching back.
    “I don’t know much, just that we’ve been here in New Bedford for a long, long time,” Tom said. “We had some