Claire placed the bag on the table and curled her hair around the backs of her ears.
“My husband, Tim, is the pastor of the little white church just up the street.” Grace pointed in the direction of the church. “I’m sure you’ve noticed it by now.”
Claire nodded.
“This past Wednesday night the church was burglarized and vandalized.”
“Oh, no! I’m sorry to hear that.”
“The burglar broke in through a basement window and stole some speakers and a computer, but,” she continued, “he didn’t touch the petty cash box, the new large-screen monitor in the nursery, or the offering box at the back of the church.”
“How strange!”
“The most bizarre thing is that he took a hammer to the floor of the vestibule and smashed the old mosaic to pieces damaging it beyond repair. I’m thankful he didn’t swing at the stained-glass windows too.” Drops of sweat formed on Grace’s brow, and she picked up the edge of her apron and fanned her face.
“That’s terrible, Grace. Do you have any idea why someone would do this?”
“No idea whatsoever.”
“I certainly feel bad, but why are you telling me this?”
“Ah! This is where you come in.” She flapped her apron with more intensity.
“I told my husband last night about meeting you and that you lay tile and do mosaic work. Would you be willing to take a look at the floor and consider working on a new mosaic design and laying the surrounding tile?”
So soon! Claire’s mouth dropped open.
“It’s really an eyesore, and because it’s directly in the path of people entering the church, my husband would like to get it fixed as soon as possible. We know a few people who lay tile but no one who does mosaics.”
“Why, yes—yes, of course. Thank you for asking me. I’d be more than happy to look at it. Can I see it tonight?”
“Well, my husband holds church services on Saturday nights at the jail up in Brockton and then at the Penobscot County jail.” Grace stopped fanning her face. “Would you consider going to church tomorrow morning? The service starts at 10:30. After the service ends, you can take your time to look it over and talk about it with my husband.”
Claire sat up in her chair. Though she had not been to a regular church service in years, she didn’t want to disappoint her new friend or jeopardize this opportunity. “Ok, I’ll come.”
The redness in Grace’s cheeks subsided as she rose. “Oh, that’s great! I’m so relieved you’re willing to consider the project.”
Claire also stood and picked up her bag.
“Thank you, Claire. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at church.”
“You bet!”
Swinging her bag, Claire left the tearoom. Her head spun from the information. The prospect of working again and of being asked to create something important so soon after arriving in Lone Spruce Cove encouraged her.
Before crossing the street, she glanced left to check for any approaching cars. When she did, the glaring lights of a shop a few stores down from the tearoom caught her attention. I wonder if they sell clocks. I need one for my bedroom. Instead of crossing the street, she turned about and walked toward it.
Large windows bowing from the navy-trimmed, beige façade displayed colorful artwork, nautical home décor, and elegant handmade jewelry. In gold leaf the name, The Compass Rose Gallery and Gifts, hung above a dangling wooden compass rose painted in forest green.
Beyond the window dressing, quilts and artwork hung against brown-brick walls with oozing mortar joints. Vintage dressers abutted the walls, and a long antique butcher’s counter ran down the center of the shop. Wide wooden planks worn smooth from thousands of footsteps lay on the floors.
The atmosphere and merchandise beckoned her, and although she saw no one inside, the “open” sign in the window welcomed her. She stepped onto the tiled stoop and depressed the thumb latch. While slowly pushing on the door, she admired the workmanship of the worn mosaic compass rose at her feet.
Classical piano music greeted her as she entered the shop, and she breathed the luring mixture of lavender, soap, and balsam. Mesmerized, she closed the door with a soft click.
She walked to a display of granite clocks on the left side of the butcher’s counter, set her teakettle on the floor, and picked up a clock. She cradled the cold, heavy piece in her hands then tilted it toward the overhead light to examine its Roman numerals.
“No! Absolutely not!” a man’s voice blurted.