A Wild Goose Chase Christmas: Quilts of Love Series (18 page)

“I can tell you love what you do.” Max swirled his coffee cup in small circles. “How did you make the leap from dancer to teacher?”

“Ah, that was all Gran.” A gust of air swooshed past, and Izzy grabbed at the napkins before they could blow away. “When I was eighteen, I was rehearsing for a local production of a new ballet. I’d been having a lot of aches and pains but never really thought about it. They’re all part and parcel of a dancer’s life, you know?”

Max nodded.

“So one day, we were working on a particularly difficult section of the piece. I had to make a running leap into the arms of the male principal dancer. Either I didn’t jump high enough or he wasn’t ready. Either way, he didn’t catch me.”

“Ouch,” Max said with a wince.

“Yeah. I landed on my right knee, hard. Normally, a fall like that wouldn’t be enough to stop a dancer from dancing. But my knee swelled up and the fluid wouldn’t go away. I went to my doctor, who sent me to a specialist. After a bunch of questions and tests I found out that my aches and pains weren’t from dancing; they were from rheumatoid arthritis.”

“That must have been a hard diagnosis to hear.”

“It was. I knew my dreams of being a prima ballerina were over. I was devastated. But Gran came in and picked up the pieces.”

Max set his cup aside and leaned forward. “How so?”

“She had me move in with her for a few weeks. Took care of me while my knee healed. Most important she helped me see I needed a new dream. She convinced me to go to college and find a new passion.”

“And your new passion was art.”

“Art is a lot like dance. It has movement, emotion. I connected with it right away.” She grinned. “Unfortunately, I have no talent for creating art.”

Max shrugged. “Just as well. It’s a terrible career choice. There’s no money in it. Not until after you die, anyway.”

Izzy laughed. “True. But I do have a talent for teaching, so studying to become an art teacher made perfect sense.”

“Do you ever miss dancing?”

“Of course. But I still dance. In the house, in the backyard. I just don’t do it professionally.” She fiddled with the lid on her cup. “Enough about me. What about you?”

“I’m afraid I’m pretty boring.” One side of his mouth quirked up as he looked at her from beneath lowered lashes. “I’ve always loved digging into history. Went on a class trip to the Smithsonian my junior year in high school and I decided that’s where I wanted to work.”

“Pasadena is a long way from Washington, D.C.”

“One doesn’t begin a career at the Smithsonian. You have to work your way up.”

She nodded. “So this is a stepping-stone for you.”

“It started out that way. But after five years, I still love what I’m doing. I don’t think about Washington so much anymore.”

“I see.” She leaned her elbows on the table, head tilted slightly. “So you may stay around town a while.”

He rested his hand on her wrist, his fingers warming her skin. “The longer I’m here, the less I want to be anywhere else.”

“Izzy!” At the sound of her voice being called from across the street, they both jerked back, breaking the connection.

Max muttered under his breath. “Does everyone in town know you?”

“Sorry. A lot of my friends hang out here on Friday nights.” She waved at the family crossing the street. Now that she wasn’t lost in Max’s company, she noticed that the vendors were beginning to break down their stands and booths. “Looks like it’s time to go.”

Max looked around, then stood. He picked up both their cups, threw them away, and led Izzy out of the seating area. “Where’s your car?”

“I didn’t drive. I always walk here, then walk back home after.”

“By yourself?”

“It’s a safe neighborhood,” she said with a laugh. “And a short walk. Takes me about fifteen minutes. It’s good exercise.”

“I parked two blocks over. Can I drive you home? I still want to show you what I found in the diary.”

Until then, all thoughts of the diaries and the quilt had fled her mind. Even now, her only interest in them was that
they would draw out her time with Max. “Sure. That would be nice.”

They walked up the street, following the tide of the departing crowd. At one point, Max put his hand on her elbow to keep them from getting separated. The further they walked, the less people there were, until finally they were almost alone. So when Max’s hand slid down her arm and his fingers locked with hers, she knew it wasn’t for safety’s sake.

They were on a date.

Way to go, Gran
, Izzy thought.
I owe you one.

20

I
t was the thumping that woke her.

Izzy raised her head from her pillow, peering bleary-eyed through the pale light filtering in the window. Stretching out, her hand hit paper on the bedspread beside her. She’d fallen asleep looking at the transcripts and photos Max had given her of the oldest diary. Between her date with Max and the information from the diary, it had been quite a night and a lot to absorb. Even now, her head was filled with so many facts and questions, she felt it might explode. Which made that pounding sound even more irritating.

She stuffed her feet into bedroom slippers, tied a terry cloth robe over her pajamas, and shuffled into the living room. Brandon’s bedding was gone from the couch, piled in a heap on the chair. Mom sat in her wheelchair at the dining table, an open magazine in front of her and a banana in her good hand.

“Mom, I didn’t hear you ring the bell.”

“That’s because I didn’t.”

Izzy rubbed the back of her hand against her forehead. “Oh. Did Brandon help you?”

“No. I did it myself.”

Izzy couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such a bright smile on her mother’s face. “You got into the chair by yourself and everything? That’s great, Mom.”

She nodded, setting the banana down on a napkin. “I’m feeling stronger. It’s good to be able to do things for myself again.”

The thumping grew louder and increased in speed. Izzy looked around the room, even though she knew it was coming from outside. “Do you have any idea what that noise is?”

Janice shrugged. “When I got out here, your brother was reading something on your computer. As soon as he saw me, he ran outside. I have no idea what he’s doing.”

Izzy didn’t like how that sounded. She went to the computer hutch in the corner. The monitor was black, but a jiggle of the mouse brought it back to life. He’d left up the last site he’d been at. It was a blog about quilts, and he’d gone to one specific article: “When a Stitch, Not an X, Marks the Spot.” It was all about the theory that some quilts were made not just as heirlooms or practical household items but also as treasure maps.

Brandon had seen Gran’s letter to Izzy, the one that said the quilt held the key to a great treasure. Now this.

Thump. Thump.

Oh no. He wouldn’t.

With no explanation to her mother, Izzy ran out the back door, letting the screen bang shut behind her. She froze at the bottom of the steps. It was worse than she had thought.

“Brandon!”

He looked up at her from where he was digging, leaning on the shovel. All around him were holes of varying sizes and depths.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Perspiration darkened his hairline, despite the coolness of the morning air; his mouth was set in a determined line. “I’m looking for whatever Gran left behind.”

Izzy squeezed her eyes tightly, holding back the harsh words she wanted to fling at her brother. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself before going on. “You think she buried a treasure in the backyard?”

“It makes sense. The quilt holds the key to a treasure. She gave the quilt to you; she gave the house to you. So the treasure has to be somewhere on the property.”

“That’s crazy. How could she have buried something out here? She couldn’t even open a pickle jar without help.”

“I don’t know. Maybe she asked someone to help her. Maybe she did it years ago.”

“OK, let’s pretend for a second that the idea of Gran digging a hole and burying the mythical family fortune in the backyard isn’t completely crazy. Even if there’s something back here, how do you think you’d find it? Are you going to dig up the whole yard?”

“If I have to.” His eyes narrowed, as if challenging her. “You won’t let me see the quilt, so what choice do I have?”

“What choice? Brandon, this is ridiculous.” As she stalked up to him, the moisture from the ground seeped through the thin soles of her slippers. But it would take more than wet feet to stop her. “There’s nothing back here.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” She grabbed the shovel and yanked it from his hand. He lunged for it, but not before she tossed it aside. The spade clanked against a metal birdbath that had been knocked over and rested on its side, a hole marking the spot where it had once stood. “Why are you determined to believe you can find anything valuable out here?”

“Because I’m desperate!” He shouted as he stepped toward her, hands motioning wildly. “I’ve lost everything! My condo was foreclosed on. I have no money. My career is a joke. I have nothing left.”

Her shoulders slumped. Poor Brandon. He’d always had the golden touch, ever since the day he came home from fifth grade and announced he was going to be an entrepreneur when he grew up. He’d done it too, making the kind of business deals Izzy couldn’t begin to understand. Of course he felt out of control now.

She grabbed his arm, bringing his gestures to a halt. “Do you want to know why I’m certain Gran didn’t bury a treasure out here?” She waited for an answer that didn’t come, but his silence told her that at least he was ready to listen. “She told me once that things don’t have any value except for what they mean to us. The memories and emotions that are evoked when you see or hold an object—that’s what makes it worth something.”

“I don’t get your point.”

“Gran didn’t care about money. She cared about faith. And family.” Izzy motioned behind them. “What do you see when you look at this house?”

His eyes looked past her. “A wasted opportunity. Even in a down market, it’s worth a bundle.”

“But Gran didn’t see that. This is the house her husband grew up in, the house they lived in and called home, where they raised their own child. To Gran, this house represented every tear, every laugh, every emotion of the last fifty years.”

Brandon scowled, his face wrinkling in on itself. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“Yes, it does.” Izzy was firm. Gran told her she could bring the family together. If that was going to happen, she had to make Brandon understand. “There’s no safe buried under the
birdbath. No gold bars beneath the flowerbed. There is no treasure. Not the kind you’re looking for.”

His face softened just a tad, just enough that Izzy knew she was getting through to him.

“The reason Gran gave me the house and the quilt is because she knew I would appreciate them for the same reasons she did. Not because of the amount of money they might be worth, but because of what they represent to our family history. Does that make sense?”

He looked away, sucking in a gasp of breath and releasing it in a ragged sigh. Then he turned back to her, eyes raw with fear and confusion. “What am I going to do, Izzy? How am I supposed to start over when I have nothing?”

“Brother, you have more than you know.” She put her arm around his waist, hugging him to her side. “You have your faith. You have me. And you have Mom, although that may not always be a comfort.”

He laughed, but it was the most pitiful laugh Izzy had ever heard. “She’s a challenge, especially now that I’ve disappointed her.”

“I’ve been living with that for years. You get used to it.” As soon as she said it, Izzy realized that parental disappointment was something you never got used to. She also realized something else. “You know, since she got hurt and moved in here, she seems to have mellowed.”

“Really, I didn’t notice.”

“That’s because you’ve been preoccupied. But something’s different with her.” A breeze rustled through the trees, cutting through Izzy’s robe. Her teeth chattered and she wiggled her half-frozen toes. “Let’s get in the house. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Brandon tipped his head. “Thanks, Iz. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I expect something in return.”

“What’s that?”

She glanced behind them at the carnage within the tall wooden fence. “After we’re done eating, you have some holes to fill in.”

Max usually avoided working on Saturdays. But today was an exception.

When he’d left Izzy the night before, one thing was perfectly clear: he wanted to pursue a relationship with her. Right now, it was too complicated to move forward. With questions about the quilt and whether her family would loan it to the museum, any further attempts he made to get closer to her could be misconstrued. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was using her as a means to an end. No, he had to know once and for all where he stood with the quilt, and then, after the exhibit was finalized, he could ask Izzy out again—this time to someplace where she wouldn’t be stopped by friends every five minutes.

Max grabbed the stack of files Tara had left on his desk. Right on top was a pink slip of paper with Dalton Reed’s contact information. He held it between two fingers, snapping it back and forth in front of his face. What could the man want? He reached for the phone, then stopped. It was Saturday. Not the right time for a work phone call.