Anne Grant’s mom, Joyce Baumann, noticed the man first and pointed him out to her daughter.
Unusual appearance, Anne thought. Even though it was two weeks before Thanksgiving, and the temperatures were mild, not unusual for this time of year, he wore a heavy denim jacket, and clutched a package close to his chest. Gray-haired, of indeterminate age, but not elderly, the man moved slowly from one display rack to the next, eying the packages of cross stitch kits.
Her mom seemingly paralyzed by the man’s appearance, Anne dropped the pair of scissors and Aida fabric she was cutting to offer him assistance.
“Hi, can I help with something?” she asked him.
The man glanced over at Anne. Up close, she noticed the gray stubble on his jaw, the lines that furrowed his brow, the crow’s feet spreading from the corner of his eyes. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
“Is that the owner back there?” He tilted his head in Joyce’s direction.
“No. This is my store.” Anne smiled, trying to calm his nervousness.
Now, he turned his attention to Anne, his gaze speculative. “I don’t suppose you know much about this?” he asked, pointing to the kits beside him.
“Cross stitch? Yes, I do. I’ve been stitching for years.”
“Hardly look old enough to be that good.”
Taken aback, but maintaining her smile, Anne tried again. “Is there something you’re interest in? If you’re not looking for something that’s Christmas related, we have some other kits and charts in the back.”
“No, don’t want to buy anything. I,” he indicated the package, “wanted to see if someone could tell me about this.”
Now that Anne was closer, she saw that whatever he carried was in a worn, large-size manilla envelope.
“Let’s go to the back and we’ll take a look at what you have.”
Anne turned and headed back to where her mom was working, the man following close behind.
“Mom, Mr…” Anne gave him a questioning look.
“Shinto. George Shinto,” he said.
Anne introduced her mom and herself, then offered her hands to take Mr. Shinto’s package.
“It’s pretty old,” he said. “Wife and I sold our place up north and moved into a condo down here. Found it in one of the boxes. Must have been in the attic of the old house.”
Taking the envelope from Mr. Shinto, Anne cautiously lifted the flap, then let it slide to the table as she withdrew the aged fabric inside. She lowered the brown material—linen it appeared—to the table, and together she and her mom spread it out. Joyce gasped as they revealed the intricate pattern stitched on the fabric.
Discolored in places, it was an heirloom sampler with the main feature being a lake with a deer, head bowed to the water. Beside her, a buck stood alertly on watch. A flock of geese flew overhead in the scene, an autumn setting apparently from the now dull oranges, yellows and reds appearing in the trees.
“Did your wife do this, Mr. Shinto?”
The man shook his head. “She ain’t interested in fancy frills like this. But she wondered about it. Made me bring it along when I told her I was coming to downtown.”
Anne had opened her shop, Candy Cane Stitches featuring cross stitch items, a little over a year and a half ago. But last year at this time, she wasn’t sure her store would last long into the new year. Plummeting sales, her bank account drained and credit cards maxed out, bankruptcy loomed as her only relief. Adding to her worry, was the constant attention from one Dr. Jim Grant, and the meddling of her mother, intent on making the two a couple. Unfortunately, now fortunately, Jim had seen the bankruptcy forms on her table, and in turn told father, a retired certified public accountant, who in turn confronted Anne. Forced to lay out her financial woes, her dad had taken matters in hand, and with Jim’s assistance, got a group of angel investors together to save her shop.
Anne gazed fondly at the rings on her left hand. What a difference a year had made.
She wasn’t out of the woods yet financially, but was on the way. And thanks to her mom, she’d undergone a name change, marrying Jim this past June.
Anne shook her head, clearing away the reverie she’d engaged in for a moment. She quickly realized her mom had picked up the conversation with Mr. Shinto.
“…us to see where this is from?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s what the wife would like to know.”
Anne joined the conversation. “I can take a picture of it and post it in some of the cross stitch forums on Facebook and the Internet and see if anyone recognizes the piece and who the designer might be.” She looked up and saw Shinto nodding. “Would your wife mind if we kept this, get it cleaned up a little before we take a photo?”
“I reckon that would be acceptable. Don’t have any plans for it anyhow, leastways not that she mentioned.”
“I’d like to get it framed and displayed in my front window too, if you’d be okay with that.”
Shinto rubbed the stubble on his chin, considering, then nodded. “Reckon that’d be okay too. Don’t see any harm in that.”
The women folded the material back up, and while her mom delicately slid the piece back into the envelope, Anne led Mr. Shinto over to the checkout counter and got his address and telephone number. As he stepped away toward the door, Anne said, “Don’t get your hopes up, Mr. Shinto. It may take weeks before we hear anything, and I have to tell you, it’s probably a long shot that we will. That piece is so old.”
“Just appreciate the effort,” he looked at the card Anne had given him and added, “Mrs. Grant.”
Anne gave him a smile and wave as he left the shop.
Haley Jordan, Author 