A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) (3 page)

There weren’t any lights in the alley. Even if there were any shops down the passageway, they were surely closed by now, but curiosity got the best of me. Ignoring the damage that the uneven cobbles were inflicting on my high heels, I set out to investigate the passage that, in all probability, led to nothing more interesting than back doors where shopkeepers piled their empty shipping crates and trash cans. But that’s why you mustn’t bet the bank on probability; sometimes it’s better to follow your instincts.

The dark, narrow passageway ended abruptly, opening onto a generous, cobbled square large enough to let a wide column of light stream into the center. When I stepped out of the dim alleyway and into the light-filled courtyard, it felt like I was passing into a secret world, a place that didn’t exist before I discovered it.

At a right angle to the alley I’d just exited, I saw another passage that I thought might lead to Maple Street, which meant the courtyard could be accessed from two of New Bern’s most important streets. There were a few small storefronts opening onto the courtyard—a gift shop, an art gallery, and an attorney’s office—but, as I had anticipated, they were all closed.

One store, much larger than all the others combined, took up an entire brick building. It was empty. Judging from its appearance, it had been for a long time. The red paint on the wooden door was peeling, and the big bowfront display window with dozens of panes of glass was clouded with dirt and cobwebs. I moved closer and spied a faded For Rent sign taped to the window.

Using my sleeve to wipe some of the grime from the glass, I peered inside and saw that the interior of the shop was even bigger than it appeared from the street. I could make out stone floors and scarred wooden counters topped with an old-fashioned black cash register that probably hadn’t rung up a sale in decades.

The place was in terrible shape. Water stains on the walls testified to the existence of bad plumbing or a leaky roof, probably both. Several of the windowpanes were cracked, and one was completely missing, allowing me to get a strong whiff of wet and mildew when I leaned closer. The window frames were soft in spots where termites had been feasting. In spite of all this, I could see that, once upon a time, it had been charming. Closing my eyes, I could envision how the dozens of tiny windows would have gleamed when they were clean and new and how inviting the red wooden door must have looked when the paint was fresh. In my mind, the sour odor of mold was banished by the perfume of scented geraniums growing in pots under the window, and I could hear a cheery, frequent jingling as the door swung open and the bells alerted the shopkeeper to the arrival of yet another customer. I could see it all, but only with my eyes closed. Opening them again, I stood face-to-face with a ruin of a building, an abandoned memory.

It must have been lovely, but that was a long time ago. It would take pots of money and a mountain of work to make it look that way again.

I didn’t care.

I backed away from the broken window and started rummaging through my purse for a pen and scrap of paper so I could write down the name and number of the realtor. This was it. What I had been looking for without even knowing it. My place, my town, my shop. The dream I’d nearly forgotten had been waiting for me at the end of a blind alley.

I closed my eyes again, and the vision came back to me, the shining windows, the gleaming red door, this time with a hand-painted sign overhead that read:

COBBLED COURT QUILTS

I was in luck. Though it was after hours when I called the real estate office, someone answered the phone. Wendy Perkins said she’d just been getting ready to leave, but, seeing as I was only a couple of blocks away, she’d be willing to wait if I came right over.

“But,” she asked doubtfully, “are you sure we’re talking about the same building? That great big space in Cobbled Court? The one with the broken windows?”

“Yes,” I assured her. “I’m standing in front of it right now. Red door and a bowfront window. How much does it rent for?”

“Honestly, I don’t remember. It’s been so long since anyone inquired that I’ll have to look up the information in my files, but I’ll have it by the time you get here.”

When I walked through the door of the office I was enthusiastically greeted by an older woman with a white beehive hairdo. She wore a big pair of rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses on a rhinestone-encrusted chain around her neck and pants that were a size too small. She snorted whenever she laughed, which was often, wrinkling her nose, folding her tongue into a little U shape when she did and involuntarily thrusting it through the O of her lips. She reminded me of that Lily Tomlin character, Ernestine, the wickedly funny telephone operator whose weekly appearances on
Laugh-In
, back when I was a teenager, always had me rolling. I liked her instantly.

“It’s in here somewhere, Evelyn,” she said, frowning and pushing her glasses up on her nose while she dug through the file drawer. “It’ll just take me a minute or two to find it. The paperwork on that building must be older than me.” Snort! Snort!

She laughed, and I joined in. It was impossible not to.

“What’s the history of the building?”

“Well, it was originally a drugstore, way back at the turn of the century. Fielding Drug Emporium. It was family run all the way up until the sixties, but then Jim Fielding died of a heart attack real sudden, and the place closed down. After that, there were a couple of boutiques that tried their luck, but, you know, it’s such a big space and not an ideal location. People don’t know it’s there unless they walk down that passage. It’d be fine if you were catering to a clientele of alley cats and rats.” Snort! Snort! “You’re not looking to open a pet-supply store, are you?” Snort!

I smiled. “No, I’m afraid not. I’m a quilter. Years ago, when I was first married, I dreamed of opening a quilt shop of my own back in Wisconsin. That’s where my husband and I grew up. At one point, I actually inquired about getting a loan and started working on a business plan, thinking I’d do it as soon as my son was in school and I had a little more time. But you know how things go. My husband got a job offer in Texas for a lot more money. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. At the time, I thought I’d just open my store in Texas, but the town we moved to didn’t support small businesses. Two quilt shops opened while I was there. They asked me to teach some classes, which I loved, and sometimes I’d help out in the store too. Just part-time work, you know. But in the end they couldn’t compete against the big fabric stores, so they closed. Then, too, I was very involved with my son, his school, and I volunteered for all kinds of community things.” I shrugged.

“It’s no one’s fault but mine, but I eventually kind of gave up on my dream and, in a way, on myself. I don’t know when it happened, but it did. Now I find myself nearing fifty and newly single, and when I saw that empty storefront today, I knew…I just knew…” Wendy’s eyes were fixed on me as I spoke. Suddenly I felt very foolish, telling my life story to a stranger.

“Well, you know what they say—‘Better late than never’!” I laughed, but this time Wendy didn’t join in. Instead, she leaned forward, making the springs on the desk chair squeak, and placed her hand on my knee.

“Evelyn, believe me, I’m happy to make this deal, but you seem like a nice lady. You need to think this through. You’ve just gone through a divorce. Maybe this isn’t the time for you to be making such a big decision or moving to a town where you don’t know anyone. At a time like this, you need friends around, old friends who know you and what you’ve been through. People who can support you.

“This is a huge change you’re contemplating, and an expensive one. I don’t know what your financial situation is, but if you’re like most recent divorcees, then this is the worst possible time for you to be taking a big financial risk. I know what I’m talking about. You think I’d be sitting in an office trying to sell real estate at six-thirty on a Thursday night if I didn’t? At my age, I should be sitting on a beach in Florida, calling my children and nagging them because they never come see me.” She snorted, but halfheartedly. Her eyes became serious again.

“And even if you weren’t reeling from the effects of your divorce, be practical. New Bern isn’t big enough to support a quilt shop. You won’t last six months.”

P
eople like me.

I’m aware that some might consider this a less-than-humble statement, perhaps even arrogant. But really, humility is an overrated quality, don’t you think? Besides, in my case, it’s true. People
do
like me. They always have, and if I’d ever harbored any doubts on the subject (though I never really did), they were assuaged last night.

Yesterday, March 14, was my sixty-second birthday. Franklin Spaulding, who has been my attorney for decades, hosted a party in my honor at the Grill on the Green. Positively everyone I knew attended, plus a few people I didn’t: the pastor and deacons of the Congregational Church (whose new fellowship hall I financed and whose services I attend on major holidays), the directors of the Wynne Memorial Library, the County Women’s Shelter, the New Bern Historic Preservation Society, the Nature Preserve Foundation, the Concert Association, and assorted other community organizations that count on me for advice and contributions, as well as the various board members of those organizations, not to mention the many merchants who own the antique shops, art galleries, design studios, clothing boutiques, jewelers, restaurants, and bookstores that I frequent, plus all the people I know through my memberships in the tennis, golf, and equestrian clubs, and, of course, the spouses, partners, and significant others of all the aforementioned.

There were so many guests that the party completely took over the restaurant, which might have proved frustrating to other prospective diners, but I don’t think so. It’s still too chilly for tourists, especially on a Thursday before the weekenders are due, so the only people who would have been planning to eat at the Grill were locals, and, as I say, nearly all the locals were at the party.

Of course, I’m aware that all the party guests I’ve listed had a vested interest, if not an obligation, in making an appearance at the celebration. I’m the wealthiest woman in New Bern, possibly the wealthiest woman in this part of the state, though I don’t know that for certain. Franklin, my attorney, keeps track of my investments and financial dealings. I’m not much interested in the actual figures or details of my portfolio, but Franklin says I have plenty of money to live well and to be a generous benefactor in my community, so I do and I am. Certainly that generosity could lead you to believe that many of those who came to celebrate my natal day did so because they felt they had to—not that I’d have faulted them if they did; there’s nothing wrong with filling one’s community and social obligations—but that wasn’t the case. I have proof.

During the course of the evening, I had to visit the ladies’ room. When I went in, both stalls were occupied, so I was obliged to wait my turn. While doing so, I inadvertently heard an interesting exchange between two of the partygoers. It’s so strange, isn’t it? The way women have long, in-depth conversations while in the toilet? I don’t think men do that, do you? And I certainly never would, but all the same, if you’re careful about where you stand and keep quiet, you can learn a lot in the ladies’ room. Not that I’d want anyone to think I’m an eavesdropper, but really, who isn’t interested in hearing how people honestly feel about them? It isn’t my fault that women insist on talking in semipublic places.

One of the speakers was Grace Kahn. I’ve known Grace for years. She volunteers three days a week at the library and sits on the board too. For the previous twenty-four years, until her knee surgery a few months ago, we played doubles tennis every Wednesday.

The other voice belonged to a woman I’d met for the first time that night, Margot Matthews. She owns a little two-bedroom carriage house on Marsh Lane that, until recently, she only occupied on weekends. We have a few of those in New Bern, New Yorkers mostly, who keep a house in the country for weekends and summers. Some of the locals grumble about them, but not me. They’re nice enough people for the most part, and they certainly help out the local economy, so what’s to complain about? I go to Manhattan to enjoy the delights of the city; why shouldn’t urbanites feel free to enjoy the delights of the country? Everyone needs a change of scenery now and then.

But I digress. I was speaking of Margot Matthews.

Until recently, she worked in Manhattan, in the marketing department of some large firm that sells semiconductors or some such thing; I wasn’t paying that much attention when she told me about her former business. Dull stuff, business. But once I found out that Miss Matthews studied ballet as a child, the conversation became much more interesting. People’s hobbies tend to be so much more intriguing than their professions, don’t you agree? Grace whispered in my ear that the poor thing had been downsized—that is to say, fired—and was living in New Bern full-time because finances had forced her to sublet her apartment in the city until she could find a new job.

Grace had noticed Margot sitting at the same computer workstation in the library, day after day, searching the Internet for job postings.

“She seemed so forlorn. She doesn’t know anyone,” Grace whispered to me as she beckoned to the young woman, who was just getting a glass of wine at the bar, “so I invited her to come along tonight. I hope you don’t mind, Abigail.”

And, of course, I didn’t. Why should I? It wasn’t as if I had to take on Margot Matthews as my new best friend; besides, I enjoy meeting new people. And they enjoy meeting me, as evidenced by the cross-stall conversation that took place between Margot and Grace in the restaurant ladies’ room.

“Thank you for bringing me along tonight, Grace. I can’t tell you how ready I was for a night out! After all those hours I’ve spent sending out e-mails to human resources departments and getting no response, it’s lovely just to talk with some real human beings—especially Abigail. She’s fascinating! I can’t believe she actually knows Mikhail Baryshnikov. It was awfully nice of her to let me crash the party.”

“I knew she wouldn’t mind. Abigail likes meeting new people. She loves drawing them out, finding some common ground for conversation.” Grace laughed. “I think she enjoys the challenge, as if she was out to solve some sort of mystery. She looks straight at you with those intense brown eyes as if every word you were saying was completely and utterly absorbing, and, of course, you end up falling in love with her. It’s impossible not to. In some way or another, everyone in that room owes Abigail something, but that’s not why they’re here tonight. Even if Abigail wasn’t a benefactress to half the town, no one would dream of missing her birthday party. People like her.”

See? What did I tell you?

“How did the two of you meet?” Margot inquired.

“Playing tennis. I was her doubles partner for years. She used to play singles
and
doubles until last year. Abigail has ten years on me, but she can still run me off the court. She’s very athletic. Hiking, riding, sailing—name a sport and Abigail excels at it.”

“Well, I’d never have guessed she was sixty-two if you hadn’t told me.”

“She is amazing looking, isn’t she? Her skin positively glows. And it’s all natural. At least, I think it is.”

It is. I don’t put much faith in cosmetic surgeons, or cosmetics, for that matter. Everyone ages; I don’t understand why people spend so much time and money trying to avoid the inevitable. At my age, beauty is a ship that has sailed; the best one can hope for is to be thought of as handsome, and while I try my best to keep myself up, a little face powder and lipstick is as far as I go. When it comes to makeup and fashion, simplicity is best. My closet is filled with classic clothing of excellent quality—well-cut wool slacks, silk blouses, an array of cashmere sweaters, and, for more formal occasions like this evening, an assortment of black cocktail dresses. Oh, and shoes. Good shoes are a must. My preference is for Stuart Weitzman; classic designs that are just different enough to be interesting and have heels you can actually walk in—not far, mind you, but far enough. If you carry yourself well, that is really all you need in the way of fashion. That and a few pieces of well-chosen jewelry: pearls, matching earrings, a good diamond tennis bracelet, and, perhaps, one simply spectacular ring, like the enormous yellow diamond Woolley Wynne gave me when he proposed.

“Well, she’s certainly a handsome woman,” Margot commented.

Thank you, Margot.

“You should have seen her when she was younger. She was stunning! She looked like Katharine Hepburn. In fact, she still reminds me of Hepburn. She has those same amazing cheekbones, that confident spring in her step. You get the sense that she enjoys life fully. And well…I don’t mean that she’s conceited necessarily, but she’s just entirely pleased to be Abigail. If she wasn’t so clearly interested in others, she’d probably come off as arrogant, but she’s not. She’s just supremely confident, and I think people find that attractive. And, of course, she’s very well educated. She can talk intelligently on almost any subject…”

Well, that isn’t so very difficult. If people would just read more instead of spending so much time in front of the television, the world would be a much more interesting place. I think we owe it to other people to be interesting, or at least not to be dull.

“…so she is very much in demand when it comes to parties. Do you know that there are people in New Bern who have actually canceled their parties or changed the date when they heard that Abigail couldn’t come?”

“Really? You’re kidding!”

Margot laughed at this, and I could understand why. It really is ridiculous, canceling an entire party just because one person can’t come, but it has been known to happen.

“It’s true,” Grace confirmed. “I know it sounds silly, but I don’t half blame them. If Abigail shows up, the party is bound to be a success. She flits from group to group like a bumblebee among the flowers, touching down here and there and kind of pollinating the conversation before she moves on. Next thing you know, everyone is talking and laughing and having a marvelous time.”

There was a rustle of tissue from inside one of the stalls. I took a silent step backward and put my hand on the door, just in case.

“Well, she seems really lovely,” Margot said. “You’re lucky to have someone like that for a friend.”

“A friend? I’ve known Abigail for decades, but I don’t think you could say we’re friends.”

“No? Then who are her friends?”

Grace was quiet for a moment, considering. “I don’t think she has any, really. Not the way most people think of friendship. I adore Abigail, of course—everyone does, and she likes us—but I don’t think she thinks of any of us as friends. She doesn’t let anyone get that close.”

The sound of rushing water told me that it was time to leave, so I slipped out of the room undetected. It might have been interesting to hear more, but I didn’t really need to. Grace’s revelation to Margot was no surprise to me. She was quite right.

I like people. They like me. And I like me too. But I don’t have close friendships, and I see no need to develop any.

Friends, in my opinion, are supremely inconvenient; they are people who have a grasp on one’s affections and therefore have the right to call upon one for financial or emotional support, usually at the most inopportune moments. I suppose that’s why I’ve always avoided them.

The first prospect doesn’t distress me too much. I’m certainly in a position to be generous. But the second? That is a different matter. Emotions are sticky things, and even more inconvenient than friendships. I don’t trust them.

Truthfully, I don’t trust in much of anything except my own ability to handle whatever life sends my way. If I am proud of anything, it is that. I can take care of myself, and I always have.

My father used to say, “Never complain and never explain.” Which I took to mean that the only person you can or should depend upon is yourself, so it’s best to keep yourself to yourself.

It was advice I took to heart, and, until my phone rang at nine forty-five on the day after my birthday party, it was advice that served me well.