A Thread of Truth (20 page)

“Come on, Abbie. You can see Franklin first thing in the morning. Tonight it would be best to let him get some rest. Wouldn't be a bad idea for you, either. Why don't you go home and get some sleep? Charlie and I can stay here. We'll call you if there's any change.”

Abigail shook her head and blinked a few times. “No. I'm not leaving the hospital until I've seen Franklin with my own eyes and know he's out of danger. But the rest of you should go home. Garrett, would you take Liza back home? I don't want her driving when she's so upset.”

“I want to stay and wait with you.”

Abigail smiled and shook her head gently. “No, darling. You go home and be back here first thing in the morning. There's no point in both of us waiting up all night and being exhausted; besides, I'm going to need someone to bring me some breakfast. Even a member of the board can't get a decent meal in the hospital.” She turned to Garrett again. “Go on. Take her home.”

Garrett nodded and helped Liza up off the sofa.

“Arnie,” Abigial continued, “you should be getting home, too.”

“No. I'm going back to the office for a few hours and get some work done. When you see Franklin, please tell him for me that everything is under control.”

“I will. Thank you, Arnie. I'm sure he'll rest easier knowing that.”

He shook Abigail's hand and gave her a card. “If you need anything, anything at all, feel free to call. My home number, my cell phone, and my direct office extension are all listed there.”

Arnie followed Liza and Garrett out the door. Abigail looked at Charlie and me. “You've both got to go to work in the morning. You should go too.”

“Not a chance,” Charlie declared. “Someone has to stick around here and make sure you don't give that doctor a good poke in the nose.” Charlie grinned. “You really don't like that fellow, do you?”

“No, but that doesn't matter. He's arrogant, rude, and he has the bedside manner of a shellfish, but he
is
one of the best cardiologists in the state. I should know, I'm a member of the board that helped hire him, luring him away from several larger and more prestigious hospitals. Franklin couldn't be in better hands, but if you tell that arrogant, rude genius of a doctor I said so, I'll deny every word.”

“Your secret is safe with us,” I said.

Abigail sank down onto the sofa. “Well, I still think you should go home, but I won't force the issue. To tell you the truth, I'm glad you're here.” Abigail yawned.

“It's going to be a long night. Charlie, I don't suppose you'd go down to the cafeteria and see if they'd sell you a cup of coffee? Mr. Carroll said he'd bring up a pot, but that was an hour ago. He's probably down in intensive care, personally monitoring Franklin's heart rate. He's absolutely terrified that Franklin will die on his watch and I'll renege on my promise to pay for all new equipment for the physical therapy department.” She smiled. “I wouldn't, of course, but Mr. Carroll doesn't need to know that, does he?”

“No reason he should,” Charlie said as he left. “I'll be right back.”

Abigail leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. I sat down next to her while, together, we waited.

F
our days after Franklin's heart attack, Charlie and I headed over to the hospital to bring Abigail some breakfast. Charlie had risen early to bake cheddar dill scones and my contribution was fruit compote made with fresh strawberries and mint I'd picked from the small garden I'd planted in the back of my cottage.

In the days since Franklin had been admitted to the hospital, this had become our routine. Franklin was improving, slowly. His condition was now considered stable and he'd been moved to a private room on the cardiac ward, but since Abigail refused to leave the hospital until he did, all of us—Charlie and I, Margot, Liza, Garrett, and Ivy—took turns dropping by the hospital to keep Franklin and Abigail company and to bring her meals. Poor Franklin had to subsist on the low-fat, low-cholesterol, low-flavor meals brought to him on little trays from the hospital kitchen. Not for long, though. Charlie was working on creating a series of recipes that would meet with the dietary guidelines set forth by Franklin's doctor. It seemed to be going well. In fact, Charlie was so excited about his new creations that he was considering adding a special section of heart healthy “spa cuisine” to the Grill's regular menu.

We met at the Blue Bean Bakery on Commerce Street. Charlie ordered a medium black coffee from the teenaged girl handling the register and espresso machine. I got my usual, a large mocha. It was still very early, so we sat down to enjoy our coffee together before going to the hospital; we'd wait to order Abigail's large skim latte until we were ready to leave. The coffee at the hospital cafeteria was drinkable, but it couldn't compare to the brew at the Blue Bean.

It was a beautiful morning, cool and quiet and calm. Except for a few dog walkers, the streets were almost deserted, but in a few hours the summer sun would raise the mercury above ninety and downtown New Bern would be crowded with day trippers and “summer people,” as well as the year round residents.

Mothers would wheel babies in carriages, hoping the steady movement of the wheels would lull their little ones to sleep. Kids who didn't understand that hot summer days were meant for resting under shady trees would play sweaty games of tag on the Green. Residents of the town would meet each other coming and going as they dropped by the post office to check their boxes, a pleasant but necessary daily chore in a town that stubbornly shunned the installation of individual curbside mailboxes. Gaggles of girlfriends would meet for lunch and laughter around big tables in the back of the Grill, while couples newly or long in love would sit holding hands at intimate café tables in the front, enjoying each other's company and the cool breeze that came in through the open French doors facing the sidewalk. Shoppers would poke through stores, including Cobbled Court Quilts, looking for the special, unusual, and even one-of-a-kind purchases they couldn't find in the strings of chain stores that make up the commercial center of most cities, monotonous retail Levittowns that offer consumers anything they could desire except choice, surprise, or a sense of place.

New Bern isn't like that. There isn't a chain store on the entire length of Commerce Street and the citizens of New Bern like it that way. New Bern is unique, simple, authentic, and unapologetically itself. What its residents have, they cherish and enjoy and what they don't have, they're content to do without. That's the spirit that made me fall in love with this little village. It's real. That's why I love it still.

Charlie and I took our coffee to a table by the window. Outside, Mr. Yoelson, who owned the antique shop, walked by with his dog, Bailey, a sweet, white standard poodle who spent her days in the antique store, greeting customers and sticking close to Mr. Yoelson's side. Bailey was one of several “shop dogs” here in New Bern, another quaint feature of our small village.

Charlie wasn't very talkative, but I was determined to enjoy a few minutes of conversation before launching full bore into what was bound to be another busy day.

“Did you read the paper?”

He shook his head.

“The zoning board turned down Abigail's petition. The decision is final. No more appeals. I'm not really surprised. Subdividing her property was one thing, but if they let Abigail put an apartment building in the middle of a street of single-family residences they'd have to do the same for anyone who applied. Pretty soon there wouldn't be any zoning, but I don't suppose that will make any difference to Abigail. When she gets an idea into her head, she can be pretty single-minded. She's not going to be happy about losing this fight.”

“I doubt she'll even notice. She's got more important things on her mind.”

“True,” I agreed. “But wait until she reads the snotty quote Dale Barrows gave the paper. He didn't name names, but everyone will know he was talking about Abigail. He said it was about time some people in this town realized that having money and influence didn't mean they could bend the rules to fit their personal whims and follies.”

I rolled my eyes as I picked up the shaker from the table and put a good dusting of cinnamon on my drink. “Dale's one to talk. He's still mad about my usurping his plans to resurrect his deservedly dead directing career by hijacking the Quilt Pink broadcast. This whole thing is getting weirder by the minute. Yesterday, I was unlocking the door of the shop and some woman jumped out of the shadows and shoved this enormous ream of papers into my hands. Turns out she's written a screenplay; some sort of quilting murder mystery called
A Body Between the Bolts
. She refused to leave until I said I'd read it. Can you believe that? Who does she think I am? Martin Scorsese?”

I paused to give Charlie a chance to jump in with one of his witty quips, but he didn't say anything. He just stirred his coffee.

“And then there are the reporters. They keep calling, wanting to schedule interviews with Mary Dell and me. It's gotten so I'm scared to answer the phone, but I've got to get a handle on this. Everybody wants a ticket to the broadcast. Some of my best customers have said if they don't get a ticket, they're going to take their business elsewhere. I'm being blackmailed by little old ladies! Sweet grandmothers who smell like cookies are threatening to boycott my shop if I don't meet their demands. Mavis Plimpton said if I didn't get her a ticket she was going to start spreading rumors that I get my fabric from sweat shops in the third world that use slave labor and dump dangerous chemicals into the ocean. Can you believe it?” I laughed. “I don't know what to do. There are simply more people who want tickets than there are places to put them. I want to be fair about it, but how?”

I looked at him, hoping for some guidance, but he just shrugged.

It was like pulling teeth to get him to talk. Maybe he was just sick of hearing about the broadcast. Well, me, too. I searched for another topic of conversation.

“Franklin should be able to leave the hospital next week. At least that's what Margot told me.”

“Good.”

“He's still got a long road to recovery. There's no way he'll be able to represent Ivy at the trial. Arnie will take his place. Margot said he was at the hospital when she brought Abigail's lunch, filling Franklin in on what's going on at the office, especially Ivy's case.”

Charlie grunted. “Huh. Must be killing him to leave this to someone else.”

“Margot said he was really grilling Arnie. Had a million questions. He got so worked up that one of the monitors started beeping. Abigail told Arnie he'd have to go, but that just made the monitor beep louder.” I chuckled. “Poor Franklin. It's so hard for him to let go, but I guess he's just going to have to get used to it. The doctor keeps telling him that even after he recovers, he's going to have to slow down and share more of the workload with his associates. Arnie seems capable, don't you think?”

“Mmmm,” Charlie murmured as he slurped his coffee.

“And he's certainly getting lots of help. Margot spends every night after work helping him with the paperwork, transcribing notes. All kinds of things. The firm's paralegal is on vacation, so they're really shorthanded. And now that Liza is home for the summer, she and Garrett are helping too. They're going to drive out to Pennsylvania soon to do a little sleuthing. See if they can find some of the people who used to work at the Atlantis Club, people who can verify Ivy's story. It's a long shot, but you never know. Oh! And did I tell you? Arnie sent Ivy for X-rays and they showed that she had two broken ribs and several broken bones in her hand. They're healed now, of course, but it does help corroborate Ivy's statement about her abuse.

“Still, I don't know how much help that will be without medical records. I can't believe this doctor, Kittenger or whatever his name is, is saying that he has no records that support Ivy's claims of abuse. Ivy says he treated her at least a dozen times after Hodge beat her, but his records only show a pregnancy diagnosis for Bobby and a few bouts of cold and flu. How does he plan to explain away those broken bones? And then he accuses her of abusing drugs? Why would anyone, a doctor especially, lie about something like that? Isn't he under oath to try to help people?”

Increasingly aware that I was doing all the talking, I paused and looked at Charlie, waiting for him to say something, but he just sat there and drank his coffee, still brooding. I tried another tack.

“This is nice,” I said, blowing on my mocha to cool it down before taking a sip. “Do you remember back when we first met? We used to have our coffee together almost every morning. Why don't we do this more often?”

Charlie looked up at me. He belched out an irritated noise, half-laugh, half-snort. “Probably because neither of us seems to have time to do so much as change our minds these days, let alone find a spare half hour for coffee dates. Do you realize that Saturday was the first time we'd been out together in weeks? Ever since Mary Dell came up with her brilliant plan to shout the name Cobbled Court Quilts over national television you don't have a spare moment for anyone or anything—especially me.”

Charlie's stormy expression told me this was a gripe he'd been nursing for some time, but I didn't let myself get too upset by his accusation, not at first. Frankly, I couldn't quite believe he'd have the nerve to lay the blame for our current lack of face time on my doorstep.

“Oh, come on, Charlie. That's not fair. It's not like I'm the only one with a busy schedule. You're the one who works nights. During the tourist season, it's every night.”

“Well, you're the one who spends every bloody Friday night quilting with her girlfriends!”

“What!” I exclaimed. I couldn't believe he was throwing that in my face. He knew that Friday night was the one night in the week that I had for myself. I
needed
those few hours of creativity and companionship on Fridays. It was my way of recharging my battery at the end of a long workweek.

“Don't you go throwing stones at me, Charlie Donnelly. It practically took an act of Congress to get you to let Gina take over for you so we could go out on Saturday.”

“Well, what do you expect? I've got a business to run!”

“So do I!” I retorted, raising my voice to match his. “And for the first time since I opened my doors, I'm actually making money, so don't go making me feel guilty about my success. You, of all people, know how much that means to me and how hard I've worked to get to this point. You sat here with me at this very table during those first months after Cobbled Court opened, when I was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, and told me to think outside the box. You told me not to give up, to find a way,
any
way, to make it work, and now that I have, you're giving me a hard time about it!

“Why do men do that? The second a woman becomes successful and can't spend every moment of every day focused entirely on them, they get jealous, or threatened, or some such thing. Well, my business is just as important as yours, Charlie. And I'm proud of what I've accomplished even if you're not!”

Charlie's eyes narrowed and he scowled. “Now who's not being fair? I never said I wasn't proud of you. I am. Of course, I am. How can you even say that?” He hunched his shoulders and glared at me.

“What's going on here, Charlie? When I was failing you were my biggest cheerleader; so now that I'm finally a success, you've suddenly turned into a critic? I don't get it. What's changed between then and now?”

Charlie sat up straighter and banged his coffee cup down hard on the table. A wave of the black brew sloshed over the edge of the cup. “What's changed is that now I love you!” he shouted.

The girl who had been working the counter looked at us nervously and then scurried back into the kitchen, perhaps thinking it might be a good time to make sure the muffins weren't burning. Charlie saw her go and lowered his voice.

“I love you!” he hissed. “When I first met you, I liked you—a lot. I gave you advice because I wanted to see you succeed in your business. Nothing's changed on that score. I still want you to succeed, but now I love you. I want to spend time with you. If I could, I'd spend every waking and sleeping moment of my life with you, you know that. I'd like to marry you, as I've told you a hundred times.”

It was true. Well, maybe not a hundred times, but often, especially in the last few months. My anger of the moment faded quickly, replaced by tenderness for this very complicated, very good, and very difficult man.

“I know. And I love you too, Charlie, very much. After my divorce, I couldn't imagine ever wanting to marry again. You've made me rethink that. Still, Charlie, I'm not ready. Not yet. I just think we need to know each other better before we make that commitment. We've talked about this before. I was a teenager when I met Rob. I rushed headlong into marriage without really knowing him, sure that love would conquer all. I'm not going to make that same mistake twice. We need to spend more time together before we consider marriage.”