A Thread of Truth (8 page)

E
ven before I unlocked the door of the shop on Monday morning, I knew it was going to be a crazy day.

Cobbled Court Quilts was about to celebrate its second anniversary and, like any good retail establishment, we planned to mark the occasion with a sale. It might not be the most creative way to celebrate our birthday, but I was incredibly proud that, in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, we'd actually managed to keep our doors open this long and I was looking forward to this opportunity to thank our customers for their support by offering special prices on the thing quilters love best—fabric!

Over Margot's objections, I'd decided we were going to offer two free fat quarters with every two purchased for two hours on Saturday. Basically, that meant I'd be selling those fabrics at cost, which was why Margot argued against it.

Margot had been a fairly high-level marketing executive at a corporation in New York before she'd been downsized and come to work for me at Cobbled Court Quilts. She had an incredible head for business. Without Margot, Cobbled Court would never have survived to celebrate its first anniversary, let alone a second. Of course, I can't pay her anything like what she was making in the corporate world—I wish I could—but Margot says she's happier working here than she ever was in New York and I do my best to make sure she knows how much I value her. Appreciation isn't something you can take to the bank, but I think people want that as much as a paycheck, maybe more so. On Saturday, after the sale was over, I intended to take Margot out for a very special dinner at the Grill on the Green.

Charlie planned a special menu: Asian pear and ginger salad, black cod with miso marinade, bok choy and sticky rice, topped off with chocolate bread pudding. The dessert didn't quite go with the oriental theme of the menu, as Charlie told me in no uncertain terms, but chocolate bread pudding is Margot's favorite, so that's what we're having, end of discussion. She who pays the check calls the shots.

However, if Margot knew what the dinner bill was going to be, she'd argue with me about that, too, just like she did the profitless fat quarter sale. As the keeper of the books, and therefore the one who posted our monthly profits or, more frequently, our losses, stuff like that just makes her teeth hurt. But if there is one thing I have learned in the last couple of years, thanks to my divorce and bout with breast cancer, it is that tomorrow comes with no guarantees. If you've got something to celebrate, celebrate it now. It might be your last chance. And one of the things most worth celebrating is the people you care about, your family and friends.

Of course, Margot wasn't the only person I was planning on celebrating with and that's where things got complicated. I wanted to include everyone associated with the shop—Abigail because of her generosity in letting us occupy the building practically rent-free, Garrett, and, of course, Ivy. At least, that had been my plan until Friday night.

Now I was wondering if I should invite her to join everyone for the anniversary dinner or not. It wasn't something I could discuss with Margot or Abigail.

I needed advice from someone who wasn't involved in the situation, someone patient, empathetic, and sensitive, who had a keen insight into and appreciation of the female mind-set.

Unfortunately, no one like that was available, so I had to settle for Charlie.

 

Charlie came over to my house for dinner on Sunday. He can cook circles around me, but he seems to be appreciative, or at least amused, by my efforts and I was determined to show him that I knew my way around a kitchen. After all, I'd made dinner for my family every night for more than twenty-four years before I met Charlie and no one had died of ptomaine yet. I wasn't exactly a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu, but I was perfectly capable of making a nice Sunday dinner for two.

Charlie leaned against the kitchen counter, picking at a bowl of Kalamata olives I'd put out as an appetizer while we waited for the salmon to finish poaching and I told him about what had happened on Friday.

“It was so strange,” I said as I leaned down, peering at the flame while I fiddled with the stove, trying to find the exact height of flame needed to induce the ‘slow but steady simmer' my recipe called for. “She just said, ‘I can't.' No more explanation than that. Well, not quite. When Abigail pushed her, asking if she meant can't or won't, Ivy said ‘won't.' It was a very uncomfortable moment.”

Charlie made an impatient, clucking sound as he sucked the pit out of an olive and put it on a nearby cocktail napkin. “Well, why did Abigail do that? Isn't her motto ‘never complain, never explain'?”

“Hmmm. I think that's her personal motto. She doesn't mean for it to apply to other people.”

“Convenient for her.”

“Yep.” I lifted the lid on the poacher. It seemed to be simmering nicely, so I put the lid back down and started chopping vegetables for the stir-fry I planned to serve alongside the salmon.

“Do you want some help with that?” Charlie asked, looking over my shoulder. “The peppers will cook more evenly if you cut them into strips.”

I turned around and gave him a look, still holding the vegetable knife in my hand.

“All right! All right!” he said, backing away with his hands in the air as if begging for surrender. “I was just trying to help.”

“You just stay over on your side of the kitchen. I can do this myself. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to be a guest?”

“No,” he said and popped another olive into his mouth before continuing.

“So what's the big problem? It was nice of you to want to include Ivy in your quilting club…”

“Circle,” I corrected. “Quilt circle.”

“Okay. Your quilt circle, but she doesn't want to join. Why is that so terrible?”

“It isn't that it's so terrible, not exactly. I mean, at first my feelings were a little hurt. It was like we tried to give her a present and she just handed it back without even bothering to open it, but the more I've been thinking about it, the more it worries me.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn't add up.” I picked up a slice of green pepper and ate it. “Ivy likes all of us, I'm sure she does. She's quiet, keeps to herself, but it isn't like she's unfriendly.”

Charlie shrugged. “Maybe she's not all that crazy about quilting. Just because she works for you doesn't mean she is. I've got people chopping vegetables in the kitchen of my restaurant, and doing it a lot faster and neater than you are, I might add, who don't like cooking. For me, cooking is a passion, but to them it's just a way to pay the rent. Maybe it's the same for Ivy. By the way, are you
sure
you don't want me to…” He took a tentative step in my direction.

I glared at him.

“Never mind. I'll just stay over here and eat my olives.”

“Good plan,” I said and went back to chopping.

“No, that's not it. I know Ivy enjoys quilting. I knew that when I first met her, in my beginners' class. She was really excited about her quilt. And just a couple of weeks ago, she said she'd like to try an Ohio Star pattern, but she just doesn't have time. So, now she's offered a chance to do something she enjoys, with free babysitting thrown in, and she says no? It doesn't make sense.”

“Well, you're right, it doesn't, but what can you do about it? Let it go. If she won't join your group, she won't.”

“Yeah, but that's just it,” I said, scooping up a pile of vegetables and tossing them into the wok I'd had heating on a burner and listening to them sizzle. “Abigail pushed Ivy to say she won't, but I don't think that's it. I think she meant what she said the first time. She can't. Or at least she thinks she can't. Something is holding her back. It's almost like she's afraid of being friends with us. But why?”

“You really need to quit stewing about this.”

“I know. I know, but what am I supposed to do now? Ivy doesn't normally work weekends, not unless we have a big sale like we will on Saturday, so I've had all weekend to worry about exactly how awkward it will be when she comes in on Monday. Do I talk to her about it? Do I not talk to her about it? Do I ignore the elephant in the room? And do I invite her to come to the Grill on Saturday night or not? Maybe I should just assume she doesn't want to see any of us outside of work hours.” I sighed. “Monday is going to be awful. I don't know how I should handle this.”

Charlie shook his head and sighed deeply. “Women. You make everything so complicated.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“No, I mean it. You'd never find a man wringing his hands and worrying over something like this. Look. This is simple. Just handle this like a man would. Go to work on Monday, do what you normally do and pretend nothing happened on Friday. Do your job and let Ivy do hers. Later, you can invite her to the dinner on Saturday. If she says yes, fine. If not, that's fine too. It's as simple as that.”

“But it's not. What if she'd really like to come, but feels awkward about accepting the invitation after saying she didn't want to join the circle? Or what if she really
doesn't
want to come, but feels like she has to because she said no before? It's a complicated situation.”

“Arrggh!” Charlie rubbed his face with his hands, as if scrubbing at his frustration. “No, it's not! It's only complicated if you make it complicated!

“Why is it that women, even women who are only bound together by the fact that they happen to work in the same place, aren't happy unless everyone becomes everybody else's best friend?”

I sprinkled the vegetables with salt, pulled a pepper out, and bit into it. Almost ready.

“Because we're social animals, that's why. It's how we evolved. Strength in numbers. Or something like that.” I shrugged. “It's just the way we are. Women need the friendship of other women. At least most of them do. Maybe Ivy's different, but I'm not convinced.”

Charlie snorted and spit out another olive pit. “Well, maybe she just doesn't want to be friends with the people she works with. Can't blame her for that. You're a pretty scary bunch. Margot's a sweetheart, but Liza looks like she's ready to pose for a biker chick photo op. Empress Abigail refers to herself in the third person. And you? Sure. You may look like a mild-mannered quilt shop owner, but maybe Ivy has caught wind of your dark side. Maybe she's heard the rumors about how you threaten your boyfriend with kitchen knives just because he's trying to help you keep from ruining dinner.”

I put the spatula down and turned to face Charlie, my hands on my hips. “I am
not
ruining dinner.”

Behind me, the sound of sizzling vegetables reached a crescendo but was suddenly overcome by a loud, long hiss, followed by repetitious staccato clicks—the noise my gas stove makes when something boils over and extinguishes the cooking flame.

Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Actually, you might be wrong about that.”

“Oh no!” I turned off both burners, and then grabbed a kitchen towel to lift the lid off the poacher.

“It's ruined,” I moaned, peering into the pan. “Why didn't you say something?”

“What? And take my life into my hands?”

Charlie came up behind me, wrapped one arm around my waist and, resting his chin on my shoulder, examined my over-cooked salmon.

“There now, it's not so bad. Not beyond all hope, at least.”

“No? So you think I can still serve it?”

“Well,” he said doubtfully, “not like that. What do you say to a nice salmon salad? Do you have some vinegar and capers, maybe a bit of fresh dill?”

I nodded.

Charlie clapped his hands together and grinned, back in his element, as delighted by the end of his culinary exile as a major-league pitcher who is called back to the mound after a season spent warming the bench. “Good! Get them out. I'll need a mixing bowl and an apron too.”

Glumly, I started looking for the items he requested, but Charlie interrupted my search, kissing me lightly on the lips.

“There now. You're taking this much too hard. Don't worry. I'll be able to salvage our supper.” His eyes twinkled as he hefted the fish poacher off the stove and poured the liquid down the sink.

“Just like I did last Sunday.”

 

I smiled as I turned the key in the lock and opened the shop door on Monday morning. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, the kind of morning that makes you think that the rest of the day will hold nothing but good.

Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

I had plenty of things to do besides worry about Ivy. The best thing to do was to act as if Friday had never happened and just get on with my day. One thing I knew for certain is that it was going to be crazy busy. But until I snapped on the overhead light and the telephone started ringing as if on cue, I had no way of knowing how crazy.

“M
s. Dixon, would you please hold for the First Selectman?”

The secretary pressed the hold button before I had a chance to say whether I would or wouldn't, and was treated to a tinny version of “Muskrat Love” while I waited for Porter Moss to come on the line.

“Good morning, Evelyn!” Porter's voice exuded chummy warmth, as if we were old friends. “Sorry to keep you waiting. How's everything at the shop? Saw in the paper where you've got a big anniversary sale coming up this weekend.”

“Yes, our second.”

“Wonderful! You must be proud to have reached such a milestone.”

And before I could say if I was or wasn't, he changed the subject.

“Listen, you probably have a million things to do. I won't keep you. Let me just cut to the chase.”

Good,
I thought as I eyed the blinking light on my answering machine and wondered how many calls I'd need to respond to before I could begin cataloging the new stock that had come in over the weekend.

“It's about this television show…”

“Um, yes,” I said distractedly, going over my to-do list in my mind. “It's going to be awfully crowded with the cameras and crew and all, but the producer thinks she can squeeze in a couple of…”

“Great! Sorry not to have gotten back to you right away like I'd said I would, but I wanted to run a few things by the board before I called. They're very excited about this, as you can imagine. Just full of ideas about how the community can really capitalize on the opportunity.”

Something about the gusto of his tone drew my mind back from thoughts of phone calls, catalogs, and to-do lists. Cradling the receiver between my shoulder and ear, I reached up to rub a kink out of my neck, suddenly certain that my life was about to become very complicated.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said so confidently that I could almost see the beam of his self-congratulatory smile streaming through the phone line, “that we've got plans, big plans for this event. It took a little arm-twisting, but I got the board to declare September 26th Mary Dell Templeton Day in New Bern. How do you like that! We're going to have a parade, a picnic on the Green…Hey! I just thought of this! Maybe we could have some kind of quilt show. You know, string up some clotheslines between the trees where the ladies could show off their quilts and then Mary Dell could pick the winner! That's a good idea. Gimme a second. Let me write that down….”

He finally took a breath and I could hear the scratching of his pencil as he jotted a note to himself.

“Porter,” I began slowly, searching for a diplomatic response, “this is all very interesting and I'm sure you've put a lot of thought into it, but I…”

“Oh! You don't know the half of it! We're going to put up a giant television screen, a JumboTron, on the Green so that everyone can watch the broadcast live.”

Well
,
at least one of his ideas has some merit. If Porter and Lydia can watch the show from the Green, then they won't be in the shop getting in everyone's way and making me nervous.

“That,” he continued, “will be helpful for crowd control, give the average citizens and the visitors that will be coming from out of town someplace to watch but won't make them feel like they're being left out. You don't want to try to film a show with a bunch of people underfoot. I talked to Dale Barrows about it…”

“Dale Barrows the movie director? The man who lives three houses down from Abigail, on Proctor Street?”

Porter chuckled, clearly delighted that he'd had an excuse to call up New Bern's most famous resident. “Well, he's been retired for a number of years now, but yes. Back in the eighties, Dale directed some of the biggest-budget pictures in Hollywood.”

Also, if my memory served me correctly, some of Hollywood's biggest-budget flops. Fabulously forgettable films like
Drive-In Disco
and
Binky and Bunny's Hawaiian Holiday
, movies that explained his early retirement from the glare of the Hollywood spotlight to the sleepy seclusion of New Bern.

“Anyway, Dale says that you need plenty of space for the cameras to maneuver. You can't have a bunch of people hanging around and getting in the way.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Dale is absolutely right. I'm so glad you understand. I was afraid you were going to be offended when I explained that we really don't have room for a lot of onlookers.”

As I was speaking, Garrett came downstairs, his hair still wet from the shower and carrying his cell phone. Catching my eye, he held up the phone and silently mouthed, “It's for you.”

Who would be calling me on Garrett's cell phone? I squashed my eyes shut and held my left hand up flat. I could only talk on one phone at a time.

“Don't you worry about that for another minute,” Porter said. “I've worked everything out. We're moving everything into the gym.”

For a moment, his meaning didn't register. “I'm sorry?” Surely, I'd misunderstood him. “The gym?”

“Yes, at the high school. There's plenty of room there. You can film on the floor and put the audience up in the bleachers with no fear of them blocking the cameras. You'll have room for 250 dignitaries, maybe more! Don't go getting your hopes up, but I've put a call into the governor's office and I think there's a good chance she'll come.”

“What!”

“I know! Isn't that something? But, I've saved the best for last. Dale Barrows himself has agreed to come out of retirement to direct the whole thing.”

“He what?” I cried. “You've got to be kidding!”

“I know!” he repeated, completely misreading my reaction and emitting a laugh that was practically a giggle, as giddy as a teenage girl who's just learned that the captain of the football team, the editor of the yearbook, and the student body president all want to take her to the prom.

“This is going to be the most exciting thing that's ever happened in New Bern!”

“Porter,” I said, taking a deep breath and trying to get a handle on the situation. “We've got to talk…”

“What? Hold on a minute, Evelyn.” There was a brief pause before he came back on the line.

“That was my secretary. I'm ten minutes late for a meeting over at the fire department. Completely slipped my mind.”

“But, Porter…” I protested.

“I know. I know. We've got a lot to talk about. Lots of planning to be done, but there's time. The broadcast is still months off. Don't worry. Everything's going to come off without a hitch. After all, we've got Dale Barrows directing!” he crowed. “Have to run. Talk to you later.”

And before I could say anything else, he'd hung up.

My arm suddenly went limp and I stood there open-mouthed, the receiver dangling from my wrist.

“This cannot be happening,” I said to no one in particular.

“Mom?” Garrett wore an apologetic look as he held his cell phone out to me. “It's Mary Dell.”

“Give me a second.”

I hung up the shop phone and laid one hand over my eyes like a shield. It was the same gesture I used when the sun came streaming through my bedroom window too early, a feeble tactic meant to delay the inevitable need to get out of bed and, ready or not, face the day.

I would have preferred a few minutes to process everything before talking with Mary Dell, but maybe now was best. Together, maybe we could figure out a way to put a lid back on Pandora's box and save the broadcast before Porter and Dale Barrows decided to hire Busby Berkeley as Assistant Director and bring Binky and Bunny in for a surprise on-air reunion. Better yet, maybe we could just cancel the whole thing.

“Mom?” Garrett looked worried.

“I'm okay.” I took two big, cleansing breaths, nodded my preparedness, and took the cell phone from Garrett's outstretched hand.

“Hey, Mary Dell,” I said, slipping into the traditional Texas salutation.

“Hey, yourself, Baby Girl. Where've you been? I must have left about ten messages on your machine before I thought to call Garrett's cell. And why'd you keep me waiting so long? I've got two cameramen and a floor director standing around cooling their heels and looking at their watches while I waited for you to pick up the line. Were you off somewhere necking with Charlie? Hope so. Honey, that is one cute Irishman you've got yourself there.”

“I'm sorry, Mary Dell. It's been kind of a crazy morning around here, but I'm glad you called.”

“And you're going to be even more glad I called once I tell you the news. Flip on your TV set, darlin', and get ready to be a star! The first on-air promo is going to run on this morning's show. Should be on in about forty-five minutes.”

My knees felt weak. “It's running today?”

“Yes, it is. And don't sound so nervous. I saw the tape and you look great. Gather up the troops and watch. Gotta run. Sandy is wearing her ‘time is money' face.”

Click.

I looked at Garrett. “What time is it?”

He glanced at his wristwatch and said, “Ten minutes to nine.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Garrett said cautiously, as if worried that his normally reliable mother was about to slip over the edge of sanity. Which, at the moment, was a distinct possibility. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. I just can't quite believe so much could go so wrong so early in the day.”

 

No one was interested in my tales of woe regarding Porter Moss, Dale Barrows, the Governor of Connecticut, and the many sound reasons I had for wanting to cancel the broadcast now, before things got even more out of hand than they already were.

As soon as Garrett and Margot learned that the first promotional spot was to appear that morning, they didn't hear another word I said.

The next thing I knew, Garrett was ferreting around the back office, moving piles of shipping boxes, papers, bags filled with empty soda cans that we always said we were going to take to the recycling center but never did, trying to unearth the small television that no one ever watched from a back corner shelf.

Margot followed him into the office. I followed Margot, holding Garrett's cell phone and hitting the redial button.

“Isn't this exciting!” Margot chirped.

“No! It's not. It is the opposite of exciting. It's a catastrophe!”

Garrett pulled the TV from the corner and lifted it up onto my desk where it would be easier for everyone to see the screen. “Actually, the opposite of exciting would be dull or maybe boring. It's neither of those. Margot, can you hand me a kitchen towel or something? I want to wipe the dust off the screen.”

“Sure.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a dish towel, and tossed it to Garrett. “How much longer?”

Garrett looked at his watch. “About six minutes.”

Margot squealed. Actually, it was more like she trilled; clapping her hands together and emitting this half-whistle, half-hoot that was her signature sound for expressing excitement.

The TV in place and free of dust, Garrett declared that he was going to run over to his apartment and get his video recorder. “That way we can watch it again later.”

“Good idea!” Margot said.

“Didn't either of you hear anything I said?” I pulled the phone away from my ear, stabbed the end button with my forefinger, and hit redial yet again.

“Porter Moss is trying to turn this whole thing into some weird mixture of a three-ring circus, quilt show, and campaign rally! We've got to call it off before it's too late. Or at least postpone airing the promo video until we can figure out how to put a lid on this thing.”

With the phone back at my ear, I paused a moment, waiting for an answer, and then growled my frustration when none came. “But how am I going to do that if Mary Dell won't answer her stupid phone so I can tell her not to run the video?”

There were only six minutes left to airtime—now, more like five. I simply had to get hold of Mary Dell and tell her to put the video on hold. If not, there would be no going back. We'd have to…I'd have to go through with the live broadcast in September. It had been a distressing prospect before. Now, after my one-sided conversation with Porter, it was a terrifying one.

I punched the redial button again, held the phone to my ear and chanted, “Pick up, Mary Dell. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up!”

Garrett, returning with the VCR, laughed and turned on the television set. “Mom, calm down. She's not going to answer; she's probably taping a show and turned the phone off. Even if she did answer, I doubt she could stop the video from airing. They probably get these things set way in advance. There's nothing you can do to stop this. Deal with it. Better yet, enjoy it. Personally, I think it's pretty neat.”

I looked at my watch. Two minutes left. Garrett was right, it was too late. As he fiddled with the volume control, I could hear the
Quintessential Quilting
theme music. The horse was out of the barn now and there was nothing I could do but hang on for the ride.

Margot walked toward me and took the phone from my hand. “Come on. Sit down and watch the show.”

Grabbing my shoulders from behind, she steered me to a straight-backed chair near the set and pressed me into it. My knees folded under me and I sat, reluctantly ceding control of the situation.

The back door opened and Ivy came in. Everyone turned, briefly noted her presence, and then turned their attention back to the television screen, where Mary Dell was sitting at her sewing machine, talking about a technique she'd learned for simultaneous piecing and quilting that she couldn't wait to share with us.

“What's going on?” she asked.

Margot turned and grinned. “Mary Dell phoned. They're running the new promotional video today.”

“Really? Cool!” Ivy pulled up an empty chair and sat down next to me, squeezing my arm encouragingly even though her eyes were glued to the screen.