A Thread So Thin (25 page)

I stopped, waiting for him to concede the rightness of my observations, but he just kept tapping his fist against his chin in a rhythm as slow and steady as the beat of a resting heart.

I was getting frustrated with his silence. Finally, I laid my whole hand out on the table, speaking the truth as it was.

“And there’s something else, Charlie, something more than just the difficulty of trying to find someone to do what I do. I love my work, Charlie. I really do. And I’m good at it! Do you know how long I’ve had to wait to be able to say that? Oh, I was a good wife and a good mother, but this is different. Maybe it sounds self-centered, and maybe it is, but after a lifetime of measuring my worth in terms of other people’s achievements, of how many promotions my husband got or how high my child’s grade point was, it feels good to be accomplishing something that is just about me.” I leaned in, urgent to make myself understood.

“I know I don’t do this alone. Margot, Garrett, and Ivy make my life a lot easier. But at the end of the day, this whole thing hinges on me—my ideas, my decisions, my hard work and, ultimately, my success. And I’m really proud of that success, Charlie. For the first time in my life, I’m proud of me! And I don’t want to give that up. Not right now.”

The unspoken end of that sentence,
not even for you,
hung in the air. I was quiet, waiting for him to say something.

“Charlie?”

Finally, he lowered his fist and rested it, still clenched, on the table. “All right, then.”

“All right what?”

“All right, then.” He took in a breath and let it out. “I’ll sell the Grill.”

“What!” I gasped. For a moment, I thought I’d heard him wrong. “Charlie, you can’t do that. You’d be miserable without the restaurant to run. You love the Grill!”

Charlie moved his head slowly from side to side. “You’re wrong. I do love the Grill, but it isn’t the love of my life, Evelyn. You are. And even if you are right and it turns out I’m miserable without a restaurant to run, I know I’ll be twice as miserable if, after waiting more than half my lifetime to find the love of my life, I let love slip away.

“I love you, Evelyn. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and if selling the restaurant is what it takes to make that happen, then so be it. I’ll sell the restaurant.”

He was serious. Clear-eyed and calm and waiting to see what I would say next.

But I didn’t know what to say. It was a gesture of astounding proportions, but it was more than a gesture. I could tell by looking in his eyes. He meant it.

I wasn’t prepared for this, not now. And honestly, was it a good idea?

If we were to marry and have a hope of making our marriage work, we would have to find a way to spend more time together, but was Charlie giving up the restaurant the only option? Wouldn’t he come to regret it later? Resent it? Resent me?

“Charlie, this is a lot to think about. And with everything that’s going on right now…I just need some time to process this.”

“How much time?” His voice was flat, almost without emotion, as if he were negotiating a business deal.

“Well…I don’t know.”

“What about after the wedding?”

“The wedding? But, Charlie, that’s only a few weeks away. I need time to think. So do you. You may wake up tomorrow morning and decide you spoke too soon. You’ve poured your whole life into the Grill and now, just like that, you want to—”

“Six months,” he said in the even, definitive tone that game-show contestants use for declaring their final answers. “In six months’ time I want your answer. Will you marry me or won’t you? If you don’t know by then, you never will. That’s the deal. I won’t mention it again. Won’t bother you or pressure you or propose for the next six months. But then, one way or another, I want an answer. Okay?”

He extended his hand, his expression serious and solemn, as if we were about to seal some very important bargain. Which I guess we were. I took a deep breath and stretched my hand toward his.

“Okay.” I grasped his hand in mine just as my cell phone ringer went off. Margot was calling.

W
hen I got back to the shop, Margot was standing by the door, waiting for me.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but when Franklin called looking for you, he sounded so upset. I thought you’d want to know.”

“What did he want? You said Abigail came home early. Is everything all right?”

I was worried about Franklin. After his heart attack, his doctor had told him to lose weight, get regular exercise, and avoid stress. The first two goals had been relatively easy to achieve, but the third was much tougher. Franklin was a successful and very dedicated attorney. It hadn’t been easy for him to reduce his hours and hand off some of his more demanding clients, Abigail excepted, to Arnie Kinsella. But at Abigail’s urging, Franklin had done so, and his cardiologist was pleased with the results. Within a few months, Franklin’s blood pressure had been reduced to near-normal levels.

However, that was before. There was no prescription the doctor could give him to help temper Franklin’s primary source of stress at the moment: Abigail.

On the other hand
, I thought,
maybe there is. A few tranquilizers might do Abigail a world of good. Or, if she won’t take them, maybe the rest of us should.

“He wants us to come over,” Margot reported.

“Now? But we’re already set for tomorrow.”

“I know, but apparently Abigail and Liza had some sort of argument or…” Margot shrugged. “Well, I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, it has Abigail pretty upset. As soon as she got home she went up to her bedroom and locked the door. She won’t come out and she won’t let Franklin in.”

Margot clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Poor Franklin. He didn’t know what to do, so he called us.”

I blew out a long, weary breath. This day already had more than its share of drama; I wasn’t relishing the thought of getting involved in more. But I knew Franklin. He was capable and clearheaded, exactly the sort of fellow you’d want on your side in any dispute or emergency, which was why he was such a terrific attorney. If Franklin Spaulding was calling for help, then something was really wrong.

“If she won’t open the door for Franklin, I can’t imagine she will for us. But”—I sighed—“I guess we have to try.”

I ran upstairs to the workroom where Ivy, Mom, and Dana, our first New Beginnings intern, were cutting bolts of turquoise, green, and purple fabrics into fat quarters to be packaged up and sent to our mail-order customers. Ivy and Mom were slicing through their fabrics with quick and practiced ease. Dana was more cautious, carefully positioning her ruler on the fabric before slowly cutting across the width of the cloth, pressing on her rotary cutter a little harder than she needed to.

Ivy looked up and smiled as I came in. “Hi, Evelyn. I’m just showing Dana how to use a rotary cutter. She’s doing really well too,” Ivy said encouragingly.

Dana smiled at the praise, just barely. Still, that was progress. Donna Walsh had told me a little bit of Dana’s history of abuse, and it was particularly gruesome. When I first met Dana, she wouldn’t even look at me. She was so timid. After all she’d been through, I wasn’t surprised, but I had wondered if we’d really be able to help her.

“You might not,” Donna had admitted. “Dana’s emotional scars are very deep. Let’s give her a couple of weeks and see what happens. If anyone can help bring her out of her shell, it’s Ivy.”

Obviously, Donna was right. Dana had a long way to go, but that shadow of a smile was a good sign. With time and Ivy’s patient encouragement, Dana just might make it.

“That’s great! Thanks, Dana. We’re sure glad to have your help. We’ve had a run on those block-of-the-month kits.” I looked at Dana and smiled and she did the same—just for a moment, but she did it, a real smile. Yes, indeed. Progress.

I turned to Ivy. “Hey, I hate to break up your little party, but Margot and I have to go over to Franklin and Abigail’s. Could you come downstairs and watch the shop? Maybe you could start teaching Dana how to help customers and run the register.”

Dana’s shy little smile fled. She looked absolutely terrified.

Ivy gave me a concerned glance and I realized that I’d made a mistake. The prospect of meeting customers, talking to strangers, was frightening to Dana. She wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

What was I going to do? Franklin needed Margot and me over at his place and Dana needed Ivy up here. But somebody had to wait on customers.

Mom came to the rescue. “There’s so much yet to do here,” she said casually. “We’ve got twenty kits to cut and package before closing. Why doesn’t Ivy go downstairs and work on the shop floor while Dana and I stay here and finish up?”

Ivy smiled. “Good idea. Sound all right to you, Dana?”

Dana nodded. She looked relieved. “Sure. Yeah. Virginia and I can do it.”

Sure. Yeah. Virginia and I can do it.
Eight words. That was six more than I’d ever heard Dana utter at one time. Maybe she would be all right.

After giving a few instructions to the others, Ivy followed me back downstairs. As we walked away, I could hear my mother’s voice.

“Very nice, Dana. You’re getting so much faster. Now, see if you can’t ease up just a little on the pressure as you’re cutting. It’ll be a lot easier on your arm if you do. That’s it. Wonderful! Dana, you’re a natural!”

When he opened the door, Franklin looked tired—and relieved.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Abigail is beside herself. She won’t unlock the door. I pleaded with her, begged her to let me in, but no matter what I say, she won’t budge.”

After my mastectomies, I’d fallen into a deep and dark depression, a situation not helped by the fact that I’d basically holed up in the small upstairs bedroom of Margot’s house and refused to come out. Everyone—Margot, Charlie, Liza, and Abigail—had done everything they could to convince me to cheer up and get up, but no amount of tenderness and gentle encouragement could move me.

It wasn’t until my best friend from Texas, Mary Dell Templeton, the host of the
Quintessential Quilting
show on cable TV, interrupted a taping to fly to New Bern and literally drag me out of bed that I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself and realized that breasts or no breasts, life not only goes on, it’s well worth living.

I had needed someone to remind me of that, and while Mary Dell’s tactics, like Mary Dell herself, weren’t what anyone would call subtle, sometimes subtlety is overrated. Sometimes, the most caring thing you can do for a friend is give her a good solid kick in the behind.

I turned to Margot. “Margot, remember that part in the Bible where they lowered the paralyzed man through the roof so he could be healed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what Jesus said to him?”

“Sure. He said, ‘Pick up your bed and walk.’”

Charlie was right. For some people, a nice quiet talk was a waste of breath. My dad had a word for those folks on whom subtlety and suggestion were wasted. He called them “two-by-four people”—as in, some people don’t get the message unless you hit ’em with a two-by-four. It sounded like the paralyzed man was a two-by-four guy. I
knew
Abigail was.

My mind made up, I started up the wide staircase that led to Abigail’s room, glancing over my shoulder at Franklin and Margot. “Well, it sounds to me like Abigail needs to do the same—pick up her bed and walk. Come on, you two. Enough pussyfooting. I think it’s about time we had ourselves an Intervention.”

Franklin cleared his throat before tapping on the locked door. “Abbie, Evelyn and Margot are here to see you.”

“Tell them I’m not home,” Abigail called out hoarsely. “I don’t want to see them right now. I don’t want to see anyone.”

Franklin turned around and shrugged. “See what I mean? I think she’s been in there crying. You know Abigail. She never cries.”

I patted Franklin on the shoulder. Poor man. In spite of the fact that Abigail had been treating him abominably for the last few weeks, he wasn’t mad at her. No matter how badly she behaved, he was too in love with her to be mad at her.

Well, that made one of us.

Don’t get me wrong—I love Abigail, too. She’s my dear, cherished, and forever friend, and no matter how badly she behaves, she always will be. But loving isn’t the same as being in love. As Mary Dell had taught me, sometimes being a loving friend involves exchanging kid gloves for boxing gloves. Given Abigail’s recent antics, it was an exchange I was more than ready to make. Bring it on!

But I couldn’t confront Abigail through a locked door. How to get her to open it? I looked at Margot, hoping she might have a suggestion, but one glance at the lattice of worry lines tracing her forehead told me she had no more idea than I did.

Margot is good at any number of things. She can create and execute a marketing plan with one hand behind her back and recite whole passages of the Bible by heart—simultaneously. But conflict and controversy are not her strong suits. Nor mine. What was I going to do?

In this situation, what would Mary Dell do?

My eye fell on an antique bowfront hall chest that stood outside Abigail’s bedroom door. It held a collection of very beautiful and, I was sure, very expensive porcelain and crystal collectibles, as well as a florist’s vase filled with a stunning spray of white peonies.

“Where did these come from?” I asked Franklin.

“Byron. The wedding planner. They were just delivered.”

“Very nice,” I said, then pulled the flowers out of the vase and handed the dripping stalks to Margot. “Hold these.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve got an idea,” I answered as I poured the leftover water from the flowers into an exquisite crystal vase that was sitting on the table. “Trust me.”

I pounded on the bedroom door. “Abigail, it’s Evelyn. I want to talk to you. I know you’re in there, so there’s no use pretending. Open up.”

“No!” came the emphatic answer from the other side of the door. “I already told Franklin, I don’t want to talk to you or to anyone. Go home, Evelyn, and leave me in peace.”

“Abigail, open this door. I mean it!”

No answer. All right, then, she’d had her chance. I picked up the crystal vase and lifted it high so I could look at the maker’s mark on the underside.

“Abigail, I am holding a vase in my hand, a very beautiful one. It’s crystal. Waterford. Looks like an antique, probably some kind of family heirloom.”

On the other side of the door I heard the sound of chair legs scraping against wooden floorboards and of curious feet walking toward the door. She was taking the bait.

“Abbie,” I said in a loud, clear voice, “if you don’t open this door and talk to me, I am going to drop this fabulous family heirloom on the floor and watch it shatter into a million pieces.”

A gasp from the other side of the door, the previously distant voice now very close. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, yes, I would,” I said gleefully. “And I will. In about five seconds. And after that, if you still won’t come out, I’m going to start in on the rest of your bric-a-brac.”

I turned to Franklin, tilted my head toward a porcelain teapot, gold rimmed and painted with delicate sprays of pink and white roses, and whispered, “Franklin? What is this?”

“Limoges.”

“After the crystal, I’m going for the Limoges teapot, and then the cups and saucers, one by one, until you open that door.”

“Great-great-grandmother Wynne’s Limoges tea service!” Abigail cried. “Are you mad? Do you have any idea what that’s worth? You wouldn’t dare. You’re bluffing, Evelyn. I know you are. Now stop this nonsense at once and leave me alone!”

I looked at Franklin and Margot and grinned. I was enjoying this, probably a little too much.

“All right, Abigail. I warned you. One, two, three, four…” I put the Waterford vase down on the chest and picked up the plain glass florist’s vase that Byron’s flowers had come in.

“Five!” I shouted and let the vase go. It fell to the floor with a wonderfully satisfying crash and shattered into a hundred pieces.

“My Waterford vase!” Abigail screamed from the other side of the door. “Evelyn! Have you lost your mind? Franklin, are you there? Do something! Stop her!”

Franklin, who was now smiling broadly, said, “I tried to, Abbie, but she’s completely out of control. Nothing I can do. I think you’d better come out.”

“I will not!” Abigail declared stubbornly. “I just want to be left alone. Go away! All of you go away and leave me be!”

“All right, Abigail. If that’s the way you’re going to be, you leave me no choice. Grandmother Wynne’s teapot is next.”

Abigail let out a little cry of disbelief. “Evelyn! Evelyn, you wouldn’t. Please. Not my Limoges.”

“Fair warning, Abigail. One, two, three, four, five! And liftoff!”

The door flew open. Abigail lunged for me. “Evelyn! Don’t!”

Abigail stopped short, looked at me, standing among the shards of glass with my arms crossed over my chest, to the hall chest where her Waterford and Limoges stood entirely intact, and finally to Margot, who was holding the still-dripping bouquet of peonies with a slightly guilty look on her face.

Abigail’s hair was disheveled and her blouse was untucked from the waistband of her wool slacks. Her eyes were wide with an uncharacteristically untidy smear of mascara below her lashes and an expression of panic that turned to anger as she took in the scene and realized she’d been duped.

“You! You!” she cried and held her breath, her face flushing red and furious as she racked her brain in search of a word bad enough to describe us. Being very intelligent and well read, she didn’t take long to think of several.

“Traitors! Deceivers! Philistines!”

She spun to the left and pointed an accusatory finger at Franklin. “And you! You’re the worst of all! My own husband! And you helped them! How could you? Collaborator!”

Abigail’s temper has a short fuse, and it doesn’t take much to set it off. I’ve seen Abigail angry on any number of occasions. I’m not sure why—maybe it was her tousled hair, or the way the wrinkled shirttail stuck out from under her cashmere sweater, or the fact that she was only wearing one earring, or maybe I was giddy from the emotional stress of this day—but suddenly this whole situation seemed very funny.