Apart at the Seams (13 page)

T
he semester was over! I had turned in the last paper for my English class and taken my final exam! After three years of work, I was officially a sophomore. If that wasn't a reason to blow my diet, I didn't know what was.

I fixed myself a celebratory bowl of maple walnut ice cream and garnished it with three Oreo cookies, then carried it into the living room and settled down on the sofa. The kids were asleep, and my classes were done! I booted up my computer and did something I hadn't done in months—wasted time.

After watching an old episode of
The Office
on Hulu, I popped over to OneKingsLane.com and drooled over a pair of vintage botanical prints mounted in ornate gold-leaf frames that would have looked fabulous hanging over my bed, as well as a gold, cream, and taupe rug, hand-woven in Turkey, that would have gone perfectly with my tag-sale-find sofa, and a gorgeous cream-colored sofa with button-back upholstery and curved arms (totally impractical for a woman with two kids) that made me want to haul my current couch to the dump.

The prices were excellent, 40 to 50 percent off retail. Even so, they were way out of my budget, so I logged in to my long-neglected Pinterest account and pinned them to my “My Style” board. The chances of my ever owning furniture that fancy fell somewhere between slim and none, but at least in digital terms, the prints, the rug, and the sofa now belonged to me.

Next, I did a little sleuthing around the boards of other users and found several pairs of boots that I repinned to my “Releasing My Inner Cowgirl” board—one bloodred, one bright red, and one turquoise with silver stitching. Gorgeous. I've never owned a pair of cowboy boots, ridden a horse, or visited a ranch, but for some reason, the whole cowgirl thing is hugely appealing to me.

Maybe I should give horseback riding a try,
I thought.
Would that qualify as my sabbatical activity?

On the other hand, no. I liked the
idea
of being a cowgirl, but if I ever tried to actually ride an actual horse, I was pretty sure I'd have a panic attack or break my leg, probably both. Horses are beautiful, but they're also big and unpredictable.

Besides, what had popped into my mind when Evelyn brought up the question of things we'd been longing to do but had lacked the time or courage to try had nothing to do with horseflesh. But what I had in mind was just as unpredictable and, as far as I was concerned, even scarier.

How had I let them talk me into this whole sabbatical thing anyway? Peer pressure—that was how.

Everybody was already in, even Abigail, who is normally the first in the group to throw cold water on just about any idea that would force her out of her comfort zone. Then they just stood there, staring at me. So I raised my hand. What else could I do?

I could have told them that Gayla Oliver was crazy; that's what.

I could have told them she goes outside in her pajamas in the rain and breaks dishes and digs holes in the dirt and cusses so loud it turns the air blue and wakes the neighbors and that the whole sabbatical idea was just as crazy as she was—maybe more.

But that would have been mean.

And when she was standing there in the quilt shop, she didn't
seem
crazy. A little bit sad maybe, but otherwise perfectly normal and nice.

I didn't doubt that she'd done all the things Dan had said she'd done; I'm sure he wouldn't make something like that up. He was nice, too—very nice. He'd come to pick Drew up after babysitting so I wouldn't have to leave Bobby alone,
and
he'd volunteered to take Bobby bowling. A guy like that wouldn't make up stories about his next-door neighbor.

And just because Gayla Oliver was acting crazy didn't mean she was crazy, only that something, or someone, was making her crazy. Probably the latter. Probably her husband.

Well, we'd all been there at one time or another, hadn't we? Some of us had made multiple trips round the bend, driven to distraction by some man.

Which made the fact that I was even
thinking
of doing what I was thinking of doing completely crazy! Just as crazy as throwing dishes at rocks in the middle of the night. Crazier.

And yet . . . I was thinking about it. Or at least nibbling around the edges of it. I had been for days, even before Tessa brought up the sabbatical idea, ever since that e-mail had shown up in my in-box a few days ago, the one from “It's Only Coffee.”

I'd deleted it just as soon as I figured out what it was about, before I even finished reading it. Then ten minutes later, I got into the trash folder, opened the e-mail, read it again—all the way through this time—and moved it to my miscellaneous folder, where I wouldn't have to see it.

But I knew it was there. And I thought about it. A lot. More than I cared to admit.

And then Tessa dragged Gayla into the shop with her sad eyes and her crazy idea about taking a sabbatical, and next thing you know, they were all staring at me and I raised my hand and now I was in too!

What had I been thinking?

Well, at least if it turned out to be a disaster, as it absolutely and definitely would, I didn't have to tell them about it—not in detail. All I'd have to do is say that I had done it—given the thing I'd been too scared to try a shot—that it had been just as awful as I'd predicted, a complete train wreck, and that would be that. I would have fulfilled my promise to the group and could move on and deal with the many other train wrecks in my life.

End of story.

I put my hand against my forehead, rubbed my face, and pinched the bridge of my nose. I didn't want to do this. I really, really didn't. But I knew I was going to, so I might as well get it over with. No time like the present, right? I logged in to my e-mail account and then clicked on my miscellaneous folder.

There it was. Right where I left it.

 

 

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I took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly to a count of five, employing the same breathing technique that had helped me endure the births of two children without anesthesia. Then I moved my cursor over the registration link and let it hover there. I took in and blew out another breath, closed my eyes, and clicked.

I was in.

S
omeday, somebody is going to invent a tape dispenser that cuts the tape cleanly without twisting it into a sticky knotted mess, and when they do, I will buy them a medal and make them a quilt to go with it.

Cursing under my breath, I grabbed a pair of cheap scissors, cut the twisted tape, tore it off the box, and tried again, with better results. I was just putting the last label on the last box when Vesta Richardson, the new intern, cried out, “Oh, no!” I spun around and saw her standing at the table with a rotary cutter in her hand and tears in her eyes.

“What's the matter? Did you cut yourself?”

Rotary cutter blades are as sharp as any knife and potentially just as dangerous. We put fresh blades in all the cutters every morning. It makes slicing through stacks of fabric quicker and cleaner, but it can do the same thing to human flesh. If you don't handle them properly, a rotary cutter can do damage serious enough to require stitches. The first thing I'd done that morning was give Vesta a lesson on how to use the cutters safely, then stood and watched her work for half an hour until I was convinced she had it under control. Even so, accidents happen, especially with new employees.

I grabbed the first aid kit from a drawer and rushed to Vesta's side. “Which hand? Let me see.”

She shook her head quickly from side to side and took in a big shuddering breath. “Not my hand,” she said in a choked voice. “It's the fabric. I cut the strip two inches instead of two and a half.”

“Is that what you're crying about?” She nodded, and I put an arm around her shoulder. “Don't worry about it. I do it all the time. Everybody does.”

“I'm so sorry. I'll pay for the wasted fabric.”

“Don't be silly. If we made every employee pay for miscut fabric, nobody would ever bring home a paycheck. Seriously, don't worry about it. Just toss it into the scrap basket. We'll find a way to use it later.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, blinking her eyes and sniffling.

“I'm sure. It's just about time to close up. Can you do me a favor and take these last boxes down to the post office? Then you can go home.”

“I can stay and help you clean up first,” Vesta said earnestly. “I don't mind.”

“That's all right. I don't want to miss the last postal pickup.”

Vesta gathered up her things and loaded the boxes and padded envelopes containing the afternoon's orders into the plastic mailing bin, while I started stacking up bolts of fabric and putting away the rulers.

“See you next week, Ivy.”

“Thanks for your help,” I said, looking up with a smile. “You had a great first day, Vesta. Really great. You learn fast.”

Her tears of a moment before were replaced by a smile. “Thanks!”

She descended the stairs from the workroom. I could hear the murmur of voices as Virginia and Margot wished her good night and the jingle of bells as Vesta opened the front door of the shop. I walked over to the tall window and watched as she crossed the courtyard to the alley, saying a little prayer that God would give her protection and the courage to stick with the program.

I had a good feeling about Vesta. She was bright but still so fragile. Her reaction to cutting that strip the wrong size was a perfect example. She was terrified of making even a tiny mistake, probably because her abuser had punished her severely for the tiniest of infractions or errors. That was something we'd have to work on. I'd have to help her understand that making mistakes is just part of being human. I needed to teach that girl how to quilt. Nothing on earth will help you bring that lesson home more quickly.

It was nearly four-thirty, time to clean up for quilt circle. Evelyn, Virginia, and Margot would come up right after they closed the shop at five, which, in theory, was when our meetings began, but our true starting times were more fluid than that. People would wander in anytime between five and five-thirty. Abigail was nearly always late. And Gayla? I wasn't sure she'd show up at all. She'd looked a little bit like a deer in the headlights when Evelyn invited her to join in.

I was glad to have a little time alone before the others came trooping up the stairs. The workroom belongs to Evelyn, of course, just like the rest of the shop, but sometimes it feels like my own private sanctuary. I couldn't ask for a prettier space to spend my days: a big open space with beautiful old wooden floors, exposed brick walls, and a set of tall windows that flood the room with light even in winter. And much of the time, I have it all to myself, which suits me fine. It's not that I'm antisocial or anything; I'm just not quite as outgoing as some of my friends. I'm not sure I'm as welcoming as they are either.

If the truth were known, I admitted to myself as I grabbed a broom and started sweeping up stray threads from the floor, I'd just as soon Gayla Oliver didn't join the circle. It wasn't that I had anything against her; I hardly knew her. That was the point. I felt comfortable with our group the way it was. I could talk to them about anything without worrying that they'd judge or misunderstand me. It wouldn't be the same if we brought in a new person. I wouldn't feel like I could talk as freely. And, at that moment, I really did have a lot on my mind.

As the day of Hodge's release drew closer, the kids were acting up more and more. They were bickering with each other and talking back to me. Bethany looked daggers through me, furious that I wasn't doing something to stop it. If I could have, I would have, believe me! But as Arnie and everyone else kept reiterating, my best hope was to cooperate with the process and with Sheila Fenton, hoping she'd take a liking to me and lean a little in my direction. That's what I was trying to do.

It didn't seem to be working. When I saw her a couple of days ago, she suggested, without coming right out and saying so, that my attitude toward Hodge might be influencing Bethany, that I was undermining her willingness to reunite with her father.

So there you have it: Bethany was mad at me for being too cooperative and Sheila Fenton was accusing me of not being cooperative enough.

On top of that, the day before, Donna Walsh had called to inform me of some new directions at New Beginnings. She said it was going to become a stand-alone charity, continuing to partner with the Stanton Center but with separate funding and a separate board. That would allow Donna and her staff to focus strictly on providing emergency counseling and shelter for families in a domestic violence crisis and permit New Beginnings to concentrate on helping the female heads of those families to move forward once they were out of immediate danger.

“It's been in the works for some time,” Donna told me. “I didn't want to say anything until it was signed and sealed because I didn't want to get your hopes up.”

“My hopes?”

“New Beginnings needs an executive director. I think you should apply for the position.”

I didn't laugh at Donna's suggestion, but it was hard not to. Why would she think they'd hire someone with only four years' work experience and no degree for a job like that?

“Because you've been part of the program from day one,” she said. “You know the clients and understand their needs. I'm not saying you're a shoo-in for the job, Ivy, but I'm sure they'd at least give you an interview. They'll have to after they read the wonderful letter of recommendation I'm going to write for you.”

“You'd do that for me?”

“Of course. I talked to Abigail, and she's willing to write you a recommendation too. So what do you say? Are you going to apply?”

Was I? Honestly, I wasn't sure. If the timing had been different, if I wasn't so distracted and busy, if I'd already finished my degree or had a little more experience under my belt, then I'd have done so in a heartbeat. A directorship at New Beginnings was my dream job. Who knew when an opportunity like that might come along again? Maybe years. Maybe never.

But what was the point of putting myself through the work of writing a résumé, the agony of enduring an interview—or several interviews—and the humiliation and rejection that would follow when I learned I hadn't gotten the job, as I surely wouldn't, because the people who did the hiring felt I was inexperienced, undereducated, and completely unsuited for the job, as they certainly would? Donna meant well, but thinking that someone like me could get a job like that wasn't just a long shot; it was a no shot.

As I reached this conclusion, it occurred to me that I'd be better off
not
discussing any of this with the quilt circle. They were the best friends anyone could hope to have, but they were also natural-born cheerleaders, optimistic no matter the odds. If I told them about the job, they'd start shaking their pom-poms and doing what they do. Virginia would say something about missing 100 percent of the shots you don't take, Tessa would say that I was letting my fear get the best of me, Abigail would start making calls and pulling strings, Margot would offer to help write my résumé, Tessa would give me an encouraging wink and a brownie, Evelyn would put her arm around me and tell me she believed in me and always had, and next thing you knew, they'd suck me into the fantasy, getting my hopes up only to have them smashed on the rocks of reality.

Right. Better
not
to discuss this with the circle, I concluded as the sound of footsteps on the stairs signaled the arrival of the others. After all, I was already registered to go on five speed dates. Surely that was enough embarrassment and humiliation for one summer.

 

“Well, we don't really have any,” Evelyn explained when Gayla, who had shown up in spite of my predictions to the contrary, asked about our rules and procedures.

“The only real agenda is making a little space in the week to spend time with people we enjoy, doing something we like. We decided from the very first—no rules, no leader, no officers, no agendas, and
no
obligations.”

“Except for me,” Madelyn said as she opened a plastic storage container and started arranging brownies on a plate. “I am obligated to bake and bring the brownies every week. You should hear the whining if I forget.”

“The others take turns bringing wine and other snacks,” Virginia said, “but I always bring sparkling cider.” Virginia pried the cap off a green glass bottle and filled her glass before putting one of Madelyn's brownies onto a paper plate.

“I don't touch alcohol. Except for that little slug of bourbon Madelyn adds to the brownies. The alcohol evaporates while they're baking. Everybody knows that.”

“Okay,” Gayla said after taking a sip of the wine that Tessa had just poured into her glass. “So the only real rule is that there aren't any rules. But don't you make quilts together? As a group?”

Evelyn bent over to plug her sewing machine into an extension cord that snaked beneath the tables grouped together in the middle of the room.

“Now and then,” she said, her voice coming from under the table. “When there's a special occasion, like when we made the quilt for Margot's wedding. And sometimes we'll make charity quilts.”

She popped up from under the table, sat down, and picked up a spool of blue thread. “I came to New Bern from Texas after my divorce. I put every dime I had into the business and came this close to going bankrupt,” she said, licking her fingertips and using them to wet the end of the thread.

“Then things got really interesting. I found out I had breast cancer and ended up having a mastectomy. It was kind of ironic because I got my diagnosis just a couple of days before we were hosting a Quilt Pink event for breast cancer research. They don't have nationally organized Quilt Pink fund-raisers anymore,” Evelyn said, threading the blue cotton through the eye of her needle, “but I still organize a local event every year. We make some quilts, auction them off, and send in the proceeds.

“Last year, we raised over six thousand dollars. Of course, part of that is because Abigail always runs up the bids. She refuses to let any of the quilts we make go for less than eight hundred dollars. Sometimes the people who are bidding against her find that irritating, but, oh, well,” Evelyn said with a wink. “It's all for a good cause.”

“We've also made quilts to raise money for the Stanton Center,” I said as I unpacked my sewing notions and the collection of memorabilia Evelyn had asked us to bring. “But aside from that, it's unusual for us to be working on a group project.

“Speaking of which,” I said, holding up one of Bethany's old hair ribbons, “what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Glad you asked,” Evelyn said, and swiveled her sewing chair so she could see everyone. “When we were talking about our sabbatical project and how we're so busy living life that we don't actually get a chance to enjoy it, I started thinking that the same thing is true even when it comes to quilting. Right now, the biggest buzzwords in quilting are ‘quick' and ‘easy.' It seems like everybody who comes into the shop is looking for a pattern that fits that description; they're so focused on getting something stitched up and out the door in record time that they're not really enjoying the process.”

“I don't know if that's quite true,” Abigail said. “There's a certain satisfaction in seeing something finished. I like checking things off my to-do list.”

“So do I,” Evelyn conceded, “and there are definitely times when a quick and easy quilt is exactly what is called for. But as long as we're spending the summer trying new things, why don't we change our pace? And our tactics? This summer, instead of quilting something that's quick and easy, let's try something slow and special.”

Madelyn, who was circling the tables, offering brownies to anyone who hadn't had one yet and seconds to those who had, asked, “Such as? Not that it makes much difference to me. I never seem to finish any of my quilts,” she said with a sigh, “even the supposedly quick and easy ones. But I'm just curious as to what you had in mind.”