Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing (10 page)

Hadley ran his wide fingers over her lips and then wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m leaving.”

She may not have believed him, but certainly took his distress call seriously.

“What? Because of the album?” she asked. “Or… I know, the class! Honey, I signed up for a free-form stitching class today in Glendale. It’s in this little record shop where I bought the album. They have lots of albums you would like. I’ll take you there. We’ll take the kids. Everything will go back to normal, I promise.”

“Mary Theresa, we can’t pretend anymore. We’re settling for the bare minimum here. I love you, and I love our kids, but I don’t know if I love
us
. I need to get away and feel like a man again instead of a single dad with a controlling roommate. I can’t do anything without your permission, and it’s driving me nuts. For once since our wedding day, I’m making my own decision. I’m moving to Palm Springs with my brother. He got me a temporary web-design job at the hotel he manages.”

Mary Theresa imagined her husband chained to a desk in a tiny cubicle, banging away on the keyboard for twelve hours a day. How could he choose that over his wife and kids?

“I’ll be back in February, and of course I’ll stay in touch. I’ll Skype the kids every night.”

Desperation and disbelief crept way up her skin, and before she knew it, they invaded her every cell. “You’re really leaving?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll send you money,” he said as he ran his hands through his short black hair. “I put the debit and credit cards on your dresser.”

“How am I supposed to run everything while you’re in Palm Springs?”

“The same way I did while you worked,” he said curtly. “All I want is for you to get to know your kids, and for you to know who you are as a parent.”

Mary Theresa swallowed her pride. She closed her eyes and tried to rationalize what had just happened. He couldn’t walk out. This was the most unreasonable time.

“Hadley, I was demoted at work today to part-time telecommuting. You can’t do this to me now. It’s too much for me to handle.”

He placed a hand on each of her forearms. “You are a strong, intelligent woman. You’ll be fine. You may even discover qualities you never knew existed.”

She flicked his hands off, offended. “What do I tell our families? My boss? The neighbors? Oh my God—the kids?”

“I’m sure you’ll make a plan, Mary Theresa. You always do.” He left the room and walked to the stairs, where three packed suitcases waited for him. Mary Theresa put her hand over the handles of the largest one.

“Don’t you at least want the John Coltrane album? I went through a lot to get it for you. To make up for the one I broke.”

“Keep it as a gift to yourself,” he said. “I have it on CD.”

T
o Arizona people, the winter chill consisted of anything sixty-five degrees or lower. But to Joseph and Rosa, lifelong East Coast natives, it may as well have been spring. She watched as the old man grunted in frustration, sitting in front of the dashboard, searching the door panels for the button to lower the car window. He finally put the dang-blasted thing in park to inspect every crevice of the car’s interior.

“What the heck kind of vehicle is this?” he grumbled. “How are the windows supposed to go down? I can’t breathe.”

Rosa giggled and let go of the purse straps that she clutched in her lap. She stretched up and pressed the switch that was an inch from Joseph’s nose.

“It’s called a PT Cruiser,” she explained. “Isn’t it so cute and sporty? It’s like a little toy! Que bueno!”

Joseph slid back in his seat and gripped the steering wheel. “With all due respect, Ro, I don’t understand this one. You know I’d go to the four corners of the earth for you, but there are numerable loose ends to tie up, before… you know… and we just arrived. We haven’t even settled in, found a grocery store, or a pharmacy. Dr. Mercado called. We need to set up your treatments immediately. He’s furious. You’ve had some
crazy plans in your day, but this tops all of them. I’m worried this time. Really worried.”

Rosa raised her hand to cup his cheek. “I told you before, doll, you didn’t have to come, I planned to do this on my own. I hate to cause you distress, especially with that stubborn blood pressure of yours. But I love you for being here, I appreciate every ounce of attention. I’m unworthy. I hope you know of my undying gratitude. All I ask is that you have faith in me.”

Joseph stroked her hand, knowing it would, indeed, be the last of a string of memorable world-traveling adventures. He proceeded, like always, and pulled out of the driveway to escort his longtime friend to her destination. One of the last items on her wish list.

They drove for twenty-five minutes down the diagonal stretch of Grand Avenue through Phoenix’s arts district. Rosa didn’t speak the entire ride. Instead she stared out the side window to capture the scenery with her eyes. If Rosa had been even five years younger, she would have stopped to visit each of the galleries, art houses, and diners they passed. When they reached downtown Glendale, she covered her mouth in delight. It appeared just as quaint and cozy as the pictures she had seen online and in tourist books—lots of red and brown brick buildings, and clean sidewalks lined with poplar trees trimmed in lights for the holiday season. She hoped to see them lit at night before she returned to New York City. In the meantime, Rosa begged Joseph to please drive her around the area, and he had no choice but to oblige.

They slowly rode up and down the 120-year-old streets of Glendale Avenue, taking in the neighborhoods of historic cottages that had been updated into contemporary homes. Many were transformed into boutiques, gift shops, craft stores, New Age centers, and even a Christmas store. Dozens of passersby
strolled about the sidewalks to stop into one of the many eateries and pastry shops, while others lingered about the painted wood benches. Rosa admired the holiday decorations that had started several blocks back and traveled way farther than she could see.

She got a kick out of the fact that one could buy a six-dollar plate of jumbo shrimp at a greasy take-out called Pete’s Fish and Chips, yet a few steps away explore the displays at a high-end doll museum.

After twenty minutes of passenger-seat sightseeing, Joseph pulled into a parking spot on Fifty-eighth Avenue, let out a sigh of relief, and turned to her. “We’ve arrived. I’ll wait for you here until you’re done.”

“Joseph, I’ve survived natural disasters; my melodramatic, power-hungry family; and ghosts. This final detour is like stitching a button on a jacket: I could do it in my sleep,” Rosa lectured as she popped open a crystal-covered compact and powdered her nose.

“Fine. Remind me, am I supposed to be your husband again?” he asked.

“Yes, if you don’t mind. Now, go have fun. I’ll call you when I’m ready. I won’t be long. I just want an early peek at the classroom.”

“I’m not leaving, so get used to it,” he said. “I’ll stay in this toy of a car and comb over paperwork. I must admit, it is a satisfactory Thursday. The weather is quite accommodating. I can’t think of the last time we didn’t wear overcoats on December first.”

“Bangkok, 1990,” Rosa said, licking her fingers to smooth down the sides of her silver hair that was cropped in a graduated bob. She ran her palms down the back of her neck, regretting the last-minute cut from her Manhattan stylist before leaving for Phoenix.

Joseph shook his head. “All this so you can meet some strange girl.”

Rosa opened the door and carefully lifted her tired, swollen legs out, one by one. Before she slammed it, she bent down, ever so slightly. “She’s not just
some strange girl
—her name is Scarlet Santana, and I think she might be the one.”

Buttoning up her camelhair sweater, Rosa made her way up the busy sidewalk. Her veiny hand wobbled as she gripped the large metal handle of Vega’s Vicious Vinyl and pulled.

The place reminded her of a bohemian gift shop in the East Village, except double the size. She was just about to peek outside and give an “OK, it’s all good!” sign to Joseph, when she heard, “Can I help you?”

The tall young man who spoke was the spitting image of Rosa’s childhood heartthrob, Montgomery Clift—a Latino version of him anyway. With facial hair. The thick head of charcoal hair, bushy brows, a strong jaw, and wide eyes, topped with a casing of silent suffering—something she recognized immediately because she had one of her own.

“I’m Rosa Garcia and I’m here to take the patternless sewing class with Miss Scarlet Santana.”

“Oh, OK, great. For a second there I thought you were lost. Actually, the class starts Saturday,” he said.

She laughed. “I know, dear. I wanted to come early to get the lay of the land. You need holiday decorations in here if you don’t mind me saying.”

He glanced around the store. “I’d say you’re right. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosa. I’m Marco Vega, the owner. On behalf of Scarlet, thanks for coming. Do you prefer Rosa or Ms. Garcia?”

“Rosa, thank you,” she said as she began to wander about. “Where is your Latin section? I’m looking for a recording by
a group called Mambo Estrella, released in the late fifties. Ever heard of it?”

“Ah, a mambo fan,” Marco said. He rubbed his chin as if to summon the answer, then headed to a wall of bright purple shelves. “I have a pretty big selection from that era. But I don’t think I’ve heard of that particular group.”

Rosa made an indecipherable comment under her breath and nudged her elbow, as if to move someone out of her way. She then excitedly flipped through the records one by one. “I’d say you have the best collection I’ve seen.” She put one hand on her hip, rested the other against the display case, and checked Marco out from top to bottom. “I bet you’d look dapper in a suit, young man. Do you dance?”

“Ha, not quite. My brother was a dancer,” he said. “My job is to give people the tools to dance.”

Rosa leaned forward and squinted at a blonde-wood shelf high on the back wall. She opened her purse and took out a chunky pair of black circular specs and put them on. Upon the shelf was a small photo in an acrylic frame of a teenager and, next to it, a stick of burning incense. Strawberry. She blinked softly and turned her head back to Marco. “Is that your brother up there?”

Marco cleared his throat and clapped his hands once. “Let me take you to the sewing room. I’m more than happy to give you a sneak peek. But I have to warn you—it’s nothing fancy. Scarlet’s original plan fell through, so I’m helping her make do. Come on, this way.”

“I’m sure it is lovely. Yes, I’m excited to see it and get started,” she said. “You have no idea what I’ve been through to get here.”

Friday, December 2, 11:30 p.m.

Little Victories

Good tidings, my cupcakes—Merry Christmas!

Another Turkey Day down for the records! We are now up to our earrings in mistletoe and menorahs. I hope all of you are embracing the word “merry” by spending time with friends, cranking up the holiday classics, and sipping on peppermint mochas.

Tonight’s lettered lecture is to help purify your spirit in order to start fresh for the New Year. I think it is doggone silly that people wait until January 1st to adjust the volume on their optimism. Now is the time to clear out the clutter, scrub the slate clean, and sweep up the icky cobwebs from high corners. Not just in your sitting room, but in your attitude.

At the start of the year, our minds and spirits are powerful and untouchable. But as the pages are torn off the calendar, the grumpity-grumps wear us down. Sometimes it is our boss, a coworker, or even our own family members who freak out when they see us happy. They chant us
down, question our motives, or find fault in our actions. They distract us from noticing the nifty nuggets all around. By December, our psyches are tattered and frayed. I’m speaking from personal experience. I know what I want, but I feel like there are hurdles every inch of my way. Yes, with effort, practice, a good attitude, and a bit of visualization, I clear 95% of them. But why is it that stinky 5% messes with my mind?