The Fortune Quilt (24 page)

I walk into my room. Five didn’t bother making the bed, big surprise, so I do, pulling the sheets and bedspread up tight, then letting the quilt flow over everything. I am suddenly so touched and humbled that Brandy would give this to me. I suddenly have an understanding of how much time and energy and material and heart goes into each one of these things. She made it twelve years ago, and saved it for me, and gave it to me without asking for anything. She does it because it’s what she’s supposed to be doing, and she knows what she’s supposed to be doing. It’s amazing and humbling. For a moment, I get a glimpse of what it must be like to have real faith, to trust that what’s meant to be will come, and what’s not won’t.

“Wow,” I whisper to myself. Then I get ready for bed, crawl under my quilt, and fall into a dark and restful sleep.

***

“Hi. My name’s Carly. I’m an idiot. Can I come in?”

Will is looking at me through his screen door. He’s wearing flannel lounge pants and a white t-shirt that says “Visualize World Peas” with a bunch of little earths lined up in a pea pod. He has one eye open and his hair is going everywhere, and he’s absolutely adorable.

“What time is it?”

“Eight thirty.” I hold up the drink carrier and white bakery bag in my hand. “I come bearing gifts.”

He smiles and steps back, holding the screen door open with one hand and running the other through his hair. I move into the cabin and set the coffee and doughnuts on his table, then turn to face him.

“Will, I’m so sorry. I know I acted like—”

He holds up his hand to stop me. “Carly, don’t worry about—”

“No,” I say firmly. “I practiced this speech. You’re going to hear it.”

A smile creeps over his face and he raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You practiced? For me?”

“I practiced,” I say, pulling out a chair and motioning for him to sit. “For you.”

Will laughs and sits down. I open up the bakery bag and hold it out to him.

“Double-chocolate doughnut?”

He shakes his head. “Not right now. What’s for coffee, though?”

I give him a cup. “Peppermint mocha. Allegra went easy on me today.”

I pull one out of the carrier and hand it to him, dramatically clearing my throat as I stand before him. He laughs and sips the coffee.

“Okay. Where was I? I’m an idiot, I’m so sorry… Oh. Yes.” I snap my fingers, stand before him, back straight. “I acted like a big tool. I have this history of closing myself off when things get real and emotional and I know it’s wrong.” I soften my stance a little, and I can feel my smile fading. “I don’t want to do that with you. I want to not screw this up.”

I can’t believe it. I actually said sincerely what I meant. Yay me.

He puts his coffee down and reaches out to take my hands in his. “You didn’t screw up. You weren’t an idiot. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“So, you weren’t out last night getting drunk and finding an emotionally healthy woman?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. Which, I guess, is fair. I shrug and look at my hands. “I looked for you twice. You weren’t here.”

He laughs. “Why didn’t you just call my cell phone?”

“Pffft,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. “Because then I would look pathetic and insecure and if you were out with an emotionally healthy woman, you’d have her to compare me to and I would inevitably come up short.” I pause. “That made a lot more sense in my head last night.”

He tucks a finger under my chin and makes me look at him. “A slot opened up at the darkroom I use in Douglas. The guy there called me, so I went over and got some proof sheets done. I didn’t get home until two.”

“Oh, man,” I say. “I’m sorry, and here I am waking you up at the crack of dawn…”

“It’s okay,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “I like you waking me up at the crack of dawn.”

I raise one eyebrow at him, and he laughs.

“So, are we okay?” I ask.

“I think so,” he says, looking up at me with a mystified expression on his face. “Are we? I mean, are you? That was a lot to deal with. And seeing your parents… how was that?”

“It was great,” I say, forcing a wide grin. “It was a big party. Loads of fun.”

“You know, we can talk about it seriously if you want to,” he says.

“Can we not talk about it seriously if I don’t want to?”

Will shrugs and smiles at me. “Sure. I just want you to know that if you need a shoulder or anything…”

“Thank you.” I lean down to kiss him lightly on the lips, but he reaches for me and pulls me onto his lap. He tastes like peppermint mocha and his touch blazes through me and we’re going from zero to sixty so fast it’s making me a little dizzy.

But I like it.

After a moment he pulls back, looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

“If you need us to slow down…” he begins, but I shake my head.

“I don’t. Do you?”

He closes his eyes and laughs. “I don’t know.” He opens his eyes and touches my hair. “It’s not too soon?”

“Well,” I say. “We’re both adults. We’re both healthy. Right?”

He laughs. “Yeah.”

“And I have condoms in my purse, so…”

“You do?” He grins. “I thought only men did that, carried condoms around.”

I quirk a brow at him. “I like to be prepared.”

“I like you prepared,” he says, and pulls me in for another kiss. A few minutes later, he lifts me up and carries me to the bed - which, luckily, is only a few feet away - and we proceed to have a lovely morning. We laugh and tease and play and when we get down to it, everything works pretty darn well for a first time.

The second time? It works
 
great
.

Afterward, we lie in bed together with his head on my stomach, and my heart is so full of him that there’s no room for the worries I usually have at this point in my relationships about the myriad ways in which it can all go horribly, horribly wrong. All I can see right now is him, and all I can feel is how happy he has made me, and this is about as close to a perfect moment as I’ve ever had in my life.

Yay me.

Ten

“Mr. Trimble called for a delivery,” Janesse says as I walk into the store. The bells that hang from the front door aren’t even done jingling when she stuffs a box of charcoals in my hand. “104 Pinewood Trail.”

I glance down at the box. There’s a sticky note tacked to it with the address, the total price with tax (as if I didn’t have it memorized) and a smiley face that reads, “Good luck.” When I look back up, Janesse is still smiling.

I hand it back to her. “Funny joke.”

She gives me a massive grin. “No joke, babyface. He hurt his ankle or something, and for a while, we’re going to need to deliver.”

“Oh,” I say, laughing, “and I suppose he actually told you that?”

“He has a surprisingly nice phone manner. I think it must just be eye contact that throws him off.”

My heart seizes as it begins to dawn on me that this might not be a joke. She really wants me to go Mr. Trimble’s house. She can’t be serious.

She looks at me and raises one expectant eyebrow.

She’s serious.

“No way,” I say. “It’s your store. You deliver it.”

“All the more reason why I don’t do the deliveries,” she says, turning her back on me and heading back to the counter. “Wouldn’t be good for my image.”

I follow her and put the box down on the counter. “I don’t get paid enough to deliver.”

“I’ll give you an extra ten bucks,” she says. “Now, you get paid enough.”

I stare at her, nibble at my lip. “He creeps me out.”

“We don’t discriminate against creepy.” She raises her eyes. “You don’t expect me to discriminate against creepy, do you? How would that look, me, a black woman who used to have a dick, if I start discriminating against anyone, even the creepy ones?”

“
Janeeeeessssse
,” I whine, nudging the box across the counter at her. “He’s gonna hack me into pieces and bury me in the yard. I know you; if he hacks me into pieces, you’re gonna feel really bad.”

She nudges the box back. “He’s harmless. Rude, weird and a little crazy, but harmless. He’s not going to hack you into pieces. Just bring him the box, take the money, he’ll tell you to fuck off, and you come back. Stop being such a baby.”

I stare down at the box, then raise my eyes to hers.

“I’ll rock-paper-scissors you for it. Best two out of three?”

She stares back, saying nothing. For a long moment we lock eyes across the counter. Then, finally, I snatch the box off the counter and head toward the door.

“This was starting out to be such a good day,” I mutter as I push out of the shop, bells jingling behind me.

***

Pinewood Trail is on the very edge of Bilby, even more the middle of nowhere than regular Bilby, and 104 is at the end of a long, winding driveway. When I finally get to the house, it looks like exactly the kind of place a Mr. Trimble-type would live. It’s small, vaguely shack-like, and isolated. I step out of my car and walk the dusty trail to the house, which has beige aluminum siding and a plain, black-shingled peak roof and is not really scary so much as… unsettling. As I make my way to the door, I find myself thinking about the Unabomber. It’s
that
 
kind of unsettling.

When I step up on the tiny wooden porch, I see that the door is slightly ajar, which gives me pause for knocking, because I don’t want to inadvertently open it more. I search the doorframe for a bell, but of course, there is none. Finally, I tuck the box of charcoals under my arm, hold onto the door knob and knock lightly so it doesn’t open any more. I wait. Nothing. I knock again. I hear some sounds of shuffling coming from inside, and then Mr. Trimble’s voice yell, “Come on in already!”

Well, it isn’t his standard refrain, but I’m still convinced Janesse really isn’t paying me enough. I nudge the door open a bit and poke my head in.

“Mr. Trimble? It’s Carly? From Art’s Desire? With the charcoals?”

My eyes adjust to the limited light. Mr. Trimble’s little hovel is about as spartan as anything I’ve ever seen. The main room consists of a kitchenette in one corner and an easy chair in the other. That’s it. Mr. Trimble isn’t in the main room, which, based on the very tininess of the hovel, means he’s behind one of the two doors in the east wall which I assume lead to a bedroom and a bathroom. I’m constructing my new salary demands to Janesse in my head when I notice the west wall. Unable to stop myself, I step inside, moving closer to the wall. It was white, originally, but now it’s covered with a delicately-shaded charcoal drawing.

It’s the main drag of Bilby, as viewed through the front window of Art’s Desire. There’s the café, and The Town Bookie, and the post office, all drawn faithfully down to the crack in the sidewalk next to the stop sign. Allegra is serving coffee to a skeptical patron, who sniffs it with a suspicious look on his face. Sebastian and James are walking arm in arm, gossiping. Gladys is yelling at Mack. Some townspeople I recognize but whose names I don’t recall are walking in front of the Art’s Desire window, parts of their bodies obscured by the hand-painted Art’s Desire logo, reading backwards the way it does when you’re inside the store.

Outside of the front door of Art’s Desire is Janesse, who appears to be showing a little boy how to dance. Brandy watches her, and Janesse doesn’t notice. I am standing next to Brandy, my head resting on her shoulder as I comfort her. Down on the corner, Will stands at an easel, watching me slyly while he paints.

Mr. Trimble is nowhere in the picture. And yet, he’s everywhere. This is how he sees us, and he sees so much. He sees Janesse’s incredible spirit. He sees Brandy’s heartbreak. He sees Allegra forcing weird coffee concoctions on people, and he sees Will and me.

I step back to take it all in. The drawing is sad and evocative, yet oddly hopeful and loving. It says so much about this man, and yet I’m besieged by a thousand questions. How does this happen? How does a man whose entire social vocabulary consists of “fuck” and “off” draw something so sensitive and insightful? And why on the wall? Where did he come from? How did he end up here? What happened to him to bring him to this place in life? Was he ever young, and hopeful, and imagining great things for his future? Who is he, and what does this town mean to him?

This would make a great documentary
, is the thought trailing in my head as I hear a door open behind me. Mr. Trimble is on crutches, and his left ankle is in a cast.

“Mr. Trimble,” I say. “Oh, my God. What happened?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. I walk over to him and he stuffs the envelope in my hand. I can hear the change rattling inside, and I know without checking that it’s exactly four dollars and eighty-six cents. I look at him, those beady eyes under the tremendous, bushy gray eyebrows and see him for the first time as a person. A fascinating, full, complete, really unusual person.

And I want to tell his story. I want to get a camera crew and a laptop with editing equipment. I want to talk to the guy at the independent station and get that job. I am filled with excitement and purpose, and I can’t help but smile.