Authors: Marie Bostwick

Threading the Needle (16 page)

BOOK: Threading the Needle

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Margot stopped sweeping invisible crumbs off the table long enough to give me a dismissive wave. “It was fun. Let's do it again soon.”

“I'd like that.”

I stood up and started to walk around the far side of the table, intending to give Margot a hug. But I stopped short, my path impeded by the presence of a big brown shopping bag.

“What the heck?” I asked, grabbing the table edge to keep myself from tripping over the bag.

Margot peered over the far side of the table, onto the floor.

“Somebody must have left their shopping bag behind after breakfast. Wait a minute,” she said, peeking into the bag, “there are quilts in here. Old ones.”

Curious, I bent over to look and spotted an old, worn quilt with a blue and white pattern that, thanks to my newfound interest in quilting, I recognized as a double Irish chain. But I didn't need quilt classes to recognize that particular quilt.

I'd seen it a hundred timesâtwo hundred timesâbefore. I'd sat cross-legged on that patchwork, mindless of the intricate pattern and delicate stitching, laughing and whispering, eating cookies, dropping crumbs, making up stories and dreaming up dreams, a lifetime gone, back when we were girls, when Madelyn and I were best friends and the doors between us both were open.

I couldn't believe it.

Before they call, I will answer; while they are still speaking, I will hear.

Tessa

V
irginia toddled over to the shop's sunny bowfront window, where her quilting hoop stood, and gently shooed Petunia off her chair. The cranky and curiously named tomcat gave her a glare before hopping onto the display window and settling himself into a basket filled with carefully coordinated fat quarters.

“You're going to get hair all over,” she scolded. “And you know exactly what you're doing, don't you? Spoiled.”

Petunia yawned and rested his chin on his paws before closing his eyes.

“Absolutely spoiled,” Virginia mumbled before sitting down and unfolding the quilt, draping it over the hoop.

I positioned myself behind her, so as not to block the light, and waited to hear the old woman's verdict.

“Now. Let's see what we have here.” She slid her reading glasses up her nose and leaned over the quilt.

“Well, it's dirty, for a start. But that's easy enough to deal with. A good washing will make a world of difference. But it mustn't be washed by machine,” she cautioned. “You'll need to soak it in a tub, use a mild soap, and wring it out by hand. No electric dryers and no hanging it on a clothesline! That would put too much stress on the seams. It needs to be stretched out flat to dry.”

“Wash it by hand, dry it flat. Got it.”

Virginia glanced over her shoulder. “Good. But washing is the last step in the process. The seams are coming loose, here and here. See?”

I leaned closer and noted the places she pointed to.

“Now, if this were my quilt, I'd probably replace the whole binding. It's terribly worn, especially at the top. See how thin the fabric is there? Won't be too long before the batting will start showing through. Especially if she plans to actually use it on a bed.”

“I don't know what she plans to do with it.”

“Well, let's go ahead and replace the binding,” she said, turning back to the quilt. “It'd be best to use an antique fabric. Probably something from the turn of the century.”

“You think it's that old?”

“Judging by the style and type of fabric used, simple and straightforward, not a lot of flowers and folderol, I'd say so. It's no older than that. See? It has a bias binding. If it was made prior to 1900, they'd probably have used a straight binding.”

“Virginia, how did you learn so much about quilt restoration?”

She grinned and waved off the question. “Oh, if you live long enough you're bound to pick up a few things. I mostly learned out of necessity. If you live to be my age, the quilts you made as a youngster start wearing out. I had too much time and money invested in them to throw them away, so I learned how to fix them up.”

“And you think this one is worth fixing up?”

“Oh sure,” she said confidently. “There's plenty of wear left in it. Plus, it's a beautiful quilt. The hand-quilting is pretty near perfect. Couldn't do better myself.

“These days my stitches are getting a little wobbly. Arthritis,” she said, wincing as she rubbed her knobby hands together. “After I get moving they're okay, for a few hours. Then it seems like they seize up on me again. Anyway, repairing this quilt is going to take a little time. Are you sure you want to do it yourself?”

“If you'll talk me through it.”

“Happy to. I never mind passing my wisdom on to the next generation of quilters,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Plus, I like hearing myself talk.”

I laughed.

Virginia smiled as she got up from her chair and scooped Petunia up in her arms. The cat opened one eye and made a grumbling sound in his throat before snuggling close to Virginia's chest.

“Spoiled,” she murmured lovingly.

“You said something about using antique fabrics for the binding. Like a vintage fabric, a reproduction?”

“No. I'm talking about actual antique fabric that was loomed in the period. You
could
use a reproduction, but it'll never look quite right. You can buy antique fabric online from specialty vendors. The only problem is, they are pricey.”

“How pricey?”

“Well,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “that depends. For turn-of-the-century fabrics, I'd guess anywhere from thirty-five to sixty-five dollars a yard.”

Thirty-five to sixty-five dollars a yard! To restore a quilt that belonged to a woman who gave every appearance of hating me? Was this really a good idea?

Not so long ago, I could spend that kind of money without giving it a second thought, but things were different now.

Lee and I have taken a scalpel to our budget and trimmed it to the bone. We've canceled the cable and Internet, and the newspaper, raised the deductibles on our insurance, and turned the thermostat down to sixty-four.

I don't mind. There's nothing as cozy as a wool sweater and a roaring fire on a winter night. And it's not like we were going hungry or anything. About ninety percent of what appears on our table these days has been grown and harvested on our farm, and there's something very satisfying about that. When we sit down to eat, Lee grins and says, “Look at this, would you?”

But that's just about the only time he smiles now. He's constantly worried about money.

We never go out anymore; restaurant meals aren't in the budget. That's fine, but I don't understand why that has to mean the end of our Saturday “date nights.” There are all kinds of free concerts and lectures held at the library and the community center, but Lee isn't interested. He says he's too tired to go out. And to all appearances, it's true. He usually goes to bed, and to sleep, right after dinner.

We haven't made love in a month. And I miss it. I miss the passion, the playfulness, the touch of his hands. Most of all, I miss the intimacy of lying next to him afterward, the quiet talk and lingering looks. I need that. I think he does, too, now more than ever.

I tried to talk to Lee about it, but my comments were less than well received. The conversation, if you could call it that, ended with Lee storming out to the barn and staying there until I gave up on him and went to bed alone.

It doesn't make sense to me. We'd been making love, passionately and enthusiastically, for thirty-four years. We'd never had a problem doing it. So what was so wrong with talking about it? Are all men like this?

Virginia was widowed, but she'd been married, happily from all reports, for fifty-one years. Had she ever encountered this problem?

“Virginia?”

“Yes, dear?” She looked at me with bright, birdlike interest, her big blue eyes made bigger by the magnification of thick eyeglasses.

“I was wondering if you'd . . .” I started to speak. Reconsidered. Blushed. “I was wondering if you'd mind ordering the fabric for me. I wouldn't know what to buy, and anyway, I don't have an Internet connection.”

“No problem. We can do it right now. You want to give me a credit card?”

I took a mental inventory of my wallet, trying to remember if I had any cards that weren't already maxed out. “Would a check be okay?”

“Sure. I can just use my card and you can pay me back. I'm glad you're going with the antique fabric. It's a special quilt, worth the investment. Your friend will love it.”

“I hope so.”

“Quilting isn't a cheap hobby, but,” the old woman said with a wink, “it keeps you out of trouble. If I didn't spend my money on fabric, I'd just waste it on beer and cigarettes.”

I laughed. “Somehow I don't believe that, Virginia. Evelyn already told me that you're a teetotaler.”

“She did?” Virginia clucked her tongue in mock regret. “Well, don't go telling anybody else. There's been some rumors going around town about me having a mysterious and wicked past.

“I know because I'm the one who's been spreading them. I like the idea of having a reputation. Makes me seem more interesting.”

Madelyn

“T
he past is not a package one can lay away.” Emily Dickinson said that. I'm starting to think she was on to something.

I came in the back door, threw my keys and my purse on the kitchen counter, then sat down at the kitchen table and buried my head in my arms and thought about the ghosts from the past that refused to stay buriedâJake, Tessa, Abigail, and Woolley.

The past is not a package one can lay away. Sooner or later, whether you want to or not, you have to open the box and take a look inside.

If I had been born with a different set of genes, particularly the genes that determine breast size, my entire life would have been different. When I turned thirteen, the year after my friendship with Tessa ended, my chest went from pancake flat to a 32C. By the time I left high school, I measured a 34DD.

At first, I was embarrassed by those two melons on my chest. I wore baggy sweaters and sweatshirts to camouflage them, but it was no use. Boys who hadn't known I was alive before were suddenly interested in getting better acquainted with me. Sort of. They didn't give a rip about me. They were, however, deeply interested, even obsessed, in getting acquainted with my breasts, preferably by touching them. Initially, I didn't get it. All I knew was that I was popular, pursued, and wanted, loved even. At least that's what they told me.

And I liked that. I liked it a lot. I liked the whispered endearments, the attention, and, yes, I liked being touched. I'd be a liar if I said otherwise. But mostly, I liked how their caresses made me forget everythingâthe slights and rejections of other girls, my grandmother's slaps and harangues, my disappointing grades, and my disappointment with myself. In the arms of the boy of the moment, I didn't think about anything. I just felt. And it felt good.

And the power! The power I had over almost every boy I met was exhilarating! They competed for my attention, followed me around like lovesick pups. In my sophomore year, every sports team captain asked me to the prom, except Jake Kaminski.

Deciding that the attentions of Jake Kaminski were essential to my happiness, I hung around outside the ice rink before practice one afternoon. When Jake showed up, lugging his enormous hockey bag, I thrust out my hip and my lower lip and asked why he hadn't invited me to the dance.

“Me? Well . . . I . . . every guy in school has already asked you. I didn't think you'd want to go with me. Would you?”

“Well,” I said coyly, tossing my head so my hair fell over my shoulder, “not if you don't ask me.”

When Jake came to pick me up, he drove a shiny red Camaro, borrowed from his uncle, and he opened my door for me. The band was awful and Jake's dancing was worse, but we had fun. The evening ended with us on a back road in the state park, in the backseat, with the windows steamed up.

Butâand this I remember distinctlyâwhen we pulled up in front of the house sometime after midnight, Jake hopped out of the car and ran around to my side to open the door for me.

None of my other dates opened the door for me at the
end
of the night.

Needless to say, my dating life was busy, but not only because of my physical attributes. It hadn't taken me long to figure out that there were ways to keep a man coming back for more. I was willing to do everythingâeverything
but
. I might not have been smart, but I wasn't stupid. I had no intention of repeating my parents' mistakes. Every now and then one of my boy beaux would press for more, but if he did, I dropped him like a hot potato. News travels fast among high school boys. After a couple such incidents, nobody pushed me to give them more.

I didn't enter into any exclusive relationships during high school, but Jake Kaminski was my favorite and most frequent companion. I liked him a lot. But our time together was short-lived.

Jake was a year ahead of me in school. His grades were nothing special, but he was a terrific hockey player. Everyone assumed he'd be offered a college athletic scholarship, probably several. It didn't happen. Instead, he went to work at his uncle's car dealership in Fairfield in a part-time job as a car washer and errand boy and took classes at the community college. Jake wasn't exactly raking in the dough, but being in college granted him a deferment from the draft and his uncle promised to promote him to sales if he worked hard and learned the business.

Jake's departure made me realize I needed to think about moving on myself, but there was no way I could do so working for minimum wage at the drive-in. I'd already dropped out of school, so college wasn't in my future. One day, I spotted a newspaper ad for a secretarial job that paid a dollar fifty more per hour than I was making. The ad requested an employment history and a photograph, a common practice back then. I sent in both.

Within six days, I was working for Woolley Wynne. Within six months, I'd fallen in love with him.

Word around town was that Woolley Wynne was “a ladies' man.” The rumors were true.

He received a lot of phone calls from sultry-voiced women who purported to be his cousin, his dentist, his insurance agent, etc. When I transferred the call into Woolley's office, he'd get up from his desk and close his office door. He never closed his door when a man was calling. He also made frequent daytime sojourns to the city, and when he did, he usually had me book a suite for him at the Waldorf. I didn't suppose it was because he was planning on taking a nap in the middle of his day.

None of this surprised me. Woolley was charming, sophisticated, and handsome, with brilliant white teeth and a thick shock of white hair to match. He was also very, very rich. Of course women found him attractive. I certainly did, even though he was more than twice my age. What did surprise me was that he showed absolutely no interest in me. Not so much as a pinch.

I set out to change that. I began leaving an extra button undone on my blouses and dropping my pen when Woolley walked by and bending down to pick it up, giving him ample opportunity to get a good peek at what he was missing. Nothing. Next, I tried coming into his office while he was working, ostensibly in search of some misplaced file, then bending low over his desk and allowing my breast to “accidentally” brush his arm. Again, nothing.

I couldn't believe it. I had practically sent Woolley Wynne an engraved invitation to seduce me, but he didn't even bother to open the envelope. I began to worry that I was losing my appeal.

On my eighteenth birthday weekend, Jake came up from Fair-field to take me out. Grandma Edna had gone to visit her sister in Albany and wouldn't be back until Tuesday. I hadn't told her about my date with Jake.

The drinking age was eighteen back then. My birthday wasn't until Monday, but Jake and I decided to celebrate a little early. Nobody checked our I.D. I don't remember how many bars we went to, but I do remember a tree branch coming through the windshield and the flashing lights of a squad car.

We didn't die. We could have, maybe we deserved to, but we didn't. That was the good news. The bad news was that the whole front of the car was smashed in and that Jake got a citation for driving under the influence. The penalties for that were a lot more lenient back then, but it still wasn't good. I remember Jake sitting in the waiting room of the hospital with his head in his hands and mumbling over and over again, “He's gonna kill me. Uncle Sal is gonna fire me and then he's gonna kill me. Then my dad's gonna kill me again.”

On Monday, I went into work as usual, black eye and all. Woolley was scheduled for a meeting in Litchfield and lunch with his wife. I didn't expect to see him in the office before two or three. I tried to type up a few letters so they'd be ready for him to sign in the afternoon but couldn't concentrate.

At noon, I locked the office door and walked back to Beecher Cottage for my lunch break, surprised to see Edna's car in the driveway. I was even more surprised to see that my bedroom window was open and that a small mountain of my possessionsâclothes, bedding, books, stuffed animals, stockingsâwas forming on the lawn.

Cursing a blue streak, Edna stuck her head out the window and tossed an armful of my things onto the pile below, including one of my slips. As it fell, the sun shone through the cheap rayon and machine-made lace, making it appear finer than it was. For a moment, it seemed suspended in midair, hovering indecisively overhead, before falling earthward and landing in a puddle of brackish rainwater.

I fished it out of the puddle, muddy and bedraggled, and I looked up at the window at Edna, who was about to throw another armful of my things onto the lawn.

“What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

“I'm helping you move out, you little . . .” she shouted, using a word to describe me that she'd never, ever used before, not among years of insults.

She knew.

She'd had a fight with her sister and come back from Albany a day early, arriving just in time to take a call from Jake's father, who was screaming at her about me. She told me all about it, shrieking insults from the window ledge to the lawn. Then she was downstairs, outside, standing on the grass, looming over me, red-faced and furious, as I bent down to gather up my things.

“I want you out of here, you little tramp! Today!”

She couldn't have wanted that any more than I did, but where was I to go? I had no car, no place to live, no friends, and one hundred and seventeen dollars in the bank.

“You can go to the devil for all I care!” she screamed. “You're headed there anyway! You're just like your mother, just like I always said you'd be. You're a tramp, just like she was. A man-trap. You ruin everything for everyone!”

“It was an accident!”

She grabbed me by the shoulders and shook. “An accident? An accident? You went out and drank until you couldn't see straight. That was no accident!”

She pulled her arm back before swinging it forward to slap me as hard as she could on my bruised cheek and blackened eye. “Idiot! Don't you ever stop to think how this affects me? Everyone in town is talking about this!”

I was used to Edna slapping me, but this was different. She swung her arm back and forth, again and again, like a scythe cutting a swath through tall grass, accenting each crack of her hand against my face with another curse. With the fifth blowâor perhaps it was the sixth, I'd lost count by thenâthe edge of her diamond wedding ring hit my face, tearing the flesh at the corner of my lip.

My ears rang. I felt a line of blood drip down my chin, a big hand on my arm, shoving me aside, a big-shouldered man stepping between me and my grandmotherâWoolley Wynne.

There was a scene between Woolley and Edna, a lot of shouting and insults. The details of it don't matter now.

I do remember Woolley getting in Edna's face, eyes flashing and furious as he called her a crazy old kook who'd driven away her son and whose husband had died just to get away from her nagging and then ending his tirade with a long string of very descriptive epithets. Edna was speechless. I don't think anyone had ever spoken to her like that before.

I wanted to jump into the air and cheer. It's possible I did; my memory of that scene is a little fuzzy now. But I do know that at the end of it, I rode away in Woolley's white Cadillac with all my worldly goods in the trunk.

Woolley's eyes were dark and angry as we drove away. I thought he was angry with me.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

Big question. With so many answers. I was sorry for myself, for one thing. Sorry that I'd become exactly what Edna had always said I wouldâworthless. Something to be tossed out the window and into the mud. Eighteen years old and I'd already managed to screw up my entire life. And Jake's too. I was a completely sorry excuse for a human being and I knew it. But, at the time, that was too much to explain, especially to my boss.

“I've made you late for lunch with your wife.”

“I'll call the restaurant and tell her I've been delayed.” He took his eyes off the road for a moment, frowned, and pulled a snowy handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket.

“You're bleeding.” He glanced back and forth from my face to the road as he dabbed my lip, staining the pristine white square with angry dots of crimson. “That's better.”

He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, then reached out with his hand and touched my lip, my cheek, the purple swelling under my eye, one after the other, briefly but methodically. Woolley had the softest hands of any man I'd ever met. His nails were trimmed close and buffed to a shine. His fingertips were a velvet caress on my bruised cheek. I lifted my chin toward his touch, closing my eyes as his fingers strayed from my face to slowly stroke the flesh of my throat.

“Poor baby. Shall we take you to a doctor?”

“No. I'm fine. I just had a rough night is all.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, smiling a little. “It was your birthday weekend, wasn't it? You're eighteen now.” His smile widened.

BOOK: Threading the Needle

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