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Authors: Marie Bostwick

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BOOK: Threading the Needle
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11
Tessa
I
told Emily that I'd be back at the shop as soon as my shift at the fair was over. Ivy and Dana, who also work at the Cobbled Court Quilt Shop, were right on time to take over from Margot and very excited about the apparent success of the fair.
“Just look at this crowd!” Ivy exclaimed. “This is great!”
“It is,” Dana echoed in a softer but no less enthusiastic voice. “Really great!”
I'd never have guessed it if Margot hadn't told me, but both women—Ivy, blond and blue-eyed, tiny in stature but big in personality, and Dana, dark of hair and complexion, even shorter than Ivy and definitely more timid—had been victims of domestic violence. Ivy and her two children now lived in a house on Proctor Street. Dana was still living at the shelter. What kind of monster could possibly hurt these two wonderful, intelligent women? It boggled the mind.
“It was really nice of you to help out,” Dana said with a shy smile.
“I was glad to. I only wish I could do more.”
“You've done a lot,” Ivy said. “Everybody has. If the turnout stays this strong through the weekend, maybe we won't have to cut back any education programs. I hope we can save the GED classes at least. Wouldn't you know the year I finally have time to take my high school equivalency exam is the year they threaten to close the prep classes because of budget shortfalls.”
“It won't come to that,” Margot said brightly. “Look how well everything is going!”
She got up from the table to make room for Ivy and Dana. “I've got to get back to the shop. You know how it is, the minute we're shorthanded is the minute everybody decides they need fabric for a new quilt. Oh! Speaking of that! Tessa is the newest member of our quilt circle!”
“Terrific!” Ivy exclaimed. “Have you decided what your first project will be?”
I pointed to the raffle quilt. “That. Assuming my raffle ticket isn't the winner. It looks pretty complicated, but Margot seems to think I can do it.”
“Sure you can,” Ivy said. “Margot will help you. We all will. When you come in the shop to pick out your fabric, just holler if you need some advice.”
“Thanks.”
That was the second time someone had offered to help me pick out fabric. What was all the fuss about? How hard could choosing fabric be anyway? Especially since I planned on using the same fabrics as the raffle quilt. It was pretty just as it was. Why change anything?
“See?” Margot said. “You're already making new friends. I told you! Well, I should get back. Tessa, do you want to walk with me?”
“Oh. Thanks, but no. There's something I need to do first.”
 
The wooden doors that separate the church vestibule from the sanctuary are thick and heavy. As they swung slowly closed, the voices, laughter, and bustle of the fair were muffled to a whoosh of white noise.
I grew up in this church. So did my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. Given that, you might suppose I made a beeline back to church as soon as I moved home, but you'd be wrong. It wasn't that I had anything against church, quite the opposite. I have fond memories of this building, of stories told with flannel board figures, of singing and climbing Jacob's ladder in Sunday school, of snuggling between my parents and falling safely asleep during long sermons, of Easter Sunday and new dresses with stiff petticoats and hats with daisies on the brim and white patent leather shoes with a purse that matched, of hayrides and bonfires with the youth group and getting my first kiss from Billy Jessup when the pastor wasn't looking, and, of course, of my wedding day.
But after that and in spite of good intentions to the contrary, I rarely went to church again—any church. I'd fallen out of the habit at college, as had Lee. After Josh was born, we'd started attending a church near our house, thinking that's what parents do, I suppose. But we never felt comfortable there, so after a few months, we quit going.
Still, you'd have thought that I would have gone back when I moved home, for nostalgia's sake if nothing else, but no. Family tradition, fond memories, good intentions—none of that brought me back to church. Desperation did.
When we decided to move to New Bern, the housing market was hot. Even though we weren't going to move until Josh finished high school in Massachusetts, we went ahead and put in a nearly full-price offer on our farm in New Bern because we were worried that someone might buy it out from under us. By the time Josh graduated, the housing market was cooling—rapidly.
We'd figured selling our house near Boston would take three weeks at most. After three months without an offer, our Realtor called to suggest dropping the price and burying a statue of a saint upside down in the yard. “I know it sounds crazy,” she said. “But I've been in this business a long time and I've never seen it fail.”
We agreed to the price reduction but said no to burying a statue in the yard.
“Was she serious? I mean, what's next? Voodoo dolls and rabbit's feet?” I asked Lee, sharing a laugh later that day.
Lee grinned. “Now that the market is slowing down, maybe she's taken up a side business selling religious artifacts to desperate home owners.”
“Maybe. But I can't imagine how desperate you'd have to be to consider entombing a plastic saint in the rosebushes a viable part of your real estate marketing plan.”
Months later, after more than a year of making double mortgage payments, paying remodeling costs for the shop, which had gone twelve percent over our estimates, realizing that business was way below our projections and that our investments were going down even as college tuition was going up, I could imagine what that kind of desperation felt like. I was there. I was inches away from driving to Massachusetts with a ceramic saint and a shovel. But first I decided to try a more conventional method. I went to church and prayed that someone would buy our house.
It worked.
I went to church on Sunday. On Monday, the Realtor called with an offer on the house—not a great offer, but an offer. We accepted it.
Now, was that a coincidence or an answer to prayer? I wasn't sure; I'm still not. But I decided that it'd be ungrateful to show up at church, pray, get what I asked for, and then never return—somewhat akin to showing up for a dinner party empty-handed, then leaving right after dessert and never sending a thank-you note.
And there was something else.
That first day, I sat in the same pew my family had occupied for so many years, sixth row back on the left, and found something I never expected and still can't quite explain. I suppose peace is the most straightforward description, but there's more to it than that—refuge, sanctuary, awe. And thirst, the need for more.
It was that need, more than obligation or gratitude, that drew me back a second time and draws me back today. I can't pass by without entering in. Especially today.
With the door closed in this hushed and empty space with its tall windows streaming sunlight, simple unadorned walls, and rows of high-backed pews, I moved instinctively to my accustomed place. My steps were muffled, nearly silent, as I walked up the carpeted aisle to the sixth row and knelt with my head bowed in the wooden pew that has been polished smooth and gleaming from contact with the arms and elbows and backsides and knees of generations of supplicants and seekers like me, and I prayed.
There was so much to pray about.
I prayed about the shop, the farm, the bills, and the mortgage. I prayed for Josh, for his protection and happiness and future. I prayed about missing him and for strength not to let him know how much. And I prayed for Lee, for his interview, that he'd get the job, and that this would somehow close the distance I felt growing between us. I prayed about everything. Not eloquently, and not with any great faith that my prayers would really change anything, but sincerely and, yes, a little desperately.
I was so focused that I didn't hear the door open or footsteps on the carpet. When Reverend Tucker touched me lightly on the shoulder, I jumped.
“I'm sorry, Tessa. I didn't mean to startle you.”
I laid my hand over my thumping heart and let out a little laugh. “That's all right, Reverend. You just caught me by surprise. Hey, what happened to you?”
His hair was plastered down on his head and his clothes were damp from his white collar all the way down to his black tennis shoes, which actually squelched when he took a step. I really must have been concentrating not to have heard that.
He blinked a couple of times, as if wondering what I was talking about, then reached up to touch his wet hair.
“Oh, that. I took a shift in the dunk tank.”
“You should go put some dry clothes on. You'll catch cold.”
“I'm all right. It's warm for September and I'm halfway to dry already. I'll go to my office to change in a minute, but I wanted to check on you first. Are you all right?”
“I'm fine. Just had a few things on my mind.”
“Then you've come to the right place. ‘Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.' Matthew 11:28. I haven't any advice or counsel that even comes close to that, but if there is anything I can do for you, you only need to ask.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
He smiled gently and nodded. The movement made a drop of water drip from his hair onto the lens of his eyeglasses.
“So?” he asked, taking off his glasses and drying them ineffectually with the tail of his damp shirt. “
Is
there anything I can do for you? Anything you want to talk about?”
I pressed my lips together for a moment before answering. “Sometimes I wonder what God must think of me. I don't darken His door for years and when I finally do, it was only because I had a cartload of problems to be solved. Don't you think that ticks God off?”
Reverend Tucker tipped his head back as far as it would go, as if the answer to my question might be printed somewhere on the soaring ceiling of the sanctuary.
“There was once a man who had a thoughtless son who took his inheritance and wasted it all on foolishness. When the son had spent every dime, he became hungry, desperately so. Realizing how foolish he'd been, he was ashamed to go home. But desperation and hunger finally led him back to his father's house, where he hoped he might find work as a servant.
“When he saw his son coming, the father's joy was so great that he ran down the road to greet him. The father didn't ask where his son had been, or what he had done, or why it had taken him so long to come to his senses. He didn't care what had driven his child through the door. He was just happy to see him.”
Reverend Tucker put his water-streaked glasses back on his nose.
“That's what I think God thinks of you. He doesn't care what brought you here or what condition you arrived in—hungry, doubting, desperate, damp.” He glanced at his bedraggled clothes and shrugged.
“Makes no difference to God. He's just happy you're home.”
12
Madelyn
T
he railing was dusty and strung with cobwebs. How long since anyone had climbed these stairs? Opened this door? Entered this cold, dark, unfinished space? Years, certainly. Decades, possibly.
I still remembered where the attic light switch was. I snapped it on and a naked overhead bulb, the old-fashioned kind with the glowing filament visible through a clear glass dome, pierced the darkness with bright light that faded to shadows near the edge of the room and severed at sharp angles near the sloping ceiling, a landscape of silhouettes and shadow shapes cast by forgotten furniture and relics of the past.
It was quiet, eerily so. I stepped through the door, toward the light, and turned in a slow circle. There were no ghosts in the attic, but there was a claw-foot bathtub, two chairs with torn upholstery and sagging springs, an ornately carved armoire missing a section of scrollwork that, when opened, revealed a stack of fine-loomed linen sheets edged with lace and embroidered vines, and a half dozen round boxes each holding three or four hats trimmed with ribbons and feathers, peek-a-boo veils and clusters of fruit, and even a papier-mâché bluebird perched jauntily on the rim of a straw boater banded with a blue and white ribbon.
Who could they belong to? I'd never known Edna to wear hats, and these were so tiny, too small and too feminine, ever to have sat atop that big head with its gunmetal gray curls sprayed into immobility.
Hidden under dusty sheets I found three bureaus with rubbed finishes, missing pulls, and mirrors spotted black by age and fungus. One of the mirrors was cracked from edge to edge. Next I found two nightstands, some broken lamps, and a gateleg table piled with boxes of papers and photograph albums. I didn't take time to look through those. Under paint-spattered tarpaulins, I discovered piles of boards, nails, and tools, cans of paint, rolls of wallpaper, and unopened boxes of shingles. There were carpets, too, rolled up and stacked like cigars in a box, dirty, frayed, and in varying states of disrepair. There were stacks of flowerpots, mostly cracked, a copper weather vane, corroded green, and two stone lions with distinctly Oriental faces.
I found several oil paintings leaning against the back wall and flipped through them, hoping to come upon some undiscovered Matisse or Renoir that could change my fortunes. No such luck. But some were pretty, landscapes mostly, and once they were cleaned, the gilded frames would be lovely. There were several ornate metal bedsteads stacked up against the same wall, some with footboards, some without, and so covered in grime that it was impossible to tell if they were made from brass, iron, or something else.
Next to that, stashed under a stiff gray oilcloth, I discovered a small oak cabinet with a black metal base. The finish was still smooth. I opened the lid and fiddled with an interior mechanism until I heard a click. An ink-black sewing machine decorated with flowers and swirls and lettering in gold rose from the recesses of the cabinet.
There was a small bench sitting nearby. I pulled it up to the cabinet, sat down, and pumped the metal foot treadle while using my hand to turn the flywheel. At first, it seemed to be frozen, but after jiggling the wheel back and forth and carefully applying a slight pressure, the wheel started to turn and the needle moved up and down—slowly and stiffly, but a little oil and a good cleaning might do wonders. Interesting.
The darkest corner of the attic was dominated by a large mound covered in white sheets. Pulling them back, I found a full-sized antique brass bed, complete with mattress and box spring. It was beautiful, decorated with medallions that, at first, I thought were porcelain but which a bit of rubbing showed to be mother-of-pearl.
Good Lord! An antique brass and mother-of-pearl bed in perfect condition! What must that be worth? It was no Renoir, but still quite a discovery. And there was more.
The mattress was heaped with half a dozen old quilts, including the blue and white pieced quilt that had graced my bed when I was little. Most weren't in very good shape. Some were stained, and one so badly torn that the batting was exposed. It looked as if some sort of animal, a mouse maybe, had been nibbling at it. What a shame.
The chances of repairing them to any kind of usable state seemed slim, but you never knew. Maybe I should drop by that quilt shop that now occupied the old Fielding Drug building. I'd met a chatty woman in the grocery store who told me about it. She worked there. What was her name? Margaret? Margie? Something like that. I knew where the shop was, tucked back in Cobbled Court. It couldn't hurt to take the quilts by the shop and get an opinion.
Carefully, not wanting to do any further damage in the unlikely event that any of them were salvageable, I refolded the quilts, then walked back to the center of the room, under the light, brushing the dust off my hands as I turned in a circle one last time, squinting to see if I'd missed anything.
Where could it be?
I remembered exactly where I'd put the dollhouse all those years ago, back when I still believed in ghosts. I remembered standing on the top step of the staircase with the door open, near but not actually in the attic, and sliding the dollhouse with its inanimate inhabitants across the floor just to the left of the door. That's where it had been, but it wasn't there anymore.
Maybe Edna had given it away or thrown it away, along with all other traces of my existence. That's what she said she would do, and I had no reason to doubt her. Except for the blue and white quilt, there wasn't a single artifact of my childhood anywhere in the attic. Edna had always been thorough.
It didn't matter. I wasn't interested in what was missing from the attic, only in what was present. A normal person cataloging the detritus of Edna's attic might be seized by an urge to phone a garbage collector—and an exterminator—as quickly as possible. Not me. As I stood in the middle of that dim, forgotten cavern, among those broken, dirty, outmoded relics, the last earthly evidence of people long dead and buried, I saw possibilities. And hope. Not much, but some.
There might be something to all this. Or not. Maybe finding that miniature sofa was a sign. Or maybe it wasn't. Only time would tell. There were many questions to be answered before I let myself get too excited about all this.
Signs or no signs, I still didn't know the first thing about running an inn, or any other kind of business. I was totally ignorant about anything even remotely related to the subject. But thanks to the advice and tutelage of Millicent Fleeber many years previously, I knew just where to go and who to see in order to dispel my ignorance.
I took a last look around the attic, mentally cataloging the contents before turning off the light, going down the stairs, and heading back downtown. Remembering that the library closed early on Fridays, I jogged the last quarter mile. When I presented myself at the reference desk, I was out of breath. The librarian asked if I wanted a glass of water.
“No,” I gasped, holding my hand out flat to wave off her concern. “I just have a question. Can you tell me where the business books are shelved?”
BOOK: Threading the Needle
8.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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