The Oysterville Sewing Circle

by Susan Wiggs

  A loud wail erupted from Addie. Caroline was on her feet immediately, running to the dock. Since having the kids in her life, she had quickly learned the meaning of different cries. She was now keenly familiar with the uncomprehending-sadness cry. The I’m-bored whine. The pathetic bleats of hunger. This was none of the above. This was the grand mal pain cry.

  By the time she reached Addie, Will had scooped the little girl into his arms and was striding toward Caroline. “She got a splinter in her knee,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s a big one,” Caroline said, inspecting the damage. Yikes. A full inch of the weathered gray wood from the old dock was embedded in Addie’s tender flesh.

  “It hurts,” Addie howled, elongating each word. “Get it out!”

  “I’ll bet it does hurt.” Will seemed unruffled as he carried her toward the house. Caroline took Flick’s hand in hers and followed them inside. “When I was in the navy,” Will said, “I learned how to deal with injuries like this. I’m pretty good at it.”

  “He’s going to dig it out with a needle,” Flick said.

  “No!” Addie clung to Will’s neck.

  He placed her on the kitchen counter by the sink. “We won’t use a needle. I have a better way.”

  “I’m scared of needles,” Addie said.

  “Pay attention, both of you. I’ll show you how to make a proper field dressing.” Will washed his hands at the sink and took a first aid kit from the cupboard.

  Addie sniffled and whispered, “Still hurts.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Will said. “Splinters are the worst. See this?” He held up a bottle. “It’s cleansing solution and it doesn’t hurt. I’ll let you squirt some right on the sliver.”

  She took the bottle and dribbled the saline onto her knee. “Still hurts,” she mumbled.

  “Go ahead and use a lot,” Will said. Then he helped her dry the area. “I have a secret splinter weapon,” he said. “Duct tape. It’ll feel like taking off an old Band-Aid.” He kept up a stream of friendly patter as he covered the splinter with tape and then peeled it quickly away.

  “Ouch!” Addie burst out.

  “Here you go,” he said, showing her the splinter stuck to the back of the tape. “You were brave.”

  “I wasn’t brave. I cried.” She gazed forlornly at the blood oozing from her knee.

  “You let me fix you up even though you cried. I would call that brave.” He finished up with antibiotic ointment and a Band-Aid. “All set,” he said, lowering her down to the floor.

  “Thank you,” Caroline said. “Very impressive, Mr. Jensen.” He was so self-assured with the kids. Where did that come from? And when would she ever feel even a fraction of his confidence?

  Flick looked around the mudroom off the kitchen. “What are you building?” he asked, taking in the power tools and half-finished shelves.

  “All kinds of stuff,” Will said. “I’m always building, because we’re remodeling. I’m putting shelves and cabinets in this room.”

  “I like tools,” Flick said.

  “You never told me that,” Caroline said.

  “You never asked.”

  “I like tools, too, buddy,” Will said. “I bet I know something else you like. Otter Pops.”

  “Yeah!”

  He went to the freezer and took out two of them, expertly snipping the tops and handing them over. Then he offered one to Caroline.

  “No, thanks. You’re good with kids of any age,” she told him.

  “That’s because kids are awesome.” He cut a glance at Sierra. “Right?”

  He looked away quickly, so he missed Sierra’s reaction—a physical shudder.

  Really? Caroline wondered. Did that mean trouble in paradise?

  Addie gave her treat a squeeze, and half of the frozen pop landed on the floor. “Oh, man,” she said.

  “It happens.” Will got another one for her. He glanced again at Sierra, who was mopping up with a paper towel.

  “How about you take them outside,” she suggested.

  “Keep your life jackets on if you go near the water,” Caroline called as they scampered out the door.

  “Hey, Mr. Will,” Flick called from the yard. “Can we go have a look in the barn?”

  “Sure,” Will said. “Okay?” he asked Caroline.

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “I’ll go with them.” He headed outside. “Come on, you two.”

  Sierra crossed her arms and turned to Caroline, who was looking out the window at the kids following Will to the barn. “Right now, it’s just a big empty space. He upgraded the electrical system to the barn because he had some idea about making it an indoor play area one day. See what I mean? He’s perfect.”

  “Come on. Nobody’s perfect.”

  “He wants to save the family home and have kids. Perfect, right?”

  “I suppose that depends.”

  “On what?” Sierra paced back and forth as if caged. “If it’s so perfect, why can’t I want what he wants? Why can’t I be happy with all this?”

  Because maybe it’s someone else’s perfect, thought Caroline. “I’m not even going to try to answer that one,” she said. Her goal in coming here with the kids today had been to try to normalize relations with Sierra and Will. She hoped they were making progress in that direction. Still, they were all different people now. Will was missing an eye. Sierra was missing her city life. And Caroline . . . She had been out of touch with her friends, but the palpable weight of their tension pressed hard. And she had no idea what to say.

  “Let’s finish the tour,” Sierra said. “I’ll show you the rest of our money pit.”

  Caroline made no comment as she followed Sierra upstairs. Reconnecting with her friend was uncomfortable, to say the least. They used to tell each other everything, but that used to mean confessing what you found in your mom’s underwear drawer or that you sneaked a bottle of communion wine from church. This conversation was a new level of everything.

  Sierra showed her a freshly painted guest room and a smaller bedroom filled with stacked and labeled moving boxes.

  “This is supposed to be the baby’s room,” Sierra said. “Will wants kids so bad.”

  “You’re telling me a lot about what he wants. What about you?”

  She shrugged. “I keep thinking there’s got to be something wrong with me. He’s wonderful, and I’m horrible. I feel like a fraud.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” Caroline said. “It’s just . . . relationships can be hard. God knows, you’re looking at proof of that.”

  “So, no one special?” asked Sierra.

  “No. I mean . . . I went out with guys. I fell in love a time or two. At least I think I did. And then . . .” She winced, remembering the soaring elation, followed by the sinking disappointment of the emotional roller coaster. “I wanted to find that one thing that would last. And you know what? I did. I did find it. But there was a twist—that one thing was not a guy. It was my career. Now I’ve left that behind. So it’s kind of like a breakup I wasn’t ready for.”

  “You’ll figure something out. That project you’re doing for the school—isn’t that a start? You’re one of the most clever, creative people I know.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.” She had poured all her energy, all her heart into the Chrysalis line, pinning her hopes and dreams like shiny beads to the gossamer fabrics. She wondered when the feeling of violation would fade. When she would find the confidence to begin anew.

  “Well, I could use your help.” Sierra opened a closet. “I outgrew the space in the master bedroom.”

  “Great, so now I’m a closet organizer.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’ve got a thing coming up,” Sierra said. “Not a modeling gig, but a meeting about producing a high-end shoot. I need to dress like someone they’ll take seriously.”

  “Now that I can help with,” said Caroline. “Cool, elegant, or trendy?”

  “Can I be all of the above?”


  “You already are.”

  As they sorted through the clothes, old memories surfaced. They were kids again, best friends.

  Caroline found a blouse in watered silk and paired it with a pencil skirt. They tried a few accessories, settling on a look with a bold arm cuff, shoes, and a bag.

  “You’re in your element,” Sierra said.

  “I’ve styled so many models.” She paused. “My friend Angelique—Flick and Addie’s mother—was one of the best runway models in New York. She came from Haiti and blasted to the top of her game. And then she died of an overdose.”

  “Oh, my sweet God above.” Sierra shuddered. “I’m so sorry. Those poor kids.”

  “I’m constantly haunted by it. A few months before she died, I noticed she had some injuries. Bruises.”

  “You mean track marks? Needle marks?”

  “No. Somebody hit her.”

  Sierra gasped. “That’s horrible. But you know, it’s a thing. I’ve seen it in the modeling world. Girls start so young. They don’t know how to deal with the business, and they’re so desperate to make it that they’ll put up with anything.”

  Caroline looked at her. “Did it ever happen to you?”

  “No,” Sierra said swiftly. “God, no. I was hit on, but not hit. I knew how to handle myself.”

  “I’m not surprised. I wish more women could say that.” She paused, hesitant to share an idea in its first stage. Then she realized her friendship with Sierra was coming into its own again. “My sisters and I are setting up a support group for survivors of domestic violence. Turns out it’s more common than any of us knew. I think it’ll help me deal with Flick and Addie.”

  “No kidding? That’s good, Caroline. Really.”

  “After what happened to Angelique, I’ve been feeling so powerless. This is something. It might add up to a big fat nothing, but it feels right. There are women who need help, right here in our town. I can’t go back and rescue Ange. But the more I learn about domestic violence and addiction, the better I’ll be able to help Flick and Addie.”

  “Well. So it sounds like you’re sticking around for a while.”

  “I don’t know what else to do. God, I feel so stuck.”

  “Join the club.” Sierra hung the outfit in the closet. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “I’ve missed having someone who gets me. Someone I can say anything to without worrying about being judged.”

  Wasn’t that supposed to be the husband’s role? Caroline wondered.

  They went outside together. Will had hung a swing from the biggest tree in the yard, and the kids were taking turns on it.

  “They’re never going to leave,” Caroline said.

  He laughed briefly and gestured at the three of them. “Look at us. We got the band together again.”

  “What band?” asked Flick.

  “We were never a band,” Caroline said. “It’s just a saying. When we were kids, the three of us spent our summers together. We were inseparable. Do you know what inseparable means?”

  Addie shook her head.

  “It means we were almost never apart. We got together every single day and had adventures.”

  “Speaking of adventures,” Will said, “I need to pick up some things at the lumberyard.”

  “Can I go?” Flick piped up. He was clearly already hero-worshiping Will.

  “Maybe another time,” Caroline said.

  “Definitely another time,” Will agreed, then strode toward the pickup truck parked near the barn.

  “We were quite a trio,” Sierra mused. “I used to forget that you saw him first. Now I don’t think of it at all.”

  Caroline threw her a sharp look.

  “Tell me about when you were little,” said Flick. “Did you play right here? And on the dock?”

  “We did. It looks pretty much the same,” Caroline said. “It’s just the way I remember.” Her gaze traced a path from the driveway to the front porch. “First time I ever came here, I was riding my bike. And Will, as I recall, was a frogman.”

  “What?” Flick leaned forward.

  “It’s true. When I met him, he was soaking wet, like a frogman.”

  “What’s a frogman?”

  “A guy who’s at home on land and in the water—both. Do you know how to swim?”

  Both children shook their heads.

  Caroline and Sierra exchanged a glance. “You’re peninsula kids now. We’ll have you swimming by the start of summer.”

  Chapter 13

  It was a welcome change to have a project—something other than kids and work and worry and uncertainty. There was a feeling of mission, too, something Caroline wished she had embraced long ago. She wanted to create a safe place for women like Echo Sanders and Lindy Bloom. And perhaps for the foolish girl she’d been long ago, the night before Sierra’s wedding. Her commitment to the project was pathetically too little too late to be of any help at all to Angelique. Maybe, just maybe, it would help someone else, a woman like Lindy, who had suffered alone for so long with no one to turn to.

  The notion of actually making a difference in someone’s life was probably too idealistic. But lately Caroline was feeling disillusioned, and doing something good would be good for her, regardless of the outcome. Sometimes she paused in the middle of whatever she was doing—reaching out to the local paper, reserving the meeting space, printing flyers—and pondered the changes in her life. Not so long ago, she’d been a New York designer on the cusp of a breakthrough. Now she was looking after two young children, reserving domain names for a new business enterprise, and researching domestic violence.

  She laid into the project with a vengeance. She ticked things off her list. Assemble a team. Get the word out. She could do this.

  “I need your help,” she said to Sierra, regarding her across the table at Star of the Sea, where they’d met for coffee.

  “Help with what?” Sierra asked.

  “The Oysterville Sewing Circle.” She grinned at her friend’s expression. “That’s what I’m calling my women’s group—the one I told you about.”

  Virginia joined them, sliding into the booth. “What’s up?”

  “The Oysterville Sewing Circle,” Sierra explained. “Caroline’s on a mission.”

  “And you’re going to help,” Caroline declared.

  “A sewing circle?” Virginia looked astounded. “I can’t even sew on a button, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Can such things be?”

  “Well, it’s not really about sewing, and it’s not really a circle.”

  Virginia leaned back in her chair as realization dawned on her face. “The group, you mean. That’s what you’re calling it?”

  “Yes. We’re going to meet at the police station annex down in Long Beach.”

  “I want to be the first official member,” Sierra declared.

  Virginia stared at her. “Wait a minute. Do you mean . . . Jesus. Did Will—”

  “God, no.” Sierra waved away the unspoken question. “Will’s a saint.” Her voice held a bitter edge. “You both know that. I want to support you. It’s a good thing you’re doing.”

  “If we manage to get it done. Georgia’s in, by the way,” Virginia said.

  “My God,” Sierra said. “Then is Georgia . . . ?”

  “Oh hell no.” Virginia waved her hand. “Who would ever mess with Georgia? I appreciate you asking, though. To tell you the truth, I’ve learned that anyone can be sucked into domestic violence. It’s a factor in so many of the cases I investigate for the county. It’s not limited to women who are uneducated or poor or who had troubled childhoods. It can be women like you and me and Georgia—people with good families and resources and education.”

  “Yeah,” Sierra said. “So creepy.”

  “Something happens—the guy needs to control and dominate because he feels inferior. Or he’s reenacting something from his own past. A lot of times, he becomes a drunk. So we’d better be prepared to meet all kinds.”

  Caroline flashed on a memory of
Angelique—regal and poised, commanding attention as she controlled a room full of high-powered fashion professionals with the slightest gesture or narrowing of her eyes. She simply had not looked like a victim—but as Virginia pointed out, women knew how to wear masks that made them seem put-together, successful, confident.

  She opened a folder of printed material and showed them the flyer she’d designed. The logo was a stylized pincushion with needles and thread and the phrase Mend Your Heart, with contact information and a meeting schedule. “I wanted an innocuous-sounding name for the group, one that isn’t likely to attract the kind of people who beat up their partners.”

  “And you picked sewing.” Sierra smiled. “Of course you did.”

  “How many wife-beaters do you suppose are interested in sewing?” Caroline asked.

  “Good point. Most men run from sewing.”

  “I’m glad you like the name. It’s a tribute to the Helsingør Sewing Club, a little footnote in World War Two history. That’s what a gang of resistance fighters called the fishing fleet in Denmark during the war to hide their real purpose from the Nazis. Right under the Germans’ noses, they ferried boatloads of Jews from Denmark to Sweden. Said they were going to their sewing club.”

  “Cool,” said Virginia. “I’m glad that you’re doing this, Caroline. So proud of my sister.”

  “I had another idea. One of the biggest hurdles for survivors is finding work. And thanks to the PTA, I need help with every part of my fabrication operation. Because guess what? A school district in Seattle and another in Portland saw the superhero T-shirts and ordered some. Echo is already sewing for me. I can only offer minimum wage at this point, but if this works out, I’ll need to hire more workers. And then I started thinking of other places that could employ women . . .”

  “Georgia will be all over that,” Virginia said. “She can train people in restaurant work.”

  Caroline thought about Nadine, the waitress. She’d reached out to her—a tentative overture. I’m starting a women’s group . . . But Nadine had regarded her with a blank expression. Not everyone was going to embrace the idea. Maybe no one would. “So anyway, I’m going to book the police station annex for our first meeting. I need to make sure Mom’s okay with me leaving the kids.”