From Here to Home

by Marie Bostwick

  Mary Dell and Gary had to wend their way around the clusters of quilters, some of whom carried multiple fabric bolts stacked possessively in their arms, as if afraid that the shop might suddenly run out, though there were literally thousands of bolts in the store. Thirty-two hundred to be exact, Mary Dell informed Gary.

  “That’s twice what we carried before the show aired,” Mary Dell said. “Not as many as some shops, but I’ve only got so much space. Howard picks most of the inventory, makes sure we are on top of the color trends. We focus on quality, variety, and education. See those?”

  She gestured toward a long, high wall hung with nearly twenty different quilts of varying sizes, styles, and levels of complexity. “Those are samples for the classes we’re offering this term. We’ve got five teachers on staff and another four gals who just help out in the shop, plus part-timers. It’s a lot of schedules to coordinate and plates to keep spinning. That’s where Cady comes in.”

  Mary Dell turned toward the back of the shop, where a woman in her middle thirties, who looked like a more petite version of Mary Dell but with sandy brown hair cropped short, was working the register. Next to her, a little girl of about six years of age with sandy brown braids was sitting perched on a stool, eyes cast down as she concentrated on a piece of cross-stitch.

  Cady came out from behind the counter and gave her aunt a big hug.

  “Mary Dell tells me you manage the store,” Gary said warmly as he gripped Cady’s hand. “Looks like you’re doing a great job. The place is packed.”

  “Oh, well,” Cady replied. “Aunt Mary Dell and my mom were the ones who started it all. I’m just maintaining what they built. Of course, it helps if the owner is a great big quilting celebrity.” She winked at her aunt.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Mary Dell said. “She runs this place better than I ever did. Cady practically grew up in the shop. Just like this one,” she said, tilting her head toward the little girl sitting on the stool.

  “Linne? How’s my sweet petunia? Don’t you have a hug for me?”

  Linne looked up, frowning in frustration. “There’s a knot. Can you fix it?”

  “Excuse me,” Mary Dell said to Gary, “but I have been summoned.” She tottered off, leaving Gary and Cady behind.

  “Linne. Never heard that one before. Is it a family name?”

  “Yes and no. The women in our family have always loved needlework. Somewhere along the way, we developed a tradition of naming our daughters after fabric—Silky, Velvet, Taffeta . . . It skipped a generation with my momma and Aunt Mary Dell. But my momma decided to bring it back and name me Brocade—Cady for short. And I kept it going.”

  She glanced across the room, smiling as Mary Dell slipped behind the counter, took charge of Linne’s needle, and picked out the knot.

  “Her real name in Linen, but we call her Linne.”

  “She’s a doll. Going to break some hearts when she grows up.”

  “She’s got her daddy’s good looks,” Cady replied softly, her gaze still fixed on her daughter.

  “I’ve got two grown girls of my own. From the day they were born, they knew how to play me like a cheap violin. I bet Linne’s the same. Your husband must be crazy about her.”

  Cady’s smile faded. “Excuse me, Mr. Beatty, but I’d better get back to work. Nice to meet you.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Nice meeting . . .”

  He extended his arm for a good-bye handshake, but she was already gone.

  CHAPTER 5

  While Mary Dell was taking Gary Beatty on a tour of Too Much, Holly was sitting in a chair on the twenty-sixth floor of a glass office tower in downtown Dallas, talking with Jason Alvarez.

  “Hang on,” Holly said, not certain she’d heard him right. “You’re considering me as co-host for a quilting show? Mr. Alvarez, I don’t—”

  “Jason,” he interrupted. “I told you before, call me Jason.”

  “Jason,” she replied. “Okay, Jason. Before we go any further . . . this show, Quintessential Quilting? I don’t—”

  “I know, I know,” he said dismissively, interrupting her once again. “It’s a terrible title. Almost as bad as the show. We’ll be canceling it after this season.”

  “Why would I want to host a program you’ve decided to cancel?”

  “Because as soon as the restructuring is announced and the deadwood is out the door, I’ve got big plans for this network. And if you play your cards right, you can be part of them.”

  He leaned back in his desk chair and ran his hand over his head. He had a habit of rocking his executive desk chair back and forth like a seven-year-old on a seesaw.

  “But before I get into that,” Jason asked, “do you know how to sew?”

  Holly hesitated, thinking about Rachel. She licked her lips.

  “Yes. Absolutely,” she said, and felt her cheeks flush pink. But Jason was rocking so far back in his chair, which gave him a better view of himself in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall, that he didn’t notice.

  “Okay. Although, for my purposes, it might be better if you didn’t. The sooner Quintessential Quilting is off the air, the happier I will be.”

  “I don’t understand,” Holly said, tilting her head to one side so she could see him better. “If you know you’re going to cancel the show, why not just do it now?”

  Jason, who was practically horizontal at this point, folded his hands into a tent over his stomach and knocked his thumbs together.

  “It’s complicated. Some of it has to do with fending off possible lawsuits, but, truth is, some people around here actually like this show, despite the fact that it is”—Jason lifted a hand and began raising fingers one by one to list his objections—“A, about quilting, which is something that only old ladies wearing support hose and trifocals care about, definitely not a profitable audience demographic; B, hosted by Mary Dell Templeton, a crazy broad from Texas who is pushing sixty and way, way too old to be on TV; and C, co-hosted by Mary Dell’s son, Howard. A retard.”

  Jason made an incredulous face and spread out his hands, failing to notice the way that Holly’s jaw tightened as he spat out the last word.

  “I mean . . . are they serious? A show like that has no place on television. Not on my network anyway. But the only way for me to be able to get rid of it quickly and forever is for the ratings to tank so bad that we have to cancel it.”

  His network? Who does he think he is?

  Holly didn’t like Jason. For a moment, she considered getting up and walking out the door. But then she remembered the e-mail that Amanda had sent her from Beijing, saying what an incredible break this could be for her, so she kept her seat and held her tongue.

  “From here on out,” Jason said, rocking backward again and lacing his fingers behind his head, “we’re going after a younger, hipper, more profitable audience demographic, the kind of people you can help us hook.” He grinned. “I mean . . . look at you! Men will want you and women will want to be you!”

  Holly crossed her arms over her chest. She understood that she was being hired for her looks—television was a visual medium—but she didn’t appreciate being talked about as if she were bait in a trap. She didn’t like the way he was leering at her either.

  “Quintessential Quilting will be a placeholder for you, a way to get you a little more experience and raise your profile until I can get rid of Mary Dell Templeton. Once that’s done, we’ll get you a show of your own. Something sexier, more urban, with kind of a reality show feel to it. Something that will appeal to millennials.”

  He rocked forward, finally sitting with both feet on the floor. “Here’s what I was thinking,” he said, his face becoming animated as he pitched his idea. “We go to a different city every week, pick two young, fresh-out-of-school interior designers, and give them a limited budget to furnish and decorate a small apartment or condo for a couple of hipsters just starting out. The audience gets to meet the clients and the designers, hear their stories, then follow along du
ring the design and construction phase until it’s time for the big reveal!

  “Hang on,” he said, and held up his hands before Holly could speak. “I know what you’re thinking; it’s been done. But here’s the catch. The work of each young designer will be judged by a panel of seasoned professionals. Each week they’ll choose the winner, who will come back for the next episode, facing a new challenger. During the finale, the two designers with the most wins during the season will face off on a bigger project with a larger budget. Of course, there will be a lot of drama and suspense, a lot of things going wrong, a very close decision, a lot at stake. The winner will get his or her own spread in one of the big design magazines and a hundred thousand dollars to open his or her own design firm.

  “So? What do you think?” he asked, even though the self-satisfied smirk on his face said he was sure of her answer. “It’ll be the Project Runway of interior design.”

  “I love Project Runway,” Holly said quietly.

  “Who doesn’t? How many seasons has it been running? And people are still watching. They can’t get enough.”

  Holly chewed on her lower lip a moment. It was a good idea. A very good one. A show like that could run for years. She looked up at Jason.

  “And I would be?”

  “The Heidi Klum,” he said, “but with more time on-camera. You’d interview the designers and the clients, drop in from time to time to talk to the construction crew, get their take on how things are or aren’t progressing, and then you’d be back for the judging and announce the final verdict. If things work out the way I think they will, you’ll be a household name by the end of the first season.”

  Jason tilted his chair back, not quite as far this time, waiting for her to speak. Holly clutched her hands in her lap, trying to fight off the urge to chew her nails.

  Damn. She didn’t like Jason. At. All.

  But she knew she’d be a terrific host for a show like that and that Jason was right—after a year she’d be a household name. But to do that show, she had to co-host this one and help Jason make sure it failed. Damn!

  But . . . if she didn’t take the job, Jason would just find someone else. With her or without her, he’d have his way.

  Someone else would help him bring down the curtain on Quintessential Quilting. Someone else would co-host the new design show, the show she would be so, so good on. Someone else would become a household word, a star, just like the girl who had replaced her on the sitcom.

  It would happen, with her or without her. Right now, there were a million girls just as pretty and talented as she was who would do anything Jason asked them to, because chances like this didn’t come along very often, not in this business. When they did, you had to grab them. Everybody knew that.

  She tipped her head sideways again.

  “When do we start filming?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Wrapping up the tour of Too Much, Mary Dell drove Gary out to the ranch for a delicious meal of chicken-fried steak and peppery cream gravy, fried okra, green beans, jalapeño corn bread, and peach pie, all prepared by Taffy.

  Mary Dell was relieved to see that her mother was kind and solicitous of their guest. This was something you couldn’t always count on where Taffy was concerned. Nor was she acting “loopy,” as Pearl had put it.

  Of course, Taffy flirted with Gary, seemingly unfazed by the fact that he was twenty-five years her junior, but Taffy had always liked men more than women. She was more playful than predatory, in her right mind, and fully clothed. That was good enough for the moment.

  After supper, Mary Dell took Gary to the Ice House, Too Much’s favorite watering hole. Mary Dell nursed a single bottle of Lone Star. Gary, however, downed four beers in short order and soon became very chummy. And very handsy.

  “Yer a helluva woman,” he slurred, scooting his chair closer to hers. “Ya know that, Mary Dell? A helluva woman.”

  “Why, thank you.” Mary Dell smiled sweetly and pushed his hand off her thigh. “That’s nice of you to say so.”

  “You sure you don’t want another beer?”

  “I’m good.”

  “I’ll bet you are.” Gary draped his arm over her shoulders. “Didja see that full moon when we came in? How’s it lookin’ to you tonight, Mary Dell?”

  “Just like it always does. I’ve never seen a moon like the one I saw on the night I met Donny, which is lucky. A girl can only afford to make so many dumb mistakes.”

  Mary Dell scooted her chair to the right, out of groping distance.

  Gary grinned and lifted the bottle to his lips. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “And I’m flattered that you would,” she said with good grace. “Also that you were kind enough to indulge me and come all the way out here.”

  “Did I have a choice? You kidnapped me, remember?”

  “I’m sorry about that, but . . . it was necessary.”

  “Ah.” He took another swig. “Wondered when we’d get to that. Much as I’ve enjoyed playing hooky, I’m pretty sure you didn’t drag me out here because you thought I needed a break. I was kind of hoping it was because you’d finally realized how devastatingly handsome I am and were plotting to have your way with me, but”—he heaved a dramatic sigh—“guess not.

  “So, what is it, Mary Dell? What do you want?”

  She looked down at the gouged planks of the barroom floor, trying to think of a way to make him understand, wondering how much she should share.

  “You remember the story I told you? About Flagadine Tudmore? She was pioneering with her husband, George,” Mary Dell reminded him, “heading to Austin. They stopped here to camp, but the next morning, Flagadine told George that she’d had too much heat, too much wind, too much everything, and she wasn’t going to move one more step. And she didn’t. They stayed put, started the town, and named it Too Much. Flagadine founded my family’s ranch, too, twelve hundred acres of the best grazing land in Limestone County. She was the one who scouted out and claimed that piece of ground and kept the place going after George died. Flagadine stipulated in her will that the ranch could only be inherited through the female line of the family. I’m not sure that’d hold up in court these days, but that’s the way we’ve always done it. The title and responsibility of keeping the ranch together passes from mother to daughter, and all because of Flagadine. She’s the reason it’s called the F-Bar-T too. Because she incorporated her own initials into the brand.”

  “A strong-willed woman,” Gary observed. “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it?”

  “Guess not,” Mary Dell said. “But nobody can be strong all the time. Lately, I’m starting to feel like she did after she left Arkansas, like it’s all too much. Too much noise. Too many miles. Too many nights spent among strangers. I want to come home. It’s time.”

  Gary exhaled a long and thoughtful breath. “So what are you saying? You want to retire?”

  “Lord, no! I still love doing the show. So does Howard.”

  “Oh. I wondered. I thought you might have heard the rumors about the show being canceled.”

  Mary Dell’s eyes went wide. “Canceled! Why would they cancel us? I know the numbers are down a little . . .”

  “They’re down a lot,” Gary corrected, his speech now clear of any insobriety. “In terms of pure viewership, you’re still in the top fifteen, but even so, your audience . . . They just don’t fall into a demographic category that attracts the big advertising dollars.”

  Mary Dell flattened her lips into a line. “They’re too old. Is that it? Or do you mean I’m too old? That nobody wants what I have to offer?”

  “I mean the network has changed. When I signed you, HHN was practically a start-up, owned by a handful of private investors with a shared vision. Now it’s a publically traded corporation owned by stockholders who demand bigger profits every quarter. They don’t care about the message; they care about the money. I’m not saying you’re irrelevant, Mary Dell; I’m saying you’re unprofitable.”<
br />
  “That sounds worse.”

  “It is.”

  Gary knocked back the last of his beer, then lifted his eyebrows and jerked his chin at a passing waitress, signaling his desire for another.

  “Advertisers aren’t willing to shell out big bucks for an audience composed primarily of people over fifty-five. And with your audience shrinking, the price we can charge to the advertisers you have left is shrinking too. That situation is unacceptable to the shareholders. So, for the moment, we only have two options: reduce costs or cancel the show.”

  Gary reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out some papers, and handed them to Mary Dell. She unfolded the contract, scanned the “whereins” and “therefores” on the first page, and flipped to the second and then the third, until she found what she was looking for: the numbers. Reading them, her jaw dropped.

  “A twenty-five percent pay cut? You can’t be serious.”

  He shook his head and Mary Dell slammed the contract down on the table.

  “If this is some kind of twisted negotiating tactic . . . if you think . . .”

  “It’s not a tactic. It’s not even a negotiation. This is the best deal I can offer you, the only deal. Believe me, I had to fight like hell to get you this much. And that’s not all,” he said glumly. “Keep reading.”

  She frowned and picked up the contract again. While she was reading, the waitress returned and set an open bottle of Lone Star on the table. Gary took a long drink, waiting for Mary Dell to get to the relevant section.

  “Wait . . . ,” she said, her forehead creasing in confusion. “Last time, we had a two-year contract with an option for a third. Now they only want one year? And the option only kicks in if we increase our viewership by four percent overall and by eighteen percent in the under-fifty-five age demographic?”