A Sewing Circle in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  "Cry off, Gem. We'll be finished in a quarter of an hour," said Pippa. "Now, I usually add the little bits with a plain outside stitch, sort of like an old patch piece," she continued to me.

  It was actually four hours, and four quilt blocks later before our sewing session had come to an end; by that time, Gemma was curled up on the floor mattress, hugging a pillow against herself as she snored lightly. Pip was curled up at the end of the bed, under an unfurled roll of sateen that I imagined must have clad many a Barbie in Pippa's younger days.

  I put a few more stitches in a little chimney I had been sewing on my house. I turned the block right way and gazed at it with a feeling of accomplishment. Surely patchwork wouldn't be so hard after this. Sure, some of my edges were slightly irregular and my roof was a bit poofy where I had failed to straighten my batting ... but it was definitely recognizable.

  I tucked it at the bottom of my basket, along with the others and some half-finished pieces I had cut while Pippa was showing me a better technique for wielding the scissors. I clapped the lid on top and snuggled against the pillows to catch some much-needed sleep before morning.

  ***

  "'Tis an old, old tale. Long before me grandfather's grandfather they told it. The tale o' the piskies o' Branwerth Wood." Old Ned's voice was husky and full of drama — not the same coaxing one that managed to score a few pints nightly off regulars at the pub.

  "It begins on a dark night, when the mists rose out o' the moors, and a young man be walkin' along a lonely road —" He stretched out his hand dramatically from the makeshift staging area.

  "He certainly puts his heart into the performance," observed Lady Amanda, as she and I stood near the sewing circle's stall, watching his rehearsal. "He's really quite good. And to think the only tale I've heard from him in these many years is one of his personal woes — one which does have all the incredibility of a good folk tale, come to think of it."

  I hid my smile. "Something tells me Ned has a slight crush on the spotlight." Maybe he should have been part of the amateur drama society all these years, the Cliffs Edge players which Kitty had belonged to in the past, and where I had a brief — and very temporary — tenure as a Shakespearean director.

  "I think we've finished with the tea tent's preparations for now," said Lady Amanda, consulting her clipboard's list. "Now, we've seen to most of the stalls ... and the raffle's drawing is well in hand ... but there's still a bit left to be done for the garden exhibition, I'm told."

  "Is there?" I tried not to sound too eager for this idea. All day, as the tent's curtains were lifted open, I had found myself peering that way as the rest of the folding chairs and the display tables were carried inside. Now and then, I would catch a glimpse of Petal being escorted about by the judges or members of the ad hoc committee, usually surrounded by a crowd of admirers ... or of Matt helping the preservation society with their display.

  Thus far, no excuse had put me within reach of that particular tent, or of Matt, either. I had spent the morning helping the sewing society organize their stall — minus my contribution and Dovie Todd's latest masterpiece — and overseeing the makeshift stage for the band.

  "Yes, they've need of a slightly better table for showcased hybrids. William promised to call the service to send a new one directly."

  "Problem solved, then." Hiding my disappointment was harder than I thought.

  "I suppose I really should find Nigel and the committee if you don't need my assistance for anything," said Lady Amanda.

  "No, not a thing," I said. "Go. I've got things under control here." Not that there was much to control at the moment, short of confirming each stall's volunteer list kept them manned all through the fete. And, on my part, avoid any discussion of my contribution to a certain organization's charitable offerings.

  Across the way, I caught a glimpse of Matt and Petal admiring some of the plants that were part of the preservationists' display. I saw Petal touch Matt's arm as they talked, her hand lingering afterwards, and I knew well exactly how strong and reassuring those muscles felt beneath it. Matt's smile was an open, charming one as Petal pointed to one of the flowers ... was it for her, or for the native flora?

  I checked the numbers on the raffle tickets being sold at the sewing stall, making sure they didn't overlap with the numbers sold by others. I heard the sound of Petal's light, elegant laugh trilling in the distance, and found I had lost track of my numbers momentarily.

  At the neighboring stall, two members of the committee were doing the same thing I was, only they had paused also to watch the activity at the garden exhibition. "It was quite a boon for us, getting that model to come," one was saying. "I never thought the likes of Petal Price-Parker would agree, frankly."

  "Didn't she used to come here summers, though, as a child?" said the second.

  "She did. In fact, she and Matthew Rose had a bit of a thing, you know." This last part was a bit hushed in its emphasis — even so, I knew that neither of them realized I was close by, or in earshot of this conversation. "Years ago, of course."

  "Did they?" the second one was surprised. "They certainly made a gorgeous pair, didn't they?" At this point, the two of them collected their clipboards and moved on, leaving me with an unobstructed view of Matt and Petal together.

  It was true, I thought, with a deep stab of pain for this particular admission. Matt's dark, handsome self was complimented by Petal's sleek perfection, something nobody could fail to see. Even now, as he glanced at her with a smile in response to some remark she made, I could see clearly what kind of impression they must have made in people's minds at Boston parties and restaurants.

  The image made me bristle with indignation. I was trying hard not to be jealous. Maybe I didn't have Petal's willowy grace and supermodel bone structure, but I was hardly an old hag by comparison. Nor was I the spiteful type who was going to march up to cordial, smiling Petal and seize her by her hair, ripping it out at the roots as I dragged her away from my husband.

  Well, only in my fantasies, anyway. And I felt very silly for those, since there was nothing but politeness between them both. They were professionals working together on the same project; they were both adults who had been in — or, in Matt's case, were currently in — committed, serious relationships that were supposed to supersede all others.

  I had softened by the time I reached my final booth to check. I was alone behind the stall's table until someone stepped beside me, and I realized it was Matt.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Hi." Suddenly eye contact was not quite as easy as usual. I fiddled with my pen, feeling guilty over the ludicrous notion that Matt could read my last few thoughts about him and Petal. "Um, I have your keys. They're in my bag. And if you want to take the car —"

  "I'm not here for the car," he said. "I ... I tried to call you last night."

  "Oh. My phone. I turned it off while I was at Gemma's," I said.

  "Gemma's?"

  "I spent the night there." I tucked my pen at the top of my checklist, and pretended I was double-checking my figures.

  A pause. "May I ask why?"

  "I didn't see a reason not to," I answered. "So, did you sleep well? You said you had to be up early today. I hope the meeting at the hotel didn't keep you until all hours."

  "Julianne." There was that level, patient tone that had the power to annoy me these days.

  "What?" I said, now turning to face him. "Do you want to ask now if I'm jealous that you were there? The answer is 'yes,' Matt. You and your ex were having drinks with your colleagues while I was at home, waiting for Heaven knows when to see you again. And that is irritating to me."

  "Nothing happened. Nothing would ever happen, Julianne, as I hope you're aware."

  "I'm sorry. I know that's how it sounded, but that's not what I meant." I felt helpless and frustrated again. "The point is that I wasn't enough a part of your life these last few days to know your plans. I was an outsider in your day-to-day activities, and it bothered me. It's nothi
ng you could help, so just ignore it."

  "Would it make a difference if I told you I came here to apologize?" Matt asked, and the patience in his voice yielded to deeper emotions with these words. "We don't have to argue about any of this. We said before it's the last thing we should be doing right now. Do you think I don't need you just because we've been apart for a few days?"

  My heart skipped a beat for these words, because the implication was passionate and romantic — although his passion seemed a little more like anger right now. "Of course I don't," I said, softly. "I've been trying to say I'm sorry for days, too, just so we can put the lid on the kettle and go back to the way things were before."

  "You make it sound very status quo, our making up," said Matt. His was not a happy tone of voice, I noticed. "Rather as if we're hiding our true feelings in the cupboard and closing the door. I would like to think something better would come from it than merely pretending nothing happened."

  "Can we talk about the truth to each other?" I asked, raising one eyebrow with this question. "Wasn't that what we were doing the other night, Matt?"

  "Hardly," scoffed Matt. "We said some emotionally-charged things which were unnecessary, yes. A few opinions were expressed very badly, on both our parts."

  "But you meant what you said," I replied. "And you think I meant my words, too. Don't you?"

  Matt wouldn't look me in the eye at this moment. I was having a hard time saying this, because it would be much more convenient to hide things in the cupboard, as Matt put it: to say that Matt didn't find my persistence annoying, and that I didn't find his ease of knowledge and adaptability insufferable.

  We could pretend we never annoyed each other. We could just 'unsay' those words and be done with it. Maybe it would never again come up in an argument if we both tried.

  "All right," said Matt, quietly. He let out a deep breath, almost a sigh. "We did mean it. Both of us, to a degree, were being honest that night about some repressed grievances. But that doesn't serve as an excuse for where we are now."

  "I never said it did," I answered. "But does it make any apology from either of us a dishonest one?"

  "'Dishonesty' is a rather strong word," scoffed Matt.

  "All right, 'begrudging' then,' I corrected, holding my tongue against a sarcastic addition of 'professor' to this statement, proof I was really trying now. "Would you really mean it if you apologized to me? Or would you just be saying you're sorry that your feelings offended me?"

  "If you meant what you said during our fight, the same applies to you," Matt retorted. In his mind was probably a highlights reel of my equally-insulting words for him, judging from his tone of voice.

  "Of course it does," I answered. "Honestly, do you think I'm accusing you of being the only one who —"

  "Julianne," said Olivia, who showed up at this moment out of breath, and with a heavy sewing basket in hand. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Did the vicar stop by about the prize yet?"

  "No, not yet," I said. "I think Dovie's spoken to him, however, if you want to ask her about it."

  My and Matt's debate had been checked by this interruption. We exchanged uneasy glances, since we were no closer to having laid these issues to rest than before. Could I be honestly sorry for thinking those things about Matt, I asked myself — for secretly viewing his manners and his knowledge the way I did? Did he regret his feelings, or only his words?

  As if sensing my thoughts, Matt moved closer to me. "I would say whatever it takes to put this behind us," he said quietly, when Olivia was out of earshot momentarily. The words were a soft breeze close to my ear, stirring my hair; now and then, its touch still had the power to make my knees weaken, when the circumstances were right.

  "I know," I whispered back. "But maybe that's what worries me about us. You always do." I brushed his hand lightly, relieved I didn't have to look into his face as I said these words. I knew he was trying to be kind, but, for once, I didn't want him to be.

  I heard Matt sigh. He didn't say anything else, not even the words of apology he had come to offer. He slipped his hand from mine, and lifted his teacup from the stall's table, his eyes full of disappointment and exasperation as he left the booth. Olivia didn't take any notice of his presence or his departure as she hurried to unload her latest supplies.

  "I had to help Julie pin her corners on that Tempest in a Teapot pattern she's only now finally quilting," continued Olivia. "All the excitement of the fete finally inspired her to finish it." She unpacked a small cash box for this weekend, and a stack of pamphlets about the sewing circle. "Your little quilt must be nearly finished by now."

  Nearly finished? "I've had a few setbacks lately," I said, by way of avoiding the absolute truth. "You know, I think I forgot to tell Lady Amanda about a little issue with the church's pasty stall." Anything was better than talking about my poor excuse of a sewing project.

  Matt's aborted apology weighed heavily on my mind. I felt as if I should have coaxed him into it, to get it over with at last. I was prepared to do the same thing myself, yesterday. But I wasn't prepared to let Matt take the fall for this one, not again — and now, if I was going to be the one in the end who yielded my 'repressed grievances', I wanted to be sure that I could let them go without another thought in the future.

  Even so, I wanted to let him say those words. I wanted to put my arms around him, and pretend that he never saw a single flaw in me, and that all the little things about him that made me secretly roll my eyes were just my imagination. Was that really so wrong? Did I really have to care that Matt wished I was less American, and that I wished he was less British sometimes?

  When I had a moment to spare, I stepped into the garden exhibition's tent, where the day's activity had slowed somewhat. I could hear Nigel snapping a few volunteers to attention nearby, but all was peaceful otherwise — therefore, Cal Pentworth hadn't returned with his petition.

  I didn't see Matt working here at the moment, but evidence of his handiwork was everywhere. The Cornish plant preservation society's display was nearly finished, each plant marked with a hand-lettered placard with its name in English and in Cornish. I recognized several of them from books I had thumbed through, and from walks along the coast and the open landscape. A vivid marsh marigold bloomed, creeping along the edges of its pot; close by, a butterfly orchid looked delicate and green. A Cornish heath among the centerpieces, one which would normally make me smile for the memory of its connection to Matt and myself.

  On the opposite side of the tent, the roses for the competition were already beginning to appear, with lots of pinks, mauves, and steely-whites among them, the scent of strong plant preservatives hanging in the air. A few volunteers were wiping up any water spills on display tables, and the remains of a fractured glass vase were being gathered up. I set down my clipboard to give them a hand, before someone spoke behind me.

  "Forgive me, but have you seen the person in charge of the exhibition?" It was Petal's voice. "I need to request a few small changes regarding the opening remarks." She looked slightly lost — her publicity agent and manager must have taken a break; for once, the crowd of admirers had dissolved, too.

  "I haven't," I answered. "I think maybe Nigel or Lady Amanda could take care of it for you, but they're busy right now with the 'grounds beautification' team, I think. But I think there's a meeting regarding the garden exhibit around three in the tea tent. All the judges will be there, and so will everybody else involved."

  "This process is rather boring for them, I think," said Petal, with a delicate smile. "The judges, I mean. Except for Matthew, of course. He rolled up his sleeves and pitched in almost instantly — at first glance, you can't spot the difference between him and an ordinary volunteer, as usual."

  "That's Matthew," I said. "He enjoys getting his hands dirty ... in the literal sense."

  It felt weird to have this conversation with Matt's ex, the two of us standing here alone together. We had never before talked about him, since all our conversations back then were abo
ut Petal's big ceremony, where mention of her ex was immaterial.

  "I suppose that's why he hates being referred to as 'doctor,'" said Petal, smiling. "Always clinging to his plebian roots, as a friend of ours used to joke."

  They must have been a very good friend — or an exceptionally snarky one, judging by that joke. Thinking of Matt and Petal having friends as a couple wasn't doing me any good right now. Moreover, I had never thought about the reasons why Matt seldom used his academic title, unless it was in the halls of learning; and the fact that I had simply accepted it without curiosity now mortified me a little.

  "I guess some people just feel a certain way about things," I ventured, shrugging my shoulders.

  Petal was gazing at the flowers again, the preservation society's work. "It's really quite lovely, isn't it?" she said, softly. "I'm afraid I never appreciate green and growing things as I should. Even when Mat—even when I had the opportunity, I tended to overlook their simplicity."

  She touched the overgrown tip of the heath plant. "He's rather proud of this side of the exhibition. Almost more proud of it than of the roses everyone is dying to see unveiled. Such care in making these cards ... I would recognize his handwriting on anything, even a calligraphy plate."

  There was something almost sad in Petal's face. She regrets losing him, I knew, feeling my heart sink in return. She wishes she had never left him now. Maybe it was just Petal's divorce making her cling to the past — or maybe it was because she finally saw Matt's true value.

  "You're very fortunate," said Petal, looking at me. "Any woman in your place would be, having someone like him in her life." Her smile changed itself into the perfect-and-polite one as another fan approached.

  How could you use a petty thing like jealousy to fight an answer like that?

  ***

  "That's how married life is, isn't it?" said Pippa. "I've caught random girls casting their eyes on Gavin more times than I can count. And I'll wager he's chased off a few blokes who were a bit too friendly with me. Not that I know for certain, I mean."