A Sewing Circle in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  She spread a generous layer of butter on her toasted muffin at the Cliffs House kitchen's table, groaning as a little bit dripped on her sleeve. Michael placed a pot of tea in the middle, and despite the sharp clack I expected the force of his arm to produce with it, there wasn't so much as a rattle of teacups — although his usual scowl could cause unsuspecting breakfasters to rattle their own in fear.

  "Of course, it all goes the way of petty arguments, eventually, doesn't it? Two people trapped in the same house, bickering and barking over the tiniest little problems," sighed Pippa. "Bed by nine, up by five — looking forward to separate hobbies to keep you apart." She took a generous bite from her bread. "So much to look forward to for us married folks."

  I grimaced. "Not every relationship ends up like that," I countered. "Not my parents, for instance. And Lady A and Lord William don't argue all the time, and they seem to look forward to spending time together. I've known dozens of couples who didn't become begrudging roommates after ten years of marriage."

  Well, maybe not that many, but more than one or two.

  "You don't suppose she left Donald to come here and find Matthew, do you?" said Gemma, pouring herself a cup of tea.

  "After all these years?" said Pippa. "Do you suppose she'd still be in love with him all this time?"

  "I would be," answered Gemma. "Maybe she heard he was still in Cornwall —"

  "I don't think Petal came to Ceffylgwyn to steal Matt," I interrupted, not wanting to hear a rumor circulate that Petal was a homewrecker — especially not since it was secretly true that her marriage was ending. "I don't even think she's been secretly pining for him. They're just working together ... I don't have any reason to suspect either of them of anything like that, honestly. I just ... can't help feeling a little jealous, that's all." I didn't like the fact that my voice wavered a little in its calmness now.

  "I would be. Petal's smashing in that cool, sophisticated way models always look," said Pippa — who had seen only one model in person, as far as I knew — and was shrinking me into nothing by this comparison. "Ross isn't the type who wanders, but what if she found out you were in a bit of a rough patch, and made a move to steal him?"

  "She couldn't, could she?" said Gemma, indignantly ... and, I hoped, not disbelievingly. "Would she? After all, she has Donald. He's not my taste ... not anymore ... but he's almost as dishy as Ross, only in a different way."

  "Ross is a man, though," pointed out Pippa. "And models have wiles. Everyone knows it."

  "Pippa!" I declared, exasperated.

  "Sorry," she said, meekly. "I didn't mean he would, Julianne. Honestly. Only that models have a certain way with men. She might've been a London girl summering in this place once, but that was before the runway in New York and Milan. It changes them into something ... exotic. Irresistible."

  Petal was English with an American cultural experience in her past, just like Matt. She probably knew the proper pronunciation of the village's name in Old Cornish and in true Cornish. A perfect match for him — I chopped that thought off at its root as quickly as it grew.

  The strong stench of raw seafood invaded the kitchen suddenly. "What is that?" demanded Pippa, holding her nose as Michael hoisted a tub of ice and shrimp out of the fridge.

  "Ew, Michael, put that away," ordered Gemma, fanning the air with her hand.

  "This is a kitchen for cooking," he reminded her. "Not a tea house for gossips. Go somewhere else if you don't like the atmosphere." A thud as the tub landed on the nearest counter.

  "Matt's far too in love with you to even think about it," insisted Gemma to me. "Of course ... he might still be nursing a broken heart, deep inside, for all that. And it's mostly true that men are programmed to look at anything female that's remotely attractive ... I read that in a magazine, once. That's why they have such a hard time committing to a relationship — it winnows their choices." She picked at her own muffin, gloomily. "Maybe that's Andy's problem — winnowing." Her tone had become a grumble now.

  It was a very gloomy mood overall at breakfast today. I nursed my cup of tea and wished I had never mentioned me and Matthew's fight to anybody alive.

  I hadn't gone back to the cottage yet, because I knew he wasn't there — something about Ronnie needing assistance with some sort of shrub virus. Was he staying there to be helpful to an old friend, or to steer clear of me? Maybe I had insulted him too deeply yesterday for forgiveness.

  You deserve it, for not letting him apologize as he wanted to, one half of my mind argued. But wouldn't he really prefer me be the one to apologize instead? the other half asked. In the end, is this all about who gets the upper hand, and not about who really means it? How such a stupid argument could turn into such a personal philosophical dilemma was staggering my imagination at this point. Was Matthew thinking about it as deeply, or had he already made up his mind on the subject?

  "Men are just so ruddy frustrating," sighed Pippa. "Gavin probably thought we were broken up dozens of times, the way he would go to bed all in a mood over some argument we've had. I never know what's going on in his head when he does. Doesn't even have the decency to apologize for days."

  "Matt would apologize," I said. "I just didn't let him. I don't want him to be insincere just to patch things over." Behind us, a low hissss as the shrimp made contact with a hot pan. The scent of seafood and garlic in the air.

  "You should've let him," said Gemma. "Now he'll think about it for ages and change his mind, probably. He'll let his wounds fester. Think of all those emotions and conflicts rolling around inside him."

  "Like Gavin. He's practically Heathcliff on the moors, sometimes," sniffed Pippa. "Face it. Matthew will probably sulk for a week or two at least."

  "I wish Andy would have the decency to sulk," pouted Gemma.

  From the stove, a saucepan lid clattered loudly. "None of you know anything about how a man's mind works," grunted Michael. He whisked his sauce furiously, pouring it through a strainer over a bowl.

  "I'm sorry, did one of us ask you?" asked Gemma, sarcastically.

  "I'm just saying. You're talking about men, so you should have a man's opinion." He tossed the empty saucepan into the sink.

  "All right, let's hear it," said Gemma. "Go on. You're a man, clearly the expert in the room, so do tell us."

  "For men, it's not that complicated." A flick of Michael's knife scraped a pile of freshly-chopped shrimp into his bowl. "You like a woman, she has a fight with you, you apologize to make her happy again. It's simple. End of story."

  "What?" Pippa answered, incredulously. "Do you think we believe that's true?"

  "Sorry, but I can't seriously believe that Matt wouldn't feel resentment for apologizing first," I said. "Maybe it's been building up all these years and I never knew it. He lost his temper and he never loses it — why not because he thinks it's unfair that he has to make peace?" Especially since I'm the hotheaded, meddling one in our marriage, apparently.

  "I have to practically force Gavin to apologize," protested Pip. "I know he's thinking about ways to get out of it until then."

  "You think," snorted Michael. He ground a dash of salt over his mixing bowl.

  "Sorry, but I know him a bit better than you do," said Pippa. "You're just trying to make us feel guilty because we know just how much men expect from a relationship."

  "Women are the ones who overthink relationships, not men," said Michael. "We don't dwell on issues. We overlook the problems whenever we can. We're big picture people — why fix something small if you can work around it?"

  "Like all our little faults?" said Gemma, crossing her arms. "That's what you overlook — our total personalities, I reckon."

  "Men are far more complicated than that," insisted Pippa.

  Michael set another plate of muffins on the table before me and looked me firmly in the eye. "Tell him the truth. Trust him. Let him apologize."

  Gemma groaned. "Don't listen to him, Julianne," she said. "He's a total unromantic. Somebody that callous can't possi
bly know what a man like Matthew's really thinking."

  "This from a woman dating an emotional barbarian," grunted Michael, as he poured the contents of his mixing bowl into a mold.

  Pippa rolled her eyes. "Not exactly the wisdom of Dinah, is it?" she said with a giggle, while spreading jam on her latest muffin. Referring to Cliffs House's former chef, the no-nonsense cook who had dispensed many a piece of advice — and scolding — to all of us.

  "Not by half," said Gemma.

  ***

  At the latest meeting of the sewing circle, Julie Finley showed off her half-quilted bedspread of 'Tempest in a Teapot' to a deeply-impressed gathering, including myself. The bold colors and patterns placed against a muted tea-colored muslin looked worthy of occupying the display space behind the stall's table.

  "It's just a little something I've been meaning to do since this March past," said Julie. "I saw the pattern online and simply couldn't resist trying it."

  "I'm rather tempted to make one for my spare room," said Charlotte. "Do you recall its website?"

  "Before we lose ourselves in the subject of sewing, there's a few quick items we need to discuss," said Olivia, opening her notebook. "Dovie, is your contribution to the stall finished?"

  "Oh, indeed. I've just finished quilting the outside edges. I did hope to have it finished sooner, but with the number of guests we've had booked, not to mention the excitement of the fete — did you know Michelle Arbury's entering her rose? I've seen it over the fence, and it looks a proper picture, it does —"

  "Yes, Dovie's quilt done," said Olivia to herself, making a note on the page. "Now — Julianne?"

  She looked at me. Everyone was looking at me — not menacingly, although it felt that way to me, due to my guilty conscience in this matter. I cleared my throat. "Ah, um, I ... am still a little behind."

  "Maybe we can help you," suggested Charlotte.

  "Yes, show us, love," said Dovie.

  I reached into my basket and fished out the handful of finished patchwork pieces, piled atop the ones Pippa had been using to teach me. I had finished one of those last night, hoping some practice would warm me up before whipping out some simple patches. It had helped, but not as much as I hoped.

  I spread them out. "Well, here they are," I said. The ladies of the circle stared at them.

  "This one is much better than your first few," ventured Charlotte, touching the one I had sewn last night. "Such nice little stitches. And I do like your colors."

  "Yes, indeed," said Olivia. "But how are you planning to put them together, Julianne?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "They're different sizes. You must have a border you're planning to sew around these four patches, so they'll match the nine patch, don't you?"

  Border? Until now, the means of assembly had completely slipped my mind — as if there was actually going to be time to do it in the next two days. "I'm open to suggestions," I said.

  The other members exchanged glances. With mortification, I knew my patchwork must be in deep trouble.

  This moment of failure for my quilt was the crown atop a difficult day at the fete. Last-minute disasters are inevitable whenever any organization is trying to launch something of this magnitude, much less a committee bringing together so many diverse organizations under one theme. I had wrangled with the band over the phone about their time slot for performing, tangled in person with the irate manager of a food stall who insisted it should be closer to the Cornish games site, and spent the whole morning wondering if Petal was somewhere with the judges for the garden competition. Namely, a certain judge.

  The green-eyed monster of jealousy was definitely trying to take me over. I reviewed Michael's sage advice from this morning, and, despite Gemma and Pippa's protests, I wanted to believe him. I should simply trust Matt. I should trust myself to say the right thing and not screw it up for a third time. Maybe it was time for both of us to say we were sorry, whether we meant it or no.

  "Busy, my dear?" The head of the horticultural society had suddenly appeared, sans red bowtie. "Quick spot of bother and I'll let you go back to your duties."

  "Yes?" I said. Not impatiently, although he had ruined my train of thought as I calculated whether the tea tent needed an additional three dozen cups.

  "David's having some people 'round for drinks at his hotel suite — a sort of 'welcome to the fold' for Macpherson, who's coming down this evening for the fete. The brilliant mind behind the Lady Macbeth?" he prompted, off my evident confusion. "We shall all be there, of course, including Doctor Rose, which is why one naturally asks that you join us also."

  Any other time, the answer would have been 'yes' immediately, but I was calculating the odds that the green-eyed monster would only feed on the sight of Petal being subtly worshipped in a roomful of academics while I tried not to look out of place, hovering beside Matthew among strangers. Better not to take a chance, I decided.

  "Thanks," I said. "But I have some work at the manor which really needs finished today. It would probably be for the best that I decline the invitation."

  "Ah, he said you would claim work as your excuse," said the horticulturist, triumphantly.

  "David?" I didn't even know the scientist in question, so I was befuddled by this revelation.

  "No, my dear, Matthew," he said. "He was quite insistent that I take no excuses. Rather keen on you meeting this Macpherson chap, probably. He's an old chum of your mari, from their university days, I'm told. I'm to accept no answer but 'yes,' it would seem."

  Matthew wasn't taking the chance that he and Petal would be alone in the crowd again. I appreciated his gesture, even as I tried to imagine the reasons were as personal for him as they were for me. "Then I guess I have to accept," I said.

  As soon as he was gone, I texted Matt. What time for drinks?

  He replied a moment later. Eight thirty. A brief pause, then another message appeared. I can drive u.

  I debated this offer. On one hand, we would be alone together, finally, if I agreed. On the other hand, I had no idea what time I would be finished with the fete's organization — and Matt would probably be busy with the roses until the last minute. Plus, he was already closer to the hotel than I was, if not planning to be there early in the afternoon for the sake of Macpherson's arrival.

  Better not. Meet u there.

  A few seconds later, his reply came. Dinner first? A pause. Downstairs?

  Dinner between the two of us. I held my breath as I thought about it. No way we couldn't be alone at a table for two, right? Unless I arrived so phenomenally late that we ate while climbing the stairs to this David whoever's suite.

  Matt knew that, of course. He was prepared to wait for my arrival, if he meant this offer, and I wanted to believe he did. A sweet gesture, so very like the man I love, that it left me with only one answer to give.

  Yes. My fingers typed it without hesitating. See u there.

  Don't overthink it, don't expect too much. Just because Matt and I would be sitting across from each other uninterrupted for the first time in nearly three days was no reason to paint a fantasy ending or an utter disaster. Your own head can be your worst enemy when you've let one little mistake become a chain reaction of them, after all.

  "Look at that stitch. Proper mess, that is," scolded Pippa. "Look, you want it to have a shape like a flower petal's, don't you? You have to pay attention on those curves."

  "I'm sorry," I said, pulling it out carefully. "But I only have a few minutes before I have to meet with Lady A in my office. Right now, I'm just trying to blow off a little steam, not create a work of art."

  "That's no reason to get it wrong," said Pippa, loftily, as she corrected my needle's position.

  "I thought you weren't a perfectionist."

  "You have to be a bit pickier when you're only just learning. Shortcuts come later," she answered. "And if you're planning to cut out that other piece, you need to draw your lines a bit bigger...." She grabbed a pencil from my basket and made me correct th
at part, too.

  ***

  I wouldn't recommend stitches and scissors to work out the wrinkles in one's nerves — I bear the pricked fingers of experience as proof. I postponed my promised help at Cliffs House until later so I could go home and change into a dress, then waited for Pippa to drive me to the Chrysalis. She was reminding me all the way that I was going to miss a brilliant time at the manor, since she and Gemma were planning to order pizza and Chinese takeaway from Truro for supper, to see everyone through the evening's work.

  The dining room was dim and candlelit already at seven forty-five, giving me and Matt a mere forty-five minutes together. The pianist was playing a melancholy jazz piece for atmosphere, and Matt was waiting for me at a table in the middle.

  "Hi." I let the waiter seat me, and waited for the two of us to be alone before venturing anything else. "So here we are again. Only this time I'm appropriately attired."

  "You look lovely," said Matt. He smiled. So did I, yet, like his own, mine was a little uncertain around its edges.

  "You don't have to say that," I answered, surprised that I almost blushed. "It's not like you haven't seen this dress a dozen times in the past." It was a dark red silk, the nicest posh frock in my closet that didn't currently need cleaned. But I had chosen it because it was one of my nicest dresses.

  "Even so," he said. We paused, as the waiter brought our menus and poured our wine. We both ordered plain pasta choices, house salads, as if neither of us was terribly hungry despite a long day's labor.

  Silence, once we were alone. I adjusted my napkin, and tried not to fidget in my chair. Matt glanced towards the pianist as if trying to identify the song.

  I was the first one to break the quiet. "I'm sorry," I said. "Yesterday, I ... I should have let you finish. What I said ... I didn't think until later that maybe it would seem insulting to you."

  "No," said Matthew. He cleared his throat, studying the patternless tablecloth between us. "No, I understood what you meant. And you're right. Not necessarily about us, in my opinion, but about the hazards of sweeping things under rugs. So to speak."