Quilted by Christmas (9781426796142)

by Bailey, Jodie

  “She’s Jemma.” The door slam echoed off the bare apple trees and blew back to her on the stiff breeze. “Wants me to bring her makeup tomorrow. You know, the usual. Forget she broke her arm and bumped her head and has some undisclosed medical condition she’s refusing to talk about. It’s all about not looking her age.”

  Justin grinned. “Makeup, huh? Yeah, I can see the importance.”

  “What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be off somewhere sleeping or something?” She hip-checked the door shut and stepped up by the hood of her car, making sure to keep the two vehicles between them. Had she actually considered leaning against his broad chest in the waiting room? The heat creeping up her cheeks should have steamed in the damp chilled air.

  “I don’t need no stinking sleep. I had to come up here anyway, and I was kind of hoping you’d head up this way tonight before you went home.” Justin reached in his pocket and held up an object.

  Her cell phone. Great. Retrieving it would mean narrowing the buffer zone between them. They met at the front of her car, at the back bumper of his truck. “Thanks. I’d have been frantic here in a few minutes when I figured out it was missing.”

  “I thought about leaving it here, but where? And how would I tell you where it was? I have no idea where you’re living,so . . .”

  “In town. On School Street.” She drew a line in the mud with her toe. He’d know exactly where her house was now.

  “You’re kidding.”

  Shaking her head, she smiled at the ground. Yep. He remembered.

  “The little green house across the street from the post office? With the white fence?” A grin nearly split his face. “How did you manage that? You talked about the house your whole life. I never thought Wanda Jennings would give her place up.”

  “Wanda Jennings moved to Arizona to be closer to her grandchildren. And she didn’t give it up easily. She rented it to me for a few years before she finally decided she’d never actually move back here. I had to promise her never to paint it a different color, so it will be green forever, whether I like it or not.”

  “Well, there ya go. Small price to pay for the house you always loved.” He leaned an elbow against the tailgate of the truck. The stiff breeze fingered the longer hair on the top of his head, flipping it over itself and leaving it rumpled, reminiscent of all of those times he ran his fingers through it when he was nervous. Not a trace of nerves now, not in this man who held so much confidence Taryn envied him. “Never could figure out why you liked the place so much.”

  She shrugged and slipped her cell phone into her hip pocket. “I guess it just spoke something to me.” What, she couldn’t guess, but the tiny green house on the big town lot had first caught her attention before she could remember. Her childish eyes had been captured by the idea of a green house, sitting amidst the white-sided houses on the narrow Hollings street. Maybe it became a habit, staring at the color every time Jemma made a post office run, but it burrowed inside Taryn’s heart and she knew she wanted to live there forever. Every time Justin and Taryn would bounce Fred through town, she’d detour by and force Justin to live her silly dreams of planters in the windows and an apple tree in the backyard. “Four years.”

  “What?”

  “Four years ago, I bought it.” The day she drove into Asheville and signed the papers making it—and a tidy little mortgage payment—hers, she’d had the irrational urge to call Justin, to scream out her triumph to the person she’d shared all of her longings with, even though it had been years since they’d last spoken. The tug was so big it scared her, and right now, it was back with an overwhelming force. Some small corner of her brain acknowledged she was playing with fire. “Know what? Thanks for bringing my phone. I need to go in and shut off some lights and make sure everything’s secure. I’ll see you later.” The faster she got him off the property and out of her sight, the better.

  “Actually, I still need to go up on the roof.”

  “At ten o’clock at night?”

  Justin shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I never got the tarp done because Jemma . . . anyway, I was wanting to poke around a bit and make sure the rain from earlier didn’t do any damage. I swung by Dad’s and picked up a tarp and was just about to go up there and anchor it down. Won’t take too long.”

  The dumbest thing Taryn could do while her brain felt like the scrambled eggs in fried rice was to tell him it was okay to stick around a little longer, but if she didn’t and the roof leaked, she’d hate to have to explain her reasons to Jemma. And if she didn’t let him go up there, he’d leave sure as the world, and she’d be right back where she started, alone, facing a dark house here and an even darker one at home. “I don’t see a problem with you getting it done right quick.” Liar.

  “I’d just put the ladder up when I saw your headlights coming up the drive. Shouldn’t take long.” Justin flicked a two-fingered salute off his temple and disappeared around the house.

  How could he be so nice? Act like she hadn’t backed him into a corner and tried to manipulate him before he left? The way he treated her, sitting by her in the waiting room, showing up at the house to seal up Jemma’s roof, it almost seemed like he’d managed to forget what she’d done. Why couldn’t she let it go too? It would be so easy, would feel so good to just let herself sink into what they used to have, the solid feeling of Justin always being there for her.

  If, in fact, he wanted her friendship back like he said he did. Why he would was beyond her. The only thing she’d ever done was use his time and his shoulder. Had she ever listened to him? Let him have his way when he wanted to do something?

  Second chances. Did she deserve one?

  Taryn tipped her head back and looked up at the sky, where dim stars peeked between clouds, harbingers of a temperature drop already painting the air. “Lord Jesus, I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

  He didn’t clue her in.

  With a sigh, she fished Jemma’s house key out of her pocket and planted a foot on the cement back steps, just as Justin rounded the corner of the house, mouth set in a grim line.

  “Taryn.”

  The key froze against the lock as her heart pounded twice. Had something else happened to Jemma? Why would the hospital call him? She stepped backward down the step away from the door. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry. I knew one bad rain could do some damage, but I didn’t think it would—“

  Taryn didn’t wait for him to finish. The sewing room. Jemma had left Rachel’s quilt on the machine table in the sewing room. She ripped open the back door, Justin at her heels, and raced upstairs.

  * * *

  Taryn ran her hands over the soaked fabric, bits of plaster and insulation clinging to her fingers. A tea-colored puddle soaked through the entire pile of fabric to the wood sewing machine table below, then dripped onto the rug over the hardwood floor. She closed her eyes and curled Jemma’s hard work in her fist. “Ruined.” The word leaked out on a moan. How was she supposed to go to the hospital tomorrow and tell Jemma that Rachel’s quilt was destroyed, and there was nowhere near enough time for her to make a new one?

  “Taryn?” Justin’s voice was hesitant, like he was afraid she might punch him if he spoke too loudly. “I’m sorry.”

  Oh, it would feel so good to latch onto his apology and blame him for this mess, so good to take this whole evil, stinking day out on him, but one look at his miserable face and the idea died before the words could reach her tongue. He hadn’t put the tarp on the roof because he was sitting at the hospital with her. Comforting her. She was the one who should be apologizing.

  She sighed. “You can’t control the weather.”

  “No, but I—”

  Taryn threw her hand up between them. “Don’t. Just stop now. It’s not your fault.” She dropped into the upholstered desk chair in front of the sewing machine, damp fabric cold against the back of her jeans. Well, now she couldn’t stand up again without looking like a three-y
ear-old after too many juice boxes. Why not add to the tally of yuck this day had already offered? She slid her hand along the damp fabric of the chair and held it up for Justin to see.

  He winced. “Ouch.”

  The chair squeaked as Taryn leaned back, staring at the stain in the ceiling, plaster crumbling in damp splotches. “Well, I guess it could have been worse.”

  “I’d like to know how.” Justin leaned back against the table, looked down at the water, made a face, and slid farther down to a dry spot before settling in again.

  “I don’t know. It’s just what people say, isn’t it?”

  Dragging a hand down his face, Justin tilted his head back. “I’ll fix the ceiling. No charge.”

  “Jemma would never let you. She’ll probably go ahead and tell you to do all of the roof work once she knows what’s going on. And don’t you dare say one more time it’s your fault, just because you caught it two hours before it fell in, young man.”

  “You sound just like her.”

  Taryn screwed up her lips and nodded. “I come by it honest.”

  “So what was up with the quilt?” Justin poked it with his index finger, lifting the edges of a stack of fabric as if to see whether the damage went all the way through.

  “Rachel’s getting married on New Year’s Eve.”

  “I heard the two of them were finally tying the knot.”

  “On my dad’s side of the family, it’s been tradition for as long as anyone can remember for the mother of the bride to hand-sew a quilt for the wedding.”

  Her mother’s voice still echoed, and Taryn could almost see her sitting in the middle of the bed on her purple and white quilt, sewn by Gramma McKenna, hastily, out of necessity. “Someday,” her mother’s smooth hands had guided Taryn’s young fingers across tiny stitches, “I’ll make one for you like Gramma made one for your dad and me and her mother made one for her. I’ll teach you how to make one for your daughter. On and on, forever.”

  “Only Rachel’s mother died in a car wreck. And you lost yours.”

  Justin’s statement pulled her back into the room. “Yeah. And with Gramma McKenna gone when we were toddlers, there was nobody to pick up the mantle.” She shrugged. “Jemma stepped in. It was going to be a surprise. Jemma was worried she’d never get it finished in time, especially with Christmas coming on.” She breathed out heavily. “The answer just became no.”

  “It has to be hand-sewn?” Justin pulled the least soggy piece from the bottom of the pile and inspected the stitches.

  “At least the top part. Jemma said something about having the actual quilting done by machine.”

  “Hm.” He held the strip of squares higher, close to his face, eyes squinted.

  “Need glasses?”

  “What?” The cloth dropped to the floor, and he bent to pick it up. “No. Just looking at the stitches. Jemma does a great job. Those are pretty tight, so close you almost can’t tell they were done by hand. Can you clean this?”

  “Doubtful.” Taryn snagged her own strip and studied the soiled square. What had once been the brilliant white of new fallen snow now looked like the piles left in the parking lot of the gas station after all of the pretty snow melted. “It will always look like someone dumped coffee on it, even if you bleach it. Which you can’t do anyway because it would destroy the blue.” Satisfied she had headed off his next question, Taryn tossed the soggy mess onto the heap.

  “Can you start over?” Justin added his own material to the pile. “Never mind. I already know the answer. Even if you didn’t have to teach every day and visit the hospital, Jemma’s probably been at this for weeks.”

  “Mmm-hmm. The tough part’s not piecing together the rows, which is all we had left to do here. It’s piecing the squares. On a sewing machine, I could get it done fairly quickly, but by hand . . . a queen-size quilt?”

  “Too bad Jemma doesn’t keep half-sewn quilts lying around.”

  “You are one funny guy, Callahan. Jemma Brodigan never leaves a project unfinished.” The statement tickled a memory that drove Taryn to her feet.

  “What?” Justin straightened, apparently ready to follow wherever she ran.

  “Come on.” Taryn paced out of the room, determined not to run out the door like one of her high schoolers on a sugar binge. She knew the exact answer to this problem. Thank You, God.

  Justin clomped up the attic stairs behind her, never asking what was happening until Taryn had the quilt blocks spread out on the floor between them in a riot of green and white. He cupped his chin in his hand and shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” One knee popped as he squatted beside her and picked up a piece of fabric, eyeing it in the dim attic light. “What’s it doing up here?”

  “I have no idea. Just found it helping Jemma unpack Christmas decorations.”

  “Well, it definitely qualifies when it comes to hand-sewn.” Justin ran a practiced eye down the seams.

  “Okay, wait. This is the second time you’ve talked like an expert.” Taryn dropped onto her backside and wrapped her arms around her knees. “What gives, Callahan? The army teach you how to quilt and cross-stitch? Did you earn a medal for embroidery?”

  “Very funny.” He tossed the square into the pile and leaned back on his hands. “Remember when I broke my leg our junior year of high school and I couldn’t do marching band?”

  “Yeah. I was miserable without you.” Wait. Those words sounded wrong. “I was miserable without you to cut up with at practice.” A little better.

  “I was miserable without you too.” Justin cleared his throat. “Don’t you remember what my grandmother set me to doing since I was of no use to Dad in the business or to the marching band on the field?”

  Taryn snorted a laugh, the vision of Justin sitting at the kitchen table at his grandmother’s house, awkward fingers holding a needle. “Hemming the shepherds’ robes she sewed for your church Christmas pageant.”

  “By. Hand.” Justin wiggled his fingers between them. “I never knew so much muscle ache in all my life. She only had the one sewing machine, so while she whipped out new ones, I hemmed the old ones.” He flexed his fingers. “I’m here to tell you, I wished I’d broken both arms instead of one dumb leg.”

  “I remember now. Such moaning and groaning out of an almost grown man. It was pathetic.”

  “Hey.” He lowered his gaze and aimed a finger across the unfinished quilt at her. “It hurt, okay? My manly fingers weren’t made for a needle.”

  “Manly?” Taryn snorted. “Says the star mathlete and science fair champion of the Dalton High School Celtics?”

  “Real men know pi to thirty-seven places.”

  “Okay.”

  His cheek cocked with a half smile. “Just so you know, you are still under threat of death if you ever decide to tell anyone. Ever. Because now I’m trained. By Uncle Sam.”

  Taryn tapped her eyebrow with a two-fingered salute.

  “Anyway, it all worked out in the end. I will have you know being adept with needle and thread bought me many a meal during my time in the army. You’d be amazed at how many guys need pants hemmed before an inspection or a formal.”

  “I’d think you’d get laughed straight out of the barracks.”

  “I did. Once. And then I saved a few guys’ butts from extra duty. Believe me, I was thanking my grandmother profusely every time I got a free pizza.” He aimed a finger at Taryn. “Point is, I can sew a straight line pretty well, with stitches even enough to get a soldier past an inspection. I can help you sew these.”

  Taryn opened her mouth, ready to tell him no, but something stopped her. “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  Taryn sniffed, shook her head, looked toward the window at the dark sky. “I seem to recall someone once telling me on his parents’ front lawn how I was high maintenance and needy. This whole day is a fine illustration of both.” There was no drama in the words, no emotion, just a stated fact. She’d long ago accepted he was right.

&n
bsp; Wincing, Justin kicked the edge of a nearby plastic box. “Somebody was angry. And lashing out.” He pinned her gaze. “Feeling manipulated.”

  “Rightly so.” She couldn’t meet his eye, dropping down to look at her feet instead, pulling at a loose thread on the hem of her damp jeans. “What I did was wrong. Way, way wrong.” She’d wrestled with God about it more than Justin would ever know, but it was the first time she’d said it out loud.

  “It was.” His voice was too quiet.

  The weight of conviction hit her like never before.

  “It was devious and unfair.” He said it matter-of-factly, emotion gone, probably long dead over years of thinking about what she’d done.

  Taryn nodded.

  He scooted around and planted himself right beside her, mimicking her posture, arms around his knees, hands dangling in the air. “But it was also wrong of me, losing my temper.” He sniffed. “The older I get, the more people I get to know, the more I see it’s better to hold your tongue and wait a little bit before you go off saying the first thing in your head. Mouth off and tell a drill sergeant just once what you’re thinking about him, and you learn.”

  The air in the attic was suddenly heavy and still, but not in an oppressive way. It was like a warm blanket settled, comforting, peaceful, like Jemma’s fresh-out-of-the-dryer hospital blanket. Did Justin feel it too?

  He was inches from her radiating warmth that heated the chill in the legs of her damp jeans. “I knew better, and a tiny part of me even knew what you were doing, trying to convince me to stay, but sometimes, as a guy who’d already taken his share of cold showers . . .” His low chuckle held no humor. “There’s a breaking point.”

  “I trashed our friendship.”

  “With my help.”

  “I’m sorry.” For so many things.

  “So am I.”

  So this was true confession time, in Jemma’s attic. Not in any way she’d envisioned it so many times. Maybe now was the time to tell him everything, how she’d saved him, but she stopped. It sounded like bragging about her own sacrifice, like she wanted him to cheer her on and praise her decision. No. Now wasn’t the time. The right time might never come.