Quilted by Christmas (9781426796142)

by Bailey, Jodie

  But this time was here. He’d offered her his friendship. It was more than she deserved, and at the moment, she decided to accept it, to allow him back in just enough to fill the tiniest part of the hole left when they parted.

  Justin leaned back on his hands again, behind her, so she couldn’t see his face. “Tar, you’d be shocked if you had any idea what—”

  Her hip vibrated, and it took a second for the buzz to reach her ears, to slice into Justin’s statement. Without thinking about the rudeness until it was too late, only concerned something worse had happened to Jemma, she pulled the phone from her pocket and stared at the screen. “It’s Marnie. I haven’t updated her yet.”

  Justin bent a long leg and stood, stretching up to touch the rafters above him. “Take the call. I’m going to tarp the roof and head home.” He looked down at her for a second, then nudged her shin with the toe of his boot. “You okay, McKenna?”

  She nodded, and he vanished down the stairs, leaving the warmth of the attic behind.

  7

  Taryn tapped lightly on the wooden door. Earlier in the morning, before she could get back to the hospital, the doctors had moved Jemma to a regular room on the fourth floor. There was no indication yet what the doctor felt warranted the extra precautions, but apparently the situation no longer merited the constant monitoring of CICU.

  The door swung inward to a large corner room with windows on two sides. Creamy beige walls met nearly identical floors. Taryn thought about asking how her grandmother had managed to get one of the most coveted rooms in the little Dalton hospital, but she already knew. This was Jemma. She could pretty much get anything she wanted with a well-pointed stare.

  At the sound of Taryn’s hesitant knock, Jemma looked up from the Bible on her lap. “Come on in. You brought my makeup, right? I’m sure I look a fright enough to scare some of these young nurses into their own personal hospital stays.”

  Taryn held up the small toiletries bag, then hefted a plastic grocery bag. “And I managed to sneak in your curling iron too. If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you use it.”

  “Hair spray?”

  Taryn imitated one of the best duh looks her students liked to throw around. Who brought a curling iron and forgot the hair spray? Last time she checked, she was a girl. Girls remembered stuff.

  Jemma finally broke her stern expression to smile. Ah. There was the Jemma only a few people got to see. “Well, bring them over here and tell me how things are at the house.”

  Now there was a loaded topic of conversation. Taryn glanced at the heart monitor beeping steadily by Jemma’s bed and wondered what would happen if she told the whole rain-soaked story right now.

  “You’ve only been gone overnight.” Taryn passed the make-up bag to her grandmother and set the grocery bag on the floor by the bed. “Not a lot can fall apart in less than twenty-four hours.” Lord, forgive me for evading the question.

  “You cleaned up the dishes in the kitchen?”

  Taryn’s nod came with some hesitation. Yes, she’d cleaned up the kitchen. But only after Justin left and she sat down on the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and indulged in a good ugly cry over everything that had happened in the past two days.

  Taryn looked away, out the window framing the mountains leading up to the high valley where Hollings nestled. For some reason, seeing Jemma lying in a hospital bed made her look like someone other than her Jemma. She looked ten years older, more frail. Taryn had never noticed the finer lines on her grandmother’s face before, the fact her red hair had faded to pink and thinned in spots. All of these things became suddenly, starkly clear in the sterile beige surroundings. Taryn wanted to trade in the woman in the bed for her Jemma, the strong one who refused to ask for help when she needed a tool off the top shelf, who packed her pistol in her pocket to guard against any snake brave enough to challenge her as she set off for a daily walk through the orchard.

  “Why on earth are you looking at me like I’m already dead?” Jemma demanded. “I cracked my arm, not my skull. Last time I checked, I was still breathing.” The words were the typical tenacious Jemma, but her eyes weren’t quite lit up like they usually were. Behind them lay an expression Taryn had only seen one other time in her life, when her grandmother hovered over her at the hospital in Pennsylvania. It was fear. Back then, Jemma was forced to face down one of her worst nightmares, her granddaughter following in her daughter’s life-altering footsteps. Today, for someone who lived her life controlling everything around her, this confinement was likely tearing at her grandmother’s sanity.

  “You’re going to be fine, Jemma.”

  “Eventually,” she sighed.

  “Has the doctor been in to see you yet today?”

  “Not yet.” The makeup bag rustled as Jemma busied herself pulling out foundation and other assorted gussying-up items. “He’ll be around soon enough, I imagine.” She smeared foundation on her face, then studied herself in the mirror of her compact. “My makeup’s not too dark, is it?”

  Taryn studied her face to placate her. They had this discussion about three times a week. “Nope. Blends perfectly.”

  Jemma eyed her granddaughter for a minute as if trying to judge truthfulness, took one more glance at the mirror, then snapped the compact shut. “But you’d tell me if it was, right? I don’t ever want to be one of those old women who walks around looking like they glued an orange mask to their face.”

  “No danger of such a thing, love. You’d never let it happen. I think I’m more in danger than you.”

  Jemma looked up with a practiced eye. “Speaking of which . . .”

  And here we go.

  “Your blush looks a little bit pink. You might want to tone it down. Better yet, try another color entirely.”

  Taryn stood and leaned down to kiss Jemma’s cheek. “You are so lucky I love you when you make comments like those.”

  “Like what? You don’t want to walk around looking like a clown, do you? If I don’t love you enough to tell you, who will?”

  “Nobody loves me like you, Jemma.” And nobody could make her angrier either. It said a lot about their relationship. They were probably closer than a grandmother and her granddaughter should be, but after all they’d been through together, it was bound to be a relationship just over the edge of the norm.

  Still, it was time to change the subject before they wandered deeper into outward appearance. The inevitable next part of the discussion involved the fact that Taryn should never wear a baseball cap in public—not even to Walmart—and her shirts were too big and she should let her grandmother tuck the sides to show off her figure, which, come to think of it, might be a little heavy.

  Taryn smiled in spite of herself. Jemma couldn’t help it. She was born to boss, and she did it because she cared. It offended a lot of people, but it rarely offended Taryn. Rarely. There had been a few knock-down, drag-outs between them. Usually after one of those “you look a little heavy” comments. If Jemma would stop inviting her over for spaghetti and caramel cake, “little heavy” might not be such an issue.

  “So, we need to talk about why the doctor is concerned about you when they set the bone.” Not the light conversation they needed at the moment, but Taryn couldn’t help it. She had to know.

  Jemma stopped rummaging in her bag and huffed a look at Taryn, a shadow crossing her eyes. “I’m past seventy. Anytime they put an old woman under anesthesia, they worry.”

  “There’s more to it.” Taryn sat forward in the chair and forced her grandmother to look her in the eye. “You’re hooked up to a heart monitor. Pretty sure it’s not standard operating procedure for a broken arm. Neither is cardiac ICU if they’re watching a head injury.”

  “We can talk about it later. There’s nothing new under this sun.” Jemma plopped her hands on top of the bag and turned her full attention to Taryn. “Now, answer me a riddle that kept me up half the night.”

  Right. A riddle kept her up half the night. Not the mystery diagnosis or the
pain she wasn’t talking about, the same pain etching deeper wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Taryn glanced at the IV and wondered how much medication was coursing through her grandmother’s veins. Not enough, if she was this much like her old self. “What riddle?” Taryn dropped into the chair at the side of her bed and waited.

  “Why was Justin the one to find me?”

  Taryn’s eyes drifted shut. The conversation on the roof seemed like it was another lifetime ago, overshadowed by the hospital and last night’s ceiling disaster. It wasn’t something they needed to get into now. But if Taryn didn’t, Jemma would come after her when she found out. There would likely be no caramel cake for a long time as punishment. “He was coming in to talk to you about the house.”

  “What’s wrong with the house? He got the lights up, right?”

  “He did, and they were sparkling up a storm when I went by there last night. But Jemma . . .” Taryn leaned forward and stared at the rail of the bed. “The roof needs to be replaced. You have a hefty leak in one spot, and there are a couple more threatening.” It was good enough for the moment. Hopefully, Taryn could get the replacement quilt done before Jemma found out the one she’d been working on so hard for Rachel was destroyed. “He was coming to tell you to get bids for people to do the work.”

  “Bids.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Bids nothing. Have Justin do the work.”

  “I kind of figured you’d want him to. He’s starting repair work today, but the roof will have to wait for warmer weather. I’ll find out what he’ll charge.”

  “Tell him to wait until tomorrow. There’s never a good reason for work on Sunday.”

  Except a hole in the ceiling.

  She charged on, thankfully not hearing Taryn’s thoughts. “I don’t care what he wants in pay. The income off the orchard will cover a gracious plenty. Now, I want you to know why I called Justin in the first place and not somebody else.” Jemma laid her bag to the side before a sympathetic smile set in. “Sometimes we do things when we’re younger, and we regret them later.” The comment had an air of uncertainty a little out of character for Jemma. “Maybe it’s time you two patched things up.”

  “I think we did.” If the feeling of rightness in the attic last night was any indication.

  “Good.” Her smug look belonged only on a cat after it had filled its belly with pilfered tuna.

  “Pride goeth before a fall, Jem.”

  Her grandmother opened her mouth to backtalk just as a sharp rap sounded on the door and an unfamiliar doctor poked his head in. “Mrs. Brodigan? I’m Dr. Sykes, the orthopedic surgeon.”

  The smug look slipped, and Jemma reached over to pat Taryn’s hand. “I know you’ve got things to do today, and they don’t involve sitting here with me, hon. Why don’t you run on and work on Rachel’s quilt for me, and you can come back and visit later this afternoon.”

  “But I just got here.” And she wanted to know what the surgeon had to say.

  “Run along.” Jemma dismissed her granddaughter like a child. “You know how much Rachel needs her quilt. I love you. Talk to you later. Everything’s fine.”

  * * *

  Taryn’s fingers burned from the long unfamiliar friction of fabric against skin, and they ached from guiding the needle through cloth to join green-and-white squares with solid white squares in an alternating pattern. In spite of the pain, the payoff felt huge. One entire row of the quilt was pieced together. A small surge of triumph numbed the ache in her fingers. Wow. And it only took her—she glanced at the clock on Jemma’s white sewing room wall—four hours.

  Her neck and upper back screamed from the unnatural position of hunching over in the chair. All she wanted was a good walk through the orchard, a hike up Jackson Mountain. Something, anything to move her whole body and stretch out tight muscles. Leaning back, she pressed her hands into her lower back and stretched, tight muscles telling how much she was going to hate them in the morning when it was time to get up and teach those high schoolers of hers.

  There was still plenty of daylight left and a couple of hours before she went to see her grandmother again. It would feel good to pull on her boots and tromp through the orchard for a bit, let the fresh air kick out some of the fabric dust in her lungs, celebrate her triumph.

  She dropped the sewn strip on the rest of the squares and deflated a bit. Some triumph. It took her four hours to sew one strip. The quilt needed about a gajillion more. At this rate, the thing would be done in time for Rachel’s first anniversary.

  A tap on the window nearly shot her out of her chair. She slid backward, losing traction on the plastic carpet protector, and gripped the edge of the sewing table, meeting eyes in the window. Fear completely ripped the scream trying to tear out of her throat, but then her eyes focused.

  Justin. On a ladder. Laughing at her.

  Taryn stalked around the table and shoved the window up, then leaned back against the table. “You’re so lucky I learned the whole be nice thing in preschool, or else I’d shove the ladder away from the house and watch you land in the bushes behind you.”

  He looked over his shoulder as if gauging the distance, then shot her a boyish grin. “Wouldn’t be near as funny as you scrambling just then.”

  The look Taryn fired at him should have knocked him backward without her even having to touch him.

  “What were you doing up here anyway?” He propped an elbow on the windowsill. “I knocked, yelled, propped a ladder up against the side of the house . . .”

  He did all that? Taryn kneaded a knot in her neck. “Guess sewing teeny tiny stitches in perfectly straight even rows re-quires more concentration than I thought it did.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? I told you I’d help.”

  Because he only said it to be nice. Because the last thing a guy like him wanted to do was spend a Sunday afternoon when it wasn’t brutally cold chilling out with a girl and shoving a needle through cloth. Taryn shrugged.

  “Taryn, I meant what I said. Let me help.” He pulled his arm from the windowsill and gripped the ladder with both hands. “I only came by to check on the tarp because I won’t have the stuff I need to start repairs until tomorrow. I’m going to come around, and we’ll work on the quilt for a little bit.”

  If she told him she was finished for the day, he’d think she was lying. Her aching fingers screamed a denial loud enough for him to hear, but it was nothing compared to the lecture he’d likely give if she didn’t let him help. “Okay.”

  “Don’t sound so excited,” his voice drifted back up to her, and the ladder rocked against the house as he disappeared.

  It was only a minute before Justin appeared in the doorway. He slapped his hands together like they were about to play ball. “Needle? Thread? Let’s get this quilt pieced.”

  Taryn wanted to be mad at him for being as bossy as Jemma, but she couldn’t. The sight of him, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and military tall, calling for a quilt to be pieced was more than her frayed emotions could handle. She laughed like he’d morphed into Abbott and Costello combined with the Three Stooges. She laughed like only laughter could save her life.

  And maybe it was true.

  The thought sobered her up pretty quickly. The mirth was gone as quickly as it came. “Sorry, Sergeant Seamstress.” A smirk sneaked out.

  He eyed her, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps strain against the fabric of his long-sleeved t-shirt.

  Yeah, again, this was not the Justin she grew up with. Taryn looked away before she could enjoy the looking too much. She gave up the right long ago. They were friends now. Friends. Friends.

  “Are you finished laughing at me?” The question was laced with sarcasm.

  “I think so.” Yep. She was definitely finished. The warm little fuzzy in her stomach was nothing to laugh at.

  “Can we sew now?”

  She choked on a snort.

  “Whatever.” Justin dropped his arms to his sides and stalked across the room in what
Taryn hoped was mock anger. “Give me a needle. I’ll sew you under the table.”

  “Sounds uncomfortable.” Jemma’s glider rocker slipped back and forth as Taryn sank sweetly into it, then reached for a stack of squares on the table beside her. If her fingers had tear ducts, they’d weep.

  “You know what I mean.” Before Taryn could even re-thread her needle, Justin was settled on the floor, threaded and stitching.

  Pain or not, the challenge was on.

  They worked in silence for nearly twenty minutes before Justin finally spoke. “How’s Jemma today?”

  “Cantankerous.” Taryn pulled her thread through and gauged how many more stitches were left before she had to reload.

  “Jemma? Cantankerous? No.”

  “Sarcasm is not becoming, Mr. Callahan.”

  He whipped her a grin and made two quick stitches. “I was kind of surprised to see your car here. I figured you’d be at the hospital with her.”

  “You and me both.”

  “So what happened?” Justin’s thread popped as he snapped it and reached for the spool on the sewing table.

  “She booted me out when the orthopedic surgeon showed up.”

  There was a long silence as Justin rethreaded the needle and found his last stitch. He probably whipped through five or six stitches before he stopped and caught Taryn looking at him. “What are you not saying, McKenna?”

  “You’ve been doing that a lot.”

  “Doing what a lot?”

  “Calling me McKenna.” When he was six years old, Justin had decided he wanted nothing more in life than to be a soldier. For more than a year, he refused to call people by their first name because his Uncle Roger called all of his Army buddies by their last name. Until his mom jerked a knot into his rear end, he even called her Callahan. The habit died off after a while, but it was a joke the two of them carried into high school.

  “Army training? Old habit?” He laid his half-finished strip aside and leaned back on his hands, stretching his neck and straightening his legs in front of him. “I’ve outsewn you twice over. What’s going on?”