Ties That Bind

by Marie Bostwick

  “Well,” I continued, determined to make this as painless as possible, “I want you all to know how much I’ve enjoyed serving here. It’s been a wonderful experience.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear you say so,” Ted said. “You and I had a few rocky moments, but we sorted everything out in the end, didn’t we?” He shifted his eyes from me to Miranda and back to me.

  “Absolutely.”

  “We were worried that it might be too much for you, especially with the baby,” Miranda said.

  “No. Certainly not,” I said, bristling a bit at the suggestion.

  Never, at any point, had I let my condition prevent me from giving my very best to the congregation. Until the congregational meeting, no one had even guessed I was pregnant. It was one thing to rescind my contract because they wanted to bring Reverend Tucker back early, but saying they were doing so because I hadn’t been able to handle the workload during my pregnancy was something else entirely. After all my long hours and hard work, that hurt.

  “Since coming to New Bern, I’ve never worked less than a ten-hour day.”

  Miranda looked at Ted and Abigail. “That’s why we’ve been worried. It’s just too much. That’s why we settled on a three-quarter position. It will be so much better for everyone.”

  “Three-quarter position?” I shifted in the pint-sized desk chair, trying to find a spot where the plastic backrest didn’t hit me in the kidneys.

  “I understand your hesitation,” Abigail said. “We all know that there’s no such thing as part-time ministry, but we’re going to be vigilant about making sure that you have three full days off per week. I’m going to hold them to it, I can promise you that!”

  Her posture, as always, was ramrod straight, but she pulled her shoulders back even farther, as if to underscore her immovability on this point—whatever the point might be. I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Excuse me. But aren’t the three of you here to tell me you’re going to terminate my contract early?”

  Abigail’s eyebrows shot up. “Terminate your contract? On the contrary, we’d like to extend it—”

  “With some stipulations,” Ted interrupted and then cleared his throat officiously. “Last week, I took it upon myself to make a few calls to board members, nothing official, mind you, to take something of a straw poll to discuss various options and opportunities that might be …”

  Abigail set her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest while Ted droned on about staffing optimization, volunteer utilization, and some sort of statistical study he’d read about in the Christian Science Monitor that, at least to me, seemed entirely unrelated to either issue. Abigail glowered. The two biggest personalities on the board might be on better terms than previously, but it was clear the cessation of hostilities in the Carney / Spaulding battle was an armistice at best, possibly a short one. Abigail looked ready to explode, but Miranda came to the rescue and laid her hand on Ted’s arm. Happily distracted by her touch, Ted stopped talking and turned toward her.

  “I think what Ted is trying to say is that he, and the rest of the board,” she said, nodding toward Abigail, who uncrossed her arms, “were concerned about our staffing situation even before Reverend Tucker’s heart attack, but we were at a loss as to how to deal with it. Last week, Abigail and Ted got together for a bit of brainstorming and came up with a few ideas.

  “Basically, it comes down to this: We’d like you to complete your original contract and then, after taking off a few months for maternity leave, come back on as a three-quarter-time associate minister. You’d preach once a month, which would give Bob a break, but your primary emphasis would be pastoral counseling and volunteer coordination. How does that sound to you?”

  The proposal caught me by surprise, so much so that I hesitated a moment before answering. “It sounds … perfect.”

  And it really was, a position that played to my strengths and a schedule that would make motherhood a bit easier. I only had a couple of concerns.

  “But how are you going to pay for another staff position? The budget is pretty tight as it is. And … will there be an allowance for housing?” I didn’t wish to appear ungrateful, but at three-quarter salary, there was no way I could afford to pay for rent.

  “The Wynne Foundation will fund the position for the first three years,” Abigail explained. For all intents and purposes, Abigail was the Wynne Foundation, so I knew that the idea had probably originated with her.

  “The foundation focuses our funding on projects that emphasize community involvement, matching grants and the like, getting people to participate in solving their problems instead of just expecting the foundation to throw money at them. The church’s newfound emphasis on volunteerism makes it a perfect fit with our mission.”

  Ted took over from there. “Barbara Stadler did a bit of number crunching. Using volunteers from within the church should actually offset much of the cost of a new position. And the leftover money from Waldo’s bequest will give us the money we need to remodel the third floor of the parsonage into an apartment for you and the baby.” Ted grinned. “Assuming you don’t plan on having any other children, it should be plenty big enough for the two of you.”

  I laughed. “I’m pretty sure that one baby will be as much as I can handle, but … are you sure that the Tuckers will want to give up the space?”

  “It was their idea,” Miranda said. “With their children grown and gone, they don’t need it. And Sharon is hoping you’ll let her babysit now and then. So?” She clapped her hands together in a “let’s wrap this up” gesture. “What do you think? After the baby is born, would you like to come back to New Bern?”

  For a moment, I was so choked up that I couldn’t speak. But I didn’t have to. My smile said it all.

  58

  Margot

  July

  I opened the cardboard box, pulled out a ceramic cup with pink blossoms painted on the side and a green handle that looked like a twig. “Mom? Where do you want these?”

  My mother was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor trying to figure out how to fit a small mountain of cookware into a cupboard about the size of a toaster oven. She looked up at me and groaned. “The Desert Rose dishes? Didn’t those go in the garage sale?”

  I peered into the box and shook my head. “Looks like they’re all here, the whole set. What do you want me to do with them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She climbed up off the floor and started opening cupboards, searching for an empty shelf. There weren’t any. Every inch of available space in the tiny kitchen was already packed with dishes, glasses, serving pieces, pots, pans, and assorted bric-a-brac. In preparation for the move, my parents had sold or given away about half of their possessions, but they still had way more stuff than could be easily squeezed into the two-bedroom cottage they’d decided to rent for a year before buying a house in New Bern.

  Mom turned around and stared vacantly at the box, then shrugged. “Just tape it up and put it in the garage with the rest of the overflow. I think we’re going to have to rent one of those storage units. Is that the last box for the kitchen? Please,” she said and clutched at my arm in mock desperation. “Tell me it is.”

  I smiled. One of the several pleasures of having my parents move to New Bern was rediscovering my mother’s sense of humor.

  “Unless Dad and Paul are hiding more in the truck, that’s it. Where are those two anyway? I haven’t seen them for a while.”

  “I don’t know,” Mom said, quickly opening a drawer and riffling through a pile of silverware. “Margot, have you seen any other teaspoons? I think some are missing.”

  “No.”

  “Huh. You sure? Well, I suppose they’ll turn up eventually.”

  Mom shut the drawer as Olivia came running into the kitchen. Except for a slight limp that the doctor said she’d always have, you’d never have been able to tell that she’d spent so many weeks in the hospital and in physical therapy. Olivia would never be
a track star, but she could walk and she could run. I was so grateful.

  “Grandma,” Olivia said in a voice that wasn’t quite a whine, but close, “you promised to play with me. James is so boring. He’s just reading his stupid book and I’ve been waiting for you for-ev-er!” Olivia moaned and draped herself over the back of a kitchen chair, feigning exhaustion. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. Olivia was Mari’s child, all right.

  “Livie,” I chided. “Is that any way to speak to Grandma?”

  She looked at me and squirmed a little, rolling her head sideways. After a moment, she pulled herself to a standing position and sighed. “Grandma, could you please play with me?”

  Mom smiled. “Of course I will play with you, sweetheart, right after I make lunch.”

  “I can do that, Mom.”

  Mom cast a doubtful glance at the pile of cookware that was still sitting on the floor. “You don’t mind?”

  “Not a bit,” I assured her. “You two go on and enjoy yourselves. After all, isn’t that why you’ve moved to New Bern? To spend more time with Olivia?”

  Mom turned to me and smiled that sweet smile that, when I was little, first made me think I knew what angels looked like.

  “Among other people.”

  The bond between Olivia and my parents has grown quickly; she’s so open, so ready to give and receive love. For the rest of us, the process has been a little more complicated.

  Spring and summer has been a period of getting reacquainted for my parents and me, a time for sloughing off old prejudices and shredding out-of-date biographies, making allowance for growth and change, casting off the assumption that what always was is what always must be.

  It hasn’t been easy. There have been arguments, not all of them instigated by Dad. I, too, have raised my voice in these last weeks, not often but more than once. I’m a peacemaker by nature, but I’ve come to learn that to attain real and lasting peace, you sometimes need to endure temporary disharmony, and that speaking your mind isn’t disloyal or sinful. In fact, if you think about it, not speaking your mind can be the greater sin. After all, it’s just another kind of deception, isn’t it?

  Paul taught me that. It’s one of the things I love about him, his honesty. I never have to guess where I stand with him and I never have to pretend. It’s so refreshing, different from any relationship I’ve ever had.

  Bit by bit, my parents and I have gotten to know each other again, and to appreciate each other. And so, when Mom started dropping hints that she wasn’t sure if she could endure another winter in Buffalo and Dad started talking about retiring and both of them finally came right out and said they’d like to move to New Bern so they could spend more time with Olivia and help take care of her when I was at work, I said I’d like that very much. And I meant it, for all kinds of reasons.

  The transition from single woman to working mom has been every bit as challenging as I thought it would be. Without the help of my quilt circle friends, I’d never have managed. They cheered me on, offered me advice and shoulders to cry on, and helped me cobble together a schedule of play dates and babysitting that allowed me to work a full schedule in the quilt shop. Olivia is crazy about “the aunties,” and it’s easy to see why.

  Take this weekend—Olivia stayed with Ivy while I drove up to Buffalo to help my folks with the move. When I picked her up last night, Olivia told me all about her adventures.

  On Saturday morning, she and ten-year-old Bethany walked to the inn to visit Auntie Madelyn. Madelyn let them play with the dollhouse in the parlor and helped the girls bake a batch of lemon lavender shortbread cookies. Next, they walked to the quilt shop to help Auntie Evelyn sort fat quarters into colors and Auntie Virginia stitch bindings on two new baby quilts that were to be donated to the preemie unit at the hospital. At lunchtime, they walked to the Grill on the Green, where Uncle Charlie made them cheeseburgers and fries. Later, Auntie Abigail picked them up and drove them to her house for a swim in her enormous pool. Bobby, who had spent the morning fishing with Franklin, joined them. Finally, Auntie Ivy took the troops home and made them a picnic supper they ate inside a tent they made out of quilts and sofa cushions while they watched The Black Stallion on DVD. It had been a busy and wonderful day.

  When she finished the story, Olivia let her head flop back onto the seat of the car and sighed. “I love having a big family.”

  So do I.

  Families, I’ve decided, are a lot like quilts—they’ve got layers. The first layer is the family of choice, the people you pick out of the crowd and stitch together, as different in outlook and experience as patches in a quilt. Piecing it all together, figuring out exactly how the patches fit together, takes time and patience. You’ve got to find just the right balance of colors, shapes, and textures, but if you stick with it, before long you’ll have created something unique but sturdy that keeps you covered and makes life lovelier. That’s exactly how I think of Evelyn, Virginia, Abigail, Ivy, Tessa, Madelyn, and now, Philippa. Had I searched the world over for my pick of sisters, I couldn’t have found any better.

  Then there’s that other layer—the family you’re born with. You don’t get to pick it; it comes all of a piece, a backing of whole cloth, intricately and deeply stitched by memory, a pattern that stays with us from birth and through life. The colors and design may not always be to your liking, but I’ve discovered that it serves its purpose. Without a good backing, your stuffing falls out.

  Of course, just because you can’t pick your family of birth doesn’t mean you can’t adjust it a little, maybe even take out a few stitches and take the design in a new direction. A three-strand thread of love, honesty, and forgiveness goes a long way in easing mismatched seams and quilting out the bumps.

  That’s what I’ve been busy doing these last weeks and months, stitching it all together, joining the layers one to another, making them fit, making it mine, creating something that will last.

  I love having a big family. Oh yes, I do.

  Even amid the chaos of moving, my mother made sure the refrigerator was well stocked. The selection of sliced meats and cheeses alone could have supplied a deli. Knowing that Dad preferred roast beef and Cheddar, Paul ham and Swiss, Mom turkey with Monterey Jack, Olivia ham with no cheese and no mayo, and that James could and would eat absolutely everything—a common condition among teenage boys—I decided to make a big platter of assorted sandwiches and let everybody figure it out on their own.

  After gathering a collection of meats, cheeses, and condiments from the refrigerator, I laid slices of wheat and white bread out on the cutting board and, assembly-line style, started making sandwiches. I was putting on the lettuce when Paul came and gave me a peck on the cheek before stealing a piece of ham from the stack and popping it into his mouth.

  “If you’ll wait three more minutes I’ll have a whole sandwich for you.” I pretended to slap his hand away. Paul and Dad had worked side by side carrying furniture all day. He was probably starving.

  “Thanks for helping with the move,” I said as I spread mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “We couldn’t have done it without you. I saw how you grabbed the heavy boxes without letting Dad know what you were doing. That was so sweet. You saved his dignity and his back.”

  Paul shrugged and pinched another slice of meat from the pile. This time, I didn’t even pretend to scold. “Werner is still pretty strong. I hope I’m in half the shape he’s in when I’m sixty-seven. And he’s a good guy—interesting. I hear he volunteered to install the new furnace at church.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded and started cutting the sandwiches into triangles. “Should save the church a couple thousand at least. And he’s going to volunteer with Helping Hands too. Adam Kingsbury was thrilled. They’ve got a lot of helpers, but not many with skills. It’s good for everyone. I know Dad says he’s retired, but he’s not much good at sitting around. He needs to keep busy.”

  I began piling sandwich halves onto a blue platter, arranging them into offset circl
es, like bricks in a wall. Paul leaned against the counter and watched, saying nothing.

  I turned my attention back to the sandwiches, feeling a bit awkward and anxious. When Mom mentioned that Paul and Dad had gone for a walk and then so quickly changed the subject, as though she were trying to hide something from me, I’ll admit that my mind wandered briefly—okay, more than briefly—to the subject of matrimony. Sure, at my age it was a little silly to think of a suitor asking my father for permission to propose, but Paul and I had been dating for several months now. And I thought it was odd that, after a whole day of moving furniture, Dad and Paul should feel the need to get even more exercise. And now here was Paul, who usually had so much to say, standing next to me and saying nothing while I arranged sandwiches on a platter. Maybe he was trying to work up his courage. Or maybe he was searching for the right words. Or maybe he was looking for an opening, or needed a bit of encouragement.

  “So,” I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “where did you and Dad get off to anyway? Mom said you went for a walk.”

  Paul nodded and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, keeping his eyes on the platter of food. “Yeah. I wanted to talk to him.”

  “Oh?”

  “I needed some advice. About my future.”

  His future? Our future? My heart started to beat faster, thumping so loud in my ears that had I looked down at my chest, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see my blouse pulsing in a sympathetic rhythm.

  “Really?” I said, still trying to sound nonchalant and, I’m sure, failing miserably. “That sounds serious.” I grabbed a tea towel off the counter and wiped my hands. If Paul suddenly got down on one knee and tried to put a ring on my finger, I didn’t want my hands to be slimy with mayonnaise.

  “Well, it kind of is. I quit my job yesterday.” He pulled a sandwich off the pile and took a bite. “This is good,” he said with his mouth full.