A Single Thread (Cobbled Court)

by Marie Bostwick

  10

  Abigail Burgess Wynne

  “Excuse me?” I asked, certain that I must have heard her wrong. “You’re going to get a what?”

  Liza, who had broken with tradition by actually joining me at the breakfast table instead of pouring herself a cup of black coffee and going back to her room to drink it, stared at me over the edge of her cup.

  “A tattoo,” she said. An inky ribbon of black eyeliner made her large brown eyes look even larger. She blinked them innocently but was unable to completely conceal her pleasure at my horrified reaction. The corner of her mouth twitched, threatening to split her lips into a smile as she went on.

  “Nothing too elaborate. Not a drawing or anything, just two words. Lady Burgess. Right here,” she said, taking one finger and tracing an imaginary line from her jawline to her collarbone to indicate the proposed tattoo’s placement, “in black, gothic lettering. I spoke with a tattoo artist and picked out the design yesterday. My appointment is next week. It’s my birthday present to myself. It’s going to be incredible. Very striking.”

  My stomach felt queasy, like I’d been poised at the top of a gigantic roller coaster that had suddenly taken a precipitous drop. “You can’t be serious.”

  Liza was grinning openly now, not even trying to disguise her delight over my distress. “Of course I am. It’s no big deal, Aunt Abigail. Everyone gets tattoos these days; and besides, it’s my body,” she declared. “I’m an adult. I can do whatever I want with it, and there really isn’t anything you can do about it.”

  She was right. For the hundredth time, I mentally cursed Harry Gulden. He’d foisted the responsibility for this delinquent monster of a girl onto me, and then he failed to provide me with any effective means of controlling her out-of-control behavior! If she’d been my daughter I’d have threatened to ground her, or eject her from my house, or my will, or something! But she wasn’t. And what’s more, no matter how immature her behavior was, she was right. She was of age. If she was determined to get a tattoo (and the steely glint in her eye told me she was), there was very little I could do to stop her—even if the tattoo she was determined to get was purposely designed to besmirch our family name and heap as much personal humiliation upon me as possible.

  I remembered what I’d said to Franklin that day in the restaurant, my not-quite-joking declaration that I would not negotiate with a terrorist. Today it was even less funny than it had been at the time, because, as far as I was concerned, that’s what I was dealing with—a terrorist, or at least a blackmailer. If I didn’t negotiate with her, there was no question in my mind that she would do exactly as she threatened. She’d parade up and down the streets of New Bern in her horrible ripped jeans and tight black T-shirts with an enormous, hideously lettered tattoo that shouted our kinship emblazoned on her neck—her neck!

  Liza stared at me, and I stared back. I blinked first.

  “That’s right. It’s your birthday next week.” I tried to keep my tone casual. “Of course, you can get a tattoo…if that’s what you really want. You’ve such a pretty neck, Liza.” It was true.

  Her neck was thin and elegant, a long, slender arc of white flesh that bowed gracefully from her jawline to her collarbone—a ballerina’s neck.

  “Those tatoos are permanent, aren’t they? What if the design doesn’t turn out as well as you’d hoped? Or if the…the…artist”—it nearly choked me to apply that word to this situation, but if I had a chance of preventing this disaster, I knew I had to deal with Liza on her terms—“makes some kind of mistake?”

  “Delilah is a famous tattoo artist. She doesn’t make mistakes.” That echo of a smile returned to Liza’s lips, but she still didn’t blink. She knew the game we were playing—and she knew that she was winning.

  “Still. It would be a shame if it didn’t turn out as you’ve imagined. And there it would be. On your neck. Forever.” I paused. Liza said nothing. “Maybe there’s something you’d like more than a tattoo?”

  A cashmere sweater? Legally obtained this time? A car? The Hope Diamond? She only had to name her price, and I’d pay it. Anything to keep my name—our name—from being immortalized in ink by a tattoo artist named Delilah.

  “If you can think of another birthday gift you’d like in exchange for the tattoo, I’d be happy to get it for you. I was planning on getting you a present.” A lie, and we both knew it.

  Liza’s eyes were triumphant. She had me where she wanted me—up against the ropes of social conformity.

  “As a matter of fact, I did have something in mind.”

  Of course she did. I’d known it from the beginning.

  She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a folded-up piece of newsprint. At first I was sure it was an advertisement, maybe for a computer, or the latest cell phone, or even a car, but when she unfolded the paper and handed it to me, all I saw was a picture of a middle-aged woman, slender with blue eyes and straight, sandy hair cut in an angled bob that mirrored the slant of her jaw. She wore a black sweater and trim blue jeans with chunky silver and turquoise earrings. A black, purple, and teal paisley shawl was draped over her shoulder, giving her a vaguely bohemian look, as if she’d once taught high-school art classes.

  Now the woman obviously was involved in some sort of retail venture. She was standing in front of the old Fielding Drugstore. Dolly Chesterton had said that some woman from Texas had taken out a lease on the place, but I couldn’t recall the details. This must be her. Well, she’d certainly done a good job with remodeling the shop. The panes on the bowfront window were new and shining, but she’d been smart enough to retain the old woodwork, so the storefront kept the look and feel of an antique apothecary shop. She’d added another layer of crown molding around the doorframe to give it a more elegant appearance. The frame was painted black, and the sheen of it told me that she’d used an oil-based paint, certainly an extra expense, but the smooth, shining finish was worth it. The door itself was painted a vivid red that exactly matched the color of the potted geraniums on either side of the door. It was a charming effect. The door of the shop couldn’t have looked more welcoming.

  Clearly, the owner of New Bern’s newest boutique had style, taste, and an eye for color. Either that or she knew enough to hire someone with those qualities.

  What was this place, I wondered. A clothing store? In such an off-the-beaten-path location? Surely not. Perhaps an interior-design studio? I wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of Liza redecorating my guest room. Heaven knew what the girl would want, black wallpaper with white skulls, probably, but if the tasteful woman in the newspaper photograph was the one in charge of the design, it couldn’t be that bad. And even if it was, better skulls and crossbones in a back bedroom hidden from the eyes of my neighbors than “Lady Burgess” on Liza’s neck where everyone in New Bern would see it.

  “It looks like a very nice shop. I’d been thinking myself that your room could do with a bit of updating,” I lied again. It was starting to become a habit. “New paint, wallpaper, drapes…whatever you’d like to make it reflect your own personality. How much do you think you’ll need?” I pushed the newspaper across the table and started to get up so I could go retrieve my pocketbook from the antique sideboard, but Liza interrupted.

  “The story,” she said flatly. “You have to read it.”

  The smile on her face faded as she handed the paper back to me. I felt a strange prickling on the back of my head, as if a migraine were about to come on. I retrieved my reading glasses that always hung on the chain around my neck, put them on, and began reading.

  NEW BERN’S NEWEST ENTREPRENEUR IS FIGHTING THE ODDS

  Evelyn Dixon, the owner of New Bern’s newest business, Cobbled Court Quilts, isn’t one to shy away from a challenge.

  When she first saw the long-abandoned Fielding Drug Emporium during a vacation to New England last year, she knew it would take time, money, and vision to renovate the old building and turn it into a sustainable retail venture. And while she ha
d plenty of vision, time and money were in shorter supply. Plenty of people, from friends and family to financiers and fabric vendors, doubted that Cobbled Court Quilts would ever open its doors. Dixon admits that they had reason to doubt.

  “Looking back,” the Wisconsin native says with the tiniest trace of a twang picked up during twenty years of residence in Texas, it’s probably a good thing that I underestimated just what it would take to get my business under way. If I hadn’t, I’m not sure I’d have taken the risk. But now that we’re open, I’m glad I did. I love New Bern, and I love running this shop.”

  And it’s clear that the quilters love Cobbled Court Quilts and its spunky owner. One of Cobbled Court’s customers, Dominique Martin, who dropped by to ask Evelyn to guide her through the delicate process of joining the points of an eight-pointed star, said, There are so many beautiful fabrics to choose from. It really gets my creative juices flowing. And Evelyn is a wonderful teacher. When she first suggested this pattern, I thought she was crazy! Now that it’s almost done, I have to admit I feel really proud of myself, but I could never have done it without Evelyn. She’s an inspiration.”

  Dixon waves off such effusive praise, noting that collaboration and cooperation have always been part of the quilting tradition. “Quilting is more than just sewing and even more than just creating a piece of beautiful, usable art. Since our great-great-grandmothers’ time, quilters have always created community. Quilting is about getting together and helping each other, sharing life, cheering one another on through good times and bad.”

  And it’s that desire to encourage others that is leading Evelyn Dixon to pick up her sewing needle and get into another tough fight: the fight against breast cancer.

  On Saturday, September 20, Cobbled Court Quilts will host a Quilt Pink” event, joining with hundreds of other quilt shops and thousands of quilters around the country as they quilt for a cure, each participant sewing individual quilt blocks that will be joined into a larger quilt. When completed, each quilt will be auctioned off and the money donated…”

  Quilt Pink. September 20. Breast cancer. I didn’t have to read more. I knew what Liza wanted.

  When I looked up from the paper, Liza’s eyes were dry, but there was a rippling movement under the perfect, unblemished skin of her throat that showed she was swallowing back tears.

  “What do you think? Does it ring any bells for you?” she asked. “When I read it, I figured it had to be some kind of omen. So that’s it. That’s what I want. On September twentieth, the anniversary of the day my mother died from breast cancer, you come to the quilt shop with me and make one of those blocks.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Liza interrupted me.

  “And don’t even bother to suggest that you make some big donation instead. You have to go yourself, in person, and I’m coming to watch you do it. It’s time you actually did something. Something besides writing a check.” Finally, she blinked, as if waiting for me to say something, but there was nothing to say.

  “That’s the deal,” she said. “Otherwise, I’m getting that tattoo.”

  “All right. I’ll go.”

  “Good,” Liza said, but not convincingly. I got the feeling that she’d have preferred it if I’d argued, giving her an excuse to fight with me, but I wasn’t about to do so.

  Liza took a final drink of the now-cold coffee, pushed back her chair, and headed toward the back door. “By the way, the quilting thing is for my mother. You still owe me a birthday present. I want three hundred and fifty dollars. You were right. My room needs redecorating.”

  She let the screen door slam behind her as she stomped down the back porch steps and walked around the side of the house, not bothering to say where she was going or when she’d be back.

  I dropped my head into my hands and rubbed my eyes. I’d been right. It was a migraine.

  11

  Evelyn Dixon

  When I was nine years old, my family got our first color television set—a twenty-three-inch Motorola encased in a French Provincial wood cabinet. Never mind that the rest of our furniture was Early American, the French Provincial model was on sale, and we were thrilled to have that giant screen dominating our living room. The first program we watched on it was the Rose Parade, live from Pasadena.

  When it was over, I nagged my poor mother until she drove me to Miss Yolanda’s School of Baton and enrolled me as a member of the American Sweethearts Twirling Team. For four years, Mother and Dad plunked down twelve dollars a month for twirling lessons and more for the star-spangled swimsuit and white go-go boots that were our uniforms for parades and competitions. I never won a trophy, and I never marched in the Rose Parade, but I did learn to smile.

  Miss Yolanda was a stickler for smiling. No matter what happened, you had to keep smiling. If you dropped your baton—smile. If another girl dropped her baton and it hit you on the head—smile. If the Sweetheart’s parade placement was right behind the Happy Hooves Riding Club and you stepped in horse dung up to the top of your white go-go boots—smile.

  “The instant you pick up that baton,” Miss Yolanda would say, addressing rows of Sweethearts with the gravity of a military commander giving a final briefing to troops headed into battle, “I want to see a smile on your face. Just like your fingers and your baton are two ends of a live wire, and the second they meet—zap! Your face lights up! Like flipping a switch. Don’t think. Just smile.”

  I hadn’t thought about Miss Yolanda in years, but for some reason, upon waking from the fitful three hours of sleep that was all I’d been able to manage after my appointment at Dr. Thayer’s, her voice was loud and clear in my head.

  “Smile!” she commanded. And I did.

  As I unlocked the door and greeted the group of quilters already clustered in the courtyard, as I served coffee and Charlie’s cake and handed out goody bags tied with pink ribbons, as I pulled the names for door-prize winners out of a basket, as I moved from table to table to table of novice quilters, showing them how to trace quarter-inch stitching lines with marking pencils and secure a seam without using knots, as I discussed color choice and appliqué placement, as I signed up women for new classes, as I rang up sales of fabric, notions, patterns, and quilting books, bagged each purchase, as I thanked customers for coming and waved good-bye when they left, I smiled. I didn’t think. I just smiled, going through the motions—breathing, walking, talking, but numb.

  My emotions and actions didn’t connect with my mind or heart. I’d been that way ever since Dr. Thayer pronounced my sentence—cancer. After that, I’d ceased to hear what he was saying, unable to connect the information to myself. He looked at me sympathetically while speaking of options, treatment plans, disease stages, and next steps. I’d nodded at all the correct intervals and declined his invitation to ask more questions.

  By the time I got up from my chair and left the office, I couldn’t remember what any of his words meant, or maybe I just didn’t want to. Work was the perfect distraction, the antidote to all the fears that plagued me, the truths I didn’t want to acknowledge.

  By ten o’clock the shop was packed. Thank heaven I’d enlisted the help of a half dozen of my regular customers, including Wendy Perkins, who wore her biggest rhinestone glasses for the occasion. Wendy and the others greeted customers, passed out quilt-block kits, helped refill the refreshment table, and taught novices the basics of hand quilting. Without them, I’d never have survived the day.

  At one point, we were so crowded that there were no more available spaces at the sewing tables. I was busy ringing up sales, so Wendy ran around the corner to her real estate office and brought back a couple of folding tables and chairs while some of the others cleared out space in the storeroom and a back corner where I kept refurbished sewing machines for sale.

  The day was a blur, but somehow, finally, five o’clock came. I thanked Wendy and the other volunteers for their help, giving them each a tote bag filled with charm packs, a pair of new scissors, and a gift certificate for a fre
e class.

  “Evelyn, how sweet!” Gwen Talvert exclaimed. “But you don’t have to give us anything. We all had fun, and it was for such a good cause.”

  “Yes, I do. You worked your tails off today.”

  Wendy craned her neck to take a peek at her behind, her panty line prominent through her too-tight stretch slacks. “Looks like I still got mine.” She snorted a laugh, and the others joined in.

  “Well, thank you all so much. You were just great. Wendy, do you want me to bring those tables and chairs back to your office tonight?”

  “No. Let it wait until Monday. I’ll come over with the truck and get them.”

  I walked them to the door and said good-bye. Finally, the shop was empty, and, smiling still, my lips frozen, stretched tight across my mouth, I locked the front door, threw away the crumpled napkins and half-empty punch cups from the refreshment table, and walked through the shop, turning out the lights. As I approached the back storage room, the one Wendy had outfitted with one of the folding tables and extra chairs, I heard voices.

  Oh no, I thought, and my smile faded. I was sure they’d all gone.

  I closed my eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath and entering the room, smiling again. There were three women sitting at the table, a teenage girl with bleached blond hair wearing all black clothing and an angry expression, a tall blond with her hair swept back into a ponytail who wore a simple pink button-down blouse under a cream-colored sweater, and an older woman with silver white hair in a French twist who was dressed in a tan cashmere sweater and light woolen skirt, very simple and clearly very expensive. A Dolce & Gabbana handbag, obviously new, lay carelessly at her feet. I recognized her as a customer from the Grill, one of the regulars. Charlie had told me her name, but I couldn’t remember it now. She had a long, elegant neck and a surprisingly taut jawline for a woman of her age, or what I supposed was her age. She might have been fifty or seventy; it was hard to tell. She had been a beauty in her youth, and she still was, but I wondered what she was doing in my shop.