A Single Thread (Cobbled Court)

by Marie Bostwick

  “Frequently.”

  “I don’t know what you could have thought was going on between Rob and me. No such thing as a free lunch,” I muttered. “Anybody would think you were jealous or something. That you and I were…You know what I’ve been through. The operations and all. I mean, after all that, it’s not very likely that…Well, you know what I mean.”

  A quizzical look crossed his face. “No. I don’t.”

  I sighed, exasperated. “Charlie, don’t make me spell it out. After the mastectomies, I can’t imagine there’s much in the way of romance on my horizon. No one is going to find me attractive. Not that way.”

  “What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t they? I certainly do.”

  The weight of this statement and the silence that followed pressed me on all sides, filling the room like water in a swimmer’s ear, making it hard to know for sure the meaning and truth of the words that were being said in the dry world above. Charlie spoke first.

  “Evelyn—”

  “Don’t,” I said, drawing back. “Don’t patronize me, Charlie. You don’t have to do that. I’m not asking for more. Your friendship means worlds to me. Don’t feel that you have to pretend.”

  “Pretend? Is that what you think I’ve been doing all these months? Pretending we’re friends? And then pretending to fall in love with you?”

  I bit my lip. Not daring to respond. He couldn’t mean what he was saying. It wasn’t possible.

  “I wish to heaven I had been pretending,” he puffed. “It wouldn’t have been half so painful—coming to admire you, then care for you, then love you and having to watch you suffer so these last months and not being able to do a thing to stop it. I tried to make myself busy at the restaurant, hoping that immersing myself in work would help me forget my feelings for you. It was no good. I couldn’t stay away. But you were so sick. The last thing you needed was some lovesick Irishman mooning after you. And I didn’t know what to say to you anyway. So every morning, during the hour when I used to meet you at the Bean for coffee, I went to the early mass to pray for you. And after that I went into my kitchen and cooked for you, then brought you what I’d made, hoping you’d know what I was trying to say. The Irish may be a nation of poets, but I’m no Yeats. My kind of poetry is produced in the kitchen; the chicken pot pie that reminds you of your mother’s, the dish so perfectly seasoned it brings tears to your eyes, the mousse au chocolate so dense and rich and sinful that it reminds you of your first love.” He took a step closer and wrapped his fingers around my wrist like a bracelet.

  “Or at least your first lust.” He smiled gently. “When you’re young it can be hard to tell the difference, but I’m not young anymore, Evelyn. Neither are you. We know what love is. Don’t we?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  He wrapped his other hand low across my back and pulled me close. “Then how could you think, Evelyn, that I’d be so stupid, so shallow, as to let my feelings for you be swayed by your cancer? You are beautiful. Breasts, no breasts, reconstructed breasts. It makes no difference to me. I love you. I love your creativity and imagination, the way you can take little scraps of cloth and turn them into something lovely. I love your kindness, your generosity, how, even in the middle of the worst crisis of your life, you were looking to take care of the people who were taking care of you. I love your humor and bravery, the way you faced the worst that life can dish out and still came out smiling. I love everything about you. Your spirit, your mind, your face, and your body. You are beautiful to me, Evelyn. You always will be.”

  His lips were soft on mine, but sure, as if he’d known for a long time exactly how he wanted to kiss me. My head dropped back and my lips parted ever so slightly, easily, as if I’d known for a long time that I wanted to be kissed.

  Lifting his mouth from mine, he traced a fingertip over the ridge of my cheekbone and down to my lips. “Sweet girl,” he whispered. “Sweet. Again.” He lowered his head again.

  “Charlie. Wait.”

  His eyes, so warm and sparkling an instant before, were suddenly dark and serious.

  “Why? What is it?” He paused, searching my face for an answer. “Do you love me?”

  There is no question on earth that leaves a person more exposed, more vulnerable, than that one. It takes a special kind of courage to utter it; a courage that I had once known, but which had deserted me years before, even before the divorce. Charlie’s bravery astounded me, touched me, shamed me. Anyone who was willing to risk so much for the sake of love deserved to be loved in kind.

  “Tell me the truth, Evelyn. Do you love me?”

  “I do. I think I do. But you’re right, Charlie. We’re neither of us young anymore. We’re too old to risk getting our hearts broken for anything less than the genuine article.” The wary, belligerent expression came back to his face, and he drew back a little, taking on that defensive stance of his that always reminded me a little of a prizefighter preparing to absorb the next blow.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I said. “I’m not giving you the brush-off or trying to let you down easy. One thing I’ve learned from the last year is that life is shorter and more precious than I had imagined—much too short to spend it speaking in code. I’ve resolved to start saying exactly what I mean. And what I mean is I think I love you and that, probably, I have for a long time. But I was so wrapped up in myself, first in the store and then in getting better, that I was blind to everything else. I couldn’t focus on anything else but getting through the next day, let alone think about love or the future. For a while I wasn’t convinced there was a future to think about.”

  “And now?”

  I smiled. “Now it’s a whole new day. A new life. But that doesn’t mean I’m not carrying baggage from the old life with me. What I’m trying to say is, Charlie, that I’m not sure I’m quite ready to believe that anyone can love me. And not just because of the cancer. I’ve been carrying this with me for a long time.”

  “But don’t you hear what I’m saying to you, Evelyn? I do love you.”

  “I know. But hearing it and believing it are two different things. Until I work that out in my mind, I’m not sure I’m ready for love. And then,” I said, furrowing my brow, “there was the kiss.”

  Insulted, he reared his head back. “The kiss? And what was wrong with it? I thought it was pretty good.”

  “It was. Better than good. Spectacular, actually.” Charlie grinned, looking very pleased with himself.

  “That’s the problem. You see, while you say that you love me no matter what, right now the idea of physical intimacy is frightening to me. I’m still getting over the shock of seeing myself naked in the mirror. I’m certainly not ready to let anyone else see me that way.”

  “Well, it wasn’t like I was planning on throwing you to the floor and ravishing you.”

  “Good thing, because you might as well know right now that my views on love and marriage are very old-fashioned. Not that I’m against the idea of ‘ravishment’ in general.” I smiled. “After all, I have been known to read the occasional Highland romance novel. But there is a proper time and place for everything.”

  He nodded and reached for my hand again, holding it in his gently. “All right. I can live with that. I can wait. And when the time comes, if it ever does, I can even work on a Scottish accent. If tha’ wa’ help yeh, lassie.”

  “Hmmm. A good effort, but no thanks. Besides,” I said, “the Irish is starting to grow on me.” He laughed, and I did too, amazed to realize that I was actually flirting with a man. I’d forgotten I knew how.

  When the sound of our combined merriment faded, Charlie’s face became serious again. He took a long, slow breath. “Well, then, where does that leave us? Tell me what you want me to do, Evelyn, and I’ll do it. If it’s time you need, then I’ll give it to you. Anything,” he said and then lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my fingertips so softly that it felt like a butterfly had lit upon them. For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

&nbs
p; He took my open palm and laid it flat against his chest. Beneath his muscles, I felt the pulse of his heartbeat against my fingers, steady and strong, trustworthy.

  “It’s taken fifty-four years for me to meet the love of my life. I can be patient a little longer, Evelyn. You’re worth the wait.”

  36

  Evelyn Dixon

  “Evelyn!” Margot shouted over the din of chattering women’s voices. “We’re out of coffee!”

  “Excuse me just a moment,” I said to the reporter. “I’ll be right back.”

  Margot stood by the refreshment table holding an empty coffee can. “We’re out of coffee!” she repeated. “I had it on my to-do list, but I was so busy assembling extra kits that I forgot. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Getting those kits put together was more important.”

  “Maybe I should run to the market now,” Margot said uncertainly as she looked around the crowded shop.

  I shook my head. “No. We’re too busy here. I need you to give Garrett and Wendy a hand at the registers. The customers are lined up six deep. I’ll run up to the apartment. Maybe I’ve got enough to make one more pot.”

  Ivy, our newest employee, walked by carrying an armload of fabric bolts.

  “We were running low on muslin backings,” she said. “I thought I’d better bring some down from the stockroom. What’s going on?”

  “I forgot to buy coffee,” Margot mumbled. She really was being too hard on herself.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I saw we were running low, so I picked some up on the way to work this morning. I should have told you. There’s two cans in the cupboard under the sink.”

  Margot breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Ivy. You’re a lifesaver! Do you need help with those bolts?”

  “Nope. Got it,” she said with a smile and then hurried off with her burden.

  “She’s fabulous!” Margot exclaimed when Ivy was out of earshot. “Smart, efficient, learns fast, and such a hard worker!”

  “She’s a find, all right. Still a little unsure of herself, but that will change in time.”

  Margot nodded. “She must be a great mother too. That little Bethany is such a sweetheart! Of course, after today, I’m not sure Ivy is going to get her daughter back,” Margot giggled. “Abigail is practically glued to her!”

  I smiled and turned to look at a long table set up by the front window, where Abigail was teaching the running stitch to a group of novice quilters. Bethany sat by her side, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth as she concentrated on trying to sew straight, even stitches while Abigail, beaming with pride, praised her efforts.

  “What about the baby brother, Bobby?” Margot asked. “Where is he today?”

  “Franklin’s watching him. He’s as crazy about Bobby as Abigail is about Bethany. They’ve sort of become honorary grandparents to the kids.”

  I laughed. “Remember when Liza dragged Abigail in here a year ago? Could you ever have imagined that under that iceberg exterior there was a quilter, philanthropist, and grandma all waiting to thaw out?”

  “Not in a million years,” Margot said. “Hey, you’d better get back to your interview. The reporter keeps looking at her watch.”

  “Oh! I almost forgot. She’s got a deadline. You got everything under control here?”

  “Well, it’s chaos, but it’s organized chaos. We’re fine. Get back over there and be famous,” she teased. “Seems like I can’t turn on the TV or open the paper without seeing your face. You’re a celebrity!”

  “Sure I am. Go make coffee.”

  “Okay,” she giggled, “but be sure to let me know if the paparazzi show up!” She scurried off with the coffee pot.

  “Sorry,” I murmured to the waiting reporter. “We had a little caffeine crisis. Now, what was your question?”

  “I’d just asked how you think this Quilt Pink event compares to last year’s.” She nodded to the photographer, who turned on the pocket tape recorder and held it close to me, then pulled a lined notebook out of her pocket and started taking notes.

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, as you can see, it’s certainly much larger.” I smiled and spread my arms wide to encompass the throng of women. “We’ve got probably three times as many quilters in attendance as last year. Thankfully, we just opened up a new, much larger workroom on the second floor, and we’ve used that to accommodate the additional crowds. If we’d had this many people show up last year, I don’t know where we’d have put them!”

  “Why do you think so many more quilters have chosen to participate this year?”

  “That’s because of all the media attention. Last month, a producer from Rise ’N’ Shine Connecticut called to ask if I’d come on the show to talk about Quilt Pink. It was part of their series on breast-cancer awareness. After that, I got calls from all kinds of magazines, newspapers, and radio stations. The press got the word out, and the quilters started coming out of the woodwork!”

  The reporter looked up from the notebook. “And were you surprised by the response?”

  “Yes and no. Once they heard about it, I wasn’t really surprised to see the quilters respond in such numbers. Quilters are some of the most generous, caring, community-minded people you’ll ever meet. But I was certainly surprised by all the media attention.”

  “Well, it’s a remarkable story,” she commented. “You decide to host your first Quilt Pink event only to be diagnosed with breast cancer yourself. And now, a year later, you’re hosting your second Quilt Pink day; this time as a cancer survivor. You don’t come across stories like that every day of the week. You’ve become a symbol of courage to people all over the state.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at this last. “Ha! If you’d seen me this time last year, on this very day, sitting in this shop, overwhelmed, overwrought, and bawling my eyes out—the last thing you could have called me was courageous. I was terrified! But just when I needed them, God sent me three angels—Abigail, Liza, and Margot. Oh! And one more—Mary Dell. I can’t forget her! They picked me up, dusted me off, and stayed with me every step of the way. They’re the courageous ones. Not me.”

  The reporter nodded as she scribbled down a few notes. “What advice would you give to others battling breast cancer?”

  “The same as I’d give to any woman who is facing any challenge or hardship in her life. Cling to your friends and be a friend to others. The need for friendship is the single thread that we all have running through us. Quilters have always known that. Just look around,” I said, scanning the faces of the women as they sewed, talked, laughed, and worked on the individual blocks that, when combined, would become one more piece of ammunition against an enemy they were determined to defeat. There was nothing they couldn’t accomplish, no crisis too big for them to overcome, as long as they faced it together.

  “See what I mean? They’re the real story here. If you want to know about courage and the power of community, go interview them.”

  “Thanks, Evelyn,” the reporter said and closed her notebook. “I’ll do that. Any suggestions on who I should start with?”

  The bells jingled as the front door opened. Charlie walked in, loaded down with bakery boxes, and gave me a wink before heading back to the kitchen. I smiled and winked back.

  “Why don’t you talk to Ivy. She was one of the first women who took the beginner’s quilting class at the shelter. Now she works here. Or there’s Abigail. She’s the woman who started the shelter program. Or Carol,” I said, pointing to a gray-haired woman who was sitting in a circle of quilters, laughing as she worked a knot out of her thread. “Her husband passed away a few months ago, and she was so depressed she didn’t even want to leave the house. Wendy dragged her down here and made her sign up for a quilting class, and look at her now! Really”—I shrugged—“go sit down and talk with anybody. It doesn’t matter who. Every woman in this room has a story worth hearing.”

  “Thanks. I will.” She shook my hand. “It was nice talking with you.”

>   “Same to you,” I said, walking in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ve got to get back to work, but let me know if you need anything else.”

  Charlie had piled the boxes on the counter and was filling an empty tray with my favorite butterscotch macadamia-nut cookies.

  “Those look great!” I exclaimed, reaching for a cookie. Charlie smacked the back of my hand lightly.

  “Hey! What was that for?”

  “Don’t touch those,” he said. “They’re for the customers.”

  “But I’m starving. I didn’t get any breakfast or lunch either.”

  Unsympathetic, Charlie kept putting cookies on the plate. “That’s not my problem,” he said. “I was only hired to feed the guests, not the help.”

  “Yeah, but I’m the one who’s paying the catering bill.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Customers first. You can have the leftovers, if there are any. I swear, Evelyn, have you got quilters out there or a plague of locusts? I’ve never seen women eat so much, so fast!”

  “Well, quilting is hard work. They’ve built up an appetite. Me too. Aw, please,” I pleaded and came up behind him, draping my arms over his shoulders and laying my head on his back. “Just one little cookie? Please? For me?”

  He turned around, wrapped his arms around the small of my back, and then, using one foot, kicked the door closed.

  “Well,” he said, pulling me close, nestling my body tight to his and tilting my chin up to meet his lips, “maybe we can work something out.”

  One minute later, someone was pounding on the door.

  “Mom? Are you in there?”

  Charlie unlocked his lips from mine and sighed. “She is, Garrett. Come in.”

  Garrett pushed open the door. “Hi, Charlie. I didn’t know you were here. Hey! Those cookies look great!” He grabbed one and took a bite before Charlie could say anything.

  Charlie growled and carried the tray out to the refreshment table.

  “What do you need, sweetie?”

  “Two things. One, where do you keep the extra tape for the cash register?”