The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches

by Janet Tronstad

  “Sounds like a guy with no life.” I walk over to my desk and set down my purse.

  “I think I got to him before he really woke up.” Becca grins as she settles into my guest chair. “He complained he hadn’t even had his coffee.”

  “So what did he say?” I sit down myself.

  “He said I’m not well-rounded. That’s why I didn’t get the internship. I don’t volunteer any place.”

  “Doesn’t he know you’ve been sick?” I say.

  “That’s just it,” Becca says with another grin. “They don’t care if I’ve been sick. Turns out they have a formula and everyone gets so many points for each thing—grades, references, community involvement—that kind of thing.”

  “Well, so they’re not discriminating against you.”

  Becca shakes her head. “It’s all done by points. They didn’t care about my religion or my health status. Just those points.”

  I look at Becca for any signs of strain. “You seem to be taking it well.”

  “This guy—the law clerk—he told me about another internship with a federal judge at the courthouse downtown. Said I would enjoy that one even more and no one hardly even knows about that one, so they don’t have many applications. He’s friends with the law clerk who handles it.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “I’m going to apply today.”

  I silently count the number of days between today and this Thursday. It’s a maximum of four. “How long will it take to find out if you get it?”

  I can see by the look on Becca’s face she hasn’t realized until now what the delay will mean. “I’m not going to make my goal.”

  “It’s not a big deal. So you meet it in a few weeks instead of Thursday.”

  “I’ve never given up on a goal.” Becca’s face is pale. “I’ve never done that.”

  “Maybe we need to all give ourselves more time to meet our goals,” I say. I am certainly hoping for more time.

  Becca looks at me as if I’ve suggested we not pay our taxes.

  I hear footsteps coming down the hall fast and I look up just as Lizabett reaches my doorway. She’s breathing hard and her hair is flying around her face which means she took off a scarf recently.

  “Maybe we can at least help Lizabett reach her goal,” I say to Becca, assuming that’s why Lizabett is looking so harried. “You might even consider volunteering to help the ballet studio.”

  Lizabett starts talking when she hits my doorway and looks right at me. “You had your date with the grill guy.” She doesn’t look thrilled about it. “Date number one.”

  I nod.

  “Well, that’s just fine,” Lizabett says as she steps inside my office. “I hope you wrote about it in the journal.”

  I nod.

  “Well, I have something to write in the journal, too,” Lizabett says.

  I have never seen Lizabett this assertive. She looks positively fierce.

  “Did my dad talk to you?” I ask, thinking maybe he has told her that he couldn’t find a place for the ballet.

  “I’m going to write about it first,” Lizabett says stubbornly. “Some things are just better written in the journal.”

  I reach over and pick up the journal. “Here.”

  Lizabett takes the journal. “I’ll be out front writing.”

  “Whew,” Becca says when Lizabett is gone. “I wonder what she’s so mad about.”

  “Probably her ballet,” I say as I pick up my phone. “I should take some time to make some calls.”

  “I should go tell her I’m volunteering to help, too,” Becca said as she stood.

  “Oh, can you stay for lunch today?” I ask. “I thought I’d try to get everyone together and since you and Lizabett are already here, I’ll call Carly and see if she can drive over.”

  “Sounds good,” Becca says as she walks toward the door. “Hopefully, by that time we’ll know where the ballet will be.”

  I nod. In the meantime, I wonder what Lizabett is writing in the journal. I also wonder if she will take the time to read what I’ve already written this morning about my father.

  Hi, this is Lizabett. I need to write this down some place so that I don’t say it aloud. I am stupid, stupid, stupid. I guess I really sort of thought that Quinn was taking Marilee out as a favor to me—I mean, he does everything he can for me. I thought he was worried about all of the Sisterhood meeting their goals and that he was just being nice and taking Marilee on a few dates so she would meet hers, too.

  Of course, I knew he liked her, but I didn’t know he liked her. And there I was this morning, running off my mouth about Marilee having a date with the grill guy—which didn’t seem to surprise Quinn—but then he asked how many dates this made for her meeting her goals, and I said she had said it was one.

  I didn’t even think about what I was saying—I mean, that’s what Marilee had said in her e-mail. I didn’t realize Quinn might take it the wrong way. I’m sure his dates were perfectly nice dates even if Marilee isn’t counting them.

  Oh, dear, what am I to do? I know you’re only a journal and you can’t answer me back, but I could use some help. I’m writing this fast, because I see Becca and Marilee walking this way.

  I don’t know why we need to have these goals anyway. Nobody is meeting them.

  I’m going to fold this page down and then give the journal back to Marilee. When I get it all folded down, I think I will stick it together with some tape. Quinn would not be happy with me if I let Marilee know his feelings are hurt. Quinn never wants anyone to worry about him.

  I know I complain about him, but he’s my big brother and I love him. If Marilee is so stuck on the grill guy that she can’t see what a great guy Quinn is, then she’s not the woman I thought she was. I guess I shouldn’t say that, either. Oh, well, I’m done now.

  It took me—Marilee—a good fifteen minutes to get the journal back. Lizabett wouldn’t let me have it until she borrowed some masking tape from Uncle Lou and taped her page so tightly shut that I don’t know if it will ever open up for reading. Remember what I said earlier about the people years from now who might want to read this journal—well, if that happens—I’m sorry about the pages and I hope you have something that removes tape from paper by then.

  Anyway, I’m not as worried about the tape issue as I am about Lizabett. Something is wrong, but she won’t say what it is. She has put her black scarf on, however, and she’s sitting on a hard chair near one of the rear tables looking like a recent immigrant with an attitude.

  “I’m going to call City Hall,” I say to Lizabett. Becca has already gone to call her law clerk to see if volunteering to help with the ballet would count on her application. “They let groups use their courtyard in the evenings. I think it’s marble and would work just fine for ballet. We could put folding chairs up around the edge of the courtyard and you’d be all set.”

  Lizabett nods in one swift bobbing motion. “That would be okay.”

  It doesn’t take a genius to tell something is bothering Lizabett. “Maybe we could even put up some pink balloons around to make it look more festive. Or red ones. The color doesn’t matter.”

  Lizabett nods again. This time she crosses her arms, too. “Is the grill guy going to help with the chairs?”

  “Well, maybe.”

  “He’s kind of skinny. My brothers should help, too.”

  “Well, we’ll have everything set up in no time at all—no matter where we find a place for the performance,” I say.

  “A chair’s nothing to my brother Quinn. He can lift anything. I bet he’s stronger than the grill guy.”

  “Most men can lift a folding chair.” I am anxious to stop all of this talk about how skinny or strong the grill guy is, because I see that Carly has just come in the diner door and I don’t want her to think that we’ve been talking about Randy—which I guess we have, but not for any good reason that I can see.

  “Carly,” I say. “I was just going to call and ask if you’re fre
e for lunch in a couple of hours.”

  “That works,” Carly said. “I just came down here to give you an update on my cat.”

  “Oh?”

  Carly gave a nod. “Marie came in this morning. She’s in my room now.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” I say, even though Carly doesn’t look particularly happy.

  “Was everything all right?”

  Carly looks at me blankly.

  “With your cat,” I add. “Was everything all right with your cat?”

  Carly nods and then frowns. “Your grill guy put one of those boxes at the bottom of the tree yesterday before we went to the ball game. I told him not to, but I guess he did anyway. The gardener found Marie in it this morning and, when he let her out in the house, she came straight for the room outside my bedroom. That’s where I keep her dish.”

  “She must have been hungry.”

  “She didn’t eat the tuna in that box thing. Your grill guy didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “He’s not my grill guy,” I say. “In fact, I think you and he would make a good couple.”

  I’m not sure Carly is even listening to me. She’s already turned to walk back out the door. “You’ll have to tell me the details of your big date when I get back. Right now, I have to go get a leash for my cat.”

  “It wasn’t so much a date,” I call after Carly, but she doesn’t stop to listen.

  I’ve never seen Carly walk away when someone is talking to her. She’s much too polite to do that even if she is bored. What do you suppose it is all about? If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, there can only be one explanation. Carly seriously likes the grill guy. Which is good news—I think.

  Chapter Thirteen

  …if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard…

  —Judy Garland as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz

  Lizabett was the one who wanted us all to talk about our hearts’ desires one night while we were knitting. You might have noticed we spent a lot of time that first year in the Sisterhood talking about our dreams. Some days it seemed as though our dreams were all we had to hold on to. Our present was troubled. Our past was over. So we had our dreams.

  This was the first time that we tried to find our hearts’ desires in our backyards. We took that to mean in our homes. We all looked so bleak you wouldn’t know we were talking about our hearts’ desires if you looked at our faces and didn’t listen to our words.

  I, of course, wished for my dad back. I even got the words out. Lizabett wished for her freedom from her brothers. Neither Carly nor Becca would share their hearts’ desires, although I only had to look at their faces to know that they each had one. I guess all of our homes were a little troubled in those days.

  It takes me a couple of minutes to realize what Carly said on her way out the door of The Pews. “She’s going to get a leash for her cat? Carly?”

  Lizabett looks up at that. “She would never put her cat on a leash. She didn’t even want to use that box thing to trap her cat. And the cat would only be in there eating a can of tuna.”

  “I know,” I say. At least, I think I know that. Things have been so weird lately, I don’t know what’s what for sure anymore.

  Becca has come back from her phone call and hears what I’ve said. “Maybe it’s because of the picture in the paper.”

  Both Lizabett and I look at Becca.

  “I haven’t seen it,” she says. “But the law clerk and I were talking and he told me about it. It’s in the Star News this morning. A picture of Carly looking for her cat.”

  I have a bad feeling about this, and I rush outside to look in the newspaper stands outside the diner. Both Lizabett and Becca are right behind me until we reach the newspapers, and then we all just stand there and stare.

  “It’s on the front page,” Lizabett says in awe. “In color.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say as I dig in my pocket for a couple of quarters.

  The picture is sharp and clear, so there is no mistaking Carly for someone else. Of course, the paper only used the picture because Carly is beautiful. I bet they sell more papers today than usual. Who wouldn’t want to look at one of the beautiful people?

  The sky is blue, and Carly is looking up into the trees with her house in the background, including the maid and cook standing on the steps. The caption reads San Marino Cat Chooses Tree House Over Mansion As Owner Answers Charges About Contaminants.

  “Her hair looks good,” Becca says as I reach over and open the box that lets you pull a paper from the stand.

  “Carly always looks beautiful,” I say as I pick up a newspaper. “That doesn’t mean they have to plaster her picture all over town.”

  Carly is too private to enjoy this.

  “I don’t think it’s fair to call your uncle’s bacon strips ‘contaminants,’ though,” Becca adds thoughtfully. “They are a bit hard on the arteries maybe, but contaminants is going too far.”

  At least the story doesn’t say where Carly got the bacon. No one would want the diner mentioned in the same headline as contaminants.

  “Does it mention Quinn?” Lizabett asks before leaning closer to me. “Quinn ate some of that bacon, you know. He always takes a good picture. They should have gotten him in there, too, eating a slice of that bacon.”

  “I’m not sure anyone wants their picture in a newspaper with this kind of a headline,” I say as I hold up the paper so everyone can see the picture, caption and the headline. At least they didn’t mention that the police wanted to give us all tickets for littering. They didn’t give us tickets, by the way—I’m not sure I told you that earlier.

  “What else does it say?” Becca asks.

  I read the caption to them:

  “Local woman, Carly Winston, 24, tries to lure runaway cat home by leaving fried bacon on the street outside her parent’s San Marino mansion. Winston claims the cat, a purebred animal, didn’t mean to run away from home, but is merely confused because it is a new San Marino resident. Will the smell of bacon bring the cat home? Winston purchased the cat recently for an undisclosed sum of money from a cat breeder in Washington State.”

  Becca whistles. “That makes Carly sound like she’s up to no good—saying things like ‘undisclosed sum of money’—it’s no one’s business how much Carly paid for that cat.”

  “People in San Marino spend their money like water anyway,” Lizabett says. “So, they should talk.”

  We all turn to go back inside The Pews.

  “Yeah, I know, but those people in San Marino think it’s in bad taste to mention the word money in a newspaper,” I say. “They all like to pretend money doesn’t matter.”

  We’re inside the door of The Pews now, but Lizabett and I are still looking at that newspaper. Becca goes over to the counter to talk to Uncle Lou.

  “Quinn has a savings account,” Lizabett says after a bit. “A good-sized one, too. And he’s not squeamish about it—I mean, they could mention it in the paper if they wanted and he’d be okay with it. He’s cool about money.”

  Our eyes adjust to being inside The Pews. The light was bright outside, but the blinds are half-closed and it’s dim inside here.

  “That reminds me,” I say. “I need to call City Hall and find out how much it costs to rent their courtyard.”

  “Did your dad ask about us using the car dealership place yet?” Lizabett asks.

  I shake my head. I’ve been dreading this question. “I haven’t talked to him today.”

  “Do you think you’ll call him?” Lizabett asks.

  I don’t know what to tell Lizabett. The truth of the matter is that I can’t call my father because I don’t have his telephone number. Uncle Lou has the number, and I could always get it from him, but I don’t.

  “I thought I’d walk over to the car dealership,” I finally say. It is several blocks from here, across the Colorado Bridge, and it’s close enough to make a nice walk. My dad will be surprised to see me wal
k in the dealership door, but he would be just as surprised if I called him later. Besides, he won’t be home until this evening, so if I want a quick answer, it’s best to go to the dealership.

  The door opens to The Pews, and I see a huge bouquet of long-stemmed red roses come inside. I can see the khaki legs of a deliveryman at the bottom of the bouquet and a hunk of black hair at the top. I don’t need to read the card to know what is happening. There’s got to be two dozen roses there.

  “They’re from Randy,” I say.

  Obviously, the guy did not take my advice about starting a little more low-key with Carly. And, who knows, maybe he’s right. Red roses and Carly do go together. At least red roses go with her better than cat leashes do.

  “Put them over there,” I tell the delivery guy as I gesture to one of the back tables. I reach in my pockets and pull out a few one-dollar bills to tip the guy. The deliveryman takes the tip and heads over to the back table with the flowers.

  “Well,” Lizabett says as if she’s going to say something and then pauses for so long I think she’s lost her words. But she hasn’t. “They’re only flowers. Quinn can send flowers, too.”

  I don’t know what to say to Lizabett, but it turns out I don’t need to say anything because she walks into a corner and pulls out her cell phone. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but whatever it is, she’s saying it with a force that is new to Lizabett.

  Becca walks back over to me. She’s noticed the animation in Lizabett’s voice, too. “Would you listen to that?”

  Neither one of us can actually hear the words Lizabett is saying, but we both recognize the tone. Lizabett is taking charge.

  “I hope she’s calling Carly,” I finally say. “I don’t know where Carly thinks she’s going to find a cat leash here in Old Town anyway, so she might as well come back and take care of her flowers.”

  You can find many things in the stores around The Pews. Carly can find Italian walking shoes if she wants or twenty flavors of gelato—Italian ice cream—or silk scarves in a hundred colors or hand-dipped candles, but she won’t find something as mundane as a cat leash.