My grandmother shifted in her seat. We had been talking over her head and it was clear she was making her presence known. "It's settled. It's my house and I've invited Ryan to spend a few days, which he agreed to."
She had spoken with the finality of a mother to her wayward toddlers. All three of us stood silent--unable to compete with her authority. Both Jesse and Ryan were looking to the floor, and I clenched my jaw and literally pressed my lips together so I wouldn't say anything I would regret in front of Jesse.
Eleanor just straightened the quilt on her lap and waited for one of us to challenge her. Finally, Jesse spoke.
"I need your prints, Nell," he said quietly, with a hint of apology in his voice.
I rolled up my sleeves, pressed my fingers one by one into the black ink and with Jesse guiding my hand, rolled each finger onto a blank piece of paper.
"I guess that's it, then," Jesse said. "I appreciate your cooperation."
"There was a quilt next to Marc's body," Eleanor said. "When can I get it back?"
"I don't know," Jesse said. "It had some blood on it. We'll need to keep it as evidence. Is it valuable?"
Eleanor shrugged. I knew that she was speaking of Grace's quilt, and I knew to my grandmother it was priceless. "Bring it back when you can," she said.
Ryan shifted his feet and looked up.
"I'll walk you out," he said to Jesse.
Jesse took the cue, nodding good-bye and walking toward the front door with Ryan.
Now that we were alone, I unclenched my jaw. As I opened my mouth to yell something clever about meddling grandmothers, Eleanor moved her broken leg and made an exaggerated groan.
"I didn't have a choice," she said as she adjusted in the chair and winced from pain. It was amazing how, now that I was angry, she was suddenly in more pain than she had been since the accident.
"You didn't have a choice," I repeated. "Do you think I believe that?"
"If you trust me, you do."
"If I trust you? To do what? Decide my life for me?" I was overreacting, and I knew it. But I couldn't stop myself.
Ryan stood in the doorway. "Nell," he started.
"No," my voice cracked. "I don't want to be manipulated by either of you anymore." I pushed Ryan out of the way and ran upstairs.
I slammed the door to the bedroom not once, but twice. I wanted to make sure that my grandmother got the point. I was well aware I was acting like a child, but Eleanor had to be equally aware she was treating me as one. It wasn't just that Ryan's presence was confusing, it was that my grandmother had decided for me that he should stay. I wanted her advice, not her interference.
I flopped on the bed, wrapping my quilt tightly around me. Eleanor always behaved as if she knew what was best for me. I suddenly realized Ryan had done the same thing. He'd introduced me to restaurants and people and a life that would be better for me than the life I'd been creating. I went along with him. Wasn't it time I decided what was best for me? I was willing to admit, but only to myself, that slamming doors wasn't exactly the best way to announce I could handle things from now on. But after everything that had happened, I was in no mood for rational discourse.
I could hear noises from downstairs, but I didn't know what was going on, and I wasn't about to venture out of the room to find out. I just lay on the bed with my quilt watching the sun outside.
I wasn't going to stay in the house, I decided. I needed space, and if Eleanor didn't understand that, then she could have Ryan as a houseguest, but she would have to live without me. I grabbed my cell and dialed my last loyal friend.
"Hey there, stranger," Amanda answered in her usual bouncy way.
"Can I sleep on your couch?"
"Anytime," she said immediately. "I thought you were staying at your grandmother's."
"I was. But I can't anymore."
I launched into a long and overly dramatic retelling of the events of the last twenty-four hours. How I kissed Marc. How Ryan showed up, fists flying. How Marc was found dead and I wasn't sure if Ryan had something to do with it. How I needed time and space and support, and was getting none of it from my grandmother, who had become Ryan's ally in the fight to win me back. If that was what Ryan was trying to do. I didn't really know what Ryan was trying to do.
"Do you want to get back together with Ryan?" Amanda interrupted.
Good question. Until yesterday, I had assumed the answer was yes. But I had also assumed it wasn't an option. But now with Ryan here, I wasn't sure.
"Do you think I should take him back?"
Amanda was silent.
"Are you still there?" I asked.
"I'm thinking," she finally said.
"Should I play some Jeopardy! music while you come up with your answer?"
"I think that Ryan hasn't been fair to you, and you should think about what you really want. If what you want is Ryan, you know I'll be behind you one hundred percent."
There it was, the coded warning of girlfriends everywhere: "If it's what you want (translated: it's a huge mistake) I'll be there for you (translated: I'll still listen to you whine about his faults, even though--to be clear--you are making a huge mistake).
"I need time," I said.
"Then take it." Amanda breathed heavily on the other end of the phone. "I'm sorry."
"You're the one person who doesn't owe me an apology."
She didn't respond.
CHAPTER 27
From the hallway, I could see that Eleanor was alone in the living room, propped on her bed.
In the few hours I'd been upstairs, things in the house had gotten quiet. Ryan was nowhere to be found, so it seemed as good a time as any to have the talk. I stood just outside the door and watched Eleanor sew quietly while the news played in the background. She was working so intently she didn't seem to notice me standing ten feet away. Barney was lying at the foot of the bed and the rest was covered with squares of pastel fabrics as Eleanor appliqued animals on each square.
After several minutes and without looking up, she barked, "Are you going to stand in the hall or are you coming in?"
I walked into the room. "I'm the one who's angry, not you, so lose the attitude," I said with as much strength in my voice as I could muster.
The slightest smile crept on my grandmother's face. "You used to look just like that when you were three and I wouldn't let you play outside by yourself."
"I'm mad at you," I said, losing steam.
"Why are you angry?" she asked innocently.
I almost laughed. "Are you pretending to be senile?"
Eleanor put down her sewing and gave me a long, hard stare. "I'm not sure I'm pretending." She winked. "Nell, I'm sorry. You're a grown woman and I obviously have no right to tell you or Ryan what to do. It's just when you've lived as long as I have . . ."
I plopped on the bed. "Not the 'I'm older so I know more' line."
She patted my hand. "No. It's the 'I'm older so I've made more mistakes' line."
"You haven't made any mistakes. You've survived. You've succeeded. You're an example to women everywhere."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"Only a little." I lay down and starting petting Barney's belly. "I don't have your strength."
"After your grandfather died, I moved in here to look after Grace. You know about that," she said.
"Sort of."
"Well, Grace was an old woman and she needed a companion. I think a widow with two small children was more than she bargained for, but she was a wonderful person and she made us feel welcome." My grandmother shifted slightly, and continued. "I know you think I was strong and just kept going after your grandfather died, but the truth is I was scared and lonely. Once a week I used to get on the train and go to another town--Cold Spring, Beacon, anywhere. Once I even went into New York City and I spent the whole day walking around dreaming about living there."
"Then you came back."
My grandmother looked at me, as I was slightly addled. "Obviously."
I pu
t my head on her shoulder. "The moral of your story is that you think I'm running away from dealing with Ryan."
"I think you had your whole life planned out, just like I once did, and now you're faced with the idea that your life might be very different. If I'm pushing you, I'm sorry, but I think it's time you dealt with that. Running away is not the answer."
"No," I said quietly, then shifted the subject to one I had the strength to discuss. "But quilting is, I suppose."
She smiled. "It was for me," she said, and went back to her sewing. I just sat next to her on the bed and watched her sew a little yellow duck onto a pink fabric background.
"Who are you making that for?" I asked.
"No one in particular." She held the block out for inspection. "I like to keep a few quilts handy. The quilt club gives them to the premature babies at the hospital."
"It's nice . . . that you do that." I took the fabric from her hand and she handed me the needle and thread. "Show me how."
"You catch a little bit of the duck with your needle and a little bit of the background," she explained as I took a large stitch.
I kept going until I had finished sewing the duck onto the background fabric. It was obvious this quilt had two sewers-- one an expert, and the other someone who could be confused with a high-functioning monkey. But I didn't care how bad my stitches looked. I was proud of my work. I showed it to my grandmother.
"Not bad," she said, lying.
"Let's do another one."
She chose a square for herself and handed me a pink square of fabric and a small blue teddy bear, and I set to work.
"You are now part of a long tradition," Eleanor said as we worked.
"Yes, I know. Quilting goes back to the beginning of this country, to Europe before that and possibly to ancient Egypt," I recited. I had heard this speech before.
"Well, yes," she said. "But I was thinking that you are joining the great quilting tradition of using fabric and thread to calm your nerves and get you through a difficult time."
I had to admit that touching the soft flannel fabric had the same effect as petting Barney. I found myself completely engrossed in each stitch, moving at a slow but steady pace around the pattern, almost as if I were meditating.
"My first quilt--" My grandmother leaned in. "God it was awful. It was the fifties, and quilting was a dying art. Everyone wanted modern, sleek stuff. We were all caught up in gadgets, cooking TV dinners," she laughed. "The idea of doing something as old-fashioned as cutting up a perfectly good piece of fabric just to sew it back together again seemed, well, crazy."
"So why did you do it?" I asked as I finished my second square and moved on to the third.
"At first I was being polite. Grace quilted, and she was so kind to me and your mom and Uncle Henry. When she asked me if I'd like to learn, I said yes. I thought I wouldn't like it." She patted the fabric in her hands, smoothing the square. "But I realized," she continued, "a quilt could be whatever I wanted. It could be straight and square. It could be colorful and wild. I was in complete control of the process." She looked toward me. "There are certainly rules. In everything there are always rules. But it was the first time I realized I could follow the rules or I could break them, and neither choice was wrong."
"Sounds pretty rebellious."
"Anything you do that is truly yours is rebellious." She watched my stitches for a moment. "Now we're starting our own tradition. I'm the elderly woman being taken care of . . ."
"And now you're teaching me," I said, and showed her my teddy bear block. "What do you think, in fifty years will I quilt as well as you?"
She fingered the uneven stitches that held the teddy bear to the pink fabric. "Maybe not in fifty years," she said, and smiled.
After an hour of sewing small animals onto blocks, my fingers were starting to hurt. I stretched and wondered about what was in the kitchen.
I was almost out of the bed when Eleanor looked up. "Whatever his reason for calling things off, it was because of him, not you. Once you know that, you won't need to look for reassurance in whatever man comes along."
"Is that what you think I was doing with Marc?"
"Yes."
"There was more to it than that," I said, a little defensive. "That's just what you saw."
She sighed.
"What does that sigh mean?" I was now turning red. My grandmother said nothing, but I knew. "Did all the woman in the quilt club sit around discussing my relationship with Marc?" She said nothing. "You must have all thought I was very stupid."
"Nancy's husband has a gambling problem that means she probably won't be able to afford to keep paying for her boys' education. Carrie's husband prefers to be at work than at home with her and the kids. One of Bernie's husbands had a heart attack and left her for the nurse." She took a breath. "And Natalie's husband wanted time off from the marriage, whatever that means, about a year and a half ago, and poor Natalie got herself involved in a rather painful affair."
"Well, you're certainly up on the local gossip."
"My point is, no one judges you or pities you or thinks you were foolish. We all have our problems, and we all love the men in our lives, even when they disappoint us."
"I'll talk to him," I said.
"Whatever you want." She smiled, and raised the volume on the television. "Let's see what nonsense the world has gotten itself into today."
I decided against a trip to the kitchen and settled back on the bed. Instead I listened to the newscaster tell a story about a rising terror alert in Washington, followed by a report on a killer tornado sweeping the Midwest.
I felt very safe in this bed, in this little town on the Hudson. I closed my eyes, finally feeling a little peace, until I realized I wasn't safe, not even here. The image of Marc's lifeless body filled my mind. Then I saw picture after picture of Ryan standing over Marc, angry and jealous, just hours before Marc was killed.
Even more disturbing was the realization that not only did I probably know the killer, my grandmother may have just invited him to stay.
CHAPTER 28
When night came, I stayed downstairs and shared the bed with my grandmother and Barney. It felt comfortable and warm there, and I didn't want to risk another midnight visit from Ryan, not while I was feeling so unsure about everything. I got up early and walked Barney for longer than he wanted to be walked, then came back to the house and looked for something to do.
I stared at the contents of the refrigerator for several minutes, as if ingredients were going to jump up and make themselves into something delicious. I saw some strawberries and box of blueberries and was ready to have a simple, healthy breakfast of fruit salad when I got a better idea. After searching through my grandmother's recipe cards, I found one for blueberry muffins.
Following it exactly, I mixed the dry ingredients in a bowl that was too small and mixed the milk and eggs in a very large bowl. Then, after carefully checking the recipe to make absolutely sure I was doing it right, I mixed the two together, folded in the fresh blueberries, and had a taste. To my relief, it tasted like muffin batter. I had forgotten to preheat the oven, but by the time I found the muffin tin and poured the batter into the cups, I figured the oven was hot enough. Fifteen minutes later--much to my surprise--I took perfectly baked, moist muffins from the oven and set them down on the table with a pot of coffee. I hesitated, then tore one in half. Steam rose from the middle. It was a creamy beige, with small dots of a purplish blue throughout--just how a blueberry muffin should look. I pinched off a bit and put it in my mouth. A light cake surrounded a pop of blueberry flavor.
The Lover's Knot: A Someday Quilts Mystery Page 13