By the time they returned, Luke was Manny’s new best friend, one worthy of lap jumping and face licking.
“The man must be a dog whisperer. I’ve never seen Manny fall so fast for someone,” Aretha remarked.
Nina smiled. Luke seemed to be an Aretha whisperer as well.
“If I can know I don’t like somebody in less than two days, why is it impossible to know the reverse of that?” After dinner, Aretha stretched out on the sofa with her sketch book propped on her bent legs, moving her pencil back and forth between her palms as if she was rolling dough. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I’ve always thought that.” Nina looked up from her laptop where she sat at the kitchen table, half-hidden by the bucket of tulips. She bookmarked her page, then moved the flowers over so she could see Aretha. “You mean the Luke thing? For starters, you certainly weren’t crazy about the beautiful part. That he is. If you tell me the two of you are running off to Vegas tomorrow, then you’re definitely certifiable.”
The pencil stopped. “Not tomorrow, of course not.” It started again. “But I do like him. As in, if he doesn’t call me this week, I’ll be in mourning. And devastated. And maybe therapy.” She started sketching again.
“Now that, my friend, is crazy. You met him less than two days ago. Have you even run a Google search on the man? Checked out one of those sexual predator sites? Due diligence. Do it.”
Her pencil danced from one side of the pad to the other as she spoke. “Is that distrust because that journalistic blood of yours flows through the river of suspicion? If I told you he was an attorney or a doctor, you’d feel better?”
“Maybe, but being a doctor or lawyer doesn’t save people from being skanky. His career choice isn’t the issue.”
“True, but would you even be the slightest bit interested in Brady if he worked as a mechanic or a plumber?”
Nina laughed. “Sister, I’d be more interested because I’m certain his income would be much better in those two careers. Why? Do you think I’m a job-snob?”
She shrugged. “Nah. You’d be more interested in Dr. Vet if you were, regardless of his sibling.”
Nina pushed the flowers to the other end of the table. “Being a veterinarian doesn’t exempt him from anything, and it’s not his sibling who’s an issue. Except that it’s one more reason to distrust him. I know his history, and that’s the reason I’m not interested.”
Aretha looked up at Nina. “Kind of a shame, really. He is.”
Nina lowered her Coke to the table. “He’s what?”
“Attracted to you. I saw it at the benefit. His body language, the way his eyes lingered on your face—”
“Stop. Not only would he be wasting his time, just the thought of that makes me wish I could give my brain a bath,” Nina said.
“Okay, we’ll go with that for now.”
Nina considered raising another objection, but she didn’t want another Greg conversation. And she knew Aretha had a way of drawing things out of her. Admitting she might have had just the flicker of a feeling for him wasn’t news she wanted Aretha to use as evidence.
Manny pattered back and forth from the sofa to the table motored by a whine that grew louder with each trip.
Aretha, still focused on the pad, said, “He’s hungry.”
Nina had already headed for the dog food. “I’m on it.” She spooned the canned duck formula into his bowl, and Manny tap-danced below her while she mashed it up for him. “Look,” she said as she set his bowl on his doggy placemat, “I’m not telling you it’s ridiculous to want to spend more time with Luke. I just don’t want to see your picture on the television one night as a crime statistic.” She washed her hands and sat down at the laptop again. “What does he do? And what are you so busy sketching over there?”
“He’s a detective.” She grinned as she turned the sketchpad to face Nina. The name Luke, styled in a fanciful calligraphy, stretched from one end of the page to another.
Nina groaned. “Great. He brings out your junior high tween-self.”
18
Omitting the praise from Brady about her nose for news and his benefit bashing, Nina pitched the feature idea to Aretha. “I think writing human interest stories about the families in these support groups could earn me some promotion points, don’t you?”
“That’s your angle? Promotion points? Do you want to write these stories?” Aretha had retired her sketchpad for the night and folded towels fresh out of the dryer. The scent of Mountain Spring fabric softener competed with the lemon oil Nina was using to polish the table.
“Can’t this be a case of the end justifies the means? I’m not all that excited about chummying up to these families, but if the end result is a ticket to New York, I could stand it.”
“And you’re not afraid that the stories will reflect your wafer-thin veneer of compassion? And you’re comfortable using these people?”
Nina refolded the dust cloth and wiped the kitchen table again. “You’re making me feel like a con artist. If their message gets out, will they care? Isn’t that the Christian thing to do . . . you know . . . sacrifice for the greater good or glory or something like that?”
Aretha shook her head as if Nina had just said she’d eaten a bowl of jellybeans for breakfast. “A little advice. Don’t go trying to be something you’re not. Or, worse, be condescending because they operate on a level of faith.”
“They’ll be happy to have a forum to promote their cause. And I’ll be happy to have a cause to promote myself. It’s a win-win,” Nina said.
Aretha moved a stack of dish towels into the kitchen drawer. “You better check your attitude at the door, that’s all I’m saying.”
Nina stayed awake long after Aretha had gone to bed. After Saturday night’s identity confusion, Nina wasn’t sure what the temperature of her boss’s mood would be. She wanted to be ready for Elise in the morning, and that meant doing her homework that night.
What she discovered about The AIDS Memorial Quilt was more than she could digest in one late night-early morning research session. Knowing the weight (54 tons) and number of panels on the quilt (over 47,000) were almost trivial compared to its impact since 1985 when it was conceived. In 1987, a small group gathered in San Francisco to not only create a memorial for people who died of AIDS, but for that memorial to help everyone else understand the impact of the disease. A year later, the quilt had more than eight thousand panels. Eight years later, the quilt covered the entire National Mall in Washington, D.C. That would be the last display of the entire quilt because it became too heavy and too unwieldy to continue. Visitors to the quilt numbered more than eighteen million.
By 2008, the Memorial Quilt bore the names of more than ninety-one thousand men, women, and children who had died from AIDS. Since the inception of the Memorial Quilt, the tours raised more than four million dollars to heighten awareness of AIDS. The names on the quilt included babies who had died of AIDS from being breast-fed by their infected mothers, people who died from blood transfusions . . . the stories were endless.
Nina fell asleep scrolling through panel after panel after panel after panel.
Driving to work the next morning, Nina pulled through the first Starbucks on her route, ordered an extra shot in her latte, and hoped she wouldn’t nod off at a red light. She’d stayed up until almost three o’clock researching the We Care benefit and The AIDS Memorial Quilt, determined to show Aretha that the only story waiting to be found was a “feel good” feature that showcased the sewing talents of a team of little old lady quilters and the charitable contributions of the Houston wealthy.
The benefit had the potential to garner that promotion she wanted. Nina figured that if she could track down some families, she could expand one story into almost as many as Elise would give her space to feature. How tough would it be to pretend to be emotionally invested in their lives for a week or so?
All she needed was a buy-in from Elise, and Nina knew she could summon enough en
thusiasm for the story just thinking about the pay-off. By the time she had parked her car, Nina knew the angle she’d pitch to Elise. And by the time she walked through the front door of Trends, Nina had practiced it enough that she felt confident she’d impress her boss.
“Good morning, Michelle.” Nina tossed her empty coffee cup away and headed for her desk.
“Not so fast. The delivery service dropped this off for you,” said the receptionist and handed Nina a box large enough for a winter coat. “It’s kind of heavy. You might want to just open it here. Unless it’s something private . . .”
“Michelle, for anything private to be this heavy, it would take half the shelves in Victoria’s Secret.” Nina set her purse on the counter. “There’s no return address. You sure it’s not going to explode?”
“I didn’t hear any ticking, plus it came through the service we use all the time.” Michelle handed her a pair of scissors. “I mean, anything’s possible, but it just doesn’t strike me as a bomb-like package. Especially because,” she turned the box around where a piece of the brown paper had been torn, “I recognize this paisley wrapping paper.” She spoke barely above a whisper, “It’s cotton and silk. Ex-pen-sive.”
Nina, joining the whisper conspiracy, said, “And how do you know it’s so ex-pen-sive?”
“Because Elise asked me to order gift wrap from this company online, and I saw it there. It’s not the pattern she used, though.”
“Interesting . . .” said Nina as she cut the brown paper away and revealed the teal and pink paisley patterns splashed against the white silk paper like peacocks. She and Michelle examined both sides of the box, but they didn’t see a card. She carefully cut the wrapping paper away, and opened the box underneath. Taped to the tissue paper, its shades matching the paisley patterns wrapping, was a square white envelope.
Nina opened it, saw the initials at the top of the card, and quickly scanned the note. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What? What does it say? Who’s it from?”
She slipped it back into the envelope, which she knew would only increase Michelle’s curiosity, but she didn’t want the office involved.
If Nina hadn’t opened the tissue paper when she did, Michelle was so impatient, that she might have done it for her.
Underneath the layers of tissue was the quilt she meant to bid on at the We Care benefit. The one she wanted to give Aretha for her birthday.
The monogram at the top of the note was the letter H between a G and an L. The note read, “Nina, I hope your friend cherishes this quilt. I know, due to circumstances that night, you were unable to place your bid. It would have been a shame for your friend to miss your thoughtfulness. Regards, Greg.”
“Don’t you want to take it out?” Michelle ran her hand over the fabric.
“I know what it looks like. Can you hold on to the wrapping paper? I’m going to take this to my car.” Whether she ultimately intended to keep the quilt or not, the more people who saw it and heard about the special delivery, the more complicated the story would become.
“But . . . but . . . I’d love to see it.” Michelle watched as Nina wiggled the top of the box back, looking from Nina back to the quilt as if she’d just been shown dessert and told she had to go to bed without it. “This is perplexing, Nina. Why are you in such a hurry to whisk this away? Are you okay?”
Nina heard Michelle’s tone shift into mother-mode. “I’m fine. Just fine. I just don’t want to make a production out of this.” Seeing the receptionist slink behind her desk and quietly roll the wrapping paper, she felt guilty for her abrasiveness. “I didn’t mean to sound so rude. I’ll explain, but just not now.”
“No, really. You don’t owe me an explanation. It’s not my business, and I shouldn’t have intruded.” She flashed Nina her receptionist smile, the one that came with the job. “I’ll put this,” she said and waved the roll of wrapping paper like a baton, “on your desk as soon as I’m finished.”
“Thanks, Michelle. Really.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.” If Greg Hernandez would just stay out of my life, I wouldn’t have reasons to be angry.
19
Greg set the kitchen timer as he did every morning and every evening to remind himself, and now Paloma, to give his daughter her medicine. One of the biggest threats to HIV-positive children was becoming resistant to the drug therapy, and one of the ways to become resistant was not following a schedule for the doses. Jazarah’s meds needed to be administered at the same time every day, and it was crucial that she not miss a dose.
He also set his and Paloma’s cell phone alarms as backup, or in case, for any reason, they might not be home at the dosage time. Lily had joked that Greg would make a deal with the Emergency Broadcasting System if necessary. When the routine started, it was Lily who scheduled the times so that, years later, when their daughter started school, she’d take her meds before and after the school day. Everything involved with caring for Jazarah, what to do with the laundry if she should cut herself, preparing a portable first aid kit, had been orchestrated by Lily. And now that he was responsible without her, Greg said a prayer of gratitude every day for what his wife did to insure their daughter would have everything she needed.
“Daddy, tiss me, tiss me!” Jazarah bounced up and down on her toes, her arms outstretched. Greg picked her up and twirled her around, both of them making sputtering airplane engine noises. At close range, he detected apple juice fueled his daughter’s plane, and some of it was now spotting his lab coat.
“Big smacky kiss for Dad,” he said, and she obliged by planting her cupid lips on his as he brought her in for a floor landing.
And, as he did every morning, he didn’t leave without the pat down to make sure he had his cell phone in one lab coat pocket, his wallet in one pants pocket, keys in the other, and his worn copy of My Utmost for His Highest, a devotional book by Oswald Chambers that belonged to his father. Some days Greg didn’t have time to read; in fact, many days it wasn’t until he arrived home in the evening that he did. He just liked carrying it with him. Knowing it was there seemed to ground him.
After making sure for the fifth time that Paloma had the name and phone number of the clinic where he’d be that day, he left. He had taped a note to his steering wheel to remind himself to call Elise on the way. His first call went right to her voicemail, but she called back before he’d even finished leaving her a message.
“Just hanging up with Peyton when you beeped in. You’re starting early today. Where to?”
“Outside of Houston. A clinic in Cypress. First time there, so I wanted to give myself some extra time.”
“Smart move. Have some good books on your iPod? Between the distance and the traffic, you might get in one or two today. People tell you Cypress is outside of Houston, but it’s going to feel like you hit the outskirts of Austin. So don’t panic, unless you find yourself actually in Austin . . .”
“Guess I should have packed two lunches. I’ll call Paloma and warn her not to hold supper, bath, or bedtime.”
“Do you need me to do that for you?”
“No. Wait. Okay I got it. I got it.” Greg said as if speaking to someone who doubted his sincerity.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, the GPS chick thought I wasn’t changing lanes. Anyway, I don’t need you to call the nanny, but I do have a favor to ask,” Greg said as he focused on the exit signs that were like huge shiny green tabs on a wide concrete tablet.
“I’m almost to my office. Want me to call you back?”
“I’ll talk fast because I need you to know this before you get there. And try not to ask too many questions. I’ll explain when I have more time.” He told her about the quilt delivery to Nina, but he didn’t want Elise to mention it unless Nina did.
“And why did you feel compelled to purchase this and send it to her?”
Elise’s voice put its mom-clothes on, but Greg understood that she didn’t know about Nina losing out on the bidding p
rocess, which he then explained. “If she does bring up my name, which is highly unlikely after Saturday night, please don’t say anything about Jazarah or Lily.”
“Strange request. You don’t want her to know you’re a single father of an HIV-positive child from Ethiopia and your wife died in a car accident caused by a drunk driver? Any particular one or all of those?”
Listening to his sister roll out his life that way, it sounded like a script from a sappy daytime drama. If only it had been. I could have rewritten the script. “I’m not trying to keep any of that a secret. Don’t be dishonest if she asks questions. Which I know you wouldn’t be, which is precisely why I wanted to talk to you. I just have to work some things out, and I don’t want her to make decisions based on pity.”
“All of this from a misunderstanding at the benefit?”
“Unfortunately, no. It goes back a long way. But that’s something I’ll have to tell you later.”
“How much later? Never mind. I just pulled into the garage. I’ll text you as the day goes on. And Greg . . . I know you wouldn’t ask all this if you didn’t have good reason. I trust you.”
“Thanks, Elise,” he said, relieved that she would back him and that he spotted the exit for 290.
Now if he could just convince Nina to trust him.
When Nina walked back into the office after moving the quilt to her car, Michelle was on the phone. She looked up when Nina passed, nodded, but her smile looked like one she’d worn the night before and forgot to take off. If she’d been Michelle, she would have picked up the phone and pretended to be on a call just to avoid a conversation. It occurred to Nina that perhaps the reason she didn’t trust other people or their feelings was her assumption they might be acting out of the same motives she would. And since, most of the time, her feelings were such a cosmic mess, she barely trusted them herself.
Threads of Hope: Quilts of Love Series Page 10