Apart at the Seams

by Marie Bostwick

  I propped my elbow up on the window ledge. By this time I was genuinely interested in the story—I couldn’t help myself.

  “I saw her through the trees. I was about to yell at her to knock it off,” he said, sounding a little apologetic. “I mean, people are entitled to do what they want on their own property, but I hadn’t slept in four nights. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped throwing stuff and started to just sob, really sob, like somebody had died or something. Then she grabbed a shovel and disappeared around the side of the house—”

  “A shovel?”

  “Uh-huh. At that point, I was starting to worry about her, so I followed her. She started digging a hole—”

  “In the middle of the night? Why?”

  “No idea,” he said. “I stood there and watched her for a while. You know, just to make sure she was okay. I didn’t know what else to do. Finally, I went home and went back to bed. The next morning I went over there to check on her—”

  “And lend her your rototiller.”

  He took his arm off the roof of the car, straightened up a bit, and hooked his thumb into his belt loops. “Well, I was just looking for some reason to go over there and check on her. I didn’t want to embarrass her or anything, but . . . yeah . . .” He moved his head slowly from side to side, and made a sucking sound with his teeth. “Weird. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I’m guessing it has something to do with the husband. They aren’t up here very often, but she’s never come up without him before. And the way she’s acting . . .

  “I kind of lost it after my wife walked out,” he went on. “I mean, not completely. I couldn’t; I had Drew to think about. Otherwise, who knows what would have happened? I started chopping down trees just to keep from going off the deep end, cleared this whole side by myself,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his arm. “Cut and stacked five cords of wood before I got a grip. Pretty rough. But I guess it’s that way for everybody, right?” He shrugged. “Divorce makes you crazy. You probably know what I’m talking about.”

  He gave me an expectant look, obviously expecting me to agree with him or share my life story or something. . . . The awkward feeling returned. Didn’t he already know about me? New Bern being the way it is—a town where everybody knows everybody else’s business and has no problem talking about it—I figured he would. On the other hand, what made me suppose I was so fascinating that other people spent their time talking about me?

  “I’m not sure I’m a very good example. My husband and I . . .”

  I faltered, not sure how to explain my marital history to a man I hardly knew.

  “For me it was a kind of relief,” I said. “It was ugly. And complicated. And he . . . he left town right after the divorce.”

  “He’s in jail. That’s kind of like time-out for grown-ups.” Bobby’s high-pitched voice took me by surprise. He’d been so quiet for so long that I’d almost forgotten he was sitting within earshot.

  I blushed and shifted my eyes from Dan’s. Hodge is the one convicted of fraud. He’s the one doing time. The only crime I’m guilty of is being stupid enough to marry him. Even so, every time someone finds out that my ex-husband is a felon, I’m overcome with shame.

  I guess that’s why I never sat down and told Bobby where his dad had gone. I guess that’s why Bethany invented that story about Hodge being away at sea—because she feels the same way. Both of us wanted to spare him that embarrassment, the indignity of guilt by association with a father he doesn’t even remember.

  “He’s coming back pretty soon. But,” Bobby grumbled, giving the back of my seat a kick, “not in time to help me practice for the bowling tournament.”

  “Stop it, Bobby! I told you before.”

  I turned back to Dan. “There’s this bowling tournament near the end of August,” I said, trying to explain things to him, though I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like it concerned him. I guess I just was trying to fill the silence. Or maybe I didn’t want him to think I’d raised a rude child. “I offered to be his partner, but it’s sponsored by Boys’ Brigade and . . . Oh, look! Drew is back!”

  Saved by the bell. What a relief.

  Drew hopped out of the truck and came loping across the lawn. “Sorry I’m late. We were loading the tiller into the truck, and Mrs. Oliver cut her hand on the blade.”

  Dan frowned. “Why’d she grab it by the blade? Is she all right?”

  “It wasn’t that deep. I helped her bandage it up.”

  “Why’d you let her help you anyway?” Dan asked. “It isn’t that heavy.”

  Maybe not for Dan, I thought, glancing at the rototiller before sneaking another glance at those muscled arms, but I wouldn’t be able to lift it on my own.

  “I know,” Drew said, sounding just slightly annoyed. “I told her that, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  He turned his face to me. “I’m really sorry. I hope I haven’t made you late for your date. Hey, where’s Bethany?”

  “She’s at a sleepover,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. I’m meeting a few of my girlfriends for dinner and some quilting. It doesn’t matter what time I show up.”

  “Well, sorry anyway,” he said as he opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Hey, Bobby. Looks like we’re going to have a boys’ night, right? Want to play Candy Land?”

  Bobby made a face. “Candy Land is boring,” he said. “Can we watch Star Wars instead?”

  “Absolutely. That’s my favorite.”

  “Mine too!”

  It was true. Bobby has watched that movie about ten thousand times.

  “Hey, Drew,” Dan said, stooping down so he could see his son’s face. “Bobby joined Boys’ Brigade and he needs a partner for the bowling tournament. Think you might be up for the job?”

  “No!” Bobby shouted before Drew could even answer. “Drew can’t be my partner. It’s a father-son bowling tournament. Only fathers and sons can be in it.”

  My cheeks had felt warm at several points in the last few minutes, but now they were flaming. I was so embarrassed. Dan must think my son was a total brat. At that moment, I was inclined to agree with him. Next time I came to pick Drew up for babysitting, I was going to wait for him out on the road.

  “I’m a father,” Dan said without missing a beat. “And you’re a son. What if I was your partner?”

  Bobby squashed his lips together and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Are you any good?”

  Was he any good? Did he actually just ask him that? I was mortified. I wished the earth would open up and swallow me right then and there.

  “He’s very good,” Drew assured him. “He can wipe up the floor with me.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said, gripping the window ledge and looking up at Dan. “Really. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time.”

  Dan shifted his shoulders and took a step back from the car. “Not really. And it’ll be fun. I love to bowl, and Drew here,” he said, jerking his chin in his son’s direction, “he’s too busy to go bowling with his old man. So whaddaya say, Bobby? Can I be your bowling partner?”

  “I guess so. Okay. But maybe just for practice. When my dad comes home, I want him to be my partner.”

  “Fine with me. Hey! This’ll be great!” Dan thumped the car door with his hand twice, as if he was truly excited about going bowling with a seven-year-old boy. “Tell you what, on Sunday afternoon, Drew and I will take you to the alley, and we’ll get in a little practice.”

  “Dan, you don’t have to—”

  “It’s okay,” he said, waving away my concerns with a sweep of his hand. “I want to. It’ll be fun. See you on Sunday, Bobby.”

  “See you, Dan!” Bobby waved his hand and grinned at him, displaying a gap where his front tooth used to be. Dan grinned back.

  “Hey, Ivy. Do you want me to come pick up Drew for you later?”

  “Oh . . . you don’t have to do that. It’s not that far.”

  “I know, but Bobby will probably b
e asleep by then. You don’t want to leave him alone while you’re bringing Drew back.”

  He was right; I didn’t. It took only ten minutes round trip, but ten minutes was long enough for something to go wrong. He was only seven. And if Bethany wasn’t home . . .

  “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate that.”

  “No problem,” he said. “My pleasure.”

  When we got to the top of the driveway, I looked in the rearview mirror. Dan was going back inside. After the door closed behind him, I took a right and headed toward town.

  “Your dad seems like a nice guy.”

  “He’s okay.” Drew grinned. “For a dad.”

  10

  Ivy

  Quilt circle meetings were usually held in the workroom above the shop, but we were down a few people that night. Abigail wouldn’t be back from Bermuda until Monday—it seemed like she and Franklin were spending more and more of their time there—and somebody had given Virginia, who loves sports, tickets to a Connecticut Sun basketball game. Tessa was out with Lee, celebrating their anniversary, and Madelyn was busy hosting a wedding rehearsal dinner at the inn. Philippa had planned to join us, but there had been a death in the congregation, so she’d been called upon to comfort the family. Since we were such a small group, Margot suggested we meet at her house for dinner and quilting. Paul had just remodeled the attic over the garage into a new sewing room for Margot and she wanted to show it off.

  I love all my quilting friends, but Evelyn and Margot are probably my favorites. I was looking forward to our evening together.

  I see Evelyn and Margot almost every day at the quilt shop, so they already knew all about the situation with Hodge and had offered their sympathy and encouragement. I appreciate their support, but it doesn’t really change anything. In the last week, I’d talked to everyone I could think of who might conceivably know of some way to keep Hodge away from my kids. They all said the same thing: Once he is released, Hodge has a legal right to see his children. There’s nothing I can do to prevent it.

  Even so, Evelyn, Margot, and I probably will end up rehashing the whole Hodge thing yet again tonight. Not because it will change anything but just because I need to vent. It’s a woman thing, I guess. Tell a man about a problem, and he automatically assumes you’re asking him for advice. He’ll think you’re asking him to fix it, when, really, you’re just looking for a listening ear. Men just don’t get it.

  But Evelyn does. Margot does. All my quilting friends do. And they’re trustworthy, too, which is very important. On quilt circle nights, we can talk about anything and everything, knowing that what’s said in the circle stays in the circle.

  I’ve really missed that. I’ve been so overwhelmed—with work, school, kids, and now having to fit in extra appointments with Arnie and Sheila Fenton and the therapist who is supposed to be helping the kids deal with Hodge’s reentry into society and their lives—that I had to miss our last two meetings.

  I probably would have done the same tonight, but Margot said I had to come, that it would be such fun, that she couldn’t wait to show off her new sewing room, and she was going to make a pan of her special moussaka, which she knows I love, just so I wouldn’t say no. Margot can be very convincing when she wants to be.

  I stood on the stoop, but the door opened before I was able to press the bell. Paul, Margot’s husband, grinned when he saw me standing there.

  “Hi, Ivy! Come on in. The kids and I are going out for pizza, so the three of you can have the place to yourselves.

  “Honey! Ivy’s here!” he shouted in the direction of the kitchen, and then turned toward the stairs and clapped his hands together three times. “James! Olivia! If you’re not in the car in ten seconds, I’m leaving without you!”

  There was a sound of female laughter coming from the kitchen and a sudden thunder of tennis shoes on the stairway. James, Paul’s fourteen-year-old son, and Olivia, the eight-year-old niece Margot had adopted when her sister was killed in a car accident, raced down the stairs, barely stopping to say hello to me before running out the front door to the car. Margot appeared a moment later.

  “Ivy!” she squealed, hugging me as tightly as if it had been months instead of hours since we’d last seen each other. “Now we can start the party!”

  Margot kissed Paul good-bye, thanking him for getting the kids out from underfoot. Paul kissed her back, saying it was no problem, that she deserved a break, headed halfway out the door, and then turned around, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her again, as if he could hardly bear being parted from her for even a few hours.

  If it hadn’t been so sweet, it would have been nauseating. Paul is such a terrific guy. It took Margot more than forty years to find Mr. Right, but obviously, he’d been worth the wait. Too bad it can’t work out like that for everybody.

  When they finally managed to pull themselves apart, Margot collapsed with her back against the door. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

  She sighed and started toward the kitchen without waiting for me to answer because, as we both knew, this was a rhetorical question. Paul was wonderful, and that was all there was to it.

  “Evelyn’s already in the kitchen, scraping the burned spots off the garlic bread. We were so busy talking that she forgot it was still in the broiler.” Margot giggled as we entered the kitchen. “You’d think, what with being married to the man who owns the best restaurant in town, she’d have picked up a few things by now. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I heard that,” Evelyn said, pointing a butter knife coated with black crumbs at Margot, who giggled in response.

  Evelyn put down her knife and gave me a hug. Then, without saying another word, she handed me a glass of white wine. I must have looked like I needed it.

  “If anything,” Evelyn said as she placed semiscorched pieces of garlic bread on a plate, “being married to Charlie has eroded my culinary skills. He’s such a great cook that I hardly even bother to try anymore. What’s the point?”

  “Aw,” Margot murmured as she pulled a pan of moussaka from the oven and carried it to the kitchen table. “Charlie is such a sweetheart.”

  “He is that.”

  Evelyn picked up the wine bottle, poured another half glass for herself and Margot, then looked at mine and did a double take.

  “Whoa! You got to the bottom of that pretty quick. I’ll pour you another if you want, but maybe you should have something to eat first?”

  Evelyn stared at me with an expression of concern, her fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Margot, who had just placed the moussaka on a trivet in the middle of the table, turned to look at me and frowned.

  “Ivy, are you all right? You look a little—”

  In answer to her question and before she even had time to complete her thought, I burst into tears. And when I say “burst,” that’s exactly what I mean—a breaking apart and pouring out, an explosion of tears, complete with hiccups, shoulder spasms, and a runny nose. There was nothing ladylike or delicate about this crying jag. It was ugly, and it came out of nowhere.

  Margot and Evelyn rushed to my side, putting arms around my shoulders and tissues in my hand, begging me to tell them what was wrong. It was several minutes before I was able to speak. Even then, I had a hard time answering their question because I honestly wasn’t sure what to say.

  “It’s because Hodge is coming back, isn’t it?” Margot said, patting my back as I sobbed. “You poor thing. It must be so stressful.”

  “Yes . . . I . . .” I sniffled a huge, disgusting-sounding sniffle and grabbed another handful of tissues from the box. “I mean, yes. That’s it, I guess. But it’s not just that . . . I don’t know.”

  “Is it because of me and Paul? Because I was saying how wonderful he is? And that Charlie is a sweetheart? I should be more sensitive. I know how it is, being alone and single when it seems like everybody in the world is happily married. Was it that?”

  “Partly, I guess,” I said, giving up on the
wad of soggy tissues and wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Every man I’ve known has brought me nothing but trouble, but . . . sometimes I just wish things were different. I don’t want Hodge back; I wouldn’t ever want that. But there were times, especially early on, when he was sweet to me, said nice things to me. It made me feel good, you know? Just to think that somebody found me attractive and wanted to take care of me a little.” My eyes filled and I swiped at them again.

  “It’s just hard to know that I’ll never have that. So, yes, that’s part of it. But I don’t think that’s the whole reason. Not exactly.”

  “Well, is it school?” Margot asked, keeping her bright blue eyes fixed on mine.

  “No. Yes. Not entirely . . .”

  I took in several deep breaths, making a conscious effort to get a grip while Margot continued to quiz me.

  “What about work? The shop? Or maybe it’s the internship program. I know you’re worried about Judith. Or is it the kids? Are you feeling stressed-out?”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied, nodding after each question.

  Evelyn had gone to the sink and refilled my empty wineglass with water. She pulled up a kitchen chair, sat down across from me, watched while I drank, and then took the empty glass from me.

  “You know what I think it is?” she said. “Everything.”

  My eyes swam with liquid. Tears ran down my cheeks. She’d hit the nail on the head. That was what was wrong with my life—everything.

  Absolutely everything.

  We talked all through dinner. Or rather, I talked. Margot and Evelyn listened, nodding in sympathy, laughing in solidarity with me, tearing up for the same reason, filling my plate, and filling my glass, letting me let it out. Being my friends.

  I don’t know how long they sat there listening to me, only that it was a long time. Evelyn never moved. Neither did Margot, not even when Paul poked his head in the door to let her know they were home. She just smiled at him and made a kiss noise with her lips. He said he’d make sure the kids got to bed and that Margot should take her time, not to worry. I think he must have gotten a glimpse of my red eyes and runny mascara and figured out what was going on. Paul is a nice guy. Margot deserves a nice guy like Paul.