Apart at the Seams

by Marie Bostwick

  “The only real agenda is making a little space in the week to spend time with people we enjoy, doing something we like. We decided from the very first—no rules, no leader, no officers, no agendas, and no obligations.”

  “Except for me,” Madelyn said as she opened a plastic storage container and started arranging brownies on a plate. “I am obligated to bake and bring the brownies every week. You should hear the whining if I forget.”

  “The others take turns bringing wine and other snacks,” Virginia said, “but I always bring sparkling cider.” Virginia pried the cap off a green glass bottle and filled her glass before putting one of Madelyn’s brownies onto a paper plate.

  “I don’t touch alcohol. Except for that little slug of bourbon Madelyn adds to the brownies. The alcohol evaporates while they’re baking. Everybody knows that.”

  “Okay,” Gayla said after taking a sip of the wine that Tessa had just poured into her glass. “So the only real rule is that there aren’t any rules. But don’t you make quilts together? As a group?”

  Evelyn bent over to plug her sewing machine into an extension cord that snaked beneath the tables grouped together in the middle of the room.

  “Now and then,” she said, her voice coming from under the table. “When there’s a special occasion, like when we made the quilt for Margot’s wedding. And sometimes we’ll make charity quilts.”

  She popped up from under the table, sat down, and picked up a spool of blue thread. “I came to New Bern from Texas after my divorce. I put every dime I had into the business and came this close to going bankrupt,” she said, licking her fingertips and using them to wet the end of the thread.

  “Then things got really interesting. I found out I had breast cancer and ended up having a mastectomy. It was kind of ironic because I got my diagnosis just a couple of days before we were hosting a Quilt Pink event for breast cancer research. They don’t have nationally organized Quilt Pink fund-raisers anymore,” Evelyn said, threading the blue cotton through the eye of her needle, “but I still organize a local event every year. We make some quilts, auction them off, and send in the proceeds.

  “Last year, we raised over six thousand dollars. Of course, part of that is because Abigail always runs up the bids. She refuses to let any of the quilts we make go for less than eight hundred dollars. Sometimes the people who are bidding against her find that irritating, but, oh, well,” Evelyn said with a wink. “It’s all for a good cause.”

  “We’ve also made quilts to raise money for the Stanton Center,” I said as I unpacked my sewing notions and the collection of memorabilia Evelyn had asked us to bring. “But aside from that, it’s unusual for us to be working on a group project.

  “Speaking of which,” I said, holding up one of Bethany’s old hair ribbons, “what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Glad you asked,” Evelyn said, and swiveled her sewing chair so she could see everyone. “When we were talking about our sabbatical project and how we’re so busy living life that we don’t actually get a chance to enjoy it, I started thinking that the same thing is true even when it comes to quilting. Right now, the biggest buzzwords in quilting are ‘quick’ and ‘easy.’ It seems like everybody who comes into the shop is looking for a pattern that fits that description; they’re so focused on getting something stitched up and out the door in record time that they’re not really enjoying the process.”

  “I don’t know if that’s quite true,” Abigail said. “There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing something finished. I like checking things off my to-do list.”

  “So do I,” Evelyn conceded, “and there are definitely times when a quick and easy quilt is exactly what is called for. But as long as we’re spending the summer trying new things, why don’t we change our pace? And our tactics? This summer, instead of quilting something that’s quick and easy, let’s try something slow and special.”

  Madelyn, who was circling the tables, offering brownies to anyone who hadn’t had one yet and seconds to those who had, asked, “Such as? Not that it makes much difference to me. I never seem to finish any of my quilts,” she said with a sigh, “even the supposedly quick and easy ones. But I’m just curious as to what you had in mind.”

  “Crazy quilting,” Evelyn replied, pulling a few books out of the project bag that sat at her feet and passing them around. “It’s one of the earliest, most time-honored techniques in quilting, but I don’t think any of us have ever tried it.”

  “Oh, I have,” Virginia said. “Not since I was a girl, though. My grandmother made crazy quilts and taught me some of her techniques. Hers were really scrappy, made entirely out of old clothes. Grandma used denim, corduroy, wool, even velvet, if she had some on hand, backed them with flannel, and hand-embroidered the seams with all kinds of fancy stitching. She made them as wedding quilts for all her grandchildren, including me.”

  “I remember that quilt,” Evelyn said. “The one you and Dad had on your bed when I was little. That was a beautiful quilt.”

  “It was very warm—great for Wisconsin winters. But it was also so heavy you could barely move under it.” Virginia smiled, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Your dad called it the birth-control quilt. He said Grandma made them heavy just to save herself the work of having to make quilts for scores of great-grands.”

  Evelyn laughed. “Sounds like something Dad would say.”

  “Oh, your father was a great joker. I could never stay mad at him for long, not even when I wanted to. About the time I was ready to blow my top, he’d say something to make me laugh, and then I’d forget what I was mad about. Such an irritating man,” she said, with a smile that belied her words.

  “Anyway,” she said, waving off the memories. “I think it’d be fun to do some crazy quilting. But let’s just keep them small, so we can take our time and enjoy the process.”

  Evelyn nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking. If we make wall hangings instead of quilts, we’ll be able to slow down, take our time choosing our materials, using fabrics and trims that are really meaningful to us, finish them with beautiful hand-embroidery, and create something really special, a quilt we can truly feel proud of.”

  Gayla, who had been silent during this whole exchange, frowning in concentration as she studied the pictures in one of the books Evelyn had passed out, looked up.

  “Hand-embroidery? I don’t know how to thread a needle, let alone embroider something.” She closed the book and held it out to Evelyn.

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m ready for this. Besides, I don’t really have anything to work with here, not anymore.” She looked away quickly, casting her eyes to the floor as if she’d just realized she’d said more than she intended.

  “I . . . I just finished clearing out my closets. Spring cleaning—you know how it is,” she said, her eyes darting quickly to Evelyn’s face and then back down to the floor. “So I don’t really have anything left that has any meaning or memories attached to it. Not here in Connecticut. Maybe I should just wait until later, when you’re back to doing quick and easy projects,” she said, giving an awkward little laugh.

  A murmur of protest broke out as everyone assured Gayla that she was up to the task—she really was—that it wouldn’t be as difficult as it looked, and that they wanted her to join in. Everyone, including me, was very insistent. Perhaps they were just being kind, as they always are. But perhaps there was more to it. Perhaps they sensed that Gayla was dealing with more than she was willing to admit to.

  I didn’t just sense it—I knew it. Sane people don’t just go outside in the middle of the night and throw dishes at rocks. I didn’t know Gayla well, but I knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t crazy, not permanently. But something—or someone—was making her crazy. And sad. She didn’t say so, but you could see it in her eyes, especially when she thought no one was looking at her.

  I hadn’t wanted Gayla to join our group, but seeing that look on her face and knowing what I knew about her changed my mind. She ne
eded us. She might not realize it, but she did, just like I had when I came to New Bern, nearly five years ago.

  “I don’t know how to embroider either. Maybe we can learn together. And we don’t have to use fabric from old clothes, do we?” I asked, turning to Evelyn. “Just something that is special to us, right? What about that red fabric you found at City Quilter? It’s special because it is the very first fabric you ever bought.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Gayla began to protest, “I’m not sure that counts.”

  “Of course it counts,” Evelyn said. “There are no real rules to this. You can make it up as you go along. And your project doesn’t have to be about your memories of the past, Gayla. It could be about memories you’re making right now.”

  “Like your garden!” I interrupted. “What better way to preserve the memory of making a garden than by creating a quilt?”

  Gayla’s eyes went a little wide. “How did you know I’m putting in a garden?”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling a little flush of heat in my cheeks, “because Drew babysits for me, remember? Dan has been nice enough to come pick him up once I’m home, so I don’t have to leave the kids alone. He’s been taking Bobby bowling too. They’re going to enter a tournament.”

  Abigail arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “He is? They are? How very kind. And interesting.”

  “Dan told me all about you,” I said, ignoring Abigail. “I mean . . . about your garden. He told me all about it.”

  “Dan Kelleher is putting in your garden?” Virginia asked.

  Gayla nodded. “Tessa convinced me that I needed some help. It’s a big space, and Dan lives right next door.”

  “He is a good man,” Abigail said, standing up and walking across the room to pour herself another half glass of wine. “Not as creative as my landscape designer but capable enough. And much better looking,” she said, giving me a sideways glance before turning back to Gayla. “So what is Dan planning for your garden?”

  “We’re still working on that,” Gayla said. “We haven’t decided on what to plant in the beds, but we’re going to have four square beds in the center and then two long rectangular beds on either end. We’ll have boxwood hedge borders and paths between the beds—”

  “Sounds a lot like a quilt,” Evelyn said, gesturing to a quilt on the wall, pointing to the different components to explain her terminology. “See? The flower beds are the blocks, the hedges are the borders, and the pathways running between are the sashing.”

  “You’re right; there actually is a certain similarity,” Gayla said. “How funny. The paths will either have plain white pea gravel or bluestones set in beds of moss. I can’t quite decide. The north-south pathway will have white entrance arches, and the east-west pathway will have a garden bench on each end, also painted white.”

  “That sounds beautiful!” Margot exclaimed. “I’d love to see it!”

  “There’s nothing to see at the moment, but maybe you can all come over when it’s finished.”

  “A garden party,” Abigail murmured, taking her seat again. “What a lovely idea. However, I won’t be available for the next few weeks. In fact, this is the last time I’ll be able to come to quilt circle until late July.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going on another trip,” Virginia said. “I thought you and Franklin were staying in New Bern for the rest of the summer.”

  “We are,” Abigail said, breaking a tiny corner off her half brownie. “It’s just that I’m going to be occupied on Friday night, and every night, for the next six weeks.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll bite. What is it that’s going to keep you so busy, Abigail? You obviously want to tell us.”

  Abigail took a sip from her wineglass. “Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise. But I will tell you that it has something to do with my summer sabbatical. Following Gayla’s example, I am taking a sabbatical from quilting, from board meetings, as well as all my other charitable and community obligations, so I can try something I’ve always wanted to do but never thought I’d have the time for. I wasn’t too keen on this project to begin with, but now that I’ve started, I’m quite enthusiastic about the idea. How is everyone else coming with their sabbaticals?”

  There was another round of murmuring in answer to Abigail’s question, explaining how busy the week had been and how they had meant to get started but just hadn’t found the time.

  “For what it’s worth,” I said, “I made a plan to try something new, but haven’t actually done it yet. And before you ask, Abigail, no, I am not going to tell you what I’m planning to do. Maybe I will when it’s over, but I’m not making any promises.”

  Abigail gave a snort of disgust. “Oh, come now! Surely someone, besides myself, has made some real progress on this project. Margot? What about you?”

  All eyes turned to Margot, who instantly blushed.

  “Aha!” Abigail exclaimed. “You did try something new! And from the look on your face, I’d say it was either a grand success or an unqualified disaster. Tell us everything.”

  “I did try some new things this week,” Margot admitted, briefly shifting her eyes to her lap before raising them again. “But nothing all that earth-shattering. My parents came over to watch the kids so Paul and I could go into the city. We got a hotel, went out to dinner, and then to the ballet. I’ve always wanted to go, so I did. We did.”

  “Did you enjoy it?” Madelyn asked. “What did you see?”

  “Swan Lake. And I loved it!” Margot exclaimed, as if her reaction had surprised even herself. “The music! The costumes! Oh, and the dancers. So graceful. It was so beautiful that I actually cried. I couldn’t help myself.

  “We’re already making plans to go again next year. In fact, Paul thinks we should try another overnight in the city later this summer. We’ve never been to the opera either. So I’d say it was a success.” A playful little smile tugged at her lips. “Definitely a success.”

  Abigail tapped her finger against her lips. “I sense we aren’t getting the whole story. You said you tried some new things, which would indicate that there is more to this than you’ve told us so far. Something a bit more adventurous? Something new that you tried after the ballet? Back at the hotel room?”

  Once again, everyone looked at Margot, who blushed even pinker than she had the first time.

  “Margot!” Abigail exclaimed with a triumphant grin. “Who knew you had it in you? No wonder Paul wants to go back to the city before summer’s end.”

  “Abigail! Stop that!” Margot laughed, grabbed an empty pincushion from the table, and tossed it toward Abigail, who caught it with one hand.

  “Oh, don’t be such a prude,” Abigail said. “Every marriage needs a little spicing up now and then, so good for you. Well done. Of course, you’ve only been married for a few months, so you don’t need quite as much spice as the rest of us. What do you say, Margot? Any tips you’d like to share with the group?”

  “Sorry,” Margot said with a prim little smile, “you’ll just have to figure it out for yourself.”

  “Well,” Abigail sighed. “I suppose every woman is entitled to keep a few secrets from her friends. But just a few,” she cautioned, giving me another quick glance before drinking the last of her wine.

  17

  Gayla

  I sat at the kitchen table, shoulders tense, the tip of my tongue sticking out the side of my mouth, the way it does when I’m trying to concentrate, practicing my lazy daisy stitch. It’s not very hard, in theory. All I had to do was sew tiny white loops on a piece of pale blue cotton I was using for practice, catch one end of the loop with a teeny anchoring stitch to make a petal, and then repeat the process five times to make a flower. Simple, right?

  Except it wasn’t. Not for me.

  My thread kept getting twisted, and not one of my petals was the same size as the others, which meant that my flowers ended up looking bedraggled, like they’d been through a hard rain. I hadn’t even started working on my actual quilt, and already it wa
s a disaster.

  Ivy had come over earlier in the day. We practiced our embroidery together while her kids played hide-and-seek outside, briefly. After about thirty minutes, the kids had come inside arguing, insisting Ivy referee some alleged rule infraction. But she’d been here long enough to show me some of the base blocks of her quilt, with its gorgeous, colorful patches, and for me to watch her master the lazy daisy and the French knot. I’d been practicing for two solid hours, and the only thing I could really sew well so far was the stem stitch.

  This was hopeless. Everybody else would end up making beautiful heirloom quilts, and I’d just have a rag with some knotty embroidery. If I wasn’t so competitive, I’d call up Evelyn and bow out, quit while I was ahead. Then again, if I wasn’t so competitive, I wouldn’t care how my quilt turned out; I’d just “enjoy the process,” as Evelyn advised. Living in the moment sounds good in theory, but like sewing daisies, it’s harder than it looks.

  Disgusted and hungry, I finally put my sewing aside and started working on dinner, nibbling on cheese and crackers while I fried garlic and onions in olive oil and opened a can of crushed tomatoes with basil to make pasta sauce.

  How long would it be until I could use actual tomatoes, ones I’d grown in my garden, to make sauce? So far, my six tomato plants, which I’d planted in pots rather than risk another go-round with Dan’s rototiller, hadn’t produced anything besides little yellow flowers. How long did it take to go from tomato blossom to a fully ripe tomato? Weeks? Months?

  I dipped a piece of cracker in the pot, tasted the sauce, and reached for the oregano but paused when I heard the crack and pop of rubber on gravel. Someone was coming up the driveway. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw a silver sedan with New York plates emerge from the wall of the privet hedge.

  Brian was at the wheel.

  “I wish you would have called before you came up here,” I said coldly, handing Brian the glass of water he had requested upon entering the kitchen.