A Thread of Truth

by Marie Bostwick

  No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t accept their friendship. But I couldn’t lie to them either. They deserved better than that.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I just can’t.”

  Abigail, always insistent on cutting to the chase, pushed the issue. “Can’t or won’t?”

  I took a breath.

  “Won’t.”

  I picked up my purse and went to the door. Their eyes followed me, and the expressions on their faces felt like accusations. Margot and Liza looked confused, and Abigail looked offended, but it was the wounded look in Evelyn’s eyes that stung me most. She was the last person I wanted to hurt.

  But at least you didn’t lie to her, I thought. That should count for something. Shouldn’t it?

  Maybe it should have, but it didn’t seem to make my weekend any easier. When I left the shop, my guilty feelings trailed behind me like a chain. After I got back to the apartment, I thanked Franklin and Garrett for watching the kids but said I wouldn’t be needing them anymore. I was so exhausted that I got into my pajamas right away, thinking that I’d just go to bed when the kids did.

  I didn’t want to think about Monday and what it would be like to go back to the shop and work side by side with Evelyn and Margot, whose feelings I had hurt. And come Monday morning, we truly would be working side by side. Earlier that day, Evelyn said she’d need my help getting ready for the second-anniversary sale that would take place the following weekend. There was inventory to be taken, displays to create, decorating to be done, door prizes and gift baskets to put together, new fabrics and notions to be cataloged and stocked. And this was in addition to all of our regular duties.

  Come Monday, I couldn’t just sneak in the back door, grab my stack of orders, and tiptoe up to the workroom unseen. I would have to be downstairs with everyone else, trying to do my job while avoiding making eye contact with my coworkers.

  I sighed. Monday was going to be just awful. But I didn’t have to think about that. Not yet.

  I gave the kids a five-minute warning and went into the bathroom to draw water for their baths.

  Bethany moaned, “But we’re just getting to the good part! The sea witch is going to make Ariel into a real girl.”

  “I mean it. Five minutes,” I repeated. Something in my tone must have told her I was in no mood for argument. She slumped into her beanbag chair and rested her pouty chin onto her hands, but turned off the television without comment when I called out that it was bathtime.

  After I finished reading, probably my two-thousandth rendition of Goodnight Moon, and kissed Bobby, who was already asleep, Bethany asked if she could come sleep in my bed.

  I said yes.

  She scampered into my room, climbed in next to me and snuggled in, her skin still pink and warm after her bath. I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the sweet, innocent scent of baby shampoo from her hair. I stroked her silky, baby-fine hair slowly. She sighed her contentment and was asleep even before I turned off the bedside lamp. After I did, I closed my eyes, wrung out from a long, emotional day, longing for the oblivion of deep and dreamless sleep.

  It did not come.

  In my dream, I was standing at the bus stop and the rain was coming down in torrents, like someone was standing on top of the bus shelter and pouring tub after tub of water down upon it. A car pulled up. Abigail’s champagne-colored sedan.

  The window rolled down, a loud and steady mechanical whine, like the sound of a garage door going up.

  “Get in,” she said.

  “No. That’s all right. I’m just waiting for the bus. It’ll be here soon.”

  Abigail shook her head. “No, it won’t. The storm is too strong. All the buses are broken down. No one is coming to get you, and you can’t stay here. Get in the car.”

  I didn’t want to get in but when I looked up, I saw a crack in the Plexiglas ceiling of the bus shelter. It was already starting to leak and the crack was getting bigger, moving slowly from one side of the roof to the other. If I stood here any longer, it would split in two. All the water would come crashing down upon me, sweeping me away completely. There was no choice. I got into the car.

  “You’re soaked,” Abigail said. “Take this towel and dry off.”

  I took the towel that was sitting on the seat next to me and dried my sodden hair.

  “That’s better,” Abigail said, glancing at me as she drove down the road. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a shiny black tube of lipstick, and thrust it toward me. “Here. Put this on.”

  Compliantly, I flipped down the sunshade, peered into the mirror, and dutifully applied the bright red lipstick.

  “That’s better,” she said with a smile. “You’ll want to fix yourself up a little. There’s someone I want you to meet. I found him. It turns out he isn’t dead after all.”

  I looked into the mirror and saw him sitting in the backseat. Staring at me. He’d been there all along, waiting.

  “Hello, Ivy.”

  I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, my heart pounding. I felt a searing pain in my left hand, as if the heavy crystal vase had smashed down on it only moments before. I put my fingers in my mouth and tasted blood, metallic and sharp, where no blood was, using my hand to keep myself from crying out.

  Bethany was in bed next to me, still sound asleep. I bit my lips to push away the nightmare, whispered to myself, repeating the words the trauma counselor had taught me to say when this happened, words I hadn’t needed to say in weeks.

  Everything is fine. It was just a dream. We are safe. No one can hurt us here.

  But I didn’t believe it. It was everything I could do not to wake Bethany and Bobby, pack our bags, and sneak off in the night.

  But I didn’t.

  The image of Evelyn Dixon’s face, her kind, understanding eyes, held me fast.

  I forced myself to lie back down, pulling up the quilt that had slipped to the foot of the bed, the log cabin quilt with the brave red center squares that stood for my heart, my home, my children, and everything that mattered to me, tucking my daughter in tight under its sheltering warmth, hiding beneath the log cabin fortress that I had sewn to protect my baby.

  It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.

  10

  Evelyn Dixon

  Even before I unlocked the door of the shop on Monday morning, I knew it was going to be a crazy day.

  Cobbled Court Quilts was about to celebrate its second anniversary and, like any good retail establishment, we planned to mark the occasion with a sale. It might not be the most creative way to celebrate our birthday, but I was incredibly proud that, in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, we’d actually managed to keep our doors open this long and I was looking forward to this opportunity to thank our customers for their support by offering special prices on the thing quilters love best—fabric!

  Over Margot’s objections, I’d decided we were going to offer two free fat quarters with every two purchased for two hours on Saturday. Basically, that meant I’d be selling those fabrics at cost, which was why Margot argued against it.

  Margot had been a fairly high-level marketing executive at a corporation in New York before she’d been downsized and come to work for me at Cobbled Court Quilts. She had an incredible head for business. Without Margot, Cobbled Court would never have survived to celebrate its first anniversary, let alone a second. Of course, I can’t pay her anything like what she was making in the corporate world—I wish I could—but Margot says she’s happier working here than she ever was in New York and I do my best to make sure she knows how much I value her. Appreciation isn’t something you can take to the bank, but I think people want that as much as a paycheck, maybe more so. On Saturday, after the sale was over, I intended to take Margot out for a very special dinner at the Grill on the Green.

  Charlie planned a special menu: Asian pear and ginger salad, black cod with miso marinade, bok choy and sticky rice, topped off with chocolate bread pudding. The dessert didn’t quite go
with the oriental theme of the menu, as Charlie told me in no uncertain terms, but chocolate bread pudding is Margot’s favorite, so that’s what we’re having, end of discussion. She who pays the check calls the shots.

  However, if Margot knew what the dinner bill was going to be, she’d argue with me about that, too, just like she did the profitless fat quarter sale. As the keeper of the books, and therefore the one who posted our monthly profits or, more frequently, our losses, stuff like that just makes her teeth hurt. But if there is one thing I have learned in the last couple of years, thanks to my divorce and bout with breast cancer, it is that tomorrow comes with no guarantees. If you’ve got something to celebrate, celebrate it now. It might be your last chance. And one of the things most worth celebrating is the people you care about, your family and friends.

  Of course, Margot wasn’t the only person I was planning on celebrating with and that’s where things got complicated. I wanted to include everyone associated with the shop—Abigail because of her generosity in letting us occupy the building practically rent-free, Garrett, and, of course, Ivy. At least, that had been my plan until Friday night.

  Now I was wondering if I should invite her to join everyone for the anniversary dinner or not. It wasn’t something I could discuss with Margot or Abigail.

  I needed advice from someone who wasn’t involved in the situation, someone patient, empathetic, and sensitive, who had a keen insight into and appreciation of the female mind-set.

  Unfortunately, no one like that was available, so I had to settle for Charlie.

  Charlie came over to my house for dinner on Sunday. He can cook circles around me, but he seems to be appreciative, or at least amused, by my efforts and I was determined to show him that I knew my way around a kitchen. After all, I’d made dinner for my family every night for more than twenty-four years before I met Charlie and no one had died of ptomaine yet. I wasn’t exactly a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu, but I was perfectly capable of making a nice Sunday dinner for two.

  Charlie leaned against the kitchen counter, picking at a bowl of Kalamata olives I’d put out as an appetizer while we waited for the salmon to finish poaching and I told him about what had happened on Friday.

  “It was so strange,” I said as I leaned down, peering at the flame while I fiddled with the stove, trying to find the exact height of flame needed to induce the ‘slow but steady simmer’ my recipe called for. “She just said, ‘I can’t.’ No more explanation than that. Well, not quite. When Abigail pushed her, asking if she meant can’t or won’t, Ivy said ‘won’t.’ It was a very uncomfortable moment.”

  Charlie made an impatient, clucking sound as he sucked the pit out of an olive and put it on a nearby cocktail napkin. “Well, why did Abigail do that? Isn’t her motto ‘never complain, never explain’?”

  “Hmmm. I think that’s her personal motto. She doesn’t mean for it to apply to other people.”

  “Convenient for her.”

  “Yep.” I lifted the lid on the poacher. It seemed to be simmering nicely, so I put the lid back down and started chopping vegetables for the stir-fry I planned to serve alongside the salmon.

  “Do you want some help with that?” Charlie asked, looking over my shoulder. “The peppers will cook more evenly if you cut them into strips.”

  I turned around and gave him a look, still holding the vegetable knife in my hand.

  “All right! All right!” he said, backing away with his hands in the air as if begging for surrender. “I was just trying to help.”

  “You just stay over on your side of the kitchen. I can do this myself. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to be a guest?”

  “No,” he said and popped another olive into his mouth before continuing.

  “So what’s the big problem? It was nice of you to want to include Ivy in your quilting club…”

  “Circle,” I corrected. “Quilt circle.”

  “Okay. Your quilt circle, but she doesn’t want to join. Why is that so terrible?”

  “It isn’t that it’s so terrible, not exactly. I mean, at first my feelings were a little hurt. It was like we tried to give her a present and she just handed it back without even bothering to open it, but the more I’ve been thinking about it, the more it worries me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it doesn’t add up.” I picked up a slice of green pepper and ate it. “Ivy likes all of us, I’m sure she does. She’s quiet, keeps to herself, but it isn’t like she’s unfriendly.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Maybe she’s not all that crazy about quilting. Just because she works for you doesn’t mean she is. I’ve got people chopping vegetables in the kitchen of my restaurant, and doing it a lot faster and neater than you are, I might add, who don’t like cooking. For me, cooking is a passion, but to them it’s just a way to pay the rent. Maybe it’s the same for Ivy. By the way, are you sure you don’t want me to…” He took a tentative step in my direction.

  I glared at him.

  “Never mind. I’ll just stay over here and eat my olives.”

  “Good plan,” I said and went back to chopping.

  “No, that’s not it. I know Ivy enjoys quilting. I knew that when I first met her, in my beginners’ class. She was really excited about her quilt. And just a couple of weeks ago, she said she’d like to try an Ohio Star pattern, but she just doesn’t have time. So, now she’s offered a chance to do something she enjoys, with free babysitting thrown in, and she says no? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, you’re right, it doesn’t, but what can you do about it? Let it go. If she won’t join your group, she won’t.”

  “Yeah, but that’s just it,” I said, scooping up a pile of vegetables and tossing them into the wok I’d had heating on a burner and listening to them sizzle. “Abigail pushed Ivy to say she won’t, but I don’t think that’s it. I think she meant what she said the first time. She can’t. Or at least she thinks she can’t. Something is holding her back. It’s almost like she’s afraid of being friends with us. But why?”

  “You really need to quit stewing about this.”

  “I know. I know, but what am I supposed to do now? Ivy doesn’t normally work weekends, not unless we have a big sale like we will on Saturday, so I’ve had all weekend to worry about exactly how awkward it will be when she comes in on Monday. Do I talk to her about it? Do I not talk to her about it? Do I ignore the elephant in the room? And do I invite her to come to the Grill on Saturday night or not? Maybe I should just assume she doesn’t want to see any of us outside of work hours.” I sighed. “Monday is going to be awful. I don’t know how I should handle this.”

  Charlie shook his head and sighed deeply. “Women. You make everything so complicated.”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  “No, I mean it. You’d never find a man wringing his hands and worrying over something like this. Look. This is simple. Just handle this like a man would. Go to work on Monday, do what you normally do and pretend nothing happened on Friday. Do your job and let Ivy do hers. Later, you can invite her to the dinner on Saturday. If she says yes, fine. If not, that’s fine too. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But it’s not. What if she’d really like to come, but feels awkward about accepting the invitation after saying she didn’t want to join the circle? Or what if she really doesn’t want to come, but feels like she has to because she said no before? It’s a complicated situation.”

  “Arrggh!” Charlie rubbed his face with his hands, as if scrubbing at his frustration. “No, it’s not! It’s only complicated if you make it complicated!

  “Why is it that women, even women who are only bound together by the fact that they happen to work in the same place, aren’t happy unless everyone becomes everybody else’s best friend?”

  I sprinkled the vegetables with salt, pulled a pepper out, and bit into it. Almost ready.

  “Because we’re social animals, that’s why. It’s how we evolved. Strength in numbers. Or something like that.” I shrugged. “It’s
just the way we are. Women need the friendship of other women. At least most of them do. Maybe Ivy’s different, but I’m not convinced.”

  Charlie snorted and spit out another olive pit. “Well, maybe she just doesn’t want to be friends with the people she works with. Can’t blame her for that. You’re a pretty scary bunch. Margot’s a sweetheart, but Liza looks like she’s ready to pose for a biker chick photo op. Empress Abigail refers to herself in the third person. And you? Sure. You may look like a mild-mannered quilt shop owner, but maybe Ivy has caught wind of your dark side. Maybe she’s heard the rumors about how you threaten your boyfriend with kitchen knives just because he’s trying to help you keep from ruining dinner.”

  I put the spatula down and turned to face Charlie, my hands on my hips. “I am not ruining dinner.”

  Behind me, the sound of sizzling vegetables reached a crescendo but was suddenly overcome by a loud, long hiss, followed by repetitious staccato clicks—the noise my gas stove makes when something boils over and extinguishes the cooking flame.

  Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Actually, you might be wrong about that.”

  “Oh no!” I turned off both burners, and then grabbed a kitchen towel to lift the lid off the poacher.

  “It’s ruined,” I moaned, peering into the pan. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “What? And take my life into my hands?”

  Charlie came up behind me, wrapped one arm around my waist and, resting his chin on my shoulder, examined my over-cooked salmon.

  “There now, it’s not so bad. Not beyond all hope, at least.”

  “No? So you think I can still serve it?”

  “Well,” he said doubtfully, “not like that. What do you say to a nice salmon salad? Do you have some vinegar and capers, maybe a bit of fresh dill?”

  I nodded.