A Thread of Truth

by Marie Bostwick

  “Sure they do,” Margot replied, pointing to the bonbon label. “It says right here, ‘French Vanilla’!”

  Evelyn clapped her hands to get our attention. “All right, all right. Are we here to eat or quilt?”

  “Can’t we do both?” Margot giggled.

  “Yes, but let’s try to work out a plan for our new quilt before we open the wine, shall we? I’ve got a feeling the end result will be much better if we do.”

  “We’re making a new quilt?” I asked, thinking about the quilted pillow sham I was making to go with the pinwheel quilt Abigail had made for Bethany. A couple more Friday nights and I hoped to be finished with it.

  “We are,” Evelyn confirmed. “A group quilt and it’s going to be for you, Ivy.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” I could feel my cheeks getting warm as the others looked at me. They meant well, I knew that, but I wasn’t used to being the center of so much attention and it made me feel uncomfortable, not to mention emotional. The last thing I wanted to do was start crying again. “You’ve already done too much for me. Really.”

  “Listen,” Abigail said firmly, “there’s something you need to understand. Once we asked you to join our group and you finally had the good sense to accept, you became part of the family. When one of us needs something, the others are right there and vice versa. Last year, when Evelyn was dealing with cancer, she needed us most. Right now, it’s you. Next year, it’ll probably be someone else’s turn and you’ll be there for them one hundred percent, just like we are for you now. Understand? So quit fussing. If Evelyn says we’re making you a quilt, then that’s what we’re doing.”

  Abigail lifted her chin proudly and yielded the floor to Evelyn, who smiled.

  “I’ve sketched out a basic design.” Evelyn laid the graphed pattern on the table and smoothed it out with her hand. “It’s a wall hanging with nine blocks surrounded by a pieced border. Very simple. We can work out color choices later, but the basic idea is to use five house blocks. You’ll make the center block, Ivy. That will be your home.”

  “You want me to make a quilt block of my apartment at the Stanton Center?” I asked doubtfully.

  Evelyn shook her head. “No. The Stanton Center is just where you live. I want you to make a block that represents your home. Not the home you have, but the home you want to have. The home you see when you close your eyes and dream about the life you want for yourself and your children.”

  “The house that smiles,” I whispered to myself, remembering the happy little cottage Bethany had pointed to on our walk a few months before, nothing big or fancy, but a solid, safe little house with a good sturdy roof to keep out the weather, and a garden with flowers and plenty of grass for my growing children to play on.

  “That’s right. And the rest of us will each make a block representing our homes. When Liza comes home for the summer she can make one too, so we’ll have five altogether. Ivy’s home will sit in the middle with one of ours at each of the four corners.”

  “Oh! I get it!” Margot exclaimed. “It will be like the rest of us are surrounding Ivy, protecting her on every side.”

  “Right! And the border…”

  “The border should be trees,” Abigail interjected. “Big oaks or rows of tall evergreens, something that represents the beauty of the New Bern countryside. We might even want to try having some flower blocks on the border corners. Perhaps something appliquéd.”

  “Good idea,” Evelyn said. “We can plan that out later, but the most important thing is that, as we’re making this quilt, we think about the kind of future and friendship we want for Ivy and the children. As we sew, we’ll all pray and ask God to give Ivy the home of her dreams.”

  I was a little surprised at Evelyn’s suggestion and even more surprised to see Abigail nodding her vigorous approval of the idea. I knew Evelyn and Abigail regularly attended services at the little white church that sat at the edge of the Green, but I’d never heard them talk about praying.

  “Do you really believe that will help?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Evelyn said. “Prayer always helps. That doesn’t mean you’ll always get what you’re praying for. God’s not a short order cook. Sometimes He has better ideas than we do, but I do believe prayers are always heard and answered in some form or another, even if it means just helping us get our plans lined up with God’s.”

  Looking around the room at the many quilts displayed on the walls, I wondered how many had been stitched through with Evelyn’s prayers. I liked the idea of having something hanging on the wall of my home, the home I hoped to have someday, that had been sewn with the love, prayers, and best wishes of these wonderful women. I didn’t have Evelyn’s confidence about all prayers being heard and answered, but then again…

  I reached across the worktable and ran my fingers over a bolt of emerald green cotton.

  “This is what I want for the grass in the yard, with white for the siding, and bright blue where the window openings should be, like smiling eyes. This!” I exclaimed and pulled a length of cerulean fabric from the pile of bolts on the table. “This will be perfect! Exactly the color of Bethany’s eyes!”

  “I like that,” Evelyn said and prepared to cut off a piece of the beautiful blue fabric. “That’s a good place to start.”

  22

  Evelyn Dixon

  “Excuse me. Excuse me. Ooops. Sorry. Pardon me, ma’am.”

  Hugging the largest tub of popcorn I have ever seen in one arm, holding what looked like a magnum of soda in the other, and with his pockets stuffed with several jumbo-sized candy bars, a pile of paper napkins, and two straws, Charlie muttered apologies as he wended his way between the seatbacks and legs of other movie-goers.

  He didn’t look happy.

  “They were out of carrier trays,” he grumbled as I took the gargantuan container of popcorn from him.

  “So I gathered. Good heavens, Charlie! Look at all this. I don’t know how you can eat like you do and stay so trim.”

  “I’ve the metabolism of a wolverine.”

  I shook my head and laughed as he pulled one box of candy after another out of his pockets. How big were those pants pockets, anyway?

  “Had it occurred to you that you might have bought fewer items, or at least bought smaller sizes? It would have been easier to carry.”

  “I didn’t want to run out halfway through the movie. It always happens that way. Just when you get to the interesting part…slurp. You’ve downed the last drop of soda, so you have to go get another and by the time you get back, you’ve missed so much you’ve got no idea what’s happening anymore.”

  “Couldn’t you just sit through the rest of the movie without drinking more soda?”

  “What? And have your throat go dry from eating popcorn with nothing to wash it down? Next thing you know, you’re coughing up a storm and everyone in the theater is shushing you. Is that your idea of a fun evening on the town?”

  “Well, my idea of a fun evening on the town includes doing something more interesting than just eating popcorn and watching the film.” I batted my eyelashes at him and he grinned.

  “In that case, maybe we should move to the back row.”

  “Too late for that,” I said breezily, glancing around the packed movie theater. “All those seats are taken.”

  “Tease.”

  A man in the row behind us said, “Hey, Mister. Sit down, will you? The movie’s about to start.”

  “Sorry,” Charlie said, removing the last candy bar from his pocket, along with the napkins and, finally, his cell phone.

  There was a red light blinking on his phone and Charlie stared at the screen.

  “Hey,” I said, laying my hand on his arm. “We had a deal about tonight. No phones. No interruptions. No business. Remember?”

  Charlie frowned, shoved the phone back in his pocket, and grabbed my hand. “Come on, Evelyn. We’ve got to go.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It’s a text message
from Liza. An emergency. Franklin’s in the hospital. He’s had a heart attack.”

  A quick call to Liza confirmed the news. Charlie’s expression was grim, almost angry, as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed south. Garrett was driving Liza to the hospital. We promised to meet them there as soon as we could.

  “How bad do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. Liza didn’t have much information. Abigail is still waiting to talk to the doctor. That’s all I know.”

  “He’s been looking tired lately.”

  Charlie shook his head slightly and drew his brows together in a frown. Franklin was Charlie’s closest friend and though it sounded like he was scolding, I could see how worried he was. “He works too hard. I told him so a hundred times. Last night, I locked the door to the restaurant at well past midnight and when I was walking to my car the lights in his office were still on. He’s always pushed himself too hard. And since this business with Ivy has escalated, he’s worse than ever.”

  It was true.

  When Franklin had left the meeting in my workroom the week before, saying he wanted to talk with Ivy the next day, no one except Franklin realized just how serious the nature of Hodge Edelman’s suit to gain full custody of Bethany and Bobby had become, nor the level to which Edelman was willing to stoop to accomplish his ends. Of course he’d brought up Ivy’s brief and unfortunate history at the Atlantis Club, we’d known that, but he’d embellished the story considerably, claiming that Ivy had not only been a dancer there for several months but that she’d also sold her favors to a select group of club patrons. His lies were difficult to prove or disprove, since the club had closed down several years previously. Franklin had been trying to track down people who had formerly been associated with the club, thinking it would be the best way to cast doubt on Hodge’s claims, but so far his efforts had been unsuccessful. Still, what was far more worrying was Edelman’s accusation that Ivy was not only mentally unstable, but was abusing drugs!

  This was just a flat-out lie. If Ivy had been using drugs, I’d have known it. She didn’t even like to take over-the-counter medications unless she absolutely had to. Once, during the winter, she’d had a terrible cold and when I’d offered to run up to the drugstore to get her something that would help ease the symptoms, she refused my offer, saying she’d rather just stick with her regimen of hot lemonade with honey because cold medications always made her feel either too drowsy or too jittery. I was absolutely certain there was no substance to Edelman’s claims. I’d have staked my store on it. But there was just one problem: Edelman had “proof.”

  Dr. Clyde Kittenger, Hodge’s business partner and the physician at the nursing home they owned together as well as personal physician to the Edelman family, had given a sworn deposition saying Ivy was a drug addict. And, as damaging as that was, it was what Dr. Kittenger was not willing to swear—that over the years he’d treated Ivy dozens of times for the various cuts, bruises, and even broken bones she’d suffered during Hodge’s violent outbursts—that really damaged Ivy’s case. Without the backup of medical records or her doctor’s testimony, it would be difficult to prove Ivy’s claims of abuse at Hodge’s hands. Franklin was sending Ivy for a thorough physical, including the X-rays that would show evidence of past bone breaks.

  But even with X-ray evidence, it would be one doctor’s word against another. Franklin was sure Kittenger was lying, but he’d have to convince a judge. Nothing about this case was easy. Franklin had been wearing himself out with work. And now this.

  Poor Franklin. And Abigail. I could only imagine what she must be going through. Abigail and Franklin were very much in love, though it had taken many, many years—make that decades—for their friendship to flower into a full-blown romance. What would happen to Abigail if Franklin…

  No. I wouldn’t let myself consider the possibility. Franklin was going to make a full recovery. He just had to! But until he did? What would happen to Ivy’s divorce case? Franklin was the best attorney in the county, but Hodge Edelman had engaged George Caldwell, who was a close second. If Franklin was ill and couldn’t represent Ivy in the courtroom, where would we find a lawyer who stood a chance against George?

  Dear God, please let Franklin be all right. Let everything be all right. Please.

  Charlie glanced at me quickly. “What did you say?”

  “I said please. Please hurry, Charlie.”

  “I am doing my best, sweetheart,” he said, gripping the steering wheel tightly and stepping harder on the gas to make it through a yellow light about to turn red.

  “I’m going as fast as I safely can. We’ll be there soon.” He took his eyes off the road for just a moment and gave me a quick smile.

  “Don’t worry. Franklin’s tough. He won’t die. Abigail won’t let him.”

  When we got to the hospital, the woman who was sitting at the information desk asked, “You’re friends of Mrs. Burgess Wynne? Mr. Carroll, the hospital administrator, told me you’d be arriving soon.”

  “How is Mr. Spaulding?” Charlie asked anxiously.

  She tapped a few keys on the computer to bring up a new screen before answering. “He’s in the intensive care unit and his condition is listed as critical. I’m afraid that’s all the information I have right now. Mrs. Burgess Wynne and her family are in the Board of Directors’ Lounge on the sixth floor. Mr. Carroll thought they would be more comfortable there than in the waiting room. Shall I take you there?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m sure we can find the way. Sixth floor?”

  “Yes. Just take a right off the elevator. You’ll see the signs.”

  The hospital was quiet on a Saturday night and the elevator was empty. “Board of Directors’ Lounge,” Charlie said as the car ascended. “Sounds like they’re taking very good care of Abigail.”

  “Not too surprising, considering her contributions probably paid for the sixth floor. They’ll take good care of Franklin, too. I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” I said and squeezed Charlie’s hand.

  He didn’t say anything, just returned my squeeze as the elevator doors opened.

  Liza and Garrett were sitting on the sofa, holding hands. Liza’s eyes were red; she’d been crying. There were two other men in the room. One, tall and blond, wearing a white coat, was obviously Franklin’s doctor. The other man, also tall, with rumpled brown hair, wearing a gray suit with a red tie and glasses with wide black frames, I assumed was Mr. Carroll.

  Abigail’s eyes were clear, but her normally vibrant complexion was as white as chalk as she stood listening to the doctor. Charlie and I entered the room quietly, not wanting to interrupt their conference. Abigail was so focused on the doctor that I doubt she’d even noticed us coming in.

  “I assure you, Mrs. Burgess Wynne, I’m not trying to be evasive. When I say I’m cautiously optimistic, it’s because I am.”

  “But, what does that mean exactly? I know Mr. Carroll has probably got you people scared witless, telling you that if you kill the”—Abigail lifted her chin and swallowed hard—“the close friend of one of this hospital’s biggest donors you’ll probably be out on the street. Doctor Loring, I don’t want you trying to sugarcoat the situation just because you’re afraid of Mr. Carroll.”

  Doctor Loring cleared his throat. “Mrs. Burgess Wynne, I am one of the finest cardiologists in the state, arguably one of the finest in the country. Again, I can assure you that I am not the least bit frightened of Mr. Carroll, or any other hospital bureaucrat.”

  “Well, then, give it to me straight and stop all these platitudes about cautious optimism! Whatever that means!” Abigail shouted. “Tell me what I want to know. Is Franklin going to die?”

  “No. I don’t believe so.”

  Abigail closed her eyes for a moment and rested her hand on her breast, as if trying to calm her own heartbeat. Liza sniffed and Garrett put his arm around her.

  “That being said,” the doctor continued, “this was a very severe heart attack. We a
re doing everything possible to prevent his having another. That’s why he’s in intensive care. If he gets through the night with no problem, I’ll probably upgrade his condition from critical to serious in the morning. If everything goes well after that, I will discharge him in a week or so. After that, he will begin a serious and intensive course of cardiac rehabilitation until he is well enough to resume his normal activities. To a great extent, Mr. Spaulding will be responsible for the success or failure of his treatment. He is going to have to make some serious alterations in his diet and lifestyle. From what you’ve told me, Mrs. Burgess Wynne, Mr. Spaulding is a workaholic of the first order. If he wants to live to see seventy, he’s going to have to change his ways.”

  “He will,” Abigail said firmly. “I can promise you that.”

  “Good. And I will do my part. Mr. Spaulding is getting the absolutely best cardiac care available. I will be on the ward all night. If there are complications, I’ll never be more than a few seconds from his bedside.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man in the gray suit spoke. “How long will it be before he can return to the office?”

  “Depending on the severity of the attack, that can be anywhere from two weeks to three months. In Mr. Spaulding’s case, I think we should plan on a recovery period in the two-to-three-month range. And, as I said, even when he does go back to work, he simply can’t continue working the kinds of hours he has in the past.”

  “I understand.” The man in the gray suit nodded and turned to Abigail. “Don’t worry, Abigail. I’ll take care of everything until Franklin is back on his feet.”

  “Thank you, Arnie.”

  I was confused. Obviously, the man wearing the suit wasn’t the hospital administrator. “Who is that?” I whispered to Charlie.

  “Arnie Kinsella. He’s Franklin’s associate. He’s been working for Franklin for about three years now.”

  “Three years? How is it possible that I’ve never met him before?”