An hour before the shower and they were working on a quilt? What were they up to? I stood back quietly and listened.
Evelyn, who always wore reading glasses when she did hand sewing, peered over the tops of them to look at Garrett’s work and frowned. “Honey, try to keep your stitches a little smaller. And space them evenly. Make sure you’re taking just a tiny bite of the fabric, and run the thread up under the edge so you can’t see it.”
“Mom,” Garrett said with half a grin, “I told you I wouldn’t be any good at this. I only agreed to help because you were so desperate to get it done in time. You can always take my stitches out and redo them later.”
Virginia leaned over and examined her grandson’s handiwork. “We may have to.”
“Everybody’s a critic,” Garrett said. “Personally, I think this is all a plot you cooked up. You didn’t ask me to help just because Abigail didn’t show up at the quilt circle….”
“Again,” Evelyn said, stabbing the binding with her needle. “Leaving us shorthanded…again. We’d have had this quilt finished days ago if she’d helped us like she said she would.”
“Evelyn,” Virginia said evenly, “let it go. We’re going to finish on time and that’s what matters. Thanks to Garrett. And his big, uneven stitches.” She winked at him. “Hurry up, dear. We’ve got to finish this up and go downstairs to put out the rest of the food. Just a few more inches to go now.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just heap more abuse on me,” Garrett said good-naturedly. “Enjoy yourselves at my expense. But don’t think I buy that Abigail excuse for one minute. You planned this whole thing, didn’t you, Mom? You’ve always been sorry you didn’t have a girl. Now you’re trying to turn me into one.”
Margot giggled. “Oh, Garrett, don’t be silly. Lots of men quilt. Some of our best customers are men. You know that.”
“Okay. But I’m not one of them, got it? You’re all sworn to secrecy. If word of this gets out, I’ll have to take up bear hunting or bungee jumping or cave diving or some other stupidly dangerous hobby to regain my lost sense of masculinity,” he said, pointing the end of his needle at the women. “If I’m eaten while wrestling alligators in the Amazon, it will be on your heads. I mean it. And whatever you do, do not tell my bride that you roped me into sewing a quilt.”
“Why not?” I asked. “You look so cute doing it.”
“Liza!” everyone exclaimed at once.
Garrett jumped to his feet, dropped his needle, and came over to give me a kiss.
“What are you doing here? The shower doesn’t start for another hour.”
I glanced at my watch. “Make that fifty-four minutes. What are you doing here? And all of you? Some hostesses you are. Shouldn’t you be downstairs pouring almonds into nut cups or something?”
Ivy looked at Margot, her eyes twinkling. “Well, you’re the head bridesmaid, this is your show. Should we tell her?”
“Tell me what?”
Margot’s face lit up. She clenched her fists and held them in front of her mouth, as if the effort of keeping whatever secret she was trying to keep left her in danger of exploding. Finally she exclaimed, “It’s for you! It’s your present! From all of us! We wanted to wrap it before the shower, but since you’ve already seen it….”
Her hands fluttered, beating the air like birds in flight. “Isn’t it beautiful!” She turned to face the table where the beautiful quilt lay, waiting for a final few stitches to its binding.
“Beautiful” is such a puny little word, at least in comparison to that quilt, flat and pedestrian and faded, like the difference between a photograph of a quilt and seeing the quilt itself. I’ve never, ever seen a picture of a quilt that did justice to an actual quilt, and probably my words will be just as inadequate, but I’ll try.
The colors in my quilt…Oh, the colors! Pulsating patches of color! Vermillion and emerald and cobalt and fuchsia and jade. Orange and cherry red and lime green and bright banana yellow. Amethyst and azure and aubergine. Garnet and sapphire and amber and lapis. Colors! Dozens of colors, diamonds of colors joined into perfect eight-pointed jewel-stars, multicolored and multifaceted, like rainbow flashes of light blinking from the glass planes of a crystal bead set in a sunny window. Colors and colors and colors! Star diamonds of color and light set into and surrounded by larger triangles of more colors, eight of them, each of the eight triangles a different shade so that no two stars and no two blocks were the same. The star blocks were bordered in black, making the colors even deeper, richer, and more alive. And that first border was surrounded by a second border made from rectangle patches of still more brilliant jewel-toned patches, like gemstone baguettes in a jeweler’s window, and the whole thing was surrounded by a final, wider band of inky, velvety black to complete the picture.
It was a quilt that took your breath away, a quilt that could bring tears to your eyes. It was beautiful.
“Do you like it?” Virginia asked, smiling because the look on my face had already answered her question.
“Virginia designed it,” Margot added. “I was all for doing a double wedding pattern, but Virginia convinced us that stars would be better for you. It’s called Star-Crossed Love.”
“I love stars,” I whispered.
Margot nodded. “Virginia knew that. So she sat down and sketched out the design. She picked out all the fabrics too.”
“All my favorite colors. All the colors there are.”
“And we all worked together on the cutting, piecing, and quilting. Did you see? It’s hand quilted—the whole thing!”
I leaned forward and traced my finger carefully along a serpentine vine of leaves and flowers, the most intricate quilting I’d ever seen. How had they ever done it?
“We’ve been stitching on it every spare moment we had for the last month. I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to finish in time. Come to think of it, we didn’t,” Margot said with a giggle.
“It’s beautiful,” I said inadequately. “Simply beautiful. Thank you all so much. And I want you to know how much…I want you to know…” I stopped. I just couldn’t find the words to say what I meant.
I’d never dreamed of having friends—and family, a husband, and mother, and grandmother—who would mean so much to me. Suddenly, I was deeply aware of how little I deserved them and how much I needed them and how frightening it was to know that.
I wanted to tell them all that and a million things more. I wanted to tell them the truth, about me and them and everything, and to say it all before it was too late, before the moment passed, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know the words.
And so I cried. Not a pretty, silent stream of tears, not a soft and sentimental ladylike weeping suited to a bride, but a floodgate-bursting bawl, open-mouthed, keening sobs, complete with the running nose and mascara to match.
It wasn’t pretty.
I don’t blame Garrett for standing there helplessly, not knowing what to do or say, not picking up on the look on Evelyn’s face, the not-so-subtle shift of her head as she silently prodded him to put his arms around me. Garrett has worked around women for a long time now, but he’s never been comfortable with tears or big emotional displays. Garrett is the most even-tempered guy in the world. I have never seen him furious, or flustered, or depressed, or wildly elated. In other words, he’s exactly the opposite of me.
Mom once said I started my teenage mood swings at the age of five and never stopped. And that’s not that far from the truth. Sometimes I feel like an emotional blender set on puree. But I don’t like to show that emotion, just laying it out there for everyone to examine or comment upon. Too much emotion makes people uncomfortable. And why not? It makes me uncomfortable too.
Maybe that’s why I paint. A painting is a safe place to store all those feelings I have too many of. I lay them out on the canvas and then walk away.
And if people ignore them, or like them, or don’t like them, or don’t like me, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got my out all prepared. “Art is a matter of taste.”
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And so Garrett hasn’t seen me cry, not often, and never like this.
I don’t blame him for not knowing what to do, for letting Evelyn get to me first. I don’t blame him for shoving his hands in his pockets, swallowing hard, and mumbling something about how he should probably get out of the way before the guests all arrive, then scuttling downstairs while my sisters encircled me, holding on tight, wiping my tears.
I don’t blame him. I’d have done the same thing.
22
Evelyn Dixon
It takes a lot to make me mad.
It’s not like I’m a robot. I do have feelings. I get miffed, irked, annoyed, and ticked off as much as the next person, but mad, angry, furious, livid? Those are not emotions that I experience often. In fact, until today I could number on one hand the times I’ve been well and truly furious.
One—St. Patrick’s Day, when I was nine years old and Denny Miles, our “Dennis the Menace” next door, snuck into my bedroom, stole all my dolls, and dyed their hair green.
Two: When my father informed me that I had to be home from my high school prom by eleven. Fortunately, Mom talked him down from that particular position.
Three: When Rob informed me that he’d fallen in love with the receptionist at his gym and wanted a divorce.
Four: When, at my husband’s behest, a guy from a moving company showed up unannounced to inform me that I had to vacate my home.
Five: When Ivy’s abusive ex-husband tracked her down and, after lying in wait for her in the quilt shop parking lot, attacked her.
And that sixth time? That would be today when, after weeks of planning and work to make Liza’s shower special—and staying up half the night to finish her quilt, only to have her burst into a worrying episode of sobbing, then finally calming her down and helping wash her face and reapply her smeared mascara right before the shower guests arrived—Abigail walked in the door.
Make that, Abigail made her entrance. And quite an entrance it was. It wasn’t just Abigail, but Abigail and a phalanx of pink-smocked strangers carting an assortment of bags, boxes, and tables.
“Afternoon, all!” she chirped, her eyes darting around the room, taking in everything. “How is everyone? Liza, how are you, darling? You look lovely. Have you lost a little weight?”
“A little,” Liza said.
Abigail nodded approvingly. “It looks well on you.”
It was more than a little weight. Liza has always been slim, but now she looked skinny. There were dark circles under her eyes, too, and not from any vestiges of tear-streaked mascara. Liza didn’t look well, and I was concerned. But Abigail didn’t seem to notice.
“How are things coming along? Everything ready? Everyone well?” she asked and then, without waiting for answers, she turned to one of the women in the pink smocks and started issuing orders.
“Simone, set up the manicure stations along that wall and the massage chairs in the opposite corner. There should be plenty of room, but if there’s not we can just scoot the dining tables into the center a bit. Hurry! We haven’t much time before the guests arrive.”
“Yes, Mrs. Spaulding. Right away.”
Simone nodded to her troop of pink-smocked partners, who began unloading their gear and setting it up per Abigail’s instructions.
Abigail frowned as she scanned the room. “The tables are set for fifty? Hmm. That’s a few more than I’d expected. Well, I suppose we can reduce the chair massage time from twenty minutes to fifteen. That should help speed things along. But that won’t help with the manicures. I don’t want the guests standing in line waiting for a treatment. Simone, can you call the spa and get some more help over here quickly?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Spaulding, but I’ve brought my entire staff. The only one left is Ann Marie, but it’s her day off.”
“Call her, please, would you? Tell her I’ll pay her overtime. I’ll pay you all overtime.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Spaulding. I’ll call her right away.” Simone reached into her purse and pulled out a cell phone.
I didn’t quite believe this was happening, that Abigail was marching in at the last moment and taking over a bridal shower that Margot and I had been planning for weeks. Liza, Ivy, and Mom looked confused, and poor Margot looked like she was about to burst into tears. But I was mad.
“Abigail, what are you doing? We’ve got everything set up already and there isn’t—”
“Yes,” Abigail replied without looking at me, her eyes fixed on the front door as she walked over to the punch table and began shifting everything on it—punch bowl, cupcake trays, and flower arrangements—into slightly different positions, “and it’s all very nice. Though I must say I’m surprised about the daisy theme. Daisies are perfectly nice flowers, of course. Serviceable. But they aren’t terribly elegant, are they? If I’d known, I’d have ordered in some orchids for you. Or gardenias.
“Though,” she mused, “gardenias have such a strong scent. Perhaps a bit overpowering in so small a space. You really should have rented a room at the country club. Well. Too late now. It’s done. I suppose we’ll have to make do with the daisies. But I do like the cupcakes. Very sweet. Where did you get them?”
“We made them. I baked them and Margot decorated them.”
“Really?” She sounded surprised. “Well, they turned out very nicely,” she said.
“I’m so relieved that you approve.”
Abigail didn’t notice my sarcasm. She picked up a bright green plate, pinching the edge between her thumb and forefinger and making a tsk noise with her tongue. She looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Paper? You can’t be serious.” She looked at her watch. “I wonder if there’s time to call Hilda and ask her to bring over my Limoges.”
“Listen, Abbie. Margot is in charge of this shower. It’s supposed to be casual, relaxed. You don’t need to call your housekeeper and have her scurry over with your china. Everything is fine as it is. Lovely, in fact,” I declared, glancing at Margot.
“Abigail, the wedding is your baby and I understand that. I’ve kept my mouth shut on that score. But the shower is the responsibility of the maid of honor. Margot was kind enough to let me help. You could have, too, if you’d bothered to ask. Or if you’d bothered to show up at any of the quilt circle meetings for the last month. But you didn’t! And now, at the last moment, you can’t just expect to traipse in here and—”
Just as I was winding up to tell my dear friend Abigail exactly what I thought about her rude, manipulative behavior for the last few months, I felt a hand on my arm and looked to see my mother standing close by my side.
“Evelyn,” she whispered through the side of her mouth, jerking her head in Liza’s direction.
I glanced across the room to where Liza was standing. Her eyes were glistening.
“This isn’t the time, Evelyn.”
Mom was right. With the party set to begin in fifteen minutes and the bride teetering on the brink of another crying jag, now was not the time to confront Abigail.
I bit my tongue. Hard.
Abigail barely noticed. Truly, I don’t think she had the least clue that I was mad at her or that I had any reason to be mad at her. I’m not sure she was aware of anyone or anything besides her single-minded vision of what she wanted this shower to be.
“Where in the world is Greg? He called three hours ago saying they were leaving the city. They should have been here by now.” Scowling, Abigail strode past me to the front door and opened it.
“There you are!” Abigail said to the short, dark-haired man wearing a tuxedo and carrying a violin case. He was followed by three other similarly clad men, all of them with instrument cases.
Oh, dear Lord. Why did I have the feeling that some tearoom maître d’ in New York had recently learned that his entire string quartet had called in sick?
“Sorry,” the man puffed. He was winded. “We couldn’t find a place to park that was close. And then, we all had to help Mark carry the cello. It’s pretty heavy.”
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“Yes, yes,” Abigail said impatiently. “Fine. Go ahead and set up there in the corner. And, Greg, remember what we talked about. I want you to play quietly. This isn’t a concert. You’re here to provide background music. And do not move from your corner. No strolling. There’s nothing more irritating than trying to carry on a conversation while someone is standing next to you playing a tango in your ear.”
Greg looked a bit annoyed but didn’t say anything. Abigail was clearly paying too much to be argued with. He picked up his case and skulked off to his corner with his fellow musicians following behind.
The door to the shop opened yet again.
I thought it might be an early guest, but it was Charlie. He was carrying an enormous, foil-covered tray and beaming. Gina and Jason, two of the servers from the Grill, were right behind him, also toting trays.
“Hello, everyone! Hello, Liza! You look wonderful. Big day, right?” He walked to a nearby table and set down the tray, then came over to give me a kiss.
“Hi, sweetheart. How are you? Everything ready for the party? Sorry I’m late. It was hard finding that exact brand of caviar on short notice. I really had to jump through some hoops to find a supplier.” He smiled. “Worth it, though, twice over. This is one caviar that’s actually worth the exorbitant price you pay for it. Do you want to try some?”
“Charlie! What is all this?”
Charlie looked confused. “It’s the hors d’oeuvres you wanted for the bridal shower—beluga caviar, grilled scallops on mini brioche with red pepper coulis, and marinated Kobe beef skewers. Abigail called late last night and said you wanted a few more appetizers, more better appetizers, and that you were too busy with the party arrangements to call yourself. The restaurant was already closed, Maurice had gone home for the night, so I was up until two baking mini brioche. I woke up half a dozen restaurant suppliers in the middle of the night, trying to find that caviar. But Abigail said my girl needed brioche and caviar, so my girl gets brioche and caviar.” Charlie ended this speech with a proud little smile and paused a moment, waiting for the adulation his Herculean efforts surely deserved.
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