Patchwork and Politics

by Christine Lynxwiler

  Tempted to agree, Megan took a good look at her eighty-year-old neighbor. Fatigue showed in her weather-beaten face, in spite of her cheerful words. Keeping up with Sarah was hard work. “I’d better take her today. Maybe next time. Thanks, though.”

  ❧

  “Home at last,” Megan muttered, putting the gearshift in park and killing the motor. She cast a glance to the back where Sarah still snoozed in her car seat. Slight for her four years, what the preschooler lacked in size, she made up for in energy.

  As Megan eased her daughter out of the restraint, she thanked God for her tiny blessing, then carried her into the bedroom they shared and tucked her into the toddler bed. Turning to tiptoe out of the room, she froze as a thin, high-pitched voice rang through the silence.

  “I was just resting my eyes.”

  Sarah’s battle cry. She never wanted to admit she was actually sleeping. It was a point of honor with the little girl. This time, though, her fatigue was stronger than her will, and she nestled farther into the covers, breathing evenly again.

  Megan turned on the monitor—Sarah wouldn’t tolerate her calling it a baby monitor anymore—and clipped the receiver to her belt.

  She walked outside and stopped for a minute to breathe in the fresh air and soak in the solitude. Unbidden, the memory of Holt McFadden intruded on her peaceful thoughts. Never seeing him again was her only option. She should be proud of herself for ensuring that by not telling him her name. So why had disappointment woven its way into her heart instead?

  Pulling her mind back to the present, she grabbed the fabric from the van. She hurried with it into the sewing room where childhood memories were as tangible as the rows of thread spools and bolts of material that lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Watching her grandmother quilt on the big machine had always fascinated Megan. Hard to believe Granny Lola had been gone three-and-a-half years.

  At first, she’d wondered what she would do with it, but amid the turmoil after Barry’s death, Megan had been immeasurably grateful for the inheritance of the small farmhouse and huge quilting machine. She’d poured her heart into her new business.

  God saw to it she had enough. Enough for what she had to do and enough left over for her and Sarah to live on. A little frugality on her part and they got along just fine.

  After she put away her supplies, she carefully loaded Mrs. Wallace’s quilt top onto the machine. Stitching around each basket enhanced the beauty of the quilt, but it was much more tedious than doing a basic design on the whole surface. She’d be hard pressed to get it done by tomorrow as promised. She wouldn’t hurry, though. The delicate hand-pieced quilt top deserved her best work.

  Just as Megan’s shoulders began to ache from guiding the needle along the fabric, Sarah ran into the room with a drowsy smile.

  “Mama! Somebody’s here.”

  Megan switched off the machine. “Did you look out the window?”

  Sarah nodded, her blond hair bobbing up and down.

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. He’s tall, though, Mama. Sort of like a prince.” Excitement danced in Sarah’s eyes.

  Megan grinned. “But what would a prince be doing so far from his kingdom, O Fair Maiden?”

  Their visitor was hardly a prince, she was sure, but considering the quiet area they lived in, most likely not a villain, either. Probably either a book salesman or someone lost in the winding backroads of rural Arkansas, looking for directions to town.

  The last thing she felt like doing was facing a stranger. For a second, she considered not answering the sharp rap that resounded through the cottage. Her conscience rebelled, though, when she realized the man had probably seen Sarah’s little face looking out the window.

  She ruffled her daughter’s hair. “Come on, Squirt. Let’s go see who it is.”

  Sarah giggled and danced along beside her as they hurried down the hallway to the front door.

  A terrifying thought scurried through Megan’s mind, halting her forward momentum. She got down on her knees and grasped Sarah gently by the shoulders. “What did the man look like, Honey?” she asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  With a scowl, Sarah shrugged and tried to wiggle out of her mother’s grip. “Tall, I told you,” she said, imitating Megan’s whisper. “But he looked nice, Mama.”

  “What color was his hair?” Megan held her breath as she waited for the four year old to answer.

  “I’m not sure. . .” Sarah squirmed again and gazed intently at her mother.

  “It wasn’t red?”

  “You mean like Derek’s, at Sunday school?”

  Megan nodded, and when Sarah shook her head decisively, Megan relaxed her hold and smoothed her daughter’s blouse. Rising on legs that felt like cooked spaghetti, she fought back the anger. Ivo Pletka’s vengeful articles had stopped two years ago, and she’d thought he had lost the ability to terrorize her, but at the least expected moment, his smug, hateful face materialized in her thoughts.

  Dear Lord, please let me learn to trust again. Sarah doesn’t deserve to have a mother who’s always on edge. I’ve got to lighten up. “Are you ready to meet the mysterious prince?” she asked her daughter, with a chuckle.

  She peeked out the window beside the door. The forced laugh died on her lips. Worse than a salesman. A politician. A handsome one who appeared to be bearing gifts.

  Two

  Holt rarely had trouble finding the right words for any situation, but what did a man say when he showed up on a beautiful woman’s doorstep, uninvited and obviously unwanted? Somehow, he didn’t think that was covered in The Senator’s Book of Etiquette. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, willing something intelligent to come out. “Hey, Mrs. Watson.”

  She nodded, arms crossed, blue eyes steady, apparently content to let him squirm like a worm on a hook. Her scrutiny alone wouldn’t have been so bad, but right beside her, arms in an identical position, stood a miniature version of Megan Watson, matching her mother scowl for scowl. Hoping to break through at the weakest link, Holt squatted down in front of the smaller edition. “And you must be Sarah.”

  The little girl simply nodded, and Holt began to wonder if anyone else was going to speak. He produced the larger of his two packages and held it out to her. “I have something here to make up for bumping into your mama in town earlier. I didn’t want you to be left out, so I brought you something too.”

  Her eyes widened. She reached toward the package but quickly retracted her hand and tucked it behind her back. Her mute glance sought her mother’s permission, and Holt watched Megan’s steely gaze soften.

  “It’s okay, Sarah.” At her mother’s words, Sarah reached out again and quickly grabbed the gift bag. “Tell Senator McFadden thank you, though.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah tore into the bag with abandon, and the two adults watched the delight play across her face. “Coloring pencils! And a new drawing pad!”

  Megan’s head jerked up to meet Holt’s gaze. “How’d you know what to get her?” With an incredulous little laugh, she continued, “I assumed you went to the DMV and used your influence to find me, but surely they couldn’t tell you my little girl loves to draw.”

  “To tell you the truth, I did think of going to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I memorized your license number when you left today.” Holt grinned, remembering how excited he’d been to realize he could locate the mystery woman that way. “But then I decided it wouldn’t look good if I appeared to be throwing my influence around. Besides, since I was going into the quilting store anyway. . .” He tossed her the tiny wrapped package. “I decided I’d just ask Mrs. Sampson.” At her raised eyebrows, he explained. “She’s my cousin’s mother-in-law.”

  “I stand amazed.” She shook her head. “It really is a small world, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, we’re all tied together tighter than rabbits in a tow sack.”

  “Is that the kind of jargon that won you the election, Senator?” A smirk played on her bow-sha
ped mouth, and Holt was taken off guard by the surge of emotion he felt.

  “Please call me Holt. And I have to admit, that probably played a part in it.” He grinned. “That and my muddy four-wheeler and pickup truck full of coon dogs.” Clearing his throat, he tossed in some truth. “Of course, my desire for the folks around here to have a say in the laws might have helped some.”

  He watched in anticipation as she looked down at Sarah, who sat coloring on the step, then brought her crystal gaze back to meet his. “Want to come in for a glass of tea?”

  ❧

  Megan carefully placed two tall glasses of ice and a half-full tea pitcher on the round golden oak table in the corner of the living room. She smiled at her guest, even as her heart pounded. “Thanks, again, for getting Sarah coloring pencils. She really does love to draw.”

  “So do I.” Holt’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

  Amazing how the tiny crow’s feet at the corners somehow make him look more joyful, Megan thought as she sank down in a chair next to him.

  “Always have,” he continued. “I remember when I was little. . .my mama would threaten to get me if I didn’t quit coloring on the wall. I’d hear my daddy calming her down. ‘Leave him alone,’ he’d say, ‘you think Picasso’s mom yelled at him?’ ‘Picasso probably didn’t have two little brothers following in his footsteps,’ she always answered. She’d fuss a little more, but eventually, she gave me one section of wall for my very own. If I drew on the wall outside of that spot, I knew I was in trouble.”

  Megan laughed and poured the two glasses full of tea. “Don’t you dare tell Sarah that story.” She playfully shook her finger at him. “She’d better not start drawing on the walls, or I’ll know who to blame.”

  “Hmm. . .corrupting small children. . .nope, don’t guess even this old politician would stoop that low.”

  Ignoring his jibe, she asked, “So, did you pursue art when you were older?”

  “Nah, not professionally. I took some art classes in college, but business management seemed a little steadier. Then I sort of fell into politics.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Not to be confused with falling into a pile of ticks, which is a good bit itchier.”

  She bit back a giggle and nodded, careful to keep a straight face. “But probably not any more dangerous.” Allowing the smile she’d been restraining to blossom, she asked, “How does one ‘fall into politics’?”

  “I can tell you how it happened for me. I came home from college, sent off my résumé, and worked with Mom and Dad on the farm for awhile. One day, an old teacher of mine from high school came by, all upset. He told me the state senator for our district was in poor health and about to retire.”

  Holt sipped his tea. “An election was coming up and rumor had it the only replacement on the horizon was a liberal young man with radical ideas on everything from ecology to education. Thing was. . .they were afraid he might win just because it seemed that the voters wanted somebody young.” He shook his head with a rueful grin. “I prayed a lot about it, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  In spite of his joking, she sensed he had a deep commitment to his service in public office. Little did he know he was making conversation with a woman who could ruin his career by association. Maybe he wouldn’t ever have to find out.

  Suddenly she became aware of the silence.

  He was staring at her. How long had she been quiet? She pushed the rewind button in her brain and replayed his last words, thanking God for this ability, which her family had always marveled at. Forcing a smile, she spoke, “Obviously it was a good fit. You’ve been in office how long? Almost three years?”

  He nodded and finished his tea.

  Setting her own empty glass down on the tiny table, Megan rose. She crossed the room and peeked out the screen door where Sarah sat on the porch, still absorbed in her art.

  When she turned back to the living room, she shook her head. The man had been inside her house for fifteen minutes, making small talk, and she couldn’t believe how much she’d relaxed. No wonder he’d won that last election by a landslide.

  “Aren’t you going to open it? I promise it won’t bite.”

  Megan looked at him, puzzled. Then her gaze fell on the package that lay forgotten on the table. “Very funny. With your track record, it’ll probably knock the breath out of me.” She studied him as she eased the paper from the delicately wrapped tiny box. Most of her surprises in the last few years had been unpleasant.

  After opening the box, she forced herself to breathe. A porcelain thimble peeped out at her—an exact replica of the shattered one she’d retrieved from the sidewalk after their collision. “Oh, Holt, thank you.” She cringed, her cheeks growing hot at her reflexive use of his first name.

  “Annie Sampson knew immediately what I was talking about when I described the broken one. She said you collect them.”

  “Annie Sampson said a lot, didn’t she?” She hoped her joking tone didn’t betray her fear. His face revealed no knowledge of her terrible secrets, so she barreled on. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Senator.”

  He ran his hand through his hair and offered a self-effacing smile. “Please stop calling me Senator. I assure you I’m not here in an official capacity.”

  Megan walked over and carefully added the newest addition to her thimble collection shelf. She turned back to face the man who sat so naturally at her table and tried for a casual tone. “In what capacity are you here?”

  Their gazes held, and the silence again stretched to the point of being uncomfortable. Finally, Holt spoke. “You seemed like someone I’d like to get to know better. A neighborly visit appeared to be in order.”

  Her heart skittered over the implications of the first half of his solemnly spoken explanation and latched on to the last. “Neighborly?” She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you lived around here.”

  He nodded. “About two-and-a-half miles down the road. I was raised over ten miles from here, but we bought the old Lancaster place out on Salado Creek five years ago.” His smooth smile resurfaced.

  Megan’s stomach lurched. His obvious interest in her, along with the notable absence of a wedding band had led her to believe he was single. Plus, she hadn’t remembered reading about a wife in the newspapers. He’s a politician, you goose, she derided herself. What did you expect?

  “How does your wife like it here?”

  “My wife?” A puzzled frown wrinkled Holt’s forehead, then cleared as he chuckled. “Oh, because I said ‘We’? My parents and I bought the land for our cattle, they have the ranch house already and a summer cottage in Lake Haven, so a little while back, I ended up moving in the house. We’re still partners in the business, though. That’s what I meant. Sorry.”

  Megan’s frantic gaze lit on the empty tea pitcher. Scooping it up, she stammered, “That’s okay. I just misunderstood. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll make some more tea.” She pushed the swinging door with her body, and once it closed behind her, she collapsed against the counter, holding the cold pitcher against her hot face. Why had she made him explain? Now it looked as if she cared whether he was married or not. Nothing like giving him the wrong idea. Or was it the wrong idea?

  She slammed the pitcher down on the counter with more force than necessary. A quick perusal through the cabinets revealed an empty tea bag box. Resting her forehead against the oak cabinet door, she tried to figure out why she was so rattled. Just because she’d spent three years avoiding relationships and now there was a man in her living room whom she would very much like to get to know. . .was that any reason to be rattled?

  “Is something wrong?”

  Megan jerked her forehead away from the cabinet door and spun around to confront the man who was no longer in her living room. “Uh. . .no. I’m out of tea bags.” Well, Meg, you’re certainly making this a moot point. No way will he be interested in a crazy lady.

  “Ah,” he said, nodding as if that were a perfectly logical excuse for mental collapse. “I se
e.” He smiled, and the world righted itself. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Not unless you have a hidden stash of tea bags in your truck.” Megan rolled her eyes at her own silliness. “Seriously, if you’re still thirsty, I can make some lemonade.”

  “I’m not, but thanks.” Pointing out the window at the glowing sun beginning its descent behind the mountains, he asked, “You and Sarah want to take a walk? I love this time of day.”

  Megan wanted to say yes. But this man had shared his heart with her about a career that obviously meant the world to him. How could she encourage him to jeopardize it by associating with her? Especially when he didn’t even realize that was a danger. “Holt, I’d love to, and there’s nothing Sarah likes better, but we just can’t. I have work to do.”

  “I understand. Must be time to feed the chickens or something and here I am monopolizing you.” He pushed open the kitchen door and held it as she slipped past him into the living room.

  “Thank you for the gifts.”

  “It’s the least I could do for mowing you down. Thank you for the tea. I really enjoyed our talk.”

  “Yes, me too.” She fought to keep the wistfulness from her voice as she opened the screen door for him to go out.

  They both glanced at the bottom mesh that curled out at one corner. Megan smiled and stepped out on the porch behind him. “When Sarah was barely able to walk, I’d lock this so she could see outside but still be safe. She spent hours pushing against the screen with her hands. Gradually it gave way.”

  He glanced over to where Sarah was still coloring, then back at Megan. “I admire persistence. Most of the time it pays off.”

  “But if that had been a wooden door, it would have been a waste of time,” Megan said, recognizing his inference. She stepped off the porch into the yard, so he would do likewise.