“I guess she was,” I whispered, wiping guilty tears with the back of my hand. “Somebody should have reported Edna. Somebody should have done something. I should have done something,” I said, finally turning to look at Margot’s face, expecting to see the condemnation I deserved. It wasn’t there.
“Like what?”
“A million things! Stood up for her. Told her I was sorry. Told her that Edna was wrong about her. I could have been her friend. How hard would that have been?” I asked. Margot didn’t answer.
“Do you know something? When Madelyn dropped out of school I felt relieved that I wouldn’t have to see her every day, relieved to be able to forget about her.”
Margot nodded understandingly. “But you never did.”
I let out a short, derisive laugh. “Oh, no. You’re wrong. Once I left New Bern, I did a great job of forgetting about Madelyn. I stuffed that all into a closet, put a lock on the door, and resolved never to think of it again. Then I went on with my life and got a job in human resources, where you’re pretty much paid to be a friend. There’s a lot of explaining of benefit packages and administrative stuff, but mostly I just listened to people’s problems and encouraged them to make good choices. I was a professional friend. Another irony.”
“Sounds to me like you might not be quite as good at locking the past away and forgetting it as you’d like to believe,” Margot said.
“Maybe not. Anyway, here I am, back at the scene of the crime. So is Madelyn.”
Margot picked up her cup and wrapped her hands around it, resting her elbows on the table. “So? What are you going to do about it?”
“About what?”
“All these ironies you keep talking about? What you call a coincidence, I call an appointment. Do you think it’s possible that God knows about the anguish and guilt that you, and possibly Madelyn, have been laboring under all these years and has arranged for you two to come back to New Bern so you can do something about it?”
“Like what? Kiss and make up? You saw the expression on Madelyn’s face when she spotted me. You can’t possibly think she’s going to forgive me.”
Margot’s blue eyes bored into me as she quoted a verse I remembered vaguely from childhood Sunday school lessons. “ ‘If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with everyone.’
“So far as it depends on you. If you reach out to Madelyn and try to make amends, she may rebuff you. But then again”—Margot smiled—“she might surprise you. Either way, you’ll have the peace that comes from knowing you did the right thing.”
“The right thing? What’s that? How am I supposed to know what to do?”
With that calm, knowing smile still on her face, that smile that was starting to annoy me a little, Margot said, “The path to peace is paved with knee prints.” Then she took a sip from her coffee cup as though this explained everything.
“ ‘The path to peace is paved with knee prints’? What are you? The oracle of Cobbled Court? What the heck is that supposed to mean?”
Margot giggled and I smiled in spite of myself.
“Seriously,” I said, shaking my head. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that we can know peace in every situation, no matter how difficult, by turning that situation over to God. The apostle Paul said not to worry about anything. Instead, he said we should let all our requests be made known to God through prayer and with thanksgiving. And that when we do, we’ll know peace that passes all understanding, the peace of God.”
Margot was obviously very sincere, but this just didn’t make sense to me.
“Margot, I believe in God, but I have a hard time believing He’s personally interested in my little worries. I mean, doesn’t He have better things to do? Famines? Wars? Natural disasters? That sort of thing? Who am I to bother God?”
“His child,” Margot said simply. “You’ve got a child, right? If Josh called you, worried, distressed, and sincerely seeking your advice, wouldn’t you stop what you were doing long enough to help?”
“Yes, but that’s different.”
Margot swiveled her head from side to side. “I don’t think so. God cares about you just as much as you care about your son—more, even.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, summoning another verse from her memory. “ ‘Before they call, I will answer; while they are still speaking, I will hear.’ Isaiah 65:24. That’s not me talking. That’s what God says about Himself. You believe in God; why not believe what He says?”
Margot was sweet and kind, and she made it sound so simple, but it couldn’t be. Could it?
“I’m not sure. I’d like to,” I said cautiously. “But . . . what if it doesn’t work?”
“Work as in, what if God doesn’t patch things up between you and Madelyn? He won’t. That’s up to the two of you. He’s just providing you with the opportunity. It seems to me that God wants you to at least try to reach out to her.
“And,” she said in a somewhat softer tone, “I think that’s what you want, too, isn’t it? Think. You’ve been sitting here beating yourself up over all the opportunities you had to reach out to your old friend and ease her pain, opportunities you ignored. God has gone to such a lot of trouble to give you another chance,” she said earnestly. “Are you going to let this one pass too?”
I looked down at my hands. “No. I don’t want to let that happen. Not again.”
“Good. Good for you.”
“So . . . what should I do? Pray?”
“Good idea,” she said, then immediately closed her eyes and lowered her head.
She was going to pray here? Now?
I looked around nervously, afraid of being conspicuous, but no one was looking at us. Feeling a little awkward, I followed Margot’s lead, closed my eyes, and ducked my head down.
Quietly, in plain language, as if she were speaking to someone she knew well and respected enormously, Margot thanked God for bringing us together that day, for bringing Madelyn and me to New Bern, for giving me the inclination and opportunity to set right an old wrong.
I prayed, too, not as eloquently as Margot, but I meant everything I said.
“Amen,” Margot said, and then looked up at me and smiled. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I shook my head. “So, now what happens? Should I be on the lookout for a burning bush or something?”
Margot laughed. “There are precedents, but I don’t think you’ll need something quite that flashy. Just wait and see what kind of doors God opens. It might happen quickly or it might take a while, but God will answer. Trust me.”
“Okay,” I said, but doubtfully. I was hoping for something a bit more concrete. I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to go and open the shop. Who knows? I might actually have a customer today. Or two!”
I smiled and stuffed my napkin into my coffee cup. “Thanks, Margot. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to just sit down and talk with a girlfriend. It was nice of you to take the time.”
Margot stopped sweeping invisible crumbs off the table long enough to give me a dismissive wave. “It was fun. Let’s do it again soon.”
“I’d like that.”
I stood up and started to walk around the far side of the table, intending to give Margot a hug. But I stopped short, my path impeded by the presence of a big brown shopping bag.
“What the heck?” I asked, grabbing the table edge to keep myself from tripping over the bag.
Margot peered over the far side of the table, onto the floor.
“Somebody must have left their shopping bag behind after breakfast. Wait a minute,” she said, peeking into the bag, “there are quilts in here. Old ones.”
Curious, I bent over to look and spotted an old, worn quilt with a blue and white pattern that, thanks to my newfound interest in quilting, I recognized as a double Irish chain. But I didn’t need quilt classes to recognize that particular quilt.
I’d seen it a hundred times—two hundred times—before. I’d sat cross
-legged on that patchwork, mindless of the intricate pattern and delicate stitching, laughing and whispering, eating cookies, dropping crumbs, making up stories and dreaming up dreams, a lifetime gone, back when we were girls, when Madelyn and I were best friends and the doors between us both were open.
I couldn’t believe it.
Before they call, I will answer; while they are still speaking, I will hear.
22
Tessa
Virginia toddled over to the shop’s sunny bowfront window, where her quilting hoop stood, and gently shooed Petunia off her chair. The cranky and curiously named tomcat gave her a glare before hopping onto the display window and settling himself into a basket filled with carefully coordinated fat quarters.
“You’re going to get hair all over,” she scolded. “And you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you? Spoiled.”
Petunia yawned and rested his chin on his paws before closing his eyes.
“Absolutely spoiled,” Virginia mumbled before sitting down and unfolding the quilt, draping it over the hoop.
I positioned myself behind her, so as not to block the light, and waited to hear the old woman’s verdict.
“Now. Let’s see what we have here.” She slid her reading glasses up her nose and leaned over the quilt.
“Well, it’s dirty, for a start. But that’s easy enough to deal with. A good washing will make a world of difference. But it mustn’t be washed by machine,” she cautioned. “You’ll need to soak it in a tub, use a mild soap, and wring it out by hand. No electric dryers and no hanging it on a clothesline! That would put too much stress on the seams. It needs to be stretched out flat to dry.”
“Wash it by hand, dry it flat. Got it.”
Virginia glanced over her shoulder. “Good. But washing is the last step in the process. The seams are coming loose, here and here. See?”
I leaned closer and noted the places she pointed to.
“Now, if this were my quilt, I’d probably replace the whole binding. It’s terribly worn, especially at the top. See how thin the fabric is there? Won’t be too long before the batting will start showing through. Especially if she plans to actually use it on a bed.”
“I don’t know what she plans to do with it.”
“Well, let’s go ahead and replace the binding,” she said, turning back to the quilt. “It’d be best to use an antique fabric. Probably something from the turn of the century.”
“You think it’s that old?”
“Judging by the style and type of fabric used, simple and straightforward, not a lot of flowers and folderol, I’d say so. It’s no older than that. See? It has a bias binding. If it was made prior to 1900, they’d probably have used a straight binding.”
“Virginia, how did you learn so much about quilt restoration?”
She grinned and waved off the question. “Oh, if you live long enough you’re bound to pick up a few things. I mostly learned out of necessity. If you live to be my age, the quilts you made as a youngster start wearing out. I had too much time and money invested in them to throw them away, so I learned how to fix them up.”
“And you think this one is worth fixing up?”
“Oh sure,” she said confidently. “There’s plenty of wear left in it. Plus, it’s a beautiful quilt. The hand-quilting is pretty near perfect. Couldn’t do better myself.
“These days my stitches are getting a little wobbly. Arthritis,” she said, wincing as she rubbed her knobby hands together. “After I get moving they’re okay, for a few hours. Then it seems like they seize up on me again. Anyway, repairing this quilt is going to take a little time. Are you sure you want to do it yourself?”
“If you’ll talk me through it.”
“Happy to. I never mind passing my wisdom on to the next generation of quilters,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Plus, I like hearing myself talk.”
I laughed.
Virginia smiled as she got up from her chair and scooped Petunia up in her arms. The cat opened one eye and made a grumbling sound in his throat before snuggling close to Virginia’s chest.
“Spoiled,” she murmured lovingly.
“You said something about using antique fabrics for the binding. Like a vintage fabric, a reproduction?”
“No. I’m talking about actual antique fabric that was loomed in the period. You could use a reproduction, but it’ll never look quite right. You can buy antique fabric online from specialty vendors. The only problem is, they are pricey.”
“How pricey?”
“Well,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “that depends. For turn-of-the-century fabrics, I’d guess anywhere from thirty-five to sixty-five dollars a yard.”
Thirty-five to sixty-five dollars a yard! To restore a quilt that belonged to a woman who gave every appearance of hating me? Was this really a good idea?
Not so long ago, I could spend that kind of money without giving it a second thought, but things were different now.
Lee and I have taken a scalpel to our budget and trimmed it to the bone. We’ve canceled the cable and Internet, and the newspaper, raised the deductibles on our insurance, and turned the thermostat down to sixty-four.
I don’t mind. There’s nothing as cozy as a wool sweater and a roaring fire on a winter night. And it’s not like we were going hungry or anything. About ninety percent of what appears on our table these days has been grown and harvested on our farm, and there’s something very satisfying about that. When we sit down to eat, Lee grins and says, “Look at this, would you?”
But that’s just about the only time he smiles now. He’s constantly worried about money.
We never go out anymore; restaurant meals aren’t in the budget. That’s fine, but I don’t understand why that has to mean the end of our Saturday “date nights.” There are all kinds of free concerts and lectures held at the library and the community center, but Lee isn’t interested. He says he’s too tired to go out. And to all appearances, it’s true. He usually goes to bed, and to sleep, right after dinner.
We haven’t made love in a month. And I miss it. I miss the passion, the playfulness, the touch of his hands. Most of all, I miss the intimacy of lying next to him afterward, the quiet talk and lingering looks. I need that. I think he does, too, now more than ever.
I tried to talk to Lee about it, but my comments were less than well received. The conversation, if you could call it that, ended with Lee storming out to the barn and staying there until I gave up on him and went to bed alone.
It doesn’t make sense to me. We’d been making love, passionately and enthusiastically, for thirty-four years. We’d never had a problem doing it. So what was so wrong with talking about it? Are all men like this?
Virginia was widowed, but she’d been married, happily from all reports, for fifty-one years. Had she ever encountered this problem?
“Virginia?”
“Yes, dear?” She looked at me with bright, birdlike interest, her big blue eyes made bigger by the magnification of thick eyeglasses.
“I was wondering if you’d . . .” I started to speak. Reconsidered. Blushed. “I was wondering if you’d mind ordering the fabric for me. I wouldn’t know what to buy, and anyway, I don’t have an Internet connection.”
“No problem. We can do it right now. You want to give me a credit card?”
I took a mental inventory of my wallet, trying to remember if I had any cards that weren’t already maxed out. “Would a check be okay?”
“Sure. I can just use my card and you can pay me back. I’m glad you’re going with the antique fabric. It’s a special quilt, worth the investment. Your friend will love it.”
“I hope so.”
“Quilting isn’t a cheap hobby, but,” the old woman said with a wink, “it keeps you out of trouble. If I didn’t spend my money on fabric, I’d just waste it on beer and cigarettes.”
I laughed. “Somehow I don’t believe that, Virginia. Evelyn already told me that you’re a teetotaler.”
“She
did?” Virginia clucked her tongue in mock regret. “Well, don’t go telling anybody else. There’s been some rumors going around town about me having a mysterious and wicked past.
“I know because I’m the one who’s been spreading them. I like the idea of having a reputation. Makes me seem more interesting.”
23
Madelyn
“The past is not a package one can lay away.” Emily Dickinson said that. I’m starting to think she was on to something.
I came in the back door, threw my keys and my purse on the kitchen counter, then sat down at the kitchen table and buried my head in my arms and thought about the ghosts from the past that refused to stay buried—Jake, Tessa, Abigail, and Woolley.
The past is not a package one can lay away. Sooner or later, whether you want to or not, you have to open the box and take a look inside.
If I had been born with a different set of genes, particularly the genes that determine breast size, my entire life would have been different. When I turned thirteen, the year after my friendship with Tessa ended, my chest went from pancake flat to a 32C. By the time I left high school, I measured a 34DD.
At first, I was embarrassed by those two melons on my chest. I wore baggy sweaters and sweatshirts to camouflage them, but it was no use. Boys who hadn’t known I was alive before were suddenly interested in getting better acquainted with me. Sort of. They didn’t give a rip about me. They were, however, deeply interested, even obsessed, in getting acquainted with my breasts, preferably by touching them. Initially, I didn’t get it. All I knew was that I was popular, pursued, and wanted, loved even. At least that’s what they told me.
And I liked that. I liked it a lot. I liked the whispered endearments, the attention, and, yes, I liked being touched. I’d be a liar if I said otherwise. But mostly, I liked how their caresses made me forget everything—the slights and rejections of other girls, my grandmother’s slaps and harangues, my disappointing grades, and my disappointment with myself. In the arms of the boy of the moment, I didn’t think about anything. I just felt. And it felt good.
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