Between Heaven and Texas

by Marie Bostwick

  Mary Dell stood near the head of the table with a spoon clutched in her hand, considering the question.

  The idea of owning a quilt shop had excited her from the first, but initially, it had been the kind of excitement she experienced when creating a new quilt design or discovering a method for making an old design easier to stitch, the thrill that comes from imagining a new adventure, facing a new challenge. Later, when she began to consider the example she might be setting for Howard by overcoming the obstacles in her path and opening the shop, the thrill of adventure took on a deeper purpose.

  But it was her journey to Dallas that really sealed the deal. C. J. Evard had helped her see what it might be like to soar beyond the narrow boundaries she’d set for herself, to push herself cognitively and creatively. Suddenly, she felt like a new car out for a test drive; she longed to be out on the highway with the gas pedal pushed to the floor, to use all her gears and leave the pack behind, to show everybody, her family, her child, herself, and the world what she had under the hood.

  And now . . . now that the door was shut and the boundaries were closing in . . .

  Mary Dell blinked a few times. “Pretty bad, Aunt Velvet. There’s only one thing I’ve ever wanted more, and that was Howard.”

  She bent down over Taffy’s shoulder to kiss Howard on the head, burying her face in his downy hair, and chided herself. If she could only have had one answered prayer in her life and that prayer was Howard, she’d never have right or reason to complain. And she wasn’t complaining, but having stood on the threshold of a new world, it was hard to close the door without feeling a pang of regret for what might have been.

  Velvet looked at Silky and raised her brows, as if to say she’d thought as much. Silky lowered the flame under the skillet and turned her back to the stove so she could see her granddaughter.

  “If you want it so much, why are you giving up?”

  Mary Dell frowned, wondering if her grandmother was starting to lose her hearing. “I told you, Granny,” she said, speaking loudly and distinctly, “I just can’t raise the money. I’ve tried everything.”

  “There’s no need to holler at me,” Silky replied with a scowl. “I heard you. I just don’t believe you. You’ve tried some things, the easy things, but you haven’t tried everything.”

  “Like what?”

  Silky glanced at Velvet, a question in her eyes. Velvet gave a brief nod, as if granting her permission to speak.

  “Velvet and I were talking it over. Mary Dell, when it comes to quilting, you’ve got a gift, a special and remarkable gift. We always thought so, but on the other hand, what do we know? We’re just a couple of old ladies from Too Much, and of course, we’re not exactly impartial judges. But when a man like C. J. Evard sees what we see within five minutes of meeting you, then that is something you need to pay attention to, that and your heart. And since it means so much to you . . .” She paused a moment, took in a deep breath, and let it out quickly.

  “We think you ought to sell off some land.”

  Mary Dell stared at her grandmother, wondering if her own hearing was going bad.

  “Excuse me? Are you telling me to sell land so I can raise the money to buy a quilt shop? Flagadine’s land? Our land?”

  She looked at her mother and sister, then back to her grandmother and aunt.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Well, I think that’s a question that was settled a long time ago,” Silky replied, “but yes. We’re telling you to sell off some land. Not a lot, just as much as you’d need to buy and stock the shop and then fix up the building proper. If you’re going to do it, honey, you should do it right. Selling a hundred acres ought to cover it, a hundred and fifty at the most.”

  Mary Dell turned her face to the wall. “I am not listening to this,” she said. “And even if I was, who’d be willing to buy just a hundred acres of our land? For cash and by Monday morning? Nobody in Too Much has that kind of money on hand.”

  Velvet stepped forward. “The Bentons do,” she said. “Marlena would buy a piece of our land in a heartbeat, any piece we’d offer, just so she could say she’d done it.”

  Mary Dell threw up her hands. “You are crazy! The both of you! No, Aunt Velvet. Absolutely not. I am not going to sell even one acre of the F-Bar-T. Especially not to Marlena Benton!” she shouted.

  Silky, who didn’t appreciate being called crazy, shouted back. Velvet stepped between the two to try and calm them down, but had to raise her voice to be heard. Lydia Dale took Rob Lee off her breast, set him on her shoulder, and got up to put in her two cents, arguing that they weren’t going to miss one little piece of ground. Taffy weighed in too, but felt conflicted by the proposition and argued both sides of the question at once—she loved the idea of Mary Dell and Lydia Dale owning a quilt shop, but hated to think of how Marlena would gloat if she got hold of even a little of their land. The sound of five female voices raised in conflict upset Howard, and he began to howl in protest. Then Rob Lee, distressed at being taken from his mother’s breast before his stomach was full, added his cries to his cousin’s.

  The din of women arguing and infants crying was so great that nobody heard the sound of a truck pulling up outside, and the childish shouts of joy that greeted the driver, or noticed when the door from the porch to the kitchen opened and someone stepped inside, carrying a shopping bag.

  In fact, the commotion was so deafening that not one of the women stopped for so much as a breath until Graydon Bebee, who tried once or twice to announce his presence using a more modulated tone, finally waded into the middle of the fracas, stuck his pinkie fingers into each side of his mouth, blasted out an earsplitting whistle, and hollered louder than all of them.

  “What in the hubs of hell is going on here!”

  CHAPTER 57

  The second he finished speaking, the raised voices and cacophony of discord was replaced by cheers of greeting and, in the case of Lydia Dale, by tears.

  With Rob Lee still in her arms, she ran to Graydon and collapsed on his chest in sobs, saying she was sorry over and over and over again. Graydon embraced them, mother and child, and kissed the top of Lydia Dale’s head.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. “Jeb and Dutch told me everything. You don’t have to apologize; you were trying to protect the family. I understand. Shh. It’s all over.”

  Tears still streaming, Lydia Dale looked into his handsome face, as if afraid to believe him.

  “Don’t cry now, sweet girl. I’m back.”

  He kissed her on the mouth, and she kissed him back. The sideline observers, who now included Dutch, Jeb, and Cady, exchanged sighs of relief and smiles of approval. Aunt Velvet smiled too, but blushed as she did, averting her maiden eyes from the clinging couple.

  When they finally loosened their grip on one another, Graydon grinned. “I brought you a present.”

  He took three big strides across the kitchen and picked up the bag he’d left next to the door. Opening it, he pulled out a satin evening gown of starlight white with a full skirt, tiny waist, and a scoop neckline, with 150 turquoise bugle beads hand-stitched to the smooth satin bodice.

  “My pageant gown!” Lydia Dale squealed.

  Graydon beamed, pleased that she was so pleased. “The one you were wearing the first time I laid eyes on you. I drove up to Fort Worth and bought it back. Figured something this pretty has to stay in the family.”

  “Oh, Graydon!” she cried and rushed back into his arms.

  Velvet looked at Silky and nodded approvingly. “It’s gratifying to see that some young people still retain a sense of history and an appreciation for family relics.”

  “Miss Taffy,” Graydon said, “this is for you.” He reached deep into the bag and emerged holding a tiny two-and-a-half-inch-tall tiara decorated with curves of rhinestones arranged around a crystal teardrop centerpiece. “Something to put in your display cabinet.”

  “Lydia Dale’s first crown! Little Miss Goody Gumdrop!” Taffy sniffled and her eye
s went wet. “You’re a good man, Graydon Bebee. I said so from the first.”

  As usual, no one bothered to question the accuracy of Taffy’s statement. They were too happy to worry about that.

  When supper was served, they all took their seats around the table and bowed their heads as Dutch prayed over the meal, thanking God for the food and the safe return of their good friend, Graydon. The amens were said with more than usual gusto.

  Graydon bit into a piece of fried chicken and groaned with pleasure. “Miss Silky, your chicken is worth the drive.”

  Silky smiled. “Glad you like it. And, as it happens, we’re having your other favorite for dessert, ambrosia salad.”

  “You must have had a premonition that I’d be back.” He took another bite and said, “Hey, nobody answered my question. What were you all arguing about when I came in?”

  Mary Dell started to explain, but was quickly interrupted by Silky, then by Velvet, then Taffy, and Lydia Dale in turn. In less than a minute, the battle was back on and continued until Mary Dell slammed her hand so hard against the table that the silverware rattled.

  “Enough!” she shouted, shocking them into silence.

  “Now, listen to me, all of you! Yes, I want to buy that quilt shop so bad it makes my bones hurt. But this isn’t just about me. It’s about our legacy as Tudmores. It’s a trust, a sacred trust. Trying to convince me to violate that trust by letting even one acre of land pass out of family hands is a waste of breath. So let’s just drop the subject right now.”

  The immovable expression on Mary Dell’s face silenced any thought of protest, though Silky mumbled something under her breath about pigheadedness being another Tudmore legacy. Everyone picked up their forks and resumed eating.

  After an awkward moment, Graydon cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

  “For what it’s worth, Mary Dell, I think you’re right. And I sure admire you for sticking to your convictions. But I was wondering . . . if you could sell land to somebody inside the family, would you?”

  Mary Dell’s mouth was too full to answer him immediately, or to point out the obvious, that nobody in the family had any money to spare and that was why the subject of selling had come up in the first place. But she didn’t have to answer. Without waiting for her response, Graydon made his intentions perfectly clear.

  “I went to Fort Worth to buy back Lydia Dale’s gown and tiara, but before that, I drove back up to Kansas. Emptied out my bank account. I was kind of surprised at how much there was in there, but I hadn’t spent my wages on anything but new blue jeans and liquor for the past ten years or so. And now that I’m giving up liquor for good, I’ve got to find someplace to put my money, so I was thinking . . .”

  He pulled a tiny blue box from his pocket and opened it, revealing a platinum ring with a single marquis-cut diamond in the center. Lydia Dale gasped.

  “Mary Dell, if your sister would agree to make me the happiest man in Texas by saying she’d marry me and if I promised to honor her, love her, cherish her, and pass the ranch on to Cady and any daughters we might have when death parts us, do you think you might be willing to sell to me then? Because, if Lydia Dale says yes, that hundred acres would still be in the family, wouldn’t it?”

  Mary Dell had swallowed her food some time before, but now she had to swallow again, to choke back tears.

  “It sure would, Graydon.”

  Graydon got up from his chair and knelt down. “What do you say, sweet girl? Is it a deal?”

  CHAPTER 58

  September 1984

  Remodeling the old dry goods store took a full four weeks longer than planned, but the results were worth the wait.

  They tore out the ugly drop ceiling and fluorescent lights, and then, in keeping with the old-timey Western feel they were going for, installed ceiling tiles with a Lone Star pattern in pressed tin and a score of schoolhouse pendant fixtures, unfortunately delivered two weeks later than promised, that gave off plenty of bright, clear light.

  It hadn’t been in their original plan, but when they ripped up the scarred linoleum prior to the installation of new vinyl, they discovered beautiful old wooden boards underneath and decided to refinish them in a warm cherry color topped with three coats of varnish so that they gleamed when sunlight beamed through the new, bigger display window. That added an extra week to the schedule but made a world of difference in the look and feel of the shop.

  They salvaged the old display cabinets that Mr. Waterson left behind, sanding and refinishing them to match the floor. Graydon and Dutch, with Jeb assisting, built extra cabinets so there would be room for twice as much fabric as before.

  They knocked out the wall between the front of the shop and the windowless room that Mr. Waterson had used to store his extra stock. This gave them room for more fabric, a corner to display notions, and a gated, half-walled toy room where the children of customers, and someday Howard and Rob Lee, could play while their parents shopped.

  They took the upper floor of the building, which housed the one-bedroom apartment where Mr. and Mrs. Waterson had begun their married life, right down to the studs, leaving only one wall with a mural of Hawaiian palm trees on a white-sand beach, painted and signed by Mabel Waterson in 1940, untouched. The space was turned into an office with a kitchenette and a nursery where Howard and Rob Lee could nap, plus two medium-sized classrooms outfitted with tables, built-in ironing stations, and loaner sewing machines. The rooms were separated by a folding wall that could be opened to accommodate bigger classes, if needed.

  “We can only hope,” Mary Dell said when she tested the folding wall for the first time.

  When it came to paint, Mary Dell had her heart set on a color called Playboy Pink. Lydia Dale explained that a more neutral shade would be a better background to display class samples. Mary Dell eventually acquiesced, allowing the walls to be painted with three coats of Natural Muslin, but not until Lydia Dale agreed they could use Playboy Pink in the bathroom.

  The bathroom had to be redone entirely, and when they pulled out the old toilet, they discovered a leak that cost them another week and an extra five hundred dollars to repair. The bathroom was finally finished in early September, the day before the first of three delivery trucks pulled up in front of the shop.

  The first two trucks contained 2,500 bolts of gorgeous, fine-loomed, 100 percent cotton White Star quilting fabric. The third delivery truck carried four white rocking chairs and a custom carved sign with a picture of a red, white, and blue quilt in the lower left corner and shiny gold, Western-style lettering that read. . .

  THE PATCHWORK PALACE

  ESTABLISHED 1984—TEMPLETON SISTERS, PROPRIETORS

  Mary Dell and Lydia Dale placed the rockers on the walkway in front of the shop as soon as they came off the truck, but they had to wait until the next day for Graydon, Dutch, and Moises to hang the sign.

  Even with help from the family, it took three days to get all the fabric, notions, patterns, pattern books, and whatnot unpacked, arranged, and rearranged on the shelves. But at 3:12 in the morning, just six hours and forty-eight minutes before they were scheduled to open, Mary Dell slid the last bolt of fabric into place.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  Lydia Dale turned in a circle and clasped her hands under her chin.

  “Perfect!”

  Though the delay of their grand opening was unintentional, it turned out to be for the best. The town of Too Much hadn’t had a new addition to the commercial area in years, and people were naturally interested in the transformation of the old Dry Goods Emporium.

  Everyone commented on how good the building looked with a fresh coat of paint and flower boxes out front, and how nice it was that the Templeton girls had put up that black sign with gold letters saying WATERSON BUILDING at the top of the second floor. But it was speculation about what was going on inside that really got people talking.

  Trucks were parked in front of the shop all summer long, and men wearing tool belts and painter
’s coveralls passed through the door every day, and there was a great noise of buzz saws and hammers coming from within, but no one could see inside because Mary Dell, whose inborn streak of showmanship was just beginning to blossom, had covered the windows and beveled glass door with brown butcher paper. By August, the curiosity about what was going on behind that brown paper was pretty intense. But when word got out that the grand opening was to be delayed another month, anticipation reached a fever pitch.

  A crowd began to gather outside more than an hour before opening. It was a good thing Mary Dell stood back a bit when she unlocked and opened the door at precisely ten o’clock; if not, she might have been trampled.

  It was also a good thing that Taffy, as well as Mary Dell’s old students, Pearl, Pauline and Sweetums, volunteered to help out that day, otherwise they’d never have been able to keep up. Silky and Velvet arrived just after the opening and stayed until four, circulating among the customers with trays, offering cups of cold lemonade and Silky’s special peach crumble bars.

  Ten minutes after they arrived, a man came through the door carrying an enormous spray of two dozen yellow roses and a note of congratulations from C. J. Evard. Mr. Evard, the man informed them, had called the shop personally and paid him extra to bring those flowers all the way from Waco, there being no florist in Too Much. Mary Dell buried her nose in the bouquet to breathe in the scent before placing them on a stand in the center of the front window, where everyone could see them.

  Not long after, a package arrived, delivered by Wanda Joy herself, who avoided making eye contact with Mary Dell but loitered around the shop for a good ten minutes and had two cups of lemonade before returning to her route.

  The postmark said Amarillo, but the handwriting was familiar. Donny had sent one hundred dollars and a present, an electronic calculator. The card that came with it said . . .