Secret Santa

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Secret Santa Page 11

by Fern Michaels


  Velvet climbed under the quilt, inadvertently bumping Mr. Bowie who opened one eye and glared at her.

  “Pardon me, sir. It might help if you didn’t insist on sleeping smack dab in the middle of the mattress.”

  The cat went back to sleep. Miss Velvet pulled the covers up to her chest and turned out the bedside lamp only to turn it on again a minute later. She pushed herself into an upright position and pulled a yellow-gold envelope out of the nightstand drawer.

  Miss Velvet had lied about throwing the note away, but not about the quality of the handwriting or the primitive literary prowess of the writer. The lettering was scrawled and every sentence sloped downward and to the right, as if the entire missive were in danger of sliding off the page. The phrases that declared her beautiful were short, choppy and full of misspellings. In fact, the word “beautiful” was missing an “a.” And the word “cornflower,” contained within a sentence suggesting she would look even more “beutiful” were she to wear a dress of that color, was spelled “cornflour.”

  “Cornflour? Maybe he meant cornstarch.” She chuckled to herself and slid the stationary back into the envelope. “Maybe I should buy young Mr. Swanson a dictionary for Christmas. What do you think, Mr. Bowie?”

  Hearing his name, the cat yawned, but made no comment. Miss Velvet placed the envelope back in the nightstand, turned out the light, and went to sleep.

  In the morning, Velvet awoke at six-thirty, just as she always did. She said her morning prayers, got dressed, ate breakfast with Silky, and walked to work. She didn’t expect many visitors at the historical society on the Friday after Thanksgiving and so planned to spend the day cleaning the glass display cases and carefully dusting the collection of historical artifacts.

  Striding at a brisk pace and following the most direct route to Too Much’s tiny commercial center and town square, it normally took Miss Velvet exactly twelve minutes to get from home to the historical society. But today she strolled instead of strode around the square, taking time to enjoy the three-foot high red-and-white striped plastic candy canes, newly purchased by the town council, that decorated each lamppost, and peer into the display windows of each business, already decked out for Christmas.

  The window of Pickens Hardware held a collection of bright red power tools resting on a bed of “snow,” really a mixture of pulverized Styrofoam and silver glitter, each tied with an enormous green bow. Hilda, the proprietress of Hilda’s House of Pie, who had something of an artistic streak, had painted her window with a chubby, apple-cheeked Mrs. Claus, standing under a sprig of mistletoe and looking expectant. A poster resting on the windowsill declared that anyone who gave Hilda a Christmas smooch would get a free cup of coffee with their pie. Velvet didn’t consider this a particularly appealing offer but it seemed to be effective. Looking through the window, she could see that every stool at Hilda’s counter was occupied by a man who was eating pie and drinking coffee.

  The window of the Patchwork Palace, Mary Dell and Lydia Dale’s recently opened quilt shop, contained an artfully selected and arranged display of fabrics, not in the expected reds and greens of the season, but in rich shades of gold, ruby, emerald, amethyst, and sapphire set against a drape of black velvet, like gems in a jewelry shop.

  Velvet knew that every woman in town, quilter or not, would stop to admire those fabrics and a goodly percentage of them, quilter or not, would go inside and end up buying some, perhaps signing up for one of Mary Dell’s classes so they could learn what to do with all that luscious fabric. It was a stunning display. Velvet also knew just who had come up with the idea and put it all together: Lydia Dale. Lydia Dale could hardly sew a stitch but she had exquisite taste and incredible color sense.

  Mary Dell, on the other hand, had no more taste than a hothouse tomato but she could perfectly match the points on an eight-pointed star blind-folded and with one hand behind her back. More importantly, she could teach other people how to do the same thing. Mary Dell and Lydia Dale were two sides of the same coin. Velvet was so proud of them and happy that the quilt shop was turning out to be a success. She thought about popping inside and telling them so but changed her mind after looking at her wristwatch. In forty years working at the historical society, she had never called in sick and never been late to work. Not once.

  She scurried past the windows of the Five-And-Dime, the Feed-And-Seed, and the Primp ’n Perm without so much as a second glance. But as she approached Antoinette’s Dress Shop, Velvet stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the mannequin in the front window.

  “Cornflower blue,” she whispered.

  Antoinette knocked on the door of the dressing room. “Miss Velvet? Does it fit all right? Or do you need me to find another size?”

  Miss Velvet’s voice, sounding uncharacteristically high-pitched and nervous, came from the opposite side of the flowered curtain that separated the dressing room from the dress shop.

  “Oh . . . I don’t think so. It . . . ummm . . . doesn’t look as good as I thought it might. And I think it’s too small. Too tight. Definitely too tight.”

  “That should be your size, Miss Velvet. Maybe we just need to take it out a little bit. Let me see.”

  “No!”

  Antoinette swept the flowered curtain aside. Miss Velvet squealed and clutched her arms over her chest, as if she’d been caught skinny-dipping.

  “Oh, my!” Antoinette laid her hand over her heart as if she felt a palpitation coming on. Her eyes became dewy.

  “Oh, Miss Velvet! That color! It’s perfect for you! Do you know something? Until just this minute, I never realized you had cornflower blue eyes. You look beautiful.”

  “I do?”

  Velvet loosened her grip on herself, not dropping her arms completely, but relaxing just a little, not resisting when Antoinette took her firmly by the shoulders and turned her around one-hundred and eighty degrees to face the mirror.

  “But . . . don’t you think it’s too tight?” Velvet asked, tugging at the blue fabric on the bodice and waistline. “Maybe if we got rid of the belt.”

  “Absolutely not,” Antoinette declared, gently pulling Miss Velvet’s arms down from her body like she was peeling the rind from an orange. “See? It’s perfectly smooth over the chest, hips, and waist. Not a pucker or pull anywhere. Miss Velvet, I never knew you had such a tiny waist. In fact, I never knew you had a shape at all! Where have you been hiding it all these years?”

  Antoinette made a tsking sound and answered her own question, speaking to Velvet’s reflection as she looked over the older woman’s shoulder and into the mirror.

  “Underneath all those gray and black feed sacks you’ve always insisted on wearing, that’s where. I swear, it’s bad enough that you make all your own clothes . . . I mean, how would I ever feed my children and make my car payment if everybody in Too Much did that? Hmm? But, Miss Velvet, as talented as you and your sister are with a needle, didn’t it ever occur to you to sew up a dress that looks at least a tiny bit fashionable? Never mind. You’re here now and that’s what counts. You look beautiful.”

  Velvet lifted her hand and swatted away the compliment. “Stop saying that. I am not beautiful. I’m a dried up old spinster and we both know it! Don’t make fun of me. And don’t go telling tales just so you can sell me a dress, Antoinette.”

  “Dried up old spinster?” Antoinette rolled her eyes. “Please. How old are you, Miss Velvet? Sixty-five?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Sixty-four is a long way from dried up. My granny Boone buried her third husband when she was seventy-seven, married her fourth at eighty, and buried him two weeks later! The poor man couldn’t keep up with her, I guess. Had a heart attack on their honeymoon.”

  “Well, if I’d been your granny Boone’s fourth husband, I’d have had a heart attack too,” Velvet muttered.

  Antoinette put her hands on her hips.

  “Miss Velvet, I am not telling you a tale. You look lovely in this dress. Beautiful even. You truly do. I tell y
ou what; if you’d dye your hair, put on some lipstick and earrings, get rid of those nasty old orthopedics,” she said, curling her lip as she peered at Miss Velvet’s thick-soled lace-ups, “and buy yourself a nice pair of heels, every white-haired bachelor in this town would be following after you like a lovesick pup.” She winked. “Maybe even a few of the married ones.”

  Once again, Velvet waved off the shop owner’s compliment, though not quite as vehemently as she had the first time.

  “Now, you stop that,” she said with a smile. “I never heard anything so silly.”

  “Well? What do you say, Miss Velvet? Can I wrap it up for you?”

  Velvet dropped her arms to her sides and took a good long look in the mirror, turning to the left and right, studying her reflection at all angles.

  “It is pretty,” she admitted after a moment. “The color and all but . . . I just don’t know. It’s such a change. And really, so close to Christmas and with so many gifts to buy, I don’t think I should be spending money on myself. I’ll tell you what . . . let me think about it for a day or two. All right?”

  Antoinette smiled woodenly and nodded. She was sorry to lose the sale but sorrier still that Velvet Tudmore simply refused to see how well she looked in that dress. Maybe not beautiful, though Antoinette always felt that beauty lay in the eye of the beholder, but unquestionably pretty. Such a shame. For a moment, she’d been so sure that Velvet was going to take the dress but now, in spite of the older woman’s hedging words, she knew that the moment had passed. In the language of retail, “let me think about it” means that the buyer had already thought about it and decided against it but didn’t want to be impolite by coming right out and saying so. Velvet Tudmore was not going to buy the beautiful blue dress that so perfectly matched her eyes, not today and not tomorrow. In fact, Antoinette never expected Velvet to cross the threshold of her dress shop ever again. Such a shame.

  Clad once again in her shapeless black dress, and later than she’d ever been on a workday, Miss Velvet jogged to the end of the block, huffing and puffing as she crossed the street to the center of the square, zipping past the bronze monument where Flagadine Tudmore, arms crossed defiantly over her chest, stared toward the horizon with frozen resolve. When she reached the sidewalk that led to the courthouse, Miss Velvet looked up and saw that the municipal clock was set to strike ten in just a few seconds. Breaking into a flat out run, she sped around the side of the building to the door of the basement, where the historical society was housed.

  For the second time that day, Miss Velvet stopped dead in her tracks, transfixed by an unexpected sight, staring at the single yellow rose which someone had tied to the doorknob with a red ribbon.

  Three minutes later, the door to the dress shop flung open and Miss Velvet ran in, flushed purple as a plum and nearly gasping for breath.

  Antoinette was standing on a chair in high heels while she changed a burnt out light bulb. Certain that Velvet was having a heart attack, she scrambled down from her perch so quickly that she twisted her ankle.

  “Miss Velvet!” she cried, limping as quickly as she could to the older woman’s side. “Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”

  Still gasping, Velvet moved her head from side to side in an exaggerated motion and held up her hand, indicating that Antoinette should let her catch her breath.

  “I’m fine,” she puffed after a moment. “But . . . I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to take the dress after all. And a tube of lipstick. And a pair of heels. Size eight-and-a-half wide.”

  Chapter Five

  Antoinette stood in front of the class sample with a skeptical expression. “You really think you can teach me how to make this? I was the girl who flunked lanyard making at Sunday school, remember?”

  Mary Dell laughed. She’d known Antoinette since she was a little girl and she did remember. Poor Antoinette’s lanyard had been a tangle of blue, yellow, and red plastic cording, like something created by an electrician who had taken to drink.

  “That wasn’t your fault, hon. When it came to crafts, Mrs. Pickens just wasn’t a very good teacher. But I am,” she said confidently. “And this quilt isn’t nearly as hard as you think. It’s all just straight lines, really. Tell you what; if you’re not able to finish the project or you aren’t happy with how it comes out, I’ll give you your money back. How about that?”

  Antoinette chewed on the edge of her thumbnail and stared at the quilt, trying to make up her mind. Mary Dell was right; the jewel-tone on black quilt, which included variations of the Rail Fence block with some Nine Patch blocks in the borders, both beginner’s blocks, wasn’t very complicated. But to someone who’d never sewn, it seemed a daunting project. Antoinette had never had the least interest in quilting or any other crafts. Her experiences in Mrs. Pickens Sunday school classroom had convinced her that she had not even a drop of artistic talent. But when she’d walked past the Patchwork Palace window that day and seen those delicious gem-colored fabrics, she simply had to go inside and have a closer look.

  Antoinette’s eyes moved up and down, left and right over the patches of emerald, ruby, and sapphire. “I can’t believe I’m even thinking about doing this,” she said, half to herself and half to Mary Dell. “Think I can get it done by the 23rd?”

  “Well, I don’t know about the quilting and binding,” Mary Dell said. “But you’d certainly be able to finish the piecing by then. If it’s a Christmas gift, you could take it back after whoever you’re giving it to opens it, just so they can see it, and let them know you’ll get it back to them as soon as it’s finished.”

  Antoinette’s face fell. “Oh. Well, I was really hoping I’d be able to finish the whole thing by Christmas Eve. I wanted to donate it to the silent auction at the Christmas Ball. I usually bring something from the dress shop. The cardigan I donated last year didn’t bring much and Marlena made a wisecrack about it—said if I hadn’t just grabbed any old rag from the sale rack, maybe people would have bid on it.” Antoinette’s face clouded over as she recalled the incident and Marlena’s cutting comment.

  “She practically accused me of using the auction as a way to get rid of shopworn goods and then write it off my taxes for full price. Marlena is so nasty! That sweater had come in only the week before and it was beautiful. I ordered three others for the shop and they all sold!” Antoinette said defensively.

  “Nasty doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Mary Dell said with a mixture of sympathy and disgust. “The only words you can use to describe Marlena are the ones your momma used to wash your mouth out with soap for saying. I like most everybody and the few I don’t like, I can tolerate. But Marlena? I can’t stand her.”

  “She’s not real wild about you either,” Antoinette said with a little laugh. “You should have heard her at the last meeting of the Women’s Club, going on and on about how having the Patchwork Palace as a sponsor was going to lower the whole standard of the ball, and how she didn’t want a table full of those low-class Tudmores and Templetons sitting up at the front of the ballroom . . . It was just crazy! Even for Marlena. What’d you ever do to make her hate you so, Mary Dell?”

  “Well, for starters, I was born. The feuding and fussing between the Bentons and Tudmores goes way back. And, of course, when Lydia Dale and Jack Benny got divorced, it kind of stirred things up again. But, the real reason Marlena hates me so much is because I bought this building out from under her.”

  “Sure wish you’d have bought my building while you were at it,” Antoinette said. “You wouldn’t believe what Marlena is charging me for rent. If I dare to complain about it or even to look at her sideways, she raises it. So I’ve got no choice but to put up with it.” She spread her hands in resignation. “It’s not like I can move my shop to another location. The Bentons own the whole of downtown Too Much. I sure wish I could tell Marlena what I really think of her, just once.”

  Mary Dell patted her on the shoulder. “Well, you can’t do that. Not unless you’d like to see your rent d
ouble. But I tell you what you can do; you can show Marlena and everybody else in town how creative you are. You can piece a beautiful quilt and I will quilt it for you and bind it in time for you to donate to the auction. How about that?”

  Antoinette grinned. “Really? All right, Mary Dell. If you’re game, so am I!”

  The beautiful sample quilts that hung on every wall of the shop were part of what made the Patchwork Palace such a special place. Customers were inspired by what they saw and wanted to re-create those lovely quilts for themselves. But Mary Dell and Lydia Dale were adamant that every quilt should be a distinct reflection of the quilter who made it, so while they did offer a few kits complete with patterns and pre-cut fabrics, no two of those kits were exactly alike. The wall hanging that Antoinette wanted to make was not offered as a kit at all. And so, with a little guidance from Lydia Dale, Antoinette considered and selected a unique combination of jewel-toned fabrics that were inspired by the sample quilt but not identical to it.

  After making her selections, she brought the fabric bolts to the counter so Mary Dell could cut the yardage and Lydia Dale could ring it up on the register.

  “With the scissors, thread, ruler, and your new customer discount, that comes to thirty-nine dollars and ten cents,” Lydia Dale said.

  “All right,” Antoinette replied as she pulled two twenty-dollar bills from her wallet. “Guess I can pay for it out of what I made on your aunt Velvet today.”

  “Aunt Velvet was in the dress shop?” Lydia Dale asked. “And she actually bought something?”

 

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