A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) (16 page)

I
nitially, Abigail wanted to pick a more complicated pattern but with some prodding from me finally chose a simple friendship star as the base block for her quilt. When it is finished, this block looks more like a pinwheel than a star, a pattern certain to appeal to a child. Abigail chose the fabrics all herself, nine brilliant shades of blue from cobalt to turquoise and an equal number of vibrant greens from emerald to lime. I was surprised, considering that Abigail’s wardrobe centered on a subdued palette of black, gray, and earth tones, with an occasional accent of red or burgundy in the fall, that she would pick such bright colors, but her choices were right on the mark. By the time she’d sewn the first couple of blocks it was obvious that the quilt would be darling when it was finished, like a garden of gaily colored pinwheels planted in a field of white, spinning on the breath of an invisible wind. It had the potential to be such a happy quilt.

Too bad that Abigail couldn’t manage to relax and be happy with it.

It was the day before Thanksgiving and four days after my lumpectomy. Even though I’d protested that I was feeling much better, Margot insisted that someone sit with me during the day “just in case you need anything.”

If I needed anything, all I had to do was holler down the stairs where either she or Liza was busy tending to customers, but that didn’t seem to matter to Margot. I knew that Dr. Finney said I should accept all offers of help that came my way, but right now I just wanted to be alone. Margot meant well, and I was so very, very grateful for everything she’d done for me, but sometimes I felt as if I had suddenly regressed to childhood and a pretty, thirty-something, blond marketing manager had become my mother, supervising my care and feeding with all the attention and intensity she’d have given to running a Fortune 500 corporation. Sometimes her solicitousness got on my nerves.

It didn’t help that I was still sore and tired from the surgery and on tenterhooks waiting for Dr. Finney to call with the postsurgical test results. Why did it have to take so long? Every time the phone rang, I jumped. And every time it turned out to be someone other than the doctor, I became more and more irritable.

I’d have never imagined I’d be saying this, but I was grateful that it was Abigail on babysitting duty that day. Margot was sweet, but her constant hovering and strained attempts at cheery conversation were tiring. And Liza became distant after the operation, sitting quietly in a chair and barely speaking to me, as if she was afraid of saying something wrong. Charlie came over on the days when the restaurant was closed, but he was nervous without anything to do, so, after a few minutes, ended up in the kitchen clanging pots and chopping things and making elaborate meals I was too tired to consume.

Abigail alone seemed to realize that I was sick of people talking about me, or my cancer, or even worse pretending
not
to talk about those things. Either that, or she truly was absorbed in her quilting project. Whatever the reason, she brought her quilting along and started working on it. I did the same, appliquéing holly leaves on a Christmas tree skirt I hoped to finish before the holidays. It was a relief just to sit in silence and stitch, focusing on something other than the cancer, if only for a few minutes. But before long, I was just too sore and tired to sew. I put the half-finished skirt on the table next to the sofa where I was reclining and closed my eyes. Abigail looked up from her work.

“Does it hurt? Do you want a pain pill?”

“No,” I said with my eyes still closed. “It’s not time yet. I’m just taking a break.”

I opened my eyes and saw Abigail, bent over her work again, ripping the seam out of a block she’d just finished. I noticed that the edge of the fabric was frayed.

“Abigail, why are you ripping that seam? It looks fine.”

She pursed her lips, displeased, and kept on ripping. “No. I measured it, and this side is an eighth of an inch narrower than the other. This point doesn’t look anything like the rest.”

I scooted back on the sofa, shifting myself so I sat up straighter on the mound of pillows wedged behind my back, and peered at the half-disassembled quilt block. Honestly, I couldn’t see what she was talking about.

“How many times have you taken that block apart and put it back together?”

“This will be four,” she said, pursing her lips but still not looking up.

“Well, no wonder your seams are off. Look how the edge is all frayed. Taking a seam out once is fine if there really is a problem, but if you do it over and over you stretch the fabric out of shape and it just gets worse.”

Abigail sighed. “Well, then I guess I’ll just have to cut out a whole new block and start over.” She tossed the block aside with a disgusted look on her face. “I thought you said quilting was supposed to be relaxing.”

“It is,” I said and added silently,
at least if you’re not quite so anal, it is.

“Let me see that.” I reached over, picked up the discarded block, and examined it carefully.

“Abigail, this is fine. You’d have to put your face right next to it to see the difference between the two sides. Just sew the seam back up and start on the next block.”

She shook her head firmly. “No. I’ll cut out another one. I want it to be perfect.”

“What do you mean, you want it to be perfect? Perfect as in every single block is like every other? Perfect as in a machine could have done it? If you’re trying for that, you’ve missed the whole point of quilting, especially hand quilting. You don’t want it to be sloppy or carelessly made, but you do want this quilt to express your personality, to be authentic, to show that a real human being made it with real human hands. Otherwise, what’s the point? You could just buy her something in a store ready-made, for heaven’s sake!” I was on a roll. This was one of my pet peeves, when people took something as beautiful and creative, as
human
, as quilting and tried to turn it into yet one more modern expression of faux perfection.

“Evelyn—”

“No,” I said irritably, “let me talk. Do you know that some of the most prized quilts, priceless quilts that are hanging in museums today, are full of wobbly seams and mismatched fabrics? And they are beautiful! Not because they are perfectly constructed, but because—”

Abigail got up from the wing chair she’d been sitting in and walked into the kitchen. “Evelyn, the phone is ringing.” She picked it up and, after listening for a moment, said, “Yes. She’s here. Just a moment, please.”

“Dr. Finney,” she mouthed silently as she handed me the phone and then, without my asking, walked quietly to the apartment door and down the stairs into the shop, giving me my privacy.

“Hello. This is Evelyn.”

“Hi, Evelyn. This is Dr. Finney. I’ve got your reports back. Would you like to come in to the office and discuss them?”

My stomach knotted and my heart beat faster. When the news is good they don’t ask you to come into the office and talk about it. I knew that by now. “No. It’s bad, isn’t it. I want to know now. I don’t want to wait.”

“All right, I understand. Evelyn, we didn’t get clean margins,” she said flatly. “There is still cancer in the breast.”

“Oh God,” I whispered and closed my eyes. “God.”

“I know, Evelyn. I’m sorry,” she said and then took a breath. “And I’m afraid there’s more. The MRIs we took right before your surgery showed some suspicious-looking lesions in the other breast too. We’re going to have to do a biopsy. It may be nothing, but there’s no way of knowing for sure until we do the testing.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t this show up before?”

“The equipment we have at the hospital is more advanced. That’s why I ordered the test. I know this all comes as a shock, but it’s a good thing that we caught this now.”

“Yes. I see.” I wanted to cry but couldn’t. The disbelief, the disappointment, the fear was a building pressure at the back of my brain and eyes. It hurt to speak or to think, but I had to. “What now?”

“I’d like to see you as soon as possible, to perform the biopsy and just to talk things over. I can see you tomorrow morning if you’d like.”

“Tomorrow? But tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Is it that bad? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Oh no! It’s nothing like that,” she assured me. “Truly. As I told you before, this is a fairly slow-growing cancer. There’s no rush. I just didn’t want you to have to wait. I know how nerve-wracking that can be. Maybe you’ll be able to enjoy your holiday if you had a chance to talk this out and get the ball rolling on the biopsy. If it would help, I’d be happy to see you tomorrow.”

And I knew she meant it. She was so kind. “But all the labs will be closed tomorrow, won’t they? Unless you can perform the biopsy, run the lab tests, and write the report yourself before the turkey comes out of the oven, I don’t think there’s much point. It’s fine, Deanna. Really. Have dinner with your family, and I can see you on Friday.”

“All right. If you’re sure. But, Evelyn, if you change your mind or have any other questions, you just give me a call. I already gave you my home number and my cell phone, didn’t I?”

“Yes. I wrote them down in my address book.”

“Good. Don’t be shy about using them. I’ll see you on Friday at nine. Will that work for you?”

“Friday at nine. I’ll be there.” Normally I wrote down all my appointments, but I didn’t have a pen handy; besides, there was no chance I’d forget. The next forty hours would just be a countdown to Friday at nine.

“See you on Friday, Evelyn. Happy Thanksgiving.”

I hung up.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said to the empty air and sat holding the phone to my chest and staring out the window.

After a few minutes I heard movement behind me. The door opened a crack.

“May I come in?” Abigail asked. When I didn’t answer, she opened the door and came to stand beside me.

“What did she say?” Lines of genuine concern creased a spot in the center of her brow. Abigail’s face always had such a capable expression, but there was no trace of that now. Just like me, she didn’t seem to know what to do next. “Is anything wrong? Shall I call Margot?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing’s wrong.” The pain from the incision made me wince a little as I got to my feet.

“What are you doing?” she asked nervously. “What do you need? Tell me and I’ll get it for you.”

I walked slowly into the kitchen. “I’m fine. It’s Wednesday. I just remembered. I want to make a turkey.”

“You want to what?” she gasped, following close behind as I shuffled my way to the refrigerator.

“I want to make a turkey,” I repeated. “And a pumpkin pie. What are you doing for Thanksgiving, Abigail?”

“Y
ou
had Thanksgiving dinner at the shelter?” The incredulous look on Franklin’s face was more than a little insulting.

“Yes,” I snapped. “Is that so surprising?”

“Yes,” he said, grinning widely. “It is.”

“Oh, stop it, Franklin! I don’t know why I ever tell you anything. No matter what I do, you find a way to make fun of it.”

Not without effort, Franklin wiped the smile from his face. “I apologize, Abigail. I wasn’t mocking you. Quite the opposite. It’s just hard to picture you standing behind a steam table doling out plates of mashed potatoes and gravy. Tell me”—he leaned across the desk, making the rusty springs of his leather barrister chair squeak—“did they make you wear one of those hair nets?”

“Shut up, Franklin,” I said irritably. “And get your chair oiled. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Better yet, buy a new one. Surely I pay you enough so you don’t have to keep using that same broken-down desk chair you’ve had since you passed the bar.”

“You do, but I like this chair. Took me ten years just to get it broken in, and I have no intention of replacing it. However, if it makes you happy, I’ll get the springs oiled. Now, is there anything else I can do for you today, Abigail, or did you just come in to offer me decorating advice?” He smiled, and his eyes twinkled mischievously.

He was always so terribly pleased with himself, I thought. He was even older than I was, but at that moment he looked positively boyish, like the illustration of Puck that I’d seen in a volume of Mr. Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.

I scowled at him, but not wholeheartedly. “Of course I wanted something. I was trying to tell you that when you interrupted. Do you think I’ve nothing better to do with my time than hang about your office?”

Franklin nodded. “It’s true. I’ve tried to call you several times recently, but you’re never home. Hilda said you’ve been spending a lot of time helping out at the shelter, is that right?”

“Hilda,” I sighed. Hilda has been my housekeeper for twenty years, and no matter how many times I tell her to just take a message and tell people I’ll get back to them but not to tell them where I’ve gone, she doesn’t listen. “I guess you just can’t teach an old dog new tricks. No matter. Yes, I’ve been spending more time at the shelter recently. That’s what I’ve come to see you about.” I cleared my throat and sat up straighter in my chair before beginning.

“I’ve been thinking recently. About my money. And how I spend it.” Franklin leaned back in his chair, frowned and, making a tent of his clasped hands and two raised index fingers, rested his fingertips against his lips. It was the thinking pose he struck whenever he was nervous about what I was going to say next. “I have about ninety million dollars, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Franklin said, his fingers partially blocking his mouth. “If you’re discussing fairly liquid assets, that’s about right. Of course, if you count your various property holdings, the figure is substantially higher.” He paused, waiting to hear what I would say next.

“And currently we give away about eight million annually to various charities, is that right?” Franklin nodded again. “Very good. Well, I’d like to increase our level of giving. Substantially. And I’d like to become more involved in deciding where the money will go and what will be done with it.”

“I see,” said Franklin, lowering his hands. “That’s fine. What did you have in mind? What organizations are you interested in? And how much would you like to donate?” He pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and took up a pen so he could take notes.

“All of it.”

Franklin was silent.

“Don’t look so stunned. I haven’t lost my mind. I don’t mean you have to give it away immediately, but I’ve been thinking long and hard about this. By the time I die, I’d like to make sure that almost all of my assets have been donated to worthy causes. Things that can do some real good. And I want to be involved in those decisions, not just sign the checks.”

“You mean you’d like to join some more boards? Yes, that can be arranged, Abbie. But your schedule is already awfully busy. I don’t see how you’d—”

“No! Not more boards! Heavens, no! I’m on too many as it is. In fact, right after Christmas I’m going to make up a list of the boards I’m currently on and cut the number by half. I’m going to rotate off the ones that I’ve joined for social reasons or whose missions I’m not as passionate about, also those whose board members seem more committed to hearing the sounds of their own voices than actually doing good work. Though,” I said, thinking of Ted Carney, “in cases where the cause is good but the board is weak, I’m planning on organizing a few purges, trying to fill up the vacancies with fresh, eager talent that wants to make a difference. Hopefully, after a while, the dead wood will either begin to sprout new life or resign.”

By this time, Franklin was leaning over the legal pad, scribbling furiously while I talked. “So you want to be on fewer boards but be more active in the remaining organizations. Is that right?”

“Yes!” I confirmed, pleased that he understood what I was reaching for. “I’ll continue to support the arts, the various libraries, and community organizations at the same levels I always have, but I’d like to increase my focus on charities that deal with poverty, especially those that help children. With the right kind of emphasis, I believe we can really make a difference, a lasting difference, in the lives of children all over the state!” I continued excitedly. “And I want to make actual visits to the programs and organizations I’m supporting. Since I began volunteering at the shelter, really meeting the people and learning about their needs and problems, I’ve realized that you have to get in the trenches if you want to win the war. You’re an old military man, Franklin. You know that.”

“Six years in the National Guard; it’s how I paid for law school. Never saw action though. I flew a desk.” He looked up briefly, his pen poised over the pad of yellow paper. “Go on.”

“Well, as I said, I want to get more personally involved. There is just no reason, in a community as well off as ours, that so many poor people should be suffering. I think it’s because people who are well off just don’t want to acknowledge the problems that are all around them. It’s disgraceful! You know, when the rich finally meet the poor face-to-face, then poverty will cease to exist!” I said and thumped the top of Franklin’s desk to emphasize my point before going on.

“Now, we’ll need to plan it out so I can live comfortably—not lavishly, just comfortably—to the end of my life, but if my last dollar goes to pay for my headstone and there’s nothing left after, then I’d say we’ve done our jobs properly.” All this talking was making my throat dry. I poured myself some water from the pitcher on Franklin’s desk and took a sip before going on.

“Except for whatever bequests I leave in my will, of course. Speaking of which, don’t you think it’s time to update the will? I’ll want to leave something for Liza and for any heirs she might have someday. Nothing outrageous, but enough for a nice home and then some kind of educational trust. How much do you think that would take? Franklin? Why have you stopped writing?”

Franklin put down his pen and looked at me, actually stared at me is more accurate, as if I were someone he knew he’d met before but whose name he couldn’t quite recall. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. The pointed nature of his gaze was disconcerting.

“What?” I asked, unable to stand the silence.

“Abigail, what’s happened to you? The holidays are just a week off; have you had some sort of Ebenezer Scrooge epiphany? Have you been going on midnight romps with the spirits of Christmas?”

I made a face. “Ha. Very funny, Franklin.”

He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his pocket-handkerchief. “I’m serious, Abigail. You’ve changed. For the better, I think, and markedly. ‘When the rich finally meet the poor face-to-face, then poverty will cease to exist.’ You took that from Reverend Tucker’s sermon two Sundays ago. I was in the back pew and you were in the fourth. You always sit in the back, Abigail. And you never attend except on the big holidays. Is that what’s going on here? Have you found God?”

“Don’t be stupid, Franklin,” I snapped. “I’ve always believed in God. And I’ve always gone to church. It’s just that now…Well, I’ve just started attending more often, that’s all!”

His amazement in the face of my generosity was insulting. As if I hadn’t been giving away millions for years. Now, just because I wanted to give a bit more than I had been, he made it sound like I’d been hoarding my money for my own pleasure. “Really, Franklin! You make me sound just awful.”

“I’m sorry, Abbie.” He sounded sincere. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. I’m just trying to understand what has brought about this sudden change. You want to give away all your money? You want to remember Liza in your will? You’re going to church and not only listening to the sermons but actually quoting the minister? I watched you at service last Easter, Abbie. You fell asleep in the pew and were startled awake when the Williams boy played the ‘Gloria Patri’ on the trumpet.”

I remembered that. It was a terrible service. Why did they have to bring in trumpets just because it was Easter, when we had a perfectly good organ? Besides, the Williams boy has a tin ear. The whole thing was off-key.

“Next,” Franklin said, “you start volunteering at the shelter? Working in the kitchen, getting your hands dirty ‘in the trenches’? And cooking and serving Thanksgiving dinner? Abigail, you don’t cook.”

“That’s not so. I helped Evelyn Dixon make a turkey and pie just a few weeks ago.”

It had turned out rather well too. I wasn’t there for dinner, of course. I hadn’t told them where I was going, just that I had a previous invitation, but Evelyn saved me a piece of the pie. And Liza had said the turkey was very moist.

“And that’s another thing. I called on Friday to see if you wanted to have dinner at the Grill, and Hilda said you were at the quilt shop.” Hilda again! When would she learn to keep a confidence? “At your quilt circle. Quilt circle? Abbie, you don’t quilt. At least, you never did before. Now you’re spending every Friday night at Cobbled Court, baking cookies with Evelyn Dixon or making quilts with Liza and that other woman, what’s her name?”

“Margot Matthews.”

He nodded. “Margot. Abbie, you haven’t made a new friend in thirty years! You barely tolerate your old friends! And now this? What is going on?”

I slapped my hands against the arms of the chair in exasperation, then got to my feet, gathering up my purse and my Cobbled Court project bag, and headed to the door.

“All right! I’ve changed! So what? I admit it. I’ve changed! I don’t know why, and frankly, Franklin, I don’t care. But whatever the reason, I like it!” I was practically shouting. “I feel better than I have in a long time. Is that all right with you?”

Franklin got to his feet. The puckish smile returned to his face. “Yes, Abigail. Perfectly all right.”

“Hooray!” I said, raising my hands heavenward as if addressing an invisible balcony of witnesses. “We can all rest at ease. Franklin Spaulding approves! What a relief! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. I’m late for an open house.”

I shut the door behind me, nodding at Franklin’s receptionist before heading down the stairs and onto Commerce Street. Outside, the sun was shining but the air was cold. The sidewalk was dusted white, like it had been sprinkled with powdered sugar, evidence of a recent snow flurry. Clutches of holiday shoppers scurried along, carrying bags and leaving stencil-sharp footprints in the snow as they walked. I turned to the left, in the direction of Cobbled Court Quilts.

When I looked up, I could see Franklin watching me from the window of his second-story office and smiling.