A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) (32 page)
Read A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) Online
Authors: Marie Bostwick
“Debbie and I met at the cancer support group,” Vicky said. “She’s just got her diagnosis. DCIS. Just like you.” I smiled at Debbie. She tried to smile back.
“I was telling Debbie all about your Quilt Pink event, and I thought it would be nice if Debbie could come to make a quilt block and talk to you.” She looked around the almost empty shop. “Are we too late?”
From behind the counter, Abigail piped up. “Not at all! We’ve plenty of extra kits. Liza, darling, would you clear off that table? The sandwiches are gone, but I think there are some cookies left in the back.”
“I’ll go get them,” Margot said, bustling toward the kitchen. “I’ll bring coffee too.”
Exhausted a moment before, the whole team now switched into high gear, finding chairs, sewing notions, and fabric for the newcomers. I sat down next to Debbie.
“I’ve never done this before,” she said anxiously as she picked up a needle. “This is all new to me.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “You don’t have to be afraid. You’re among friends.”
I turned the
CLOSED
sign face out, went out the door, and locked it behind me.
Charlie was hosting dinner at the Grill. Everybody had gone ahead, but I’d lagged behind, promising to join them soon.
The September air was chilly, crisp and clear, just as it had been on that afternoon two years before, when I’d wandered down an uneven, cobbled alley and discovered a different world—a crumbling building, a broken-paned window, a door with peeling paint, a discarded dream.
It had been as easy and unexpected as that. A corner turned. A breath taken. The pendulum swings. Everything changes. As it had and would again, and again, and again.
I always tell students that quilts are made up of straight lines, but that isn’t true. Quilts are made of broken lines, just like life. Over and over again, we try to walk a straight path but run into dead ends, sharp corners, and uneven ground that cut us off and forces us to change direction. Sometimes it’s painful, other times joyful. But it isn’t until you take a moment to stand still, step off the line, and back away that you finally see the truth. Those unexpected turns and startling about-faces, the chaotic path? It wasn’t chaotic at all. When you step back to see where you’ve been, you discover the shape, the reason, the intricately beautiful pattern and vivid colors of a life stitched together from what, at one point, had seemed nothing more than mismatched scraps and broken lines. Stepping back, you see there had been a design all along, and a designer.
At that moment, standing in a shaft of late-day sunlight that bounced beams of light off the sparkling windowpanes, and made the paint on the door glow a brighter shade of red, I was happy. I turned around and looked up into the sky. “Thanks,” I said. “For all of it.”
I wouldn’t always be happy; I knew that. Things would change, whether I wanted them to or not. My line would be broken again and again. But now my line intersected with others. I had companions for the journey, and whatever we faced in the future, we would face together, each a part of a bigger design, bound by a single thread.
I slipped the key into my pocket, then walked across the cobbled courtyard, onto the sidewalk, where stubborn tufts of grass pushed their way through the cracks, and up the street to join the people I love, my friends.
Dear Reading Friend,
Having written three works of historical fiction, the prospect of penning my first full-length contemporary novel was somewhat daunting. My biggest concern was this: could a plot involving ordinary people, living in ordinary times make for compelling reading? Well, it turned out that, for me, the answer is a resounding, “Yes!”
The village of New Bern, Connecticut, and the people who live there have become very real, very interesting, and very dear to me. When I close my eyes, I can picture every shop on Commerce Street, every blade of grass and bench on the Green. As it turned out, my biggest problem in writing A SINGLE THREAD was that I didn’t want to see it end. I feel like I could write about this town and these people for years to come. If it turns out you like these characters as much as I do, then perhaps I will.
I hope you’ll drop me a note or an e-mail to let me know how you enjoyed A SINGLE THREAD. I’d love to hear from you. My mailing address appears below and my website,
www.mariebostwick.com,
has a contact form for e-mails. While you’re there, please check out the special features including my blog, book excerpts and discussion guides, recipes, tips for writers, my “latest crush,” photo album, and much more.
Visitors who register as one of my “Reading Friends” have access to special features, can post in the forum, and are automatically entered in my monthly Reader’s Contest. Also, Reading Friends get personal invitations for my appearances in their area that may be exchanged for a special gift when we meet.
Oh! And I’m very excited about this special bonus for my Reading Friends who are also quilters! Remember the “Broken Hearts Mending” quilt that Liza, Margot, and Abigail made for Evelyn? Well, a very talented friend of mine, Chris Boersma Smith, has designed a pattern for that quilt. Registered Reading Friends can write me to request a downloadable pattern for free! It’s a lot of fun to make. I’ve sewn one myself and will have a picture of it posted in my online photo album.
But, please remember, this free gift is only available via computer and only to my registered Reading Friends.
While you’re on my website, click the link to Chris Boersma Smith’s site or go directly to
www.reapasyousew.com
to find information on spiritually centered quilting retreats hosted by Chris and other talented quilters.
Thank you again for joining me on this visit to New Bern. I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I did!
Blessings,
Marie Bostwick
Marie Bostwick
PO Box 488
Thomaston, CT 06787
www.mariebostwick.com
A READING GROUP GUIDE
A SINGLE THREAD
Marie Bostwick
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The following questions are intended to enhance your group’s reading of A SINGLE THREAD.
- In Marie Bostwick’s novel,
A Single Thread
, Evelyn Dixon is a Texas housewife, who in a matter of days must not only vacate her marriage but also her home. If the circumstances of life called for you to leave your home and move quickly, where would you go? How would you cope? What would scare you about the situation? What would excite you? - A quilter of more than 25 years, Evelyn likes the exacting precision her hobby requires. But she also revels in the fact that if 100 people were to quilt the same pattern no two of their quilts would be exactly alike. What do we know about Evelyn because she is a quilter? How would you elaborate on her view of quilting as a metaphor for life?
- After only a few hours in New Bern, Evelyn realizes she feels more at ease in the New England town than she ever did in her planned suburban development. Do you believe certain places can speak to us? Can you recall a place where you immediately felt at home? Do you know why?
- When Evelyn ventures into the old brick storefront that will become Cobbled Court Quilts, she doesn’t really see the grime or the broken windows or the water stains on the walls. Instead, she envisions how the tiny window panes would gleam if washed and how inviting the front door would be with fresh red paint. What allows some people, like Evelyn, to see the possibilities in life—and not be overwhelmed by the negatives? Is there danger in having such a world view? Can you remember one time when you saw potential in something (or someone) that no one else did? If you took action on your feeling, what happened?
- Newly divorced, financially fragile, and of an age when some would say she should be sitting on a Florida beach worrying about her grandkids, what possesses Evelyn instead to open a quilting shop—in a new town no less? Is she brave? Foolhardy? Is there something you’ve always wanted to do or try? Would the people in your life cheer you on? Or brand you delusional? Is it ever too late to pursue your dream?
- Abigail Burgess-Wynne, the matriarch of New Bern, appears to be popular, pragmatic, and in total control of her life. If she were not a wealthy woman, willing to support many local causes, do you think she would be as popular? Is her popularity only a factor of what she (and her money) can do for others? What could possibly make her so resistant to her niece’s cry for help? What do we risk when we pin someone else’s sins on another?
- Why does it take Evelyn so long to realize that Charlie Donnelly is smitten with her? Do you think the challenges to her health had anything to do with her lack of awareness of his feelings? Have you ever been unaware of someone’s feelings for you, and what did you do when you finally realized those feelings?
- When Charlie makes his duck confit and Evelyn hosts her quilting classes, some would say they are just “trying to make a living.” But as Charlie tells Evelyn, there are about 200 easier ways to do that. Pushed, Evelyn admits she dreamed that her store would spawn a community of quilters. Where do you find community in your life? What do we gain through community?
- Three of the scariest words in the world: You have cancer. After Evelyn hears them, she breaks down not with friends but before three strangers. Why? What is the most unusual situation in your life from which you ultimately made a friend? If you have had cancer or have known someone battling cancer, what did the experience teach you? What would you share about this six-letter word?
- Abigail may appear chilly, materialistic, and controlling, but Evelyn believes the brittle shell houses a compassionate soul. In fact, she believes the same holds true for the rebellious and prickly Liza Burgess. What would cause Abigail and Liza to hide—even deny—such a positive quality about themselves? Have you ever put up walls in your life, then rued the decision?
- Too often we believe we are loved for our breasts or our muscles, our looks or our hair, when ideally we all want to be loved for the cocktail of qualities that makes us, well, us. What are your perennial, unchanging qualities—both good and bad, quirky and mundane, silly and serious?
- Life doesn’t promise that we will always be happy, but Evelyn manages to piece together what she needs to face the journey: a group of loyal friends. Name three things that would help you through the ups and downs of life.
Don’t miss Marie Bostwick’s next “Cobbled Court” novel, coming from Kensington in Summer 2009!
Read on for a special sneak peek…
T
he intake counselor is young, blond and pretty and nervous. I can tell.
She keeps pressing the top of her ballpoint pen with her thumb as she fills in the forms—name, children’s names, date of birth, and the rest—tapping the top of her pen several times after she writes down my answer to each question. The clicking sound reminds me of those cheap, plastic toy castanets Bethany had. She used to put the Nutcracker Suite on the stereo, grab her castanets, put her arms over her head, and clack them together, twirling in a circle to the Spanish Dancer song. She loved those things. Now I wish I’d thought to bring them but there wasn’t time. So much had to be left behind.
The counselor sees me looking at her hand with the pen in it, laughs, and admits what I’d already suspected. She is new on the job, just finished her training. In fact, I’m her first client, well, the first one she’s handling completely on her own. I smile a little, which she takes as encouragement but the truth is, I’m smiling at my own good fortune. Her inexperience will make this easier.
“Congratulations,” I say. “It must be exciting to be starting a new job.”
She nods. “It is, but it would be more exciting if jobs like mine weren’t necessary.” She shrugs. “But, anyway, let’s get back to you. You’re from Pennsylvania? That’s a long way. How did you end up in New Bern?”
I take a breath, deep but not too deep, and, keeping my eyes focused evenly on hers, pausing now and again as if to collect my thoughts, not wanting to sound rehearsed, I tell her the story I have prepared in advance, the details I’ve worked out carefully in my mind, the revised history I quizzed Bethany on before we arrived, reminding her that if she got confused or nervous, she should just say nothing. After all she’s been through, silence is a perfectly understandable response for a child. No one will question her reticence.
The counselor bobs her pretty blond head sympathetically, bends over her clipboard now and then, taking notes. She believes me. I can see she does. And I am struck by how easy it is. The lies just slip from my lips like thread from a spool and she believes every word I am saying.
It chills me to think how good I have become at this, at getting people to see only what I want them to see.
But then, why wouldn’t I be good at it? I’ve had so much practice.
And it isn’t like my life is a complete fabrication. It’s close to the truth, but just not close enough.
I married at eighteen. I have two children I love. Bethany is six. Bobbie is eighteen months. All this is true and the rest of it is almost true.
We were almost a happy family.
But that word is a chasm, an abyss that separates happy families from everybody else. Almost. I wonder if she understands that, this newly minted intake counselor, fresh from training on the care and feeding of women in crisis? She wants to understand, I can see that, genuinely wants to help but something about her, something about the smooth shape of her forehead and the crisp ironed creases of her trouser leg makes me know she is merely an observer, standing on the edge of the chasm and peering into it. She has not been in the valley herself and probably never will. I hope not, for her sake.
That too, makes it easier for her to take my story at face value. She won’t investigate it and I have all the paperwork, or enough of it, to prove my claim. I am who I say I am—Ivy Peterman. But what I don’t tell her is that I never changed the name on my driver’s license and social security card after I married. Maybe I forgot to. Or maybe, deep down, I knew it would come to this one day. But, whatever the reason, I have the documents to prove that I am me.
The rest of the story—the true parts, that my husband abused me for years and that my children and I have been bouncing from emergency shelter to emergency shelter for months now; the almost true parts, that we’ve got nowhere else to go; and the lies, that my husband was killed in a construction accident—she accepts without question. Even with her training, training that surely included careful admonitions not to buy into the stereotypes of victims of domestic violence as being poor, powerless, and poorly educated—in other words, not like people this woman lives next door to, not people from nice suburban neighborhoods, or even wealthy ones, with neatly trimmed hedges and late-model SUV’s in the driveway—part of her still finds it easier to accept my story precisely because it feeds into the stereotype: poor teenage girl marries a boozing, battering, blue-collar boy she thought would be her salvation and didn’t realize what she was getting into before it was too late. She finds it easy to believe because it’s almost true and because she
wants
to believe it. The whole truth would hit too close to home, send her to the phones and files to verify my background, but this? It doesn’t even cross her mind to check my facts. I can tell.
She smiles and gets up from her desk, excuses herself for a moment and promises to be right back.
Maybe, if I wanted to, I could stay here for a while. This seems like a nice town, filled with nice people like the woman who’s the intake counselor. She’s just a couple of years younger than me. If I lived here, maybe we’d be friends, go to the movies or shopping. Do the things that girlfriends do. It would be nice to have a real friend, someone who wouldn’t back away even if they knew the truth about me, to stay here for a long time, to live here, maybe forever.
No, I remind myself. That can’t be.
If she knew the true me, she would back away. And we can’t stay here. Not forever and not for long. Even if I’m right and the counselor never checks out my story, or if I’m wrong and she eventually does, it doesn’t make any difference. We’ll be gone before the truth comes out. We have to.
If we stay too long in one place, he’s bound to find us. It isn’t safe to stand still. But if I’m careful. Then maybe? For a while? I’m so tired of always looking over my shoulder, of carrying my life and my children’s lives stuffed into a suitcase constructed of half-truths, and only as large as can be fit into the trunk of my Toyota.
The office has plush carpets and well-oiled hinges on the oak doors. I’m lost in my thoughts and don’t hear the counselor when she comes back in the room.
“Mrs. Peterman? Ivy? Are you all right?”
The sound of her voice startles me, jars me back into the moment, into the quiet room with the soothing yellow walls, high ceilings, and thick, dark wooden molding around the window frames. An elegant room. More like the conference room in a fancy hotel than a counseling office in a women’s shelter.
“Yes,” I smile apologetically. “I just lost my train of thought. Guess I’m tired.”
The counselor tips her head to one side, murmurs sympathetically. “I can imagine you are. Don’t worry about it. We’re almost done here.” She puts the clipboard down on her desk and sits down again. “Then we’ll get you and the children something to eat and see you settled in for the night.”
“You can take us? Tonight?”
My surprise and pleasure is genuine. Most of the shelters we’ve been to in these last weeks and months have been packed and we had to wait for a day or two or five, living in the car while waiting for a space to open up. I can’t quite believe what she’s saying.
“You’ve got a room open in the shelter right now?”
She nods, pleased that I am so pleased. She has gone into this line of work because she wants to help and she beams when she tells me the truly amazing news, like she’s handing me a wonderful and unexpected gift, and it’s true; she is.
“Even better than that. I just talked to our Assistant Director. We have an opening in the Stanton Center. Not tonight, but soon.”
I look questions at her and she goes on to explain. “The Stanton Center is an apartment building for women and children who have been victims of domestic violence, the home of our transitional housing program. You can stay there for up to two years while you’re getting back on your feet. Initially, you can live there rent free, but we’ll encourage you to find a job as soon as possible and then we’ll charge modest rent that’s a percentage of your earnings. While you’re there, we can offer you vocational, financial, and psychological counseling, and child care.” She grins, waiting for me to say something, but it takes me a moment.
“Really? A real apartment?” Tears fill my eyes. I can’t stop them.
She nods. “A real apartment. There’s a nice community room where we hold special meetings and programs for the residents and a playground with a swing set and slide for the children.
“It’s in a secret location, no sign in front, and a good security system so residents feel safe. Of course, since you’re a widow, you don’t have to worry about that so much, but the other residents have fled violent relationships and we do everything possible to make sure their abusers can’t find them. It’s like a safe house.”
I blink hard, willing back the tears, trying to stay composed, not to let her see the effect those words have on me—safe house. It has been so long since I even dreamed of such things.
“So?” She asks cheerily, already certain of my response. “What do you say? Would you like the apartment?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I would. Thank you.”
“Good!” She stands up and nods, indicating that I should follow her. “You’re tired. I’ll come over and finish the paperwork tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to settle in a bit.”
She opens the door and leads me through the three right turns of the corridor that will lead us to the playroom that backs up her counseling office, talking as she does. I’m still in shock, able to offer only short responses to her commentary.
“Of course, you’re not required to accept any of the counseling services we offer to residents, but I do urge you to take advantage of them as much as possible—even the group counseling sessions. Your abuser can’t hurt you anymore, but even so, the effects of domestic violence can stay with you long after the abuse ends. The counseling sessions can help you work though that and I think you’ll appreciate the chance to develop relationships with women who’ve dealt with similar problems.”
“Yes. I’m sure you’re right,” I say, knowing that I’ll never go to even one of those group sessions. I’m not going to get close to those women. I’m not going to get close to anyone.
“Good.” She looks back over her shoulder, pleased that I agree. She is a good person. I feel bad for deceiving her.
We have arrived at the playroom. She puts her hand on the knob and turns to me before opening the door. “You must be on a lucky streak.”
If I am, it would be the first time in a long time.
But, then again, this kind, well-meaning woman just told me she has a place available for us. A safe house. Tonight. Now.
Somewhere in this beautiful little town where there is room for us.
Maybe she is right. Maybe, at last, my luck is changing.
