A Thread of Truth (24 page)

There was a murmur of appreciation as waiters began bringing dessert menus to the tables. Charlie kept smiling as he took my arm to guide me back to our table in the back corner of the room. When we sat down, his stormy expression returned.

I was just as upset as he was, more so. After all, I was the one whose name and reputation was being disparaged in the local paper, not Charlie's. But nursing grievances wouldn't do me any good and getting sucked into a public squabble with Dale Barrows could only make things worse. It was time for cooler heads to prevail.

I squeezed Charlie's arm affectionately, pried the pepper mill from his grip, and placed it back on the table.

“That was very gallant of you, Charlie,” I said breezily. “A little insane, but gallant. I may be the only woman in history who has had her honor defended with a kitchen gadget.”

As I'd intended, Charlie was momentarily distracted from thoughts of Dale Barrows. His eyes bulged, incredulous and insulted.

“Gadget? Did you just call my brand new three-hundred-dollar Peugeot pepper mill, crafted from genuine olive wood with a steel mechanism that adjusts from coarse to fine grind, a gadget?”

“Yes, I did. Like I said, it was very gallant of you. Thank heavens Dale backed down or things could have gotten dangerous—blenders at fifty paces.” I picked up my fork and resumed eating my abandoned salad.

“This is good, but it needs something.” I feigned a moment of deep concentration, then reached for the pepper mill and ground some onto my salad.

“You're trying to make me laugh. It won't work. Just wait until I get my hands on that…”

Obviously, he was not going to be humored out of this mood. I cut him off. “Charlie, I appreciate your willingness to commit battery on my part, really, but right now we both need to calm down and think.”

“What's there to think about? That slime-ball Barrows is dragging your good name through the dirt!”

“Yes, I'd noticed that,” I snapped. “Charlie, calm down and listen to me. Aside from those years in Dallas, I've lived my whole life in small towns and so have you. We know that in small towns, a little squabble like this can blow up into a full-fledged feud if it's not nipped in the bud.” I pushed the salad plate away, my appetite spoiled, and rested my chin on my hand.

“And the thing is,” I mused, “Dale may not be entirely wrong.”

“Are you kidding? How can you say that?”

I sighed heavily, a bit weary of Charlie's indignation on my behalf. “Look, his methods were wrong, no question about that. Not to mention underhanded, but I shouldn't have been so quick to shun his ideas and offers to help. And if I wasn't feeling so overwhelmed by everything, the broadcast, this huge surge in business, Ivy's divorce, and Franklin's heart attack, I might have realized that sooner.

“That doesn't mean I have to let Dale and Porter turn this into some kind of three-ring circus, but he has a point. This is a big deal—especially in a town this size. Naturally, people want to be part of it. If I don't figure out some way to include them, they're going to resent me for it. I'll be persona non grata in every home and business in town.”

“Not at the Grill, you won't,” Charlie declared righteously.

“Thank you, my love, but don't you see? If this thing goes any further, it'll hurt you and the Grill, too. That's the blessing and curse of living in a small town; nobody is anonymous. Everyone knows everyone's business and, when there's a controversy, everyone takes sides. Everybody knows you and I are a couple. A boycott of Cobbled Court Quilts could easily spread to the Grill and damage both businesses.”

Charlie grunted, a grudging admission that I might be right.

“More importantly, it could end up hurting the town. I don't want to be responsible for that. No matter what Dale Barrows says, I love New Bern as much as anybody. This is my home. If eating a little crow is the price I have to pay for living in peace with my neighbors, so be it.”

I got up from the table and kissed Charlie on the top of the head. “Thanks for dinner.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I should have done from the beginning. I'm going to call Mary Dell.”

“T
he front page? Really?” Mary Dell drawled.

I tucked the telephone receiver in tighter under my ear so I could hold that morning's edition of the
New Bern Herald
in both hands. “Yup, above the fold, no less. The headline says
QUILT PINK DAY
:
NEW BERN TRADITION HITS TV AIRWAVES
. There's a picture of Howard and your lovely self standing by a sewing machine…”

“That's the publicity photo. Sandy sent one to the reporter.”

“And then there's a picture of Dale Barrows, Porter Moss, and me with a caption saying, ‘Co-chairs for the upcoming Quilt Pink Day to benefit breast cancer research discuss plans for this year's celebration and live cable television broadcast.' There's a big pink quilt in the background and we're all looking at the clipboard I'm holding and we're grinning like the best of friends. Dale even has his arm draped over my shoulder.”

“Honey, you may have overdone it. What does the article say?”

“It starts out telling all about how I'd decided to host our first Quilt Pink event soon after opening the shop only to be diagnosed with breast cancer myself the day before the event. Then it talks about you, how we were friends in Texas before you became a great big, huge, glamorous television star,” I teased.

“Oh, hush up with all that. Did Barrows apologize like he said he would?”

“More or less. Hold on a second.” I scanned the page searching for Dale's quote.

“Here it is. ‘After some initial misunderstanding regarding her plans for Quilt Pink Day, I'm honored and delighted that Evelyn Dixon, Porter Moss, and I are working together. This will be a proud day in New Bern's history; one that will be instrumental in finding the cure for breast cancer and in raising breast cancer awareness across the country. Of course, I'm happy to lend my talents in support of this worthy cause, but most of the credit has to go to Evelyn. She's a real asset to our community.'”

Mary Dell let out a peal of laughter as deep and booming as brass bells. “Well, what'd I tell you, honey? You want to get people to cooperate, just give 'em a title and put their picture in the paper.”

“Well, I think that conference call you organized might have helped a little bit, don't you? You charmed the pants off old Porter and Dale.”

“There's a mental image I could sure live without, 'specially right after breakfast.”

“Really, they were absolutely starstruck. After you hung up, they couldn't stop talking about you.”

“Don't be silly,” she puffed. “Dale worked in Hollywood all through the seventies and eighties. He's not impressed by any little old D-list celebrity cable quilt show host. That man knows some
real
stars and has directed plenty of them, even if most of his movies were lousy.”

“Maybe, but he still likes you an awful lot.”

“And I like him. Once you two kissed and made up and he got that chip off his shoulder, he turned out to be all right. You know, I don't think he really is a bad director; he just got handed bad scripts to work with. The best director on earth couldn't have turned
Disco Drive-In
into Oscar material. He'll do a great job shooting the montage.”

From the first, Mary Dell and Sandy, her producer, had planned on including a pre-filmed montage about New Bern as part of the broadcast. It would include a quick video tour of the town; a short interview with me to explain Cobbled Court's first Quilt Pink Day, and my battle with breast cancer; plus a few waves and very short greetings from people around town, including all the state and local dignitaries who had been nagging me for tickets to the show. In one fell swoop, Mary Dell had solved myriad problems, appeasing not only Dale Barrows but also scores of other people I'd inadvertently offended.

“Mary Dell, asking Dale to direct the montage was a stroke of genius.”

“That was really Sandy's idea. Saves her and our crew from making another trip up there to film. She was happy to have Dale do it. Don't let those blue jeans and baseball cap fool you. Sandy's society, Baby Girl, made her debut at the Idlewild Ball in 1997, and was crowned Miss Dallas of 1999, a real Texas belle. If she goes more than forty-eight hours without sitting down to a plate of chicken fried steak, she gets the shakes. Not that you could tell to look at her. That girl is as thin as a nun's smile.”

Mary Dell laughed and so did I. New Bern is my home for now and forever, but the one thing I do miss about Texas is Mary Dell. She's the original Yellow Rose with all the warmth, humor, enthusiasm, generosity, grit, and growl that marked a true-blue Texan, the finest kind. On top of that, she has a brilliant head for business, and diplomacy. The events of the last few days had made me think she ought to run for president. Seriously.

When our conference call began, Dale, Porter, and I were speaking, but barely. Mary Dell's idea of getting everyone together seemed a good one, but that didn't mean I was happy about it. I imagine Dale felt the same way. But when Mary Dell and Sandy came on the line, everything changed. Mary Dell told a few jokes, unruffled a few feathers, and within ten minutes had us all brainstorming and working together as a team.

Besides handing off the montage filming to Dale, an idea that solved a number of problems, she had also gotten rid of my publicity headaches by getting Porter to handle calls from reporters and giving interviews, something I had no time for or interest in but which Porter loved. Sandy liked his idea of setting up a giant screen on the Green so people could see the show, and having a barbeque, and suggested they bring an additional camera crew and station them on the Green so they could do cutaway shots from time to time.

“It'll give the show some color, you know, a nice home-town feel as the cameras scan over the crowds. Everyone will feel like they're part of the show.”

“Good idea!” Mary Dell piped in and then added, in that praline sweet voice of hers, “And Porter, darlin', would you mind if we put a microphone on you and have you serve as a kind of emcee for that part? Like those cheery weathermen they have on the network morning shows, you know what I'm talking about. I'll ask you how it's going out there, and you'll talk about what an exciting day it is and how the wonderful citizens of New Bern have come out in full force to support Quilt Pink Day. Then you'll tell everybody to wave and the cameras will scan the crowd. I know it's a terrible imposition, but I think you'd be perfect for the job. Would you mind?”

He didn't mind at all. And, once again, Mary Dell had killed a number of birds with one stone. She'd figured out a way to appease everyone who wanted to be part of the broadcast, boosted Porter's ego, and, most importantly, gotten him out of my quilt shop and my hair during the broadcast. Genius.

After I'd thrown out the idea of distributing the few tickets we had for quilters inside the shop via raffle, Mary Dell suggested we set up a satellite studio in the high school gym. That way, even though we could only fit thirty quilters in the shop, anyone who wanted to could still make a quilt block. She suggested we put video monitors in the gym and station a remote camera crew there as well, just like we had on the Green, then sweetly asked if Dale would mind serving as the emcee there, reporting on the quilters' progress and chatting with Mary Dell during the cutaway shots to the gym.

And what do you know? Turned out Dale didn't mind, either.

“And Dale, darlin', do you have any thoughts about how y'all could get a little publicity from the local paper there? Just so they know you three are the lead dogs on this hunt and all working together? I understand you know the editor.”

Dale was sitting next to me at the conference table in Porter's office. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

“Umm…well…yes. I think so. I'll call the editor and see what I can do.”

“Wonderful! I knew you were the man for the job! I'm just so excited that you're part of this. Do you know I've seen every single one of your pictures twice?”

From there on out, Dale was putty in her hands. And when I scolded Mary Dell later for telling lies, she assured me that what she'd said was absolutely true. Her ex-husband, Donny, had been a huge fan of Barrow's films and had dragged her to see every one of them at least two times. “That may help explain why Donny is my ex-husband, but there's no need to say that to Dale, is there?”

No indeed. It was all to the good. Another ego salved. Another problem solved. And best of all, I could see that by cooperating, each working to our strengths, we really would make the show and the whole Quilt Pink Day better, a real community event.

Just when I thought it was as good as it could get, Mary Dell plopped a big red cherry on the cake of my day. To make sure none of the quilters in the satellite studio felt left out, Mary Dell said she and Howard wanted to give copies of their most recent book,
The Quintessential Quilter,
a companion guide for the show, to everyone who stitched a Quilt Pink block that day. Furthermore, after the broadcast wrapped up, they would go to the gym to meet the quilters and sign their books.

I was sure even my most disgruntled customers, including Mavis Plimpton, would be satisfied by this solution. Too, we'd have more Quilt Pink blocks than ever before, which would let us make more quilts, and raise more money to find a cure for breast cancer. It was a great plan. My only concern was that my dear, generous friend might be biting off more than she could chew.

“Mary Dell, are you sure?” I asked. “Quilters are really excited about this. There could be three or four hundred of them at the gym. That many books could run into some real money. Not to mention how much time it will take to sign them.”

“Oh, don't worry about that. I bet the cable network will donate the books and if they won't? Well, it's all for a good cause. And Howard and I don't mind spending time with the folks. We love meetin' new people. You know that.”

And that was that. In the course of a ninety-minute conference call, Mary Dell had used her charm and leadership to get everyone to work off the same page and find a solution to every problem and conflict that, up until then, had seemed unsolvable. Amazing. I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if we put her in a room with the leaders of the Middle East.

“Mary Dell, you're the best. Have I told you that lately?”

“I believe so, but I don't mind hearing it again. I feel the same way about you, Baby Girl. Oh! I almost forgot! You know, we go on hiatus after we finish filming with you. Howard and I were thinking of taking a week's vacation, maybe see that fall foliage you keep going on about. Know of a good hotel we could stay in?”

“I do. Twenty-eight Marsh Lane—my guest room. Howard will have to sleep on the rollaway, but the price is right; free. And breakfast is included.”

“I was hoping you'd say that. Sure you don't mind? You might get sick of us after a whole week.”

“Not a chance.”

“Good! I can't wait! I love doing the show, but I am
so
ready for a vacation. I just want to sit down with you and quilt and yak 'til we run out of things to say and just sit there staring at each other.”

“That might take more than a week.”

“Hope so. I can't wait. The way you talk about them, I feel like I know everybody in New Bern already, but it'll be nice to spend more time with your friends. And speaking of that, how is Franklin feeling? And Abigail? Has she calmed down about the wedding?”

“Oh, yes. Franklin is out of the hospital and Abigail has moved into his place, at least for now. Everything is on one floor, so that's a little easier for Franklin. I don't think they've figured out whose house they're going to live in yet.”

“Very interesting,” Mary Dell said slowly. “So tell me, have they done it yet?”

“Mary Dell!” I made a scolding noise with my tongue.

“Well,” she said innocently, “inquiring minds want to know. Personally, I think a good roll in the hay would do Abigail a world of good. Help loosen her up some.”

I laughed, thinking Mary Dell might be right about that, though I didn't say so. “I imagine that's still a good way off. Franklin's only been out of the hospital for a couple of weeks. But, they really seem happy together.”

“That's sweet. Good for them. And what about Ivy? How's it going with the divorce?”

I sighed, wishing the news were better. “They just got a court date, first of September. That's good because usually it takes a lot longer but, on the other hand, I'm worried about the outcome. Arnie and Margot have been burning the midnight oil trying to build a case, but I don't know…Arnie is sure Hodge is hiding something. He just can't believe the nursing home has made so little money, but so far Hodge's records back up his claims. According to the accountants, Hodge Edelman is flat broke. In a way, that helps. It helps even the financial playing field for Ivy. He'll have a harder time arguing that he'll be a better provider for the kids this way, though he does have a better earning history. But it's the doctor's accusation that Ivy was a drug abuser that's really damaging. Plus, he's going to swear that he saw no signs of physical abuse during the time Ivy was his patient. We know he's lying, but unless we can find better proof, it really comes down to Ivy's word against his.”

“And you think that judge will find the doctor more convincing?”

“Well, can you blame him? I would, if I didn't know Ivy. So, in spite of everything we've tried, Ivy may lose her kids to that monster. And even if she doesn't, it's possible she won't get a dime's worth of support from Hodge to help raise them. And get this. He's claiming that she should pay alimony to him! He says he's just about bankrupt and wants to garnish part of her wages from the shop. Can you believe this guy? What gall!”