A Thread of Truth (26 page)

L
abor Day has come and gone. The tourists have gone home. What a relief.

Don't get me wrong. I like tourists and I depend on them, like every other business owner in New Bern. When they return for the fall foliage season near the end of September I'll be happy to see them again, but it's been a long, crazy summer. I need some time to catch my breath.

This year the tourists will return a week earlier than usual, for Quilt Pink Day. When I went to the monthly meeting of the New Bern Business Association, I was greeted by a round of applause. The innkeepers report that they are one hundred percent booked for that weekend, with extensive waiting lists. The restaurant owners, including Charlie, say that their reservation books are full for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. But if anyone deserves to be applauded, it's Mary Dell. After all, if she weren't coming I know we wouldn't be anticipating crowds like this. Still, it's nice that people are so excited.

Now that I'm not trying to carry the load on my own, I'm starting to get excited myself. That is, until I start to think about actually having to get in front of a television camera; then I start to feel sick to my stomach. But I've decided to pull a Scarlett O'Hara on that subject; I'll think about that tomorrow.

The exciting part is that we are going to be able to raise a ton of money to find a cure for breast cancer and that thousands upon thousands of people are going to learn about prevention and early treatment of the disease. We've already filmed the segment with my breast surgeon, Dr. Finney. I only had to be on camera for a second to introduce her, so that wasn't too bad. The rest of the tape is the doctor using a model to show women how to perform a self-exam and encouraging them to try it on themselves, right at that moment, while watching the program.

Dale showed me the edited tape and it gave me goose bumps. With so many thousands of women watching, many of them are going to follow the doctor's advice and a small percentage of them are going to find a lump. That will be a terrifying moment for them, I know. I hate to think about that moment of shock when their tentative fingers find the lump. My eyes tear up as I imagine the mounting panic of a woman who has no connection to me except that she is about to embark on that journey called cancer that no one ever wants to make. I don't know these women nor do I know where their journeys will lead, but for some of them, that show, the sound of Dr. Finney's gentle voice guiding them through the steps of self-examination, may be the lifeline they didn't know they needed. Think about that. This show will save someone's life!

That's the exciting part.

If this helps the cause of commerce in New Bern—great. I'm happy to be of assistance. And I'm very grateful that all this publicity has turned my shop's accounting ink from red to black, and that I'm able to support myself and provide good jobs to more people in New Bern, especially Ivy and the other women from the Stanton Center. But that's not why I decided to risk humiliating myself on national television. I did it for the chance to help save a life.

Somewhere during this insane summer, between the never-ending stream of customers, Ivy's divorce, Charlie's insistence that we find more couple time, Franklin's heart attack, and getting smacked on the editorial page of the
Herald
, I lost sight of that.

Years ago, Charlie asked me what my vision was for Cobbled Court Quilts; why I tried to make my living as a quilt shop owner when there were about two hundred easier, more certain ways to make money? I didn't have to think long before finding my answer. When I took an accidental turn into the alley that led to Cobbled Court and spied the ruin of a building that would eventually house my shop, I envisioned something more than just a place to buy fabric or give sewing classes. I envisioned a community; a place where all kinds of quilters, novice to expert and everyone in between, could join for conversation, companionship, support, self-expression, growth, and healing in whatever measure they needed it.

That was my dream, and it's all come true. And when the cameras roll on Saturday at noon, a little over two weeks from now, the Cobbled Court Quilts community will expand beyond even my wildest dreams, reaching out to thousands of people who have never set foot through our doors and probably never will. Fantastic!

But tonight, Friday night, is about community with a small
c
. Our small circle is coming together to finish a quilt for the one who needs it most right now—Ivy. During this wild ride of a summer, we've missed a few meetings. Things haven't always worked out the way we planned and, as the days wind down to Ivy's court date, we're more and more aware that it could happen again. I keep praying for a miracle. I think we all are, but miracles don't always appear on demand. I suppose that's what makes them miraculous.

So, in the absence of miracles that appear on cue, we do what we can—we come around our friend, flanking her on every side, encouraging her and letting her know through our words, our laughter, our presence, and the gift of a quilt, that no matter what comes, she isn't alone.

 

We sat facing each other, Ivy and Liza on one long side of the quilt, Margot and Abigail on the two short ends, with me on the other long side, as we prepared to sew the binding on Ivy's quilt.

“It's like a little village!” Margot squealed, then pointed to the green medallion. “Look at that! Ivy's house even has a little appliquéd pail and shovel by the sandbox. Isn't that the cutest thing? And the flowers! They're all made with buttons and ribbon. So sweet!”

She looked up at Ivy and her eyes sparkled. “Tell us about your house. Tell us how you imagine it.”

“No,” Ivy said curtly.

Margot's eyebrows arched in surprise at this rebuff, but then Ivy smiled. “You tell me first. I've been working on this every night after the kids are in bed, quilting each of your blocks, and it's made me curious. I'll tell you about mine, but the rest of you have to go first. That's the deal.”

Everyone looked around to see who would start. After a moment, Liza took the plunge. “Mine's the weird-looking one, naturally.” She pointed to a tall, thin column of a house that bore no resemblance to the others.

“That's what I like about it,” Ivy said. “It has Liza written all over it.”

Liza lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows in perfect imitation of her aunt Abigail's “what did you mean by that?” face.

Ivy rolled her eyes. “In a good way. It shows off your artistic sensibility. Stop looking at me like that.” Ivy clucked her tongue, and Liza laughed, teasing.

Sometimes, with the load of responsibility she carries, I forget how young Ivy is. She and Liza are closest in age of all of us, close enough that they might have been sisters. It's nice to see them joking together, nice to see Ivy acting her age.

Liza continued, “Yes, well. Here it is—my dream house. As you can see, it's very simple on the outside, very modern, concrete walls painted white, and huge windows that let in a lot of light. And, as you can see from the bright blue that surrounds it, my house is on the water.”

“The ocean?” Margot asked.

“Maybe. I'm not sure. It could be a big lake. There are three floors and each floor is just one big room. The ground floor has a living/dining/dancing area with a very, very small kitchenette,” she said with a grin. You couldn't tell by looking at her but Liza loves to eat, though she is no more interested in cooking than her aunt Abigail. If it weren't for Abigail's housekeeper, the notorious Hilda, whom Abigail complains about continually but is truly devoted to, it's possible Abigail would starve to death. No, I take that back. She'd just eat every meal at the Grill.

“The second story is for sleeping and bathing, no walls, just a giant bed, a bathtub carved out of a single enormous rock, and a waterfall shower from the ceiling.”

Ivy scratched her nose doubtfully. “No walls. Not even around the toilet? You've got a lot of windows there.”

“Okay, good point. I don't really care about the neighbors because I'm not planning on having any, but I might have guests over sometimes. I don't want to gross them out. There are walls around the toilet,” Liza said with a nod to practicality. “And on the third floor you will find, drumroll, please…”

We chimed in on cue. “Your art studio!”

“Yes! A big, big space with the most amazing light ever—windows on every side that slide open to let in the breeze and the sound of the birds. And there's a balcony too, but you can't see it. It's on the back of the house.”

“Sounds beautiful,” Ivy said.

“It is. Oh, and one more thing. Needless to say, the fabulous huge, white walls of my beautiful house are filled with huge, gorgeous murals painted by me. Like living in my own gallery.” She sighed contentedly, then turned to Abigail with an impish grin.

“Bet you're relieved to hear that, aren't you, Abigail? Then you don't have to worry about me hanging them up at your place.”

When Liza first moved in with Abigail, she'd wanted to hang a self-portrait made of old bottle caps in Abbie's foyer, next to the antiques and Abigail's collection of paintings from the Hudson River Valley school. Suffice it to say, Abigail and Liza have somewhat different taste in art.

“Don't be silly. I'd be proud to have one of your paintings hanging in my house,” Abigail said so magnanimously that I thought she actually meant it. “You've become quite good.”

“Thanks. I was wondering when you'd notice.”

Abigail gave her a motherly slap on the wrist. “Always ready with a sassy comeback. Your mother was just the same.”

Liza smiled, pleased with the comparison. “Okay, you're next, Abigail. Which one is yours? Everything that's left seems too small to be the abode of Mrs. Abigail Burgess Wynne Spaulding.”

Abigail pointed to her block, a simple red saltbox with double chimneys, a gazebo, and an orderly line of flowering hedges flanking a white picket gate—modest but stately, classic New England architecture. It was the largest, but Liza was right: It was surprisingly small and simple by Burgess Wynne Spaulding standards.

“That? Really?” Margot sounded surprised. “Your house on Proctor Street is so beautiful. I know you'd hoped to donate it to the Stanton Center, but I just figured you were being generous, as usual.”

“That was Woolley Wynne's dream house; it was never mine. I'm aware of how fortunate I've been to live there for the last few decades, but it was always too grand for my taste, now more than ever.”

In a way, this made sense. The Abigail who was sitting next to me now, wearing a simple white blouse with her shining, platinum-gray hair drawn back into a smooth ponytail at the base of her neck, was a different person from the tight-laced, status conscious, island-unto-herself woman Liza had blackmailed into taking an unwilling part in our first Quilt Pink Day nearly three years ago. I don't know if I quite believed her assertion that she'd never cared for her enormous house on Proctor Street or never craved the status that being the mistress of such a large estate conferred, but I could see that this new and improved Abigail didn't need such unwieldy accessories to confirm her place in the world.

“Don't misunderstand me, I don't have anything against grand houses or beautiful things, but I've had more than my fair share of them. When I die, I'd like to leave behind more than a big house filled with expensive things.”

Liza, for once, was ready to give Abbie a little full-faced praise, no quips or double meanings attached. “What are you talking about, Abigail? You've got years and years of life left in you, make that decades and decades, but even if you died today you'd leave an amazing legacy.” Liza ticked off a list on her fingers. “Wynne Memorial Library, the Burgess Wynne wing at the Art Museum, the Historical Society, your donations to the Women's Shelter, a floor at the hospital named after you—New Bern wouldn't be New Bern without your influence.

“And then, of course, there's me. Without you, I'd probably be doing ten to fifteen in the big house as the county's most notorious sweater thief. Or maybe I'd be the headliner on one of those true crime shows.” Liza's lifted hands met in front and swept to opposite sides, underlining her point as she feigned an overly dramatic voiceover. “Tonight on
America's Most Wanted
—Liza Burgess: The Cashmere Crook!”

Abigail smiled. “But you'll remember, I didn't exactly ‘take you in.' Judge Gulden forced us on each other.”

“That doesn't matter. The end result is what counts. You helped me. You do help me.”

“And me,” Ivy chimed in. “You helped me get a job. And if it weren't for Franklin handling my divorce for free and you picking up the bills for the investigators and everything else, I wouldn't stand a chance up against Hodge and his legal team. The outcome isn't looking too favorable right now, but you've leveled the playing field, Abigail. I appreciate it so much.”

“Well, you can't think I was going to stand by and let that monster take Bethany and Bobby, did you? And don't sound so negative about your divorce,” she commanded. “You've got to think positively! You're going to keep your children and send that sorry excuse for a man limping out of this town with his tail tucked between his legs, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ivy said, but not with any real conviction.

“And what about me?” I asked. “If you hadn't rented the shop and warehouse space to me at such a ridiculously low price, Cobbled Court Quilts would have gone out of business a long time ago.”

“And if that had happened,” Margot added, “I'd be out of a job—again.”

“By the way, now that we're actually making money, it's time we renegotiated the lease. I can afford to pay the market price for rent now, and I intend to.”