A Thread of Truth (3 page)

W
alking out my front door, down the porch steps, through the garden gate and onto the sidewalk on a perfect late spring day in New England, I was reminded again what a great commute I have. Just three blocks from the cozy, two-bedroom cape where I live at a very reasonable rent, to my shop, Cobbled Court Quilts.

My shop! I love saying that. In a week's time, it will have been my shop for two years, but sometimes I still have to pinch myself to believe it's true. Less than three years have passed since, in the wake of a painful divorce and a general upending of everything I'd thought was sure in my life, I got in my car and drove from Texas to Connecticut to see the fall colors.

On its face, there's nothing too remarkable about that, but anyone who knows me knows that spontaneous gestures are not my strong suit. I am a big fan of lists, not just to-do lists but the kind where you write down all the pros and cons of doing something and mull it over for days, weeks, or even months before taking action…or not. If you don't believe me, ask Charlie Donnelly, the owner of New Bern's finest restaurant, the Grill on the Green, and my boyfriend.

Boyfriend. At fifty years of age, it feels silly to say I have a boyfriend, but what else can I call Charlie? He's more than my friend and less than my fiancé, which is what he'd like to be, but I'm not ready yet and Charlie knows that.

Initially, when Charlie and I became “a couple” (are there any words for a romantic relationship between two mature people that don't sound so ridiculously precious?) right after my double mastectomy, I wasn't sure I was ready for a relationship. Now, I've worked through a lot of those issues in my mind, but…how do I explain it? After a lifetime of being someone's daughter, wife, mother, of defining my existence in terms of whom I belonged to, I'm enjoying being just me by myself for a while, steering my own ship. Charlie knows that and he's willing to be patient. In fact, I think he's kind of proud of what I've accomplished. And the truth is, so am I. Not that I got to this place alone, far from it, but none of it would have happened if I hadn't finally decided to tear up my list of lists and take a chance on life and on myself.

Did you ever know,
just know,
that you were supposed to do something, even though, on the face of it, that thing you wanted to do made no sense to anyone else? That's the way it was with me and the quilt shop.

Window-shopping at the end of an absolutely picture-perfect fall day in New Bern during my unplanned escape from Texas to New England, I happened upon an alley paved with old cobblestones that led into a spacious, square courtyard and found a dilapidated storefront that had been empty for about twenty years. The windows were cracked, the wood casings were eaten away by termites and rot, and the roof was leaky, but, for reasons beyond understanding, I was absolutely sure that my destiny lay in renting this ramshackle ruin and opening it as a quilt shop. So, throwing caution to the winds twice in one week, that's what I did.

Everybody, and I mean everybody, said we wouldn't last six months. They were almost right. In a turn of cosmic irony, on the very night before I was to host Cobbled Court's first Quilt Pink event to benefit breast cancer research, my doctor informed me that I had breast cancer myself. I was sure it was all over, that the predictions of the naysayers would prove true: Cobbled Court Quilts would be forced to close its doors and the door to my dreams would close along with it.

It would have happened exactly that way but for the help of three strangers—Abigail, Margot, and Liza—who became my best friends, supporting me through my cancer treatment and basically running the shop while I was recovering. I owe them everything. Not to mention my son, Garrett, who left a high-paying computer programming job at a big company in Seattle to help me develop and grow our Web business. He works with Margot on marketing strategy. And then there's Charlie, who loves me, encourages me, and who, if I get too tangled up in my lists to move forward, gives me a gentle nudge in the ribs or a swift kick in the pants, usually the latter. Charlie is an Irishman who doesn't suffer fools gladly or at all. He has many fine qualities, but subtlety isn't among them.

Abigail, Margot, Liza, Garrett, and Charlie. If not for them, Cobbled Court Quilts really wouldn't have lasted six months.

I almost forgot Mary Dell! Mary Dell Templeton is an old friend from Texas. If she hadn't flown all the way up from Texas to literally pull up the shades in the dark room where I'd been lying and feeling sorry for myself after my mastectomies, I'm not sure I'd ever have gotten up and gotten on with my life.

Mary Dell is as Texas as chicken-fried steak, Dr Pepper, and the Alamo all rolled into one. She's also an amazing quilter. Once she decided to make a quilt with Texas Stadium on it. I watched while she cut out the pieces and then sewed them together without using a light box or even a pencil for outlining, and when she was done it was absolutely perfect; you practically expected to see cheerleaders lining up in the end zone, she's that good. The only piece missing from her quilting talent is…well…taste.

Mary Dell has pretty much the worst taste of anyone I've ever met. The louder, busier, and more garish the color combination, the more Mary Dell likes it. Fortunately, Howard, her twenty-four-year-old son with Down syndrome, has a highly attuned appreciation for colors, patterns, and textures. Howard chooses all the fabrics for Mary Dell's quilts. Together they make an unusual—and unbeatable—team. Like Mary Dell says, “If not for Howard, I'd be known all over the world for making the best-constructed, ugliest quilts in the state of Texas.”

Instead, Mary Dell's quilting abilities and Texas-sized personality caught the attention of the people at the House and Home television network where, every Tuesday and Saturday, you can tune in to watch
Quintessential Quilting with Mary Dell and Howard
. Isn't that something?

When Howard was born, Mary Dell's husband was so upset that the baby was born with Down syndrome that he took off and never came back. In his despair, he left before understanding that, while the Templetons might not have been given the child they planned on, Howard was exactly the child they needed.

Margot would say it just goes to show you that God is in the business of just-in-time inventory, giving us what we need even when we don't know what it is we're running low on. I might not be as vocal about my faith as Margot is, but I can't help but think she's right.

I wouldn't have asked for a divorce after twenty-four years of marriage and I wouldn't have volunteered to lose both my breasts to cancer, either. Nothing about what I've been through was easy, but if I hadn't been through it I would never have fulfilled my dream of owning a quilt shop, or found these friends who have become as dear to me as family, or realized how strong I really am.

It's the same with Mary Dell. She'd never have asked for her one and only son to be born with Down syndrome, but if she didn't have Howard, would she be everything she is today? I don't see how. They fill each other's gaps.

Together, with Howard's gift for color and texture and Mary Dell's gift for design and construction, mother and son create the most beautiful, intricate, stunning quilts imaginable. Quilts that look like symphonies sound. Quilts with the power of poetry, sea air, and homemade chicken soup. Quilts that wrap around you with the warmth of loving arms. Quilts that teach you about love, and living well. Quilts that can heal hurts people don't even know they have and change their lives for the better.

But, then again, I'm convinced every quilt can do that. I've seen it happen before. And, soon, I would see it again.

G
arrett lives in the one-bedroom apartment above the shop that I occupied before I moved into my rented cape, but I'm the one who opens the shop every morning. I arrive at eight-thirty, a good hour before the other employees.

Garrett is our night owl, working on the computer into the wee hours to process the Internet orders, manage the database, or update our website with our newest classes, fabric shipments, and specials. That's one of the reasons our Web business is coming on so strong; our site has something new to look at almost daily, so people tend to visit frequently. It's a big job and, according to Garrett, it's best done at night when there aren't so many people on the site. This means that Garrett's workday tends to start around noon and end around midnight, but not today.

I walked across the cobblestone courtyard toward the shop, smiling at the sight of the new window display Liza arranged on her last weekend home, an eye-catching collection of gold, yellow, red, black, and green fabrics and a garden of cheerful sunflowers made from wire and papier-mâché to highlight the sunflower quilt class we were offering next month. The lights were already on inside the shop and the red front door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and the bells jingled merrily to announce my arrival. Someone had already started brewing coffee. I could smell it.

“Hello? Margot? Is that you?” I heard a sound of male laughter coming from the break room. Garrett came out holding a mug of coffee. Charlie trailed behind him, grinning and carrying a plate piled with what looked like fresh cinnamon rolls.

“'Morning, Mom.” Garrett yawned and ran a hand through his hair.

“'Morning, sweetheart. You're up early.”

“Yeah, well, Charlie was banging on the door early. I tried to ignore him, but he just stood in the courtyard bellowing that I'd better open up because his rolls were getting stale.”

I gave Charlie a quick peck on the cheek, then grabbed one of the cinnamon rolls off the plate and took a bite. “They don't taste stale.”

“That's because Garrett finally listened to reason and came downstairs to open the door,” Charlie insisted in his teasing Irish brogue. “I've been up since dawn making these just for you. Another five minutes exposed to the cruel morning air and they'd have been ruined for sure. I'd have had to throw the whole batch away.”

“Well, that would have been a shame because they are delicious. Thanks. Why were you up since dawn baking? Was there some kind of cinnamon roll emergency?”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “It's your big day, woman! Don't you remember? You've got those movie people coming in today. They're probably used to fancy caterers and champagne at breakfast. You've got to have something decent to offer them, something besides that jar of two-year-old biscottis in their individual, fresh-from-the-factory plastic wrappings you bought at the office supply store.” He made a disgusted face. As the owner of New Bern's most elegant and popular restaurant, he was clearly concerned that the town's culinary reputation would suffer at my hands. “One look at those things and the crew will probably pack up their cameras and go back to Hollywood.”

I laughed. “First of all, they're from Texas, not Hollywood. Big difference. At least, I think there's a big difference; I've never been to Hollywood. And second, they are television people, from the House and Home Network, not movie people, and I really don't think it's quite as big a deal as you're making it, Charlie. It's not like they're in town to shoot the chase scene of next summer's big block-buster. It's just a little promotional video. It'll be Mary Dell, a cameraman, and one of her producers—that's all—and the whole thing shouldn't take more than an hour. Mary Dell told me herself. But it was sweet of you to go to all this trouble, Charlie.”

“No trouble. Anything for my little starlet.”

“Last time I checked, they don't make fifty-year-old starlets.”

He put his arm around my waist, squeezed me, and said in a stage whisper, “Well, what do they know? Want to come see my office later? I'll show you my casting couch.” I elbowed him in the ribs.

“Ouch! Is that any way to treat the man who got up with the sun to make you breakfast?”

“Don't you have a restaurant to run?”

“As a matter of fact”—he looked at his watch—“I do. I've got a meeting with my seafood wholesaler in ten minutes.”

Charlie kissed me and hurried toward the door. “You're going to bring Mary Dell and the rest of them up to the Grill for dinner tonight, right?”

I nodded. “Around six. Thanks for the cinnamon rolls. They're delicious. Just like you.” I batted my eyelashes.

“Oh sure.
Now
you want to flirt with me. Too late. I've got to see a man about a fish. Bye, Garrett.”

“Bye, Charlie.”

Garrett, who was looking a little more alert now, took a slurp of coffee and chuckled to himself.

“What's so funny?”

“I was just thinking about Charlie. He told me a great joke this morning.”

“Really? What was it?”

“Nothing I'm going to repeat to my mother.”

“Ah. Well, in that case, what say we get to work? Can you e-mail a supply list to everybody who signed up for that table runner class? I've got to shelve those new pattern books that came in last night and I'd like to get that done before Mary Dell gets here.”

A voice boomed in the doorway. “Then you should have started earlier, Baby Girl!”

“Mary Dell!” I squealed, dropped my half-eaten cinnamon roll, and ran to embrace my friend. “You're here! It's so good to see you! Where's Howard? Didn't he come with you?”

Mary Dell smiled broadly. “Howard's got himself a little girlfriend—Jena. He met her at a Down Syndrome Association dance. Her folks invited Howard to come with them to the rodeo this weekend, so he's staying with them. We're going to film this so quick there wasn't any point in him coming. He'll be out for the broadcast, though. The rest of my crew will be here in a minute. They're hauling in the equipment. Gosh! You look great, Evelyn!”

“You too. But I thought your flight wasn't supposed to land for a couple of hours yet.”

“Turned out the gal who checked us in at the airport is a quilter. She recognized me and got us onto an earlier flight. First class, too. I do love bein' a television personality,” she preened. “And so will you, honey. My camera guy is just going to love that pretty face of yours. It'll be a relief after filming my ugly mug day after day. Every time he turns the camera on it's a wonder the lens doesn't crack.” She laughed and hugged me tight before I could argue with her, and I would have, too, if she'd given me the chance.

Mary Dell, with dangly silver and green crystal earrings that hung down to her shoulders, a hot-pink blouse with white cowgirl fringe, leopard-skin pumps that added an extra three inches to her five-foot-ten-inch frame, and fire-engine-red lipstick that clashed with absolutely everything she was wearing, might not be the picture of understated elegance, but she had beautiful brown eyes, thick, natural-blond hair, a slender waist, and skin so smooth you'd have thought she was closer to thirty than fifty. Mary Dell's mother had been second-runner-up for Miss Texas of 1946. Obviously, good looks ran in the family.

“Whoo-whee!” Mary Dell cried when she finally released me from her grasp. “You are looking fine! Way better than last time I saw you when you were lying around in that bed, feeling sorry for yourself, and looking like a sick calf. But now look at you!” She stared pointedly at my chest. “If I didn't know better I'd say those ta-tas you got under your blouse were the real deal!”

Garrett choked on his coffee.

“Really, Garrett, doesn't your mama look good? I tell you what, there just ain't nothing they can't do with silicone these days. I might want to get some of those for myself. What do you think?” Mary Dell stood up tall and stuck out her ample chest.

Garrett swallowed hard, trying to catch his breath. He was grinning, but I could see the tips of his ears turn red just the same. “I think you look fine just the way you are, Mrs. Templeton.”

“Mrs. Templeton! Listen to you! You're not a teenager back in Texas anymore, Garrett. You're a grown man with a career. You can call me Mary Dell. Your mama says she couldn't run this place without you.”

“Don't listen to her,” Garrett said. “I handle the Web-related stuff, but Margot deals with all the marketing and accounting…”

“And don't forget Liza,” I cut in and turned to Mary Dell. “Liza is Garrett's girlfriend. She's going to art school in New York now, but she comes up on weekends to help with our displays and to put together new fabric packs and medleys. She's got a real eye for color. Howard would be crazy about her. Liza's fabric medleys are some of our best-selling items.”

“She's the niece of that other friend of yours, isn't she?” Mary Dell asked. “The snooty one? Abigail?”

“Abigail isn't snooty,” I corrected. “She's particular. She comes from an old, very wealthy New England family, so she's…well, it just takes time to get to know her, that's all. People in New England don't open up to strangers quite as quickly as they do in Texas, but Abigail is very kind and incredibly generous. Involved in all kinds of civic causes. She owns most of the commercial real estate in town. She rents me this place, plus Garrett's apartment upstairs, and our new workroom…”

“And the new warehouse space up the street,” Garrett interrupted.

“And all for ten dollars a month, plus the time it takes me to teach a few quilting classes over at the women's shelter. Something I'd have been happy to do for free anyway. So don't you go saying anything against Abigail to me.” I shook my finger in mock indignation.

“Ten dollars a month!” Mary Dell whistled. “Well, in that case, I take back everything I said about the snooty, old…” Mary Dell stopped mid-sentence when she saw the look on my face. “Sorry! I meant to say, I take back everything I said about dear, darling Abigail. Bless her heart,” Mary Dell said, employing that old phrase that women of the South use when they want to say something catty about someone else…politely.

In spite of myself, I laughed. “Stop that. She may be an acquired taste, but Abigail has helped me and a lot of other people in this town. She can be prickly, I'll admit, but that is changing. She's dating her old attorney, Franklin Spaulding, and he seems to be a good influence on her. Plus, she's very involved with the women's shelter, not just on the board but spending time getting to know the residents. In fact, she's the one who recommended I hire Ivy.”

“Ivy?”

“Remember? I told you about her on the phone. She and her kids are in transitional housing at the shelter. Ivy took my beginners' class there. When I needed to hire someone, Abigail recommended Ivy. I'm glad she did. She's a hard worker. Quiet, but cheerful and very dependable. We've got ourselves quite a team now.”

Putting down his coffee cup, Garrett boosted himself off the counter and walked over to me, laying his long arm over my shoulder. “Of course, she forgets to mention that none of this would work without the very able leadership of the boss here. When I started working here, I didn't know top stitching from tap shoes, though I'm starting to, which, frankly, scares me a little. But Mom knows every square inch of this place. She knows what the trends are in fabrics and notions, chooses and teaches almost all the classes, and makes it fun for everyone who walks in the door. Half the time, I think customers come in here to talk to Mom as much as to buy quilting supplies.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” I said, brushing off his compliments. “Don't listen to him, Mary Dell. He's bucking for a raise. Won't do you any good, sweetie. We're doing better, that's for sure. In fact, we're on track to break even this year, but it's way too soon to think any of us will be making more than minimum wage for a good while to come.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it, honey,” Mary Dell said. She looked out the shop window, where I could see a man and woman coming across the courtyard hauling bags, boxes, and metal poles that looked like light stands. Mary Dell walked to the front door and opened it wide.

“Get in here, y'all! Get that gear set up. Not only do we have to make a promo that will get quilters fired up about Quilt Pink, we've got to make one that'll have folks running to their phones, booting up their computers, and driving halfway across the state to buy their fabrics from Miss Evelyn Dixon of Cobbled Court Quilts. Let's get this show on the road, buckaroos! We're burnin' daylight!”