A Thread So Thin (13 page)

“You’ll miss your train.”

In my room, I lay sprawled on my bed, with my hand shielding my eyes. The girls were watching some new reality show on TV. They’d wanted me to come join them, but I said I had too much homework. It was true. I knew I should get up and get to work, but I was so worn out. Maybe, if I just took a twenty-minute catnap, I’d have enough energy to start.

I was just dozing off when I heard a collective whoop coming from the living room and the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

Zoe called out, “Liza! You’ve got to see this! They’ve just announced that they’re bringing back all the guys who’ve gotten kicked off the show and that
they
will decide who makes it through to the next round. Skanky Jared is finally going to get what’s coming to him.”

I heard the door open and Zoe’s voice inside the bedroom. “Come on, Liza. Just for a little while. You’ve got to—”

She stopped in mid-sentence. I opened one eye, wondering what had interrupted her. She was standing in the doorway, openmouthed, and staring—at my hand.

“Holy…You did it, didn’t you?” She shook her head, her voice hushed and disapproving. “You told Garrett you’d marry him.”

W
ith a few minutes left until closing time and not a customer in sight, I decided to count up the cash drawer. Margot is better with figures than I am, so this is usually her job, but she was already upstairs with Ivy and Mom, cleaning up before our quilt circle meeting, which would begin as soon as I locked the shop door and turned out the lights downstairs.

February is generally a slow month for us, but the till looked good today. I knew why.

This had been the first day of the “Baby Quilts for Mothers and Mothers-to-Be” class. We’d had a full house. All eight spots were filled by young mothers, some expecting their first child, others their second or third, and some with a toddler or two in tow. That was why the upstairs workroom needed tidying up. Mom suggested that, for a small fee, we should offer child care to those taking the class. I wasn’t sure about the idea at first, but Margot had been highly enthusiastic about the proposal. Since the project was to be hand quilted, the students wouldn’t need machines and could meet around a big table in the shop. Margot volunteered to watch the little ones upstairs in the workroom while their mothers enjoyed two uninterrupted hours of quilting instruction.

It had been a grand success for the mothers, the children, and for Margot. Margot loves children and they love her. One of the kiddos, Harry, a shy four-year-old whose mother seemed hesitant about leaving him in Margot’s care, was a testament to her magic touch with the diaper-and-tricycle set.

“Mommy will be right downstairs, okay, Harry?” Harry’s mother said hopefully. “You stay up here and have fun with the other kids.”

But Harry was having none of it. He was fixed to his mother’s leg like Velcro. Harry’s mother sighed.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Margot. “He’s like this with everybody. I shouldn’t have signed up for the class, but I was really hoping it would work out. I’ve always wanted to learn to quilt,” she said wistfully. “Oh, well, maybe another time.”

Without looking at Harry, who had two fingers in his mouth and was peeking out from behind his mother’s legs, Margot said, “Oh, that’s too bad. I’m so sorry Harry won’t be joining us today. Well, it’s probably just as well,” she said casually, “because today is Dinosaur Day. We’re going to make our own stuffed dinosaurs to take home. But, like I said, it’s just as well. Harry probably doesn’t like dinosaurs.”

Harry pulled his fingers from his mouth and tugged on his mother’s pant leg. She leaned down and Harry whispered in her ear.

“Actually,” she said with a smile, “dinosaurs are his favorite.”

“Really?” said Margot, shifting her surprised gaze to Harry, who nodded vigorously.

“Do you have any T. rex dinosaurs?” Harry asked.

“Why, yes! Two! I have a green T. rex and a blue one all cut out and sewn and ready for someone to stuff, decorate, and take home. Which would you like?”

“Blue,” said Harry before taking Margot’s hand and heading over to the craft area without so much as a backward glance.

While Margot was upstairs with the little ones, the mothers learned the basics of fabric selection, cutting, and stitching under the patient and grandmotherly eye of Virginia Wade, arguably the best hand quilter in the state of Wisconsin, and now Connecticut. While the women sat around the table working on the quilts that were destined to become some of the earliest and most tangible evidence of a mother’s love for these babies still unborn, the ladies in waiting were inducted into that other and equally important aspect of the long tradition of our craft: the camaraderie of quilters.

Some of the women knew each other; most didn’t. As they sat together, piecing their simple four-patch blocks under Virginia’s watchful gaze, they talked and laughed, comparing notes on everything from the alleviation of stretch marks and swollen ankles to keeping the flame of marital romance burning after children arrive.

One woman, the mother of seven-year-old twins with a two-year-old upstairs and a baby due in April, looked doubtfully at her swollen belly. “Are you kidding? Fanning the flame is the least of my problems. Somebody tell me how to douse it.”

The group broke into giggles.

Somebody else jumped in. “Or just how to quit falling asleep before my husband. He keeps sneaking up on me. That’s how I got Timmy
and
Molly.”

I smiled as I counted up the day’s receipts. Besides their class supplies and fees, many students had purchased fat quarters of fabric, the first in what would become their “stash,” the quilter’s addiction and most prized possession, that collection of impulsively purchased fabrics we have no specific plans for but simply
must
have, our hoarded cache of inspiration. These apprentice quilters’ purchases helped my bottom line today, not a lot but a little, and those eight women were well on their way to becoming full-fledged quilters and, in all likelihood, good customers for years to come. That was good, but it wasn’t why I was smiling.

Cobbled Court Quilts is more than a business to me, more than a way to eke out a living. It is a community of quilters, a place where people with completely different backgrounds, ideals, and experiences enter as strangers and leave as friends. As the class came to an end and Mom distributed hugs and homework assignments, I could hear the moms making plans for play dates. Every woman in that class left with at least one new friend. That’s what made me smile. Those are the kinds of treasures that don’t show up on a balance sheet but, for me, add up to the best sort of payday.

My quilting friends, my sisters in stitches, have been my companions on the road of life. Without Margot, Abigail, and Liza, the original members of my quilt circle, and my old quilting friend from Texas, Mary Dell, I can’t imagine how I would have gotten through my mastectomy. They have supported me in good times and bad, and I’ve tried to do the same for them.

Haven’t I?

I think so. In the past, I have, certainly. But it’s been weeks since Liza came to a quilt circle meeting and, in spite of Garrett’s assurances to the contrary, I can’t believe that a busy schedule is the only reason for her lengthy absence.

I am the cause. In my heart, I know this and it makes me feel awful. I wish I knew what to do. If she’d just come back to the circle, if we could just spend an evening side by side, quietly cutting out scraps of cloth and stitching and patching them into quilts, I feel sure that we’d be able to patch up the tears in our friendship too. But in spite of the messages I’ve sent through Garrett, the unanswered phone calls, and the voice-mail messages I’ve left saying how much we all miss her, she has stayed away.

I do miss Liza. Her absence leaves a hole in our group and in my life. Surely she feels it too, doesn’t she? I didn’t think she’d be able to stay away for so long. If she’d just come home, I could fix this. I’m sure I could.

I should have been more careful.

I keep thinking about my grandma Bennie, how her attitude toward Mom caused a rift between them and, by extension, between Grandma and my father, and later, though I was unaware of it, between Grandma and myself, that never completely healed.

A thoughtless word, an unkind attitude, and three generations of what could and should have been a loving family were wounded forever. I didn’t want that to happen to me and Liza and Garrett, or to the children that might come from their union. I wish I could take back my words, but it’s too late. Barring the immediate invention of some Wellsian time machine, I’m going to have to figure out a way to repair this rip before it grows into an ungulfable chasm. But if Liza won’t come home or respond to my multiple messages, how can I?

I closed the cash drawer and headed toward the front door to turn the Closed sign face out. Looking out the window, I saw Abigail scurrying across the courtyard with Franklin in tow.

“Hellooo!” Abigail called out merrily as she entered.

Franklin lifted his hand in greeting while stomping the snow off his boots. Abigail did likewise, though much less vigorously.

“Franklin,” I teased, “you joining us for quilt circle night? Finally decided to give up poker in favor of some real fun?”

Shortly after their wedding, knowing that Abigail would be busy at the quilt circle every Friday night, Franklin had recruited a few of the local attorneys—including Arnie Kinsella, Margot’s boyfriend—to form a Friday night poker club.

“Would that I could, Evelyn. Would that I could. It’d probably save me some money.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said. “Collecting a good fabric stash can run into more money than a few hands of Texas Hold’em, but at least you have something to show for it.”

“Which is definitely more than you can say about poker,” Abigail said affectionately as she brushed snow off Franklin’s coat. “He’s been on a losing streak. Judge Bruegger is one of the regulars. Franklin’s lost so much money to him that I’ve started to think he’s doing it on purpose so the judge will be more inclined to give him favorable rulings.”

“Dishonest as that would be,” Franklin said, “I almost wish it were true. It might salve my bruised ego. The truth is I’m just a bad poker player. But maybe tonight will change that. Sometimes taking a break is the best way to end a losing streak.”

“There’s no game tonight?”

“There is,” Abigail said, answering for him, “but Franklin won’t be going. And I’m afraid I won’t be at the quilt circle tonight either. I just wanted to run in and tell you.”

“Where are you off to?”

Abigail’s face lit up and she clapped her hands together. “The Walden Inn! Byron called from New York. He was at a party last night and heard that—wait for it!—Emiliano Vargas is spending the weekend at the Inn! So Byron made a few calls and got Emiliano to agree to have dinner with us!”

Abigail let out a short, excited little yelp. “Isn’t that the most fabulous news?”

I looked from Abigail to Franklin, trying to fathom the reason for her excitement. “Yes. Of course.” I nodded. “It must be. Who is Emiliano Vargas?”

Abigail stuck out her chin and widened her eyes in a look that made it clear she was wondering what sort of rock I lived under. “You’ve never heard of Emiliano Vargas?”

“Afraid not.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “He’s only the most exclusive hair stylist in the country. He’s done the hair for cover models in all the big fashion magazines—
Vogue, Elle, Cosmopolitan.
His clients are all celebrities. If you’re not a model or a movie star, it’s nearly impossible to get an appointment with him, not for any price. And he
never
does weddings. But he and Byron are old friends, so when Byron called, he agreed to meet with us and to at least
consider
doing Liza’s hair for the wedding. Byron’s driving up from New York to meet us at the Inn.”

Abigail laid her hand on her chest as if trying to calm her racing heart. “I hope we make a good impression. I’m so nervous!” And then she giggled. Actually giggled!

Nervous? Abigail Burgess Wynne Spaulding, the sixth-wealthiest woman in the state, the woman whose surname graced the wings, laboratories, or libraries of every prominent charitable organization on the East Coast, the woman who ate snotty Manhattan headwaiters for breakfast, slicing them to ribbons with just one imperious glance from her steel blue eyes, was nervous about meeting a hairdresser? I didn’t get it.

I looked questioningly at Franklin, but he just shrugged.

“I thought you said someone from Byron’s firm was in charge of hair and makeup.”

“Yes, but that was before this came along. Camille may still end up doing it. Emiliano hasn’t actually agreed to take the job. But wouldn’t it be something if he did? If he does, I think we can guarantee an article in
Society Bride
magazine!”

Hearing this, I frowned, not because I doubted Abigail but because I suspected that she was absolutely right.
Society Bride
? How would Liza and Garrett feel about that?

What was Abigail thinking? She’d always lived life more than a little bit larger than the rest of us, but it seemed to me that she’d lost focus about the whole meaning and purpose of this wedding.

When Abigail married Franklin, it had been a quick, charmless affair, a rushed ceremony performed by a hospital chaplain at Franklin’s bedside. Abigail had believed he was dying. But once the vows were spoken, Franklin made a rapid and somewhat miraculous recovery. Abigail loved Franklin but had made no secret of the fact that she felt cheated out of the wedding she’d wanted, the one she’d obviously spent considerable effort planning out in her own mind. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was living out her own fantasy wedding with Liza as a stand-in.

Though there was no one in the shop besides the three of us, Abigail glanced left and right, as if afraid someone might overhear her, before leaning toward me and whispering, “You know, Emiliano is not only the most exclusive stylist in the country, he’s also the most expensive. Ten thousand a day, plus expenses. And that doesn’t even include the fee for his assistants. Emiliano works with at least two assistants.”

Now I truly was worried, and not just about Liza. Something was seriously out of whack here. For as long as I’d known her, Abigail had always had lots of money and spent lots of money, but never foolishly. In fact, she and Franklin had recently downsized. Abigail sold her enormous Proctor Street mansion, donated the proceeds to the Stanton Center to help victims of domestic violence, and built a “cottage” for herself and Franklin to live in.

When I say “cottage,” think cottage like the ones in Newport, Rhode Island, where, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, New York’s uber-rich built enormous homes overlooking the sea. So while Abigail and Franklin’s “honeymoon cottage,” with only five bedrooms, a library, and a living room that can host eighty at a cocktail party, is rather modest by Abigail’s standards, most people would call it a mansion. Even so, it’s a much smaller mansion than the one she lived in before, and it was incredible of her to donate the proceeds from the sale of her home to help others.

But that’s Abigail. She’s one of the most generous people I know, donating enormous sums to any number of good causes, often anonymously and always intelligently. Abigail keeps a close eye on where her donations go, making sure the money is used for its intended purpose. In spite of her millions, at her core Abigail is a true Yankee, intensely private, tradition-bound, and subtly elegant, spending wisely and abhorring the freewheeling, headline-chasing flash and panache of those she derisively dubs the “new rich.” That’s the Abigail I know.