Apart at the Seams (14 page)

“Crazy quilting,” Evelyn replied, pulling a few books out of the project bag that sat at her feet and passing them around. “It's one of the earliest, most time-honored techniques in quilting, but I don't think any of us have ever tried it.”

“Oh, I have,” Virginia said. “Not since I was a girl, though. My grandmother made crazy quilts and taught me some of her techniques. Hers were really scrappy, made entirely out of old clothes. Grandma used denim, corduroy, wool, even velvet, if she had some on hand, backed them with flannel, and hand-embroidered the seams with all kinds of fancy stitching. She made them as wedding quilts for all her grandchildren, including me.”

“I remember that quilt,” Evelyn said. “The one you and Dad had on your bed when I was little. That was a beautiful quilt.”

“It was very warm—great for Wisconsin winters. But it was also so heavy you could barely move under it.” Virginia smiled, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Your dad called it the birth-control quilt. He said Grandma made them heavy just to save herself the work of having to make quilts for scores of great-grands.”

Evelyn laughed. “Sounds like something Dad would say.”

“Oh, your father was a great joker. I could never stay mad at him for long, not even when I wanted to. About the time I was ready to blow my top, he'd say something to make me laugh, and then I'd forget what I was mad about. Such an irritating man,” she said, with a smile that belied her words.

“Anyway,” she said, waving off the memories. “I think it'd be fun to do some crazy quilting. But let's just keep them small, so we can take our time and enjoy the process.”

Evelyn nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking. If we make wall hangings instead of quilts, we'll be able to slow down, take our time choosing our materials, using fabrics and trims that are really meaningful to us, finish them with beautiful hand-embroidery, and create something really special, a quilt we can truly feel proud of.”

Gayla, who had been silent during this whole exchange, frowning in concentration as she studied the pictures in one of the books Evelyn had passed out, looked up.

“Hand-embroidery? I don't know how to thread a needle, let alone embroider something.” She closed the book and held it out to Evelyn.

“Thanks, but I don't think I'm ready for this. Besides, I don't really have anything to work with here, not anymore.” She looked away quickly, casting her eyes to the floor as if she'd just realized she'd said more than she intended.

“I . . . I just finished clearing out my closets. Spring cleaning—you know how it is,” she said, her eyes darting quickly to Evelyn's face and then back down to the floor. “So I don't really have anything left that has any meaning or memories attached to it. Not here in Connecticut. Maybe I should just wait until later, when you're back to doing quick and easy projects,” she said, giving an awkward little laugh.

A murmur of protest broke out as everyone assured Gayla that she was up to the task—she really was—that it wouldn't be as difficult as it looked, and that they wanted her to join in. Everyone, including me, was very insistent. Perhaps they were just being kind, as they always are. But perhaps there was more to it. Perhaps they sensed that Gayla was dealing with more than she was willing to admit to.

I didn't just sense it—I knew it. Sane people don't just go outside in the middle of the night and throw dishes at rocks. I didn't know Gayla well, but I knew her well enough to know that she wasn't crazy, not permanently. But something—or someone—was making her crazy. And sad. She didn't say so, but you could see it in her eyes, especially when she thought no one was looking at her.

I hadn't wanted Gayla to join our group, but seeing that look on her face and knowing what I knew about her changed my mind. She needed us. She might not realize it, but she did, just like I had when I came to New Bern, nearly five years ago.

“I don't know how to embroider either. Maybe we can learn together. And we don't
have
to use fabric from old clothes, do we?” I asked, turning to Evelyn. “Just something that is special to us, right? What about that red fabric you found at City Quilter? It's special because it is the very first fabric you ever bought.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Gayla began to protest, “I'm not sure that counts.”

“Of course it counts,” Evelyn said. “There are no real rules to this. You can make it up as you go along. And your project doesn't have to be about your memories of the past, Gayla. It could be about memories you're making right now.”

“Like your garden!” I interrupted. “What better way to preserve the memory of making a garden than by creating a quilt?”

Gayla's eyes went a little wide. “How did you know I'm putting in a garden?”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a little flush of heat in my cheeks, “because Drew babysits for me, remember? Dan has been nice enough to come pick him up once I'm home, so I don't have to leave the kids alone. He's been taking Bobby bowling too. They're going to enter a tournament.”

Abigail arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “He is? They are? How very kind. And interesting.”

“Dan told me all about you,” I said, ignoring Abigail. “I mean . . . about your garden. He told me all about it.”

“Dan Kelleher is putting in your garden?” Virginia asked.

Gayla nodded. “Tessa convinced me that I needed some help. It's a big space, and Dan lives right next door.”

“He is a good man,” Abigail said, standing up and walking across the room to pour herself another half glass of wine. “Not as creative as my landscape designer but capable enough. And much better looking,” she said, giving me a sideways glance before turning back to Gayla. “So what is Dan planning for your garden?”

“We're still working on that,” Gayla said. “We haven't decided on what to plant in the beds, but we're going to have four square beds in the center and then two long rectangular beds on either end. We'll have boxwood hedge borders and paths between the beds—”

“Sounds a lot like a quilt,” Evelyn said, gesturing to a quilt on the wall, pointing to the different components to explain her terminology. “See? The flower beds are the blocks, the hedges are the borders, and the pathways running between are the sashing.”

“You're right; there actually is a certain similarity,” Gayla said. “How funny. The paths will either have plain white pea gravel or bluestones set in beds of moss. I can't quite decide. The north-south pathway will have white entrance arches, and the east-west pathway will have a garden bench on each end, also painted white.”

“That sounds beautiful!” Margot exclaimed. “I'd love to see it!”

“There's nothing to see at the moment, but maybe you can all come over when it's finished.”

“A garden party,” Abigail murmured, taking her seat again. “What a lovely idea. However, I won't be available for the next few weeks. In fact, this is the last time I'll be able to come to quilt circle until late July.”

“Don't tell me you're going on another trip,” Virginia said. “I thought you and Franklin were staying in New Bern for the rest of the summer.”

“We are,” Abigail said, breaking a tiny corner off her half brownie. “It's just that I'm going to be occupied on Friday night, and every night, for the next six weeks.”

I rolled my eyes. “I'll bite. What is it that's going to keep you so busy, Abigail? You obviously want to tell us.”

Abigail took a sip from her wineglass. “Can't tell you. It's a surprise. But I
will
tell you that it has something to do with my summer sabbatical. Following Gayla's example, I am taking a sabbatical from quilting, from board meetings, as well as all my other charitable and community obligations, so I can try something I've always wanted to do but never thought I'd have the time for. I wasn't too keen on this project to begin with, but now that I've started, I'm quite enthusiastic about the idea. How is everyone else coming with their sabbaticals?”

There was another round of murmuring in answer to Abigail's question, explaining how busy the week had been and how they had meant to get started but just hadn't found the time.

“For what it's worth,” I said, “I made a plan to try something new, but haven't actually done it yet. And before you ask, Abigail, no, I am
not
going to tell you what I'm planning to do. Maybe I will when it's over, but I'm not making any promises.”

Abigail gave a snort of disgust. “Oh, come now! Surely someone, besides myself, has made some real progress on this project. Margot? What about you?”

All eyes turned to Margot, who instantly blushed.

“Aha!” Abigail exclaimed. “You did try something new! And from the look on your face, I'd say it was either a grand success or an unqualified disaster. Tell us everything.”

“I did try some new things this week,” Margot admitted, briefly shifting her eyes to her lap before raising them again. “But nothing all that earth-shattering. My parents came over to watch the kids so Paul and I could go into the city. We got a hotel, went out to dinner, and then to the ballet. I've always wanted to go, so I did. We did.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Madelyn asked. “What did you see?”

“
Swan Lake
. And I loved it!” Margot exclaimed, as if her reaction had surprised even herself. “The music! The costumes! Oh, and the dancers. So graceful. It was so beautiful that I actually cried. I couldn't help myself.

“We're already making plans to go again next year. In fact, Paul thinks we should try another overnight in the city later this summer. We've never been to the opera either. So I'd say it was a success.” A playful little smile tugged at her lips. “Definitely a success.”

Abigail tapped her finger against her lips. “I sense we aren't getting the whole story. You said you tried
some
new things, which would indicate that there is more to this than you've told us so far. Something a bit more adventurous? Something new that you tried
after
the ballet? Back at the hotel room?”

Once again, everyone looked at Margot, who blushed even pinker than she had the first time.

“Margot!” Abigail exclaimed with a triumphant grin. “Who knew you had it in you? No wonder Paul wants to go back to the city before summer's end.”

“Abigail! Stop that!” Margot laughed, grabbed an empty pincushion from the table, and tossed it toward Abigail, who caught it with one hand.

“Oh, don't be such a prude,” Abigail said. “Every marriage needs a little spicing up now and then, so good for you. Well done. Of course, you've only been married for a few months, so you don't need quite as much spice as the rest of us. What do you say, Margot? Any tips you'd like to share with the group?”

“Sorry,” Margot said with a prim little smile, “you'll just have to figure it out for yourself.”

“Well,” Abigail sighed. “I suppose every woman is entitled to keep a few secrets from her friends. But just a few,” she cautioned, giving me another quick glance before drinking the last of her wine.

I
sat at the kitchen table, shoulders tense, the tip of my tongue sticking out the side of my mouth, the way it does when I'm trying to concentrate, practicing my lazy daisy stitch. It's not very hard, in theory. All I had to do was sew tiny white loops on a piece of pale blue cotton I was using for practice, catch one end of the loop with a teeny anchoring stitch to make a petal, and then repeat the process five times to make a flower. Simple, right?

Except it wasn't. Not for me.

My thread kept getting twisted, and not one of my petals was the same size as the others, which meant that my flowers ended up looking bedraggled, like they'd been through a hard rain. I hadn't even started working on my actual quilt, and already it was a disaster.

Ivy had come over earlier in the day. We practiced our embroidery together while her kids played hide-and-seek outside, briefly. After about thirty minutes, the kids had come inside arguing, insisting Ivy referee some alleged rule infraction. But she'd been here long enough to show me some of the base blocks of her quilt, with its gorgeous, colorful patches, and for me to watch her master the lazy daisy
and
the French knot. I'd been practicing for two solid hours, and the only thing I could really sew well so far was the stem stitch.

This was hopeless. Everybody else would end up making beautiful heirloom quilts, and I'd just have a rag with some knotty embroidery. If I wasn't so competitive, I'd call up Evelyn and bow out, quit while I was ahead. Then again, if I wasn't so competitive, I wouldn't care how my quilt turned out; I'd just “enjoy the process,” as Evelyn advised. Living in the moment sounds good in theory, but like sewing daisies, it's harder than it looks.

Disgusted and hungry, I finally put my sewing aside and started working on dinner, nibbling on cheese and crackers while I fried garlic and onions in olive oil and opened a can of crushed tomatoes with basil to make pasta sauce.

How long would it be until I could use actual tomatoes, ones I'd grown in my garden, to make sauce? So far, my six tomato plants, which I'd planted in pots rather than risk another go-round with Dan's rototiller, hadn't produced anything besides little yellow flowers. How long did it take to go from tomato blossom to a fully ripe tomato? Weeks? Months?

I dipped a piece of cracker in the pot, tasted the sauce, and reached for the oregano but paused when I heard the crack and pop of rubber on gravel. Someone was coming up the driveway. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw a silver sedan with New York plates emerge from the wall of the privet hedge.

Brian was at the wheel.

 

“I wish you would have called before you came up here,” I said coldly, handing Brian the glass of water he had requested upon entering the kitchen.

He glanced longingly at the plate of crackers and cheese I'd left on the counter, but I pretended not to notice. Nobody had invited him up here. If he wanted a snack, then he could go back to the city. Manhattan had delis on every street corner.

“I did call,” he said in a voice that was carefully nonconfrontational, as if he'd made up his mind not to get into an argument with me and spent the northward drive coaching himself on how to avoid doing so. “I left several messages, but you never called back. I was starting to get worried, so I decided to rent a car and drive up here, just to make sure you're all right.”

“Well,” I said, holding my arms out from my sides, “sorry to have put you to all that trouble, but as you can see, I'm fine. I haven't slit my wrists or put my head in an oven or anything. You can go home now.”

“Any chance I can talk you into coming with me?” he asked, and smiled
that
smile, the impish, boyish smile he always uses when he's trying to get around me, to win me over, the one that almost always works.

“No.”

His smile vanished, replaced by an expression of disappointment. Too bad. Honestly, what did he expect?

We weren't talking about him forgetting to pick up the dry cleaning like he'd promised or not calling to say his meeting was running late and he wouldn't be home for dinner. We weren't even talking about him neglecting to tell me that he was taking a job that would double his travel schedule or making up his mind to buy a cottage in the country without even consulting me first. This time we were talking about betrayal, about breaking his vows and my heart, making me doubt myself and everything I'd done with my life. That's not something you get past with a smile and an apology.

“Brian, why are you here?”

“I canceled my trip to Houston.”

Was he scheduled to be in Houston that day? Probably. He was always going somewhere. I'd stopped trying to keep track years before.

“And this matters to me, how?”

I turned my back on him and covered the cheese and crackers with plastic wrap.

“Gayla, hang on a minute. Just hear me out? Please?”

I turned around to face him, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry?” I repeated, shaking my head at the inadequacy of his remark. “Am I supposed to forget everything you wrote and the fact that you slept with another woman because you've said you're sorry? You can't seriously think it's that easy. What do you want from me?”

“Nothing!” He spread his hands as if trying to prove that he wasn't hiding anything. “Except . . . a chance to try to do what I should have done in the first place: tell you the truth, face-to-face.”

I stared at him, saying nothing. The ball was in his court. He wanted to talk? Fine. He could talk. But if he thought I was going to make it easy for him, he was wrong.

He shoved the fingers of his left hand into his hair, making a mess of it, the way he always did when he couldn't figure out how to say something.

“Writing that memo was a terrifically stupid thing to do,” he began, speaking quickly, as if he was afraid I might cut him off. “And cowardly. I should have talked to you before things got so out of hand. . . .”

Out of hand? How polite. Was that British for “before I bedded some tart at the office”? I was about to ask him that, but he beat me to the punch.

“I mean, before I cheated.” He sighed heavily, started again. “Look. I don't care for her, Gayla. I never did, which makes it even worse. We'd been flirting for weeks—months, really. I knew she was interested, and it made me feel . . . attractive, I suppose. It was exciting to have somebody hanging on every word. It stoked my ego.

“About a year ago, we were at a conference, about the same time that the Dyson-Marks deal fell apart. It's not an excuse, but Mike Barrows had just chewed me out for letting the deal go south. I was sitting at the bar, feeling sorry for myself. Deanna walked by and slipped her room key in my pocket.”

I closed my eyes, overcome by the mental images of what came next—Brian's hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket, her over-the-shoulder glance as she walked toward the door, the locking of their eyes, the silent agreement, the decent interval before his exit so no one would guess where he was going, the way he tossed back the last of his whiskey, left a tip for the bartender, the ride in the elevator, the chance to change his mind, letting it pass, looking left and right to make sure no one from the company was in the hallway, the hesitation, the knock, her opening the door, and him locking it.

“It was a mistake; even at the time, I knew it.”

“Then why did you see her again?”

“Some misplaced sense of loyalty, I think.” He pulled a chair out from the table and sank wearily into it. “Having a one-off seemed so sordid, like I was using her. But of course, that's exactly what I was doing. I saw her again the next week, twice, when we were back at headquarters. I took her out to dinner and wrote e-mails back and forth, trying to convince myself that we had a relationship. I couldn't pull it off, not for long, so I ended it. God . . .”

He covered his face with his hands, pressing his fingers hard against his creased forehead, rubbing at his skin as if he was trying to scrub away the memory of what he'd done.

“Gayla, I am so sorry. I'm sorry for the affair, but I'm also sorry that I didn't come to you and talk honestly about our problems. But I didn't think there was any point. I thought you were staying in the marriage out of some sense of duty.” He cast his eyes toward the ceiling. “I realize it sounds stupid, but I honestly thought that divorce would come as a relief to you.”

I shifted my eyes away from his and took a step back, wanting to put some distance between myself and the realization that, at some level, he'd read me right.

“I convinced myself that ending the marriage would be the kindest thing to do,” he said, “practically an act of nobility, because I knew you were as unhappy as I was.”

“I never said I was unhappy,” I muttered.

“Oh, come on,” he said, all but rolling his eyes. “Just because you didn't say it doesn't mean it wasn't true. We both know our marriage isn't what it was.”

“What it was
when?
” I snapped. “When we were newlyweds and so hot for each other that we were jumping into bed three times a day? When we didn't have kids? Being in a marriage isn't like being on your honeymoon, Brian. Or having an affair. Marriage is what happens in the real world. Marriage is for grown-ups, and it's
hard.
You have to work at it.”

“That's what I'm trying to do!”

He shouted in frustration and jumped to his feet, startling us both. Brian isn't given to emotional outbursts. It's just not his way. His flash of temper was just that, a flash, extinguished as quickly as it had ignited, but not without some effort on his part. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor.

“I can't unwrite what I wrote or undo what I've done. But,” he said, looking up, “I am serious about wanting to salvage our marriage. That's why I canceled the Houston trip; I've canceled all my travel for the next month. And that's why I drove out here: to ask you to give me and our marriage another chance.”

“You canceled your business trips for a whole month?” I asked, a bit incredulous and also a bit concerned. “What did Mike Barrows say about that?”

“Don't worry about it. I took care of it.”

“But what did you tell—”

“It's not important,” he said, shoving away my question. “I want to talk about us. I know it won't be easy, but if you're willing to try, I think we can get through this. I do.”

One of the things I've most admired about Brian was his optimism, his unwavering confidence that everything would turn out okay in the end. I'm not like that. Brian has sometimes accused me of being cynical, but I prefer to think of myself as a realist. I know that wishing isn't enough. If you want something to happen, you have to work to make it so.

Brian was obviously trying to do that. Canceling his travel for an entire month was huge for him. It made a statement about the depth of his resolve that he knew would not be lost on me. I appreciated that, but the realist in me thought it was just too late.

“Brian,” I said, dropping my arms to my sides, “the things you wrote were so hurtful—in some ways even more hurtful than the affair. We've grown so far apart. Sometimes I don't think I even know you anymore.

“What you wrote was true. You don't love me anymore. . . . No, let me finish,” I insisted, holding up my hand. “You
don't
love me anymore, not like you did. And, if I'm honest with myself, the same is true for me. I still like you, I still care, and I think you feel the same way toward me. But if I tell you that it's all right, that I forgive you, and if I just go home and we try to go back to pretending that everything is fine, don't you think that, before long, it'll get even worse? That in time, we might not even
like
each other?”

A solitary tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away and swallowed hard, determined to say what had to be said.

“You said that you never intended for me to see the memo. I have a hard time believing that.”

He dipped his head low, an acknowledgment. “Perhaps you're right. I hated knowing that there was this enormous lie standing between us. Perhaps a part of me wanted you to find out about the affair.”

“Well,” I said, unable to keep the bitter edge from my voice, “now I know.”

He moved toward me, as if he intended to take me into his arms, but I backed away, keeping my distance.

“Subconsciously, maybe I did want you to know about the affair,” he admitted. “But when I said I didn't mean what I wrote, that I'd changed my mind about wanting a divorce, it was true. I know you don't believe me, but it is. Do you want to know why? And when?”

I did, but couldn't bring myself to answer, mostly because I was sure that whatever he was going to say next was a lie. How was it possible that, having finally come to that conclusion, he could simply change his mind?

He couldn't. I was sure of that. And yet . . .

“It was at Maggie's wedding. When we danced together at the reception. When I held you in my arms, you looked as beautiful as you did on our wedding day. And then I began to remember how I had felt about you when we got married and how you felt about me. We were the whole world to each other then. It all came flooding back to me that day. It was a wonderful wedding—do you remember?”

I did remember. And I remembered our mother-and-father-of-the-bride dance, how handsome he looked in his tuxedo, the surprise and tenderness I felt when I saw the tears in his eyes, the spark of hope, quickly dismissed, that something important had passed between us.

“I looked around the room and saw Nate, getting ready to go to Scotland for grad school, so grown-up and capable, and Maggie and Jason just starting out and so happy together. . . . I thought about what we've built together and how lucky we are to have such a beautiful family. And suddenly I realized I'd been a fool.