The Fortune Quilt (11 page)

I sit. I am in bed with Will the Artist.

Weird
.

I sip my coffee.

“So,” he says. “Wow. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Yeah.” I giggle. God help me, I giggle. “Me, either.”

We stare at each other for a moment. The coffeemaker gurgles in the background.

“Well,” Will starts, “I have to say, I’m glad—”

The door flies open and Brandy steps inside as though she owns the place. Which, technically, I guess she does, but it’s still weird. Her eyes widen as she sees Will.

“Hey, you!” she says. “I didn’t think you’d be back until Sunday.”

“The shoot was canceled,” Will says. “Not that anybody bothered to tell me. I got in at about three in the morning and found Carly here in my bed.”

Brandy laughs, like it’s no big deal that she and I have completely violated Will’s personal space. I deduce that they must be sleeping together.

“I see you two have introduced yourselves,” she says. Will and I exchange smiling glances, and he says, “Yep.”

Brandy sits on the other side of the bed from Will.

I am in bed with Will and Brandy.

This is
definitely
weird.

“I think I should…” I hook my thumb over my shoulder, motioning vaguely in the direction of elsewhere. “You know.”

Brandy looks disappointed. “Oh, do you really have to go?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I need to, you know. Find a job. A place to stay. I need to…” I feel a heaviness weigh down on me as the events of the last day reappear on my emotional radar. “Get my life together.”

Will gives me a concerned look. “What’s going on? Something happen?”

“She’s been Towered,” Brandy says, as though that makes any sense at all.

“Ohhhh,” Will says, his face washing over with understanding. I have no freakin’ clue what they’re talking about. Will gives me a sympathetic look. “Wow. I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” I say. “What’s Towered?”

“It’s a Tarot thing,” she says. “The Tower. It’s when life transitions. You know—rips out the stitches. Brings your tower down and makes you rebuild. Happens to all of us at one time or another. No worries.”

I shrug. Whatever. Fine. I’ve been Towered. When in Rome, just nod and smile.

I grab my bag and look at Will. “Do you mind if I use your shower?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Will says, motioning toward the bathroom. “The towels hanging on the bar are clean. There’s shampoo and stuff in there. Help yourself to anything you need.”

“Thanks,” I mutter and duck into the bathroom. I can hear their voices but not what they’re saying, then I turn on the water and all is white noise. I step into Will’s small shower booth and the warm water beats down the tension in my shoulders. It isn’t until I get out that I realize I have no clean underwear. I turn my old pair inside out and try not to think about it. When I come out, Will is alone, drinking coffee at his little table and reading a paper.

“Well,” I say, feeling awkward as hell as he stands up to greet me. “Thanks for everything. I’m sorry for the…” I motion to the bed, mock my own scream of terror from earlier. He laughs.

“No worries,” he says. His smile is genuine and his eyes are kind and I want to stay longer, although I know I won’t. “Made for an interesting morning.”

I smile, take a step to the side while still watching him, and knock over a Chock Full O’Nuts coffee can containing a handful of paintbrushes. They roll out over the floor and I shuffle to put them back in while Will rushes over to help.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it,” Will says, setting the tin upright. “They’re just paintbrushes.”

I look down in my hand at the paintbrushes, and flash back to Brandy’s reading. She said something about paintbrushes, right?

I quickly hand them back to Will, make my exit, and decide that I cannot possibly get out of this town fast enough.

Five

I am three minutes gone from Brandy’s house when I am overcome with a craving for coffee. I am on the main street in Bilby, which—unlike most roads in Arizona, a state of grids—winds lazily through a maze of art galleries, crafty shops, and, as luck would have it, a café called, judging the hand-painted sign hanging out front,
The Café
. I pull to the side of the road, run my hands through my still-damp hair, and step out of my car. The air is warm for November and smells faintly floral. I don’t smell desert. There are trees. And not an adobe house in sight. There’s something about being surrounded by colonial-style buildings all cramped together on a windy street that makes me feel a bit like Dorothy on her first day in Oz.

There are two men sitting outside
The Café
. They are on wrought-iron chairs at a tiny circular table with a mosaic surface. They look like they have nowhere in particular to go, which seems odd to me for a Tuesday morning, but then again, this is Bilby. It’s another world. They smile at me as I pass them and I smile back.

When in Rome…

I push into the café. The walls are a strange cross between lime-green and sage, and they are covered with paintings, most of them small, about the size of your standard sheet of copy paper. Next to each is a 3x5 card with the artist’s name and the price of the work. A café/gallery. Interesting.

I am about to go to the counter and ask for the biggest, baddest coffee they’ve got, and then something on the back wall catches my eye. I walk over to it. It’s an oil painting on a small square of canvas, a portrait of a woman with swirling dark hair framing her face. Her hands are covering her face, and all you can see are her eyes. She could be laughing, she could be crying, it’s not clear. As a matter of fact, from moment to moment, I change my mind as to how she’s feeling. One thing I am sure of, once I see all the little swishes of color that make up the painting, is that this was painted by Will. I glance at the 3x5 card next to it.

Untitled

Will Kelley

$40

Damn. I’m good.

“Can I get you something?”

I turn to see a girl with pink hair and an overstated affection for black eyeliner standing next to me, her pen hovering expectantly over her order pad.

“Yes,” I say, my eyes automatically floating back to the painting. “I’d like a venti Viennese latte, double the espresso, to go please.”

“Decaf?” she asks.

I turn to her. “No. Definitely not.”

“Mmm hmm.” She scribbles. “Skim milk or soy?”

Ummm. “Whole?”

Her eyebrows raise just a smidge, but she scribbles, then grins at me. “Okay. That’ll be just a minute.”

She walks away and I turn my attention back to Will’s painting. For some reason, I can’t tear my eyes away. I am determined to figure out what the subject of the painting is feeling. I look at her hands; they are smallish, delicate. Her left pinky is sticking out a bit, which seems like a whimsical thing, so she must be laughing. But then, in her eyes, there’s a slight glistening at the bottom, as though she’s about to cry. But then, people do cry with laughter.

I really can’t tell.

Minutes must have gone by, because the girl is back with my latte.

“That’ll be $3.95,” she says.

I dig into my purse and hand her my credit card, nodding toward the painting. “And this, please.”

She smiles brightly, seemingly thrilled that some art is moving.

“Yeah,” she says. “The artist is wonderful, isn’t he?”

I nod. He gave me a place to sleep and shower. Buying one little painting is really the least I can do.

***

When I get to my car, it is ringing. I put the painting (wrapped carefully in blue tissue paper and green ribbon by Black-Eyeliner girl, otherwise known as Allegra, who is taking a year off before college to help her father keep the café running, Bilby people don’t keep much to themselves, I’m discovering) into the passenger seat and grab my cell phone out of the ashtray. I look at the caller ID panel on the front of the phone.

It’s Christopher.

I put the phone down on the passenger seat.

It rings one more time, then silences. Right now, he is probably leaving me a message on my voice mail, a realization which makes my entire body tighten with tension. The idea of going back to Tucson suddenly fills me with dread, followed by bleak hopelessness.

I flip the phone open and see the little voicemail icon at the bottom of the screen, under text that announces I have missed five calls.

I sigh. I hit the speed dial for voicemail.

“Carly, it’s Dad.” My heart seizes at the sound of my father’s voice, not a little bit because he sounds so tired. “We just called Christopher’s to see how you were and you weren’t there. Please call us when you get this message.”

Call us.
Us
. My stomach churns. I take a sip of my latte, and my stomach calms. It’s a good damn latte.

“Carly.” Ella. Her voice is low, almost whispering. She must have called from the house. “Dad’s really upset. I know you’re not happy about what’s going on, but he’s going through a lot. Please, just let him know you’re okay. Okay? I love you.”

The next is from Christopher. “Car. It’s me. Your dad called looking for you and I didn’t know where you were. Call me when you get this. Okay? I’ll be up.”

And then… “Carly, it’s Lindsay. It’s midnight on Monday night, and Christopher and I are a little concerned, because I guess no one knows where you are? Can you call us when you get a chance?” Her tone gets lower. “Christopher’s kind of upset. If you can just give him a call, let him know you’re okay, it’d really help.”

There’s a beep, followed by the final message, from Christopher.

“Carly.” His voice is tight and he sounds awful. Knife. Through. Heart. “Your dad called me last night looking for you. I told him I was sure you were fine, but I just called him this morning, and I guess no one has heard from you.” He releases a heavy breath. “Look, if for some reason you don’t want to talk to me, you know, that’s okay. Just call someone so at least we know you’re okay. I, uh… well. You know.”

The voicemail bot tells me to press 7 to delete all messages. I press 7, then I put the phone back on the passenger seat. I stare at the winding Bilby main drag ahead of me. I need to follow it to the light, take a right, and go straight for three miles until I catch I-10 back to Tucson. But I don’t want to. I want to crawl under something big and fluffy and sleep. I want to sleep really bad.

I take another sip of my latte.

My phone trills again, and I stare at it. The panel on the front IDs Lindsay’s cell phone.

I pick it up and flip it open.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you guys. Tell everyone I’m fine, okay?”

“Oh, no, it’s okay, I just was going to leave a quick message for you while Christopher was out. Just to, you know, give him a call. He’s really upset, Carly.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m really, really, really—”

“Um, Carly?” she says, her voice hesitant. “Did you tell him that I’m in love with him?”

I freeze. Oh, man. Oh, god. I swallow, squinch my eyes shut and put my hand over them. “I said I thought, maybe—”

“Okay, yeah, that’s what he said.” There’s a long silence, then, “I kinda wish you hadn’t done that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It was just a theory and I don’t know why I said it and if it’s true, I’m really sorry—”

“Whether it’s true or not isn’t really the point,” Lindsay says, and her voice is uncharacteristically harsh, and I know for sure that it’s true. “The point is that you’re confusing him, and he needs to get an answer from you before he can even think about anything else.”

I am struck silent for a moment.

I. Am such. An asshole.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and her voice is back to its typical even tone. “I know there’s a lot going on with your family right now, and I know things are hard for you. It’s just that Christopher is really torn up over this, and I’m a little worried about him. Can you call him on his cell now? He’s out looking for you.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, absolutely.”

“And when you do…” she starts but then stops into a dead silence.

“What?” I say.

“If you love him, tell him,” she says quietly. “If you don’t love him… in that way, I mean… then you need to rip off the Band-Aid fast. I know you care about him enough to do that at least.”

There’s a sharp edge under her sweet tone that makes me feel like total crap. Or
more
like total crap, because I hadn’t exactly started out at a high point.

“Yeah. Sure.”

She hangs up. I put my hand with the phone in my lap and breathe deeply for a few moments, then dial Christopher’s cell phone. He picks up in one ring.

“Carly?” His voice is hoarse. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”