The Fortune Quilt (14 page)

“Who cares? You lived there. That’s so exciting.” Allegra sits back, leaning her head back and staring at the sky. “I want to go there so bad. I’ve never been. I’ve only been out of Arizona three times in my life.” She sits up, glances around, then looks at me and whispers as though there are microphones over our heads. “I’ve applied to go to NYU.”

I lean forward, whispering as well. I’ve found that my when-in-Rome approach to Bilby life has been, generally, working for me. “That’s great. Why are we whispering?”

She jerks her head toward the café. “Sebastian wants me to stay here and run this place.”

I stare at her for a minute. Sebastian owns the place, and told me on my second visit to the café that I should grow my hair long and stop worrying about the kink. I still haven’t figured out his relationship with Allegra. He calls her “sweetheart” and ruffles her hair. He’s obviously more than a boss, but definitely not a boyfriend. Uncle?

“Sebastian’s my dad,” she says, as though reading my mind. Which, I guess, she did.

“Why do you call him Sebastian?” I ask. “I mean, is he not your real dad?”

Allegra shakes her head. “No. James is my real dad.”

I blink. Hmmm. I haven’t met James yet, but it appears Allegra has two daddies. Welcome to Bilby.

Allegra shrugs. “But I call him by his first name, too. It’s an equality thing. They want to raise me without authoritarian blah blah blah. And for a couple of gay guys, they’re so overprotective. They didn’t even let me go to regular high school. I had to be home-schooled. That’s why I graduated early and everything, but it would have been nice to have a graduating class bigger than one.” She sighs. “There’s no way they’re going to find zen with NYU.”

“And your… do you have a mom? I mean, you… you have to have a mom, r-right?”

I’m very unsure of myself in this conversation, and I’m a little embarrassed by it. I don’t want it to seem like I’m not open-minded, because I am. But at the same time, I grew up Irish-Catholic and have been given very strict rules about what’s “normal” and what’s not; even though I don’t necessarily agree, some of it’s just hardwired in my head. Hell, I think having premarital sex is fine if you’re responsible about it, but I still feel guilty whenever I have sex or even think about having sex, which, as I’m twenty-nine and unmarried, accounts for a fair amount of guilt. If you’re gonna throw two daddies at a girl like me, you have to allow some latitude for culture shock, right?

Allegra plays absently with her empty coffee cup. “My bio-mom is some surrogate named Safflower. I think she runs a crystal shop up in Sedona. But it was really just a business transaction for her, as far as I can tell.” She sighs and stares up at the sky. “I know you didn’t live there, but you’ve been to New York City, right?”

I take a sip of my macchiato. “Yeah. It’s nice. Crowded. But everything’s there. Plays, shopping—”

“Do you think a person could be spiritually fulfilled being a stockbroker?” she asks suddenly.

“Um,” I say. “Sure. I guess. Why?”

She takes a deep breath, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she actually looks like a kid, her face all hopeful and not bitter. “I was watching this movie on TV and they had this guy and he was a stockbroker and he was in the pit on Wall Street and shouting things like ‘Buy!’ and ‘Sell!’ and the numbers were flying by on the ticker and…” She exhales, puts her hand to her chest and nibbles her lips. “I got wet.”

My eyebrows shoot up before I can stop them. It takes me a second, but I gain control over my face and casually sip my coffee.

I’m beginning to think I don’t really belong in Bilby.

“Hmm? Really? Hmm,” I murmur into my cup.

Allegra laughs. “Oh, you’re not hung up about sex, are you?”

“Who? Me? No.” Another sip. “It’s just… Um, how old are you again?”

Allegra laughs. I know she’s seventeen, but she’s so… comfortable with herself. I’ve never been that comfortable with myself, ever. And she’s only seventeen…

With a sudden surge of panic, I remember that Five is seventeen. Is she talking like this? Is she getting sexually aroused by stockbrokers? Is she doing it with Botox in the back of his mom’s SUV?

And then I realize that it’s not my concern anymore if she is. That’s for Dad and Mary to worry about. The thought leaves me feeling cold and angry, so I take another sip of my coffee to wash it away.

“It just looked like so much fun,” Allegra is saying, her voice wistful. “All the activity, all the men running around. Imagine being the only woman on that floor with a bunch of alpha-males in thousand-dollar-suits acting like primates.” She released a breath and crinkled her nose at me. “Doesn’t it get you hot?”

“Um. Well. Not-not-not exactly, but…” I’m blushing. I’m blushing. I’m the adult, and I’m the one blushing. This is just sad. “That’s not really my thing, though.”

Allegra gives me a knowing look. “I didn’t think so. You’re beta-male all the way.”

“Beta-male?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She sips her coffee, and one tight, beaded black braid, formed from the only lock of hair that’s not pink, smacks into her latte mug with a plastic
 
clink
. “You know. The sensitive type with glasses and a tender soul.”

“Um…” I stammer, and start to get annoyed with myself. I’m an adult and a journalist, for Christ’s sake. I can talk about sex. I sit back and try to look casual. “I don’t know. My ex-fiancé, Seth, used to have glasses, but then he had that Lasik surgery—”

“Oh, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Those types are great in bed.” Allegra’s face gets more serious. “But, what I was saying was, you don’t have to be broke to be happy, right? Rich people can be fulfilled, too, right?”

I think on this for a moment, relieved to be on less sexual, if not firmer, ground. I feel that since I am older, I should have something of value to tell her, some wise words steeped from my experience which will shed light for her. I want to be one of those people, the right person at the right time whose sage words make all the difference.

Unfortunately, I got nothing.

I glance at my watch. “Wow,” I say. “Break’s over.”

At Brandy’s suggestion, I have taken up knitting. She told me that the ritualistic nature of knitting helps align the chakras. I have no idea what that means, but Bilby’s at a higher elevation than Tucson, and it’s a bit cooler here at night; I could use a warm scarf. Besides, it’s either knit with Brandy or spend my evenings alone in my cabin, drinking wine and staring at
 
She Might Be Crying
, which is what I did last night. Instead, I am sitting in Brandy’s house, drinking tea and staring at my scarf.

Which doesn’t look quite right. It’s a little lumpy on one side, and while I only cast on forty stitches, I have just counted forty-seven. Brandy suggested I use a brighter color to start with because it’s easier to see what you’re doing, but I insisted I wanted the brown. Once again, my stubbornness is not paying off.

“Oh,” Brandy says, checking out my progress. “It’s happening when you purl. You see, here?” She points to one edge of my scarf. “You have to pull it between the needles, not over.”

“Okay.” I start pulling out my stitches. Again. I’ve started this scarf four times, and have never gotten past seven rows.

“So, um…” Brandy pauses and I look up at her. Her face is pensive, her smile seems a little forced, and her hands are white-knuckled around her needles. “How’s it going, you know, working at Janesse’s?”

“Good.” I feel slightly uncomfortable, and start to knit again. “I like her. She’s really fun.”

“Yeah,” Brandy says, picking up her own project. “And she’s… she’s doing okay? I mean, she seems happy?”

“Yeah,” I say. Janesse is one of the happiest women I’ve ever known. The woman hums to herself while doing the books. But Brandy’s expression is oddly tight, and I’m not sure if this is the right answer. There’s obviously some kind of history between them—
lesbians, maybe? Estranged best friends?
—and I decide it’s best to tread carefully.

“She seems happy,” I say, then look down at my knitting and realize this row was supposed to be purl, not knit. “Shit.” I start to pull out the stitches again.

There’s a knock at the door and Brandy gets up.

“You don’t always have to pull mistakes out,” she says as she crosses the room. “Sometimes the best work comes out of mistakes.”

I don’t know whether to take this literally or as a life lesson. With Brandy, you can never be too sure. I choose literally, but still pull the stitches free anyway, as the brown yarn with the lumpy mistakes looks to me like a big piece of knit turd.

Brandy pulls the door open, and Will steps into the room. I glance up at him, trying to look casual, as though the last time he saw me I hadn’t been in the throes of a complete nervous breakdown.

“Here’s the rent check for next month,” Will says to Brandy. “I’ve got a job next week, so I wanted to make sure you got it now.”

“A job? On Thanksgiving?”

“It’s in Canada.” There’s a slight pause, then I hear, “Hey, Carly.”

I look up, super-casual. “Hey, Will. How ya doing?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.” I hold up the big pile of yarn in my hand and pull on a deliberately dorky smile. “I’m aligning my chakras.”

A smile quirks on his lips and it makes me abnormally happy inside. I turn my attention to my knitting. Brandy picks up a pile of quilts off a chair and motions for Will to sit down. “Well, we’ll miss you at Thanksgiving. Won’t we, Carly?”

“Hmm?”

Brandy’s face falls. “Oh, you’re not going away for Thanksgiving, too, are you?”

“I wasn’t…” I hadn’t thought about it, really. Was it Thanksgiving week? Already? “Why?”

“Well, because if you’re not going home, you’re coming here,” Brandy says, her face bright once again.

“I am?”

Will lets out a small snicker. Brandy shoots him a reproachful look as she leans forward and pats me on my knee. “Yes, of course you are. Every year I do a big Thanksgiving meal, and everyone who doesn’t have somewhere else to be is invited.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Well, thank you for inviting me.”

“So, you’re coming?” Brandy prods. Her face is illuminated and her happiness is tangible and I can’t say no, although the idea of going to a Big Bilby Thing kinda makes me want to find a big hole and crawl in it.

“Um, sure. Yeah. I mean, unless…” I stop, realizing that if my family was going to ask me to come home, they would probably have done it by now. Thanksgiving is just a few days away. I decide that Re-imagined Carly both can and should attend a party, even if it’s with strangers who are not bound by the laws of blood to like her. Me.

“Yes.” I pull on a Re-imagined Carly smile. “Thank you.”

Will’s eyes meet mine and I can tell he’s pleased. My stomach does a little roller-coaster maneuver, and my smile widens. Brandy settles into her chair and I can feel her watching us. I turn my attention back to my knitting.

“So,” she says, not indulging even the slightest hint of subtlety, “Will mentioned that you two already knew each other, but he didn’t tell me how you met.”

“At a wedding, actually,” Will says.

Brandy raises one eyebrow and smiles. “Really? What a small world, huh?”

“Yeah, my sister’s,” I add quickly. “Will and Ella used to date.”

“A long time ago.” I look up to see Will looking at me. “Centuries, actually.”

Our eyes lock for a moment, and I have this weird impression that he’s making a point.

“And my littlest sister is totally in love with him,” I say. My face is growing warm. This is just stupid.

Will laughs. “Five’s a great kid.” He puts a slight emphasis on
 
kid
.

Our eyes meet again and I accidentally poke myself in the leg with the knitting needle.

“Ow!”

“You okay there?” Will asks.

“Fine,” I say, rubbing my leg. “These are dangerous.”

“Most things are.” Brandy turns her attention to Will. “Can I get you something to drink, Will? I have tea, water, wine…”

“Wine sounds great,” he says. My face continues to flush, and I hate it. Between Seth and Christopher, I already have enough road-kill on my romantic highway. I am in no position to be smitten with my next-door artist.

Brandy smiles at him. “You know where it is.”

I glance up. Something passes between them, and I remember how they were when we were all in the bed together the first morning I was here. It occurs to me again that they might be sleeping together, which throws the Janesse-Brandy-lesbian theory out of the window, along with any other ideas I might be having about Will.

“Ow!” I say again, as I stab the palm of my hand while trying to cast on.

“Maybe you should have some wine, too,” Brandy says. “It might relax you.”

“I’m relaxed,” I say, my voice sounding tense even to my biased ears. Will returns carrying a wine bottle and three glasses. He looks at me and smiles. “Do you like cabernet, Carly?”

Ordinarily, if it’s made from grapes and has any sort of alcohol content, I’m in. But at the moment, the thought of staying there drinking wine with them like a big third wheel makes me want to run screaming from the place.