The Fortune Quilt (16 page)

She turns back to face me and sighs. “I guess it’s just our curse.”

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Sure.”

“Your breasts are gorgeous. Did you have them done?”

She mocks an offended expression. “No way, baby. These are all mine.”

“But… how?”

“Hormones.” She touches her hip. “Little patch, right there.”

“Wow.” I step back and take a good look. They’re not big, but they look great on her, and they’re perky as hell. Then again, they’re only three years old. “They’re beautiful.”

Janesse beams and practically dances into the stockroom. The bell on the front door rings and Mr. Trimble comes in. I make no eye contact as I walk to the charcoals, pull out a box for him, ring it up at the register, and accept his ready four dollars and eighty-six cents. He leaves without telling me to fuck off. I consider this a win-win.

A moment later Janesse comes back from the stock room with a box full of oil paints for me to stock.

“Why doesn’t he ever buy paper?” I ask.

“Hmmm?”

“Mr. Trimble. Twice a week, with the charcoals. No paper.”

“Baby,” Janesse says, “there are some people you just don’t ask questions about, and Mr. Trimble is one of them.”

I accept this and take the box of oil paints. Janesse and I hum companionably to the Sting song on the radio as we stock the oils and I find myself, for the second time that day, smiling involuntarily. As I stock, I try to recall the last time I caught myself smiling like that. I can’t remember.

Janesse closes the shop at seven, and we say goodnight and head our separate ways. Instead of heading straight back to my cabin, I wander through the winding streets of town. I’m charmed by it, really. In Tucson, everything is laid out on a grid, which makes it easy to find your way around, but that’s it. In Bilby, the roads go in the direction they damn well want to, and that’s it. Like it or lump it.

I pass by Miner’s Inn, a tremendous red brick structure that was originally built as a boarding house for miners during the heyday of the copper and silver boom, before the town got mined out. I continue down the road, winding ever slowly upwards toward the foot hills, and realize that everything in Bilby used to be something else. The library used to be a mercantile store. The restaurant used to be a post office. It was like the whole town had been towered, rebuilding itself into an artsy retirement community after the mines dried up. I wonder if it was an accident that I ended up here, or if I was drawn here by the energy of a place that wouldn’t say die.

I turn down the other end of the street and start back toward Art’s Desire, where my car is parked. I stop at the town’s sole stoplight and look around. Gladys and Mack, the retired couple who own the independent bookshop, The Town Bookie, are standing outside, putting up Christmas lights. Gladys has the lights strung all over her arms and they twinkle as she gestures at Mack, who stands on the ladder and ignores her. I smile as I watch them, then the light turns green and I continue on my way.

Will leaves for Ottawa the next day. He doesn’t drop in to say goodbye to me before he leaves, which disappoints me but which I decide is a good thing. Maybe I misread the whole hike-out-to-the-flat-rock thing. Maybe he was just being friendly. Although, there was this moment when he walked me home where I thought he might be thinking about kissing me, but that could have been my imagination.

It’s definitely a good thing he didn’t stop by to say goodbye, I decide. The last thing I need now is another complication. And, if anything did happen with Will, how can I say I wouldn’t end up doing exactly the same thing as I did with Christopher? And Seth?

“Do you think people can be… broken?” I ask Allegra as I dice shallots on the tiny kitchen island in the apartment over the café which she shares with her two daddies. Allegra invited me over so I could provide moral support when she tells James and Sebastian she wants to move to New York City and become a stockbroker; I’m beginning to think that was just a ruse to get me to do the dinner prep work.

“You’re not broken,” Allegra says, biting into a baby carrot as she watches me from her perch on the kitchen counter.

“I didn’t ask if I was broken. I asked if you thought people could be broken.” I swipe the diced shallots into a small glass dish as instructed by Sebastian before he and James went into the living room to argue over the evening’s music selection.

“You’re not broken,” Allegra repeats. Mozart plays from the other room; Sebastian won the music war. “You’re just a little dented.” She quirks a brow at me. “Nothing a little hammering won’t cure.”

I roll my eyes and reach for the garlic. “Do you ever stop thinking about sex?”

She throws up her hands and reaches for another carrot. “Hey, I’m not the one who had the fire dream.”

“What fire dream?” James says as he scoots into the room. He’s tall with dark hair and a patrician nose. If Allegra would let the pink grow out of her hair and lighten up on the eyeliner, she’d look just like him.

“Nothing,” I say, focusing my energy on the garlic. “Just a dream.”

“Who had a dream?” Sebastian says, following James into the crowded kitchen. He looks pointedly at Allegra. “And why is our guest doing all the work?”

Allegra hops off the counter and pivots around me to get plates for the table. “Carly had a dream that her bed was on fire.”

Two sets of male eyebrows lift in unison. I chop the garlic.

“It wasn’t a big deal.” I can feel my face reddening. I reach for my wine and take a big gulp.

“And while her bed was on fire, she was in her living room with a strange man who kept telling her it’s going to be just fine,” Allegra calls over her shoulder as she sets the table. I take another drink of wine.

It wasn’t a strange man. It was Will. And at this moment I am thrilled beyond the telling of it that I didn’t share that bit with Allegra.

“Ohhhh,” James says knowingly, and he and Sebastian share a look.

“It was totally a sex dream,” Allegra says, then turns to James. “Carly thinks she’s broken.”

“I didn’t say me,” I start, but James cuts in.

“No, definitely not broken,” he says, quirking his head to the side as he watches me. “Just stalled. How long have you been celibate?”

I turn a look on Allegra.

“Don’t blame me,” she says, holding up her hands. “I’m just a product of my environment.”

James laughs. “Oh, you don’t have to tell us. But a bed on fire? That’s a been-too-long dream. If you’re celibate by choice, maybe you should reconsider. And if you’re not, there’s a great straight bar in Douglas—”

“You know, I think we should talk about the stock market,” I say, and Allegra stops setting the table.

“Okay,” she says, straightening her posture. “We can do that.”

James gives a little laugh. “What? Talk about the stock market? All those greedy little bastards cutting each other’s throats trying to make more money for someone who already has too much?”

Sebastian rolls his eyes and snorts, but they both slowly grow silent as Allegra stays strong and tall.

“I’ve been accepted to NYU,” she says finally. “I start in their business program in the fall, and I want to be a stockbroker.”

Both James and Sebastian freeze. I’d crawl under something if there was something to crawl under in their tiny kitchen, but the best I can do is just stay very still. To be honest, I’m not sure they remember I’m there, anyway. Allegra’s chin rises a notch, and she looks about as determined as I’ve ever seen anyone.

“As two gay men who had to move two thousand miles away from home in order to gain some acceptance, I don’t think I need to tell you how important it is to be understanding of alternative life choices.”

Allegra is so strong and confident that I can’t believe she even needed me here. Until, that is, I see that the hand clutching the forks is shaking a little. When I look up, I catch her eye and smile. She smiles back.

Finally, after what feels like a really long pause, James walks over to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Do you think doing this will make you happy?”

Allegra’s smile widens, and she nods. Sebastian joins them and sniffles as he pulls Allegra into a hug.

“They’ll make you lose the pink hair,” he says mournfully.

“They won’t if she’s good enough,” I say. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t know anything about Wall Street. But as all three of them look at me, I realize that for possibly the first time in my life, I’ve said the exact right thing at the exact right time. They share a smile, and then each of them gets back to work. After a long, companionable silence, James is the first to speak.

“So, back to Carly’s celibacy…” he begins, and we all laugh. As I approach the table to take my seat, Allegra reaches out and squeezes my hand, a perma-smile bright in her eyes. For the moment, I think maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not entirely broken.

Just dented is okay. Just dented is workable.

I can be just dented.

***

Thanksgiving comes quickly, and up until the day, I’ve managed to not think too much about the fact that my dad hasn’t called and invited me home for the holiday. I don’t know if I would have accepted, but the fact that he hasn’t called is like a splinter burrowed under my skin that I can’t get out. It bothers me with every movement I make. I spend the morning being cranky with everything, including both my coffeemaker and toaster, telling each to bite me within the span of ten minutes. Art’s Desire is closed, which means there’s no Mr. Trimble to abuse and distract me, no Janesse to compare myself to and fall short of. I decide to hike out to the Big, Flat Rock of Perspective, but getting blisters and swallowing bugs just isn’t as much fun without Will, and I only get about a third of the way there before heading back. I am restless. I am irritable.

It’s only ten in the morning.

On my way back to my little cabin, I stop by Brandy’s. I hold my finger over the doorbell, determined to try it and see if it doesn’t zap me again. But before I get the chance, Brandy opens the door. She is wearing a white apron over a long-sleeved red dress. Her hair is pulled back from her face, and she’s wearing makeup. She smiles when she sees me.

“Hey, Carly,” she says. “What’s up?”

“I was just, uh, stopping by to let you know that, uh…” I am distracted by the look of the cabin behind her.

It’s clean. Nary a quilt anywhere. Wow. I look back at Brandy.

“I don’t think I can come tonight,” I say. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

Her smile doesn’t so much as flicker. “No, you’re not.”

I am surprised. I mean, obviously, I’m lying, but you don’t call people on their excuses in polite society. It simply isn’t done.

Then again, it’d probably help if I didn’t try to lie to a psychic.

Brandy smiles at me with warmth and compassion. “It’s going to be hard for you today, I know. This is your first Thanksgiving without your family, right?”

A rush of heat flows into my face, behind my eyes, and suddenly I really want to cry. I can’t believe she’s trying to make me cry. That’s so mean.

“That’s not it,” I say, and sniffle. “I think it’s really just a cold. I might be running a fever and I don’t want to get everyone else sick, so I’m just gonna—”

I am stopped by Brandy reaching out and pulling me to her. She kisses my forehead, and pulls back.

“98.6. You’re fine.”

“Brandy.” I swipe at the lipstick that’s surely on my forehead. “I do not feel well. I’m going to go home and rest. Thank you for your invitation, but I just wanted you to know there will be one less guest for you to worry about.”

Brandy holds up her finger. “Wait here.” She disappears into the house, the screen door banging shut decisively as I stand there, feeling like a child. I tell myself I should just walk away, get up and leave, it’d serve her right, bossy little psychic, but then she returns and stuffs an apron into my hand.

“If you think I’m going to let you go back to that little cabin by yourself and wallow all day when there’s a perfectly good party happening here, well darling, you’ve got another think coming.” She gives me a look of annoyance as I stand there dumbly with the apron in my hand, and finally she grabs it and hooks the neck loop over my head. “What you need is something to do, and as it turns out, I need help. Now go in, get yourself a glass of wine, and let’s get to work.”

She steps out, holding the screen door open and pointing into the house. For a reason I’ll never fully understand, I enter as ordered.

“Wine?” I say over my shoulder to her as I head back toward her kitchen area, which is covered with canvas grocery bags filled to spilling. “It’s not even noon.”

She eyes me with confusion. “Aren’t you Catholic?”

“Yeah,” I say. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well… your people drink at Church, right?” She gives a small shrug. “I just didn’t think you’d be so provincial about this sort of thing.”

“I’m not being provincial—” I begin, but she ignores me, whipping a wineglass from a cabinet with one hand and swooping a bottle of red wine off the counter with the other.