The Fortune Quilt (3 page)

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts off down the street, heading toward the bus stop a block and a half away. I step out from behind Will and watch as Seth veers down the sidewalk, head down and shoulders hunched.

“You weren’t actually going to hit him, were you?”

Will shrugs. “I think there’s a chance I would have gotten in a swing or two before he pummeled me, sure.”

I let out a small laugh. “You didn’t have any alcohol in your car, did you?”

His eyes meet mine, and there’s a twinkle of a smile there. “There’s some Nyquil in the glove compartment, but I think it’s expired.”

I laugh again, and then my smile fades as my eyes trail after Seth.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

I feel a light touch on my elbow. I turn my head to see Will staring down at me, his face full with kindness and concern.

“You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I know we don’t know each other very well,” he says gently, “but if you want to talk…”

His eyes are a crystalline blue, and in the sun, they seem to sparkle on their own power. They’re exactly the eyes you want to pour your soul out to. Soft. Kind. Smiling. Nice eyes.

I look away. There will be no soul-pouring today. I’m just not that kind of girl.

“You know what I don’t get?” I say to fill the silence. “What I don’t get is why people even get married in the first place. I mean, it can only end in one of two ways, right? Death or divorce. That’s it. Why do that to yourself?”

Will chuckles. “That’s quite an attitude to have on the day of your sister’s wedding.”

I allow a small smile. “Believe it or not, this is my sunny side.”

Dimples show through his light stubble as he smiles back at me. “I don’t believe it.”

“You calling me a liar?” I ask in mock offense.

“Yeah,” he says, a chuckle in his voice. “I guess I am.”

I feel my cheeks start to warm, which means I’ve already started blushing, so I look away just in time to catch the show as Seth bangs his fist against the “Tucson Citizen” ad on the side of the sun shelter down the street. My shoulders flinch as the sound shoots through the air. Will’s hand touches my arm again and I turn to see him holding out an unopened travel package of Kleenex at me. I stare at him.

“Where’d that come from?”

“I was a boy scout.” He shrugs. “I’m always prepared.”

“Thanks. But I’m okay. Really.”

He nods, tucks the Kleenex back into his breast pocket. We’re silent for a beat. I switch my focus to the heavy cathedral doors and decide not to go back in; the wedding’s almost over, anyway. And it’s lovely outside, the October sun bright but not blistering. If I wasn’t coming off one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, standing here with Will might even be kinda nice.

On that thought, I glance back at Will. Our eyes meet, and he seems about to say something when the church doors open. The guests fly out, parting like the Red Sea to allow Ella and Greg passage to their limo, a rain of birdseed bouncing off their wedding finery. Will and I watch from the edge of the revelry. Ella pauses and looks around before getting in the limo, stopping when her eyes fall on me. She gives a small wave, and I can see the concern in her face. I blow her a kiss to show her all is well. She catches it in the air, her face once again beaming with happiness, and climbs in the limo.

A fresh wave of confusion, anger and embarrassment washes over me, and I have a sudden and overwhelming need to escape. I lower my head and duck behind the church, making my way to the parking lot, cursing as the heels of my sage pumps flip under me, making me stumble like a drunk.
I’m not supposed to be doing that until the reception
, I joke to myself, but it doesn’t relieve any of the bad I’m feeling.

“Carly?” I hear a voice call from behind me. I stop next to a Palo Verde tree and shade my eyes for a moment to see Will heading toward me. I’m grateful for his help and all, but I’m in no mood to play hunky-dory for a stranger.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Really, thanks, but—”

He catches up and ducks his head down a bit to level our eyelines, his concerned expression only intensifying my humiliation.

“I just want to make sure you get to your car okay,” he says, pulling back. “Looks like your shoes are staging a coup.”

I stop walking and turn to face him. “It’s not the shoes. It’s me. I stumble barefoot. It’s just…” I huff, the air from my mouth shooting hair up from my forehead. “It’s me.”

His eyes narrow a bit in concern. “Are sure you’re okay?”

“Why do people ask if you’re okay? I mean, if they have to ask, you’re obviously not okay, right?” I stare at him. “Right?”

He squints in the sun. “There’s no right answer to that question, is there?”

“Fine,” I say. “No. I’m not okay. My sister’s wedding has just been ruined. I’ve been thoroughly humiliated in front of two hundred and seventeen people. Two hundred and eighteen, if you include Father Lucey. And then there’s Seth…” I trail off and sigh. It’s no use trying to explain Seth and me to Will. I don’t have a solid grasp on it myself. I shake my head and feel a sudden wave of despair, and I am speaking before I can censor myself.

“I gave him his ring back. Why can’t he just get over it?”

Will takes an obvious moment forming his response. Jeez. I must really be scary right now.

“Sometimes…,” he begins, then pauses. “I don’t know. Sometimes people have a hard time getting over things they don’t understand.”

“So, what?” I say. “Now it’s my fault because he doesn’t understand?”

“No. I just… No.” He clears his throat. “Hey, want some Nyquil?”

I stare at him for a moment, then break into a sudden laugh. He really is a nice guy. And cute. And funny. And…

… and it’s then that I realize I’ve been none of those things.

“Wow,” I say. “Call Ripley. I believe I’ve just made the worst first impression, ever. Can we start over?”

His smile quirks. “I’d like that.”

I hold out my hand. “Hi. I’m Carly McKay.”

“I know.” He takes my hand in his. His touch is warm and soft and oddly comforting, which makes me oddly uncomfortable. “I’m Will Kelley.”

“Yeah. I know.”

We release hands after a moment, keeping our eyes on each other. People begin to filter into the parking lot, seeming not to notice us standing in the scanty shade of the Palo Verde.

“Well.” I gesture feebly toward my car. “I’m gonna find Five and… Are you going to the reception?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m on my way out of town. I’ve got an assignment tonight.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I’m a photographer.” He glances at a little blue sedan driving past us, then looks back to me. “Mostly catalogs, some magazine work, that kind of thing.”

“A photographer,” I say. “Nice job.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” he says, then gestures toward me. “Hey, Ella said that you’re a producer on
Tucson Today
. That’s pretty exciting, right?”

“Associate producer.” I smile. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”

“It’s a good show. I try to watch it when I can.”

“Thanks. We’re pretty happy with it.” I pause, not sure where to take the conversation next as I marvel again at how very blue his eyes are. “So, you’re not an artist anymore?”

“Hmm?”

“Ella told me you were an artist.”

“Oh.” He smiles. “Yeah, I paint a bit. But the photography pays the bills.”

I smile, and feel a sudden surge of affection for Will Kelley. “So, what’s your assignment?”

He blinks, as though he’d been thinking about something else and has to now get back on track. “Oh. Yeah. I’m heading out to Denver to—”

“Will!” Five calls, rushing toward us. Will laughs and catches her in a hug, lifting her off the ground.

“Fiver!” he says, putting her down and giving her hair a playful ruffle. “How you doing, kid?”

Five steps back from him and smoothes her hair, then gives him her best come-hither. “Not a kid anymore.”

Will laughs and raises his eyebrows at me. “I stand corrected.”

“You’ll dance with me at the reception, right?” Five asks, tucking her arm in his.

“Sorry, Fiver,” he says, patting her tiny hand in the crook of his elbow and giving her a brotherly peck on the top of her head. “I’ve got a flight to catch. Rain check?”

Five gives a small pout. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” He winks at Five, then gives me a small nod. “It was nice meeting you, Carly. Pass my congratulations on to Ella?”

I nod. Will smiles, then walks away. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Five sighs and leans against me.

“Oh, I love that man,” she breathes.

“He’s nice.”

“Did you see his eyes?” she asks, still entranced.

“Yeah,” I say. Suddenly, Five returns to the moment and grabs both of my arms, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Oh. My. God. Carly! I can’t believe what happened with Seth! I had no idea it was gonna be him, or I so totally would have told you. Are you okay?”

I give her a bright smile and put my arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward my car.

“Now that my designated driver is here, I’m doing much better.” I toss my keys to her and she catches them without missing a beat. “Get me to the reception, kiddo. I need a drink.”

Two

“It’s not that I don’t believe in the possibility of psychic ability. Anything’s
possible
.” I sip my Circle K soda and lean back in the van, which Christopher and I had long ago nicknamed The Blueberry for its overwhelming blueness, inside and out.

“
You
believe in psychics?” Christopher says, shooting a sideways smile at me. “You, who thinks the Easter Bunny is a sinister creation of the jelly bean conglomerate?”

I shoot a smile back at him and slide my sunglasses on. “I never said sinister. But, yes, I believe there are things in this world that I cannot explain. My sister has precognitive dreams, and I believe her.” I stare out the window and think, for the thousandth time in the past week, of Seth at the wedding. “More now than I used to.”

Christopher keeps his eyes on the pale, dusty stretch of road that will soon be delivering us to the small artist community of Bilby, Arizona and the home of one Brandywine Seaver, psychic quiltmaker.

“Which sister?”

“Hmmm?” I say, distracted by a handmade roadside sign that reads, hand-dyed exotic underwear for sale
.

“Which sister has the dreams?”

“Oh. Five.”

“Ah. Should have guessed. And what has she predicted?”

“Dad’s car accident. The horse that fell on Ella.”

“A horse fell on Ella? When did a horse fall on Ella?”

“When she was seventeen. Toy horse. Doesn’t matter. My point is, I’m not saying people can’t have psychic ability. But in general, anyone who takes money from the sad and desperate is inherently suspect.” I flip through my notebook, glancing again at the newspaper article about a spinster and her psychic quilt, which she was convinced was her roadmap to love. “And this particular instance of psychic whatnot is obviously a steaming crock of—”

“All right,” Christopher says. “I get it. Whatever happened to objectivity in journalism, anyway?”

“Like government intelligence, baby.” I give him a sideways glance over the top of my sunglasses. “Contradiction in terms.”

“
Ba-doo-boom-chaaa
.” Christopher smirks as he delivers the comedy rim shot sound effect that marks all our age-worn routines. He pulls The Blueberry to a stop in the driveway at 442 Copper Trail. I check it against the address on my clipboard. This is Brandywine Seaver’s house.

“Brandywine,” I say, flipping the papers back down. “If ever someone was born to deceive the masses, this chick is it.”

Christopher pivots toward me in his seat, which ain’t easy for a guy his size. He’s not fat, but he’s got some bulk to him, and when he turns on me, I feel like a kid about to be scolded.

“Look, cut the smart-ass shit. I’m tired of playing the nice guy while you cut people to shreds.”

“I don’t cut people—” I say, about to once again defend myself on the incident with that shyster malpractice attorney—who deserved everything he got, by the way—but Christopher holds up a hand to silence me.

“Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” I huff, and hop out of The Blueberry, stumbling a bit as my Keds connect with the gravel driveway. I hear Christopher chuckling behind me, following up with his standard, “For someone so close to the ground, you sure have a lot of gravity issues, McKay.”

“
Ba-doo-boom-chaaa
,” I mutter, slamming the door behind me as I regain my balance. I tuck the sunglasses up on top of my head and check out our location. It’s a medium-sized two-story log cabin set into the base of the foothills, which rise up behind it like bodyguards. The property is marked by a white picket fence surrounding a rock lawn painted green. The rock lawn itself isn’t that unusual in Arizona, where water conservation is always an issue. The green paint, however, is a little too precious for my taste. There are two walkways laid out with flat white rocks—one leading from the driveway to the house, and the other winding around to the back, where it cuts a path through a mass of palo verde and creosote and heads for the foothills. There’s a sign at the corner of the picket fence that reads, rentals available, inquire inside.