The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches (12 page)

The closing prayer is happening before I know it and it suddenly occurs to me that I've been almost as brave as Moses today because I've gone to church. I mean, it's not doing Splash Mountain without a cart, but the walls didn't collapse on me and no one pointed a finger at me and asked me what I was daring to do here. No, it was okay.

Quinn is taking me up to meet the minister before I can stop him.

“Oh, you've brought a guest today,” the minister says to Quinn and then he turns to me. The minister is a man of about sixty. “We're happy to have you with us, Miss…?”

“Davidson,” I say. “Marilee Davidson.”

“If there's anything the church can do for you, don't hesitate to let me know.” The minister shakes my hand. “My name's Pastor Engstrom, by the way.”

Wow. That's a pretty big offer. “Do many people ask for help?”

“Some,” the minister says. He keeps talking to me while he shakes Quinn's hand. “And sometimes people just have questions. I never mind trying to answer a question.”

I don't know when I will go to a church next so I figure now is my chance. “Are any of the questions about heaven?”

The minister nods. He's focused completely on
me now. “Some people just wonder what it will be like.”

“Do you think there will be trees?”

The minister smiles. His eyes don't waver from mine even though a line of handshakers is forming behind Quinn and me. “I think we'll have all of the good things we love down here up there—it's just that things will be bigger and better.”

That sounded okay to me.

“I tell people it's going to be like switching from black-and-white to full-color television,” the minister adds. “It's not so much that everything will be unfamiliar, it will just be more wonderful than anything we've seen before.”

Well, that's even better. I watched enough daytime television when I was sick to know what black-and-white looked like. There were enough old reruns to give me a real good idea of how people must have felt when they saw their first color television program.

“If you have more questions, I have a group of people who come to my office early Thursday mornings to learn about the Bible. You're welcome to join us.”

“I'm not a Christian,” I say.

The minister shrugs. “Neither are half of them. They're just curious.”

That doesn't sound so bad. “Well, I'm certainly curious.”

The minister smiles. “See you Thursday at eight o'clock. My office is to the side of the main part of the church. Can't miss it.”

“Okay,” I say.

The minister shakes my hand again and, before you know it, Quinn and I are outside in the open air.

I must admit I am pleased with how this whole going-to-church thing went.

“Church was easy,” I say to Quinn as we walk to the parking lot.

Quinn looks over at me. “I'm not sure it's meant to be easy.”

“Well, if you want people to come and join you, it should be easy.”

We are standing beside Quinn's car and he opens the passenger door for me. “Take that Bible course with the pastor for a month or so and you'll know why it isn't so easy.”

“I don't think you should be discouraging me.”

Quinn grins. “I'm not discouraging you—I'm trying to make it sound intriguing. I'm afraid you might be bored if it sounds easy.”

You know, Quinn is right. I'm a little surprised to realize it. Being easy was one of my problems all along with heaven. It just sounded too boring and easy. I much prefer a little Splash Mountain thrown in. I'm kind of glad church isn't really as easy as I thought.

Quinn takes me to a place that has Chinese food
and we have egg rolls and shrimp in black bean sauce for lunch.

“What's your fortune cookie say?” Quinn asks.

I read the white paper. “I will find new insights if I look closely.”

I look across the table at Quinn, wondering if I will find new insights about him. It's a lazy Sunday afternoon and I'm not sure I want new insights. I'm still pondering the old ones—well, the ones from this morning at any rate.

Insight number one is that Quinn is a good kisser. Insight number two is that I'm not so very happy to be going out with the grill guy tonight.

Isn't that just how life is? When you get the guy you've wanted forever, you want someone new—even if that someone new might not be interested in you now that the guy you wanted forever has asked you out for coffee.

It takes me a moment to notice that Quinn is holding his fortune, too.

“How about yours? What does it say?”

Quinn chuckles. “It says a friend will give me great riches.”

“I think that was supposed to be my fortune cookie,” I say.

“There's nothing wrong with insights.”

I wonder if Quinn would still say that if he knew I was looking at him, hoping for those insights. I am very aware that Quinn is not the
usual kind of a guy. I'm not sure I've ever met a man like him.

I suddenly hope the friend who's going to give him great riches isn't some other woman.

T
he odd thing about the Sisterhood is that we never talked much about the bond between us. We talked about everything else—our cancer, our fears, our hopes. But we never talked about our growing friendship, not even on the night when Rose brought this quote to us.

At first, I thought it was because we worried that, if we talked about it, the bond growing between us would dissolve and blow away like dust. Finally, I realized it wasn't that at all. We didn't talk about our friendship because it was the one sure rock in our shifting landscape. We didn't need to talk about it; we
didn't need to question it or applaud it. It was just there. We were the Sisterhood. That's all we needed to know.

 

Don't ask me why I'm thinking about friendship tonight while I'm in my office getting ready to meet the grill guy, but I am—big-time. Maybe it's because I'm looking at this journal. You know, the one you're reading. It's just a notebook kind of a journal with a cardboard aqua cover like something you would use in school.

The thing I'm noticing about the notebook now, though, is how many pages have been folded down or clipped shut so that no one else can read them. Those are all secret pages and we've never had secrets in the Sisterhood before.

I'm as guilty as anyone. I folded down some pages I didn't want Carly to read. Plus a few for Lizabett, as well. And it was all because I was writing about men, first Randy and then Quinn.

I never thought any man would mess up the Sisterhood. But I'm beginning to wonder if it's happening now. What other reason would there be for so many secrets?

To make it even worse, I can't decide what to do about my date tonight with Randy. I wish I hadn't agreed to meet him for coffee. I wish I could keep this date a secret, but—despite all those folded pages—the Sisterhood has never been about secrets.

I'm tempted to find some excuse to cancel the date and not even tell anyone it was ever an option, but the Sisterhood has never been about cowardice, either.

I would call off my date tonight if Carly liked the grill guy. That would be a good, acceptable reason to cancel it—at least in my mind—I would tell Randy I couldn't get away from the diner.

But, from her remarks yesterday at the ball game, I don't think Carly likes him. Not in that way. She wouldn't complain the way she did about a man she liked. Even if she was angry at him, she would be silently loyal. That's the way Carly has been as long as I have known her.

Becca, now—well, Becca is a different story, and if she had spent any time at all with Randy, I would worry about her feelings. But she's so caught up in that internship, I don't think she's given the grill guy a second thought.

And Lizabett—well, no, I can't see Lizabett worrying about the grill guy.

Which pretty much means the only one who will be troubled if I go out with the grill guy is me. And I guess there's no point in keeping a secret from myself.

So in the spirit of openness, I am going to e-mail the Sisterhood and tell them about my date. I spent months whining about the grill guy when we first started knitting, and they deserve to know I'm finally having my date.

The earth should be shifting on its axis. But it's not.

I guess my problem is that I just thought the whole thing would be more fun. I always thought that, if I had been able to go out with the grill guy, the whole evening would have been gold-dusted romance and my heart would have been permanently altered. I thought that date would be a turning point in my life.

It doesn't feel that way anymore. I'd just as soon stay here and write in the journal or read a book or clear some tables. Maybe too much time has passed since I was hot for the grill guy—no pun intended, by the way. Maybe my enthusiasm just got worn down by waiting. Maybe—and I'm not willing to swear to this—the grill guy never was my dream guy after all.

Wow. Did I really write that down in black and white? Life is sometimes peculiar, isn't it?

As I've been standing here thinking and writing in the journal, I've been putting silver dangling earrings in my ears and fancy shoes on my feet. Lipstick colors my lips and my cheeks have a nice blush. I check myself in the mirror and I look good—ready for any date.

I wish I could dress my attitude up as easily as I prettied up the rest of me, but from where I stand now the best part of going out with Randy is that I will be able to chalk one up for my Sisterhood goal.

Speaking of which, I better send that e-mail.

I sit down at my computer and begin to type. I keep it short: Goal in process. Coffee with the grill guy tonight. It will be date number one. That leaves 4 more days for 2 more dates. Looking for a busboy for date #2. Wish me luck.

I know that's going to get some reactions about my counting, but I have decided not to count any of my times with Quinn. I'm confused about how many dates, if any, we've had, and I refuse to count them anyway. I don't want to look at him as just a number on the way to meeting my goal. Quinn's my friend. He deserves better than to be a notch on some dating belt.

Of course, I suppose Randy does, too. Now, that's a thought to depress me. Since when have I, Marilee Davidson, been a user? And with the grill guy? What's my world coming to?

I put my jacket on and walk to the door of my office. Maybe Randy will want to make it an early night, too. I walk out into the main part of The Pews. Uncle Lou already knows where I'm going, so he waves at me from the counter. “Just make sure he walks you back here if it's late.”

Uncle Lou doesn't want me walking down Colorado Boulevard alone after nine o'clock. Before that time, all of the businesses are open. Around nine a few start to close down and then more follow.

“I won't be that long,” I say as I start moving toward the door.

I walk halfway to the door before I turn around. “There's a lot of people here tonight,” I say to Uncle Lou. “Maybe I should cancel this coffee thing and help Annie wait tables. I can call Randy on his cell phone.”

“There's no more people than usual. We'll do fine.”

“I'll come back early,” I say as I walk toward the door of The Pews.

“No need. Have some fun.”

Yeah.

Colorado Boulevard is lit up at night. There are restaurants and little boutiques all of the way up and down the street. Half of the restaurants have outside seating so the sound of people laughing and having a good time spreads over the whole street. It feels good just to be outside hearing it all. Someone is playing a saxophone in one of the restaurants and the sound pours out onto the street. I think I can even see a few stars—or maybe it's just the lights on top of Mount Wilson.

Randy is waiting for me at the coffee place. I notice him right away. I've got eyes. I can see he's looking fine. His black shirt makes his stormy gaze look deeper and more mysterious and brooding than ever. There's a blond woman sitting alone at the counter, and she is just waiting to see if someone joins him. I know. I see her scowling at me as I walk toward his table.

Okay, this is it, I tell myself as I wait for some
thing to click inside me. Maybe I was slow to get excited, but this is the real thing. There's still no click. I suddenly begin to worry about what I will say to this man while we drink our coffee. And how long do we need to sit here? Is an hour long enough for a coffee date?

I sit down.

I hope I'm going to have fun writing all of this down for you later, because a closer look at Randy's face tells me neither one of us is going to have loads of fun tonight.

At least the coffee will be strong. I order a Colombian blend when someone asks me what I want.

I love the smells of all of the coffees and the place is full of windows and plants. I mention that one of the plants is a particularly fine-looking philodendron. Randy nods in agreement.

Our first twenty minutes are pathetic. We are reduced to actually talking about the coffee. Does anyone really do that? You know, listing the benefits of freshly ground beans and wondering if certain flavors add or detract from a good cup of coffee. We could be a commercial for coffee—and not one of those glamorous commercials with the attractive people sipping coffee before beginning their exciting days.

No, we are more like an ad for some cable station that can't afford actors so they use someone's cousins who don't know what to say and there's
nothing extra for a stage or makeup or even a really good cup of coffee for inspiration.

You don't want to be there.

Once we finish talking about coffee, Randy begins to relax. Then he starts to complain about Carly and how she is the most confusing woman he's ever met and how she runs hot and cold and every temperature in between.

“Carly?” I say at the last bit. The Carly I know is more even-tempered than anyone I've ever met. She never snaps or yells or confuses people. “You mean our Carly?”

“Yeah,” the grill guy says, and he broods some more.

I take another sip of my coffee. Humm, this is interesting.

“Maybe she's coming down with something,” I finally say, to give Randy some comfort. The guy looks miserable.

“Yeah?” Randy perks up at this. “Do you think that's why she wouldn't go out with me?”

“I don't know. When did you ask her out?”

“Yesterday morning—before we went over to the ball game,” Randy says. “Maybe it's my timing.”

Now who's keeping secrets? I think to myself. Carly hasn't said a word. This adds a whole new light on Carly's attitude at the game. Maybe I didn't read her emotions as well as I thought I had.

“I asked her to go to dinner in the Ritz-Carlton
Dining Room,” Randy continues. “I thought she'd like the place—it's classy and all. Stuffed lobster and atmosphere—that kind of thing. I even called to make reservations. Of course, I had to cancel them later, but…”

I am starting to feel a little stirring of emotion finally. “Did you ask her for tonight?”

Randy nods.

I don't know why that should annoy me, but it does. Carly got an invitation to dinner at the Ritz-Carlton, and I got a cup of coffee. “Maybe she'll change her mind.”

Randy shakes his head. “All she thinks about is that cat of hers.”

I try to hold on to my indignation about the dinner versus the cup of coffee, but I find I can't. Randy looks too pathetic, and Carly will be so excited. “She is a wonderful person. You wouldn't want to let her get away.”

Randy looks at me oddly. “She said the same thing about you.”

“She did?” For the first time since I've stepped into the coffee place, I feel a genuine smile curling my lips. “Isn't that nice of her?”

I can always count on the Sisterhood.

“Yeah, real nice,” Randy says as he takes another gulp of coffee. He sets his cup down.

I am feeling pretty good about now. “I think if you ask Carly out again, she might say yes.”

“Really?” Randy is looking interested now.

I nod.

“I thought maybe I'm not rich enough for her,” Randy finally says. “You saw that house.”

“Oh, yeah.” I didn't add that I even counted the chandeliers. And noticed the maid with the uniform. And did a quick appraisal of the value of all that land in the heart of one of the most expensive neighborhoods in all of Los Angeles County.

“I grew up in Fontana,” Randy says. “Nobody has a house like that out there.”

“No, I suppose not.”

I can see Randy is working his way through his fears.

“Carly's not a snob,” I say. “She's reserved, but she's not all about money.”

Randy nods.

“Maybe next time just ask her to meet you for coffee,” I say. “Start out a little smaller. Don't put so much pressure on both of you.”

I know I sound a little like Dear Abby, but that's the way I'm feeling so I go with it.

By now Randy is grinning wide enough to make the woman at the counter look at me as though she's wondering what my secret is. I just smile at her. Who knew I had it in me to bring a look like that to the grill guy's face? The woman at the counter doesn't need to know the look is courtesy of good advice.

When I get back to The Pews, I come right back to my office so I can write about it all in this journal. I can't believe I waited six years for this date.

The only good part of the date was the realization that Randy isn't interested in me any more than I am interested in him. Well, that and the fact that I am genuinely one hundred percent happy for Carly. I can't wait for her to tell us about Randy. We'll have to devote a whole tab in the journal to that. Actually, we don't have any tabbed sections yet, but I think this might warrant one—a large one. Maybe it should even be volume two of this journal thing. That'd be nice. Carly could be in charge of that one.

I help Uncle Lou lockup that night. Lockup is my favorite time of the day and I stay whenever I can. Uncle Lou seems happier than usual tonight. Maybe there is something in the air around here besides smog tonight.

“It's good to see you go out,” he says to me as he puts clean glasses in the rack over the counter. He does that every night. “A young woman like you should have a boyfriend.”

“I don't need a boyfriend to be happy,” I say as I wipe down the counter. I have already completely closed the window blinds.

“You're too serious,” Uncle Lou says. “A boyfriend might make you laugh more.”

I shrug and keep wiping. “I laugh enough.”

“Not everyone is like your parents,” Uncle Lou
says. He finishes with the glasses and starts untying the apron he wears. “Always fighting. Some marriages are about laughing, too.”

Uncle Lou walks me to my car in the parking structure even though he lives in a small apartment over the diner so this means he has to walk back to his place afterward. Whenever he does this, he says it's good to stretch his legs.