Threading the Needle (27 page)

Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: Threading the Needle

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Tessa

February

T
he holiday season had put us in the black for the year, but barely. As I sat next to Lee at the kitchen table after dinner to go over the books, I could see the writing on the wall. The Christmas bump was over. Sales in January were even slower than the year before.

And so I faced a choice: soldier on through the winter in hopes that the spring tourist season would lift our sales and max out my credit line in the process, incurring more debt at sixteen percent interest, or cut bait now, slash the prices on my remaining inventory, use the proceeds and that slim border of black ink to pay off my creditors, then lock the doors and walk away.

There really wasn't a choice, but to help me save face, Lee pretended there was.

“Babe, if you want to keep going, then we'll just figure out a way to do it. Things'll work out somehow.”

He said it with such conviction that for a moment, I almost believed it was possible. I certainly wanted it to be. But no amount of wishful thinking could trump the cold reality of my balance sheet. As far as For the Love of Lavender was concerned, I'd reached a dead end. It was sad. I was sad. But it could have been worse.

That holiday sales spike would allow me to pay off my creditors; I would walk away minus the capital we'd invested in the shop but also minus any additional debtâno small thing. And Josh had called the week before to say that Professor Kleypas had chosen him as one of his three summer research assistants. The experience would be a great addition to his rÃ©sumÃ© and pay enough to cover his tuition for the fall semester. We were so proudâand more than a little relieved. I didn't know what we'd do about tuition for the second semester, but I supposed we'd cross that bridge when we came to it. As my morning devotional recently reminded me, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

Each day has trouble enough of its own. You don't have to be a theologian to know that's true. But a thing may be as true as death and taxes and still be hard to put into practice. I'm a world-class worrier. I always have been.

But it was good to know that at least where Josh was concerned, our worries had been put to rest for the next few months. We were very fortunate. The only downside was that we'd be deprived of Josh's company for the summer and Lee would be deprived of his best farmhand just when he needed him most. But if I wasn't working in the shop every day, I'd be available to help in the fields. I'm not as strong as Josh, but I'm capable.

Lee really was going to need an extra hand this summer. His microgreen business has taken off. The farm brings in enough to cover about three-fourths of our most basic bills without having to dip deeper into our savings. We still can't afford to eat in restaurants, or go on vacation, or buy medical insurance, but we're paying the mortgage, the utilities, the taxesâthe bare necessities.

And things are looking up for the summer growing season too. Seven of Lee's thirteen restaurant customers have already said they want him to supply their summer produce, including greens, vegetables, eggs, and some of my fresh herbs. And they've been willing to sign contracts for minimum orders between May and October to ensure that they are first in line for Lee's produce. It's a win for everyone. The restaurateurs get the pick of the field at a good price and we get a guaranteed minimum income. With that in hand, Lee thinks we can refinance our mortgage and save almost four hundred dollars a month. There isn't much I like about this economy, but I've never seen mortgage interest rates so low. If we can get that refinancing, we'll benefit for years to come.

And so, there it was . . . I'd been granted a tiny opening, a brief window of opportunity in which I could walk away from the business without burdening myself and my family under a mountain of debt and, with hard work and a little luck, earn enough to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads. And, as my mother always used to say, “Enough is as good as a feast.”

Even so . . .

I pushed the pile of papers to the other side of the table. “Enough,” I said. “Time to admit defeat. I have to close the store while we're still more or less whole.”

I got up to clear the table, but Lee leaned forward in his chair, looped his arm around my waist, and pulled me down onto his lap. “Hey. Who's been defeated? Not you. Not ever.”

“Not until now.” I draped my arm over his shoulders and leaned my head against his. “That's what's so hard about this. Not losing the business as much as losing. The business stopped being fun months ago. Now that I've made the decision, it's honestly kind of a relief. But this is the first time I've ever really failed at anything. And it's harder to take because it's also the first time I've ever really taken a big risk. Maybe that's the lesson in all this: Stick to what you know, color inside the lines.”

I sat up straighter and sighed. “Nothing has worked out like I thought it would.”

“What are you talking about?” Lee scoffed. “When you and I started talking about all this we said we wanted to live in a real community; we wanted to escape the cubicle prison, work for ourselves, preferably outdoors and with our hands, and spend more time together.” As he talked, Lee held up a fist, raising one digit for each item on our long-ago wish list until all five fingers were raised.

“We've gotten everything we asked for. And I know it's probably selfish of me, but I'm kind of happy that we'll be working together this summer. And this last item,” he said as he wiggled his little finger. “The part about spending more time together? I meant that. There is no one I'd rather wake up next to, work alongside, and lie down at night with than you, Tessa. I love you, babe. And if I live to be one hundred and ten, there won't be enough hours in the day for us to be together.”

I kissed him lightly on the lips. “Back at you, Mr. Woodruff.”

I got to my feet and resumed clearing the table, but Lee stopped me again, taking the salad plates from my hands.

“It's Friday. You're supposed to be at the quilt shop. Remember?”

“Oh, I don't feel like goingânot tonight. I need to start working out a plan to close the shop. We're going to need to pick a day, notify our accounts, pay off the last of the bills, see about ads and sign-age for a going-out-of-business sale, find a liquidator to buy the display units and fixtures.... Do you have a pen and paper? I'm going to start making lists.”

“Uh-uh,” he said, pushing me away from the table. “Nothing doing. All that can wait. Right now, you need to go to the quilt shop and see your friends. You'll feel better if you do. You know I'm right.”

“But you said you couldn't get enough of spending time with me.”

“True,” he replied, reaching over to pick up my car keys from the kitchen counter. “And while you're off making your quilts, seeing your friends, and finding your smile, I'll be counting the minutes until your return.”

He slapped the keys into my palm with a smile. “Go!”

Tessa

O
ne of the things I like about quilting is that if you make a mistake or decide that the block you were working on didn't turn out as well as you'd hoped, you can just rip out the seam and try again. Margot calls it “unsewing.”

Wouldn't it be nice if all of life were like that?

Lee told me to forget about the store for the moment and just to go out and enjoy myself. It's good advice. But I don't want to enjoy myself. I want to sit around and mentally unsew all the mistakes I made since arriving in New Bern while eating a whole bag of kettle-cooked potato chips and a quart of chocolate ice cream.

That's probably reason enough to stick to my routine. Things are bad enough without adding any extra inches to my backside.

However, if I wanted to avoid calorie-packed temptation, Cobbled Court Quilts was the last place I should have headed. Now that the inn is open and running, Madelyn has become our “Louise,” keeping us well supplied with her home-baked goodies. Though she never sews a stitch, Madelyn makes her presence known, passing plates, filling glasses, offering ideas on fabric combinations and possibilities for embellishing the quilts in progress. She really knows how to work a room, a skill I suppose she picked up during her years as a socialite. And yet, this doesn't feel like that. There is nothing manipulative or obligatory in the way Madelyn interacts with the other women; she just really enjoys their company.

And the feeling is mutual. On those few nights when Madelyn can't attend because she has guests at the inn, she is definitely missed. Of course, it would probably be better for Madelyn if she had to skip quilt circle night more frequently. It's early days yet, but I'm worried about her businessâor lack thereof. It must be scary trying to do all this on her own.

What would I do without Lee? Sorry as I'm feeling for myself right now, I know how lucky I am to have him.

By the time I arrived at the shop, Margot, Virginia, and Abigail were already sitting at their sewing machines, their work spaces strewn with a multicolored and messy collage of fabrics measured out in yards, patches, and scraps. Evelyn, Ivy, and Madelyn stood clustered around a television set that someone had set up near the refreshment table, laughing as they watched a video of Mary Dell Templeton, the host of
Quintessential Quilting
and Evelyn's old friend from her old life back in Texas.

Madelyn and I are the only members of the group who haven't met Mary Dell. She filmed an episode of her show here at the quilt shop a couple of years ago and was a big hit with the locals. People are still talking about it. Since we don't have cable, I've never seen the show, but Evelyn had promised to tape the most recent program for me.

After saying hello to everyone, I went to join Madelyn near the television. “Look who's here!” she exclaimed before turning to the refreshment table. “We were beginning to think you weren't coming. Good thing you showed. I brought your favorite.”

“Brownies? Yes!”

Madelyn smiled as she drew a knife across the already half-empty baking pan and began cutting the remaining brownies into tidy squares.

Of course, everybody likes brownies and just about everybody makes them, but nobody makes brownies like Madelyn. I don't know what she puts in them, but she's got some kind of secret ingredient that makes these brownies far more irresistible than is usual or reasonable. I've had dreams about these things. No kidding.

While Madelyn fussed with the food, I turned to look at the television.

Mary Dell was just as everyone described her, blond and brash and big, not in person so much as in personality. She had big hair, big earrings, and a big, bold smile to match. Next to Mary Dell sat her son and cohost, Howard. Howard, who has Down syndrome, is in his early twenties.

Evelyn explained that Howard chooses all the fabrics for Mary Dell's quilts because he has all the color sense in the Templeton familyâall. And as I caught a glimpse of the neon orange pants that Mary Dell was wearing, I could see what she meant.

“Oh my gosh!” Evelyn laughed and pointed at the screen. “See how Howard's eyes keep shifting over to Mary Dell? He's just dying to rip that leopard scarf off her neck, but he can't. They made a deal: Howard has veto power over quilt fabric, but when it comes to his momma's wardrobe, he has to keep his opinions to himself. Poor Howard! This must make his teeth hurt.”

“Well, those pants are making my eyes hurt,” Abigail commented. “Last time I saw orange that bright was on a traffic cone. Don't they have people to dress her?”

“Mary Dell doesn't pay any attention. She likes how she looks. I think that's part of her appeal. Mary Dell is happy being Mary Dell and it shows. Plus, she's hilarious. Listen to this. . . .”

Evelyn raised the volume a couple of notches as Mary Dell looked into the camera with her bright eyes and wide smile.

“Now, here's a little gardening tip sent in by Bernice Krueger of Moraga, California. Howard?”

Howard cleared his throat and read from a sheet of pink stationery.

“Dear Mary Dell and Howard: If you're looking for a way to lighten heavy soils
and
shield your spouse from the full scope of your fabric habit, consider shredding your old quilt shop receipts and mixing them in with your garden compost. I've been doing this for years and my rose garden is the envy of the neighborhood. In fact, my âMr. Lincoln' hybrid tea roses just won fifty dollars at a local garden show. Know what I did with the prize money? I made more compost supplies. And this wall hanging.”

As Mary Dell laughed and as Howard held up a photo, the camera came in to show Bernice Krueger's quilted version of her award-winning rose.

“Well, that's a good tip, Bernice.” Mary Dell chuckled. “We're going to send you a
Quintessential Quilting
T-shirt for sharing that with us.

“You know, Howard, back when I was married to your daddy, I had that same problem. I just didn't think it was right to burden him with complete disclosure when it came to my fabric purchases.”

Howard nodded solemnly. “You mighta given him a hard attack.”

“Indeed I might, honey. I sure might.” She smiled at her son's malapropism but didn't correct him.

“So, for his own protection, I decided that every time I wrote a check to the quilt shop, I'd just record it in the register as having been written to the grocery store. Well, one night, Donny was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to balance the checkbook, and he was just grumbling to himself and scratching his head. So I said, âWhat's the matter? Won't it add up?' And Donny said, âYeah, it adds up fine, but for the life of me I cannot understand how you can be writing four checks a week for groceries when there isn't one blessed thing to eat in this house!' ”

Mary Dell threw her head back and laughed at her own punch line. Howard joined in.

“Oh, Momma! He should have known what you were up to! I would have.”

“I know you would, darlin', because you know how happy fabric makes me. Now that I'm older and wiser, I wouldn't give the time of day to a man who didn't understand that. A man who can't appreciate a good yard of cotton, can't appreciate me.”

Apparently forgetting they were being filmed, Howard turned to his mother and beamed just as the
Quintessential Quilting
theme song began to play in the background. “Hub-Jay appreciates you
and
a good yard of cotton, doesn't he, Momma? He wouldn't have a hard attack on you!”

Mary Dell's smile froze on her lips. Her eyes darted away from her son's face to the camera. “Well, Howard, it's time for us to go. Can't believe how the time flew! Until next time, remember, behind every good quilter . . .”

Howard finished the line. “. . . is a great big pile of fabric!”

“So get to it, y'all!” Mary Dell winked as the music rose up and the credits started to roll down the screen. Evelyn turned off the video. Abigail looked at her with raised brows.

“Well, well, well,” she said. “What an interesting slipup.”

“Were they taping that live?” I asked.

“Definitely,” Evelyn said and walked to her sewing machine. “I called her the minute it aired. Mary Dell has a beau. Hubble James Hollander, Hub-Jay for short. He's nice and he owns his own business. That's all she'd tell me.”

“A businessman,” Abigail murmured. “That sounds promising. And it sounds as if Howard approves of him.”

“Oh, he'd have to or Mary Dell wouldn't give him the time of day. I don't think Mary Dell even had a date since Donny left, not until now. Howard is her whole life.”

Abigail, who is always careful about her weight, cut one brownie in half and put it on a napkin before carrying it back to her sewing machine. “Chicks do have a habit of leaving the nest. I think it's good that Mary Dell is doing a little something for herself at last.”

“I do too,” Evelyn said and took another brownie for herself, a whole one, and brought it to the ironing board. “She sounded really happy. Hey, Madelyn, when you get a moment can you give me some help with my borders? I was just going to repeat the one I did around the center medallion, but now I'm thinking it looks a little dull. I'd like to find something a little more daring.”

“Sure. Be there in a minute.”

Madelyn thrust a glass of something sweet and bubblyâpros-ecco, I thinkâinto my left hand and a plate piled with dense, gooey brownies into my right. I took a sip of my drink and then, since my left hand was occupied, bent my head down to the brownie plate and took a bite, sighing with satisfaction.

“Fabulous. Definitely made my night. What do you put into these things anyway? And don't go telling me a pinch of this and a pinch of that. You've got some strange secret ingredient in there. What is it?”

Madelyn glanced over her shoulder. Everyone else was hard at work. The steady hum of sewing machines and steamy hiss of Evelyn's iron made it impossible for anyone to overhear our conversation. “It's not my recipe, it's one of Edna's. I found it in her recipe file. I won't tell you the ingredients but I will tell you what she called themâbut only if you promise not to tell Virginia.”

Before I could ask why Virginia would care about what the recipe's title was, Madelyn whispered, “Bourbon Street brownies.”

“There's liquor in there?”

“Kentucky bourbon,” Madelyn affirmed. “Finest kind.”

I fought to keep from laughing. “You're right. We can't tell Virginia. She's a teetotaler.”

“So was Ednaâthat was her story anyway. Did I tell you I found a whole case of empty bottles of âtonic' in the cellar?” Madelyn said with a conspiratorial grin.

“Well, that explains a lot of things.”

“Doesn't it, though?” Madelyn said. “Anyway, don't tell Virginia. There's no actual alcohol in there, it burns off in the baking, but I wouldn't want to upset her. Even Jake said he could have some if he wanted, but he prefers my peach raspberry muffins. I swear I'm going to have to start calling him Muffin Man. He gobbles down at least three every time he comes over. And never gains an ounce. Irritates the heck out of me,” she said with a smile that belied her words.

“So,” I said slowly, “how often is he over at your place?”

“A couple of times a week,” she said casually. “Three or four. If it snows he comes over with the truck to plow my driveway and stays for breakfast. And if I've got guests and need to get out to run errands, he'll come watch the phones for me. And we get together for sushi every other Wednesday.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, stop it, Tessa. Don't look at me like that. We're not dating. We're friends. I like it that way and so does Jake.”

“You sure? I don't know too many men who plow somebody else's driveway out of friendship.”

“I'm sure, so let's talk about something else. Like you. When you came in you looked like you'd lost your best friend, which,” Madelyn said as she reached for the bottle of bubbly and refilled my glass and her own, “we both know is impossible. You're stuck with me for life.”

She touched the rim of her glass to mine before we took another sip. “So, really? How are you?”

“Fine.”

Madelyn tilted her head to the side. “You're going to have to rehearse that a few more times. Not a convincing performance.”

“I don't want to talk about it. I came here to eat brownies, quilt, and forget my problems. Okay?”

“Okay,” Madelyn said.

An old friend knows when you're lying but also knows when to let it lie.

“But when you're ready to talk, you know I'm always ready to listen. Right?”

“Right,” I said with a little smile, knowing it was true.