From Here to Home

by Marie Bostwick

  He wanted Mary Dell to be happy, too, only a hundred times as much.

  And so, during these far-too-brief two days, he would not press, or push, or make demands. He would listen more than he talked; he would give more than he got. He would bide his time and simply be present for her, so that after he left, she might realize that his absence left a hole in her life, the way her absence had left a hole in his.

  At breakfast the next morning, Mary Dell asked him how he wanted to spend the day.

  “Whatever you want,” he answered. “I’m just happy to spend time with you.”

  “I was planning to go down to help Cady at the shop, but I don’t imagine—”

  “Great. What time do we leave?”

  Cady made a face. “Oh, you don’t want to do that, do you? Aunt Mary Dell, take him on a tour of the town, or out for a trail ride, or go on a picnic. We won’t be that busy on a Tuesday. I can mind the store by myself.”

  “No, no,” he said. “I’d really like to go to the shop, Mary Dell. It’ll be fun to see you in action.”

  And it was.

  Hub-Jay knew that Mary Dell was successful and that, over the years, she’d taken what was little more than a hobby teaching quilting to a handful of women in her living room and built a thriving business. But he hadn’t realized that the Patchwork Palace was so big, or the level of business acumen that Mary Dell possessed in being able to keep the operation afloat.

  As soon as Hub-Jay walked through the doors, the businessman in his head immediately began trying to calculate the risks and rewards of the operation. Even though Cady had been managing the store in her absence, when he started quizzing Mary Dell about her carrying costs and returns, she was able to rattle off the figures without hesitation. Cady might be in charge of staffing, schedules, and the like, but Mary Dell was clearly the driving force and brains of the business. She knew, down to the penny, what she’d paid for her inventory of three thousand bolts of fabric as well as threads, notions, tools, pattern books, and such. She also knew exactly what she spent on operating expenses and salaries, what her average per-square-foot sales by year and by month were, and how those sales broke down within the categories of fabric, notions, books, and services, such as quilting classes.

  “Wow. You’re a going concern, aren’t you?” Hub-Jay said.

  Mary Dell rolled her eyes. “Might want to do the math again, Hub-Jay. I think you misplaced a decimal.”

  The point was well taken. While he was genuinely impressed that she was able to keep such a big operation afloat in such a remote location, she obviously wasn’t getting rich. She made a decent living, but not a princely one. So what was her motivation for working so hard? It didn’t take him long to figure it out.

  Mary Dell loved quilts and everything that went into them, passionately. But what she loved most of all was igniting that same passion in others by sharing everything she knew with an open hand and her whole heart. That was her purpose on earth, to teach quilting. Hub-Jay could tell, not just by the way customers made a beeline for her whenever they had a question or problem, but by the way she would drop everything to help them and how her whole countenance lit up when she did.

  At those moments, it was clear to Hub-Jay that Mary Dell loved this part of her job. And, even though her words were only positive, from the way that her face fell and the light left her eyes whenever anyone asked how the filming was going for the new season, it was just as clear that, at least at the moment, filming the TV show was a trial.

  Interesting.

  They didn’t spend the whole of his two days in Too Much at the quilt shop, however. When things got slow in the afternoon, Mary Dell decided she wanted to take him on a tour of the town. “That should take all of ten minutes,” she joked. But it actually took nearly three hours.

  She walked him around the town and the Square, past the Primp ’n’ Perm salon, where Taffy had taken her for an emergency intervention after a disastrous attempt at highlighting her own hair when she was twelve, to Antoinette’s dress shop, where she’d bought her first pair of high heels, and to Hilda’s House of Pie, where she showed him the counter stool that her father occupied during the last years of his life, the place he would drink coffee and swap stories with other gray-headed men whose minds were still agile but whose bodies were breaking down.

  They crossed the street to the Square. She showed him the statue of Flagadine Tudmore and took him through the historical society, which her aunt Velvet had run for so many years.

  Climbing behind the wheel of her Eldorado convertible, she drove him past the pink cottage that Aunt Velvet had shared with her sister, Mary Dell’s grandma Silky, the scene of her first sewing lessons and many of her happiest memories, days spent under the patient and loving tutelage of that worthy old woman. Finally, she took him to the Methodist church, the redbrick building where she’d attended Sunday school and services throughout her childhood and where, barring sickness, she could still be found every Sunday morning.

  After she told him about getting her first kiss from the minister’s second son during a youth group hayride, they strolled through the adjoining cemetery, where he saw tombstones engraved with the names of her Tudmore and Templeton ancestors, some dating back to the 1800s and some more recent, including those of her beloved aunt Velvet, Grandma Silky, her brother-in-law, Graydon, and her father, Dutch.

  “Momma will rest right here next to him,” she said, nodding at an adjacent patch of vacant ground. “And I’ll be next to her, with Lydia Dale and Graydon.”

  She crouched down, quiet but not sad, and pulled a couple of scraggly weeds out from the base of her father’s grave, then rested her hand on top of the headstone.

  “It’s a comfort,” she said, “knowing where I’m headed.”

  “Heaven?”

  She lifted her face to him, and though he could see the crow’s-feet around her eyes, he saw within them the candor and purity of a very young girl.

  “Yes. I believe that’s my soul’s destination, but my bones have to rest somewhere.”

  She pressed her hand to the ground to get to her feet, but Hub-Jay supported her hand and helped her rise. Eyes still cast down, she brushed the earth from her hands. “It’s nice to know that this is my place. Here, with my people.”

  With the sun low in the sky, they returned to the convertible and drove back to the ranch.

  “Now I understand why this place has such a pull on you,” he said. “It’s not just your hometown; it’s your history, the place and people that made you who you are. You must be so happy to be back.”

  She had been nodding slowly, agreeing with his observations, but stopped when he came to that last one.

  “I am,” she said, and then, in a voice that sounded almost surprised, “but not quite as happy as I thought I’d be.”

  “No? Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know.” Her brow creased, as if she was trying to puzzle it out, then quickly pushed the question aside.

  “It’s not important. I’m happy enough.”

  His last day in Too Much, Taffy prepared a big lunch of sliced ham, potato salad, baked beans, homemade rolls, and fresh peach cobbler. When she apologized for the simplicity of the fare, saying that he was probably used to much fancier food, Hub-Jay replied it was as good a meal as he’d ever had and asked if he could have the cobbler recipe to share with his pastry chef. Beaming, she copied it out for him on an index card with a picture of a sunflower in the corner.

  Rob Lee joined them for lunch. Hub-Jay was happy to get a chance to meet him. He was a quiet young man and serious, but they chatted amiably enough. After the meal was done, he volunteered to show Hub-Jay around the ranch while Mary Dell helped Taffy with the dishes. Hub-Jay stowed his overnight bag in his car, then met up with Rob Lee at the barn.

  The F-Bar-T had been founded as a cattle-only operation, Rob Lee told him, but now they raised sheep as well. “It helps spread the risk that way,” he explained. “If beef prices g
o south for a year or two, you might be able to survive on the proceeds of the sheep, and vice versa.”

  “Good idea. Does it work?”

  “Pretty good. Not always. It was my uncle Donny who had the idea. Aunt Mary Dell’s husband.”

  “Ah,” Hub-Jay said. “Sounds like a smart guy.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Rob Lee said. “He didn’t stick around long enough for me to find out.”

  While they were on their tour, a Jeep pulled into the driveway and an absolutely stunning young woman wearing faded jeans, a straw cowboy hat, and a pair of dirt-covered boots that looked as if they’d formerly been white came trotting out to the barn. Holly introduced herself, explaining that she’d come to see her horse, as she did every day.

  Hub-Jay had heard all about Stormy during the previous night’s dinner. He stood outside the paddock, next to Rob Lee, and watched as Holly opened the gate and went inside with Stormy, another horse, and a goat.

  “Watch this,” Rob Lee said out of the side of his mouth, and then spread his feet a bit and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Holly stood at the far end of the paddock with her hands at her sides and clicked her tongue against her teeth. As soon as she did, both horses turned toward her, their ears perked up. The goat bleated and moved immediately toward her with little mincing steps that quickened to a trot. The second horse followed behind at a somewhat slower pace but without the least hesitation. The same could not be said of Stormy, but his reluctance was overcome when Holly pulled three carrots from her pocket.

  He approached cautiously, his steps shorter and more static than the relaxed, fluid gait of his stablemate. He stopped about four feet away, watching the goat and the other horse happily munching their carrots while Holly murmured to the other horse and stroked its neck.

  “This one’s yours,” she finally said, lifting one of the carrots up so Stormy could see it but keeping it fairly close to her body. “All you have to do is come over here and get it.”

  Stormy sputtered, bobbed his head a couple of times, and yawned, making his anxiety and indecision clear. He took one step toward her, then another, and another, until he was standing right next to her. Holly smiled, broke off a piece of the carrot, and held it in her flattened palm. Stormy lowered his muzzle and took the carrot from her hand.

  “Oh, what a good boy,” Holly said in a soft, singsong voice. “What a good, brave boy. Want some more?”

  She broke off another piece of carrot and repeated the procedure, but this time, while Stormy was eating, she took gentle hold of his rope halter with one hand and lifted the other to his neck and started stroking it, just as she had with the other horse. Stormy flinched a bit but permitted it.

  “Will you look at that?” Rob Lee said softly, moving his head from side to side. “Yesterday was the first time he even walked toward her. She had to hold the carrot way out before he’d take it.”

  “Looks like she has a way with horses,” Hub-Jay said.

  “Looks like,” Rob Lee replied, his admiration obvious.

  The show wasn’t over yet.

  The other horse, who had finished her carrot, walked over to Holly and began nosing her shoulder, hungry for food and attention. The goat was right on her heels, bleating demandingly.

  “You want more? Okay, but you’re going to have to work for it. Come on, everybody.”

  She broke off three pieces of carrot, wrapped them in her fist, and walked to the left. The goat and both horses trailed after her. This time, Stormy didn’t hesitate at all.

  After about fifteen steps, she stopped and administered rewards, then repeated the process, moving to the right and then the left and then the right again, about thirty or forty steps this time, before handing out more treats. Things went on like that for another few minutes, until the carrots were all gone.

  “Okay, gang,” Holly said. “That’s it for today. See you tomorrow.”

  She walked back toward the gate, but not before reaching out and giving Stormy a farewell stroke on his head. This time, the horse flinched not at all.

  Mary Dell came looking for Hub-Jay at about the same time Holly left the paddock. Hearing the report of Holly’s progress with the horse, she grinned and said, “Sounds like he’s decided you’re part of his herd.”

  “No,” Rob Lee corrected, “he’s decided that she’s the leader of the herd and that he can trust her. That’s more important.”

  Mary Dell asked Hub-Jay if he felt like going for a ride before he left town. He agreed quickly, surprised and encouraged by the invitation. Holly said her good-byes and headed home, saying she wanted to get back and work on her quilt. Rob Lee went to saddle two horses.

  “Let’s put Hub-Jay on Sarabeth,” Mary Dell called after him. “I’ll ride Daisy.”

  They rode toward a ridge that Mary Dell said had a nice view of the stream. Sarabeth, the second horse he’d seen in the paddock, was gentle and surefooted. Hub-Jay didn’t have to do much more than hold on to the reins. Daisy, a paint, chestnut with white markings, was equally calm and fell right into step with Sarabeth, making it easy for Hub-Jay and Mary Dell to talk as they rode.

  Their conversation was light and largely inconsequential, though Mary Dell did tell him the story about how her ancestor, Flagadine Tudmore, had chosen this particular spot of land after walking the acres and realizing that the tiny “no-account” rivulet of muddy water she’d spied in the heat of summer would swell to a good-sized creek in spring, feeding the ground and ensuring a good supply of grass for grazing cattle. They talked about the party too. Hub-Jay filled her in on how all the plans were proceeding, and she thanked him sincerely, saying she wouldn’t have been able to manage it on her own, not from a distance and in the middle of filming.

  “But I can’t let you give hotel suites to my entire family,” she said.

  “Sure you can. It’s my present to Howard.”

  “It’s too much,” she said. “I want to pay for them. I insist.”

  He put her off, saying it was too nice a day to argue and that they could work it out later.

  Mary Dell conceded the point. “But don’t think I’m going to forget about it,” she said. “Because I’m not.”

  “Fair enough.”

  When they reached their destination, a rocky outcropping overlooking that creek that Mary Dell had mentioned, they got off the horses and stood silently under the scanty shade of a mesquite tree to look at the view. The rolling hills, carpeted with prairie grass, parched but golden, stretched out to the horizon under a sky as blue as cornflowers and dotted with cotton-puff clouds.

  Sensing that the moment was right, Hub-Jay said, “Sorry for showing up unannounced, Mary Dell. I know you’ve been trying to avoid me, but I had to see you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  She turned toward him.

  “That’s why I wanted to bring you out here. So we could talk about . . . that night. Hub-Jay, I told you before, I’m still married. In all the years since Donny left me, I never . . .” She shifted her eyes away from him, fixing her gaze on the view. Hub-Jay could see a flush of pink paint her cheeks. “I don’t want you to have the wrong idea about me.”

  He was quiet for a moment, marveling at how just the sound of her voice made him feel buoyant, young, hopeful. Happy.

  When he was a much younger man, he had sometimes wondered how to distinguish the difference between lust and love. Later, he started to think they were two parts of the same thing, and later still, that love was an idea that women invented and that men bought in to, to make lust more socially acceptable.

  What a happy shock to discover, and at this late stage of life, how very wrong he had been.

  He cupped his hand over the curve of her shoulder, turned her body toward his, and laid his palm against her cheek. She flinched, ever so slightly, but didn’t draw back. He looked in her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to her forehead.

  “I have exactly the right idea about you,” he said. “That’s why I’m h
ere.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Holly was anxious about shooting the first episode of Quintessential Quilting on Monday, and with good reason. She was worried that Artie, who was clearly more interested in creating a sensation than in filming good content, would end up making a joke of the whole show and driving a wedge between her and Mary Dell.

  Though they’d agreed in the dressing room not to let that happen, Holly sensed a slight chill between her and her co-host in the days that followed. Not that Mary Dell was unkind to her; far from it. During the remainder of the week, she was generous in sharing her time and knowledge so that Holly would be prepared and look competent during shooting. She just seemed a little distant.

  She smiled and joked with her less than before, and Holly noticed that Mary Dell had stopped urging her to come in for a glass of iced tea and a gab when Holly came by the ranch to work with Stormy, or to stay on for supper after they finished sewing for the day.

  Of course, it wasn’t required that she and Mary Dell be friends, but Holly knew it would help their on-camera chemistry. More important, Holly liked Mary Dell and wanted to be liked in return. It was a natural enough desire, but as the days ticked off to Monday and the coolness of her co-host continued, Holly feared their friendship had sailed.

  If not for Artie, it probably would have.

  While the two women were getting their makeup done, Artie came in to inform them he had installed a “confessional corner” with a video camera behind the privacy screens they’d placed in the front of the shop. The idea was that Holly and Mary Dell could sit in front of a video camera at any time and secretly record “private” speeches about their feelings surrounding the show and each other.