The Fortune Quilt

by Lani Diane Rich

  I raise one eyebrow at him, and he laughs.

  “So, are we okay?” I ask.

  “I think so,” he says, looking up at me with a mystified expression on his face. “Are we? I mean, are you? That was a lot to deal with. And seeing your parents… how was that?”

  “It was great,” I say, forcing a wide grin. “It was a big party. Loads of fun.”

  “You know, we can talk about it seriously if you want to,” he says.

  “Can we not talk about it seriously if I don’t want to?”

  Will shrugs and smiles at me. “Sure. I just want you to know that if you need a shoulder or anything…”

  “Thank you.” I lean down to kiss him lightly on the lips, but he reaches for me and pulls me onto his lap. He tastes like peppermint mocha and his touch blazes through me and we’re going from zero to sixty so fast it’s making me a little dizzy.

  But I like it.

  After a moment he pulls back, looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

  “If you need us to slow down…” he begins, but I shake my head.

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  He closes his eyes and laughs. “I don’t know.” He opens his eyes and touches my hair. “It’s not too soon?”

  “Well,” I say. “We’re both adults. We’re both healthy. Right?”

  He laughs. “Yeah.”

  “And I have condoms in my purse, so…”

  “You do?” He grins. “I thought only men did that, carried condoms around.”

  I quirk a brow at him. “I like to be prepared.”

  “I like you prepared,” he says, and pulls me in for another kiss. A few minutes later, he lifts me up and carries me to the bed - which, luckily, is only a few feet away - and we proceed to have a lovely morning. We laugh and tease and play and when we get down to it, everything works pretty darn well for a first time.

  The second time? It works great.

  Afterward, we lie in bed together with his head on my stomach, and my heart is so full of him that there’s no room for the worries I usually have at this point in my relationships about the myriad ways in which it can all go horribly, horribly wrong. All I can see right now is him, and all I can feel is how happy he has made me, and this is about as close to a perfect moment as I’ve ever had in my life.

  Yay me.

  Ten

  “Mr. Trimble called for a delivery,” Janesse says as I walk into the store. The bells that hang from the front door aren’t even done jingling when she stuffs a box of charcoals in my hand. “104 Pinewood Trail.”

  I glance down at the box. There’s a sticky note tacked to it with the address, the total price with tax (as if I didn’t have it memorized) and a smiley face that reads, “Good luck.” When I look back up, Janesse is still smiling.

  I hand it back to her. “Funny joke.”

  She gives me a massive grin. “No joke, babyface. He hurt his ankle or something, and for a while, we’re going to need to deliver.”

  “Oh,” I say, laughing, “and I suppose he actually told you that?”

  “He has a surprisingly nice phone manner. I think it must just be eye contact that throws him off.”

  My heart seizes as it begins to dawn on me that this might not be a joke. She really wants me to go Mr. Trimble’s house. She can’t be serious.

  She looks at me and raises one expectant eyebrow.

  She’s serious.

  “No way,” I say. “It’s your store. You deliver it.”

  “All the more reason why I don’t do the deliveries,” she says, turning her back on me and heading back to the counter. “Wouldn’t be good for my image.”

  I follow her and put the box down on the counter. “I don’t get paid enough to deliver.”

  “I’ll give you an extra ten bucks,” she says. “Now, you get paid enough.”

  I stare at her, nibble at my lip. “He creeps me out.”

  “We don’t discriminate against creepy.” She raises her eyes. “You don’t expect me to discriminate against creepy, do you? How would that look, me, a black woman who used to have a dick, if I start discriminating against anyone, even the creepy ones?”

  “Janeeeeessssse,” I whine, nudging the box across the counter at her. “He’s gonna hack me into pieces and bury me in the yard. I know you; if he hacks me into pieces, you’re gonna feel really bad.”

  She nudges the box back. “He’s harmless. Rude, weird and a little crazy, but harmless. He’s not going to hack you into pieces. Just bring him the box, take the money, he’ll tell you to fuck off, and you come back. Stop being such a baby.”

  I stare down at the box, then raise my eyes to hers.

  “I’ll rock-paper-scissors you for it. Best two out of three?”

  She stares back, saying nothing. For a long moment we lock eyes across the counter. Then, finally, I snatch the box off the counter and head toward the door.

  “This was starting out to be such a good day,” I mutter as I push out of the shop, bells jingling behind me.

  ***

  Pinewood Trail is on the very edge of Bilby, even more the middle of nowhere than regular Bilby, and 104 is at the end of a long, winding driveway. When I finally get to the house, it looks like exactly the kind of place a Mr. Trimble-type would live. It’s small, vaguely shack-like, and isolated. I step out of my car and walk the dusty trail to the house, which has beige aluminum siding and a plain, black-shingled peak roof and is not really scary so much as… unsettling. As I make my way to the door, I find myself thinking about the Unabomber. It’s that kind of unsettling.

  When I step up on the tiny wooden porch, I see that the door is slightly ajar, which gives me pause for knocking, because I don’t want to inadvertently open it more. I search the doorframe for a bell, but of course, there is none. Finally, I tuck the box of charcoals under my arm, hold onto the door knob and knock lightly so it doesn’t open any more. I wait. Nothing. I knock again. I hear some sounds of shuffling coming from inside, and then Mr. Trimble’s voice yell, “Come on in already!”

  Well, it isn’t his standard refrain, but I’m still convinced Janesse really isn’t paying me enough. I nudge the door open a bit and poke my head in.

  “Mr. Trimble? It’s Carly? From Art’s Desire? With the charcoals?”

  My eyes adjust to the limited light. Mr. Trimble’s little hovel is about as spartan as anything I’ve ever seen. The main room consists of a kitchenette in one corner and an easy chair in the other. That’s it. Mr. Trimble isn’t in the main room, which, based on the very tininess of the hovel, means he’s behind one of the two doors in the east wall which I assume lead to a bedroom and a bathroom. I’m constructing my new salary demands to Janesse in my head when I notice the west wall. Unable to stop myself, I step inside, moving closer to the wall. It was white, originally, but now it’s covered with a delicately-shaded charcoal drawing.

  It’s the main drag of Bilby, as viewed through the front window of Art’s Desire. There’s the café, and The Town Bookie, and the post office, all drawn faithfully down to the crack in the sidewalk next to the stop sign. Allegra is serving coffee to a skeptical patron, who sniffs it with a suspicious look on his face. Sebastian and James are walking arm in arm, gossiping. Gladys is yelling at Mack. Some townspeople I recognize but whose names I don’t recall are walking in front of the Art’s Desire window, parts of their bodies obscured by the hand-painted Art’s Desire logo, reading backwards the way it does when you’re inside the store.

  Outside of the front door of Art’s Desire is Janesse, who appears to be showing a little boy how to dance. Brandy watches her, and Janesse doesn’t notice. I am standing next to Brandy, my head resting on her shoulder as I comfort her. Down on the corner, Will stands at an easel, watching me slyly while he paints.

  Mr. Trimble is nowhere in the picture. And yet, he’s everywhere. This is how he sees us, and he sees so much. He sees Janesse’s incredible spirit. He sees Brandy’s heartbreak. He sees Allegra forcing weird coffee concoctions on p
eople, and he sees Will and me.

  I step back to take it all in. The drawing is sad and evocative, yet oddly hopeful and loving. It says so much about this man, and yet I’m besieged by a thousand questions. How does this happen? How does a man whose entire social vocabulary consists of “fuck” and “off” draw something so sensitive and insightful? And why on the wall? Where did he come from? How did he end up here? What happened to him to bring him to this place in life? Was he ever young, and hopeful, and imagining great things for his future? Who is he, and what does this town mean to him?

  This would make a great documentary, is the thought trailing in my head as I hear a door open behind me. Mr. Trimble is on crutches, and his left ankle is in a cast.

  “Mr. Trimble,” I say. “Oh, my God. What happened?”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. I walk over to him and he stuffs the envelope in my hand. I can hear the change rattling inside, and I know without checking that it’s exactly four dollars and eighty-six cents. I look at him, those beady eyes under the tremendous, bushy gray eyebrows and see him for the first time as a person. A fascinating, full, complete, really unusual person.

  And I want to tell his story. I want to get a camera crew and a laptop with editing equipment. I want to talk to the guy at the independent station and get that job. I am filled with excitement and purpose, and I can’t help but smile.

  “This is amazing,” I say, pointing behind me to the wall. “How long have you been working on it?”

  He stares at me for a while, his eyes boring into mine, as if evaluating whether I’m worth talking to or not. Then, finally, he snatches the box of charcoals from my hand.

  “Fuck off!” He turns around, hobbles back into what I presume to be his bedroom and slams the door, leaving me speechless in his living room, clutching his four dollars and eighty-six cents in my hand.

  “Well,” I say to myself as I turn to leave. “Might have to be a documentary for a cable network.”

  ***

  When I get home that night, Will is at his car, loading his trunk with a duffle bag and his photography equipment. I sigh, and step out of my car.

  “Going somewhere?” I call out to him as I shut my door.

  He smiles, slams his trunk shut and walks over to me.

  “Hey,” he says. “I was waiting for you to come home.”

  I raise an eyebrow toward his packed car. “So you could leave?”

  He throws a regretful glance back at his car, then reaches for my hand. “So I could talk to you before I leave. I didn’t want you to come home to a note on your door. Not after this morning.” He raises my hand to his lips and kisses it. “I got a call from an old friend who needs me to do her wedding. She’s getting married up in Flagstaff on Saturday and her photographer punked out on her and she’s freaking out, so I’m going up there for the weekend.”

  “Oh, so it’s not that this morning was so terrifying that you’re running away, then?”

  He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on mine. “No. It’s not that at all.”

  “Good to know.”

  He leans down and gives me a sweet, lingering kiss, and when he pulls back, he looks a little nervous.

  “Actually…” he begins, then laughs. “It might be too early for this, so feel free to say no if you’re not comfortable, but I was thinking it might be fun if you came with me. Esther is putting me up at her bed and breakfast, and it’s beautiful up there—”

  I quirk a brow at him. “Esther? Esther’s the bride?”

  “She’s sixty-seven. Used to be run the restaurant where I worked when I was going to NAU. It’s her fourth wedding.” He reaches up and tucks a bit of hair behind my ear. “So, what do you think?”

  “I’m not going to judge her,” I say. “I hear the fourth time’s a charm.”

  “No, I mean… I was trying to ask you if you’d come with me. For the weekend.”

  I stare at him for a moment. A long moment. I can’t say anything, I’m totally frozen, although I don’t know why. Part of me is screaming, “Hell, yes!” and the rest of me is hesitant and all that shows is the hesitation. Will smiles and squeezes my hand.

  “You’re right. It’s too early. I totally understand.”

  “No,” I say finally. “It’s just that… my mother invited me to dinner with the family on Sunday, and I kind of think I should go to that.”

  That’s not the real reason I’m hesitating, but since I don’t know what the real reason is, I figure this will do. Will’s face washes over with understanding, and he reaches up to touch my face.

  “Wow,” he says. “That’s a big deal. Yeah, you should definitely do that.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, his fingers cradling my face, gives me a soft kiss, then rests his forehead against mine.

  “So, I’ll see you again when? Monday?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll probably stay overnight in Tucson and come back Monday.”

  He pulls back and looks in my eyes. “Let’s do something Monday, then. I have a job next week, leaving Tuesday afternoon, so we’ll have to make the most of Monday.”

  He kisses me again, a kiss with intent, a kiss that means there will be many, many more where this one came from, then pulls back.

  “I have to go,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  He gives me one more swift kiss, and then heads to his car. I watch him drive off, waving as he turns out of sight just in case he’s looking back in his rear view at me. Then I head down the path to my cabin, find the paper with the name and phone number of the guy from the independent station. To my surprise, he’s there. To my greater surprise, he books an interview with me for Monday morning.

  ***

  My alarm goes off on Saturday morning, and I get up and trudge out to the coffee maker, just like every other morning. What’s not like every other morning is the movement on my couch which I catch out of the corner of my eye. I scream and my heart does a break dance as I lose my footing and fall backwards, knocking over my hall table and sending the Cochise County phone book skidding across the room.

  Brandy on my couch, staring at me, patiently waiting for me to be done with my little display.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  “Good… good… good morning?” I say, pushing myself up from the floor. “Hey, Brandy, do you even have boundaries, because—”

  “I’m going to forgive him.” She takes a deep breath and meets my eyes and I can see how serious she is, that this is a big moment for her, and I give her a gentle smile.

  “I’ll make some coffee.” I set the hall table upright, put the phone book back, and continue on to the coffee maker. We are silent for a few moments while I putter, and then I settle into my ugly orange easy chair, and Brandy starts talking.

  “I woke up last night,” she says, her eyes still on her hands. “It was, I don’t know. Two, maybe? And I couldn’t get back to sleep. I had this pattern in my head. It was kind of wild, all these bright colors, waving around like ribbons over a deep purple background. Weird. So, I started to sketch it and as I was sketching it, I started to get these impressions. Images. And I realized.” She raises her head. “It’s for him.”

  “Oh.” I am unsure of what to say, so I continue with the equally insightful, “Wow.”

  “I’ve never had a quilt come to me for anyone I already knew,” she says. “It’s always strangers. Always. I can’t do one for myself or anyone I love because I’m too close. But this was so clear. I don’t want it to be for him, but it is.” She blinks hard. “And I think maybe it’s a little for me, too.”

  “Wow,” I say again. “Okay. Brandy, I think that’s great. Maybe you should call her and tell her?”

  “No.” She stands up. “I have a process. I have to go with that. You probably won’t be seeing me much in the next week. I’m going to try and push through this as fast as I can. But I was wondering if…” She pauses, staring at some point in space for a moment before returning her
eyes to me. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind being there? When I do the reading for him?”

  I stand up and walk with her to the door. “Um. Yeah. Sure, Brandy. If you need me. But… isn’t that kind of personal? Shouldn’t you two be alone, so you can talk?”

  She shakes her head, then shrugs. “Maybe. But I don’t know if I can do this without someone there to make me see it through, you know?”

  “Yep.” I smile and reach out to squeeze her hand. “I’ll be there.”

  Brandy starts for the door, then turns back to me. “Don’t say anything to him.” She rolls her eyes at herself. “Her. I still might chicken out, and if I do…”

  “You got it.”

  She smiles and then goes out the door. My coffee maker gurgles in the background as I poke my head out of my cabin and watch her make her way along the rock path, then disappear into the foliage.

  ***

  I almost turn around and go back to Bilby four times on my way to Tucson. After I check into the hotel, I twice pick up the phone to call my family and cancel. And twice I hang up without dialing. It occurs to me that it’s probably situations like these that turn regular people into Mr. Trimbles, and if I didn’t face it head on, I would just be a hop, skip and a shack away from being some small town’s “fuck off” lady. This motivation gets me all the way to my father’s front door. I’m deciding between knocking on the door and running away when it opens, and Mary smiles down at me.

  “Your car’s been out there for a while,” she says. “I thought you might be getting cold.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I say, although my voice is a little shaky and I feel just a bit like I’m going to fall over.

  “Well, as long as you’re here, why don’t you come inside?”

  She steps back to allow me passage. I hand her the bottle of wine I’ve been clutching in my hand. She takes it and smiles.

  “This will go perfectly with the roast,” she says. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” I clear my throat. “So. Where are Ella and Five?”