A Sewing Circle in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  "For the last time, this isn't about anyone's opinions," said Matt. "Can't you simply listen to me?"

  "When have I ever done anything else?" I demanded.

  "What do you mean by that?" A slightly offended tone from Matt.

  "From day one, practically, it's been your opinion that always mattered," I answered. "You who decided exactly how I would understand this place — what I would learn, what I would see, how much of my ignorance I should keep or give up."

  Matt had been washing his dishes until this moment — but something in my speech touched a nerve, for he smacked the newly-clean mug onto the counter, chipping its edge. "That is an unfair accusation," he said, his voice tinged with anger.

  "From the man who deliberately taught me to mispronounce words in a foreign language as a joke? Or who tried to talk me out of attending a Cornish wrestling match with Gemma, because I would be bored by that particular cultural experience?"'

  "Were you?" Sarcasm and anger were equal in Matt's tone now.

  "Yes. But that's not the point," I said. "You even suggested I order Cornish stout once, saying everyone loves it here; and had a good laugh when I sputtered that first swig, didn't you?"

  Matt's scowl consumed his features. "Using even my jokes against me, are you? You laughed, too, as I recall." He threw the chipped mug into the rubbish pail, where it clattered against some empty tins.

  He had never been angry enough to break something before; then again, I had never been angry enough to say anything unkind enough to make him do it. This fight wasn't about the petition anymore, or even the village's name, and we both sensed it.

  My face was hot, and frustration filled my veins for more than just another lesson on why I should look before I leap, or some other cliché of action. This was beyond Matt's teasing little jokes about Cornish words and customs, which, at the moment, seemed like repeated little jabs of superiority for my ignorance over the years.

  "I still feel like an outsider," I continued. "Maybe that's not what you intended, but that's how I feel lots of times. I'm forever a foreigner, even though I'm married to you and this is where my life and my friends are. Can you seriously deny it to me, that you don't still treat me like I'm fresh off the boat?"

  "You try too hard sometimes," he said. "You push and shove and wheedle, Julianne, to make the world what you want it to be — you can't force things that don't want to change. Some things are what they are." Although his voice was quieter, there was a touch of steel keeping it firm and precise: I could sense he was still angry, and the sigh of frustration he tried to hide only proved it was true.

  "Is that your English reserve talking? The 'stiff upper lip' you British are so fond of reminding us you possess?" I asked, sarcastically, feeling a bit angry now myself.

  English versus American — that was a fight we never had before, a truce on our cultural differences having been called even before we were married. Truces and negotiated compromises were tumbling down around us, however.

  "Versus your Yankee stubbornness, I suppose?" Matt's eyes blazed. "Your 'can do' spirit that has saved the world dozens of times? If ever —" he stopped speaking, his face red with heat as he swallowed whatever else he planned to say. "I can't do this," he muttered, running his hand along the back of his neck. "Not now, not tonight. Of all evenings for such pointlessness —"

  Pointlessness? Mine, I supposed, for bringing up issues like this one, and expressing opinions on unnecessary issues. His remarks were those of the noble, patient victim who was sacrificing his rest after a big day for our little spat. That was the last straw for me.

  "You mean our discussion, I take it," I corrected him, frostily. "We don't have to talk about it anymore if you're tired. In fact, maybe it's better if we don't talk at all for awhile." I stuffed my plans into my satchel again and shoved my feet into my pair of Prada heels that were lying by the table, where I had kicked them off earlier this afternoon.

  "Where are you going?" he said.

  "I'm going to spend the night somewhere else. Won't that be a treat for you, not being disturbed by my meddlesome ways?" My sarcasm was waning for seriousness afterwards, however, as I stuffed my mobile and my keys into my bag.

  "Julianne, don't," he began. A quieter voice, but not one of contriteness. We had gone too far this time for an 'instant apology' to spring between us.

  Do not let him see how angry you are right now. "I think we could use some space. Don't you?" I looked in his direction, but not into his eyes as I made this statement. A very calm one, despite the fact that anger, hurt, and guilt were all churning inside me at once.

  "I'll go," he said. He reached for his coat. "You needn't be the one."

  "No, I will," I said. "You have your plants to look after." They would be delivering the ones for the garden exhibition any day now. "It's only fair that you be the one who stays."

  "Juli —"

  "I insist." I seized my jacket, and a random stack of mail on the parlor table — it was a random task directed by a part of my brain that was trying to mimic semi-normal actions on the outside. "Since you're tired of arguing, I doubt you have anything else to say."

  "Do you?" He was braced moodily against the counter, staring out the window at our garden in sunset. Probably picturing the plants' delivery to his beloved greenhouse — but that notion was too mean, even for me in an exceptionally foul, hurt mood.

  I took his reply as acceptance when silence followed, and though it made utterly no sense, it actually made me angrier that he let his final answer be wordless. I marched out of our cottage and let the door shut firmly behind me.

  ***

  Five minutes later, I was sorry I had walked out. Two minutes after that, I wasn't. Those were the two feelings taking turns at twisting my heart, even as I gathered my resolve and made myself open the front door to Ceffylgwyn's only local inn, the Dumnonian.

  "What would you be needing, dearie?" asked Dovie Todd. She was behind the Dumnonian's front desk, her fingers occupied with fabric piecework as she waited for guests to check in. "If it's the spare chairs from the breakfast parlor, I've got bad news on that front. Wood rot in the pins, Herbie said, when he fixed that wobbly one —"

  "Actually, I was needing something else. A room. For work," I added, with emphasis, as Dovie disappeared from sight beneath the counter to retrieve a scrap of fabric she dropped. "Um, I — I need a nice, quiet space to finish an important project for the manor, you see. Just for today and tomorrow morning." Never mind today was practically over, and that I worked at a mansion with dozens and dozens of rooms available.

  It was hard to make my request seem innocent and perfectly ordinary, although I was planning to try my best. The last thing I wanted was anybody suspecting the real reason I wanted a room. For a happily-married local resident to be staying elsewhere for a night — that's how rumors are born in a little village like Ceffylgwyn. Or Marghgwydn, as my brain suggested, sending another flush of anger and restlessness into my cheeks for my argument with Matt.

  "So I was wondering if you —" I continued.

  "Is it me good serving trays for the fete? I'm happy to lend them. Let me fetch a box, so's you can carry them more easily," said Dovie, who had popped back into view and hadn't heard a word I had said prior to this sentence, apparently. She laid aside her Lemoyne star patch and disappeared in the inn's adjoining room.

  "No, Dovie, that's not —" I said, too late to stop her. I released a sigh, and refrained from burying my face in my hands. Of all the frustrating times for Dovie not to listen, this was the worst, since I was having a hard time remaining calm and polite.

  Just let me get away with this, please. One little night's stay, with no gossip circulating that me and Matt had a fight .... The most embarrassing thing on the planet would be explaining to Dovie the real reason I was at her inn, knowing that everyone in the village would know it by tomorrow morning, too. The local innkeeper wasn't good at keeping secrets, given her penchant for gossip. But I had nowhere else to go,
unless I was going to sleep in my office on the horribly stiff little Victorian love seat.

  Other than me and Dovie, the Dumnonian's foyer was empty, as was the formal parlor with its rose-pink cushions, the portrait-size copy of The Lady of Shallot and the framed pictures of Dovie's 'celebrity' guests against the backdrop of the floral wallpaper. I sighed, glancing expectantly towards the 'staff only' zone where Dovie was undoubtedly rummaging around for a box big enough to hold several sterling plated trays.

  The inn's front door opened and someone else entered. A thin, elegant woman with long brown hair and a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses hiding her eyes, dressed in a trim white jacket matched with expensive denim leggings and leather boots. She carried a designer overnight bag, and was tucking a set of car keys — ones attached to a Jaguar remote keychain — into a Versace purse.

  She looked strangely familiar, although I couldn't place her at first. I didn't recognize her until she reached the desk and removed her sunglasses as she searched for the service bell.

  Petal Price-Parker. Runway model, nail polish spokesperson, and wife of one of England's most popular footballers. My first-ever client as a wedding planner in Cornwall as well as my first celebrity client, all in one — and last, but not least, my husband's ex-fiancée.

  It was as if a portal to the past had opened up, between my first week in Cornwall and my present-day life. What was she doing here? Petal and Donald were supposed to be summering in Morocco, according to a celebrity gossip mag I chanced to notice a few months ago in London. Not that I noticed her name on purpose or anything.

  She located the bell and tapped it once. "I'll be there in two ticks, dearie," called Dovie. Hastily, I erased the look from my face as Petal glanced my way — a look which must surely be an astonished, wide-eyed one.

  Too late. Petal had noticed me, giving me a polite smile which almost immediately became perplexed. "Do I know you?" she said. My accidental stare had made her a little too aware of me. "Yes, I do," she continued, with recognition. "You were my wedding planner at the estate."

  "I was," I managed to answer, finding a smile that felt far too bright and cheery for my mood.

  "I've forgotten your first name, but I do remember you ... Julianne Morgen, isn't it?"

  "It was. It's Julianne Rose now," I said, automatically. Right now, the concept of Matt and I held as much bittersweet guilt as affection for me, courtesy of mentioning any part of his name, but I realized a second later what this reply conveyed to Petal.

  A sudden awkwardness unfolded between us. Petal turned sixteen shades of color in the two seconds that lapsed after my statement, her mind drawing the obvious conclusion. "I see." Her lips managed a smile, another polite one, although tinier than before.

  I realized now she had probably never heard that Matt was married. Much less that he was married to me.

  "So what brings you to Ceffylgwyn?" I said, quickly changing the subject. "I read somewhere you moved away from Cornwall and were living in London now."

  "Celebrity appearance, I'm afraid. The organizers of some little village fete practically begged me to be their 'Mistress of Ceremonies.' My manager convinced me to accept it, saying it would be excellent publicity." She sighed, her smile now one of wry resignation. "He hired a publicist and a journalist to cover my 'Cornish summer holiday' doing charitable work, and there was simply no refusing him in the end."

  There was only one possible event she could be part of, and I felt a deepening sense of dismay. "Really?" I said. My smile was threatening to waver, but it stayed in place. "You're the host of the village fete?"

  "I left London this morning to avoid sharing a dull hired car ride with my publicist," she said. "No joy for me, however, for there was no room available at the Chrysalis Hotel until the day after tomorrow — or anywhere except for this spot, apparently." She rang the bell again.

  "In two ticks, dearie," came the reply.

  Petal sighed. "I suppose it's my fault, really. For getting married here in the first place." There was a bitter edge to her voice now.

  "Maybe you could think of it as a sort of anniversary holiday," I suggested. "After all, you and Donald were married here during the summer. Is he here, too?" No one had joined Petal, which meant the eminent Donald Price-Parker was still in London, or off racing cars in Morocco or something.

  Petal's smile reached its thinnest stage. "Actually, Donald and I are no longer together." She dampened her lips and attempted polite friendliness again, more successfully this turn. Although her finger twisted the giant diamond ring on its neighboring digit at the same time.

  "Oh," I said. "I'm so, so sorry." I felt horrible — I hadn't seen that headline on any of the celebrity mags on London's newsstands, or heard Gemma or Pippa mention it in their entertainment gossip.

  "It's quite hush hush right now, as I'm sure you understand," said Petal. "At least until the decree is final. Another reason my manager prefers me to be publicly elsewhere this summer."

  She opened her purse and removed her compact, giving her makeup a quick inspection before removing her wallet, gazing expectantly at the door behind the desk. Dovie bustled through it and into the room again, a cardboard box in her arms filled with serving trays.

  "Now then, was that all for you?" she asked me, as she handed it over.

  I couldn't stay here, not now. Not with Petal as my neighbor down the hall, well aware that I had married her former sweetheart from this village. I would never be able to pass off my white lie about 'quiet spaces' to Dovie with Matt's ex standing right beside me ... Matt's ex, who was the last person in the world I would want to inform that I'd had a terrible row with the man in question.

  "Nothing else, thanks," I answered. Dovie now took note of her second visitor, and became wide-eyed with awe.

  "Goodness me! You're that model, aren't you — Petal, the one who shows off her shiny nails on telly?" she declared. "It's you, isn't it? My goodness — Petal Price-Parker, what was married here only a few years ago — I've had the article from the paper framed nice and proper in my parlor, if you'd like to see it."

  "Just a room, if you please." The polite smile returned, this time for the inn's delighted owner. To me, she added, "Goodnight, Miss — Mrs. Rose. I'm sure I'll see you again. Perhaps at the upcoming fete."

  I'm sure you will. "Goodnight, Petal."

  I woke up late the next morning, a bad taste in my mouth from my last cup of tea and lemon, and a dull buzz of last night's argument still in my head. I slipped my head from beneath the blanket — not my usual quilt, but something stiffer, with an embroidered hemline. Then I remembered that I was in one of Cliffs House's guest rooms. And that Petal Price-Parker was in town, which was the reason I wasn't staying at the inn.

  The internal wounds from yesterday's fight were still raw, yet I missed the feeling of Matt's arms around me in the early morning. I sat up beneath the covers and shoved the sleep mask from my eyes in the semi-darkness of the room.

  What time was it? I reached for my phone, on the bedside table where I had laid it, beside the antique saucer into which I had smacked my wedding rings in a brief storm of angry tears last night when I finally broke down. The hour flashed on the mobile's screen: ten thirty A.M.

  Ten thirty? Before my brain could accept this, the door to my room opened and the drapes were drawn wide, flooding it with sunlight. I pulled the blanket around my slip, my shriek of surprise almost timed perfectly with Lady Amanda's own.

  "Julianne!" she said, pressing her hand to her chest. "What on earth are you doing here? You almost killed me, dear girl."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I ... I worked late last night, and I stayed here instead of going home." I had worked late — sort of — but this was more of a white lie than the truth. "I just thought I'd take one of the bedrooms and grab a little sleep before morning. I told Matt I —" Here, I hesitated, unable to tell the whole truth, "— that I might not be home much until the fete's over, since there's so much to be done."

  "I
see," said Lady Amanda, who was opening all the drapes now. "I'd love to let you stay here the rest of the late nights you'll be working, but you really should have given me some warning so I could have arranged it. Between friends staying here for the fete and the slew of horticulturists arriving today, we haven't the room — unless you're sleeping on one of these uncomfortable sofas, that is."

  "What were you saying about horticulturists?"

  "The horticulturist's society from London. Didn’t you read their email? They're coming here early to see the new hybrids from Edinburgh and Yorkshire before the exhibit. They're bringing some journalist with them, and William took it upon himself to invite them here tonight — no hotel close by has enough rooms for them at this short notice. Besides, the public will be swarming us the weekend of the fete anyway, so we already need to be spit-spot for tourists — Gemma's already arranged for some help from the village to make beds for our houseguests and serve breakfast."

  She checked the bureau's drawers for stray belongings left behind by previous guests, my heart sinking deeper inside me as I absorbed this news. I scrambled out of bed and gathered my clothes from the nearby chair, slipping into the adjoining powder room to dress.

  "I remember. I read it yesterday." I combed my fingers through my hair, trying to make it less mussed and more like carefree waves.

  "I'm surprised Matthew didn't mention it when you spoke to him last night. He should be there to greet them today — we're setting up the garden exhibition, you know."

  "It must've slipped his mind." It had certainly slipped mine after last night. Any other time I might have felt sorry for Matt, having a full day with the village fete after two long days of lecturing, but not right now. I searched my purse for some breath mints or mint-flavored gum. Anything to erase the taste of yesterday's tea, and the imaginary bitterness of my words to Matt.