A Sewing Circle in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  Did he feel the same way? Was he hurt this morning over what he had said to me — or was he still angry over my words to him? Characterizing me as pushy or headstrong, implying I sometimes interfered in things better left alone — it still rankled me, even as a tiny ripple of tears burned my eyes briefly over my morning tea.

  Matt had really felt that way deep inside, assuming that infuriating aura of patience for my screw-ups. And never in a million years had I intended to tell him how tired I had grown of his patient facade. The latter truth made me sad, but the former one still burned me inside sometimes, like angry little coals whenever I recalled that part of our argument.

  I couldn't stay in my office tonight, not with guests crawling all over Cliffs House — someone was bound to notice me. What options did that leave me? Sleeping in the car? Begging Rosie for a spot at the stray cats' sanctuary? Going home to the cottage to endure the silent treatment between me and Matthew?

  I can't sneak home and pretend that neither of us said any of those things. A part of me was still in rebellion to the common-sense approach, tears or no. But how do I apologize to someone who keeps giving me little lectures on the county's history like he's a walking guidebook for the village?

  "Morning, Michael." Gemma shrugged off her jacket and stole a muffin from the plate on the table. Michael grunted, not looking up from scouring one of his pots, leaving black stains across the front of his chef's smock. "Morning, Julianne."

  "Morning," I mumbled, trying to avoid making eye contact. My eyes were probably red and bleary, after I had made the mistake of salting my teacup with an escaped tear or two. Why had I let myself think of our angry words instead of something else? The fete, the tents in need of assembly, the shoddy patchwork in my basket — the unexpected arrival of flawless, gorgeous Petal Price-Parker made single again.

  Was it a bad sign that the first marriage I ever planned on my own ended in divorce?

  "You're in a mood," said Gemma, teasingly, as she spread jam on her muffin.

  "She's been in a mood all morning," grunted Michael. "Not even a 'hello' when she came down for her cuppa. Not that a little quiet around here isn't welcome." He sloshed dirty water into the sink.

  Gemma's smile faded a little at its edges when she looked at me again, noticing I was trying to hide from her. "Julianne, is everything all right?" she asked.

  "Fine," I said, dismissively. "I just had a terrible night's sleep, that's all. Michael's right — I'm just in a mood." Michael had been too busy doing battle with a scorched soup pot to notice what Gemma spotted right away.

  "Michael, you left some sugar uncovered in the pantry last night," said Gemma. "Did you notice?"

  "Why didn't you do something about it?" Michael snapped.

  "I didn't know if you left it that way on purpose," she answered, defensively. With a scowl, the chef wiped his hands on a towel and went to deal with it himself, leaving his soup pot in the sink.

  Gemma drew out a chair and sat down across from me, meeting my eye squarely. "What happened?" she said, quietly. "What's wrong, Julianne?"

  I shook my head. "It's nothing." I didn't feel like lying. Just not telling the truth.

  "You've been crying, and that's not over nothing, is it? You can tell me," she coaxed. "I'm your friend. I talk to you all the time, so the decent thing for you to do is tell me the truth."

  "It's ... a fight. Nothing big." I tried to force a smile in place. "A stupid argument between me and Matt ... but we said some hurtful things, and I told him I thought we needed a little time apart."

  "When?"

  "Last night," I said. "So I stayed here. Guess I won't be doing that again, though." I took a ragged breath. "I don't exactly want to become the talk of the town by sneaking a nap and a bath whenever no guests or weekend employees are hanging around."

  "You're not going home?" said Gemma. "Julianne, that sounds quite serious. You not wanting to go home to Matt, I mean."

  "If you and Andy had an argument like this, you'd feel the same way right now, trust me," I said, trying to explain as my emotions colored each word. "Like preventing any further damage by angry words between you. I told Matt to stay, and that I was leaving. Of course, I didn't know ...." I trailed off, because I had reached the part about Petal, and I found I didn't want to say the name of Matt's ex aloud. "I didn't realize I would still feel so crummy about everything this morning. And still feel hurt about it all."

  Gemma glanced towards the pantry, where Michael was slamming closed containers while complaining to himself loudly. "You could stay with me," she said. "I mean, if you want to. Or need to."

  "I don't want to put you ou — I mean, inconvenience you," I said. I hadn't a clue where I would stay, unless it was the sofa of a friend like Gemma. "Really, I mean it."

  "I'd never let on to anybody that you were there, so you'd be safe enough for a night or two, if you don't want to go home," Gemma answered. "I know it's a bit crowded, what with me and Mum already, and with Pip there, too; but you're still welcome."

  "Thanks," I said. I managed a smile — a real one — as I met her glance. "But I'll be all right, I'm sure."

  Reaching across, she patted my hand. "Think about it, anyway," she said. "We all need a place to escape to now and then. I used to stay with Pip some when me and Mum had arguments, before she went off with Gavin." She blew a wisp of hair from her eyes with feigned exasperation for Pippa's decision to leave the village. "Might as well have someone sympathetic to keep your secret."

  Michael reappeared, carrying a box of bicarbonate of soda. "The sugar was fine," he said to Gemma. "There was nothing left open. You must be crazy." He pulled his pot from the sink and dumped generous amounts of both the powder and soap into it before turning on the faucet.

  Gemma winked at me. "Guess I was remembering something else. Sorry."

  "Hmph." Michael set his pot on the stove's eye and turned up the heat, as Gemma gave me a sympathetic smile before grabbing her apron and heading off to her day's work.

  Tents were going up at the fete's grounds as I arrived for the morning, carrying the bag that contained my sketches and notes as well as all the personal possessions I had hastily crammed inside when I vacated the guest room.

  I looked perfectly normal and perfectly calm. That was exactly how I wanted to look, and not just because I knew Matt would be here somewhere, meeting with the horticultural society for their magazine.

  "There you are," said Lady Amanda, claiming my arm. "We're just beginning the discussion for the garden exhibition's layout. William's friend at the society has quite a few thoughts on the subject, and I know Matthew will, too." She steered me in the direction of the newly-raised tent, in which several people were now standing around.

  "... and the newest hybrids would be in the premier spot, of course," said a gentleman in eyeglasses and a bowtie, whose accent and speech inflections made me think of an Oxford professor. "Now, as to the native flora and fauna display, you said the preservation society has sketches of their preferences, correct?"

  "Matthew does," said Lady Amanda.

  Through the tent doorway, I glimpsed Matt standing outside, chatting with members of the ad hoc committee. He was wearing a blazer and woolen trousers instead of his gardening togs, since this was akin to a business meeting. His dark hair was neatly tamed and his face was clean shaven, without the stubble my lips remembered from a few nights ago, when he helped me with my project in the pre-dawn hours.

  Handsome. Confident. A charming smile despite the eager committee members who were probably trying to force him into playing a bigger role in the fete. Often, the sight of Matt in the distance could still make my heart turn somersaults, but not this time. If I wasn't still sore and angry, I would feel sorry for him getting cornered like that, but not today.

  He approached with the committee members, joining us a moment later. He smiled in the direction of Lady A and I, but I suspected he avoided my eyes the same way I avoided his own. He shook hands with the members of t
he society, several of whom knew him already from one of his many roles in the scientific and academic communities.

  "Ah, Doctor Rose," said one of them. "I'm so glad you've arranged for this little show. It should be quite a treat to see the newest offerings to the garden community — I know for a fact that Macpherson has been striving to develop his Lady Macbeth rose for nearly a decade, and we've been anticipating his finished masterpiece."

  "Martin is only too happy to have his colleagues among its first admirers," answered Matt. He glanced my way ever so briefly, and his smile became uncertain in this instant. "I'm sure the same could be said of Dodgson, whom we all know struggled to cultivate his Piccadilly hybrid for both fragrance and color." A little of the usual color was missing from his words, however; it was proof he was a little distracted today as well.

  "We're hoping the tent's arrangement will put the roses in the best possible light for photography purposes — this is Clarence, by the way, the writer and photographer with our humble little journal —"

  "Pleased to meet you," said Matt, shaking hands with the person in question, who had been busy snapping photos of the tent's ongoing setup until now.

  "— unless, of course, you think the glasshouse is a more suitable spot for photographing them?"

  Matt's greenhouse was as untidy and eclectic as the Tardis's closet on Doctor Who, so I seriously doubted he would agree to this. "I'm afraid mine is rather small," he began. "There would hardly be enough room for the photographer and two of the exhibition's honored guests, without the rest of us being present."

  "Perhaps at the manor itself?" suggested someone else.

  "I'm sure we can find a suitable arrangement," continued the bowtie-clad professor. "I'm quite certain that Doctor Rose had the foresight to consider the proper showcasing of the tent's celebrated guests in his plans for laying out the exhibits."

  "This charming young lady can no doubt answer that question," said another society member — one whom I vaguely recognized from a London cocktail party Matt and I had once attended at an Oxford don's residence. He was offering me a polite smile, which is how I knew he meant me. "Isn't that true, Mrs. Rose?"

  "Of course she does," said Lady Amanda, cheerily. "I suspect Julianne has had as much of a hand in those plans as she's had in organizing the tea tent."

  Of course — me, local event planner and wife of the man in question. No doubt they assumed I had spent last night helping Matthew with his plans in anticipation of today. Probably he planned to ask me to help him, given how little time he had these days and how tired he was ... that is, before our argument and my subsequent walking out.

  Matt and I exchanged glances again, neither one of us prepared with a handy excuse. I looked at our acquaintance with what I hoped was a nice, normal expression.

  "Oh, er ... I .... think Matt's design is as good as it gets," I said. "I'm sure the light for the photos will be just fine." I put on my best charming smile with these words. "Not that Matt has put the finishing touches on his layout, so there's still room for suggestions. He's usually a perfectionist who works until the very last moment."

  This, just in case Matt was nowhere near finished with his design, which was what I really expected to be true. When our glances met briefly, I spied the little glimmer of mixed relief and gratitude in his own.

  "Two brilliant minds are always better than one, eh, Matthew?" said another society member. "What good fortune for you, being married to a woman with a talent for putting on these events, for I'm sure you'd never manage otherwise — I remember your chambers at university rather lacked organization."

  "Lucky indeed," said Matt. We both laughed a little, feigning good humor for this little joke. I felt Matt's hand on my arm as he moved to stand beside me now. The warmth of that touch would almost be enough to dissolve the last of my anger, if not for the sharp edges on some of our words. Those were still digging into my memory like barbs, try as I might not to think about them.

  "I think your photographer should take a few photos of the volunteers from the local garden club, who have thrown themselves into these preparations the last few days," said Lady Amanda, guiding the horticulturists in the direction of the tent's newest arrivals.

  Both Matt and I were quiet, until no one was close enough to listen to us. Matt glanced at me. "Where were you last night?"

  "I was working. I slept at my office," I said.

  "You didn't answer your phone."

  "I turned it off. I was working, and I needed to concentrate." Actually, I had been afraid I might say more angry things if I spoke to him that night. "I didn't think you'd call. I thought you probably had some pressing work as well — something that didn't need my meddling involvement."

  I know, I know, I should have stopped myself from saying it, but I didn't. I was being petty and all too human right now.

  A snort of exasperation came from Matt's throat. "I can see you're not letting those words go anytime soon," he said. "That isn't what I meant by my frustration, Julianne. What I meant was —"

  "You don't have to explain it to me again," I said. "I think you made it fairly clear last night. And I'm not blaming you for it right now —"

  "— you would just prefer me to feel guilty on my own, of course," finished Matt.

  It was a definite retort in his tone. I rolled my eyes, and Matt feigned a momentary interest in the ground beneath our feet.

  "I thought we had discussed the issue that you were the one staying," he answered. Stiff words, but calm ones once again. That infuriating patience of his, always holding back any other emotion. Except, of course, when breaking our coffee mugs in a flash of temper.

  "No, you discussed it," I said. "I had already decided to go, for the sake of your plants. Remember?"

  "My work is immaterial in cases like this," said Matt. "You needn't use it as an excuse to walk out."

  I laughed. "That definitely can't be an honest statement," I said. "You love your plants too much. Honestly, can't you just say that you wanted to be the one who stayed? You don't have to be the martyr every time we have a disagreement, Matt."

  "You don't have be the stubborn one every time," he countered. "You always insist you're right, Julianne, no matter the issue. Must you always cling to your opinions so firmly?"

  "I happen to know I'm not always right, no matter how I defend my opinions," I said. "But you think you're always right, even when you give in, and isn't that worse?"

  Okay, that one felt like a cheap shot, and I felt bad about even thinking it. Matt was good about giving in first so many times, and I had never assumed I was supposed to feel guilty about letting him ... but was that the real reason he did it?

  I dialed back my tongue and my opinions, waiting for the heat to recede so I wouldn't suggest that to him. We shouldn't still be arguing anymore. What was wrong with me that I was saying things that would only prolong it?

  "Even a night's sleep apart hasn't exactly cooled things, has it?" he said, with a sigh. "This is the same silly argument as before, only in the abstract."

  "Thanks," I said, sarcastically. "By the way, I wasn't being stubborn, I was being nice," I answered, as quietly as I could, and without any of the irritation I felt. "It was the sensible thing to do, and I was trying very hard to be sensible about our differences, whatever you might be thinking."

  "The sensible thing would have been for us never to have brought up any of these subjects, clearly," growled Matt. He fell silent as two volunteers passed by carrying a folding table, both of us switching to polite smiles momentarily.

  "I'm sure you would like an apology as much as I would," I said afterwards, crossing my arms.

  "You would apologize?" Matt sounded surprised, lifting one eyebrow with this question. Why? I wanted to ask. Because I sounded as definite about those feelings as you did?

  "Would you?" I countered. "But would either of us take back what we said?"

  An odd look crossed Matt's gaze. Was it guilt? Or discomfort for hiding something? "
Juli," he began. Matt's old tone was back, and it opened a definite ache inside of me. I wanted this to be over, and for us to be back together, not standing here with a rift between us that made us choose our words carefully, then badly, over and over.

  It was time to end this and put things back to normal. I would bite the bullet and apologize for my words. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet those dark eyes and not think about the silly, cutting remarks from last night.

  "Look," I said. "You're right that we shouldn't be arguing. We both know it. And I don't want an emotional space left between us — not while a blast from the past is hanging around to remind me that we almost didn't come together in the first place, anyway," I added, repressing a shudder for my encounter with Petal yesterday at the Dumnonian.

  Matthew's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?" he replied.

  I realized then that he had no idea. I was about to tell him when the person in question appeared on her own. Petal stepped inside the tent, looking as stunning as ever in a red silk tunic and linen trousers, her long waterfall of brown hair shining in the sunlight.

  She saw us. Her eyes landed on Matt after a brief glance at me, her face lighting up as she abandoned the members of the ad hoc committee to approach us.

  On Matthew's face, an emotion flickered that I couldn't quite identify. He was clearly beyond surprised by this development, and I felt a sudden cold spot form in my stomach as I watched him recover, and glimpsed the evident pleasure in Petal's eyes as she held out her hand to him.

  "Matthew," she said. "You haven't changed a bit." Her smile was the closest I had ever seen it to warm and genuine — even compared to when she had been clutching her soon-to-be-ex Donald's arm in supposed romantic bliss.

  Matt accepted her hand in his own. "Petal," he said, softly. "This is ... quite a surprise." He smiled at her, a friendly one that covered for his previous reaction, I noticed.

  "Mrs. Price-Parker has agreed to be the celebrity M.C. for our little event," announced Nigel, who had broken off from the rest of the committee to join us. "It was a sudden decision that has delighted us greatly." He beamed.