A Sewing Circle in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  "Ronnie wants me to meet the other judges before the event, and tonight was the only convenient time for it, apparently."

  "It's fine," I repeated. Almost successful at sounding as if this didn't concern me at all. I felt Matt take my hand and press something into my palm — his keys.

  "Take the car," he said.

  "What?" My tone was sharper than I intended, although I managed to keep it quiet. Some crazy part of me was stirring up the sequel to my nightmarish fantasy about tonight's meeting, now involving Petal's hotel room.

  "Ronnie will give me a lift. We changed the plans for housing the roses — he's arranged for the plants to be delivered very early tomorrow to his country place near Falmouth, and I've agreed to be there. He's given me a spare room to stay for the time being, so you needn't worry about my late return."

  Worry about what? About Matt coming home to me under our roof? I sucked in my breath, trying to think quickly of my reply and failing woefully. "You don't need to do this," I said.

  "Take them," he said, closing my hand over the keys.

  "Pippa can give me a ride."

  Was that all I could think of to say, as I held his only means of access to our home in my palm? The only other thing I could think of was how long Matt would be gone. Tonight? Indefinitely? Was this just an excuse for him to have the last word — to be the one who cleared out and made space for our time apart?

  "Nonsense." Matt met my eyes for a moment, then we both looked aside. "Go home and get some rest." I felt his lips against my forehead, in a brief, light kiss.

  He drew away from me and walked in the direction of the hotel's bar. The table where the three of us had been sitting was now empty, with a server clearing away our plates and water goblets, and snuffing the candle's flame.

  The scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body from where he had been leaning close to me in the restaurant doorway were gone also. All I was left with were the cold metal objects in my hand and a handful of little worries nibbling at the back of my mind like moths in a closet of woolens.

  The cottage was dark when I came home, switching on the lamp in the parlor. It felt strangely empty and quiet, as if it had been standing empty for days, not for hours. I wondered if Matthew had been here at all since this morning.

  My question was answered in the bedroom, where I found our closet standing open, and several of Matt's clothes missing from hangers and the open bureau drawers. His gardening clothes were among them, and so were his wellies and the lace-up 'Irish work boots' as Pippa referred to them, that he usually wore. Enough was gone that Matt could stay elsewhere comfortably for days.

  I sank down on our unmade bed, feeling the rumpled quilt beneath me on Matt's side. I didn't want to be here alone, lying in the dark and wondering what they were talking about at the hotel, or what was going through Matt's mind with Petal's reappearance and the worries about the fete's exhibition. I didn't want to stay here at all. It was as if Matt had tricked me into doing what he wanted in the first place, making me stay while he selflessly departed according to my needs. A tiny, irrational part of me suggested this, and I was too tired to fight it.

  I wished I had never said we needed time. Or walked out that night and left the door to our fight standing wide open behind me. At this rate, there would never be a chance to apologize, and we could go on being irritated by each other for days — weeks, even. Especially since an apology from either of us might be a hollow one when it came.

  I couldn't stand it any longer. I gathered up an armful of necessities, reached for my keys, and snapped off the light, the rumpled coverlet disappearing into the shadows again.

  Gemma and her mother's house was a tiny rented one with only two bedrooms, so their two guests were crowded into Gemma's cracker box room that was already full of her personal possessions — a bureau covered in costume jewelry and perfumed lotions, a bed decorated with fluffy, lacy throw pillows, and posters on the walls of celebrities from Aidan Turner to Ryan Gosling. A few newer ones were pinned up over celebrity magazine pages, inspiring quotations about writers and writing to go with the stack of books for Gemma's pursuit of becoming a novelist.

  "I should've noticed right away your rings were gone," said Pip, who was lying on the floor mattress squeezed between the door and Gemma's bed, painting her nails. "I could've loaned you mine to cover for you, if I hadn't been so stupid." She puffed a few breaths on the fresh paint.

  I had been telling them the whole awful evening's story, sitting on Gemma's bed as she painted my toenails a livid shade of pinky red. "It wasn't your stupid mistake, it was mine," I said. "Entirely my own stupid fault from beginning to end." I pulled a stitch too tight in my latest sad four-patch block, ruffling the whole thing like a doll's princess skirt.

  "What did you fight about in the first place?" asked Gemma, rummaging through her makeup box for more colors. "It wasn't Petal Price-Parker, was it?"

  "No." I hated to admit the actual circumstances of our disagreement. "I ... sort of accidentally got involved in Cal Pentworth and Nigel Hawking's disagreement."

  "You?" hooted Pippa. "That's a rum pair to tangle yourself with. What on earth for?"

  "Oh, there was this thing about the village name ... honestly, it's a long story. Anyway, Matt objected to my forming a hasty opinion on the subject."

  "Remember when Nigel tried to promote a spring daffodil festival?" said Pippa to Gemma. "Cal painted that Welsh flag right over the main flowerbed."

  "I remember when Cal first brought up the subject of the village name ... Nigel ordered all those customized postcards and address labels for Ceffylgwyn and sent them out through the village in protest of making a change," said Gemma. "Cost him a proper fortune."

  "And then Cal responded by ordering them with the proper name — and Nigel stole them all from everybody's post boxes and dumped them in Cal's front garden to make a bonfire —"

  "That's when Nigel got that awful black eye, isn't it?" Gemma and Pippa were both laughing now. "Cal took him to law for that incident — I remember the constabulary breaking up the garden fight, and Nigel charging Cal with assault." More laughter followed.

  I remembered Matt's words that hinted at an infamous feud between the two, and felt my ears burn hot. "Sounds like a definite grudge match," I said.

  "That doesn't seem like anything worthy of a big row, though," said Gemma, after their mirth died down. "You in the middle of that mess, I mean."

  "Well ... I might've sort of accused Matt of being too ... well, stiff upper lip," I said, meekly. "And ... maybe I suggested that he was a know-it-all sometimes?"

  "You said that to Ross?" said Pippa. "But Ross does know everything. That's the point of his existence, practically. It's why it was always so hard to talk to him — Heaven knows that's why I was so tongue-tied the first few times the two of us were working in the kitchen garden at Cliffs House. I had all the powers of speech of a toad most of the time."

  Pippa tongue-tied was a rare event, but if anyone could leave her speechless I knew it was probably Matt. "To be fair, he said a few things to me in our fight, too," I added. "Implying I was sort of meddlesome ... and maybe a little too opinionated sometimes."

  "That's true," said Gemma, mildly.

  "Really?" My heart sank. A part of me had secretly hoped for severe contradiction on this point.

  "Of course. You're always telling everybody what your opinion is, even if there's not really a point to doing it. I always thought it must be a bit of a Yank tendency or something."

  "Great." I rolled my eyes. "It ended up escalating from there. There was name-calling involved."

  "I can't imagine Ross that angry," giggled Pippa. "Did he growl a bit? I've always imagined he'd be sort of a dark fury when he's in a mood."

  "Shut up, Pip," said Gemma, wadding up one of her serving aprons and aiming for Pippa's head. "You're married and so is he!"

  "You shut up! I'm only expressing an opinion." Pippa tossed the missile back. "Besides, Julianne knows
he would never look at the likes of me." She settled back against a pile of pillows again. "He's not the tomcatting type, anyway. He would never be unfaithful once the ring and vows were in place. Not Ross." She opened a bottle of silver polish and painted dots across her orange toenails.

  He wouldn't, would he? Pippa was totally right about this, but it didn't explain why I was so uncomfortable about him being close to Petal for a few days. It wasn't as if he had seen Petal on purpose since their breakup — even when she wasn't yet married, he hadn't made a last-ditch plea to get her back. In fact, he had claimed to be falling for me just a little by then, which was an uplifting thought at this moment.

  "So what was she wearing?" Gemma asked, uncannily. "Petal Price-Parker?"

  "Some smashing white gown. I've seen pictures of it in Vanity Fair. Very posh and pricy," said Pip.

  "Hmph. Don't suppose she looks a day older than when she was here before?"

  "No," I answered, ruefully. A tone of which I repented a moment later. "That is, she's pretty much the same."

  "I just don't care for her." Pippa screwed up her nose. "Not after what she did to Ross."

  "I still can't imagine tossing aside someone like him," Gemma mused. "Even if you are a famous model. There's nobody kinder or more gentlemanly."

  "Or dishier," added Pippa. They both giggled, then Pip blushed. "Sorry, Julianne," she added.

  "No, it's all right," I said. "I'm aware of all those qualities about Matt. Anybody would have to be dead not to notice them." Everybody except for Petal Borroway, aspiring runway model, who had shattered Matt's heart in America. Not that you would know it from the way she looked at him tonight.

  "Ross isn't my type, really," confided Gemma, as she hopped down from the bed and searched through her closet for something.

  "Who is? Andy?" asked Pippa, wiggling her eyebrows.

  "Ugh. Don't talk to me about him right now," said Gemma, making a face over her shoulder. "He's practically dead to me right now." She and her longtime boyfriend were on the outs again, I surmised. "I was thinking more of the sandy-haired, blue-eyed sort. Like James Norton. Or maybe a ginger, like Shaun Evans." Which, in a way, was still a little like Andy, I noticed.

  "Or Benedict Cumberbatch when he's not Sherlock?" said Pippa, with a wicked grin. "I could fancy him. Not that I would take him seriously if he showed up ... I am going to be a mum after all." She rested her hand on her stomach. "Gavin would never forgive me for running off with some dishy film star."

  "I can imagine," I said, repressing a smile ... one which faded on its own when my needle got snagged during my next stitch. It made a hole in my newest square.

  "What about you, Julianne? Who do you fancy?" asked Gemma, as she tossed a pajama shirt onto her laundry hamper.

  "She fancies Ross, obviously," snorted Pippa. "Wouldn't you, if you were married to someone like him?"

  "I meant besides him, of course," retorted Gemma.

  My knowledge of dishy celebrities and Hollywood stars was limited compared to the two girls with me, but I didn't want to seem like an ancient old fuddy who was disconnected from pop culture. "Um, I don't know," I said. "There are a few who might be a little irresistible." I racked my brain for names. "Like ... Hugh Jackman in Les Miserables. Or Hugh Dancy." I had watched half a season of Hannibal with Aimee while in the States, although I was too squeamish for the actual killing scenes.

  The girls exchanged glances. "Ross," they said in unison, then both dissolved into laughter.

  "What?" I protested. "I can't help it if that's the type that — switches me on." Here, the laughter ended, and both the girls looked perplexed.

  "I used that phrase wrongly, didn't I?" Maybe Matt had a point. I was still too much of an outsider, even after years of living here. I pulled my next stitch too hard once again and my thread snapped.

  "Rats," I declared. I dug through my sewing basket for my scissors, tempted to open Gemma's window and toss the whole thing into the garden below. I could tell the ladies of the sewing circle that a dog stole my basket and ran away with it.

  "What are you doing?" asked Pippa, crawling closer on her knees. "That looks a right mess."

  "I'm supposed be sewing a quilt block," I said. "Forgive me, but I'm not a born crafter. All I'm doing is making a mess with a needle and thread." I ripped out the useless threads. "It's easy when I'm replacing a button on a blouse or putting an emergency hem in someone's wedding togs ... just not when I'm supposed to be making something all on my own."

  "That's because you're using the wrong needle, to begin with," said Pippa. "Look at the size of it! Get a smaller one from your basket and it'll be easier. Plus, you need a bit more hemline on those blocks."

  "Easy for you to say," I said. "Do you actually know anything about quilting?"

  "Of course I do. I've been working on one for three weeks for the baby," said Pip, who stationed herself at the foot of the bed. "It's all bunnies and ducklings and things," she added proudly, showing me a picture of it on her phone. Lots of blue and white patchwork blocks, with appliquéd ones of yellow chicks and brown bunnies, and puppies and kittens made from squares and triangles.

  "You sewed this?" I said, with surprise. "Pip ... it's amazing. It's really amazing. You have mad skills when it comes to quilting."

  She scoffed. "It's easy. Just a bit of something I picked up. I'll show you." She looked at Gemma. "Get me a bit of your old sewing stuff, will you? None of her blocks will do." She sifted through my sewing things, finding only more of my endless fabric squares, which were apparently subpar for her demonstration.

  "There's not much left worth using," said Gemma, who ceased rummaging through her nightclothes and pushed a dusty-looking plastic box in Pippa's direction, one which had been buried underneath a plaid skirt. "I haven't sewn anything in years. You're welcome to whatever's still decent inside it."

  "What were you using all this for?" I asked, as I opened the lid. Inside were lots of 'fat quarters' or bundles of fabric, folded up pieces with pins still holding them, pieces of paper patterns, and even a hedgehog pincushion in pink.

  "We used to sew dolls' clothes for the fete," said Pippa, who was sifting through the fabric, choosing some muslin and a roll of bright red with a flower motif. "And for a bit, we were both mad for fashion couture."

  "I wanted to be a designer," grunted Gemma, as she heaved down a heavy plastic crate from the top of her closet. "'Course, I never sewed anything but a tartan skirt, and it turned out rubbish. Here's a bit more fabric, Pip." She placed the crate on the floor. "There's my fuzzy sheep nightdress!" She pulled a wadded-up nightshirt from the empty space on the shelf.

  "What kind of patterns do you use?" I asked Pippa, as she began scissoring a shape from a yellow piece of fabric — one that reminded me of a Volkswagen Beetle, truthfully.

  "Don't use patterns. I make it up as I go along," said Pippa. "Just turn under the edges a bit as you go...use smaller stitches, so they won't show as easily. I put a bit of batting cut to match underneath it to make it puff up when it's all stitched in place," she added. Her fingers deftly turned under the fabric's edge, her needle moving precisely over the top of the little car, stitching it to a plain muslin block.

  I snipped shapes from the red floral square and a handy sheet of freckled bone white cotton, the first notion to enter my head. "What about all those weird little pieces you cut?" I asked.

  "Easy," said Pip. "Trust me. If it were hard, I couldn't do it. It just takes a bit of tucking and plastering here and there to cover the edges that don't look good. I'm not a perfectionist, honestly."

  She could have fooled me, judging from the photographs. My fingers were fairly helpless at first, as Pippa gave me tips on cutting the squishy cotton quilt batting, and putting even stitches along tricky edges. She talked about various mistakes she made on her pattern, which had resulted in a crooked duckling that became a kitchen potholder instead, and made me feel slightly better about my own mistakes.

  "When did you learn to do t
his?" I asked. My fingers missed a stitch in the side of my house's roof, forcing me to go back. "I don't remember you ever sewing when you were at Cliffs House."

  "I've known how for ages," said Pippa. "Since I was nine or so. Madgie taught me — probably taught Gemma, too," she added.

  "Madgie? Who's she?"

  "Kitty Alderson's gram," explained Pippa. "She was a proper whiz with a needle, and taught me how to make decent stitches. Her quilts were the best in all the village. She didn't hold with patterns as a general rule — cut loads of stuff herself, and just made up a design if she fancied one that wasn't in the books. She used to say to me that you should sew what you fancy. Make things that are about who and what you love best, and so on."

  Kitty and Pippa had had a prickly relationship at best when they both lived in the village. I would never have imagined Pippa taking lessons from her grandmother — probably with young Kitty hiding on the other side of the doorway, sticking out her tongue at one of her school nemeses. I smiled a little at this idea. The indomitable woman in Kitty's stories had possessed a heart of gold. She had been a florist in the village for years and the best influence in Kitty's young life ... and no doubt was responsible for many of my old assistant's surprising facets.

  "You're poking out a bit along there. Tuck it under better," instructed Pippa. "Here, let me show you how a tricky curve like that should be." She scissored a circle out of a scrap piece of fabric and began pinning it to a block, forming an imperfect but recognizable seal with flippers at the conclusion.

  "Like this?" I asked, trying to follow along. Gemma tugged at the pillow behind me.

  "If you two are going to sit here, where am I going to sleep?" she asked.

  "There's a bed on the floor," said Pip, helpfully, without looking up from her sewing lesson.

  "You want me to sleep on my own guest bed?" said Gemma, scornfully. "I do live here, you know." Two quick thuds on the wall lightly rattled a framed picture of singer Wendy Alistair above the bedside lamp. "We'll be quieter, Mum! Sorry!" Gemma called out in reply.