A Sewing Circle in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  Our eyes met briefly, and I saw a little of the familiar gleam in his dark ones. I smiled, feeling a little relief for it. "Some of what you said during our fight rings true for me," I replied. "It hit home right now, because I am in over my head these days. I don't understand half of what people are talking about when it comes to the fete's traditions ... I'm trying too hard when it comes to my job there ... and I'm completely failing my obligation to the sewing circle."

  Matt laughed — a heartier one than any I'd heard lately. "Are you still upset about your quilt?" he asked.

  "It's not funny to me," I protested. "I promised, Matt. And it looks dreadful." Of all the subjects to detour us from our problems, my pathetic patchwork had not been on my list of possibilities.

  "They'll understand if you tell them you can't finish it. They know how involved you are in the rest of the event."

  "I know. But it's important to me. I don't like to let things fall apart like that. I want things to turn out right, the way they're supposed to —" My suddenly-frustrated tone couldn't possibly be for mangled quilt blocks, and we both sensed it. So we had stumbled through the door to my half of the problem: the meddling, overly-involved side of my character.

  I cleared my throat. I took a sip of water, a long, slow one that prevented anything more from being said by me on this subject. Matthew reached for the bread basket, and I suspected he, too, was looking for a distraction.

  "So, how has your stay at Ronnie's been?" I asked. From the corner of my eye, I could see our waiter approaching, and introduced a safe topic for now.

  "It's been fine. We've admired the roses ... we've reviewed some slides he took of a new bacteria that's become problematic in some gardens in Yorkshire ... we had a sherry with the journalist writing the story on the exhibit."

  "Sounds fascinating." I lifted my fork, glad my pasta gave my hands and eyes a distraction, to keep me from staring at Matt and doing something rash — like seizing his hands out of nowhere in a frenzied bid to apologize.

  "Sounds rather dull, unless you like that sort of thing," said Matt, with a wry smile.

  "I do," I protested. "Honestly. I'm not pretending to be interested in your work, Matt. I may be too 'involved' in more things than you think I should be, but it's not an act when I am." I suppose Petal was honestly disinterested at all times, wasn't she?

  "I didn't mean to imply that it was," said Matt. "I only thought — never mind. I know what you're thinking, that I'm merely being stoic about the fact that we are very different people."

  "Like I was going to accuse you of it," I began, then bit back any further words. What were we doing, descending into our problem once again? Not here, in a candlelit restaurant, where we were both on the verge of an apology.

  I played with the ziti on my plate, momentarily. "I was hoping you had a nice time," I said, turning the emotional tide elsewhere. "Truthfully, I've really missed you these past few days." I took a deep breath. "That's the real reason I haven't been staying at the cottage."

  Matt's features, braced for further debate, now softened. "Julianne," he said. I detected surprise, maybe even a touch of concern in his voice. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Oh, you know. Same reasons you didn't tell me why it bothered you that I wasn't there?" I lifted one eyebrow with this question.

  "Ah." He poked at his rigatoni with his fork, a large portion of it still untouched in the manner of my plate. "I wanted you to stay because it seemed right to me."

  "Sometimes, though, it feels like you're doing it just to be right," I said. "In case you've ever wondered."

  His face darkened, briefly. "Keeping score is not my objective, I assure you. For me, it was purely the difference between getting a good night's sleep by knowing where you were and that you were safe. That's all." His fingers tapped against the base of his water goblet, a movement of frustration.

  It was my turn to be disarmed by the conversation's shift. "I see." I studied the still-visible pleats in my linen napkin, draped across my lap. "I didn't think of it that way. To me, it was just you being ...."

  "The martyr," finished Matt. We both let a pause fall between our remarks. "I'm not made of British stoicism to the degree you always think I am. It's disappointing to know that's the only motivation you imagine."

  "Not every time," I said, quickly, although it didn't lift the gloom from his expression. "See? This is the worst part. We're judging each other's apologies now, aren't we?"

  "Point taken," said Matt. Grimly, I thought. We both pretended to be interested when the waiter returned to freshen our wine and replenish our bread basket. Across the way, the pianist's song became a stirring love ballad from the pop charts, the name of which I couldn't remember.

  "I feel as if I've scarcely seen you recently," said Matt.

  "Believe me, I wasn't trying to avoid you," I said. "Or miss your calls."

  "I know. We've both been unavailable these past few days. I would resent the fete for it, perhaps, except it's my own fault that I've been pulled in as well," he said, smiling faintly.

  "I tried to save you from it." With a wry smile, I took a long sip from my wine glass.

  "I'm afraid it became rather inescapable at that point," he said. "You no doubt surmised the pressure — you said something to that effect when we last dined here."

  My face flamed scarlet. "I think maybe I was thinking about a different pressure," I said, unable to recall any words I'd said, only my thoughts of deep dismay for Petal's story about it.

  "What were you thinking?" His brow furrowed.

  "Who, me? Nothing. I — I'm sure whatever I said was exactly what you thought." Why was my face still red? I buttered another breadstick, trying to look unconcerned about this topic. I preferred this time that Matt not construe the rest of my meaning.

  The confusion in Matt's eyes cleared. "You're jealous," he said. "You think it was Petal's fault that I said yes to the committee's request."

  "Did I actually say that?" I pointed out.

  "You really don't have to. It's written all over your face. Julianne, really — do you think that any request by my ex would have such weight in my decisions? We are talking about Petal Borroway, remember."

  The woman who had all but ripped Matt's heart from his chest after three years of blissful romance — all because she wanted a chance at fame while Matt simply wanted a chance to build a life with her. He sounded exasperated when he asked; it would bother me, except I was rather relieved by it.

  "Give me some credit, at least," I answered. "I see the way she looks at you, Matt. It's obvious that she sees that she lost a good thing in you. All the little touches, the light flirtation ... she wants you to notice her." I thought about taking another long sip of wine at this point, but managed to keep my glass at bay.

  "I'm aware, yes. But you can't possibly think I would respond to her."

  "She's really beautiful." My voice became quieter. "She's a gorgeous model. And I'm not saying you ever thought about her after we were together ... but I know there was a time when you did think about her. A lot." I fumbled with my words. "You were a great couple, probably. She definitely thinks you could be again. And it's not impossible you could have some regrets ... little ones ... when you think about what might have been."

  Matt received this quietly. "You really think I could fall in love again with a woman who crushed my heart in that manner?"

  He sounded truly hurt. The ghosts of those doubts that had been haunting my brain fled at the sound of it, leaving me sorry I had ever let them in. "No," I admitted. "Not you. Just in my worst imaginings."

  "Beautiful model or no, I have no intention of ever thinking about Petal again," he said. "I only think of you at this point in my life. Just as I once offered to give up anything for her, I would do the same for you and your happiness. Anything," he repeated, with emphasis.

  I smiled, wryly. "You know I would never seriously take you up on that offer," I said. "I would never make you miserable intentionally, Matt. I d
on't want you to give up things, or give in to things for me because it would keep me from leaving."

  "Did it ever occur to you that I do things like that precisely for that reason?" Matt asked, softly. "Because I know you're not someone who would take a greater price from me for your happiness — or to be part of my life, for that matter. And I have no other way of expressing how deeply grateful I am for that fact."

  What was left of my self possession melted away. It felt like the most intimate moment we had shared in a very long time, even without a physical touch between us. Without speaking, I laid my hand on the table, reaching for his own. Even with Matthew's fingers brushing against mine, it was impossible to feel a deeper connection than we had shared in the instant beforehand.

  "I thought about asking for a hotel room," he said. "It's bound to be a long evening. You know how it is once a group of naturalists are gathered in the same room."

  A smile twitched my lips. "It has the makings of a definite carouse," I said.

  "Would you stay?" His tone became different with this question — careful, hesitant, but desirous of being answered. "After the party ends?"

  I knew the question was coming the moment he spoke about the room. Unfortunately, I knew the answer already, too. "I promised," I said. "Lady Amanda and Gemma — I told them I'd help out for a few hours at the manor. It's been so crazy the last few days, and tourists will be everywhere for the fete."

  I wished badly that I could give him a different answer. Especially since I didn't want that look in his eyes to die away because of anything I said.

  "Sleeping in your office again?" he asked.

  "Something like that." I shrugged my shoulders. My fingers traced Matt's hand, feeling the comforting calluses of his garden labors. Even the pinpricks on my own from my sewing didn't change the familiarity.

  "Can I ask you something?" I said.

  "Ask away," he said.

  "Petal was saying something —"

  "Julianne," he groaned.

  "No, no, I'm serious. It's not about your past with her, not really. She was pointing out that you hardly ever use your professional title. You know, like aristocrats who want to be recognized outside of their family crest or something ... and I realized I never asked you why." I took a deep breath. "She told me about some joke one of your friends made about your 'plebian background.' I guess like you weren't that proud of your degree."

  "I remember." I could see from Matt's face that this joke had not been the good-natured one of a close friend. "I suppose the suggestion was that I was being loyal to my working class roots?"

  "Something like that. Yeah, I know, I thought it was a little too snarky."

  The touch of Matt's thumb was soft as it traced the back of my hand. "I am proud of my accomplishment," he said. "Extremely proud of all the effort it cost me to achieve it. But I'm also careful about the perception that it paints of me in others' minds." He paused. "I don't want anyone to be under the impression that I was entitled to honors in a way that my father and mother weren't. They were a part of my success, after all."

  That was Matt. I should have known it without words, but maybe hearing him tell it was better. "I didn't think you did it because you wanted to blend into the background in your work," I answered, teasingly.

  "Why not?" he asked. "You're forced into the background for yours. Even with everything you've done for the fete these past few weeks, the congratulations and attention will go to a celebrity like Petal instead."

  "Most of the credit should go to the committee and to Lady A this time," I said. "But it's the nature of my job to be the silent credit. That's how it works in my world. If you have to notice me and see me at an event I've planned, it means something's gone wrong."

  He smiled. "But it doesn't change my point," he said. "I marvel at the fact that someone who is incredibly talented, who makes events large and small come to life, will never be appreciated for it as she should be. I think my would-be anonymity is very light by comparison."

  My fingers crept between Matt's now, embracing his hand with mine. Our conversation had grown quiet again; in the silence, I was still wishing I had given him a different answer about tonight.

  "That photo Petal gave you," I said. "Not to bring her up a second time..."

  He actually blushed over this question. "I gave it to her not long before we were engaged," he said. "I found it tucked in a book that I had brought from England, and when I showed it to her, she found it charming. I had forgotten all about it, truly...it's probably the only photo I had left from my childhood."

  "I wasn't asking for an explanation," I said. "I was asking if I could have it." I met his gaze so he could see that I wasn't resenting this perfectly-natural gesture from his past — not even with my eagerness to have the same piece of his past.

  "Of course," he said, softly. "It's yours. As is everything else of mine."

  I shook my head, a wry smile on my lips now. "I'm not asking for the rest. Just the photo."

  I felt Matt's thumb trace my hand; I wrapped my own around it with a gentle squeeze, drawing it into the embrace as well.

  "Your rings have returned from being cleaned," observed Matt, softly. I detected a little wicked, teasing gleam in his eyes, a familiar one for jokes like this.

  "I'm still sorry about that," I said. "I won't make that mistake again."

  "I hope not," he answered. But still teasingly. That was the only reason I let him get away with it.

  It was getting close to eight thirty. Our fingers stayed linked together, however, holding onto the moment just a little longer before we went upstairs to face the party.

  ***

  "Now, you have to pin the back really well along the corners, or it will be crooked .... Are you listening to me?" asked Pippa.

  "Yes, I am," I said. "I was just distracted for a moment." The two of us were sitting up long after all trace of preparation for the fete and other events had been swept out of sight before tourists invaded Cliffs House for the weekend. Pippa because the Chinese food disagreed with her pregnant belly, and me because I couldn't sleep, imagining Matthew sleeping alone at the hotel.

  And, yes, that's all I imagined. I was not going to let the monster jealousy get the better of me this time.

  In the gardens of Cliffs House, we both breathed in the cool night air. In the distance, I could hear the sea washing against the high rocks. My rocks, my cliffs, which played a role in more pivotal moments in my life and my marriage than I could easily count at this point. Tonight, the sound it made was a lonely one, as if it had lost something and searched for it in those cracks and crevices.

  Maybe if I went for a walk along that path — past the heath growing in the delicate Cornish garden that I once trampled by accident, and began my relationship with Matt by proxy — I would find the reassurance I needed that everything was almost back to normal.

  Instead, I was on a blanket in the rose garden, with Pippa showing me how to sew a back on a quilt by the aid of moonlight and several garden lanterns from a recent party. She claimed that keeping her fingers busy helped her nausea, although I couldn't imagine how. "Then you stitch around the perimeter," she said. "Just like putting in a little fence row."

  "Really?"

  "No. Just sounds a bit fun to say it like that," she answered. "Make tiny stitches," she reminded me, as she went back to sewing together a turtle block out of some baby blue and ivory scraps she had found in Gemma's things. The same hands that had deftly arranged fairy cakes on platters when she was a maid at Cliffs House wielded that needle with a fast efficiency that I envied.

  "So ... are you going to talk about it?" she asked.

  "Talk about what?" I answered, innocently.

  "Don't be mean. We know where you were tonight. Since you came back, however, I'm guessing it wasn't a proper reunion," said Pip.

  "It was good," I said. "But I had promised Lady Amanda already, of course ... and the party was running really late, and they were all coaxing Matt to sta
y a little longer ...." My needle missed a stitch and poked sharply through my finger instead. I sucked the blood bead on its surface, wincing.

  "Didn't apologize, did he?" said Pippa. "I knew Michael was wrong. Never trust the opinion of somebody whose tattoos look like a Russian prisoner's."

  "He's not that bad, Pip." I repressed a giggle. "I thought his advice had some good points."

  "Hmph." At this moment, Pip sounded exactly like Gemma, whenever she became stubborn. I bit my tongue against further defense of Michael, and concentrated on finishing my seam.

  Pippa turned the edges of her turtle's shell. "I'll admit that one time, maybe, I did apologize first," she said.

  "I see." I found my stitches were traveling faster when I wasn't near the quilt's corners.

  "I wasn't exactly wrong that time, either, so he should've been the one to do it," Pippa said. "But the look on his face ... like it meant the world to him. Emotional old sod." She snipped her thread, and glanced at me with an embarrassed smile.

  "Look what I've done — I've missed the turtle's tale," she said with disgust, when she looked down at her work. "Stop when you reach the last corner, by the by, and I'll show you how the quilting stitch works...."

  A half hour before daylight, Olivia was climbing into her car when I caught up with her, grateful that I was wearing a pair of sensible shoes — leather loafers — for once in my life. "Olivia, wait!" I called.

  "Julianne! It's a bit early for you to be out this way," she said, with surprise. Her arms were loaded with supplies for the stall, which she was packing into her back seat and car boot. "Surely you haven't been to the fete's grounds already?"

  "Not yet," I said, breathlessly. "I know it's late, and it's probably not good enough for the sale, but I wanted to give this to you anyway." I handed her a folded bundle, one which I had finished stitching a mere two hours ago, with a simple quilting stitch around the block's edges. "It's not much, but I promised I'd make one for the circle."

  Olivia looked still more surprised at the bundle in her hands, but I didn't stay to see her unfold it and survey my terribly amateur handiwork. I gave a quick wave of greeting to her husband Ted, who noticed their early morning visitor while on his way to the barn, then climbed into the driver's seat of my car again.