Ties That Bind

by Marie Bostwick

  Arnie shook his head. “Let it go, Margot. You don’t want to antagonize the judge any further, do you?” The expression on his face made it clear that this question required no answer. “I told you this was how he’d react, Margot. I’m surprised Bench was willing to bring it to the judge.”

  “He didn’t want to,” I admitted. “I pushed him.”

  “Well, you’re lucky it didn’t backfire on you. Next time listen to my advice, will you? I’m on your side, you know.”

  “I know, Arnie. I’m sorry.”

  My apology didn’t make any difference. Arnie was still miffed at me. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  He walked away just as Geoff and my parents came down the courthouse stairs. My father kept his head down and walked past without even looking at me, but my mother, who was holding Dad’s arm, turned to me as they passed.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  If someone had told me that a time would come when my father wouldn’t speak to me and I wouldn’t be able to think of anything to say to my mom, I’d have said that was crazy. And it is! This whole thing is nothing but crazy. If I didn’t sincerely believe that Olivia would be better off with me than my folks and know for certain that I was doing what Mari wanted me to do, I would never go through with this.

  I lifted my hand as they drove away, but I couldn’t tell if Mom waved back. When I turned around, Geoff was standing there.

  “That was fun,” he said glumly. “I always enjoy getting chewed out by a judge before lunch.”

  “Sorry. That was my fault. But thanks for trying. I owe you one. Can I take you to lunch?” I asked. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Tempting, but I’ve got to meet another client in half an hour. But don’t worry,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders and flashing that strobe-light smile of his. “We’ll find a way for you to make it up to me.”

  45

  Margot

  “Close your eyes, Aunt Margot, and hold out your hands.” I heard a sound of rustling blankets and a drawer opening, then a pause as Olivia turned toward the chair I was sitting in. “Don’t peek!”

  “I’m not. My eyes are shut tight.”

  More rustling, a drawer closing, the feel of Olivia’s cold fingers brushing my hand, then something soft and warm. I already knew what it was and yet, when Olivia gave me permission to open my eyes, I gasped.

  “Olivia! Oh my goodness! This is just beautiful, sweetie.”

  The baby quilt, made from five-inch squares of soft flannel in pastel colors, some solid, some dotted, some striped, some with squiggles and curlicues, all pre-cut from a charm pack I’d brought from the shop, had been only about three-quarters sewn when we worked on it last, but now it was all but done. Now all the blocks were stitched together, backed with pale blue flannel and tied in the center with lengths of yellow yarn. Once the extra blue flannel was double-folded, ironed to the front of the quilt, and blind-stitched to secure it, the quilt would be ready to donate to the next premature baby born at the hospital.

  “How were you able to finish this so quickly? Did someone help you?”

  Olivia had been surprisingly quick to pick up quilting. The accident had caused some lingering problems with her large motor skills—she still had issues with balance that the doctors hoped would improve in time—but her small motor skills were excellent. Even so, I couldn’t imagine that she had been able to finish this quilt all by herself. Perhaps there was a secret quilter on the nursing staff.

  Olivia nodded. “Grandma. She can sew a lot faster than me. But I did all the yarn thingies,” she said, pointing to a green block with blue and yellow stripes, “after Grandma showed me how. She brought a really big needle.” Olivia spread her hands out to a width that was much greater than any needle could be, but I knew what she meant.

  “A tapestry needle.”

  Olivia nodded. “Uh-huh. Grandma is a really good quilter.”

  She is? My mother is an accomplished knitter, but as far as I knew, she’d never done much quilting.

  “She’s very nice too,” Olivia said, playing absently with one of the yarn ties. “So is Grandpa.”

  “They are,” I said. “Very nice.”

  “How come you never come to visit when they do?”

  I scratched my nose, giving myself a moment to formulate an answer.

  “Well,” I said slowly, “it’s a little bit complicated. Have you ever had an argument with a friend at school?” Olivia nodded. “So you know that sometimes when you have an argument, even with somebody you really like, you just need to take a break from each other for a little while. You know, until things cool down.”

  Olivia stuck her little finger in her mouth, gnawing on her nail, and thought about this for a moment. “Mommy had an argument like that with Grandma and Grandpa, but it wasn’t for a little while. It was forever. I think they’re nice. I think you should make up with them.”

  Olivia unfolded the baby blanket and smoothed it out so it covered her lap and knees, looking down at the pastel patches.

  “I want to, Livie. I’ve tried to and … I’m sure everything will work eventually, but like I said, it’s kind of complicated.”

  Olivia kept running her hands over the quilt, brushing her fingertips against its softness, but she said nothing.

  “Listen, sweetie, I’ve got to go. I have to run by the quilt shop before my meeting at church, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Would you like me to take your quilt home with me? I could iron the binding and then we can stitch it so it will be all finished.”

  “Okay.” Olivia folded up the quilt, carefully matching the corners so the edges were all even. I smiled to myself, thinking she might have a future folding fat quarters in a quilt shop.

  “Maybe when we take this to the nursery, we’ll be able to get a picture of you and the baby who will be taking it home. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  She handed me the quilt. “When do I get to go home?”

  “Soon.”

  “With you?”

  “Well … we’re working all that out.”

  The big brown eyes stared up at me. “Is it complicated?”

  “A little bit.”

  When I bent down to kiss her good-bye, Olivia kissed me back, then leaned back on her pillows and sighed. I couldn’t tell if the depth of her sigh stemmed from sadness, resignation, or disappointment with adults in general, but whatever it was, it felt like an accusation.

  Coming out of the elevator, my mind on other things, I bumped into Paul Collier, literally. In fact, I practically knocked him over. How embarrassing.

  “Oh, gosh! I’m so sorry, Paul. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  He grinned. “That’s okay. You in a hurry?”

  “A little. Why are you here? You’re not sick, are you?”

  I could have kicked myself. It was bad enough to blurt out such a personal question, but it was even worse to blurt it out in a tone of such obvious concern. The last thing I wanted was for Paul Collier to think I had some sort of schoolgirl crush on him.

  “Dermatology appointment,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “When I was a kid, I worked as a lifeguard at the neighborhood pool. Never wore sunscreen. So now I have to go get all my moles checked out every year. It’s no big deal.”

  “Oh. That’s good. I mean, getting it checked out every year. Good idea.”

  “Yeah. Well. It’s one of those things you’ve got to do. I’m going to see you at youth group on Saturday, right?”

  “Saturday?” I hesitated, thinking about Saturday. There was something I was supposed to be doing then … wasn’t there? Why couldn’t I remember? Why was I getting so flustered? Maybe this was the kind of thing that started happening once you hit forty. I hoped so. Or at least I hoped Paul would chalk it up to that.

  “We’re taking the kids bowling, remember?”

  “Oh, yes! Saturday!” I smacked myself on the forehead. How could I have forgotten? We’d schedul
ed it weeks before and on a different night than our usual, so it wouldn’t conflict with quilt circle. “Philippa is going to fill in for me. I should have told you before. Geoff Bench is coming for my home visit. It’s the only time he could do it. I’ll be so glad to finally get it over with. I can’t tell you how many times he’s canceled on me.”

  “Really? Huh.”

  Paul frowned, and when he did a little series of lines, like folds in a paper fan, appeared at the corners of his eyes. How was it possible that frowning could make a man look even more attractive than he did smiling? None of the other men I knew looked more handsome when they frowned.

  “Well, that’s too bad. We’ll miss you. I mean, the kids and all. You know. So, I guess I’ll see you next Friday.”

  “Yes. Or later tonight, if you’re going to the meeting at church.”

  “Right! The vote on what to do with the money. Thanks for reminding me. I promised Philippa I’d be there. You want to ride over together?”

  He’d promised Philippa he’d be there? Well, that clinched it. The rumors were true. I wanted to be mad at him, but didn’t have the heart. His face was an open book; he looked miserable and hopeful all at once. He couldn’t help how he felt. Neither could Philippa. And why should they? If Philippa wasn’t a minister, I doubt anybody would have thought twice about it.

  It was sweet in a way, how he was trying to disguise his interest in Philippa, but I wasn’t in the mood to be anyone’s decoy. Maybe at another time and with another man I’d have been able to pull it off, but not with Paul. If we walked into church together, there was no way I’d be able to hide my feelings. I’m an open book too, or at least I can be. But not anymore, not if I can help it.

  “Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve got to go to the quilt shop before. And I’m meeting someone after.”

  I’ve always been a terrible liar, but this lie came easily, slipping from my lips like silk from a spool. I knew I should take it back, but I didn’t. I didn’t want anyone, Paul especially, feeling sorry for me. I was tired of it. I was tired of feeling sorry for myself.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” he said, looking disappointed, as I was sure he was. But he and Philippa would have to work this out on their own. “Another time?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Another time.”

  46

  Margot

  The church was full. Not Christmas or Easter full, but more than half of the pews were occupied, which was fairly impressive for a weeknight. Clearly, the congregation had some strong opinions about where and how Waldo’s bequest should be spent and they were eager to make them known.

  Ted, I knew, wanted to buy a new boiler. I agreed with that wholeheartedly; I suspect everybody else felt the same way. We’d all endured so many frigid Sunday mornings that there could be no doubt of what our first priority should be. But what should be done with the remainder of the funds was a cause for debate.

  Ted had an idea to use the money to buy cameras and recording equipment and broadcast our Sunday services on television and radio. And while I didn’t think that was a terrible idea—well, not completely terrible—it didn’t strike me as something that ought to be at the top of the list of possibilities.

  There was a push among choir members to buy a new organ. The church librarians had proposed building a set of new bookshelves. The children’s department wanted to create a church camp scholarship fund and buy new toys for the nursery. Somebody else proposed buying a new chest freezer for the kitchen to store meals for people who were ill or families with new babies. Another proposal called for using the money to pay down the mortgage. And that was really just the beginning.

  Seventy-five thousand dollars sounds like a lot of money, and it is. But it wasn’t enough to fund even a percentage of the good and worthy ideas that were floating around the congregation. I hoped we’d be able to come to an agreement.

  There was a microphone and two chairs sitting at the front of the church, one for Philippa and one for Ted. I stood in the middle of the aisle looking for a place to sit. Evelyn, Charlie, and Virginia were sitting near the front in the middle of a full pew. They must have gotten there early. Evelyn saw me, fluttered her fingers and raised her eyebrows, silently asking if I wanted to join them, but I could see there was no room. I shook my head and mouthed, “See you after.” Evelyn nodded.

  Miranda Wyatt was sitting about halfway back and next to the aisle. She waved me over. “There’s room here,” she said. I sat down and shoved my purse under the pew.

  “So what do you think we should do with the money, Margot?”

  “Besides get a new boiler, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, I can tell you what we don’t need to do,” Miranda said, “and that is buy a bunch of electronic junk and start our own television show. What a silly idea. If you ask me, that whole proposal is just the result of testosterone poisoning. Ted just wants new toys to play with.”

  While I did believe that Ted’s motivation for wanting to broadcast the church services was primarily spiritual, there was probably at least a crumb of truth in Miranda’s observation. Men get pretty excited about new gadgets and gizmos. Evelyn is always teasing Charlie about how he has to have every new cooking utensil on the market. But then again, I once saw Evelyn go into raptures over a rotary cutting mat that could swivel. And I’ve been drooling over those machines that will create perfect fabric die-cuts in just about any shape you can imagine. So maybe the urge to collect new gadgetry isn’t an exclusively male trait. One person’s gadget may be another person’s completely necessary tool.

  I wondered if Miranda’s interest in shooting down Ted’s proposal was purely a matter of wanting what was best for the church. I’m not sure what happened between her and Ted, but something had. Whatever it was, I intended to stay out of it.

  At the front, Philippa and Ted were having some sort of exchange, possibly to decide who should do the talking. Philippa shook her head and lifted her hand, appearing to yield the floor to Ted, who smiled and walked to the microphone.

  He was just calling the meeting to order when Paul arrived. Paul saw me, pointed to his chest and then toward an empty pew, indicating that I could come back and sit with him if I wanted to. I made a “thanks anyway” face and tilted my head toward Miranda, so he’d know I already had someone to sit with. Paul shrugged and took a seat in an empty pew at the very back of the crowd.

  Standing at the microphone, Ted waited for the conversations to cease, then gave an explanation of how this donation had come into our possession, followed by a moving tribute to the memory of Waldo Smitherton. When he was done everyone clapped.

  “As you know,” Ted continued, “Waldo left no instructions about how the money should be used, but I am sure he wouldn’t have wanted us to quarrel amongst ourselves. I hope we’ll keep that in mind during this evening’s discussion.

  “The ushers”—Ted nodded, and the ushers began moving down the aisle, passing out sheets of paper—“are passing out lists of various proposals and cost estimates. We’ve had a lot of ideas about how to use this generous gift, and I’m sure we’ll hear a few more from the floor tonight. However, we’re going to have to make some choices ….”

  Ted then went on to explain that, while tonight’s meeting was about discussing ideas and trimming down our wish list, he didn’t expect to take a final vote that evening. But he hoped we would be able to deal with one item of business—the boiler.

  People were a little surprised to learn that the labor for installing the new unit and repairing the old pipes would cost nearly as much as the boiler itself, but after some grumbling and griping, they voted to go ahead with it. Looking to the front, I saw Philippa smiling and gave her a thumbs up. The discussion moved on. The library shelving was quickly eliminated as an option, as were the chest freezer, new carpeting for the vestibule, new landscaping for the grounds, and a proposal from the floor that we purchase an espresso machine for the coffee hour.

  The conversation got a bit heated when the
choir director, Alma Nadar, presented her proposal for the purchase of a new organ. As she rose to speak, the choir members, who were sitting in the two pews behind Alma’s, also rose in perfect choreographed unison, a united front of support. They were silent but standing as a group and, thus, appeared larger in numbers than they actually were. Their eyes were glued to Alma; I almost expected them to start humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as an underscore to her impassioned pleas. It was an impressive performance, and it was obvious that the choir members were enthusiastic about the prospect of a new organ. Nobody else seemed that excited about it.

  Wendy Perkins stood up and said what the rest of us were thinking. “Why do we need a new organ? This one sounds fine to me.”

  “Technically,” Alma said, “it is, for what it is: a two manual draw-knob organ of middling quality. But this magnificent temple,” she said, making a sweeping gesture—I wondered if she’d chosen to wear that purple blouse with the bell sleeves just for impact—“with its incomparable acoustics deserves an equally magnificent organ. For years, it has been my prayer to get a pipe organ in our church, something truly spectacular that would elevate the musical portion of our worship experience to a level that cannot be rivaled in this part of the state.” Alma clutched her clasped hands to her breast and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “I believe that this bequest from our dear, departed Waldo is an answer to that prayer, and could provide the seed money we need to purchase the kind of organ that our church deserves.” Exhaling dramatically, Alma took her seat amid a spattering of applause from the choir, who, after the lead soprano quietly counted off one, two, three, also sat down exactly on cue, just as they did on Sunday mornings.