A Single Thread (Cobbled Court)

by Marie Bostwick

  In the candlelight, I could see the sheen in Evelyn’s eyes. “You’ve all been so wonderful to me, truly. If I’d been born with three sisters instead of as an only child, I couldn’t have asked for three sweeter, more giving women to help me through this. There just aren’t words to thank you.”

  Oh dear. Defying my expectations, this had been a pleasant evening. At least so far. The last thing we needed to do was spoil it with some emotional scene. I jumped in.

  “Well, you’ve certainly done a lovely job of thanking us tonight,” I said expansively. “It was just delightful. Such a treat at the end of a long, tiring week.”

  Evelyn smiled, and I was relieved to notice that she swallowed back her tears. “It really was my pleasure. I’ve been wracking my brain thinking of what I could do for the three of you, and then I figured it out.”

  “You didn’t have to do anything for us,” Margot said. “It’s been no hardship helping you. Actually, I’ve enjoyed it. It’s certainly more fun working at Cobbled Court than sending out endless resumes and cover letters for jobs I don’t get.” Margot’s usually smiling face grew serious. It was the first time I’d seen a cloud on her normally sunny disposition. Clearly, the months of unemployment had been harder on her than she’d let on.

  “I know the economy is in a slump, but I never imagined that I’d have such a hard time finding a new job. I was really beginning to doubt myself and my skills, but, Evelyn, working with you has reminded me that I actually am good at what I do—even if corporate America doesn’t seem to need my services. I can’t speak for the others, but I suspect that, even though you think we’re helping you, you’re helping each of us just as much. I know everyone might not feel the same way,” Margot said, looking at me as if anticipating my discomfort with her assertion, “but I think God has brought us together for a reason. In some way or other, we need each other. So, really, you don’t need to thank us.”

  “Maybe not, but I do. And this,” Evelyn said, sweeping her hand over the table, “was just the appetizer. The best part is yet to come.”

  Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet. “Ladies, grab your coffee cups and follow me downstairs. There’s something I want to show you.”

  16

  Evelyn Dixon

  “There!” I snapped on the light in the dark workroom. “That’s better.”

  I’d set four rolling chairs around the sides of the cutting table and positioned a sewing machine behind each chair so everyone could easily move from the table to the machines and back. Additionally, I’d set up two ironing boards in the corners of the room. In the center of the table, I’d placed a basket with rulers, markers, template plastic, seam rippers, and scissors. Each spot was supplied with a new rotary cutter and mat, a box of silk pins, a project bag, and a stack of pattern books that I’d felt might appeal to each of the three women.

  Abigail and Margot looked a little confused, but Liza, already in on the surprise, was grinning from ear to ear. “Don’t you get it? We’re starting a quilting circle. Evelyn is going to help us make quilts.”

  “That’s right,” I confirmed. “Now, instead of going over the books on Friday nights, we can relax and enjoy each other’s company while we work on our quilting projects. Of course, tonight’s dinner was a little more elaborate than I can manage on a weekly basis, but I’m sure we’ll be able to rustle up something in the way of provisions.”

  Margot looked pleased, but a little concerned too. “Evelyn, this is sweet of you, but do you think you really have time for this? Even without the surgery coming up, you’ve got a lot on your plate. And you’re teaching three nights a week as it is. Now you want to take on yet another class? Besides,” she protested, “what will we do about our Friday night business meetings?”

  “But this isn’t a class. I’ll be here to help and advise, but I’ll be working on a project of my own just like the rest of you. It’ll be as much fun for me as for you. And believe me, I could use a little fun right now.” I laughed, but Margot’s brow remained furrowed.

  “Margot, at first we needed those weekly meetings, but now you know everything there is about running Cobbled Court Quilts. You can probably do it better than I can.” She started to deny this, but I interrupted. “Besides, you and I see each other practically every day anyway. We can discuss the business during business hours. There’s no point in boring poor Abigail with all this. She’s on so many other boards and committees in town, doing things that can affect the lives of hundreds of people, not just mine. I appreciate all her help, but she’s done her part. She has other commitments, important ones. She can’t be involved in the day-to-day of operating a quilt shop.”

  Abigail didn’t say anything one way or the other, as was her style, but I read a flash of appreciation in her eyes. I meant what I said. During one of our morning coffee dates, Charlie told me about the extent of Abigail’s charity work. Her contributions, monetary and otherwise, clearly had a huge impact on the community. Of course, some of that may have been for appearance’s sake, writing the right checks to the right organizations, showing up at the right parties. But I couldn’t believe anyone, even someone as wealthy as Charlie said Abigail was, would be so generous with her money and time unless she really wanted to help people. I wanted Abigail to know that I truly appreciated her generosity, and not just to me. She deserved my gratitude and my respect. It was too bad her niece didn’t share my feelings.

  I knew that Liza didn’t get much affirmation from her aunt, but clearly that was a two-way street. They were so much alike, those two. The physical resemblance was striking, of course. They had the same high cheekbones, the same piercing gaze and beautiful complexions, and the same graceful, loping gait, leading from the hips like off-duty runway models, but there was so much more they shared. They were both intelligent and talented, though in very different ways. It was impossible not to be drawn to them, curious to know what made them tick, but they each put up walls to keep others from getting too close.

  Liza’s, constructed from an off-putting combination of goth clothing, ripped jeans, and stony stares, with a thick coating of hard-edged attitude to fill in any chinks, was easy to spot. Hers was the armor angry, hurting teenage girls had been donning for generations. As I recall, I’d adopted a similar stance myself for a time but thankfully, as most girls do, had thrown it off in adulthood. Someday, I hoped Liza would do the same.

  Abigail was different. Her personal barrier was harder to identify and to penetrate, an irresistible but blinding beam of light that drew people close but kept them from getting too close. Abigail’s wall was composed of equal parts unquestionable generosity, impeccable manners, and an astounding gift for getting information from others without giving away any herself. She was incredibly skilled at this; I’d seen her in action. But I wasn’t convinced that she actually wanted most of what people so readily handed her; she was just out to charm them, to dazzle them into believing that she was deeply interested in them and so could add them to her extensive collection of admirers, trinkets for her charm bracelet.

  I know this makes Abigail sound cold and calculating, her alluring veneer just a cover for a manipulative personality, but it was more complicated than that. If she had been merely manipulative, people would have seen through her ruse years before. It’s impossible to hide something like that for long, especially in a small town, and Abigail had lived in New Bern most of her life. I felt certain that a genuinely kind, compassionate person was trapped behind Abigail’s magnetic but impenetrable wall, fighting to get out. The same was true of Liza.

  They were so similar. So scarred. And so alone. Yet they were family. They lived in the same house. What was it that kept them from acknowledging what was good in the other? From comforting each other? I wondered if the death of Liza’s mother had something to do with it. I knew Susan had passed little more than a year before. It seemed to me that whatever was keeping them apart had been in place for many years, but there was no way of knowing for sure. Liza’s
hesitancy to respond to Margot’s question about her mom and Abigail’s rapid and deft repositioning of the conversation said it all. Liza and Abigail didn’t agree on much, but in this they were united: the Burgess family secrets would stay secret.

  “Thank you, Evelyn. You’re right. My calendar is full of commitments at the moment, and the shelter may have a new capital campaign in the offing that will require more of my attention, so I hope you’ll understand why I need to bow out of your little quilting circle.” She looked at her watch.

  “Really, I should be going. I didn’t realize it was so late. I promised to drop by Alana and Link Burkstead’s house. They’re hosting a benefit for the New Bern Historic Association.”

  Already seated and flipping through pattern books, Liza puffed contemptuously. “Yeah. Right. I’m sure they won’t be able to hold one more charity auction and boozefest without your direct participation.”

  “Liza, that’s not very nice,” Margot chastised her, but gently. I was glad she said something, otherwise I would have, probably far less diplomatically. “Like Evelyn said, Abigail’s work is very important and helps all kinds of people. I’ve really enjoyed getting to spend time with her these last weeks, but if she doesn’t have time to be part of our quilt circle…well, we should just respect that. Really, Abigail, we understand. But we’ll miss you.” She walked across the room and gave Abigail a hug that Abigail tolerated, but briefly.

  I smiled. Margot was such a dear and such a contradiction in terms. She was a business genius with a heart of gold, brilliant in strategy and execution but utterly kindhearted, looking for the best in everyone. I wondered if that was what was keeping her from finding a job in the city. An interviewer would only have to spend five minutes with her to know that she was completely lacking in killer instinct or guile, commodities that were highly valued in most corporations. I hadn’t paid myself in months, but if ever Cobbled Courts could afford to hire an employee, Margot would be my first choice. Not that I could afford to pay her anything like what she was worth—even very successful quilt shops can’t compete with corporate pay packages—but if I could, she’d be worth it.

  “Margot, Liza, why don’t you keep looking through the books. Figure out what projects you might want to start, while I walk Abigail to the door. I’ll be right back.” I left the workroom and Abigail followed, politely thanking me for a lovely evening and just as politely apologizing for the necessity of her departure.

  “Really, Evelyn, it was such a considerate thought on your part, but as I said, I’m really too busy to add yet another obligation to my schedule.”

  I stopped in the middle of the darkened shop and turned, standing face-to-face with Abigail, sandwiched between rows of fabric bolts. She couldn’t move in any direction unless she actually backed away from me, and I knew that her sense of propriety wouldn’t permit her to do anything so rude.

  “Abigail, is that what you think? That I wanted to saddle you with one more obligation? That’s not it at all. I was trying to give you a gift of time, a few hours each week to do something that I think you’d enjoy. I meant what I said in there, the extent of what you do for all kinds of people in this town….” I shook my head in amazement. “Well, I just wouldn’t like to think what kind of a place New Bern would be without you. That’s why I think this would be good for you. It would give you a much-deserved break after a busy week, something fun and relaxing.”

  She stood still for a long moment. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but somehow or other I’d said something that struck a chord.

  “That’s considerate of you, truly it is, but I don’t think I’d be very good at it. My talents are more philanthropic than artistic.” She paused for a moment, and her tone softened. “Susan was the creative one.”

  It was the first time I’d heard Abigail refer to her sister by name.

  “Abigail, everyone has a creative side. It’s just that most people don’t tap into it.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say next, but I sensed a definite wavering in her resistance. What could I say that would change her mind?

  “Besides, Abigail, you are such a generous person, and quilts make wonderful gifts. There is really nothing that shows your concern and love the way a quilt does, not flowers, not money, nothing! It doesn’t matter if your quilt is perfectly sewn or the colors aren’t exactly right. That’s not the point. When you give someone a quilt, they know that you care about them even if you can’t find the words to say so. Is there someone like that in your life?” I asked, thinking of Liza. “Someone you’d like to encourage?”

  She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “Well, there is a little girl I met a few days ago, Bethany. She…she took my hand, held on to me while she showed me around her house. I didn’t ask her to. She just did. She had yarn ribbons in her pigtails, one blue and the other green. Because those were her favorite colors, she said.

  “I wonder…” I could hear her breathing slowly, trying to keep the catch out of her voice. “I wonder if she might like a quilt. A blue and green one. For her new home.”

  17

  Evelyn Dixon

  Initially, Abigail wanted to pick a more complicated pattern but with some prodding from me finally chose a simple friendship star as the base block for her quilt. When it is finished, this block looks more like a pinwheel than a star, a pattern certain to appeal to a child. Abigail chose the fabrics all herself, nine brilliant shades of blue from cobalt to turquoise and an equal number of vibrant greens from emerald to lime. I was surprised, considering that Abigail’s wardrobe centered on a subdued palette of black, gray, and earth tones, with an occasional accent of red or burgundy in the fall, that she would pick such bright colors, but her choices were right on the mark. By the time she’d sewn the first couple of blocks it was obvious that the quilt would be darling when it was finished, like a garden of gaily colored pinwheels planted in a field of white, spinning on the breath of an invisible wind. It had the potential to be such a happy quilt.

  Too bad that Abigail couldn’t manage to relax and be happy with it.

  It was the day before Thanksgiving and four days after my lumpectomy. Even though I’d protested that I was feeling much better, Margot insisted that someone sit with me during the day “just in case you need anything.”

  If I needed anything, all I had to do was holler down the stairs where either she or Liza was busy tending to customers, but that didn’t seem to matter to Margot. I knew that Dr. Finney said I should accept all offers of help that came my way, but right now I just wanted to be alone. Margot meant well, and I was so very, very grateful for everything she’d done for me, but sometimes I felt as if I had suddenly regressed to childhood and a pretty, thirty-something, blond marketing manager had become my mother, supervising my care and feeding with all the attention and intensity she’d have given to running a Fortune 500 corporation. Sometimes her solicitousness got on my nerves.

  It didn’t help that I was still sore and tired from the surgery and on tenterhooks waiting for Dr. Finney to call with the postsurgical test results. Why did it have to take so long? Every time the phone rang, I jumped. And every time it turned out to be someone other than the doctor, I became more and more irritable.

  I’d have never imagined I’d be saying this, but I was grateful that it was Abigail on babysitting duty that day. Margot was sweet, but her constant hovering and strained attempts at cheery conversation were tiring. And Liza became distant after the operation, sitting quietly in a chair and barely speaking to me, as if she was afraid of saying something wrong. Charlie came over on the days when the restaurant was closed, but he was nervous without anything to do, so, after a few minutes, ended up in the kitchen clanging pots and chopping things and making elaborate meals I was too tired to consume.

  Abigail alone seemed to realize that I was sick of people talking about me, or my cancer, or even worse pretending not to talk about those things. Either that, or she truly was absorbed in her quilting project. Whatev
er the reason, she brought her quilting along and started working on it. I did the same, appliquéing holly leaves on a Christmas tree skirt I hoped to finish before the holidays. It was a relief just to sit in silence and stitch, focusing on something other than the cancer, if only for a few minutes. But before long, I was just too sore and tired to sew. I put the half-finished skirt on the table next to the sofa where I was reclining and closed my eyes. Abigail looked up from her work.

  “Does it hurt? Do you want a pain pill?”

  “No,” I said with my eyes still closed. “It’s not time yet. I’m just taking a break.”

  I opened my eyes and saw Abigail, bent over her work again, ripping the seam out of a block she’d just finished. I noticed that the edge of the fabric was frayed.

  “Abigail, why are you ripping that seam? It looks fine.”

  She pursed her lips, displeased, and kept on ripping. “No. I measured it, and this side is an eighth of an inch narrower than the other. This point doesn’t look anything like the rest.”

  I scooted back on the sofa, shifting myself so I sat up straighter on the mound of pillows wedged behind my back, and peered at the half-disassembled quilt block. Honestly, I couldn’t see what she was talking about.

  “How many times have you taken that block apart and put it back together?”

  “This will be four,” she said, pursing her lips but still not looking up.

  “Well, no wonder your seams are off. Look how the edge is all frayed. Taking a seam out once is fine if there really is a problem, but if you do it over and over you stretch the fabric out of shape and it just gets worse.”