A Single Thread (Cobbled Court)

by Marie Bostwick

  “Mary Dell, don’t worry about that,” I said. “I couldn’t be happier for you. Once things calm down we’ll get together for a nice long visit. But you’ve got to tell me when the first show goes on the air. I’m going to have a premiere party and invite everyone I know.” I laughed. “And I’ve already figured out the perfect menu—buffalo chicken wings, banana pudding, and Dr. Pepper! These New Englanders have never had food like that before. They won’t know what hit them. They’ll probably have indigestion for a week!”

  Mary Dell hooted her pleasure, laughing at the thought of a bunch of Yankees (who she’d once assured me were so straitlaced that they ate pizza with a knife and fork and a napkin tucked into their collars) eating chicken with their fingers and watching her on television. “And barbeque! And cheese straws!” she howled. “Oh, you’ve got to have cheese straws, Baby Girl!

  “Say!” she exclaimed, a new idea suddenly occurring to her. “Why don’t you come on down here for the first taping? It’ll be in late January sometime. I’d feel so much better if I knew you were in the audience.”

  Late January. I knew what I’d be doing then, and it didn’t include flying to Texas, but I couldn’t tell Mary Dell that, not now.

  “Oh, honey, I wish I could. But I…” I wracked my brain, searching for an excuse. “I just can’t. I…I’m scheduled to go to Rhode Island for a big quilt show then. I’m presenting some workshops and, well, I just can’t back out. It’s such a great opportunity—the publicity. You understand.”

  “Oh sure,” she said, trying to convince me that she did indeed understand. The disappointment was evident in her voice. “You can’t miss a chance like that, not when you’re starting out.” I murmured a halfhearted agreement.

  “But listen to me going on and on about myself without even asking about you! How are things at the shop? And how are you feeling after your surgery? You must be all healed up if you’re going to be teaching a big workshop in Rhode Island.”

  “Oh yes. Much better. Everything is fine. Couldn’t be better.”

  20

  Abigail Burgess Wynne

  “She loved it,” I replied, answering Evelyn’s inquiry. “Absolutely loved it!”

  I laid out my purchases, two yards of a novelty fabric covered with grinning pirates climbing the masts of ships with bright red sails that floated on a sea of brilliant blue, plus another yard of a “pieces of eight” companion fabric, and four fat quarters of complimentary accent fabrics in reds and blues. “You should have seen her eyes when she opened the package. Then she threw it around her shoulders like a cape and wouldn’t take it off.”

  “That’s wonderful, Abigail. I’m so glad.” Evelyn smiled sincerely, but her eyes looked tired. I wondered if she was getting enough sleep. Undoubtedly the final run up to Christmas was wearing her out.

  I reached for a spool of blue thread, and added it to the pile for Evelyn to ring up. “So am I. Somehow, I think it made her feel special, and not just Bethany. I had a board meeting at the shelter this morning and saw Bethany’s mother, Ivy, in the hall. She thanked me over and over again, said that no one had ever gone to that kind of trouble for her little girl before. Do you know she actually had tears in her eyes? The program director told me Ivy doesn’t have any living family. Isn’t that sad? Anyway, that made me think I wanted to make another quilt, for Bethany’s little brother, Bobby. Can’t say I’m too enthused about the pirate theme, but he seems to be crazy about them, and so—a pirate quilt it shall be. You were right, Evelyn; when you give someone a quilt, they know you care.”

  “I told you.” Evelyn smiled as she put everything in one of the red and white checked Cobbled Court Quilts shopping bags. “That will be forty-six dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

  I opened my wallet and fished out three twenty-dollar bills. The front doorbell jingled cheerfully, signaling the arrival of another customer. Margot came into the shop, and there were tears in her eyes. Before we could ask what was wrong, she launched into a barrage of questions.

  “Evelyn, why did you do that? Where did you get the money? What were you thinking? I’ve seen your books. You can’t afford this, and I won’t accept it.”

  “Margot, what are you talking about? Slow down.” Evelyn frowned and handed her a tissue from the box she kept behind the counter.

  Margot blew her nose. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t try to pretend you don’t. The deposit.” Evelyn and I both looked at her blankly. “At the bank. I went online to check my balance last night and there was an extra five thousand three hundred and eighty dollars in my account. When I went in today to tell them they’d made some kind of mistake, the teller said there was no mistake, that someone had deposited the money into my account. In cash! So there’s no way to say for certain who did it, but I know it was you.”

  Margot trumpeted into her tissue again. “I told you before, Evelyn. I help you here in the shop because I like doing it. I won’t take your money. You can’t afford it,” she scolded.

  Evelyn shook her head. “Margot, look at me. Quit crying and look at me. I didn’t put that money in your account. I swear I didn’t. I wish I could have, because you certainly deserve it. I will admit, I have written you a check, and one for Liza too, that I’m planning on giving you along with your Christmas present.” She held up her hand to silence Margot’s tearful protests. “No. Now don’t argue with me about it. You’re going to take it, and that’s that, but don’t get too excited. I promise you, there are very few zeros on the check I wrote. I wish there were, but, you’re right. I just can’t afford it.”

  “Well, then who made that deposit? I have to give it back. It’s too much. I can’t accept it.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “It’s Christmas. Are you too old to believe in Santa Claus?”

  “Yes!” Margot cried and broke into a fresh wave of tears.

  Evelyn came around the counter to put her arm around Margot’s shoulders. “Come on now,” she soothed. “You haven’t worked in months. Heaven knows you must need the money. Maybe that’s it. Maybe heaven does know. Maybe you’ve got an angel walking around the streets of New Bern, just like I do. An angel. Just like you’ve been to me.”

  “Oh, Evelyn. It was you! I knew it!” Margot began sobbing.

  Her skin became all blotchy, and her face turned a truly unattractive shade of red. You see? That’s another reason not to give in to emotional displays. They make you look simply awful.

  I shot Evelyn a look and began gathering up my things. This whole drama was making me feel uncomfortable. Evelyn nodded silently, letting me know that it was all right to leave. She knew how I hated this sort of thing.

  “Really, Margot. It wasn’t me. I swear,” Evelyn promised as she patted Margot’s heaving shoulders. “Why are you crying? This is good news, isn’t it? Why are you so sad.”

  “I’m not sad!” she wailed. “I’m just so happy. And relieved! I’m exactly four thousand three hundred and eighty dollars behind on my bills. I’ve just been frantic thinking how I was going to pay them, and now—this! Whoever made that deposit knew exactly how much I needed and gave me an extra thousand dollars besides. How could they have known? If it wasn’t you, Evelyn, who was it?” Margot threw her arms around Evelyn’s shoulders and simply gave herself up to an absolute tsunami of weeping.

  With Margot’s back now turned, I rolled my eyes at Evelyn, who shot me a disapproving frown, and waved my farewell. “I’m late for my hairdresser,” I said. “Have to run.”

  “And the quilt circle on Friday?” Evelyn asked, still comforting the weeping Margot. “I know it’s Christmas Eve, but you’re still coming, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll be there. Better to spend the evening with the whole group than alone with Liza. At least I’ll have you to referee.”

  Evelyn grinned and waved between back pats. She knew that things between Liza and me, while not exactly a picture of familial harmony, had definitely improved. Helping out at the quilt shop seemed to have bettered her
mood and attitude considerably. I suppose everyone feels happier when they have somewhere to go and something to do. Her holiday window display really was charming. While I still found some of her artwork to be…well, avant-garde would be a kind way of putting it…she obviously had talent. Perhaps, after her court-imposed sojourn with me was completed, she should give art school another try. I made a mental note to discuss it with her after the holidays.

  Taking my leave of Evelyn and Margot, I made a loop around the counter toward the front door, past the desk where Margot kept file folders, folders for income, expenses, inventory, tax receipts—and one marked “Margot: Personal.”

  If a person was a nosy snoop, they could have opened that file and seen exactly how dire Margot’s financial situation had become since she’d lost her job. But on the other hand, they probably wouldn’t have to do that. While meticulous about business, Margot was sometimes careless about her personal affairs. She had a bad habit of leaving files open on the desk where just anyone might read them.

  21

  Evelyn Dixon

  Finally, on that awful Saturday night, after being unable to reach Garrett and unable to talk frankly with Mary Dell, I dialed Dr. Finney.

  Though she’d urged me to call her anytime, I hated bothering her at home. But I simply had to talk to someone, someone who understood what I was going through.

  We spent almost an hour talking through my fears, not just about the cancer but about everything: the future of my business; of what would happen to me if the shop failed, or the surgery failed; of how my body would look after the surgery; of chemotherapy; of how Garrett would react to the news; of living the rest of my life alone; of never being wanted again, or having sex again; of everything—and especially the fear…no, make that the certainty…that I was no longer in control of my own life.

  We talked and listened and cried together and laughed together. And it helped. It didn’t change anything, but being able to talk made everything a little less overwhelming.

  She said one thing in particular that stuck with me: that while I might not be in control of this disease, I was in control of my reaction to it—I could be a victim or a conqueror. It was up to me. “One thing I know from experience,” she said, “it’s always a lot easier to be a conqueror if you don’t try to go it alone. You didn’t see Napoleon riding off to battle with just himself and his trusty sword. He brought in some backup.”

  “Napoleon ended up defeated, imprisoned, and exiled to a tiny island in the Atlantic.”

  She laughed. “Okay, bad illustration, but you get the idea. Evelyn, you need to talk to your family and friends. I know you wanted to wait until after the holidays, but I think you should tell them now. It’s your choice, of course, but think how you would feel if the tables were turned. What if someone you cared about had cancer and kept it a secret from you?”

  I saw her point. Margot, Abigail, Liza, and Charlie too—it wasn’t fair to keep them in the dark any longer. I would tell them the truth, all at once so I could get it over with, during our regular quilt-circle meeting. I would invite Charlie to be an honorary member for the evening. Sitting at my desk, I wrote a list of every question I thought would come up during our discussion and thought carefully about my answers. I wanted to be prepared, to tell them on my own terms and in my own way, calmly, rationally, and with optimism regarding the outcome. It would be good practice for my conversation with Garrett. That would come next.

  I didn’t want to give him the news over the telephone. I’d briefly considered flying out to Seattle to see him. But after a quick search on the Internet, I realized there were no airline seats available this close to Christmas, not at a price that I could afford. So I decided to call him as soon as I told the others, that same night. Hopefully I’d catch him at home. I didn’t want to tell him while there were other people around.

  But it didn’t quite work out that way. On Christmas Eve, while I was baking a pan of cranberry cake and preparing a batch of hot spiced cider to serve to my guests later that afternoon, the phone rang.

  “Hi, sweetheart!”

  “Hi, Mom! Guess where I am? I just landed at Hartford airport, and I’m renting a car. The company handed out bonus checks at the Christmas party; that’s where I was when you called. After I heard your message, I decided to spend my bonus on an airline ticket. So you’d better send all your boyfriends home and make up the sofa bed. I’m home for Christmas!”

  An hour later, he was in my arms and I was crying, so happy to see him, and all my careful planning went right out the window. I sat him down, then and there, before he’d even had a chance to unpack his things, and told him the truth about everything that had happened since I’d come to New Bern. I had to; the others were due to arrive in less than an hour, and I needed to talk to Garrett alone.

  Even without practicing on the quilt circle, I managed to get through my speech without crying. When I first said the word “cancer,” his eyes grew wide, but he regained his composure quickly and deliberately, asked good questions, and stayed calm. It was only when he learned about my first surgery that his emotional armor showed a crack.

  “And you didn’t tell me?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch and volume. “You’ve been dealing with this since the fall and you never told me? Your business almost fails, you get breast cancer, have a surgery, find out you need another, and you tell a pile of strangers about this and let them help you through it, but I’m left in the dark? Your own son?”

  I nodded, conceding his right to be angry. These questions, and his probable reaction, had also been on my list. I’d already thought through what I should say. “I know. I should have told you, but I thought…Garrett, you have your new job, your new life. I didn’t want to get in the way of that. If the first surgery had turned out the way I’d hoped, I planned to tell you after, so you didn’t have to be worried about anything. I guess I was just trying to protect you.”

  His lips pressed into a flat line of irritation. “Mom, I’m twenty-four years old. You don’t have to protect me anymore. I can take care of myself. When the situation calls for it, I can even help take care of you.”

  “You’re right. I should have known better. I’m sorry.” I apologized and meant it. “It won’t happen again, I promise. From here on out, you’ll know everything I do. No more secrets. Ask me anything.”

  “All right,” he said and proceeded to ask the one question I hadn’t anticipated. “When were you planning on telling Dad?”

  It was past eleven by the time everyone left, and almost midnight when Garrett and I finished washing up the dishes and making up the pull-out sofa in the living room. I tried to get him to take my room, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I’ll be fine here. Last week I put in twenty hours, passed out on the floor of my office for two, then got up and put in another eight. Trust me, I can sleep anywhere.”

  I had my doubts but recognized that stubborn look on my son’s face. “All right. If you’re sure. Good night, sweetheart,” I said and gave him a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too, Mom.”

  I went into my room, sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and picked up the phone. It was eleven in Texas. Normally, I’d never dream of calling anyone at that hour, but in all the years I’d been married to Rob, I’d never known him to shut out his lights before midnight. I went to bed around ten while he stayed up to write memos or answer e-mails he hadn’t gotten to during the workday, then quietly slipped into bed sometime between twelve and two without ever waking me up.

  Gee, I thought to myself, think that might help explain why we’re divorced?

  I started dialing but stopped before I got the last number. I didn’t want to call Rob. We hadn’t spoken since the divorce. What was I going to say when he answered the phone? Even worse, what was I going to say if she answered the phone?

  I’d heard from Sharon, one of my old neighbors in Texas, that Tina had moved in with Rob about ten seconds after our
divorce was final. Sharon was a terrible gossip, the kind who liked to spread information via her church prayer chain. You know the kind I’m talking about. I was in a neighborhood Bible study with her for a while, and when it came time for us to voice our prayer requests, Sharon’s always went something like, “Dear Lord, please help Francine Diamond, who lives in the house with the pink brick on the corner of Lake Mead and Alamo Drive. Her husband, David, lost his job again for looking at pornography on the Internet during office hours, and her daughter, Denise, has just checked into rehab for her bulimia problem. We just ask that you would help this family, Lord. And encourage poor Francine. Help her lean on your strength so she may be a better wife and mother and understand why her family is in a shambles. Amen.”

  Suffice it to say that when Sharon called to tell me that Tina had moved into Rob’s condo and to ask how she might pray for me in my hour of need, I declined the offer.

  Sharon was terribly disappointed by my reaction. “Well, if you change your mind and want me to pray for you, don’t hesitate to call. I know how you must be suffering,” she sighed sympathetically.

  “Actually, Sharon, I’m not suffering at all. I’m happy in my new life and so busy with my business that I rarely have time to think about Rob,” I said, and it was the truth. Then I said, “But I appreciate your concern,” which was a lie.

  Until now, I hadn’t thought much about Tina, except to wonder how she’d lasted as long as she had. I’d only seen her once—about twenty-eight, skinny, big blue eyes, big blond hair, big…well, you get the idea. She worked as a receptionist at the gym. If you’d called central casting for someone to play “the other woman” opposite a midlevel manager in a midlife crisis, the talent agent would have sent Tina. That was part of what made our divorce so awful. I mean, not that I’d have been any happier if my husband had left me for a rocket scientist or a Pulitzer Prize winner, but at least it might have made some kind of sense.