Nina might have pondered that longer if not for two distractions. An email from Elise asking to see her, and a message from Greg Hernandez. Was her morning starting with sibling rivalry or was this a cooperative attack? She needed a strategy and decided her best course of action was to see Elise first. If she spoke to Greg first, and the conversation crashed and burned, which she expected, then Greg might have time to relay that to his sister before Nina saw her. Then again, she had to ask herself if they would actually behave this way or was she, once again, presuming how they would act based on what she would do?
She had fifteen minutes before her appointment with Elise, so she opened her iPad and typed her pitch about the AIDS Quilt feature and facts about it that she thought would heighten its appeal. Nina checked the archives of Trends for any features similar to the one she wanted to write. With the exception of an article over seven years ago about an eighty-panel display at Rice University, there was nothing that would make the feature a recycle. She’d need a photographer, but Elise would have to make the call on that. No telling where Brady might be, especially in the next few weeks. He didn’t seem to know where he’d be in the next few days.
Nina checked the time, examined the front of her black and white color-blocked dress for coffee spots, and applied sheer gloss to her lips. She looked over at Daisy’s desk, and her stomach still hit her emotional bottom floor with an elevator-like thud. After hearing Brady talk about her being in New York with Janie, Nina suspected that thud might be permanent.
Before she saw Elise, she needed to find Shannon. She’d emailed the intern a list of questions, and she wanted to discuss the possibility of Shannon joining her on some of the interviews and possibly going to some of the quilter’s meetings on her own. Nina walked around the office, but Shannon wasn’t at her desk. She left a “please see me” sticky note on the intern’s computer monitor, and entered a reminder in her iPad calendar to ask Shannon for her cell number.
Nina walked to the elevators, pressed the button, and almost went into cardiac arrest when someone suddenly came up behind her, squeezed her shoulders, and said, “Where do you think you’re going?”
One yelp later, she whipped around to find Brady standing behind her.
“If you weren’t so tall, and if I didn’t value my iPad so much, I’d whack you on the head so hard, you’d be looking up at me when I was finished.”
Brady laughed. “I wanted to surprise you. Obviously, I succeeded.”
“That was not surprise you heard. That was fright. What are you now, twelve? Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone?” She pressed the button again and hoped he thought the warmth that she was sure flushed her skin signaled irritation not infatuation.
“I wasn’t stalking you,” he said and grinned.
The grin that, if Nina had been butter, would’ve melted her onto the floor. She stared at the doors to avoid eye contact.
“I just walked in, needed to go upstairs, and saw you waiting . . . it seemed amusing when I thought of it.”
“Whatever. I think an alien child is overtaking your body.” The elevator doors yawned opened, and Nina stepped to the side to let Brady on first. No more blindsiding. “Why are you here anyway?”
“New dress? It fits you well.”
Nina was relieved his eyes weren’t hands. “Not new, and thank you. But you didn’t answer my question about your reason for coming in today.”
The door opened on Elise’s floor and Brady exited with her. He pointed in the direction opposite from where she was going. “Human Resources. I have an appointment to discuss some matters there.”
She didn’t have time to ask for details, but she was beginning to realize the less she knew, the better. Brady seemed like a human boomerang lately. Every time she thought he’d be away for good, he returned.
“Good luck. I’m off to see the Dragon Lady.”
She’d taken about four steps when Brady said, “Nina, wait.”
Nina tapped her watch. “Can’t be late. What’s up and hurry?”
“How about dinner tonight?”
She thought about wanting to return that quilt to Greg. Or at least pay him for it. Nina considered the possibility of Brady being hungry for more than food, and the fact that she might welcome being on the menu. She mentally duct-taped the voice of impulsiveness and answered, “I don’t think tonight will work.”
Disappointment replaced the invitation in his eyes. “No problem. I’ll call later. You can tell me about your visit,” he said, pointed in the direction of Elise’s office, and walked down the hall.
Why would he think I’d be sharing information about an appointment with Elise? Brady acted as if his relationship with Janie was a wrinkle in time, and he’d simply stepped over it and back to her.
Those strange variables in the math equation that was Brady continued to increase.
20
Before Nina had an opportunity to dazzle Elise with her feature pitch, Elise announced that she officially released her from the bondage of human-interest stories.
“Daisy will be returning next week, and she can write the benefit follow-up.” Elise scribbled something in her desk planner, and added, “When I talked to her this morning, she mentioned that it’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of The AIDS Memorial Quilt, which would make a great sidebar story.” She leaned back in her chair, tapped her pen against her hand, and stared out the window. “Probably a story all its own.”
Anxiety fluttered over Nina like a sheet, and if she didn’t move quickly, it would smother the very reason she wanted to see Elise. She clenched her iPad to avoid wringing the sweat out of her hands. She wanted to know why Daisy gave up New York or gave up on it, but that didn’t matter now. Nina sensed Elise’s interest in this story and, if it was important to her, then it was important to Nina. “I have a better one,” she blurted.
The pen stopped tapping, and Elise turned her chair to face Nina. “A better what?”
She flipped open her iPad. Seeing her notes settled her and sent the anxiety drifting to the floor. “A better idea for the benefit and AIDS Memorial Quilt. A feature series.”
Elise leaned forward. “I thought you liked the hard-hitting, down-and-dirty news stories. This one could easily go to Daisy. I’m curious as to why you want it.”
Nina knew the buy-in had to happen here, and it certainly couldn’t be based on the means to the end pitch she gave Aretha. She had to convince Elise she had a stake in the story.
“Not everyone in Houston could attend the benefit, but we could bring the benefit to them. The story isn’t the gala or even the Memorial Quilt itself because it’s been around for a quarter of a century. The people are the story. The people behind all those quilts hanging on the walls that night. Every one of those quilts is a story, just like every panel of the Memorial Quilt represents someone. When we give AIDS a face, or in this case, faces, then contributing to or participating in the benefit isn’t just about the quilts people can buy there. It’s about the power of support and community giving people a way to work through their grief to create something of beauty that can honor those they love.” Nina stopped because, though Elise nodded as she spoke and seemed focused, there would be no point in explaining more if she didn’t approve.
“That’s quite a passionate pitch. So, how would you make that happen?”
“My idea is to attend the support group meetings, follow a quilt from its inception to the final stitch. A different person in the group would be highlighted in each feature, with their permission, of course. The last feature would highlight The AIDS Memorial Quilt. We could go to D.C., and maybe some of the quilters could make the trip as well. In fact, with each story we could include the directions for making a panel and invite our readers to participate. They could form their own groups or just send the panels to us, and we could deliver them to Washington.”
Elise walked over to the window of her office.
Nina waited. The quiet clanged in her head, but she k
new if she didn’t outwait Elise, she’d start babbling. She didn’t want to beg for the story. Though she would if it came to that. She occupied herself counting the number of roses in the vase on Elise’s desk, the number of pictures on the shelf to the right of her desk, and she was about to start counting the books when Elise broke the silence.
Still standing with her back to Nina, looking out the window, she said, “And you’re sure you can do this?”
Inside herself, Nina jumped up and clapped. The outside Nina, firmly and clearly responded, “Yes, Elise. I can do this.”
“Okay, then,” said Elise as she returned to her desk. “Let’s talk about the publication schedule, and we’ll take it from there.”
Almost two hours later, Nina didn’t see any signs of Brady when she left Elise’s office. She had a text message from Shannon asking if they could meet in the morning, and one from Aretha that she was meeting Luke for dinner. Three consecutive days? Did he not have enough detective work to keep himself busy? Maybe she should have accepted that invitation from Brady because it was about to turn into a drive-through fast food or pizza delivery night. She scrolled through her messages and saw a few numbers she didn’t recognize that she’d have to check against her contact list that could be callbacks for her political story.
She opened her iPad and glanced at the pitch she had prepared for Elise. With the exception of the first sentence, nothing she said to Elise came from the original pitch she’d written. Looking at those words now, they seemed hollow, commercial. How did she manage to summon such passion for this feature? Wherever it came from, it rang true enough to Elise. And that was enough for Nina.
It wasn’t until Nina opened her car door that afternoon and saw the large box on her back seat that she remembered the day had started with the quilt delivery from Greg Hernandez.
Her original knee-jerk reaction plan—to find out where Greg lived, then march to his door with all the righteous indignation she could gather and her checkbook, demand that he either take it back or take a check in payment—required revisiting. Telling the brother of your editor that you refused to keep the very item you used as the centerpiece of your pitch was likely a prelude to her assigning you obituaries and weddings.
Still, she didn’t feel comfortable giving Aretha a gift that she didn’t buy, and it would be dishonest of her to not tell her it came from Greg. So, she needed to figure out a way to contact him without involving Elise because that would take uncomfortable to an entirely new level. She could explain why she wanted to reimburse him, and if he wouldn’t tell her what he paid for it, there might be a way for her to contact the benefit organizers. Really, Nina, what kind of journalist are you if you can’t get someone’s address or find out what that quilt sold for?
Her rumbling stomach interrupted her. She’d been occupied with scenarios in her head and neglected the ones involving food. At the traffic light, she called Aretha thinking they might not mind if she joined them. Brazen, but how intimate does dinner have to be when they’d just started dating? When Aretha answered, she told Nina they wouldn’t have minded at all except they were already on their way to Kemah.
“You’re driving almost an hour across Houston to Galveston Bay for dinner?”
“It’s not that far.” She stopped to tell Luke who she was talking to. “We felt like eating seafood, and the weather’s so nice, we thought when we got to Kemah, we’d spend some time on the Boardwalk.”
“Okay, then. I’ll go to Plan B.”
“Sorry. If you get desperate, there’s still a pizza in the freezer.” I’m becoming Plan B. Nina heard the distraction in her voice. She imagined Aretha talking to her while she pointed out places to Luke along the way or that shrug and partial eye-roll while she mouthed, “Sorry . . . won’t be long” to him. “That would be Plan W. I’ll figure something out. See you later.”
A few blocks away from home, she pulled over for gas, and considered calling Brady. But he told her when they were both outside Elise’s office that he’d call her. Making the first move toward anything resembling a date could send the wrong message to Brady. A small voice within her tapped on the shoulder of her conscience and whispered, “But what if it’s the right message?” She hushed it as she settled in her seat and closed the car door. “Guess we’ll both have to live with no message,” she said to the steering wheel and started the drive home.
At least she knew one male who’d be excited to see her. Nina just wished he didn’t have four legs and a cold nose.
After gaining no satisfaction from a round of sniffing to determine if the large box Nina set on the coffee table was edible and paw slapping it to elicit a squeak, Manny ignored it and returned to his rawhide bone.
“Well, since Aretha abandoned us both, at least I can look at this without having to sneak around, right?” Manny didn’t even bother to stop chewing. “You’re going to have to be better company than that if we’re going to be spending more time alone, mister.”
She opened the box, carefully lifted the quilt, and spread it out on the sofa. Removed from the other quilts on display that night, its explosion of color and sophisticated, bold design were more evident. And made it all the more perfect a gift for her friend. On one corner, an attached, hand-stamped card read, on one side: Threads of HOPE, stitched by people of FAITH, for those we LOVE. On the other was a thank-you for purchasing the quilt and a telephone number. A label sewn on another corner simply had the words: Threads of Hope, Jeremiah 29:11.
Nina entered the number in her phone and set a reminder to herself to call it in the morning. If she asked the cost of making one like it, she’d have an idea of what to offer Greg. And then, pulling a Brady, she could show up unannounced and drop it off. If she called him, he’d probably tell her he didn’t want the money.
She placed the quilt back in the box then shoved it under her bed where Aretha would be least likely to look. Or vacuum.
By nine o’clock, Brady hadn’t called, texted, or attempted any other form of communication. Nina surprised herself by not being surprised. Not following through was behavior more typical of the Brady she knew.
Now that Elise had assigned her the feature, Nina dragged out her laptop to continue researching. Manny, seeing her stretched out on the sofa, jumped up and wiggled next to her, resting his head on her knee. She started with the history of The AIDS Memorial Quilt, which went back to 1985, when the idea of the quilt sprang from the way placards of those who died with AIDS were placed against the wall of the San Francisco Federal Building. The first quilt, created in June of 1987, was displayed on the National Mall in October of the same year.
Nina thought about that first small group that met in a San Francisco storefront, afraid the names of those they loved would be lost forever, and so they created a quilt as a way to document their lives. Twenty-five years later, groups like the ones whose quilts were auctioned at the benefit, met to carry on that mission, to memorialize those who died of AIDS. Except that, and sadly, over the years, the names of women and children were added. From 1985 until the year 2000, the number of AIDS-related deaths in a year increased by 429 percent. Little wonder, with those statistics, why the quilt weighed fifty-four tons today.
Hours later, Nina still hadn’t arrived at the end of her research, and Aretha still hadn’t arrived home.
21
Greg checked his cell phone again. Nothing from Elise. By late afternoon, when Greg still hadn’t received any messages or phone calls, he wondered if the quilt had even been delivered.
He contacted the delivery service and was told the package had been signed for early that morning. Two patients later, he sent Elise a text. Maybe Nina wasn’t at work, so there wasn’t any reason for Elise to contact him. Four patients later, she sent a text in response: “Nina here. No mention. Call me on your way home.”
No mention of the quilt? The Saturday night episode? Both? Maybe he attached more importance to both than did Nina. Bypassing the drama was a relief, but bypassing any menti
on of having received the quilt seemed, well, like bad manners. And he’d already dealt with his quota of the discourteous by the time the clinic closed. Like the couple whose Lab used the waiting room as his bathroom, then expected the desk staff to do potty patrol. And the little boy about his daughter’s age who entertained himself rearranging the food and supplies merchandise on display while his father lifted his head from his e-reader every few minutes and said, “Stop that.” He closed his car door, leaned his head against the steering wheel, and said a prayer of gratitude for his family. Compared to that gift from God, what did his receiving or not receiving a thank-you note matter?
Seeing the gridlock on Highway 290, Greg contemplated abandoning his car and walking the forty or so miles home. He should have brought along Anna Karenina, the 976-page novel Lily always wanted him to read. With this traffic, he’d stand a good chance of getting halfway through it. He still needed to call Elise, but he called home first. He talked to Paloma and affirmed that he wouldn’t make it there until after Jazarah’s bedtime. He could barely hear her for his daughter’s chanting in the background. “Talk to Daddy. Talk to Daddy.” Paloma excused herself, and Greg heard her calm, soft voice, “We must wait and be kind, and not speak when someone else is speaking.”
When she returned, Greg expressed his appreciation for her making sure Jazarah wouldn’t grow up to be what Elise labeled an “S.B.K.,” spoiled brat kid.
“You are welcome. It is my opinion that the two of you together in public will attract attention even if both of you say nothing. Her behavior will be scrutinized more so than other children’s. This, I know.”
And that was another reason she made the perfect nanny for his daughter. Like Jazarah, she, too, was adopted from Africa, an HIV-positive preteen, into a blue-eyed, blonde-haired, and freckle-skinned family. The attention was sometimes cruel, but Paloma learned grace and, as she said, “to stand on God’s promises.”
Threads of Hope: Quilts of Love Series Page 11
