The Beach Quilt
Page 18
“A birthday is always a big deal. Besides, you deserve some attention.”
Stevie shrugged. “Why? Because I said that Sarah’s been getting it all?”
“Well, yeah. And the fact that you only turn fourteen once.”
“I do like cake.”
“Listen,” Cordelia said, and she was very, very serious. “One of my rules in life is this: If there’s an opportunity to eat cake, take it.”
Chapter 62
“It’s nice to be working outside, isn’t it?”
Sarah smiled at her mother. “Yes. I’d always rather be outdoors.”
The five women were gathered at the picnic table in the Bauers’ backyard to work on the quilt. It was a beautiful afternoon. Earlier in the day, Sarah had been to the pond on their neighbor Mrs. Wade’s property, enjoying the coolness under the trees, watching little frogs hopping from shore to water, enjoying the antics of scurrying chipmunks, and admiring the various wildflowers that grew near the pond’s edge. The lazy days of summer, she thought now. Her last lazy summer, ever, as this time next year she would be chasing a busy toddler around the yard and watching that he didn’t fall into Mrs. Wade’s pond.
Cordelia frowned. “I’d just better not get a sunburn.”
Mrs. Kane laughed. “Cordelia, you’re covered from head to toe!”
It was true. While Sarah, her mother and her sister, and Mrs. Kane were dressed in summer-appropriate clothing—short sleeves, sandals, bare heads—Cordelia was wearing a big, floppy, brimmed hat, a long-sleeved blouse buttoned up to the neck, and long pants. Sarah figured the only reason she wasn’t also wearing gloves was that it would be too difficult to hold a needle.
“But the weather guy said the sun was going to be particularly strong today,” Cordelia protested. “Or something like that. I’m not taking any chances.”
The subject of the sun was dropped, and the five women worked quietly for some time, stopping only for a drink of lemonade or ice water. For her part, Sarah was thinking about the generous check her uncle Jonas and aunt Marie had sent for the baby. The accompanying note, which had been written by her uncle (his handwriting was very distinctive), had said: “We’re so happy to welcome a new member to the Bauer family and hope this contribution will be of help.”
Her father, Sarah thought now, had seemed a bit embarrassed by his brother’s generosity. She wondered if there was rivalry between them. Her father had never said as much, but then again he wasn’t the sort to talk about his relationships with people. He just lived them. Anyway, he hadn’t told her to return the check, and neither had her mother.
Sarah had been touched. She had only seen her aunt and uncle a few times in her life, so she thought it was awfully nice of them to think of her welfare. She had deposited the check in the bank with the intention of it being the start of an education fund for her child. Well, she hoped that it would last that long untouched. After all, she had no clear idea of how she would pay for her baby’s immediate needs, like diapers and food and doctor visits, let alone his higher education. Sarah glanced across the table at her mother. On second thought, she supposed the answer to that question lay with her parents. It would be their money that supported both the baby and Sarah until she could get out on her own and take charge, as a parent was supposed to do. Problem was, she had no idea when that would be. Having lost her babysitting clients hadn’t helped, and she doubted anyone would hire her back when she had her own baby to watch. Thanks to Mrs. Kane she still had a few hours at The Busy Bee, but it was amazing how quickly money went, even when you were being very careful with it.
“Did I tell you about this awesome bag for sale at the new thrift store in town?” Cordelia asked suddenly, startling Sarah from her thoughts about her financial future.
“Uh, no,” Sarah replied. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s dark green suede. It would be totally perfect for fall.”
Sarah smiled noncommittally and went back to her thoughts. She wondered, maybe unfairly, if the next season was as far ahead as Cordelia ever thought. She, Sarah, was more and more thinking years ahead—and not always with good results. For example, just the other day, she had had the brilliant idea of making a will. It was only when she sat down to make a list of her assets that she realized she had nothing of value to leave behind to her child. A measly bank account was all, and that was the property of her parents until she was eighteen. She had no valuable jewelry. (What a thought! Even her mother had only her wedding band and a silver cross on a silver-plated chain.) And her books would bring virtually nothing; they were mostly already third- or fourth-hand paperback volumes. It was a slightly terrifying thought, that in a materialistic sense she was worthless. Possessions had never meant anything to Sarah, nor had money (it was necessary for food and shelter, of course), but now, suddenly, she glimpsed one way in which possessions and money were worth something tangible and useful. That she hadn’t realized this before made her feel dumb and naive.
“I’m glad Clarissa is inside,” Stevie announced. “Look up at the sky.”
They did, to see a hawk circling overhead, looking for prey (like small cats!) or maybe just enjoying the fact of flight. Sarah wondered. Did the ability to feel pleasure, not the kind that was only sensual, but the kind you felt inside, require sentience? Was that hawk enjoying his afternoon on the wing in the same way she enjoyed walking through the woods? Animals weren’t supposed to be sentient, were they, and yet, how odd to try to imagine a living thing not being sentient. It was impossible, really.
Oh, Sarah thought, looking back to her sewing, if she were a bird her life would be so much simpler. Maybe it wouldn’t be very easy overall. She would have to search for her food every day and build a home and shelter and protect her young from predators, but life would definitely be much simpler. She wouldn’t have to choose the best schools and select the most affordable health insurance and shuttle her children from soccer to piano to dance practice and . . .
“Sarah?” It was her mother. “Are you feeling okay? You’ve got this big scowl on your face. Maybe you’ve been out in the sun too long.”
“Told you,” Cordelia said.
Mrs. Kane cleared her throat. “And, um, is that a starfish you’re cutting out?”
Sarah nodded and looked down at the piece of purple cotton velvet in her hands. “Oh,” she said. “How many arms are starfish supposed to have?”
Stevie laughed. “Not thirteen!”
Sarah smiled. Where had her thoughts taken her?! “I guess maybe I have been out in the sun too long,” she said.
Chapter 63
The bell over the door at The Busy Bee tinkled. It was Cindy. “Morning,” she said.
“Good morning to you,” Adelaide replied. “Three customers already. Maybe that bodes well for a good day.”
“Let’s hope so.” Cindy put her bag behind the counter. “Adelaide,” she said. “I need your help with something.”
“Sure. What is it? Is there a problem with the baby’s quilt?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s that I’ve decided to sell my family quilts. The ones my great-grandmother made.”
Adelaide felt her eyes widen involuntarily. “The ones you framed a few years back?”
“Yes,” Cindy said. “Those.”
“But why on earth?”
Cindy looked at a point just over Adelaide’s left shoulder. “I don’t see any point in holding on to them when they might be worth a significant amount of money. Not that I want them to go to just anyone,” she added hastily, looking back to Adelaide. “I mean, I would like to think that whoever bought the quilts will really appreciate them for their true value, beyond the financial value.”
Adelaide knew how hard this decision must be for her friend. Cindy lived and breathed quilts and quilting! She absolutely didn’t want to trample on delicate feelings; still, having to play a part in the sale of beloved family heirlooms made her feel sad and uncomfortable. “Are you very sure?” she asked.
“Then I’ll put out some feelers and let you know what I find.”
“Thank you, Adelaide. I’m going to get a cup of coffee.”
Cindy went off to the back room. While she was gone, Adelaide wondered if there was some way she could talk Cindy out of such a drastic measure. But if she really needed the money, and given Sarah’s situation it was clear that she did, then what alternative could she offer?
And then it occurred to her. Maybe The Busy Bee could buy Cindy’s quilts. Assuming that they were affordable, and Adelaide wouldn’t know that for sure until she did some research. Anyway, if the shop owned the quilts, then someday Adelaide might be able to return them to Cindy or sell them back for a token amount. Unless Cindy would see that as unwanted charity and be offended.
Or maybe she could give Cindy more hours at the shop, at least until the baby was born. She would have to take a closer look at the books, see if the business could afford it without damaging her bottom line. If it were possible, then maybe Cindy would drop the idea of selling her family’s heirlooms.
She wished there was something tangible she and Jack could do for Sarah and her family. True, her first responsibility was to her own family, her husband and daughter, but . . .
“Don’t look now,” Cindy said, coming back out front. “But here comes a van worth of customers.”
She was right. A group of at least eight or nine women began to file through the door, exclaiming over the quilts hung on the wall and making a beeline for the quilt frames.
“I guess,” Adelaide said, “that this is our lucky day.”
Chapter 64
On the way home from The Busy Bee later that evening, Cindy stopped for gas. Prices were up again. Once the girls started driving and the family had to get a third vehicle, the expense of daily transportation alone would probably eat up within months whatever money she would get for the quilts. And—this was the first time this had occurred to Cindy—she should probably give part of whatever money she got from the sale to Adelaide. After all, Adelaide was handling the sale and it was The Busy Bee’s reputation that would help place them with a buyer. Adelaide might even expect a cut of the profit.
Rats, Cindy thought. She had lied to Adelaide. She hadn’t given the decision to sell the quilts much thought at all. She hadn’t even told Joe about her intentions. Not that the quilts were his—strictly speaking, they had been left to her specifically—but she was afraid he might try to argue her out of letting them go. He would point out that the quilts were precious heirlooms better kept to hand down to Sarah and Stevie.
And he would be right.
It occurred to Cindy now that this was the second time in months she had kept something from her husband. First had been the menacing phone call from June Morrow. What was next?
A black Mercedes-Benz convertible glided up to the pump directly across from Cindy’s car. She watched as a slim, well-dressed woman about her own age slipped out from behind the wheel. Her sandals were silver. Her hair was an astonishingly beautiful shade of strawberry blond. Her jeans were white.
Cindy looked away from the dazzling sight as a spark of resentment flared again inside her. She didn’t want to have to let go of her precious quilts. She shouldn’t have to make this sacrifice!
Cindy paid for the gas, got back in her car—old and a bit rusty—and pulled out onto the road. She felt foolish. She had never rushed into a big decision before, but after that conversation with Joe the other day, selling the quilts had seemed like such an obvious way to help the family’s financial situation. They would probably each bring several thousands dollars, money that could pay off the part of Sarah’s doctor and hospital bills that were not covered by their insurance.
A memory of her mother formally presenting her with the quilts came to her then. It was shortly before Margie Keller had died. She had been so terribly weak, mere skin and bones. And yet she had had the strength to pass the torch, as it were, to her daughter, to symbolically ensure the continuation of a legacy.
Cindy felt sure that in spite of her mother’s great emotional attachment to the family treasures, she would have understood her daughter’s motives for letting the quilts go. She was also sure that her mother would have been very sad and very disappointed. She might also have pointed out that Cindy was sending a very mixed message to her own daughters—on the one hand, she was spearheading the making of a quilt for the next generation; on the other hand, she was casting off those that had been made by the generations before. Where was the sense of family history and continuity in that?
And the decision was made, for real this time. Cindy would withdraw the quilts from the market. She had acted rashly, and it had led to an interesting if disturbing revelation. As it turned out, there were some things she simply wasn’t willing to sacrifice for her husband and children. What that said about her, she wasn’t quite sure.
Chapter 65
The girls were on a break from work. It was two in the afternoon, and they were sitting on a bench at the top of the beach. It was a glorious day; Cordelia thought that glorious was an even more appropriate adjective than awesome. The air was warm, but there was a good breeze off the water. And someone not too far away was grilling burgers and the smell was fantastic.
Cordelia waved her iPhone in front of Sarah’s face. “I can’t wait to show you the cool sneakers I just ordered online. I mean, they’re totally awe—”
“You know,” Sarah said. “Sometimes I feel like I’m going to be the worst mother ever.”
Cordelia laughed. “Come on, Sarah. You’ll be great. So, anyway, these sneakers—”
“I mean, I’m a good babysitter—in spite of what some people say!—but that’s different. You’re with your charges for a few hours at most, and you aren’t expected to make any big, life-altering decisions, other than knowing when to call nine-one-one and how not to give peanut butter to a child with a peanut allergy and how not to leave a baby in the bath unattended. And then the parents come home and you’re set entirely free of responsibility until the next time the parents want to go to a movie or out to dinner.”
“Right. And you get paid for babysitting, which you don’t do for being a parent.”
“Intermittent responsibility I can handle,” Sarah went on, as if she were talking to herself. “I’ve been proving that for years. But ceaseless responsibility? That’s something very, very different. I’m just so worried that because I’m so young I’ll get it all wrong with my own child.”
Cordelia stifled a sigh. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Sarah. I mean, you’re a smart person.”
Sarah frowned and squinted up at the sky. Cordelia suspected that Sarah hadn’t heard a word she had said since they sat down.
“There’s just so much to know!” Sarah cried. “There’s all this information about how to teach your child to read by the age of two and how to make him a musical genius by the age of three and how to make your own organic, gluten-free, vegan baby food. And it all makes you feel that one little mistake could ruin your baby’s chances for a normal life. It’s like disaster is around every corner, just waiting for you to trip up. And I’m just so afraid I’m going to trip up.”
“You won’t trip up,” Cordelia said. Wasn’t that what Sarah wanted to hear? “Well, I mean, everyone makes a small mistake here and there but—”
“What if I’m giving the baby a bath and he slips out of my hands and falls onto the floor and bashes his head and has brain damage? What if I’m changing him and I pull the diaper too tight and he gets a painful rash?”
Cordelia raised her eyebrows. “Is that even possible? I—”
“Thank God no one uses cloth diapers these days, the ones you have to fasten with a pin.” Sarah shook her head as if in disbelief. “A pin! Can you imagine how many babies were inadvertently jabbed by their doting mothers?”
“A lot, I suppose. Look, Sarah—”
“These days you hav
e to be a diagnostician to be a parent. You have to be Dr. House! You have to learn how to recognize an entire host of symptoms because if you ignore any of them it could result in total disaster. I mean, when is a runny nose just a runny nose and when is it a sign of brain cancer?”
Cordelia laughed. “Sarah, that makes no sense. Come on!”
“My point is valid,” Sarah insisted. “I am just so scared. I mean, I’ve never been the worrying sort, but then again, I never had anything to worry about. Other people have always taken care of me. This is totally different. Now, I’m going to be responsible for taking care of someone else. And who am I to take on such responsibility?”
“You’re—”
“I’m just some sixteen-year-old, unmarried kid in a small town in Maine. It’s not like I’m in my twenties and married and have a good job!”
Cordelia wasn’t at all sure what she could say to that, so she kept silent.
“I’m just so glad I have my mother to help me. On the other hand, I don’t want to depend too much on her, or on anyone else, really. It would be shirking my duty, letting others clean up the mess I made, and my parents didn’t raise me to foist my responsibilities off on other people.”
“No, of course—”
“I mean, my father didn’t build a successful business because he let someone else do the hard jobs. And my mother didn’t develop her incredible sewing skills by giving up when she had to learn a really complicated stitch. No, I just won’t let anyone but me bear the full weight of the responsibility for my child.”
Cordelia’s patience—never very strong—finally snapped. “You’re so selfish!” she blurted.
Sarah looked thoroughly surprised by this accusation. “Me? Selfish? How can you say that?”
“Because all you talk about is you, you, you. Haven’t you even wondered how my life’s been going?”
“Your life? Your life is—”
“Is what?” Cordelia said. “Perfect?”