A Thread of Truth

by Marie Bostwick

  4

  Ivy Peterman

  “Oh, come on!” I yelled and slammed my fist against the steering wheel. “This is not happening! Not again!”

  I turned the key in the ignition once more, but it sounded even worse than it had the first three times I’d tried it, the halfhearted vrum-vrumming of the motor giving way to a low-pitched, lethargic whine. If a car engine could yawn, this was the sound it would make. Clearly, my car wasn’t going to start. Not today.

  I smacked my hand impotently against the wheel again, silently cursing all auto mechanics.

  Ten days before, I had written the garage a check equivalent to two weeks’ salary from my job at Cobbled Court Quilts. It was money I’d been saving and desperately needed for a rental deposit. When the kids and I moved into our transitional apartment at the Stanton Center, my counselor made it clear that I had to find a job and start saving for a place of my own as soon as possible. You’d think two years would be plenty of time for me to get my act together and be able to house and feed my own family, but when you start out lying flat on the ground without even a bootstrap to pull yourself up by, learning to stand on your own two feet is harder than it looks. But I was better off than a lot of people; I had the good luck to find a decent job not long after we came to New Bern. Twice in one month, quilting changed my life.

  On Abigail’s recommendation, Evelyn hired me as the fulfillment coordinator at Cobbled Court Quilts. Basically, I’m the one who cuts and packages up the Internet and phone orders and mails them out to customers. It’s not glamorous, but I enjoy my work.

  The upstairs workroom, a large, rectangular space above the shop with exposed brick walls, and tall windows that let in plenty of light, is my personal domain. I spend my days laying out bolts of fabric on the long cutting table, measuring quarter, or half, or full yards of cloth, slicing them off the bolt with a sharp rotary cutter, then packaging up the order and mailing it off to the other side of the state or the other side of the country. Really, it’s amazing to see how many places we send quilting supplies to. I’ve mailed Cobbled Court Quilt Shop orders to every state except Hawaii and Wyoming. Once, we had an order that came all the way from Leicester, England.

  As I work, I like thinking about the people who will receive the orders, imagining how excited they will be when their packages arrive and what kinds of quilts they will make from the fabric I’ve sent to them. It’s nice and quiet here in the workroom and I have plenty of time to think. If they get busy downstairs, I’ll help in the shop, but most of my day is spent upstairs and I prefer it that way. Not that I’m unfriendly to my coworkers; I smile and try my best to be helpful, to work hard, and to figure out what needs doing before anyone has to ask me to do it, but it’s better if I keep to myself.

  Evelyn is a great boss. When Bobby came down with the flu, she didn’t mind my staying home with him at all. She even made a pot of chicken soup and brought it by the apartment. Garrett is nice, too, very patient when he taught me how to process the computer orders, and Margot is a sweetheart. She’s very religious and at first I thought she was trying to make friends with me just so she could convert me, but now I realize that she is just a genuinely kind person. Though she is single and doesn’t have any of her own, Margot loves kids and has offered to babysit for me anytime. I can’t take her up on that offer, of course, or on her invitations to join her for a movie or dinner. I wish I could. If I ever did have a best friend, I’d want her to be someone like Margot, but I can’t risk letting people get too close.

  I have gotten to know Abigail a little bit, because of the kids, but that’s not as risky, partly because Abigail doesn’t work at the shop, she’s just a good customer, and partly because…well…Abigail is Abigail. She likes my kids, but she doesn’t seem that interested in me. Truthfully, I don’t know much more about Abigail than she knows about me. I know she quilts, is dating her attorney, and is very, very rich. The name Wynne is plastered on half the buildings in town.

  Maybe it isn’t true of all of them, but I’ve noticed that very rich people don’t seem to be too curious about the not-so-very-rich—adorable children being the exception. Fine by me.

  Abigail recommended me for the job at Cobbled Quilts because she was worried about my kids. It had nothing to do with me, but did I care? No. I needed a job and Abigail helped me get one. Not easy in a small town with few openings, especially for someone with no degree and almost no work experience. I’m grateful to Abigail and to Evelyn. They helped me get started and I work hard to show them how much I appreciate this chance.

  I’m putting as much money into savings as possible but even though I pay a very cheap rent for our apartment at the Stanton Center, it’s hard to save. After paying for rent, food, gasoline, and clothing for two kids who seem to outgrow a pair of shoes every month, there isn’t much left over. In a month when one of the kids has to go to the doctor, there isn’t anything left over. But every time I can make a deposit into savings, I’m thrilled! I’ve promised myself that by this time next year, we’ll be living in a place of our own. Nothing like the house we left in Pennsylvania, I’m sure, but someplace nice. Maybe with a little yard and room to plant flowers.

  But when my car broke down, I had no choice but to take money out of savings to have it fixed. It just about killed me to spend that money, but what could I do? I had to get to work. I wrote out the check and hoped that when Larry, the mechanic, promised I wouldn’t have any more problems with it, he was telling the truth.

  Now, just a few days after taking a deep breath and writing that enormous check, I sat behind the wheel of my stalled car and yelled, “You’re a big liar! You know that, Larry? A big, ugly, grease monkey of a liar!”

  Larry’s garage was miles out of earshot, but I didn’t care. It might not have been dignified, but it made me feel better, at least for the time being.

  I climbed out from behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, and, after taking a quick look at my watch, started jogging the mile to the bus stop. If I was lucky, I’d be able to catch the 9:11 bus to downtown New Bern and make it to work on time.

  I wasn’t lucky.

  Having run up to the bus stop just in time to see the back of the 9:11 expel a black belch of exhaust from its tailpipe and pull away, I got to cool my heels for another twenty minutes before the next bus arrived.

  When I got to downtown New Bern, I took a shortcut down the alley to the delivery entrance rather than go through the front door of the shop. I was twenty-six minutes late. No one saw me come in, and I was glad. I could hear Evelyn, Garrett, and some other people talking in the front of the store. They were probably too involved in their own work to hear the back door open and close and wouldn’t realize I was behind schedule.

  Not that Evelyn would have given me a hard time for being late if I told her about what happened, but I didn’t like the idea of her cutting me slack because of my situation. Evelyn had taken a chance in hiring me and I wanted to show her that she hadn’t made a mistake.

  On my lunch break, I would call Karen, the woman who lives in the apartment next to mine, and ask her if she would mind picking up Bobby and Bethany from day care when she came to get her little boy and taking them back to her apartment until I got home so I could make up the time I’d missed. That’s another thing about living at the Stanton Center—they offer subsidized child care at a very good day care. The program won’t end when I leave the Center but will continue for a full year after. Then the subsidy will gradually decline over a period of two more years. Another good reason to stay in New Bern. Without that subsidy, most of my earnings would have gone for child care. But, even with this kind of help, the life of a working mother isn’t easy. When an unexpected problem arose, like today, it was important to be connected to other moms who could help out. Karen would take care of my kids today. Another time, I’d do the same for her.

  And if I was careful, no one would be the wiser. I opened the delivery door quietly, crept into the back room, grabbed the pil
e of order forms that were sitting in my in-box, and looked them over. It was going to be a busy day.

  Besides the usual requests for yardage, patterns, and various notions, there were six orders for the pink and green fabric medleys Liza had put together for our weekly special. Those would be easy to do because they were all just fat quarters and we had plenty of fabric upstairs in the workroom. But there were also four orders for block-of-the-month kits. Those would take more time because they included eleven different fabric cuts, all of varying sizes, and I already had nine other kits on backorder because we’d run out of some fabrics. Fortunately, the delivery came in late the day before and the bolts I needed to finish the kits were sitting on the counter.

  I loaded my arms up with several bolts of fabric, and then piled the day’s order forms on top, keeping the papers from falling by anchoring them to the bolts with my chin.

  Keeping my head down and being careful to steer clear of the squeaky tread on the stairs, I carried my load to the workroom, hoping I’d be lucky enough to avoid having my tardy ascent upstairs noticed by Evelyn or any of the other employees.

  I wasn’t being sneaky exactly. I just figured that since I was going to stay late to make up the time, why draw attention to my tardiness? But, if I could do it all over again, I would have walked in the front door, told Evelyn exactly why I was late, made my apologies, and gone to work. If I had, things would have been so much easier.

  5

  Evelyn Dixon

  Having finished seating and soothing a party of four who were miffed that they couldn’t get a booth in the front even though they’d walked in without a reservation, Charlie returned to the table where I was sitting with Mary Dell, her producer, Sandy, and the cameraman, Ben. Charlie pulled up a chair and poured the last drops of a second bottle of pinot noir into my glass.

  “Now, wait a minute. Tell me again so I make sure I’ve got this right. It took you three hours, three hours to film a sixty-second promotional spot?”

  “Don’t laugh,” I grumbled as I took a gulp of wine. “I got nervous, that’s all. Being on television is not as easy as it looks. I’d like to see you try it.”

  “Mmmm,” Charlie murmured in a tone that was supposed to pass for sympathy but didn’t.

  “Wipe that smile off your face,” I demanded. “I’ve had a miserable day and there you sit, enjoying my humiliation.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlie said innocently. “Was I smiling?”

  I didn’t answer. He knew exactly what he’d been doing.

  Charlie said contritely, “Come on now, Evelyn. I was just teasing you. Don’t take it so hard. I’m sure it is harder than it looks. I’m sure there are lots of people who’ve had…how many takes was it she needed to film this sixty-second spot, Ben?”

  Ben, the big bear of a cameraman, looked up from his plate and, with his mouth full of New York strip steak, answered, “Fifty-six.” At which point, everyone but me started laughing uproariously.

  “I hate you all,” I said. “You’re evil and I despise you and that is all there is to it.” I put down my wineglass and buried my head in my hands.

  “Mary Dell! Why did I let you talk me into this? When you called last month and told me about your great idea to do the show live from Cobbled Court to publicize Quilt Pink, you made it sound so easy. I didn’t realize that the second Ben turned on the camera I’d start feeling like I might throw up.”

  “Actually,” Sandy said to Charlie, “she did throw up. Three times. Any chance you’re coming down with something, Evelyn?”

  “I don’t know,” I said glumly. “Is stage fright viral? What am I going to do? If this is what happens when we’re filming the promotional spot, how am I going to get through an entire broadcast? Live? How will it look if, right in the middle of talking about how to miter a binding corner, I have to excuse myself and run to the bathroom to toss my lunch?”

  “A whole lot better than it’ll look if you don’t excuse yourself,” Ben deadpanned, which set the rest of the group to howling again.

  “This is serious!” I wailed. “Maybe we should just call this off while we still can.”

  Sandy made a dismissive face and shook her head. “You’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s just a case of first-time jitters. You’ll get over it. You were much better the last hour.”

  “That’s because there was nothing left in my stomach.”

  “Well, make sure you don’t eat before the show.”

  Mary Dell, who, because she was concentrating on enjoying every last bite of her tilapia, had been uncharacteristically silent all this time, finally spoke up. “Evelyn, calm down. You are making too much of this. Why, the first time Ben turned that camera on me I was jumpy as spit on a hot skillet. Wasn’t I, Ben?”

  Ben nodded dutifully as he sawed off another piece of meat.

  “See? You’ll be fine. Trust me. After all, you’ve got four months until the broadcast. By September, you’ll be feeling fine as cream gravy.”

  I opened my mouth to argue with her, but we were interrupted. Lydia Moss, the wife of New Bern’s First Selectman, Porter Moss, approached our table.

  “Excuse me,” she said, focusing on Mary Dell and completely ignoring everyone else at the table. Not surprising. I’ve been introduced to Lydia five different times at various community functions and each time she acts like it’s the first time. She’s one of those types of New Englanders, the ones that consider you an alien intruder if your family didn’t arrive here before 1700.

  “Excuse me,” she repeated, “but aren’t you someone?”

  Mary Dell was taking a drink of water. She started laughing when she heard this question and snorted some of the liquid up her nose. Sandy pounded her on the back until she quit choking.

  “Well, I suppose so. Aren’t you?”

  Lydia blushed and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. What I meant was, aren’t you…I mean, haven’t I seen you on television somewhere?”

  “You might have.” Mary Dell beamed and extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mary Dell Templeton. My son, Howard, and I host Quintessential Quilting on the House and Home Network.”

  “I thought so!” Lydia said excitedly. “Oh! Miss Templeton, I’m just such a fan!”

  Now it was my turn to snort. Mary Dell kicked me under the table. I composed myself but was definitely feeling the effects of my second glass of wine. And, really, wasn’t it funny how Lydia hadn’t known Mary Dell’s name but was suddenly a big fan? If Lydia had ever seen Quintessential Quilting, I was sure it hadn’t been for more than a few seconds as she was flipping channels. She wasn’t a quilter. At least, I’d never seen her in the shop.

  Mary Dell, after withdrawing her foot from my shin, went into Moonlight and Magnolias mode. Lydia hadn’t fooled her for a minute.

  “Well, bless your heart! Aren’t you sweet? It’s always nice to meet a sister quilter. This is Ben, our cameraman, and Sandy, our producer.” Sandy smiled and said hello. Ben just grunted and kept eating. “I’m sure you already know Charlie.” Charlie said it was nice to see her again.

  “And, of course,” Mary Dell continued, lifting her hand toward me, “I’m sure you know Evelyn Dixon, owner of Cobbled Court Quilts? Evelyn is an old friend of mine.”

  “Oh, yes! Of course! We’ve met several times at community functions. My husband, Porter, is New Bern’s First Selectman. That’s something like the mayor in your part of the country, Miss Templeton.” Lydia smiled broadly. “How nice to see you again, Evelyn. I just love your shop! It’s been such a boon to the town. I said as much to my husband just last week.”

  I forced myself to return Lydia’s smile. New Bern is a small town. There’s no sense in antagonizing the First Selectman’s wife, even if she is a big liar. “Thank you, Lydia. It’s nice of you to say so.”

  “And before too long,” Charlie piped in, “Cobbled Court Quilts will be an even bigger boon to New Bern. Mary Dell is doing a live broadcast of Quintessential Quilting from Evelyn’s
shop. Millions of people will be tuning in to watch Mary Dell and Evelyn, live, at the shop’s annual Quilt Pink Day. Millions and millions of them.” He turned to me, raising his eyebrows to their full height and grinning impishly.

  My stomach lurched. I put my head in my hands again. “Oh, dear Lord.”

  Lydia ignored my groans. “Really? How exciting! And it’s going to be live?”

  “That’s right,” Charlie affirmed. “Filmed live. With millions and millions of…”

  I snapped, “Be quiet, Charlie!”

  “Well! Isn’t that something!” Lydia exclaimed. “Will there be an audience at the broadcast?”

  “Maybe a small one,” Sandy said. “By the time we get all the lighting and camera equipment in, there won’t be much extra room. Of course, the women who are participating in the Quilt Pink event will be there.”

  “Oh! That’s wonderful! What a marvelous idea! And, of course, I’ll be happy to participate! I couldn’t dream of missing Quilt Pink Day, could I? It’s one of New Bern’s most important events of the year.”

  Really? Well, of course, I thought so, but if Lydia Moss agreed, it was the first I’d heard of it. I was trying to decide whether to say this or not when Porter Moss walked up to our table, holding Lydia’s coat. He nodded to the assemblage.

  “Hello.”

  Charlie got up from the table and shook hands. “Hello, Porter. How was your dinner? Everything to your liking?”

  “Delicious as always, Charlie. I’m glad to see the short ribs back on the menu.”

  “Darling,” Lydia purred, taking her husband’s arm, “I’d like you to meet Mary Dell Templeton. She hosts a quilting show on television and is going to be filming an episode live from New Bern.”