A Thread of Truth

by Marie Bostwick

  From there on out, Dale was putty in her hands. And when I scolded Mary Dell later for telling lies, she assured me that what she’d said was absolutely true. Her ex-husband, Donny, had been a huge fan of Barrow’s films and had dragged her to see every one of them at least two times. “That may help explain why Donny is my ex-husband, but there’s no need to say that to Dale, is there?”

  No indeed. It was all to the good. Another ego salved. Another problem solved. And best of all, I could see that by cooperating, each working to our strengths, we really would make the show and the whole Quilt Pink Day better, a real community event.

  Just when I thought it was as good as it could get, Mary Dell plopped a big red cherry on the cake of my day. To make sure none of the quilters in the satellite studio felt left out, Mary Dell said she and Howard wanted to give copies of their most recent book, The Quintessential Quilter, a companion guide for the show, to everyone who stitched a Quilt Pink block that day. Furthermore, after the broadcast wrapped up, they would go to the gym to meet the quilters and sign their books.

  I was sure even my most disgruntled customers, including Mavis Plimpton, would be satisfied by this solution. Too, we’d have more Quilt Pink blocks than ever before, which would let us make more quilts, and raise more money to find a cure for breast cancer. It was a great plan. My only concern was that my dear, generous friend might be biting off more than she could chew.

  “Mary Dell, are you sure?” I asked. “Quilters are really excited about this. There could be three or four hundred of them at the gym. That many books could run into some real money. Not to mention how much time it will take to sign them.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I bet the cable network will donate the books and if they won’t? Well, it’s all for a good cause. And Howard and I don’t mind spending time with the folks. We love meetin’ new people. You know that.”

  And that was that. In the course of a ninety-minute conference call, Mary Dell had used her charm and leadership to get everyone to work off the same page and find a solution to every problem and conflict that, up until then, had seemed unsolvable. Amazing. I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if we put her in a room with the leaders of the Middle East.

  “Mary Dell, you’re the best. Have I told you that lately?”

  “I believe so, but I don’t mind hearing it again. I feel the same way about you, Baby Girl. Oh! I almost forgot! You know, we go on hiatus after we finish filming with you. Howard and I were thinking of taking a week’s vacation, maybe see that fall foliage you keep going on about. Know of a good hotel we could stay in?”

  “I do. Twenty-eight Marsh Lane—my guest room. Howard will have to sleep on the rollaway, but the price is right; free. And breakfast is included.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Sure you don’t mind? You might get sick of us after a whole week.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Good! I can’t wait! I love doing the show, but I am so ready for a vacation. I just want to sit down with you and quilt and yak ’til we run out of things to say and just sit there staring at each other.”

  “That might take more than a week.”

  “Hope so. I can’t wait. The way you talk about them, I feel like I know everybody in New Bern already, but it’ll be nice to spend more time with your friends. And speaking of that, how is Franklin feeling? And Abigail? Has she calmed down about the wedding?”

  “Oh, yes. Franklin is out of the hospital and Abigail has moved into his place, at least for now. Everything is on one floor, so that’s a little easier for Franklin. I don’t think they’ve figured out whose house they’re going to live in yet.”

  “Very interesting,” Mary Dell said slowly. “So tell me, have they done it yet?”

  “Mary Dell!” I made a scolding noise with my tongue.

  “Well,” she said innocently, “inquiring minds want to know. Personally, I think a good roll in the hay would do Abigail a world of good. Help loosen her up some.”

  I laughed, thinking Mary Dell might be right about that, though I didn’t say so. “I imagine that’s still a good way off. Franklin’s only been out of the hospital for a couple of weeks. But, they really seem happy together.”

  “That’s sweet. Good for them. And what about Ivy? How’s it going with the divorce?”

  I sighed, wishing the news were better. “They just got a court date, first of September. That’s good because usually it takes a lot longer but, on the other hand, I’m worried about the outcome. Arnie and Margot have been burning the midnight oil trying to build a case, but I don’t know…Arnie is sure Hodge is hiding something. He just can’t believe the nursing home has made so little money, but so far Hodge’s records back up his claims. According to the accountants, Hodge Edelman is flat broke. In a way, that helps. It helps even the financial playing field for Ivy. He’ll have a harder time arguing that he’ll be a better provider for the kids this way, though he does have a better earning history. But it’s the doctor’s accusation that Ivy was a drug abuser that’s really damaging. Plus, he’s going to swear that he saw no signs of physical abuse during the time Ivy was his patient. We know he’s lying, but unless we can find better proof, it really comes down to Ivy’s word against his.”

  “And you think that judge will find the doctor more convincing?”

  “Well, can you blame him? I would, if I didn’t know Ivy. So, in spite of everything we’ve tried, Ivy may lose her kids to that monster. And even if she doesn’t, it’s possible she won’t get a dime’s worth of support from Hodge to help raise them. And get this. He’s claiming that she should pay alimony to him! He says he’s just about bankrupt and wants to garnish part of her wages from the shop. Can you believe this guy? What gall!”

  “As my old granny used to say, ‘There’s some men on God’s good earth that were just born to be shot.’ Sounds like old Hodge is one of them.” Mary Dell clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Well, you tell Ivy I said hello. I sure feel bad about all this. None of this would have happened if we hadn’t aired that video with her in it.”

  “Oh, Mary Dell, don’t say that. This isn’t your fault. It had to happen sooner or later. Ivy couldn’t go on hiding forever; she knows that. Just the other day she told me what a relief it is to get up in the morning and know she’s not going to have to lie about anything. One way or another, she’ll get through this. She’s tougher than she looks. Did I tell you? I gave her a promotion.”

  “Did you? That was sweet of you.”

  “Sweet, nothing. She deserved it. She keeps that order department running like clockwork. I don’t know what I’d do without her, and that’s the truth.”

  “She sounds like a great little gal. I hope everything works out for her. Tell her I’m praying for her, will you?”

  “I will.”

  29

  Ivy Peterman

  While I was in the kitchen getting her a glass of water, the social worker dragged her finger across the table looking for dust. She didn’t find any; I’ve always been a good housekeeper, but it would take more than a tidy family room to win her over.

  Because Hodge and I are both suing for custody of the kids, we each have to undergo a court-ordered home study by a social worker. They look at each parent’s living situation—housing, employment, schools—and make recommendations as to which home would be better for the children. I could tell she wasn’t too impressed with our apartment, especially when she found out I’d soon have to find another place to live.

  She smiled woodenly as I handed her the glass and sat down across from her. “Thank you. Now, tell me about your job. You work in retail?” The look on her face said that this was not a strike in my favor, that, in her mind, working in retail meant a dead end and minimum wage.

  I didn’t answer her directly, opting instead to hand her one of my brand-new business cards, the ones Evelyn had surprised me with when she told me I’d been promoted.

  IVY PETERMAN

  COBBLED COURT QU
ILT SHOP

  MANAGER

  ORDER FULFILLMENT DEPARTMENT

  For the first time since coming into my home, the social worker smiled—genuinely. “Cobbled Court Quilts? Really? I’ve heard of them. That’s the shop they keep talking about on television, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “When I started there we only had four full-time employees for the whole shop. Now there’s more than that just in my department.”

  I could feel heat rising to my cheeks. It felt uncomfortable blowing my own horn, but I knew Hodge would have no similar qualms so I added, “And we’re adding new employees all the time. By this time next year we could double in size.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie. That qualifying “could” made all the difference. By next year Cobbled Court Quilts could double in size. Or Hodge could suddenly decide he was wrong and had been for a long time, give up his custody fight, and write me a check for one hundred thousand dollars by way of apology. Or George Clooney could wander in the shop one day and propose marriage. Anything could happen.

  “Really?” she said and scribbled down a note on her clipboard. “So would you say you have good opportunities for advancement?”

  “Oh, yes. Absolutely,” I said and nodded gravely, then threw in a phrase I’d heard Hodge use one day when he was talking to a potential investor. “This company has tremendous upside growth potential.”

  I felt like an idiot saying that, like a little girl walking around in her mother’s high heels playing at being grown-up. But I guess she bought it because she smiled when I said it and wrote down a bunch more notes on her clipboard. No matter how foolish I felt, seeing the social worker’s approving nod made it worth it. That nod could be the difference between keeping or losing my children.

  Three weeks from today, whether I’m ready or not, I’ll be in a courtroom, sitting at a table next to my attorney, trying to keep custody of my kids. Hodge will be sitting at another table with his attorney trying to take them from me. Three weeks from today. Ready or not. Right now, we’re not.

  Arnie keeps telling me not to worry, that he’s still going to find that elusive loose thread, but it hasn’t happened yet. As the court date gets closer, I can tell he’s wondering if he ever will. Even Margot’s optimism is beginning to flag. She doesn’t say so, of course, but I can see it in her eyes.

  I’m scared.

  Some days it’s everything I can do to keep myself from grabbing my kids and running, but it’s too late for that. Before, I was able to melt into the background without anyone taking much notice. In fact, I’ve learned that Hodge never even reported my disappearance to the police. Isn’t that something? There I was, shuffling my kids from one town to the next, sleeping in cars, always afraid that the law was after me, and Hodge never even so much as filed a missing persons report. Here he is, fighting me tooth and nail for custody, but he doesn’t care about the kids. He never did. He’s only doing this as a way to try to punish and control me. Even so, it’s hard to understand why he didn’t report me to the police. Did he just figure he had me so well-trained that I’d come crawling back to him eventually? That sounds like Hodge. Smug.

  Once he did find me, he tried to have me charged with kidnapping, but since he’d never filed a report, he couldn’t make it stick. Lucky for me. But I wouldn’t be that lucky if I disappeared a second time.

  And then there’s Bethany. After Margot talked me out of running, Bethany wouldn’t get out of bed the next day. I mean, she absolutely refused to leave her room! I didn’t know what to think. When I told her to get up and get ready for school, she screamed at me! She said she wasn’t getting in that car no matter what I did. I was really mad, not to mention late for work, so I went in there and tried to make her get dressed, but she fought like a tiger. Poor Bobby stood in the corner with his thumb in his mouth, clutching his blankie and watching me trying to wrestle his sister out of bed.

  Finally, I gave up. I told Bobby that if Bethany wouldn’t get out of bed, then I guessed none of us should. I said, “Move over, peanut. Come on, Bobby, you, too.” And we huddled under the covers together, crowded like sardines into Bethany’s little bed.

  Bethany thought it was funny that I was in bed with all my clothes on. We had a tickle fight under the quilts, all three of us. Once things calmed down, we started talking. Bethany told me that she didn’t want to get in the car because she was afraid if she did, I’d take her away from New Bern and she’d never see her friends, or her school, or Abigail, Margot, or Evelyn again.

  I promised her, then and there, that I wouldn’t do that. I told her that New Bern was our home and she never had to leave. I promised.

  Dear God, I hope I wasn’t lying.

  I won’t run away. I can’t because I promised Bethany, but that’s just me. I don’t have any control over Hodge and what he’s going to do. And, as the days tick down to the divorce hearing, I feel less and less in control. I don’t care about the money. Whatever there is or isn’t, Hodge can have. The only thing that matters to me is my kids, which is why Hodge is so determined to keep me from getting them.

  Evelyn, and Margot, and Abigail, and Arnie, and all these wonderful, good-hearted people in this picture perfect town have assured me that, in the end, good will triumph over evil, lies will be found out, and the truth will set me free. And maybe, if you grow up in a place like this, it does. But I was born a million miles from here. I’m from the places that Norman Rockwell never wanted to paint. And I know that sometimes the bad guys win.

  I’ve started praying. I can’t say that I have much faith that my prayers are being heard, let alone answered. But Margot is always talking about what can happen if you have faith the size of a mustard seed—in other words, little, puny, pinpoint tiny faith. Well, that’s a pretty good description of mine, so I pray. Why not? It’s all I’ve got left.

  Work is a great distraction for me. When I’m at the shop I’m too busy to think about anything except cutting fabric, assembling orders, and getting them packaged and mailed. I like being busy.

  And the closer we get to the big Quilt Pink broadcast, the busier we get. There are now five people working in order fulfillment: me, two of my friends from the Stanton Center, Karen and Jeni, plus two local teachers, Roseanne and Bryan. They were looking for work over the summer, so Evelyn hired them. She thinks that, after the broadcast, business might slow down, so hiring teachers makes sense. If it does, she won’t have to lay anybody off after the show, because Roseanne and Bryan will go back to their old jobs. If we’re still busy, she won’t have any trouble finding replacements. Evelyn is a great boss.

  When Evelyn told me that I was being promoted to department manager, I had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I didn’t want her to see me cry. I know it’s not that big a deal, but this is the first time in my life that I’ve ever really succeeded at anything. I felt the way I used to feel when I was in grade school and the teacher would put a gold star sticker on the top of my spelling test if I scored one hundred—like I wanted to take that star and pin it to my chest where everyone would see it and know that I was good at something.

  Evelyn didn’t give me a gold star, but I did get a four-hundred-dollar-a-month raise. I sure can use it. Arnie keeps saying that, after the divorce, I’ll have plenty of money, maybe even enough to buy a little house, because the judge will order Hodge to pay child support, to sell our assets and give me half.

  Yeah. Like that’s going to happen. Arnie doesn’t know Hodge like I do. There is no way I’m ever going to get a dime from Hodge. He’d die before he’d let that happen. Even when we were together, he made me account for every single penny I spent. I used to tell myself that was because he had such a good head for business and liked to keep control over his accounts, but now I see what he really wanted to control was me. I’m starting to see all the ways Hodge tried to control me. And all the ways I let him.

  Anyway, like I said, over Hodge Edelman’s dead body will I ever get one red cent of the money. Arnie keeps s
cratching his head over Hodge’s financial disclosures. According to the records, Hodge doesn’t have anything; the nursing home is losing money, the entire business is mortgaged up to the eyeballs, and it turns out our house is in foreclosure because Hodge has missed payments. Funny how the first missed payment came in the month he found me. That’s Hodge. He’s that vindictive. He’d rather lose the house than risk having to give me half the proceeds from it.

  I’m not stupid. Neither is Arnie. We know Hodge is lying. He’s figured some way to hide the money and cook the books so the losses look legitimate, but we can’t prove anything. It’s driving Arnie nuts. He told me yesterday that he’s hired some kind of special investigator, Annie Fielding, a forensic accountant. That’s someone who specializes in figuring out how and where dishonest businesses hide their ill-gotten gains. Arnie was really excited about her, but I don’t think she’ll find anything. Wherever that money is, I guarantee Hodge has made sure it can’t be traced. He’s thorough.

  So, wherever we live after we leave the Stanton Center, it’s going to have to be somewhere we can afford on my salary alone. I haven’t actually gone looking for new apartments yet, but I have been reading the “for rent” section of the classifieds. Even with a raise, it’s going to be tough to find a two-bedroom place within my budget. Of course, if Hodge gets his way, I won’t need two bedrooms. If Hodge gets his way, I’ll be living alone.

  30

  Ivy Peterman

  I keep having this dream.

  I’m at home doing something—ironing, or cooking, or watching television; once I was quilting—and the doorbell rings.

  The thing that’s weird is, I know it’s my house but I’ve never been there before, except in my dreams. There’s a big stone fireplace in the living room, and built-in bookshelves under the windows, and a low-beamed ceiling that makes everything seem snug and safe, like a cottage in a Beatrix Potter book, a cozy den for a family of bunnies. The kitchen has blue and yellow tile, distressed white cabinets with glass fronts, and fresh, crisp curtains at the windows.