A Thread of Truth

by Marie Bostwick

  She looked up at Ivy and her eyes sparkled. “Tell us about your house. Tell us how you imagine it.”

  “No,” Ivy said curtly.

  Margot’s eyebrows arched in surprise at this rebuff, but then Ivy smiled. “You tell me first. I’ve been working on this every night after the kids are in bed, quilting each of your blocks, and it’s made me curious. I’ll tell you about mine, but the rest of you have to go first. That’s the deal.”

  Everyone looked around to see who would start. After a moment, Liza took the plunge. “Mine’s the weird-looking one, naturally.” She pointed to a tall, thin column of a house that bore no resemblance to the others.

  “That’s what I like about it,” Ivy said. “It has Liza written all over it.”

  Liza lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows in perfect imitation of her aunt Abigail’s “what did you mean by that?” face.

  Ivy rolled her eyes. “In a good way. It shows off your artistic sensibility. Stop looking at me like that.” Ivy clucked her tongue, and Liza laughed, teasing.

  Sometimes, with the load of responsibility she carries, I forget how young Ivy is. She and Liza are closest in age of all of us, close enough that they might have been sisters. It’s nice to see them joking together, nice to see Ivy acting her age.

  Liza continued, “Yes, well. Here it is—my dream house. As you can see, it’s very simple on the outside, very modern, concrete walls painted white, and huge windows that let in a lot of light. And, as you can see from the bright blue that surrounds it, my house is on the water.”

  “The ocean?” Margot asked.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. It could be a big lake. There are three floors and each floor is just one big room. The ground floor has a living/dining/dancing area with a very, very small kitchenette,” she said with a grin. You couldn’t tell by looking at her but Liza loves to eat, though she is no more interested in cooking than her aunt Abigail. If it weren’t for Abigail’s housekeeper, the notorious Hilda, whom Abigail complains about continually but is truly devoted to, it’s possible Abigail would starve to death. No, I take that back. She’d just eat every meal at the Grill.

  “The second story is for sleeping and bathing, no walls, just a giant bed, a bathtub carved out of a single enormous rock, and a waterfall shower from the ceiling.”

  Ivy scratched her nose doubtfully. “No walls. Not even around the toilet? You’ve got a lot of windows there.”

  “Okay, good point. I don’t really care about the neighbors because I’m not planning on having any, but I might have guests over sometimes. I don’t want to gross them out. There are walls around the toilet,” Liza said with a nod to practicality. “And on the third floor you will find, drumroll, please…”

  We chimed in on cue. “Your art studio!”

  “Yes! A big, big space with the most amazing light ever—windows on every side that slide open to let in the breeze and the sound of the birds. And there’s a balcony too, but you can’t see it. It’s on the back of the house.”

  “Sounds beautiful,” Ivy said.

  “It is. Oh, and one more thing. Needless to say, the fabulous huge, white walls of my beautiful house are filled with huge, gorgeous murals painted by me. Like living in my own gallery.” She sighed contentedly, then turned to Abigail with an impish grin.

  “Bet you’re relieved to hear that, aren’t you, Abigail? Then you don’t have to worry about me hanging them up at your place.”

  When Liza first moved in with Abigail, she’d wanted to hang a self-portrait made of old bottle caps in Abbie’s foyer, next to the antiques and Abigail’s collection of paintings from the Hudson River Valley school. Suffice it to say, Abigail and Liza have somewhat different taste in art.

  “Don’t be silly. I’d be proud to have one of your paintings hanging in my house,” Abigail said so magnanimously that I thought she actually meant it. “You’ve become quite good.”

  “Thanks. I was wondering when you’d notice.”

  Abigail gave her a motherly slap on the wrist. “Always ready with a sassy comeback. Your mother was just the same.”

  Liza smiled, pleased with the comparison. “Okay, you’re next, Abigail. Which one is yours? Everything that’s left seems too small to be the abode of Mrs. Abigail Burgess Wynne Spaulding.”

  Abigail pointed to her block, a simple red saltbox with double chimneys, a gazebo, and an orderly line of flowering hedges flanking a white picket gate—modest but stately, classic New England architecture. It was the largest, but Liza was right: It was surprisingly small and simple by Burgess Wynne Spaulding standards.

  “That? Really?” Margot sounded surprised. “Your house on Proctor Street is so beautiful. I know you’d hoped to donate it to the Stanton Center, but I just figured you were being generous, as usual.”

  “That was Woolley Wynne’s dream house; it was never mine. I’m aware of how fortunate I’ve been to live there for the last few decades, but it was always too grand for my taste, now more than ever.”

  In a way, this made sense. The Abigail who was sitting next to me now, wearing a simple white blouse with her shining, platinum-gray hair drawn back into a smooth ponytail at the base of her neck, was a different person from the tight-laced, status conscious, island-unto-herself woman Liza had blackmailed into taking an unwilling part in our first Quilt Pink Day nearly three years ago. I don’t know if I quite believed her assertion that she’d never cared for her enormous house on Proctor Street or never craved the status that being the mistress of such a large estate conferred, but I could see that this new and improved Abigail didn’t need such unwieldy accessories to confirm her place in the world.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t have anything against grand houses or beautiful things, but I’ve had more than my fair share of them. When I die, I’d like to leave behind more than a big house filled with expensive things.”

  Liza, for once, was ready to give Abbie a little full-faced praise, no quips or double meanings attached. “What are you talking about, Abigail? You’ve got years and years of life left in you, make that decades and decades, but even if you died today you’d leave an amazing legacy.” Liza ticked off a list on her fingers. “Wynne Memorial Library, the Burgess Wynne wing at the Art Museum, the Historical Society, your donations to the Women’s Shelter, a floor at the hospital named after you—New Bern wouldn’t be New Bern without your influence.

  “And then, of course, there’s me. Without you, I’d probably be doing ten to fifteen in the big house as the county’s most notorious sweater thief. Or maybe I’d be the headliner on one of those true crime shows.” Liza’s lifted hands met in front and swept to opposite sides, underlining her point as she feigned an overly dramatic voiceover. “Tonight on America’s Most Wanted—Liza Burgess: The Cashmere Crook!”

  Abigail smiled. “But you’ll remember, I didn’t exactly ‘take you in.’ Judge Gulden forced us on each other.”

  “That doesn’t matter. The end result is what counts. You helped me. You do help me.”

  “And me,” Ivy chimed in. “You helped me get a job. And if it weren’t for Franklin handling my divorce for free and you picking up the bills for the investigators and everything else, I wouldn’t stand a chance up against Hodge and his legal team. The outcome isn’t looking too favorable right now, but you’ve leveled the playing field, Abigail. I appreciate it so much.”

  “Well, you can’t think I was going to stand by and let that monster take Bethany and Bobby, did you? And don’t sound so negative about your divorce,” she commanded. “You’ve got to think positively! You’re going to keep your children and send that sorry excuse for a man limping out of this town with his tail tucked between his legs, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ivy said, but not with any real conviction.

  “And what about me?” I asked. “If you hadn’t rented the shop and warehouse space to me at such a ridiculously low price, Cobbled Court Quilts would have gone out of business a long time ago.”


  “And if that had happened,” Margot added, “I’d be out of a job—again.”

  “By the way, now that we’re actually making money, it’s time we renegotiated the lease. I can afford to pay the market price for rent now, and I intend to.”

  Abigail waved me off. “I don’t like talking business at social events. It’s rude. We’ll discuss it another time.”

  Somehow I knew that it would be hard to pin her down as to what time would be more appropriate.

  Liza turned the conversation back to her aunt. “But do you hear what everyone is saying? In one way or another, you’ve touched the lives of everyone in this room.”

  Abigail bent her head, looking, for the first time in my memory, sincerely humbled. “Thank you for saying so, Liza. Perhaps it’s my age. I find myself increasingly anxious to make the rest of my life useful. Funding libraries and hospitals is important and I certainly have no intention of lessening those efforts; I’ve got plenty of money to continue that,” she said honestly. “But more and more I believe it’s our impact on individuals that matters most. I want to use my wealth and my life for that purpose, not to add to my personal comforts. I’ve got too much of everything as it is. Every single thing we own actually owns us in some way or another—it all has to be cleaned, or maintained, or fixed, or appraised, or insured, or some such thing. It all takes time, and that, I’ve realized, is an absolutely finite commodity. Wasted time can’t be redeemed. And a wasted life? Well, that’s a tragedy.”

  I’d never heard Abigail talk like that before. I don’t think any of us had. Like everyone else, I just sat looking at her. I couldn’t help but think how lucky I am to count Abigail as my friend. She is truly one of a kind.

  Abbie coughed. “Anyway…my point is…people are what matter. Family and friends most of all. That’s why my dream home would be something smaller and simpler, something like this.” She nodded toward her quilted saltbox. “A pretty house with nice gardens but nothing too complicated—just a nice long lawn in the back where we can have parties in the summer. The inside should have a big living room on one side, room to entertain, but it doesn’t have to be bigger than is comfortable for forty or fifty guests.”

  I nodded. “I see. Just enough room for intimate gatherings.” Across from me, Ivy pressed her lips together to hide her smile.

  “Yes,” Abigail said, not picking up on the joke. “Exactly. Bigger affairs can wait until summer or, if they can’t, we can always rent a room at the club. I’d like a nice dining room, an adequate kitchen, and a library for Franklin. Upstairs there should be four or five bedrooms, en suite, and an office for myself. Marriage, I’ve found, is a wonderful institution, but when you’ve lived alone as long as I have, it’s important to have a room of one’s own. The whole thing would probably be about a third the size of the Proctor Street house.”

  Margot squashed her eyebrows together. “But doesn’t Franklin’s house have most of that? Why not just stay there?”

  “Yes, Franklin’s house is comfortable and I’ve considered that, but…” Abigail sighed. “I knew Franklin’s late wife, Mary. She was a sweet woman and I liked her, but I can’t help feel that house still belongs to her. I’d like to make a fresh start with Franklin. It’s a new life, a new beginning, for both of us. I’d like a lifestyle and a home that reflects that.

  “And,” she said, giving Liza an arch look, “to those ends, I’ve made a decision. You’re quite right, Liza. Mrs. Abigail Burgess Wynne Spaulding is too pretentious and too long. So I’ve decided to change it to Mrs. Abigail Spaulding.” She sniffed. “Much more practical. Think of the hours I’ll save answering my correspondence.”

  I think we were all stunned by this announcement. I certainly was. The name Burgess Wynne carried weight in New Bern and while I didn’t doubt for a moment that Abigail was and always would be an influential figure among New Bern’s elite, her willingness to abbreviate her surname said something about the depth of change she had undergone as well as the depth of the feelings she had for Franklin.

  “I think that’s wonderful, Abigail. Very sensible.”

  “Thank you, Evelyn. But enough about me; tell us about your block. It looks exactly like the house you’re living in now.”

  “It is.” I laughed. “At the moment, I love my life. I love my little yellow cottage and the little garden out back. I love that I can walk to work. It’s perfect for me.”

  Margot tipped her head toward my block. “But what about Charlie? Is there room for him in there?”

  “We’d need a bigger kitchen, that’s for sure. Someday—if he’s not sick of me by then—yes, there is room for Charlie. But right this second I’m content with my life. I don’t feel the need to change a thing.”

  “That must be nice,” Margot said, in a slightly disbelieving tone. “I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that way.”

  “Until recently, neither have I, but yes, it feels pretty good.”

  “Well, I guess it’s my turn,” Margot said. “I’ve got the Dutch Colonial with the four dormers on the front.”

  “It’s very pretty,” Ivy said. “I love the way you quilted all those different shades of gray so the chimney looks like it’s made out of stone.”

  Margot tried to smile, but all she could manage was a sad little smirk. “Thanks. It’s a big house, three bedrooms, two and a half baths, with a river rock fireplace in the living room, bookshelves on both sides, and a big country kitchen with a pantry, and upstairs, in the bedrooms, there are window seats in front of all the dormers, with cushions that match the curtains. It’s a big house,” she repeated softly. “A family house.”

  Her eyes moved around the circle, making contact with each of us in turn. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering why I made it so big.”

  “We’re not wondering at all. You want a family,” I said. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  Margot’s usually tranquil eyes sparked angry blue, like the sapphire flash that comes when live wires connect. “Because I’m never going to have one, that’s why! I’m thirty-eight years old. I’m single and I’m always going to be single. I’ve wasted too much of my life dreaming about honeymoon cruises and nursery wallpaper, that’s why!”

  Our sweet, soft-spoken Margot was almost shouting. For a moment everyone fell into awkward silence, not knowing how to respond. Then Liza managed to say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

  “So…how is Arnie?”

  “Liza, shut up!” Margot snapped her head toward Liza and glared at her. Liza shifted backward in her seat as if trying to move out of the line of fire. “I told you before, Arnie isn’t interested in me like that! Men are never interested in me like that! I’m a spinster and it’s time everybody got used to the idea! I’ve never been married and I’ll never be married. I am sick and tired of getting my hopes up every time a man so much as says hello to me only to have them smashed against the rocks when I find out he is married, or gay, or ‘just wants to be friends.’

  “I’m up to here with all of you making it worse by pretending that love is just around the corner for me. It’s not! It never was and it never will be! I know you think you’re helping, but if you really want to help, help me learn to get used to the idea of being alone for the rest of my life because we all know that’s what is going to happen. The sooner I give up all these silly, impossible dreams and face the facts, the better off I’ll be. So shut up about Arnie, will you, Liza? Just shut up!”

  As she spoke, Margot’s grip on the edges of Ivy’s new quilt tightened, crushing the pine tree border so it looked like a row of squat, misshapen bushes. When she finished, she flung the quilt away from her body as if it were on fire and covered her eyes and mouth with one hand.

  “Okay,” Liza said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  Margot wasn’t crying. She was too angry for tears. Her shoulders heaved as she took in big gulps of air, trying to compose herself. After a long minute, her hand lowered until only her mouth was covered. She took a final dee
p breath and released it in an even, controlled whoosh of air, dropped her hands, and took a fresh grip on her end of the quilt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a clipped voice. “I shouldn’t have gone off like that. But I meant what I said. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She looked at each of us in turn, beginning with Liza and ending with me. “Understand?”

  I nodded acknowledgment along with the others.

  “Good. Anyway, tonight isn’t about me. It’s about binding Ivy’s quilt. We’ve been sitting here for half an hour without sewing a stitch and I still haven’t heard about Ivy’s house.” Margot’s glance shifted from the quilted clapboard cottage with the bright red door to Ivy’s face. “Go on,” she said. “Tell us about it.”

  32

  Ivy Peterman

  The evening had gotten off to a rocky start, but by the time we finished stitching the binding on my quilt, things were more or less back to normal.

  After Margot’s outburst Abigail took charge and helped us shift gears, saying she didn’t see why we couldn’t sew and talk at the same time or, for that matter why we couldn’t drink, sew, and talk at the same time. “We’re all accomplished multitaskers here. Thread your needles and get to work. Ivy, you tell everyone about your block while I pour the wine.”

  We finished binding the quilt just before nine, but before I left, I pulled four packages wrapped in tissue paper and ribbon from my tote bag and handed one to each of my circle sisters. Each package contained four quilted placemats.

  The pattern was the same: a big star block in the middle, with two bands of fabric on either side to make a rectangle, but the fabrics varied according to the tastes and favorite colors of the recipient. For Abigail, I’d picked a blue toile with complementary pale yellows and blue; for Evelyn, jeweled-toned batiks in turquoise, green, and eggplant; for Margot, an assortment of 1930s reproduction fabrics in pinks, greens, and creams; and for Liza, a jazzy novelty print of bright jelly beans on a black background with yellow, red, and purple fabrics that matched the candies. Included with each gift was a card with pictures drawn by Bethany and Bobby and a note from me.