A Thread of Truth

by Marie Bostwick

  “Even those unimaginative drones in zoning have agreed it’s a perfect solution! I’m still irritated that they blocked my original plan, but when I heard that the school district was building a new elementary school and wanted to sell the old one, I realized it was perfect for our purposes—even larger than my house and in a more convenient location. Isn’t it lovely how everything worked out? Of course, we still have a good bit of money to raise, but I’ve already made a few calls. People have been very generous with their pledges. When the bell rings to dismiss the students in June, we’ll have a construction team standing by, ready to tear out old walls, electrical, and plumbing, and rebuild the top two floors of the school into fourteen new apartments! Isn’t it exciting?”

  “It is,” I agreed sincerely. “I’m just having a hard time understanding where I fit in with all this. You said you found a perfect, affordable rental for me and now we’re sitting here on Proctor. Abigail, there is nothing on this street that I can afford to rent.”

  “Oh yes, there is.” She pointed to a spot slightly behind us. “There. The carriage house. I still own it. I had it subdivided from the rest of the property. Remember?”

  I twisted to my right to see where she was pointing. And there it was: the red door like a laughing mouth, two winking windows for eyes. “Oh, my gosh,” I whispered. “The house that smiles…”

  “What?”

  I turned. Abigail was staring at me. “Never mind. It’s just…it’s just something that Bethany said one day. It doesn’t matter. Abbie, this is the house you wanted to show me?”

  “Yes. Of course. Why else would I have brought you here? Really, Ivy. Do try to keep up. Focus. You’re beginning to make me wonder about you.”

  “Sorry. I knew the big house was yours. I just never made the connection that the little house went with it.”

  “Well, it does,” she said, absentmindedly picking up the reading glasses she wore on a chain around her neck and examining the lenses. “Originally, I’d planned on moving here myself, but that was before the wedding and, really, it’s too small for both Franklin and me; besides, I’ve found a piece of property that will be just right for the house I’d like to build. Very similar to the one I designed for your quilt. I’ve already got an architect working on plans.”

  She found a spot on her glasses, breathed on the lens, and rubbed at the smudge with the sleeve of the sweater that hung carelessly over her shoulders. “I thought about Liza, but she’s not interested. You saw her quilted house, all soaring expanses and walls of glass. She doesn’t want to live in an antique with squat ceilings and six over six windows.”

  “Well…couldn’t you just sell it?” I spoke hesitantly, not wanting her to agree with the idea but knowing that, in all fairness, I had to put it out there. Selling would certainly be the most logical solution.

  “I could, but honestly, I don’t want to. Call me sentimental, but I’ve lived here a long time. Woolley and I may not have been madly in love, but we did have some good times together. I guess this is my way of honoring those memories.” She shrugged, unable to put her feelings into precise language, but I understood what she meant.

  “Then, when we were at the quilt-circle meeting last week, I realized it would be perfect for you and the children. At least”—she smiled—“that’s my opinion, but you’ll have to judge for yourself. Shall we go inside?”

  Abigail turned the key in the lock and opened a door that led into a living room with a beamed ceiling, built-in bookshelves under the windows, and a deep stone fireplace. I couldn’t breathe.

  “Well,” Abigail said brightly. “What do you think? It needs painting, but it’s solid and the roof is practically new. There are three bedrooms upstairs and two baths. There’s a half-bath off the kitchen and…”

  I swallowed hard. “Abigail. The kitchen. Does it have blue and yellow tile?”

  She nodded slowly. “Why, yes. Yes, it does.”

  “And distressed white cabinets with glass fronts?”

  “That’s right. How did you know? Have you been here before?”

  I turned in a slow circle, taking in every inch of this oh-so-familiar room until I faced the open door. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw my father standing on the stoop, smiling, and waiting…

  Epilogue

  Ivy Peterman

  If you wait until Christmas Eve morning to buy your tree and ornaments, you can get both very cheap. So we did.

  Of course, by that time the selection was pretty limited, but the trunk of the tree is mostly straight and when I turned it to face the corner, you can barely see the bald spot in back. There were plenty of strings of lights left at the discount store, but only odd boxes of ornaments. We dug through the pile and found one burgundy, one pearl, and one copper box of glass balls and decided that together with the white paper and silver glittered snowflakes we’d made, they would look beautiful. And they do, especially in the glow of the firelight.

  Bethany took two of the smallest burgundy balls from the box of ornaments and looped them over the tops of her ears for earrings. “Mommy, how do I look?”

  “Oooh, very glamorous. There’s just one thing missing.” I took a pinch of silver tinsel from the box and sprinkled a few strands in her hair. “Perfect!”

  Bethany giggled. “Mommy, you’re weird.”

  “Yeah, I know. I get that a lot.”

  Bethany glanced at the clock that stood on the mantel and creased her tiny brow. “Only an hour until they get here,” she said. “I’ll help you clean up this mess.”

  “No, peanut. That’s all right.” Bethany is always so good, so eager to please. More like an adult than a little girl and it worries me. I know that kids who’ve gone through the kinds of experiences Bethany has tend to be either too good or completely the opposite, angry and lashing out at everyone. Given the options, I suppose the former is better than the latter, but it’s still a concern, one we’re working on. These things take time.

  “I can clean up. Why don’t you go in the kitchen with Bobby and finish the oranges?” The kids made presents for everyone who was coming to the party—pomanders, oranges studded with spicy sweet-smelling cloves to hang in closets.

  “Okay,” she agreed grudgingly. “Call me if you need help.”

  “I will.”

  “Should I check on the lasagnas?”

  “I already set the timer. You don’t need to worry about a thing. Go on and enjoy yourself. Be creative!”

  “All right,” she said slowly. “But are you sure you don’t…”

  “Bethany.” I laughed. “Scoot! I’ve got everything under control. Trust me.”

  These things take time.

  I still have the dream, but it’s different now.

  The bell rings. I open the door and there is my father, smiling, waiting. I invite him to come in. That’s what he was waiting for all along. Behind him comes my mother, then Abigail, then Evelyn, then Margot and a long line of other people, Franklin, Charlie, Liza, Garrett, Mary Dell, and Carmel Sunday and, believe it or not, even Hodge. I have to tell you, that last one threw me at first but, in a way, it makes sense.

  I spent so much time living a life that was almost true. I don’t do that anymore. Now, everything that’s happened to me—the good, the bad, the mistakes of the past and my hopes for the future—is part of the life I’m living today. Nothing gets ignored, or denied, or left to lurk on the doorstep. I’ve invited it all in. I’ve embraced the truth and it truly has set me free. Maybe that’s why we had to live in the Stanton Center for all that time. It’s a place of transition, a way station for women on the road to learning who they are and what they can become. Until I faced my past, I wasn’t ready to come home. Now I am.

  Abigail refused to accept a deposit for first and last month’s rent, tearing up the check I handed her. I want to stand on my own two feet, and I am, but that shredded check really did make things easier. My savings bought three new mattresses. That was the biggest expense. The rest—dresser
s, sofa, coffee table, and a wonderful antique oak dining table with six chairs—we bought very cheap at tag sales. I could still use some more lamps and it would be nice to find a side chair, but that can wait.

  I’ve been painting the house, room by room, giving Bobby’s room a coat of sapphire blue, Bethany’s a sweet princess pink. The other walls are now a sunny yellow that look cheery even on the snowiest winter days. For now, I’ve given up quilting in favor of drapery sewing. Soon there will be fresh, crisp curtains at every window.

  It’s all worked out pretty well for everybody—for me, for my children, and for Abigail, who, these days, is all about architects and blueprints. And not just for the house she is designing for herself and Franklin to live in, the house with the square footage that seems to get just a teeny bit larger with every updated set of plans, but also the blueprints for the new Stanton Center—make that the Stanton Center and the Spaulding Women’s Center for New Beginnings.

  The bottom floor of the old school will house New Beginnings, a place where victims of domestic violence can get the education, training, encouragement, and support they need to begin life anew. There will be classes for women who want to earn their high school equivalency diplomas, or study for college entrance exams, or learn interview skills, plus counseling and recovery groups, parenting classes, and vocational training.

  Eventually, they hope to have a wide range of vocational classes, each sponsored by a local business owner who has agreed to offer hands-on internships for interested participants, but to begin we’ll just have three: an administrative assistant program sponsored by the law firm of Spaulding, Ketchum, and Ryan; a culinary arts program sponsored by the Grill on the Green; and a retail and quilting program offered by Cobbled Court Quilts. Everything should be up and running by this time next year.

  Evelyn is very excited about the program and so am I. This is going to be a chance for women just like me to pick up the tattered scraps of their lives and stitch together a new vision of themselves and their future. Some will only pass through, learn to run a cash register or to make a quilt or two, and will then move on, taking what they’ve learned with them; but others will stay on at Cobbled Court Quilts, taking jobs and staying here for a season, or a year, or forever. The way the business has continued to grow at the shop, we’ll be able to offer jobs to many of our interns.

  And the best part? Evelyn and Donna Walsh took me to lunch last week and asked if I would be willing to head up the Cobbled Court internship program. We’re going to promote Karen to Assistant Manager for the department so she can fill in for the ten hours a week I’ll spend at New Beginnings, but I’m going to be in charge of the whole thing! Isn’t that something? I could never have imagined that the pain and trouble in my life could be turned around and used for good, but it will be.

  It’s just like that verse Margot taught me, the one that was her grandmother’s favorite and now is mine: “All things work to good for those who love God and are called to His purpose.” I believe that now. I believe that God can and is taking all the stuff in my life—my pain and past, my shame and sorrows, the lies and losses, all of it—and using it for a good purpose. And I believe it all started on that dark night, when I was lost and frightened and didn’t know how to find the road. That was the night I tossed up a puny, mustard seed prayer, asking for guidance from someone who, at the time, I wasn’t even sure existed. I don’t feel that way anymore.

  Soon, my doorbell will ring and the people I’ve come to think of as my family—Abigail, Franklin, Liza, Evelyn, Garrett, Charlie, Margot, and Arnie—will come through the door carrying armloads of presents to go under the tree and platters filled with food to lay on the table next to the lasagnas I’ve got baking in the oven. We’ll share a meal, exchange gifts and love and laughter and, when it gets dark, we’ll tromp through the drifted snow, up the street, across the Green, and into the church for the candlelight Christmas Eve service, packing into the pews cheek by jowl, kneeling next to the others who want to come this night and say a prayer of thanks for unexpected gifts.

  I already know what my prayer will be. With Bethany on one side of me and Bobby on the other, I will kneel down, close my eyes, and say:

  Thank You. For everything. For my children, our family, my friends. For this beautiful little town, this city of refuge, and all the people in it. Thank You for helping me stitch a new quilt from the scraps of my old life.

  Thank You for believing in me, even before I believed in You. And for the bend in the road that sent me one hundred and eighty degrees from my intended destination. Yes. Especially for that. Thank You for the wrong turn that led me home.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reading Friend,

  Thank you for joining me on this armchair journey to New Bern. If this is your first visit, I hope you enjoyed getting to know Evelyn, Ivy, Abigail, Margot, Liza, and the rest of the Cobbled Court characters and will search out the first book in the series, A Single Thread. If you’ve read both books and are anxious for more, you won’t have long to wait. The third Cobbled Court novel is set for release in the summer of 2010.

  In the meantime, I hope that you will drop by my website, www.mariebostwick.com. You can check out my blog, send me a note (I always love hearing from readers), read excerpts from all five of my novels, or check out my calendar to see if I might be coming to visit your area. If you register as a “Reading Friend,” you’ll also be entered in my monthly Readers’ Contest, be able to post in the forum, receive my seasonal newsletter and personal invitations for appearances in your area, and have access to special content available only to registered Reading Friends, including the free downloadable pattern for the “Broken Hearts Mending” quilt that was featured in A Single Thread.

  If you don’t have access to a computer or, like me, you still enjoy the pleasure of letter writing, you can write to me at the following address:

  Marie Bostwick

  PO Box 488

  Thomaston, CT 06787

  Again, thank you for visiting New Bern. I hope you had as much fun reading this book as I had writing it and that you’ll be back soon.

  Blessings,

  Marie Bostwick

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  A THREAD OF TRUTH

  Marie Bostwick

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

  The following questions are intended to

  enhance your group’s reading of

  A THREAD OF TRUTH.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  An avid quilter, Marie Bostwick has been known to turn to quilting when working through tough life issues—not unlike the women in A Thread of Truth. What is it about working with one’s hands that cultivates a sense of serenity? Can you recall a time when quilting, knitting, or some other handiwork helped you through a tough time?

  Evelyn Dixon has built more than a successful small business in Cobbled Court Quilts—she’s created a community of quilters. How did she accomplish this? What are the pluses and minuses of approaching staff and employees like an extended family? Does it work for Evelyn? What does she gain? What price does she pay?

  One of the first people Ivy Peterman meets in New Bern is Abigail Burgess Wynne, and Ivy immediately is both dismayed by Abigail’s refined intimidation skills and touched by Abigail’s insistence that a place be found for Ivy and her two children at the women’s shelter. Does Abigail’s power come solely from being the richest woman in New Bern? If not, to what can one attribute her confidence? Would you welcome a friend like Abigail? What would it take to incorporate such a personality into your circle of friends? Is it fair that Abigail’s wealth and power make it possible for her to get her way, even in the name of a good cause?

  The specter of domestic violence forms the underpinning of Marie Bostwick’s plot in A Thread of Truth. What moment in the story best captures the fear and helplessness Ivy feels about her situation? How else does Bostwick convey the reality of being a mother on the run from an abusive husband?

  According to a 2
005 CDC survey, one in four American women have been abused by a husband or boyfriend—and on average more than three women are murdered by their husband or boyfriend every day. What would you do if you thought someone you knew was being abused by a significant other? To whom would you turn if it happened to you?

  The most dangerous time for a woman being abused is when she tries to leave someone. Does that explain why Ivy is less than forthcoming with the details of her life? Does that justify lying to her boss? To her caseworker at the shelter? Where would someone in your community go if she was trying to escape from an abusive spouse?

  In A Thread of Truth, Ivy presents herself to the shelter intake worker as “poor, powerless, and poorly educated,” counting on the stereotype of victims of domestic violence to quell any doubts the woman might have about her. Yet studies show abuse happens in all kinds of families and relationships, and persons of any class, culture, religion, sexual orientation, age, and sex can be victims—or perpetrators—of domestic violence. Why do such stereotypes endure? What would it take to change them?

  What do you think about Ivy’s reluctance to come clean with her new friends about her past? Is her reluctance reasonable? Or does it contribute to her problems? Why are people so reluctant to share the less-than-perfect aspects of their lives with others? With whom do you share your unvarnished truth?