Franklin reached out his hand and patted Tina affectionately on the head. “Don’tcha, girl?”
“Where is Abigail?” I asked. “She called me about ten times yesterday, reminding me to be here by ten. We’re here. So where did she run off to?”
“Don’t know,” Franklin said. “She was up before the sun, making lists and mumbling to herself, and she left right after breakfast. She said she had to get things ready before the bridal shower.”
“What kind of things? Margot and Evelyn are hosting the shower. What would Abigail have to do with it?”
Franklin held up his hands and heaved a sigh. “I don’t know, Liza, and these days, I’ve found it’s better not to ask. Say the least little thing to her and she flies off the handle. Nothing personal, Liza, but I’ll be very glad when this wedding is over.”
That makes two of us.
“Anyway”—he smiled, remembering his duties as host—“you’re all here and that’s what matters. Come on upstairs, ladies. I’ll show you to your rooms. Come on, Tina. Let’s show the girls where they’ll be staying.”
After everyone was settled in, Franklin gave the girls a tour of the house, including a peek into Abigail’s dressing room, which is about half the size of our apartment. Needless to say, they were impressed and more than a little jealous.
After that, we still had some time to kill. It was chilly outside, but when Franklin informed us that the hot tub was heated to a delicious one hundred and two degrees, the girls ran upstairs to change into the swimsuits they hadn’t thought they’d be able to use before they got to Acapulco.
The bluestone patio was cold on our bare feet as we ran outside, but the hot water felt great. Franklin brought out a tray with a bottle of champagne and four glasses, which he filled and handed to each of us.
“Thanks!” Zoe said, sipping her champagne and grinning at Franklin. “Sure you don’t want to join us? There’s plenty of room.”
“Thank you, but no. I’ve got work to do. But if you girls need anything, just yell. I’ll be upstairs in my office, going over some contracts for my most important client.”
“And that would be?” I said, feigning concentration. “Wait, don’t tell me…Aunt Abigail?”
Franklin smiled and turned to leave with Tina following close on his heels. “You girls have fun. I’ll see you later.”
“Oh, he’s a doll!” Zoe said after Franklin left.
“Yeah,” I said. “Franklin’s great. He’s the best lawyer in the county. That’s how he met Aunt Abigail. He’s been her lawyer since way before I was born, but they didn’t realize they were in love until a couple of years ago. Then Franklin had a heart attack. Abigail was with him every minute, never left his side. One night, when he was feeling really bad and they both thought it was the end, he asked Abigail to marry him and she said yes. They called for the hospital chaplain to perform the ceremony and that was that. But the second it was over, Franklin suddenly felt much better.” I laughed.
“You should have seen Abigail! When she realized that Franklin was fine and that she’d missed her chance at having a big wedding, she was ticked! She was sure the whole thing had been a ruse, that Franklin had faked his symptoms just to get her to marry him!”
Zoe made a wry face. “Well, yeah. Of course she did, especially since he did.”
“Zoe!” Janelle exclaimed, splashing a little water in her direction.
Zoe rolled her eyes and took a swig of champagne. “Sorry if the truth bothers you, but get real. I mean, look at this place!”
Holding her empty champagne glass, Zoe swept her arm through the air, taking in the pool, pool house, and manicured English gardens, as well as the back wall of Abigail and Franklin’s beautiful new home, before reaching over to grab the open champagne bottle that Franklin had left on the side of the tub and refilling her glass.
“You can’t blame poor old Franklin. If I could get myself lifelong membership to this little country club, I’d fake a heart attack too.”
“Franklin did not fake a heart attack,” I snapped. “Don’t be so stupid, Zoe. You can’t fake a heart attack. The hospital has machines that can tell that.”
“Oh? Well then, how do you explain why old Franklin felt so much better as soon as your aunt Abigail said, ‘I do’? Hmm?”
“Because,” I said testily, “Franklin had terrible indigestion, but he didn’t realize it. He thought he was having another attack. As soon as the ceremony was over he had this enormous gas attack and felt much better.”
Janelle giggled.
“It’s true,” I said. “Abigail told me all about it. Right after the minister pronounced them man and wife, Franklin just let one rip! Pretty much cleared the room. The minister suddenly remembered he had an appointment, shook hands with them, and ran out holding his breath.” I laughed. “But Franklin felt much better.”
Kerry shook her head, smiling. “Wasn’t exactly a dream wedding, was it?”
“No, but Abigail got over it. They’re just as married as if they’d held the ceremony in St. Paul’s Cathedral. That’s what counts. That’s what they both wanted.”
“Yeah,” Zoe said. “It’s just too bad that poor old Franklin is so unhappy now.”
She shook her head before lifting her glass to her lips and draining it to the halfway mark.
“Oh, knock it off, Zoe. Franklin is not unhappy. They might be going through a rough spot. Abigail is acting a little whacked right now, but once the wedding is over, everything will be fine. Franklin loves Abigail.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” she said mockingly. “Or at least he did. Look at him, Liza. The man is completely miserable. And henpecked. He might be the best lawyer in the county, but at the end of the day he’s still your aunt’s employee. I’m sure he makes a pretty good living, but it can’t be enough to pay for all this, can it? And what money he does make is all because of her. You said it yourself, Liza. Your aunt Abigail is poor old Franklin’s biggest client.”
“So what? So what if she is? What difference does that make? And quit calling him ‘poor old Franklin.’ You make him sound like some sort of charity case.”
“I’m just saying that he’s probably feeling a little emasculated, that’s all. Before, he was an important man, the best lawyer in the county. Probably everybody looked up to him. Now he’s just your aunt Abigail’s husband, playing second fiddle to a rich and powerful woman. I mean, look at him today. Your aunt flies off in a huff….”
“He didn’t say she left in a huff,” I protested.
“Maybe not, but I bet she did. Anyway, off she goes, doesn’t tell him where she’s going or when she’ll be back, and leaves him behind to play bellhop and waiter to a bunch of college girls. The man’s unhappy. Why wouldn’t he be? He used to be somebody. Then he got married and became your aunt Abigail’s boy toy. And the way things are looking, he’s about to be demoted to houseboy.” Zoe belched and then gave me a triumphant, challenging look.
“Shut up, Zoe. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Janelle, who was usually the last one to give her opinion, eyed me nervously. “Zoe does have a point, Liza. A lot of men, older men especially, don’t like it if their wives are more powerful than they are.”
Kerry nodded. “Not just older men. My sister Cheryl married her high school sweetheart, James. He was a machinist and made pretty good money, but they wanted to be able to buy a house, so Cheryl got a job selling real estate. She turned out to be really good at it. Before too long she was making twice as much as James. Next thing you know, he filed for divorce. He said it was because she was working so many nights and weekends, and that she never had time for him. But Cheryl said it was because he didn’t like it that she made more money than he did. And he really didn’t like it when she suggested that he start doing the laundry since she was working more hours than he was.”
“My point ’zactly,” Zoe said, slurring her words a little. “Men are all a bunch of knuckle-dragging Neanderthals wh
o want to go out and bring home the bacon while the little woman stays at home, waiting to cook it. Men,” she said emphatically, “are jerks.”
Zoe put her glass to her lips and lifted it high, finishing the last of her champagne.
“By the way, have you told Garrett about your new job offer? Wonder how he’s going to feel about having to give up his business to follow you to Chicago so he can sit alone in an empty apartment with his computer for company while you’re going to work all day and school all night. Don’t think he’ll be too wild about that idea, do you?”
“Zoe!” Janelle exclaimed, reaching over to take Zoe’s glass before she could refill it.
Kerry looked at me sympathetically. “Don’t listen to her, Liza. She’s just had too much to drink.”
“That’s right,” Zoe said with a wave of her hand. “Don’t listen to me. Nobody should ever listen to me.”
I’d had enough. I stood up in the water and reached for a towel.
“Liza, don’t go!” Janelle urged. “Sit back down. Don’t be mad.”
“Come on,” Kerry said. “Stay. We’re supposed to be celebrating. Zoe didn’t mean anything by it. Did you, Zoe?”
Zoe didn’t say anything, just shook her head and then sank under the water, blowing bubbles as she went.
“It’s too hot in here,” I said, wrapping the towel around my wet shoulders and resting my behind on the edge of the tub. “I’m going to get dressed and run over to the quilt shop a little early, see if Evelyn needs any help. You remember where it is, right? Just two blocks up the street, then take a left.”
They nodded.
“I’ll meet you there. Don’t be late. And don’t let Zoe have any more champagne.” I looked down at the fountain of bubbles as they broke the surface of the water. “A drunken bridesmaid. Just what I need.”
“Don’t be mad at her,” Janelle whispered, apparently afraid that, even underwater, Zoe might be able to hear. “She’s pretty upset. Her mother sent an e-mail last night. Apparently the latest stepfather is having an affair, but that’s all right because her mom has already met potential husband number five, the next in the series of men Zoe’s mom is prepared to wed until death do them part.”
Kerry reached down into the water and pulled up a sputtering Zoe. “Come on. You can’t stay down there forever.”
Zoe wiped her hand across her face, pushed her mop of wet hair from her eyes, and looked at me, blinking away tears and chlorine.
“I’m sorry, Liza,” she mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that I…”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
I swung my legs over the edge of the hot tub and jogged across the patio and into the house, the cold from the bluestones penetrating my bare feet and making me shiver.
21
Liza Burgess
March in New England is pretty ugly.
The snow has mostly melted, exposing muddy swatches of soggy earth and streets littered with gray, gritty sand. As I walked down the street from Aunt Abigail’s house to the quilt shop, the whole landscape was sober and sodden and tired, as if Mother Nature was suffering from a painful hangover. The scene matched my mood perfectly.
I thought about Zoe and Zoe’s mother and her four husbands—soon to be five. Five husbands? How does a thing like that happen? How does a woman let that happen?
If I get married—I mean, when I get married—to Garrett, I’m doing it once. And making it last. Forever. If I can. If I have anything to say about it.
Will I have anything to say about it?
I’ve been away from New Bern for too long, and I’m so worn out. It’ll be good to spend a whole week at home, just relaxing and hanging out with Garrett. It’s crazy, but we’ve probably seen each other less since we got engaged than we did when we were dating. Maybe, by the time I go back to school, I’ll be feeling calmer about everything.
I turned the corner into Cobbled Court, so named because of the cobblestones paving the wide courtyard and the narrow alleys that lead to it. It’s a funny little corner, and because of its tucked-away location, it’s not exactly the greatest place to put a retail business. But I can see why Evelyn fell in love with it. There’s just something magical about this little courtyard with its old-fashioned cobbles. It’s like a secret walled garden, hidden away from the worries of the world. At least, that’s the way it seems to me. The minute I enter it, problems wither and drop away like leaves in autumn, spent and weightless, ready to be swept away by a passing gust of wind.
And today, the sensation was even stronger. The moment I turned the corner, I started to laugh.
Each of the four corners of the courtyard was “planted” with enormous daisies—bright green stems constructed from columns of twisted balloons, each topped by a daisy blossom made from six big white balloon “petals” surrounding a yellow balloon center. But that wasn’t all. The painted front door of Cobbled Court Quilts was topped by an enormous balloon arch with more daisies evenly spaced along an expanse of long, lighter green balloons, twisted into crazy shapes to simulate leaves and vines.
The whole effect was whimsical, lighthearted, and absolutely perfect. It must have taken hours for Evelyn and Margot to create this balloon garden entrance to my bridal shower. I couldn’t believe that they’d gone to so much trouble for me.
As I approached the door, I saw a sign saying…
Dear Quilters,
The Cobbled Court Quilt Shop will be closed today as we celebrate the upcoming nuptials of our own Liza Burgess. If you’re here for the bridal shower, come on in! If you’re here to purchase fabric, notions, or browse, please know that we’ll resume our regular operating schedule tomorrow.
Thank you!
I went inside.
Someone had pushed back the center shelving units to make room for tables covered with hot pink tablecloths and spring green napkins with handmade napkin rings—daisies, of course, to match the clear vases brimming with fresh-cut daisies sitting in the middle of each table. I smiled, knowing that Margot had chosen the palette—pink and green are her favorite colors.
The daisy theme had been carried in from the courtyard to the shop, where more giant balloon daisies sat in the corners of the room, these with stems slightly bent, as if they were leaning down to hear some interesting gossip. Once the guests arrived there would probably be plenty of gossip worth hearing.
How many people were they expecting? I’d have figured maybe twenty people would want to come to my shower—twenty-five, tops. But the tables were set for twice that number. Speaking of guests, where was everybody?
I called for Evelyn and Margot. No one answered. I heard footsteps overhead and decided to go upstairs.
Walking toward the stairs, I passed the refreshment table. An empty crystal punch bowl sat in the middle of the table, waiting to be filled with whatever fizzy concoction had been chosen for the guests. If Margot had anything to say about it, I was sure it wasn’t just fizzy but pink and fizzy. Crystal tiered trays flanked the punch bowl. They were loaded with dozens of individually decorated daisy cupcakes, with white icing petals and green icing leaves radiating from the yellow sugar center of each cupcake.
Seeing them, each one carefully and painstakingly decorated, stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t had cupcakes since before Mom died.
Since it was just the two of us and since we couldn’t afford big parties, every year my mom baked a batch of special cupcakes on my birthday. We’d eat two ourselves, mine with a candle on the top for me to blow out after Mom finished singing “Happy Birthday, Dear Liza”—always way off-key—and the next day I’d take the leftover cupcakes to school to share with my classmates.
Mom would decorate the cupcakes herself, according to whatever I was “into” at the time. I remembered the blue Cookie Monster cupcakes during my Sesame Street phase, which was followed by smiling blondes with long, flowing tresses during my Barbie phase, and black stallions with long, flowing manes during my horse-c
razy phase.
Later, when I got older and angrier, it became harder for Mom to find themes for my cupcakes, but she never gave up. The last cupcakes she made for my birthday, before she got sick, were decorated with red frosting topped by the Metallica logo, my band of the moment, in black lightning-bolt lettering. At sixteen I was embarrassed to have anyone know that my mom still made me cupcakes on my birthday, so I’d tossed them in the Dumpster on my way to school.
I wish I’d known those would be the last cupcakes she’d ever make for me. If I had, I’d have crawled back into that Dumpster, pulled out every cupcake, and carried them through the front door of my high school shouting, “My mother, Susan Burgess, the best mother on the face of the planet, baked these for me!”
But it’s too late for that. You only get do-overs in games of schoolyard dodgeball or hopscotch. They don’t count in real life. Real life you’ve got to get right the first time because you never know—the first time could be the only time, or the last time. Real life doesn’t leave room for mistakes.
With that in mind, I climbed the stairs, hoping to find Evelyn and Margot and tell them—before the guests arrived and we were surrounded by noise and confusion—how much I appreciated everything they’d done. Not just for the shower, and the decorations, and the cupcakes, but everything—for putting up with me and my moods, for making me feel wanted and loved, for being my friends. I don’t deserve them.
When I pushed on the door to the workroom, I was surprised to catch a glimpse of not only Margot and Evelyn—the official hostesses—but Ivy, Grandma Virginia, and Garrett. And all of them, Garrett included, were sitting in a circle with sewing needles pinched between their fingers and holding the edge of a quilt, hurriedly stitching on the binding. It was a big quilt, queen-sized at least, with some beautiful colors and black in the border to make them pop, but I couldn’t see the rest of it because Garrett’s and Evelyn’s backs were to me, blocking my view.
A Thread So Thin Page 19
