Threading the Needle

by Marie Bostwick

  After three weeks of research, three weeks spent reading everything I could get my hands on about home repair, remodeling, innkeeping, and general business, taking a detailed inventory of the attic to decide what could be repaired and reused, what was beyond hope, and what might be sold to raise a bit of extra cash, checking out zoning restrictions and commercial building codes, rejecting my original idea of an eight-room inn as too expensive, then refiguring budgets for a five-room, and adding up projections for expenditures, cash flow, and profits, my business plan was done.

  Just before midnight I took a deep breath, punched the equal sign on my calculator, and whooped in triumph.

  $81,265.00! Yes! It was possible!

  If. If I was careful, efficient, imaginative, and just a little bit lucky, and if I did as much of the restoration and remodeling work myself as was possible, it could happen. But it was a risk. I’d be betting everything I had left in the bank on this one roll of the dice. But it was a risk I had to take, wanted to take.

  I stood next to the coffeepot, drumming my fingers on the counter-top, impatient for it to brew. I couldn’t wait to get started.

  The hardware store opens at seven-thirty on Saturday, so I went there first.

  As I read the list of tradesmen who I needed to hire, the manager, a bear of a man, handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard and wide muscular shoulders, the kind of man who looked like he’d spent a lot of time at the business end of a hammer (exactly the kind of man whom Sterling was not), looked me up and down in a way that made me uncomfortable.

  At the risk of sounding egotistical, I’m used to men looking me over like I was a piece of meat in a shop window, but this wasn’t that. I wouldn’t have thought twice about that. This man seemed to be studying me, searching me, and not just my body but my face, my expression, the inflection of my voice. It was strange. The fact that one of those searching brown eyes was made of glass might have had something to do with it, but it wasn’t only that. He kept looking at me like he knew me.

  Of course, since my outburst in the bank, I’d had the feeling that everyone was looking at me that way. It made me feel self-conscious.

  Why hadn’t I left my Prada handbag at home? My jeans and sweater were generic enough, but my bag screamed two things—“I am not from here” and “I have money to burn.” Not the message you want to send when you’re trying to negotiate the best price on a plumbing job.

  “Seems like a pretty big project you’ve got in mind here,” Grizzly Man said, tugging on his beard.

  “It is.”

  He nodded slowly and made a sucking sound with his teeth. “Why not hire a general contractor and let him deal with it? It’d make everything easier.”

  “And add fifteen percent to my budget.” I shook my head. “I’ve got to squeeze every cent I can out of this project and do as much of the work myself as possible. Sweat equity. You’re a businessman, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

  I looked at him straight on, intent and unblinking, letting him know that I was someone to be taken seriously.

  He gave his beard another tug. “All right, then. I’ll get you some business cards. There’s a lot of good guys out of work right now. You’ll have your pick.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and pulled a shopping list from the depths of my bag. “I’m also going to need prices on paint, primer, stain, varnish, brushes, sponges, and an electric sander.”

  “Sure thing.” He beckoned to one of his young clerks. “Just give your list to Matt. He’ll ring you up and carry everything out to your car for you.”

  “Oh. Thank you . . . but . . . that won’t be necessary,” I stammered, feeling like a complete idiot. “I’m not really planning on buying anything today. I just want to get prices. I need to check with a few suppliers. . . .”

  “You mean with the big box store?”

  He turned to a young clerk without waiting for my response. “Matt, go shelve those bags of water softener salt that came in this morning. I’ll take care of this customer.”

  Matt scooted off on his errand while I stood there, blushing and feeling like a kid who’d been caught telling a fib. When the clerk was gone, he turned to look at me.

  “Ms. Beecher . . .”

  “Madelyn.”

  “Madelyn,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. “I don’t want to make any assumptions, but I’ve got a feeling that you’ll need a fair amount of guidance to see you through this remodel. I don’t mind taking time to answer questions. We offer our customers a level of personal attention that the big box stores can’t compete with. On the other hand, I can’t compete with their prices. Not entirely.”

  He trained those big brown eyes, even the glass one, on me to see if I was catching his meaning. I was.

  “Now, since you’re planning on acting as your own contractor,” he continued, in a tone that was direct but not unkind, “I’m going to give you the same professional discount I’d give to any of the contractors here in town. If you do business with me, it’ll probably cost you one or two percent more than it would if you were buying from those other guys. But for that two percent, you’ll get the best customer service in the state and the peace of mind that comes from doing business with people in your community—the same people who will support you once you open your doors.”

  He smiled faintly. “As a businesswoman, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

  He’d seen right through me. I smiled back. I couldn’t help myself.

  “I’m starting to. As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve only been a businesswoman for something less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Everybody has to start somewhere,” he said without a trace of mockery. “If you’re willing to put in the work it takes to be your own contractor, it’s obvious you’re not afraid of hard work. That’s about half the battle right there.”

  “If you don’t have a lot of money to invest, you’ve got to replace it with something. In my case that means time—and elbow grease. And I used to have a kind of knack for scavenging, finding old things and fixing them up again. At least, I think I did. It’s been a long time since I’ve had occasion to test my skills, but I’m willing to try.

  “Speaking of that,” I said, “do you rent sanders for wooden floors? Beecher Cottage is full of them and they’re all in terrible shape. If I could do them myself, it would probably save me quite a lot.”

  He stared at me and frowned. I thought I’d said something wrong.

  “Wow. What they’re saying is true, isn’t it? You really are broke. That jerk hung you out to dry just like he did everybody else. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

  His words caught me by surprise. I’d known it wouldn’t take long before my presence in New Bern was generally known, but it annoyed me to know that speculation about my fortunes, or lack thereof, had become fodder of the gossip grapevine. I’d always hated this town, and now I remembered why.

  “Do you always make such personal observations about complete strangers?”

  The big man ducked his head.

  At least he has the good grace to feel embarrassed.

  “Pardon me. I was out of line. But, Madelyn, we do know each other. Can’t blame you for not recognizing me. I didn’t have the beard back then and I was about twenty pounds lighter. I can’t chase down a hockey puck the way I did back in high school. And, what with the missing eye, I know I look different, but I’d recognize you anywhere. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Hockey puck?

  I mentally shaved off the silver-flecked beard, looked more closely at his face, the remaining eye, the long, angular nose with that slight bump in the middle, a souvenir of the league championship game between New Bern and Litchfield, when he’d taken a hit so hard his helmet got knocked off and then he’d gone on to score the winning goal—broken nose and all.

  Jake Kaminski.

  My face felt hot.

  “Madelyn? Are you all right?”

  “I . .
. I’m fine. I . . . Late for an appointment. I just remembered.” I grabbed my handbag from the counter and started frantically searching for my car keys.

  That stupid bag. Why did I bring that big, expensive, stupid bag? I could never find anything in it.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Finally, my fingers felt metal. I yanked the keys out of my bag.

  “No, no,” I said quickly, blinking as I walked. “I’m not upset. Just late. Thanks for your help. I’ll be back . . . another day,” I lied, gave him a short, hollow smile, and then lied again.

  “It was nice to see you again, Jake.”

  20

  Madelyn

  My hands were shaking so hard it was a struggle to fit the key into the ignition. I backed out of the parking space quickly, without bothering to check my mirrors, and came six inches from getting my bumper hit by a beat-up green and white pickup truck. The driver slammed on his brakes and his horn. I lifted my hand in a limp apology and drove away as quickly as possible, taking a right out of the parking lot because it was easier and ending up downtown because I didn’t know where else to go.

  There was an empty parking spot in front of the Blue Bean Coffee Shop and Bakery, so I pulled in and turned off the ignition. I sat there for a moment, with my elbows resting on the steering wheel and my head buried in my hands.

  I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.

  His words echoed in my brain and summoned up a fresh threat of tears. Why? It wasn’t like I hadn’t thought the same thing a hundred times, a thousand. I’d been feeling sorry for myself for a long time, even before I’d met Sterling. Why should hearing the same thing from Jake Kaminski make my hands shake and bring me to the edge of tears?

  Because Jake Kaminski knows you. He knows everything.

  I took in a breath and let it out, steadying myself, and shushed the voice in my head. I didn’t have time for this. Not now.

  I lifted my head and looked at myself in the rearview mirror. “Enough,” I said aloud, wiping a smear of mascara from under my eyelashes. “Get hold of yourself. You look like fifty miles of bad road.”

  I hadn’t had anything besides coffee and my stomach was growling, whether from hunger or distress I wasn’t sure, but I decided to get something to eat.

  I reached over to the passenger side to get my purse from the seat, spotted the big shopping bag with the quilts inside on the floor, and decided to bring it along. The quilt shop was just down the block from the Blue Bean. After I ate, I could walk over and look up that Margaret person, see if she thought the quilts were worth trying to save.

  The Blue Bean is really more of a café than a bakery, though they do offer delicious, homemade cookies, muffins, scones, and rolls. I was famished. I ordered a small brewed coffee with cream and a raspberry scone.

  It was Saturday morning and the café was full. I spotted a couple getting up to leave and sat down, putting the bag with the quilts on the floor next to me. The previous occupants had left their newspaper, so I took a pen from my purse and started reading the classified listings for auctions and estate sales, circling any that seemed promising.

  My coffee cup was about half empty when I heard a giggle and a woman’s voice say, “Oh, look who’s here! Madelyn, right? I’m Margot. We met at the grocery store. Remember?”

  I looked up from my newspaper into the pretty, beaming face of a tall woman with blond hair and eyes the color of sapphires. Margot. Not Margaret. Now I remembered.

  “What a coincidence. I was planning on coming to the quilt shop to see you.”

  “Really?” she said with a giggle, not a self-conscious giggle but a delighted one, as if she was genuinely pleased that I’d wanted to look her up. I couldn’t think why she would be; we barely knew each other. What a strange woman.

  “Well, it looks like I saved you a trip. I’m here to have breakfast with a friend, but it’s so crowded! Would you mind a little company?”

  Without waiting for me to answer, she pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, then called to her friend, who stood with her back to us, scanning the room for two empty seats. Margot motioned for her to come join us and started making introductions. She could have saved herself the trouble. The moment the woman turned around, I knew who she was.

  Though I hadn’t laid eyes on her in more than thirty years, I could still pick Tessa Kover’s face out of a crowd.

  21

  Tessa

  The night before, Friday, as we were leaving the quilt shop after my first night as a member of the Cobbled Court Quilt Circle (and a great night it had been, too! I’d already sewn my very first quilt block and couldn’t wait to get started on the others!), Margot suggested we get together for breakfast the next day.

  “It’ll be fun!” she exclaimed. “We can talk about quilts and you can tell me the story of your life. Now that we’re in the same quilt circle, I need to know absolutely everything about you!”

  Of course, Margot was teasing. I’d never planned on telling her much about my past. Not so soon. Not until I turned around and saw Madelyn Beecher, and Madelyn Beecher looked up and saw me, then ran out the door of the Blue Bean without saying a word.

  Margot laid her hand on her chest and blinked back a sheen of tears. “Oh, Tessa,” she whispered. “Tessa, that is just so sad. Poor thing.”

  “I know. I don’t blame Madelyn for bolting. We were friends, true friends. I wish I’d realized back then how rare real friendship is.”

  I picked up my fork and moved my eggs from one side of the plate to the other. I’d lost my appetite.

  “I just tossed her over. For what? The approval of a boy with wandering hands and bad breath? A bunch of cliquey girls? Sure, Madelyn was a little weird, but at twelve, who isn’t? She didn’t deserve to be treated like that. No one does, especially somebody whose only crime was trying a little too hard to be a friend. There are worse things, believe me.”

  I laughed at my own stupidity. “Do you know how many times my old so-called friends from work have called me since I moved?” I held up two fingers. “That’s it. And both of them phoned within the first three weeks after I left—and then only in response to the e-mail with my new contact information. I sent it out to about thirty people, my thirty ‘closest’ friends. Two called me. That’s all.”

  “Do you ever phone them?” Margot asked.

  “I did for a while. Not anymore.”

  I bit my lip, wondering how much to share. This was just supposed to be a casual get-together for coffee and conversation, nothing more. I didn’t want to scare her off by unloading my whole life story. Yet she didn’t seem to mind. And I needed to talk.

  “It must be hard,” Margot said. “You’ve had a lot of changes in a short period of time, haven’t you? New home, new business . . .”

  “Two new businesses,” I corrected. “For the Love of Lavender, plus the farm. Neither is thriving. Could we have picked a worse time to give up two steady but staid jobs and go into business for ourselves? Could our lives get any more complicated?”

  I took another sip of coffee and thought better of what I’d said. “Don’t listen to me. It’s not like we’re the only ones with financial problems. It could have been worse,” I said with a wry smile. “We could have invested our money with Madelyn’s husband.”

  Margot frowned, her expression still concerned. “Pity on the people who did. I just can’t believe she’s married to that terrible man. She has such a nice face.”

  “After she left New Bern, I guess she started hanging out with the wrong crowd.”

  Margot nodded. “I’ll say.”

  “But don’t blame Madelyn for any of that. There’s no way she knew what he was up to,” I said emphatically.

  “How do you know that?”

  “She was cleared of everything in the investigation. If they could have pinned anything on her, I’m sure they would have. But it’s more than that. Madelyn is . . . well, she’s just not capable of something that lo
w.”

  I couldn’t explain it to Margot, but some things you just know. Some things don’t change. Madelyn was the one who raced across the snow, swinging her book bag over her head, prepared to beat the stuffing out of the boy she thought was attacking me. She was the one who threatened to pound anybody who said anything bad about me. Madelyn had guts. And character. And for a long time, she’d been my friend.

  “Did you see her face when she saw me?” I asked. “Like a stone. If she never saw me again, I’m sure it’d be too soon.”

  Margot was listening intently, her head bobbing slowly, but when I stopped to take a breath she said, “That is sad, but that’s not what I meant. I was talking about you. I’m sad for you. You’ve been carrying this around for all these years, haven’t you?”

  That pulled me up short. Sympathy was the last thing I expected, or deserved. I turned my head away and looked at the wall.

  “You don’t understand. I was so awful to her, so often. Not overtly, not the way I was that day in the snow, but over and over again, year after year.

  “After I ended our friendship, she changed. Not in a good way. She started getting involved in all kinds of self-destructive behavior—cigarettes, alcohol, boys. Especially boys. She collected them like merit badges—trinkets she pinned to her chest to prove that she was . . . well, I don’t know what she was trying to prove. Maybe that she was worth something to somebody?

  “Teenage girls are always falling in and out of love, but this wasn’t that. She didn’t care about those boys. She tossed them aside as fast as she gathered them up. There was something frantic about her, like she was hoarding hearts. But those boys didn’t love her any more than she loved them. They used her and she let them. I don’t think anybody loved Madelyn—not ever. Her mother never wanted her, her father died when she was just little, and her grandmother was awful to her, cruel. Abusive, even.

  “When I went outside, sometimes I could hear Edna screaming at her. Once, I looked out my window and saw Madelyn’s stuff thrown out on the front lawn. Edna was out there, slapping her over and over again, and Madelyn was just standing there, taking it. Like she was used to it....