Threading the Needle

by Marie Bostwick

  I walked out onto the porch to wave good-bye. “Thank you again for the quilts,” I called. “I just love them!”

  “It was our pleasure,” Evelyn called as she and Margot crossed the street and walked toward town.

  Something in her voice maybe, or perhaps the spring in her step, gave me the idea that she was telling the absolute truth.

  As soon as they left, I went back to work. I’d stayed up half the night sewing the curtains. The only thing left to stitch was the hems. Evelyn’s machine was faster, but I decided to do those final seams on the old foot treadle machine I’d found in the attic. Something about that just felt right to me.

  When the hems were sewn and the curtains ironed, I carried them upstairs along with piles of freshly laundered sheets and stacks of quilts.

  My reservation book was all but empty. Who knew how long it would be before some of these rooms were occupied? Yet I felt the need to make up every single room just to prove that I really was open for business.

  I hung up curtains in each room and made up the beds. The new lily quilts looked like they’d been made for Room Three, which, I reminded myself with a smile, they had. I hung a set of big fluffy white towels in each bath and set out little baskets of miniature For the Love of Lavender soaps, shampoos, and lotions on the counters. Tessa had ordered the tiny bottles just for me. I liked the idea of using locally made bath amenities for my guests. Those little touches make all the difference.

  As four o’clock approached I had only Room Two to finish. It was not my biggest or most elegant room, but it was my favorite. It had new paint, new wallpaper, new light fixtures, a new bath, new everything. Of all the rooms in the house, Room Two had undergone the most complete transformation. It was my room. It had been my room, when I was a girl. I saved it for last.

  Sitting at the front of the house, it had a big bay window that let in plenty of light. I’d added a built-in bench beneath the window and topped it with an upholstered cushion. It made a lovely spot to sit with a book or look out at the garden and the bushes heaped with snow like thickly frosted cakes.

  I took off my shoes and stood on the window seat to hang the curtains, then climbed down and stood back to admire the effect. The white eyelet curtains looked fresh and pretty against the yellow walls. The buttercup cotton lining peeping through the eyelet openings pulled the whole room together, making it look cheery and warm even on this cold winter day. And if that didn’t do the trick, there was a stack of dry wood and kindling standing at the ready in the recently reopened fireplace. I pulled the blue wingback chair nearer the fireplace and put a basket filled with magazines next to the chair. With the fire blazing, filling the room with the light and warmth it lacked in former days, this would be a cozy haven.

  After making up the bed—that beautiful brass and mother-of-pearl bed I’d found up in the attic—with fresh sheets and fluffing the pillows, I added the final touch, the quilt. The clean white background fabric and blue double-chain pattern added just the right touch to the room, giving it a fresh and forward-facing look with a nod of appreciation to the past, just as I had intended.

  The quilt was beautiful but, to me, it was more than that. It was a touchstone, a reminder of the person I once had been, an invitation to gather up the best of myself and carry it forward, to pass through the slender door, a difficult feat, but not an impossible one. It was a symbol of restoration, of work in progress.

  No one who would stay in this room, no one who knew me, not even Tessa, who had restored the quilt and our friendship, would fully understand that symbol, but it didn’t matter. It was a beautiful room now, a place of rest and respite. I hoped that everyone who stayed here would find both.

  When the doorbell rang the second time, I was ready.

  Even with her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, and her body swollen by pregnancy, she was still beautiful. But when she pulled off her glasses and I saw the hard, bitter edge in her eyes, I knew things had changed. Angela Radnovich was no longer young. She didn’t believe in fairy tales and happy endings, not anymore.

  After finishing the chicken sandwich, bowl of vegetable soup, and glass of milk I served for dinner, Angela said she was tired and went upstairs to her room. I washed up the dishes, put the leftover soup in the refrigerator, and followed shortly after. Passing by her room, I heard crying. I came very close to knocking, but thought better of it. She was entitled to her tears.

  I couldn’t wave a wand and make it all better. I couldn’t remove the sting of her husband’s betrayal, or the shame of having it played out in public, but I could give her a good meal, a soft bed, a private place to cry and, when tears were spent, mentally prepare her to greet the little life that she carried inside her and face her future as a single mother. Before continuing down the hall to my own room, I paused to lay my hand flat on Angela’s door and silently wish her well.

  It had been a long day and I was grateful for my bed, but when I turned out the light, I couldn’t sleep. My body was tired, but my brain was working overtime.

  I kept thinking about what Evelyn had said about Beecher Cottage and what it might mean to the town if I could make a go of it—more tourists, more shoppers, more business, more jobs. I only had five rooms to rent, but in a town the size of New Bern, five rooms filled with tourists ready to shop and eat and spend a little money could make a big difference.

  If I was a success. If.

  I wanted success; I had from the first. But now I wanted it in a different way, not just for myself.

  I wanted it for the town and the people who had welcomed me. For Tessa and Jake and Lee and Evelyn, and all the other merchants in town. For Margot, Virginia, and Ivy, and all the people who worked for them. For the high school kids who needed summer jobs, for the lady at the bakery who looked so tired and told me she was working two jobs since her husband lost his.

  I wanted it for Angela and everyone like her, people who needed a peaceful place to recharge their batteries and remember that life was still good, just like I’d told Jake that day at the restaurant. It wasn’t all that much, I knew. It wasn’t a cure for cancer or the solution to peace in the Middle East, but it wasn’t nothing either. For the first time in my life, I might actually be able to help people.

  Lying in the dark, my eyes staring up into a chasm of black, I felt a tightness in my chest, like a hand clamped around my heart.

  This is what it’s like to be a part of something, of someplace. This is what it’s like to care. I never knew.

  40

  Tessa

  February

  The holiday season had put us in the black for the year, but barely. As I sat next to Lee at the kitchen table after dinner to go over the books, I could see the writing on the wall. The Christmas bump was over. Sales in January were even slower than the year before.

  And so I faced a choice: soldier on through the winter in hopes that the spring tourist season would lift our sales and max out my credit line in the process, incurring more debt at sixteen percent interest, or cut bait now, slash the prices on my remaining inventory, use the proceeds and that slim border of black ink to pay off my creditors, then lock the doors and walk away.

  There really wasn’t a choice, but to help me save face, Lee pretended there was.

  “Babe, if you want to keep going, then we’ll just figure out a way to do it. Things’ll work out somehow.”

  He said it with such conviction that for a moment, I almost believed it was possible. I certainly wanted it to be. But no amount of wishful thinking could trump the cold reality of my balance sheet. As far as For the Love of Lavender was concerned, I’d reached a dead end. It was sad. I was sad. But it could have been worse.

  That holiday sales spike would allow me to pay off my creditors; I would walk away minus the capital we’d invested in the shop but also minus any additional debt—no small thing. And Josh had called the week before to say that Professor Kleypas had chosen him as one of his three summ
er research assistants. The experience would be a great addition to his résumé and pay enough to cover his tuition for the fall semester. We were so proud—and more than a little relieved. I didn’t know what we’d do about tuition for the second semester, but I supposed we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. As my morning devotional recently reminded me, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

  Each day has trouble enough of its own. You don’t have to be a theologian to know that’s true. But a thing may be as true as death and taxes and still be hard to put into practice. I’m a world-class worrier. I always have been.

  But it was good to know that at least where Josh was concerned, our worries had been put to rest for the next few months. We were very fortunate. The only downside was that we’d be deprived of Josh’s company for the summer and Lee would be deprived of his best farmhand just when he needed him most. But if I wasn’t working in the shop every day, I’d be available to help in the fields. I’m not as strong as Josh, but I’m capable.

  Lee really was going to need an extra hand this summer. His microgreen business has taken off. The farm brings in enough to cover about three-fourths of our most basic bills without having to dip deeper into our savings. We still can’t afford to eat in restaurants, or go on vacation, or buy medical insurance, but we’re paying the mortgage, the utilities, the taxes—the bare necessities.

  And things are looking up for the summer growing season too. Seven of Lee’s thirteen restaurant customers have already said they want him to supply their summer produce, including greens, vegetables, eggs, and some of my fresh herbs. And they’ve been willing to sign contracts for minimum orders between May and October to ensure that they are first in line for Lee’s produce. It’s a win for everyone. The restaurateurs get the pick of the field at a good price and we get a guaranteed minimum income. With that in hand, Lee thinks we can refinance our mortgage and save almost four hundred dollars a month. There isn’t much I like about this economy, but I’ve never seen mortgage interest rates so low. If we can get that refinancing, we’ll benefit for years to come.

  And so, there it was . . . I’d been granted a tiny opening, a brief window of opportunity in which I could walk away from the business without burdening myself and my family under a mountain of debt and, with hard work and a little luck, earn enough to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads. And, as my mother always used to say, “Enough is as good as a feast.”

  Even so . . .

  I pushed the pile of papers to the other side of the table. “Enough,” I said. “Time to admit defeat. I have to close the store while we’re still more or less whole.”

  I got up to clear the table, but Lee leaned forward in his chair, looped his arm around my waist, and pulled me down onto his lap. “Hey. Who’s been defeated? Not you. Not ever.”

  “Not until now.” I draped my arm over his shoulders and leaned my head against his. “That’s what’s so hard about this. Not losing the business as much as losing. The business stopped being fun months ago. Now that I’ve made the decision, it’s honestly kind of a relief. But this is the first time I’ve ever really failed at anything. And it’s harder to take because it’s also the first time I’ve ever really taken a big risk. Maybe that’s the lesson in all this: Stick to what you know, color inside the lines.”

  I sat up straighter and sighed. “Nothing has worked out like I thought it would.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lee scoffed. “When you and I started talking about all this we said we wanted to live in a real community; we wanted to escape the cubicle prison, work for ourselves, preferably outdoors and with our hands, and spend more time together.” As he talked, Lee held up a fist, raising one digit for each item on our long-ago wish list until all five fingers were raised.

  “We’ve gotten everything we asked for. And I know it’s probably selfish of me, but I’m kind of happy that we’ll be working together this summer. And this last item,” he said as he wiggled his little finger. “The part about spending more time together? I meant that. There is no one I’d rather wake up next to, work alongside, and lie down at night with than you, Tessa. I love you, babe. And if I live to be one hundred and ten, there won’t be enough hours in the day for us to be together.”

  I kissed him lightly on the lips. “Back at you, Mr. Woodruff.”

  I got to my feet and resumed clearing the table, but Lee stopped me again, taking the salad plates from my hands.

  “It’s Friday. You’re supposed to be at the quilt shop. Remember?”

  “Oh, I don’t feel like going—not tonight. I need to start working out a plan to close the shop. We’re going to need to pick a day, notify our accounts, pay off the last of the bills, see about ads and sign-age for a going-out-of-business sale, find a liquidator to buy the display units and fixtures.... Do you have a pen and paper? I’m going to start making lists.”

  “Uh-uh,” he said, pushing me away from the table. “Nothing doing. All that can wait. Right now, you need to go to the quilt shop and see your friends. You’ll feel better if you do. You know I’m right.”

  “But you said you couldn’t get enough of spending time with me.”

  “True,” he replied, reaching over to pick up my car keys from the kitchen counter. “And while you’re off making your quilts, seeing your friends, and finding your smile, I’ll be counting the minutes until your return.”

  He slapped the keys into my palm with a smile. “Go!”

  41

  Tessa

  One of the things I like about quilting is that if you make a mistake or decide that the block you were working on didn’t turn out as well as you’d hoped, you can just rip out the seam and try again. Margot calls it “unsewing.”

  Wouldn’t it be nice if all of life were like that?

  Lee told me to forget about the store for the moment and just to go out and enjoy myself. It’s good advice. But I don’t want to enjoy myself. I want to sit around and mentally unsew all the mistakes I made since arriving in New Bern while eating a whole bag of kettle-cooked potato chips and a quart of chocolate ice cream.

  That’s probably reason enough to stick to my routine. Things are bad enough without adding any extra inches to my backside.

  However, if I wanted to avoid calorie-packed temptation, Cobbled Court Quilts was the last place I should have headed. Now that the inn is open and running, Madelyn has become our “Louise,” keeping us well supplied with her home-baked goodies. Though she never sews a stitch, Madelyn makes her presence known, passing plates, filling glasses, offering ideas on fabric combinations and possibilities for embellishing the quilts in progress. She really knows how to work a room, a skill I suppose she picked up during her years as a socialite. And yet, this doesn’t feel like that. There is nothing manipulative or obligatory in the way Madelyn interacts with the other women; she just really enjoys their company.

  And the feeling is mutual. On those few nights when Madelyn can’t attend because she has guests at the inn, she is definitely missed. Of course, it would probably be better for Madelyn if she had to skip quilt circle night more frequently. It’s early days yet, but I’m worried about her business—or lack thereof. It must be scary trying to do all this on her own.

  What would I do without Lee? Sorry as I’m feeling for myself right now, I know how lucky I am to have him.

  By the time I arrived at the shop, Margot, Virginia, and Abigail were already sitting at their sewing machines, their work spaces strewn with a multicolored and messy collage of fabrics measured out in yards, patches, and scraps. Evelyn, Ivy, and Madelyn stood clustered around a television set that someone had set up near the refreshment table, laughing as they watched a video of Mary Dell Templeton, the host of Quintessential Quilting and Evelyn’s old friend from her old life back in Texas.

  Madelyn and I are the only members of the group who haven’t met Mary Dell. She filmed an episode of her show here at the
quilt shop a couple of years ago and was a big hit with the locals. People are still talking about it. Since we don’t have cable, I’ve never seen the show, but Evelyn had promised to tape the most recent program for me.

  After saying hello to everyone, I went to join Madelyn near the television. “Look who’s here!” she exclaimed before turning to the refreshment table. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming. Good thing you showed. I brought your favorite.”

  “Brownies? Yes!”

  Madelyn smiled as she drew a knife across the already half-empty baking pan and began cutting the remaining brownies into tidy squares.

  Of course, everybody likes brownies and just about everybody makes them, but nobody makes brownies like Madelyn. I don’t know what she puts in them, but she’s got some kind of secret ingredient that makes these brownies far more irresistible than is usual or reasonable. I’ve had dreams about these things. No kidding.

  While Madelyn fussed with the food, I turned to look at the television.

  Mary Dell was just as everyone described her, blond and brash and big, not in person so much as in personality. She had big hair, big earrings, and a big, bold smile to match. Next to Mary Dell sat her son and cohost, Howard. Howard, who has Down syndrome, is in his early twenties.

  Evelyn explained that Howard chooses all the fabrics for Mary Dell’s quilts because he has all the color sense in the Templeton family—all. And as I caught a glimpse of the neon orange pants that Mary Dell was wearing, I could see what she meant.

  “Oh my gosh!” Evelyn laughed and pointed at the screen. “See how Howard’s eyes keep shifting over to Mary Dell? He’s just dying to rip that leopard scarf off her neck, but he can’t. They made a deal: Howard has veto power over quilt fabric, but when it comes to his momma’s wardrobe, he has to keep his opinions to himself. Poor Howard! This must make his teeth hurt.”