Threading the Needle

by Marie Bostwick

  “And you’re sure they’d be interested?” I asked.

  “Absolutely! I’ll call Steve right now. Steve Straub. Don’t go anywhere. I’m sure he’ll call you right away. Fingers crossed.”

  “Thank you, Angela. I really appreciate this.”

  “I’m happy to do it, Madelyn. You’ve always been so nice to me.”

  When I hung up the phone, my hands were actually shaking. I was that excited.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Tessa.

  She stuffed a piece of tissue paper into the mouth of a gift bag with such force that it tore. “I heard.”

  Disapproval was written on every line of her face, and, I had noticed, when Tessa disapproved of something, the number of those lines increased significantly.

  “What?” I spread out my hands, confused by her response. “Angela has a friend at Good Morning America. She thinks he’ll be interested in sending a camera crew out here to do a story on our quilt retreat. This is good news. And good publicity, for the inn, for New Bern, for the quilt shop. . . .”

  She wouldn’t look at me, just kept stuffing tissue into the bags as if she had something personal against them.

  “Good publicity for New Beginnings too.”

  Tessa’s head popped up like it was on a spring. “Good publicity for Ivy? And Dana? And all the other women in their class?”

  Clearly I had pressed some sort of hot button, but I still didn’t understand how. “Well . . . I guess. Tessa, if you’re worried that they might portray the girls in a negative light, don’t be. Angela told me that they’re looking for happy endings. This would be a ‘feel good’ story.”

  “I don’t care if they crown them all Mothers of the Year and get them a spot on Oprah! There is no such thing as ‘good’ publicity for these women! Don’t you get it? Don’t you ever listen?”

  “Hey!” I shot back, blindsided by Tessa’s ire and furious at being scolded like some irresponsible adolescent. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

  “Too bad! When a friend sees you about to do something dumb, something that will hurt you and others, they get to speak up anytime they want to. Somebody who only tells you what you want to hear isn’t a friend, Madelyn. Don’t you remember what happened to Ivy when she accidentally stepped into a background shot on Mary Dell’s television show? Somebody saw her, told her husband about it, and he tracked her down and attacked her!”

  I blanched, remembering Ivy’s left hand, the jagged white scars on her knuckles, the way her fingers refused to straighten completely. She’d told me about her husband, her flight from abuse, about unknowingly walking through the background when Mary Dell filmed a video at the quilt shop; about how her husband found her, threatened to take her children, and her life, had slammed the car door on her hand while she screamed in agony, and how much worse it would have been had not Evelyn, Margot, Abigail, and Liza arrived on the scene and fought him off.

  How had I not remembered that? How could I have forgotten that story, the history that had drawn me to Ivy on that first day we met at For the Love of Lavender, the testimony of her courage in the face of dangers and hardships that far outweighed my own and made me curious about the women who had come to her aid, curious enough to allow Tessa to drag me into the quilt shop for a five-minute visit that stretched to half an hour, because I had to see for myself if people like that existed, people who’d put themselves out and even into harm’s way to protect one of their own? How could I?

  How could I? By thinking only of myself, that’s how. By becoming so focused on my desires, my lacks, my quest for more, my “needs,” needs that didn’t even come close to meeting that description, that I never stopped to think how my actions might affect others. By listening to the voices, internal and external, saying, “Everyone does it,” and “What can it hurt,” and “That’s the way things work,” by convincing myself of the lies.

  Even at the end, even in his prison cell, Sterling clung to the lie that he’d done nothing wrong, that he’d “made millions for his clients.” Even with twenty-five million dollars and a paid-for penthouse, Angela had convinced herself that she was just scraping by, that generosity was a luxury beyond her means. Even with a house all mine, left unwillingly to undeserving me, a house with fresh paint on the walls and new shingles on the roof, a reservation book that showed every sign of breaking even my first summer in business, when I’d heard that silken rhetoric, the voice of seduction asking why I shouldn’t benefit from my own generosity, I’d been quick to take the bait, to wrap my arms around the generosity that isn’t generous at all.

  “That’s the way things work,” or so the story goes. And that’s true, if we allow it to be. But the needle is narrow, so narrow. A small shift to the left, a little lean to the right, and you’ll swing wide and miss the mark without even knowing it, so distracted by lies that you don’t recognize the truth—not unless you have someone to shout down the voices, to tell you the truths you need to hear, whether you want to hear them or not. Not unless you have a Tessa, a friend.

  What was I thinking? What’s wrong with me?

  I must have said that last thought out loud because in a moment, Tessa was at my side with her arm over my shoulder.

  “Nothing, Madelyn. Nothing. You’re all right. I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that. I just . . .” She shrugged, as though admitting the inexcusability of her actions. “I should have engaged my brain before opening my mouth. I should have realized that you’d never purposely put someone else at risk for your own gain. I know you too well to think you’d be capable of something like that.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, unwilling to let her go on. “No, you were right to call me out. I’m glad you did. You know what I think? I think everyone is capable of something like that. You can be my conscience any time, Tessa, because mine has clearly atrophied from lack of use. But, next time,” I said, wincing a little at the memory, “maybe straighten me out without raising your voice? I just can’t take it, especially from you. The last time you yelled at me, I lost you for a long, long time.” I laughed, not because I found this funny, but because the sudden film of tears that blurred my eyes made me feel silly. “I don’t even like to think about that happening again.”

  She laughed at her own tears, swiped them away, too, and squeezed my shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about that, Madelyn. We may disagree sometimes. We may argue. Once in a while, we may even yell at each other. But you’re not losing me, my friend, not ever again. That’s the deal. And anybody who doesn’t like it? Well, you know the rest.”

  When Steve Straub called from Good Morning America, I said thanks but no thanks to his offer to send a film crew to New Bern. Ours was a private party.

  49

  Madelyn

  Even after we’d moved the furniture out to the garage (excepting the dollhouse, which we moved near the front window), we still couldn’t fit eight eight-foot tables in the living room, so we tucked one in the foyer and one under the stairs. We had four ironing boards, three in the living room and one in the foyer, and a portable “design wall” (really just a white flannel sheet stretched and hammered into place on a wooden frame) in the dining room. Orange, black, and white extension cords were plugged into every available outlet, snaking along the floors to provide electricity for the irons and sewing machines. When we were done setting up, Tessa and I stood at the doorway between the living room and foyer and surveyed the scene.

  “It looks so crowded,” I said.

  “Because it is,” Tessa replied.

  “Can’t we get rid of one of the tables? After all, I’m not going to be sewing.”

  “It’s two quilters to a table. We need just as many for fifteen as sixteen. Besides, you might change your mind.”

  “I’m going to be too busy taking care of the guests, making meals, cleaning rooms, that sort of thing.” This was true, but it was also a convenient excuse and Tessa knew it. But she also knew when to back off.

  “Wel
l. All right,” she said reluctantly, “but in case you change your mind, I’ve set up your sewing machine at the table under the stairs. You’re sharing with Mary Dell.”

  “I’m not going to change my mind. Look, Tessa, I like hanging out with the quilters, but I have no desire to quilt and I never will. Why can’t we all just be good with that?”

  “Never is a long time. I’m just saying.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Tessa, were you this much of a nag when we were kids? Why does Lee put up with you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, grinning. “Maybe he’s blinded by lust?”

  The doorbell rang. I made a gagging face and went to answer it. “Oh, ick. You’ve been married for a million years. Shouldn’t you two be over that kind of thing by now?”

  I opened the door and found my porch crowded with laughing and chattering women carrying suitcases, project bags, and, in some instances, sewing machines, with more streaming up the walkway behind them. I greeted the ones I knew: Margot, Virginia, Abigail—whose luggage was Vuitton, the same style as the pieces I’d sold to pay for the plumbing—Bella, Connie, Dana, Ivy, and, of course, Bethany—who proudly showed off her “Disney Princess” roller-board suitcase, purchased for the occasion—and introduced myself to the ones I didn’t, the other students from the GED program, Melissa, Cathy, Lauren, and Antoinette.

  I directed everyone to leave their suitcases in the foyer for now, then find the sewing station with their name on it and set up their machine if they’d brought their own before following Tessa into the dining room for tea and cookies and a quick orientation before we handed out keys and roommate assignments.

  The last one through the door was Mary Dell. Even if I hadn’t seen her on television, I’d have recognized her immediately. One look and you knew she wasn’t raised in New England. Her smile was nearly as big as her earrings, her lipstick was the color of a candied apple, her hair was bleached a shade of blond that would have done Marilyn Monroe proud, and her outfit? I’d never seen anything quite like it.

  Evelyn had said that Mary Dell liked animal prints. I like them too. I have a pair of leopard pumps and a faux cheetah belt that I just love. But when I do wear one of those items, I make sure that everything else I’m wearing is as plain as possible, a monochromatic outfit in a neutral color: black, cream, perhaps brown. Or, if I’m looking for a casual but fun look, a pair of jeans and a plain white blouse, something simple. Otherwise, you run the risk of appearing to be “open for business,” as Edna would have put it.

  Mary Dell, who apparently had not heard or did not subscribe to the “less is more” rule of fashion, was wearing alligator shoes and a belt in two completely different shades of brown, leopard-print jeans, and a tight zebra-striped shirt with a black collar and cuffs embellished by three rows of rhinestones along the edge. She carried a pink cheetah-print project bag with her name emblazoned on the side, also in rhinestones. The woman was a walking menagerie.

  I stood at the door, open-mouthed and completely at a loss for words. But that didn’t matter. Mary Dell had no problem filling the silence.

  “Well! Look at you!” she hooted as she mounted the porch steps. “You must be Madelyn. I’d have known you anywhere. Evelyn said you were as pretty as a picture and had more curves than a Coke bottle. She wasn’t exaggerating, was she?

  “Tell you what, I’m glad Hub-Jay decided to take Howard off for a boys’ weekend in San Antonio instead of coming out here with me. I just might have had to put a brand on that steer to make sure he didn’t stray. You’re sure a looker!” she exclaimed as she crossed over the threshold and dropped her bag on the floor and took a look around.

  “My! Your place is just as pretty as you are. This is nice, real nice. You know, my Hub-Jay is an innkeeper too. He owns the Hollander Hotels. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them?”

  The Hollander Hotels? Indeed I had heard of them. It was a small chain that bought up old buildings in downtown areas and refurbished them into beautiful little boutique hotels. Most of their properties were in the Southwest, places like Dallas, San Antonio, Santa Fe, Oklahoma City, and Tulsa, but they’d recently opened a hotel in New York and another in Boston, to favorable reviews.

  Hubble James Hollander was that Hollander? The one whose hotels had a reputation for excellent service and understated elegance? And he was dating Mary Dell?

  Mary Dell looked at me expectantly. When I failed to answer her question she said, “Oh my goodness, where are my manners? I didn’t even introduce myself, did I? I’m Mary Dell Templeton.”

  “Yes. I’m Madelyn Beecher. It’s nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand for her to shake, but she ignored that and wrapped her arms around me in a hug that was not quite bone-crushing, but nearly. Mary Dell hugged like she meant it.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, darlin’! Evelyn’s told me so much about you. I feel like I know you already. You’re just so sweet to invite all these gals to stay. We’re going to have ourselves a time! Aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” I replied, though I’d already picked up on the fact that most of Mary Dell’s questions didn’t actually require answers. She used them more as a means of conferring affirmation than seeking information.

  I liked her. I don’t know that I’d ever encountered anyone with such enthusiasm or energy, and as the weekend went on, I saw that it was entirely genuine. There’s something very attractive about that. It helped, too, that I knew her story, how her husband had deserted her upon the birth of their son, Howard, and how Mary Dell had soldiered on alone to raise a child with special needs, eking out a living as a quilt teacher. Mary Dell was optimistic, not because she didn’t know hardship but because she had overcome it. Oh, yes. In spite of the fact that any room she was in seemed a little short on oxygen, I liked Mary Dell Templeton. It was impossible not to.

  “It was awfully kind of you to volunteer to teach this weekend, especially since you’re on your vacation.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure,” she said sincerely. “These days, Howard and I are so busy with the TV show that I don’t get much chance to teach. I miss it.”

  “Well, everyone is very excited that you’re here.”

  “And I’m excited too. Now, Madelyn, honey,” she said in a more serious tone, “do you have anything to drink? I’m dying for a Dr Pepper. I’m so dry I’m spitting cotton.”

  “We’re just about to serve tea in the dining room.”

  “Tea?” she said, briefly lifting her eyebrows to a skeptical arc. “Well . . . sure. All right. Tea will do just fine for now.”

  Some of the ladies knew one another well and some were meeting for the first time, but they seemed to find an almost instant bond, the way I’ve noticed quilters do. It’s interesting.

  After tea and introductions, everyone went to get settled in their rooms and then came back downstairs to start quilting. The weekend’s project was a wall hanging based on a variation of the card tricks block. An original design by Mary Dell, the “Texas Hold ’Em” pattern would appear in her next book. The ladies were thrilled to be among the first to make it.

  While everyone else got to work cutting out their fabric, I cleared away the tea things and then got to work on dinner. Tessa came in a couple of times, wanting to help, but I shooed her out of the kitchen, reminding her that the weekend was my gift to her as well.

  “Are you sure you’re all right in here?” she asked. “You look like something’s bothering you.”

  “I’m fine. If I look bothered it’s only because standing here talking to you is throwing off my schedule. Now, scoot!”

  She did, and I went back to my work, setting the table, warming up the soup, dressing the salad, preparing and baking big loaves of garlic bread, opening the wine, and making pots of coffee and fixing platters of brownies to serve for dessert. While I worked, I could hear the sound of conversation and laughter, sometimes gales of it, rising above the whir of sewing machines. I was glad they were enjoying themselves, but in spite of what I’d s
aid to Tessa, I’d admit to feeling a little melancholy, or maybe just introspective. I’m not sure why.

  After serving dinner—which seemed much appreciated; I bet they all thanked me ten times each—and cleaning up the kitchen, I went into the living room for a while to chat and see how their projects were coming. But when Bethany started to yawn around nine o’clock, I volunteered to take her up to the attic and put her to bed so that Ivy could keep quilting.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Ivy asked.

  “Not at all. I’m tired too. I was going up soon anyhow. You all stay up as late as you want; just make sure to turn out the lights before you go to bed. Breakfast is at eight. See you all in the morning.”

  I showed Bethany where the bathroom was and, after she was washed and had her pajamas on, I tucked her into bed and read a chapter of Little Women to her. It was her fourth time reading it. At certain passages, I noticed that her lips moved silently as I read, echoing the dialogue between the March sisters. At the end of the chapter, she snuggled down under the quilts and yawned. I sat on the edge of my bed, took off my slippers, and hung my robe on the bedpost.

  “It’d be nice to have a lot of sisters,” Bethany said in a drowsy voice. “I have a little brother, Bobby, but that’s not the same. Do you have any sisters?”

  “I’m an only child. No brothers or sisters.”

  “I’ve got a best friend, Erica. She’s almost like a sister. Do you have a best friend?”