Between Heaven and Texas

by Marie Bostwick

  “I really saw quilts as true objects of art, but better than conventional art because people actually used them—kept warm in them, had picnics on them, wrapped babies in them, sometimes made babies under them,” he said with a gentle smile. “What other kind of art is so intimately involved with the daily lives of ordinary people?

  “Money was tight, but I started buying quilts,” he continued. “I couldn’t afford some of the quilts I really wanted, the truly spectacular ones, so I figured I’d better learn to make them myself. Of course, I’m still not good enough to make quilts as spectacular as the ones I coveted as a young salesman, but,” he said with a wink, “I’m still learning.”

  Mary Dell laughed nervously. “Well, it was my mistake, Mr. Evard. When I saw your name in the magazine, I assumed you were a woman. I figured C. J. stood for Claudia Jean.”

  Mr. Evard crooked his index finger, ran it along one side of his neatly trimmed beard, and shook his head, looking as if he was sorry to disappoint her.

  “No. My real name is unpronounceable to most people and impossible to spell, so—long before Larry Hagman and the Dallas TV show made it fashionable—I started using my initials.”

  He shifted slightly forward in his leather desk chair, reached into the interior breast pocket of his suit, and withdrew a long, thin cigar.

  “Lanceros,” he said by way of explanation. “Davidoff Number Ones. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Mary Dell said. “Go right ahead.”

  She wasn’t crazy about cigar smoke or tobacco in general, but it was his office; he could do as he liked. And when he lit up, she found the smell of this particular cigar somewhat pleasant and manly, not at all like the cheap stogies some of the men who frequented the Ice House liked to puff. And she had to admit, C. J. Evard certainly looked good with a cigar.

  How handsome he was! She supposed he was a decade older than Dutch, but he was in much better shape. He was lean; not even a hint of paunch hung over his silver belt buckle. His skin was tanned but not bronze, leathery but in a good way, the complexion of a man who loves the outdoors or at least plays a lot of golf. His hair, like his beard, was a distinguished silver-gray, a color that made his bright blue eyes look even brighter. And Mary Dell had never seen a better-dressed man. His black Western suit with the arrowhead yoke and subtle tan stitching fit so perfectly that Mary Dell correctly guessed it had been made just for him. His bolo tie had a sterling silver slide inset with turquoise, and he wore sterling silver collar tips with his starched white shirt. His boots were black too, custom made from alligator hide, and if Mary Dell had realized how much he paid for them, she probably would have choked on the Dr Pepper that Mr. Evard himself had poured her when she sat down in a leather chair on the opposite side of his big walnut desk. C. J. Evard was a real Texas gentleman and looked the part.

  But that big desk of his, specifically what she spotted lying upon it, concerned Mary Dell—the letter she had written in a moment of despair and mailed in an episode of amnesia. There it sat, accusing her, filling her with dread that increased with every second that passed without Mr. Evard asking her who she thought she was to have sent him such a foolish and insulting letter.

  Finally, unable to stand it anymore, she blurted out, “Mr. Evard, about the letter I sent to you. I’m so sorry about that. I wasn’t myself when I wrote it and . . .”

  C. J. sucked on his cigar and held the smoke in his mouth for a moment before tipping back his head and blowing it out toward the ceiling.

  He dismissed her apology with a wave of his cigar. “I’ve gotten worse, believe me. And your complaint wasn’t unfounded. I never did see your submissions, not a single one of the fifteen you made over the years.

  “We get hundreds of submissions every month. Some junior assistant editor weeds them out, generates a form letter like those you received, and sends it out under my signature. The first time I ever heard of you was when this came across my desk,” he said, picking up the letter and looking at it again.

  “Very expressive. You’re a good writer, Ms. Templeton.”

  “Please, call me Mary Dell.”

  “Only if you call me C. J.” He took another puff on his cigar. “After reading your letter, I asked my secretary to dig up your earlier submissions. She did, and I was impressed with what I saw.”

  He put down his cigar, resting it in the groove of a lead crystal ashtray, and picked up a file folder that was sitting on the other side of the desk.

  “I can see why the lower-level staffers rejected your work,” he said, flipping through papers and photographs. “I don’t mean to be harsh, Mary Dell, but your color choices leave a lot to be desired.”

  “You’re not the first to mention it.”

  He glanced up from the papers, looked her over from head to toe, and muttered, “No. I suppose not.

  “But,” he said, going on in a louder voice, “what I saw that those assistant editors missed is that your construction is impeccable, your designs innovative, and that you seem to have a real knack for coming up with techniques to make potentially complicated patterns easy enough so that intermediate or even beginning quilters can get good results. At least, that’s how it appears on paper. I can’t really make a judgment until I see your work.”

  He put down the file folder and nodded eagerly at the two large shopping bags sitting next to Mary Dell’s chair.

  “Are the quilts in there?”

  Mary Dell opened the bags, started pulling out quilts and stacking them in a pile on the white carpeting. Leaving his cigar, C. J. came out from behind his desk and stood over her as she flipped back quilt after quilt, murmuring admiration over each one, his eyes shining like blue beacons as he leaned down to examine their workmanship.

  “They look just as good on the back as the front,” he said approvingly. “As they should but so seldom do. Who taught you to quilt?”

  “My grandma Silky taught me how to sew clothes; our family has bred expert needlewomen since Daniel Boone was a boy. But quilting was something I learned on my own, mostly through trial and error. I’ve been teaching in my home for a few years now, so I had plenty of opportunities to practice on my students—poor things.”

  “Your hand quilting is lovely, but this . . .”

  To Mary Dell’s astonishment, he actually got down on his hands and knees to get a better look at one of her lap quilts, with pieced tulip blocks placed on the diagonal, each flower made from a different color fabric, alternated with plain blocks that she’d quilted with her own tulip design, using a different color of thread for each block.

  “This is amazing. I think you would have been better off with just one color of tulip, or even three, but . . .” His eyes scanned the surface of the quilt, as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “You quilted this on a sewing machine? I’ve rarely seen anyone use any technique besides stitch in the ditch for a machine-quilted project.”

  Mary Dell smiled, pleased that he’d noticed. “A lot of people are embarrassed to be caught using a machine for quilting instead of stitching it by hand, so they sew along the seams of the block to hide it. But that seemed silly to me. You’re not fooling anyone anyway, so why not go for broke? Show off what you can really do with a machine. It took a little trial and error, but once I got the hang of it . . .”

  She got down next to him on the floor, careful of the tulle skirt, and traced her finger over a section of the border that she was particularly pleased with, a quilted vine festooned with leaves and tiny tulip shapes.

  “Pretty, isn’t it? I love the look of hand quilting, but it takes time that I don’t always have. I was able to quilt this in three days.”

  “Really?” He sat back on his haunches, clearly impressed. “That fast?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mary Dell replied proudly. “Now, some people say that a quilt made by machine isn’t a real quilt. But do you know what I call a machine-sewn quilt? Done.”

  Mary Dell laughed at her own joke, and C. J. grinned.

&n
bsp; “I like you, Mary Dell. You’ve got spunk. And you’re one heckuva quilter. I’d like to publish some of your designs in the magazine. That is, if we can find someone to help you regulate your enthusiasm for color—”

  He pulled aside the tulip quilt to reveal the last quilt in the stack, Rob Lee’s baby quilt. He stopped in mid-sentence.

  “Well . . . will you look at this,” he said in a hushed voice. “Grandmother’s Flower Garden is one of my favorite blocks. How did you ever come up with the idea of using half and three-quarter rounds to create this serpentine effect? So unusual. And your color selections . . . Blue and yellow is an obvious combination, but adding sapphire and violet to the mix gives it a whole different dimension. Beautiful.” He looked up at her with a respectful but somewhat perplexed expression.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I can’t take credit for the colors. My sister, Lydia Dale, picked those out. She can’t quilt, and I can’t pick fabric, but together, we’re the complete package—two sides of the same coin, you might say. Without Lydia Dale to help me, I’d never have worked up the courage to open up the quilt shop.”

  C. J. got up from the floor, then reached out to offer Mary Dell a hand.

  “You own a quilt shop?” He went back to his desk and picked up his still-smoldering cigar.

  “Not yet. We’re going to take possession of the building at the end of the month, but we’ll have a lot of work to do before we can open. Everything always costs more than you think it will, what with inventory and renovations and such. I can’t afford to do too much at once. I’ve got to think about the family and the ranch, of course . . .”

  “The ranch?”

  “My sister and I own a ranch too—cattle and sheep. It’s been in our family for generations.”

  C. J. took a deep draw on his cigar, making the tip glow orange, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “So you’re a lady rancher, a quilt teacher and designer, and you’re about to buy your own shop? That’s amazing.”

  He glanced at a clock on the edge of his desk.

  “I’ve got an editorial meeting starting in a few minutes. But would you like to join my wife and me for dinner this evening? I’d like to hear more about your quilts and your shop and your family, and I’m sure Libby would too.”

  “Thank you. That sounds wonderful. I was kind of wondering what I was going to do with myself tonight.”

  C. J. picked up his telephone. “Oh, there’s no end of things to do in Dallas. Start off with a visit to Neiman Marcus. It’s just around the corner from your hotel. Libby can spend hours there.”

  He smiled wryly and pressed a button on the phone. “Miss Whatley, would you please call the Mansion and make a reservation for three people at seven o’clock? And arrange for a car to pick Ms. Templeton up at the hotel at six forty-five.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Before it became the first five-diamond, five-star hotel in the state of Texas, the Mansion on Turtle Creek really was a mansion, built by a cotton mogul in 1908. President and Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt once stayed there as guests of the owners, and Tennessee Williams wrote the play Summer and Smoke during a visit in the 1940s.

  Though it changed hands many times before being purchased in 1979 by Caroline Rose Hunt and undergoing a twenty-one-million-dollar transformation to turn it into a world-class restaurant, and later expanded to include a 143-room hotel, the sixteenth-century Renaissance Italian–style structure continued to retain the intimate feel of a private home, albeit a private home owned by a very wealthy family. Those who crossed its threshold were treated like visiting celebrities as, indeed, many were.

  It was probably just as well that Mary Dell knew nothing of the illustrious history of the establishment, or that the governor, two state senators, and a TV star were among the other guests seated in the dining room that night. She was awed enough by her surroundings as it was and by the elegance of the other patrons, including Mrs. Evard, or Libby, who was wearing a black knit cocktail dress with modestly sized shoulder pads and a black silk ruffle and bow on the hem. The dress was a little sedate for Mary Dell, who was relieved she’d thought to bring her gold lamé wrap dress with the extra-big shoulder pads with her to Dallas, but Libby’s emerald and gold pendant and matching earrings were stunning, and Mary Dell told her so.

  “I got them at Neiman’s.” Libby leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Thirty percent off.”

  Mary Dell smiled, feeling more at ease. Libby Evard was elegant and wealthy, but under all her finery she was still just a woman who got into her girdle one leg at a time and liked a bargain, just like everybody else.

  “Yes,” C. J. said in a dry tone, “Libby saves me hundreds of dollars at Neiman’s every week.”

  “Aren’t you lucky?” Libby said in a flirtatious tone.

  C. J. took his wife’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “I certainly am,” he said, then looked up to address a waiter. “Good evening, Gene. We’ll have the usual.”

  “Bombay Sapphire and tonic for you, Mr. Evard, and a Dubonnet on the rocks for Mrs. Evard. Very good, sir. And for the lady?”

  “Mary Dell, what would you like?” C. J. asked. “A martini? A glass of white wine?”

  “Oh, no,” Mary Dell said quickly. “Alcohol does bad things to me. I’d better stick with Dr Pepper.”

  They chatted easily over their drinks, though Mary Dell did most of the talking, answering C. J.’s questions about Too Much, her family, the ranch, and her hopes for the future. She didn’t mean to go on so, but the Evards were so easy to talk to. And they seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. C. J. waved the waiter off twice before finally saying they should order.

  The menu listed all kinds of dishes that Mary Dell had never heard of, and some of it was in French, and to make matters more confusing, there were no prices listed. Mary Dell didn’t want to embarrass her hosts or the waiter by pointing out the mistake, nor did she wish to be rude and accidentally order the most expensive thing on the menu, so, after a moment, she asked C. J. to choose for her.

  The tortilla soup, a specialty of the house, was delicious, made from a rich tomato-and-chicken broth with just a bit of spicy heat and topped with a sprinkling of avocados, white cotija cheese, and strips of fried tortillas. While C. J. and Mary Dell enjoyed their soup, Libby nibbled a green salad.

  “I hope I get to see your quilts someday,” Libby said. “C. J. says some of your techniques are revolutionary.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Mary Dell said. “I’m just doing what comes naturally.”

  “Naturally to you,” C. J. said, pointing his soup spoon in her direction, “but not to everyone. You have a gift. I was thinking about your Lone Star quilt, the one you’re going to use for the first class in your new shop. I’d like to publish it in the magazine. That issue wouldn’t be out until spring, so your students would still get first crack at it. Would that be all right with you?”

  Mary Dell nearly choked on her soup. “Would it? Does a cactus have spines?”

  “Good, good. The pay isn’t much, but we’ll include a sidebar about your shop, maybe with a photo of you and your sister under the sign. It’ll be good publicity.”

  “Really?” Mary Dell put her hand over her mouth to cover her shock. “Thank you, C. J. A thing like that could put the Patchwork Palace on the map!”

  “Patchwork Palace,” Libby repeated with a smile. “What a darling name. I told C. J. that he should have chosen a more interesting name for his business. White Star Fabrics doesn’t have any magic.”

  C. J. lifted his hands in an exasperated gesture. “Yes, it does. How many times have I told you? This is a Texas company, and I wanted the name to reflect that—a white star, like on the flag.” “If you wanted it to evoke Texas, you should have called it Lone Star Fabrics. Or Alamo Fabrics. White Star could be anything from anywhere,” Libby said with a shrug, then speared a cherry tomato with her fork.

  Mary Dell frowned, not sure she was followin
g the conversation correctly. “White Star . . . that’s the company we’re planning on getting most of our fabric from. Mr. Evard—I mean, C. J., what’s your connection to White Star?”

  “I own it,” he said simply. “I own a couple of different businesses. The magazine is just one of them and by far the least profitable. That’s something I do to indulge my love of quilts. Remember I told you about how I started off selling thread?”

  Mary Dell put down her spoon and listened, fascinated by his story, barely noticing when a waiter removed her soup plate and replaced it with a tiny dish of grapefruit sorbet.

  “That’s what started it all,” C. J. continued. “I’m a good salesman, but I wanted more. One of my customers was a small textile mill. They made cotton prints to sell in dry goods stores, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well, I had an idea of improving the quality of the material and implementing new designs, creating high-quality fabric specifically for quilts. Now, the owner of this particular textile mill had a daughter. She was very beautiful but very spoiled.”

  C. J. glanced at his wife, who was primly dabbing vinaigrette from her lips with the edge of her linen napkin, and his eyes twinkled.

  “Her father was so anxious to get her off his hands that he let me have the mill, but only on condition that I marry her.”

  Libby pretended to slap his hand. “C. J. Evard, that’s a lie, and you know it. My father didn’t want you to have me or the mill. He only let me marry you because I threatened to run away from home, and he only let you buy the mill because his doctor said if he didn’t quit working so hard he was going to drop dead of a stroke. Which he did, but not for another twelve years.

  “But,” Libby said, leaning toward Mary Dell, “Daddy wouldn’t give C. J. even a penny’s break on the price. He had to sell his quilt collection and our car to come up with the money. My C. J. is a self-made man,” she said proudly.