Ocean Waves

by Terri Thayer

  I tried to be polite. “Mercedes, have you met Paul? His wife, Ursula, is attending the conference. He’s got a very important message to get to her.”

  Mercedes walked past me and headed straight for Paul. She pointed at him. “Get out of here. Now.”

  I was shocked at her demeanor. Mercedes’ eyes were flashing, and she’d pulled herself up to her full five-foot stature. Her cheeks were pink and shiny.

  She wasn’t getting how desperate he was to talk to his wife. I closed my door and moved around to the passenger side. “Hold on a minute,” I said. “Ursula’s mother is sick and calling for her daughter …”

  Mercedes didn’t look at me. She was locked in gaze with Paul. He had the tiniest smirk on his face. My stomach churned. Something was not right.

  Mercedes stopped, hands on her hips, one bony hip cocked. Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Your wife’s not here, Paul. She’s not attending this year.”

  That stopped him. He looked genuinely perplexed. “Of course she is. She flew in yesterday. Don’t lie to me.”

  Denying that she was even here was really going too far. “What’s the problem, Mercedes? So he wants to talk to his wife.”

  “You don’t get it. It’s because of men like him …”

  Paul guffawed. “Men like me? You hate the whole species, Mercedes. Admit it. You’re a castrating bitch whose only power comes from picking on women who don’t have the balls to stand up to you.”

  I stared at him. The conversation had taken another turn I hadn’t seen coming. I took a step away from my car and closed the door. Paul’s fists were clenched at his side, and his neck was red and blotchy. He had switched from reasonable to angry in a split second. I took a step back.

  Mercedes, to my surprise, moved closer to Paul. She stood on her tiptoes, words coming out with such force that she was spitting.

  “What are you going to do, Paul? Hit me?”

  Paul retreated, his back now against my car. Mercedes continued to crowd him.

  “Power? You want to talk to me about power? Did you tell Dewey that you beat your wife when she doesn’t agree with you? When your dinner is late? If the lawn isn’t mowed? That your power comes from your fists?”

  Paul’s eyes had gone cold. My stomach twisted, and I felt sick. I never should have let this guy sweet talk me into bringing him here.

  “That’s not true,” he said.

  Mercedes scowled. “I’ve known Ursula for years. We talk about things, Paul. We share. You have no idea what I know about your life. And you have no idea how your life is about to change.”

  Why had I been so ready to believe him? I think the idea of circumventing Mercedes’ rules was too tempting to me. I’d assumed too easily, perhaps, that Mercedes was just being unreasonable.

  Paul Wiggins talked to me, ignoring Mercedes. “Ms. Pellicano, please believe me when I say I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I have no intention of harming my wife. Mercedes doesn’t know the first thing about the relationship my wife and I have. No one does. I’d like to tell you more about Ursula some time. Ours is an unusual love story, not readily understood.”

  Suddenly he stiffened. The light caught on something metal. I took my eyes off his face and looked at Mercedes.

  She had produced a gun and was pointing it low at Paul’s side. My knees shook. Was she going to kill him?

  “Mercedes,” I said. “Please—”

  Without looking at me, she said, “Get out of here, Paul Wiggins. You’re scum.”

  My mouth went dry. A gun. I looked around. The ocean continued to pound the shore. No rangers or Asilomar staff was in sight. No one but me to witness the small hunk of metal in Mercedes’ hand.

  “Mercedes, please, can’t we talk this out?” I asked. My voice was scratchy and low. I didn’t know if she heard me.

  Paul looked at the tiny firearm in her hand, the smirk never leaving his face.

  She didn’t look short and petite right now. It wasn’t just the presence of the gun. She seemed to have expanded like a Komodo dragon, with a ruff that doubled in size.

  Mercedes said, “I will shoot you, Paul, if you set foot here again. I suggest you go back to the rat hole you crawled out of.” Her voice was steady and calm, but her angry eyes flashed.

  “I’m holding you responsible,” he cried. He crawled back into my car.

  Mercedes looked angrily at me, still pointing the gun at Paul. I shook my head. There was no way I was taking him back to Pacific Grove.

  “Scram,” Mercedes said, kicking my car door with her foot.

  Paul got out of my car, cursing Mercedes as he went. She kept her gun trained on him.

  He started out of the parking lot, walking toward the road. He turned. Mercedes gestured with the gun. “I’m not leaving Pacific Grove until I speak with my wife.”

  I didn’t look at him, pretending not to hear. Paul Wiggins made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d let a snake loose in the hen house, as my Grandmother Dewey might have said.

  But I had other things on my mind. I turned to Mercedes.

  “A gun? You have a gun?” I said, my voice raising an octave.

  “Settle down,” she said. She put her arm down. “It’s not real.”

  “Not real?” I rubbed the back of my neck. “What are you doing, flashing a fake gun around?”

  “You have no idea what it takes to keep these women safe,” she said to me. “That guy is nothing but trouble. Stay away from him.”

  She strode away from me, and disappeared into the door of her office. I stood, gaping at the spot where she’d just been.

  She came back empty-handed, and snatched my keys from me. “I’ll take those. You’re grounded.”

  I stomped up the hill toward the Administration building and my room. This place was nuts. Locked up women and their crazy-ass husbands. I was going to pack my bags and go home.

  A seagull swooped down into the path ahead, tearing a potato chip out of a discarded bag.

  I walked in a circle, standing on the edge of the path. The gull flapped away, then hopped back. The chips were too tempting for him to fly away.

  I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to leave, but the money I’d spent for the seminar would be wasted. I caught sight of someone coming toward me in a yellow, full-length coat. The sight stopped my heart for a moment. The wearer looked like a cross between Big Bird and the Grim Reaper.

  Then, before I could scream or run, he threw back the hood to reveal Freddy Roman, of Freddy’s Fine Fabrics Emporium.

  “Freddy,” I said relieved, holding my arms out for a hug. Freddy’s brand of humor and quick insight was just what I needed. He came close. I rubbed his shoulders, admiring the felted wool and purple braided trim. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  I was glad to see him. I’d first met him at last year’s Extravaganza, and we’d hit it off. His snarky sense of humor and tendency to gossip was just what I needed. He would understand my issues with Mercedes.

  “You’re about the last person I’d thought I’d see here,” he said. “You’re not much of a quilter, are you?”

  That was Freddy, overly harsh in his assessments, but usually right on the money. He was the Simon Cowell of the quilt world.

  “Trying to be. Why weren’t you at lunch?” I hadn’t seen him at breakfast either.

  Freddy’s eyes opened wide. His lashes were long. Too long to be natural. His pancake makeup didn’t quite hide the old acne scars on his cheeks. For a straight man, Freddy spent a lot of money on clothes and cosmetics. But then, he lived in Los Angeles, where youth and beauty were the religion. Botox, the sacrament.

  “New diet regimen,” he said. “I’m getting deliveries from a local restaurant. I eat only fresh pineapple until eleven a.m. After that, it’s broccoli
and pasta. Nothing but water after four. I’ve lost eleven pounds in two weeks. You should see the color of my poo.”

  I turned my head to stave off any more information. Freddy was as thin as anyone could want to be. Something he said piqued my interest. “You get delivery? Is that allowed under Mercedes’ rules?”

  “There are plenty of ways around our fearless leader,” he said conspiratorially.

  He stomped his pale yellow cowboy boots with fancy purple scrolling for emphasis.

  “How are things in San Jose?” Freddy asked. “I saw some of your original patterns at Spring Market last month. Quilter Paradiso, oh pardon me, QP, was getting a lot of buzz.”

  I was trying to change the name of the store my mother had started. QP sounded edgier, hipper. Customers and people like Freddy that had known it for twenty years as Quilter Paradiso had trouble switching over.

  I ignored his jab at my changes. “The store’s doing okay. QP Online is thriving, although it takes up more of our time than Vangie and I had imagined.”

  If I was being completely honest, I’d have told Freddy that I’d lost a base of customers, the hardcore traditional quilters, followers of Kym, when I’d fired my sister-in-law. They were shopping somewhere else. Kym was lying low. I’d dreaded the day she went to work for one of my competitors, but that hadn’t materialized.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. Freddy had been headed in the opposite direction than I was going.

  “Same place as you. The chapel. For the mandatory meeting,” he said, tugging on my arm to turn me around.

  Oh, that. “Boy, I don’t want to go. That woman hates me. She seems to have it out for me.”

  “Mercedes? Really? Everyone loves her.”

  “She just pulled a fake gun on a quilter’s husband.”

  Freddy laughed. I looked at him in surprise. Laughter wasn’t the reaction I’d expected.

  “She likes to think she’s part of the Wild West,” he said. “Don’t let her get under your skin. This can be a marvelous week. A magical place. You’ll learn more here than you would in a year at your quilt shop.”

  I tried to process what he was saying. I’d had an inkling of that in class today, and remembered now how stoked I’d felt.

  Freddy caught my upper arm. “I’ll protect you, babe.” He grinned like the Big Bad Wolf.

  I was spared a more intimate view of his orthodonture as he turned when his name was called.

  “Freddy, wait up,” someone called. We turned to see a fair-haired man, dressed in a blue-striped shirt with white collar and red suspenders, climbing the steps and waving.

  “Quentin, you made it,” Freddy said gleefully. “I thought you weren’t going to get here.”

  “My flight was delayed until this morning,” he said. “I went straight to my class.”

  “I was afraid I was going to be the only male at the seminar,” Freddy said insincerely.

  “That would have been tragic,” I teased. “All these women and only you to flirt with.”

  “He still has the corner on that market,” the new guy said. “I don’t flirt with your kind.”

  Freddy and Quentin shook hands. The pair couldn’t have been more different. Quentin’s tan khakis were neatly pressed and he wore matching suede Hush Puppies, a shoe Freddy wouldn’t have traded in his Ferragamos for on a bet. His hair was thinning on top, leaving him with a fringe of sandy curls. His face was ruddy, which might have been the exertion of the long staircase built into the hillside.

  They obviously liked one another. Maybe it was because they were males in a mostly feminine world. They were probably thrown together at most events.

  Quentin drew back and looked Freddy up and down. “Why is it you dress more gay than I do? You attract women with that style?”

  “Only women of impeccable taste.” Freddy did the honors. “Dewey Pellicano, meet Quentin Rousseau, of New Orleans.”

  Freddy tried to pronounce New Orleans like a native, slurring, but judging by Quentin’s wince, he missed by a mile.

  Quentin held out his hand and I shook his meaty hand. He gave me a shy smile, revealing deep dimples. I was feeling a little more disposed to like him.

  “Quentin is the premier longarm quilter in the South. He specializes in quilting whole cloths with fancy-schmancy designs,” Freddy told me.

  “Mercedes must be thrilled you’re here,” Freddy said, his hand clasping Quentin’s elbow. “You know how she hates to have her count off.”

  “God forbid, there should be nineteen people in class,” he said, with a soft, gentle cadence. He didn’t have a thick Southern accent, but his words had a languidness to them that spoke of long, hot summer days. “Ruins her feng shui. She’s got a thing about round numbers.”

  I remembered the conversations about the missing quilter that I’d heard at breakfast. “What about the Ghost? Do you know about her?”

  Quentin and Freddy exchanged a smirk and laughed. “So you heard about the so-called Ghost?” Freddy said. “I’m surprised you fell for that.”

  “It’s not true?” I asked. I swallowed my next words quickly. I’d been just about to tell him about the woman screaming in the night.

  Freddy shrugged. “She’s never been missing from one of my classes. I’ve been teaching here for five years.”

  I looked at Quentin. He shook his head. “Never had the pleasure.”

  Freddy said, “Dewey here has already incurred the wrath of Mercedes. She even pulled her Annie Oakley routine on her.”

  He laughed. Quentin said, “Don’t worry, hon, her bark is worse than her bite. I’ll tell you who I’m dying to meet. Mercedes has a new assistant.”

  Quentin and Freddy had a love of gossip in common. Freddy leaned in while Quentin continued.

  “Oh dear, a new Mini-Mer? If you’re interested in ghosts, Dewey, maybe you ought to look into what happened to all of the old assistants. We meet a new one just about every year. We’ve learned not to get too attached. One minute they’re here and the next, poof! They’re gone. Mercedes cannot hold on to her help,” Quentin said.

  “So true, my man,” Freddy said, “If I want to keep my job, and I do, I’d better get inside.”

  Quentin rubbed his meaty hands together. “I heard there’s a display of antique sewing implements,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I want to go,” I said. I still hadn’t made up my mind about staying.

  “Come on, you know you want to know what an ear wax spoon is for,” Freddy said.

  “A what?” I asked. “Gross.”

  Freddy hooked an arm through mine again. “Let’s go.”

  The chapel was a glorious example of Craftsman-style architecture, so of course, my heart beat a little faster when Quentin opened the door and indicated I should go in first. The ceiling beams soared overhead, reminiscent of the cathedral-like atmosphere created naturally by old-growth trees deep in the forest. Sconces lit the room. Built-in chairs, their seats folded up, were in straight rows on the slanted floor facing the stage and the huge window that looked over the dunes outside. There were two sets of curtains. The first was tied back at the edge of the proscenium and the second, when closed, would cover the window beyond.

  Nan Orchard was at the front of the room, talking to Mercedes and being fitted for a wireless mike. She tested the sound with a breathy, one, two, three.

  People were milling about the room, their voices echoing in the space. Along the northern side of the building was an alcove anchored by a stone fireplace, with built-in woodboxes on either side. When the crowd moved, I could see tables set up in there. Quilters were lined up, looking at the display of antique sewing tools and boxes.

  We got closer. I wasn’t expecting the beauty that was arranged on the tabletop. The sewing boxes were striking, with elaborate decoration. There were
a dozen or more, ranging in size from a jewelry box size up to a bread box. They were made of wood, tin, and enamel. I recognized marquetry, inlaid wood designs, and cloisonné enamel work. These boxes might be utilitarian, but each one was a work of art.

  Beauty, form, and function, the trifecta of the Arts and Crafts Movement. Julia Morgan, the architect, would love these.

  Freddy said, “I’ll plop my stuff down, save us some seats.”

  “Get us as close as you can to the stage,” Quentin said, pointing a long finger. “I want to hear her talk.”

  Freddy walked away. Quentin and I looked over the sewing tool display. I had no idea what most of these things were. My sewing tools consisted of a sewing machine, often an iron and fusing medium. These tools, meant to be used for hand sewing and darning, had no context for me.

  Finally, I recognized something. I stopped in front of a board full of neck chains.

  “My mother wore one of these,” I said, reading the sign that identified them as chatelaines. “I didn’t know that’s what they were called.”

  These chatelaines were like jewelry. The chain was worn around the neck, with a suspended pocket that could hold a needle and a pair of scissors. My mother had made them out of cloth, decorated with pins and buttons and lace.

  The memory was a dim one, but I remember my mother staying up late one night, making matching chatelaines for all her workers, the night before a big sale at the shop. I was about twelve. I’d helped, picking out the lace to decorate the cloth and tying scissors to ribbons that she’d sewed on. Ina probably still had hers, although I couldn’t recall her wearing it lately. I wondered where my mother’s was.

  Probably in the sewing room that had once been the boys’ bedroom. My father had closed that door when she died. None of us had had the heart to open it since. I had to think about getting some of her friends together to clean it out soon.

  Quentin had stopped in front of an open sewing box made of some kind of exotic wood. He pushed an invisible button on the side, and a silk-lined drawer slid out. It contained slots for needles. I was amazed at the practical, but beautiful, workmanship.