by Terri Thayer
I bristled. “Really?” I’d risked my neck for a sister-in-law I didn’t really care too much for. Who was this guy to tell me about family honor?
Kym made a noise from the other room that sounded suspiciously like a fake cry. She wasn’t moved by Quentin’s story. And she didn’t believe in mollycoddling kidnappers. Quentin must have had a rough night.
“I’ll give you the sewing bird, but you’ve got to untie Kym first.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because she and I are going to get out of here as you promised.”
“How do I know you have it?”
I pulled the piece of blueprint fabric out of my pocket. “See that?” I asked. “That is the shape of the sewing bird, right?”
He took the fabric and held it under a light. “Looks like it,” he said.
Kym moaned again. “Let me out of here, you piece of shit,” she cried, from the other room.
I tensed. Quentin squeezed his eyes shut. Kym had not rested quietly. She was getting on his last nerve. I had to be sure he didn’t shoot her just to shut her up.
“Let’s just get Kym out of here,” I said. “She can leave. You’ve got me. I’ve got the bird. Let her go.”
He seemed to like that idea. He unlocked the door. He had moved Kym to a chair while I was gone. Her face was red and there were bags under her eyes, but she looked more mad now than in fear of her life.
“Get me out of here, Dewey.”
Of course this was my fault.
“Working on it, Kym,” I muttered. “Try to keep yourself together for a few more minutes.”
“Hurry up,” Quentin said with a new urgency. I glanced over to see the gun pointed at us.
Kym’s bravado disappeared. She slumped in her seat. I kicked her chair leg to get her attention.
I whispered in Kym’s ear. “Just get outside and run for help. I’ll be right behind you.”
She nodded.
“You untie her,” Quentin said. “Quickly. I’m losing patience here.”
I worked on the knots he’d made—knots that had gotten tighter as Kym struggled against them in the night.
Kym leaned around to see what I was doing. Her moving just made the knots twist together tighter.
“Hold still,” I said, through gritted teeth. “I nearly have it. Get ready to run.”
Her arms came loose. Her sigh whistled through gritted teeth as she rubbed her upper arms briskly. Her blisters looked worse and her breathing was labored.
Quentin was muttering, “Hurry up, hurry up.”
I pulled out the final knot. Kym jumped up. I stepped away from her, giving her room. She staggered. The chair fell back with a clatter.
I turned to Quentin. “Outside,” I said.
“That was not the deal,” he said.
Kym took several steps and collapsed between us. “My legs,” she said, as she went down.
I grabbed her arm as she fell but she slithered to the floor as though her bones had turned to jelly in the night. “She needs fresh air,” I said.
“Damn it!” Quentin said. He raised the gun as though he was going to strike Kym with it.
Quentin loomed over us, standing in front of the open door. I jumped in front of Kym, shielding her from the gun. “No,” I yelled.
My cry was interrupted by the appearance of Paul Wiggins in the doorway behind Quentin. I blinked, not quite believing my eyes. What was he doing here?
“Everything okay, Dewey?” Paul said, his eyes looking from Kym on the floor to me, hanging on to her one limp arm, to Quentin holding a gun by its butt, high in the air. Paul’s eyes widened.
Quentin was completely discombobulated at the sound of a new voice. He wheeled and flipped the gun around.
And shot.
The noise inside the small concrete room was deafening. Kym screamed, her hands over her ears. I grabbed her, dragging her out of the room and into the parking garage. I pushed her toward the steps. I took her hand and made it grab the metal railing.
“Drag your ass up those steps,” I said, giving her a push. “Go.”
There was another shot. I looked back.
Quentin was staring at Paul who was on the ground, not moving. I could see a small hole in his forehead. There was blood on his chest.
He looked at me and I could see the murderous intent in his eyes. I grabbed the mop bucket, and pushed it at him as hard as I could. The wheels caught on the uneven concrete and wobbled. I kicked out, catching the bucket full force. This time it moved, and slammed in to Quentin at the knees. He went down, the gun firing in the air.
I raced to the stairs, finding Kym about half way up and pulling her the rest of the way.
At the top of the stairs, I took a breath. The gunshots seemed to be still reverberating in the night air. The dew was heavy, fog moving in. I felt the moisture gather on the hair on my arms. Proof I was still alive. For now.
I looked at the stairwell. Quentin would be coming up any moment. I looked for a hiding place. A sheltering oak tree stood in front of us.
“You feeling your legs yet?” I asked Kym.
“Yes, they’re tingling like crazy. They hurt,” she said, on the verge of tears.
I searched the area. “There’s a low branch over there. We can climb up and hide from him.” It was a crappy plan. I’d have to pull Kym up the tree. But the branch was low and we might be hidden long enough for Quentin to miss us.
“Move, move, move.”
I shoved Kym toward the tree, looking back to see where Quentin was. When I looked ahead of me again, my heart stopped.
There was a mountain lion lying in the tree, on the branch I’d told Kym to grab onto.
“Hold on,” I said.
“Dewey, quit it. I’m trying,” her voice trailed off to a sob. “I can barely feel my legs. They’re asleep,” she said.
Kym began to sink to the ground, her hands splayed out in front of her. Looking four-legged. Exactly the position Tony had warned us about.
“Get up,” I hissed, pulling on her, keeping one eye on the lion in the tree. The lion was watching us as if she was bored.
Kym was dead weight, still groggy from the drugs Quentin had given her. I yelled in her ear. “Right now. Get up! Make yourself large!”
The lion growled tentatively as if deciding if we were worth a meal. The sound was bone-chilling. I grabbed at Kym, forcing her up against the tree trunk like a rag doll. I used one hand to hold her there. With the other I reached for the sewing bird. If I threw it as hard as I could and hit the cat right between the eyes …
I looked up. The cat’s eyes were golden and mesmerizing, seeming to glow in the dark. I couldn’t raise my arm.
Kym was fighting me, shoving at my hand with her arm, twisting her body away. Her breath was labored. “Get off me. I can’t breathe,” she said, desperate to break free. I leaned against her. Her body smelled rank.
I heard the screech of the door I’d been waiting to hear. Quentin was on his way out. I couldn’t let him walk into this.
“Mountain lion, Quentin!” I yelled.
Quentin came out of the stairwell and looked around to see where my voice was coming from. He caught sight of Kym and started our way. He moved quickly, but stumbled, his feet getting caught in the roots of the tree. He lost his footing and went down on all fours.
“Stand up!” I yelled at him.
It was not enough. Quentin didn’t seem to hear me over his panting.
As if in slow motion, I watched the giant cat leap from her perch in the tree and land on Quentin’s head. Kym screamed and turned away, hugging the tree.
The lion snarled and I could hear the vicious roar as she tore open his throat. I raised my hand as if to hit the mountain lion, realizing in a sec
ond how futile my attempt would be. I needed something bigger. A branch, a rock. I bent over, hands scrabbling on the ground, trying to find something.
Over my head, a shot rang out. The mountain lion collapsed in a heap on top of Quentin.
Tony was standing ten feet away, lowering his rifle. Buster was next to him with his service gun still pointed at the heaving animal.
The lion gave one last breath and shuddered. Quentin didn’t move, his blood pooling around his back and trickling downhill gathering in the dirt beneath a mountain laurel.
Kym slipped to the ground, her back against the tree trunk, screaming. Buster dropped his hand and in two strides had wrapped his free arm around me, the other still holding his gun. Tony bent over Kym, calming her. Tony’s voice was soothing and Kym quieted into gulps.
Buster was breathing hard in my ear. My feet were off the ground. I sunk into his chest. I felt my heart synch with his, and finally slow down.
“Okay?” he said. He could barely get the word out. I felt a tear drip from his chin down my neck.
I nodded. My voice was gone. I clutched the sewing bird in my free hand. We clung to each other.
Kym finally quieted. Tony handed her his cell phone. He must have gotten Kevin out of bed because soon Kym was chattering a mile a minute. She would be okay. Kevin would see to that.
“I saw you. I saw the lion leap,” Buster said. “I really thought you were a goner.” His voice caught and he buried his face in my hair. I squeezed his neck tighter.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You better stay that way.”
Tony leaned over the lion and Quentin. He checked Quentin’s pulse, even though it was obvious he’d bled out. His neck was a reddened mess of tissue and sinew.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“They both are,” Tony said.
“It’s too bad such a beautiful animal had to die,” I said to Buster.
“There’s only one thing I care about and that’s you,” he said. He pulled me in closer.
“What about Kym?” I said, teasing.
“I’m glad she’s okay, but you are the most important thing in my world.”
“Are you finished? What do you think?”
Cinnamon interrupted my thoughts and I startled. She put a hand on my arm and I smiled at her. I wasn’t as fragile as she thought.
“No, not finished. It needs a little something else.”
“You’ll figure it out. Unloosen your mind,” she said. She moved away to answer a student’s question. Unloosen my mind. I tried.
It was Friday afternoon. I was in the classroom, with Cinnamon, Lucy and a few others. Harriet and many of the quilters had gone home early after last night’s traumatic end.
My quilt was mostly finished. I took a step back. I’d used my photos to create appliqués of Merrill Hall and the Chapel. The middle of the quilt consisted of a semi-realistic view of Asilomar, although the rustic buildings were crowded together. I’d filled in with tall pines and a view of the ocean. But something was missing.
Lucy came up behind me and hung her quilt next to mine. She’d put the words Refuge by the Sea across the top. I read the title out loud.
“That’s why Asilomar supposedly means,” she said. “Even though it’s kind of a made up word.”
She snaked her arm through mine and hugged my shoulder. I leaned into her. We’d really enjoyed our time together. She and Harriet were already planning a fall trip to the Bay Area. I looked forward to seeing them again.
Our wall hangings looked nothing alike, although our themes were the same. Her quilt featured the people of Asilomar, with pictures of the original YMCA girls, the Stuck-ups, the Pirates, including her grandfather. She had just finished adding thread to the surface, outlining the curves of the faces and filling in the shadows.
Mine was a landscape, bordered by the half square triangle blocks. It was one giant Ocean Waves block with my appliqué in the middle. Cinnamon had taught me well. I’d expanded the traditional block and added my own touches to it.
I had come here to learn, and I had. Not exactly what I’d thought I would learn, but that was okay.
A horn beeped outside. I looked out the window in time to see a pick up with the Pellicano Construction logo on the door go by. Kevin, with Kym in the passenger seat. She was facing him, her hands gesturing. I figured her mouth was going, too. Probably nonstop since he’d arrived in the middle of the night. I caught a glimpse of her tightly covered head and his flip hand wave before they turned onto the road that would lead them north.
Buster was hanging out in the Administration building, playing pool with Tony. We were having dinner with Tony’s new girlfriend. I couldn’t wait to meet the girl who’d brought my brother back to civilization. Then Buster and I would go home. We’d put our golfing weekend off for a few weeks. I wanted to check in with my dad, and QP, and sleep in my own bed. With Buster at my side.
Ursula had made it safely to my house and went to work this morning at the store. Vangie said that within her first hour at QP, Ursula had made a five-hundred dollar sale, helping two sisters pick out fabric for their queen-sized quilts. Ina had taken her home and put her in her spare room. Ina’s work at the women’s shelter, Women First, meant Ursula would have access to counseling and job training. With Paul gone, she finally had the opportunity to create a new life for herself. Out in the open. I was hoping she’d stay on with me, working at the store. She might be what QP needed.
“What do you want this quilt to be, Dewey?” Cinnamon asked. She’d come around behind me again.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want it to represent your time here at Asilomar?”
I laughed. “Are you suggesting I add a crouching mountain lion? Or maybe my brother and his rifle,” I said, feeling the pain only after the words were out. It was too early to joke.
She was gentle as always, but firm. “You don’t need to be literal.”
I laughed. “Good thing because I don’t want a quilt with a gun in the middle of it.”
She ignored my lame attempt. “Try this. Close your eyes. Think about the last five days. What part of that do you want to take forward with you? This quilt could serve as a reminder of what you learned this week.”
I was still thinking literally. “You mean, like how you taught me to make a quilt block expand and make it look different?” I was proud of my one Ocean Waves block. Cinnamon had taught me to look at traditional blocks in a new way.
She shook her head, her braid landing on her back, laid her hand on my chest. “What you learned in here.”
I felt her warm palm, heard her bracelets tinkle. In here, I thought. In my heart.
“Close your eyes and tell me what you see.”
I settled back in my chair as she walked away. The first pictures that came up were sad ones. Mercedes, Paul Wiggins, Quentin. All gone.
I shifted into something more serene. The blue ocean, lacy waves, black rocks. The tide pools with their secrets just under the surface. Pelicans splashing down. The dunes ever shifting but sustaining life.
I remembered time spent outdoors with Buster and felt myself smile.
The pictures I took of the Julia Morgan buildings came up next. The bare beams in the Pirates’ Den and the Stuck-Up Inn. The elegant repeat of the roof trusses in Merrill Hall. The great stone fireplace wall in the Administration building. The way the buildings embraced their natural habitat and faced the elements, exposed but strong.
I heard a funny noise and opened my eyes. Buster was standing near the window, trying to get my attention. I laughed as he silently pleaded with me to join him, on bended knee with his hands in a beseeching pose.
I went outside. “What,” I said, mock sternly. His eyes twinkled and I felt myself getting lost in them.
“I saw a raccoon. I had to make sure you were all right,” he said. His cheeks were twitching from restraining his laughter.
“I’m a big girl,” I said, catching his face in my hands and looking into his eyes. “I can fight off the fierce raccoons.”
He caught my waist and kissed me. “I know you can,” he said. “It’s why I love you so.”
“Come back for me in two hours,” I said, pushing him away.
I watched him walk off, and waved when he turned to see if I’d gone back inside.
He’d apologized all night for going hunting for the mountain lion with Tony and not being around when I needed him. I told him it was okay. I was fine on my own. I loved being with him, and I would always want to be with him, but I could make it alone.
I’d found out that I could withstand evil and not lose myself to it. I could yield to the forces beyond my control, help where I could and give up what I couldn’t. I had no way of knowing Paul was following me, trying to get to Ursula. His inability to let go of Ursula had gotten him killed. Quentin’s attachment to the Rose Box, to what he thought was his inheritance had led him to a bitter end as well. Even the mountain lion, unable to control her nature, had met death.
I needed to remember that to not change was to die. I had to acknowledge what was missing. I’d fired Kym and then tried to move on as though nothing had happened. I’d missed Tony in my life, but never acknowledged the hole his absence meant in my life.
Back in the classroom, I flipped through the pictures I’d taken on my laptop. One image stopped as the slideshow stuttered.
I’d taken a picture of a cypress tree, its branches sculpted by the wind into a structure that didn’t resemble a tree anymore. The branches had bent almost at a ninety-degree angle and looked frozen. It sat among a group of similar trees, but was set apart. Perhaps the tree planted closest to it had died.
It was beautiful. Adjusting to the forces greater than itself, but thriving.
This was the final element my quilt needed. The cypress represented what I wanted to be. Open to the elements, but able to bend and change. Able to grow despite forces around it that were stunting its growth. Able to withstand forces of evil and still remain my essential self.
