A Thread of Truth (27 page)

Abigail waved me off. “I don't like talking business at social events. It's rude. We'll discuss it another time.”

Somehow I knew that it would be hard to pin her down as to what time would be more appropriate.

Liza turned the conversation back to her aunt. “But do you hear what everyone is saying? In one way or another, you've touched the lives of everyone in this room.”

Abigail bent her head, looking, for the first time in my memory, sincerely humbled. “Thank you for saying so, Liza. Perhaps it's my age. I find myself increasingly anxious to make the rest of my life useful. Funding libraries and hospitals is important and I certainly have no intention of lessening those efforts; I've got plenty of money to continue that,” she said honestly. “But more and more I believe it's our impact on individuals that matters most. I want to use my wealth and my life for that purpose, not to add to my personal comforts. I've got too much of everything as it is. Every single thing we own actually owns us in some way or another—it all has to be cleaned, or maintained, or fixed, or appraised, or insured, or some such thing. It all takes time, and that, I've realized, is an absolutely finite commodity. Wasted time can't be redeemed. And a wasted life? Well, that's a tragedy.”

I'd never heard Abigail talk like that before. I don't think any of us had. Like everyone else, I just sat looking at her. I couldn't help but think how lucky I am to count Abigail as my friend. She is truly one of a kind.

Abbie coughed. “Anyway…my point is…people are what matter. Family and friends most of all. That's why my dream home would be something smaller and simpler, something like this.” She nodded toward her quilted saltbox. “A pretty house with nice gardens but nothing too complicated—just a nice long lawn in the back where we can have parties in the summer. The inside should have a big living room on one side, room to entertain, but it doesn't have to be bigger than is comfortable for forty or fifty guests.”

I nodded. “I see. Just enough room for intimate gatherings.” Across from me, Ivy pressed her lips together to hide her smile.

“Yes,” Abigail said, not picking up on the joke. “Exactly. Bigger affairs can wait until summer or, if they can't, we can always rent a room at the club. I'd like a nice dining room, an adequate kitchen, and a library for Franklin. Upstairs there should be four or five bedrooms, en suite, and an office for myself. Marriage, I've found, is a wonderful institution, but when you've lived alone as long as I have, it's important to have a room of one's own. The whole thing would probably be about a third the size of the Proctor Street house.”

Margot squashed her eyebrows together. “But doesn't Franklin's house have most of that? Why not just stay there?”

“Yes, Franklin's house is comfortable and I've considered that, but…” Abigail sighed. “I knew Franklin's late wife, Mary. She was a sweet woman and I liked her, but I can't help feel that house still belongs to her. I'd like to make a fresh start with Franklin. It's a new life, a new beginning, for both of us. I'd like a lifestyle and a home that reflects that.

“And,” she said, giving Liza an arch look, “to those ends, I've made a decision. You're quite right, Liza. Mrs. Abigail Burgess Wynne Spaulding is too pretentious and too long. So I've decided to change it to Mrs. Abigail Spaulding.” She sniffed. “Much more practical. Think of the hours I'll save answering my correspondence.”

I think we were all stunned by this announcement. I certainly was. The name Burgess Wynne carried weight in New Bern and while I didn't doubt for a moment that Abigail was and always would be an influential figure among New Bern's elite, her willingness to abbreviate her surname said something about the depth of change she had undergone as well as the depth of the feelings she had for Franklin.

“I think that's wonderful, Abigail. Very sensible.”

“Thank you, Evelyn. But enough about me; tell us about your block. It looks exactly like the house you're living in now.”

“It is.” I laughed. “At the moment, I love my life. I love my little yellow cottage and the little garden out back. I love that I can walk to work. It's perfect for me.”

Margot tipped her head toward my block. “But what about Charlie? Is there room for him in there?”

“We'd need a bigger kitchen, that's for sure. Someday—if he's not sick of me by then—yes, there is room for Charlie. But right this second I'm content with my life. I don't feel the need to change a thing.”

“That must be nice,” Margot said, in a slightly disbelieving tone. “I'm not sure I've ever felt that way.”

“Until recently, neither have I, but yes, it feels pretty good.”

“Well, I guess it's my turn,” Margot said. “I've got the Dutch Colonial with the four dormers on the front.”

“It's very pretty,” Ivy said. “I love the way you quilted all those different shades of gray so the chimney looks like it's made out of stone.”

Margot tried to smile, but all she could manage was a sad little smirk. “Thanks. It's a big house, three bedrooms, two and a half baths, with a river rock fireplace in the living room, bookshelves on both sides, and a big country kitchen with a pantry, and upstairs, in the bedrooms, there are window seats in front of all the dormers, with cushions that match the curtains. It's a big house,” she repeated softly. “A family house.”

Her eyes moved around the circle, making contact with each of us in turn. “I know what you're thinking. You're wondering why I made it so big.”

“We're not wondering at all. You want a family,” I said. “Why shouldn't you?”

Margot's usually tranquil eyes sparked angry blue, like the sapphire flash that comes when live wires connect. “Because I'm never going to have one, that's why! I'm thirty-eight years old. I'm single and I'm always going to be single. I've wasted too much of my life dreaming about honeymoon cruises and nursery wallpaper, that's why!”

Our sweet, soft-spoken Margot was almost shouting. For a moment everyone fell into awkward silence, not knowing how to respond. Then Liza managed to say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

“So…how is Arnie?”

“Liza, shut up!” Margot snapped her head toward Liza and glared at her. Liza shifted backward in her seat as if trying to move out of the line of fire. “I told you before, Arnie isn't interested in me like that! Men are never interested in me like that! I'm a spinster and it's time everybody got used to the idea! I've never been married and I'll never be married. I am sick and tired of getting my hopes up every time a man so much as says hello to me only to have them smashed against the rocks when I find out he is married, or gay, or ‘just wants to be friends.'

“I'm up to here with all of you making it worse by pretending that love is just around the corner for me. It's not! It never was and it never will be! I know you think you're helping, but if you really want to help, help me learn to get used to the idea of being alone for the rest of my life because we all know that's what is going to happen. The sooner I give up all these silly, impossible dreams and face the facts, the better off I'll be. So shut up about Arnie, will you, Liza? Just shut up!”

As she spoke, Margot's grip on the edges of Ivy's new quilt tightened, crushing the pine tree border so it looked like a row of squat, misshapen bushes. When she finished, she flung the quilt away from her body as if it were on fire and covered her eyes and mouth with one hand.

“Okay,” Liza said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

Margot wasn't crying. She was too angry for tears. Her shoulders heaved as she took in big gulps of air, trying to compose herself. After a long minute, her hand lowered until only her mouth was covered. She took a final deep breath and released it in an even, controlled whoosh of air, dropped her hands, and took a fresh grip on her end of the quilt.

“I'm sorry,” she said in a clipped voice. “I shouldn't have gone off like that. But I meant what I said. I don't want to talk about this anymore.” She looked at each of us in turn, beginning with Liza and ending with me. “Understand?”

I nodded acknowledgment along with the others.

“Good. Anyway, tonight isn't about me. It's about binding Ivy's quilt. We've been sitting here for half an hour without sewing a stitch and I still haven't heard about Ivy's house.” Margot's glance shifted from the quilted clapboard cottage with the bright red door to Ivy's face. “Go on,” she said. “Tell us about it.”

T
he evening had gotten off to a rocky start, but by the time we finished stitching the binding on my quilt, things were more or less back to normal.

After Margot's outburst Abigail took charge and helped us shift gears, saying she didn't see why we couldn't sew and talk at the same time or, for that matter why we couldn't drink, sew, and talk at the same time. “We're all accomplished multitaskers here. Thread your needles and get to work. Ivy, you tell everyone about your block while I pour the wine.”

We finished binding the quilt just before nine, but before I left, I pulled four packages wrapped in tissue paper and ribbon from my tote bag and handed one to each of my circle sisters. Each package contained four quilted placemats.

The pattern was the same: a big star block in the middle, with two bands of fabric on either side to make a rectangle, but the fabrics varied according to the tastes and favorite colors of the recipient. For Abigail, I'd picked a blue toile with complementary pale yellows and blue; for Evelyn, jeweled-toned batiks in turquoise, green, and eggplant; for Margot, an assortment of 1930s reproduction fabrics in pinks, greens, and creams; and for Liza, a jazzy novelty print of bright jelly beans on a black background with yellow, red, and purple fabrics that matched the candies. Included with each gift was a card with pictures drawn by Bethany and Bobby and a note from me.

The gifts I made them weren't expensive or exotic, but they were one-of-a-kind and from my heart.

When she read the note, Abigail lifted her hand, rested it lightly on her chest, and actually got a little teary-eyed. “Thank you, Ivy. This is just about the nicest gift I've ever received.”

Liza loved the jelly bean theme. “These are so cute! They actually make me want to cook something just so I can use them.”

“Pink and green are my favorite colors. How did you know?” Margot asked, adjusting the new pink and green knitted scarf she wore around her throat. I just laughed.

Ever the quilting teacher, Evelyn lifted her placemats close and studied the stitching. “Just look at the points on those stars. They meet perfectly!”

Like I said, they weren't fancy gifts, but everyone seemed to like them and I was glad. After all they'd done for me, it was nice to be able to return the favor, if only in a small way.

When everybody was done opening the gifts, I looked at my watch. “Yikes! It's almost nine. I've got to scoot. I told Karen I'd be home by ten after. I'll take the dishes downstairs and wash them.”

“Don't worry about it,” Evelyn said. “You go pick up the kids. We can take care of this.”

I hated leaving the mess for everyone else to clean up, but I really did have to go. “Are you sure?”

Margot started collecting the empty wineglasses and plates. “It's fine. Go on. We'll be right behind you.”

I gave everyone a hurried hug and headed for the stairs. “Wait!” Abigail called. “You almost forgot something.” She folded up the quilt and handed it to me.

“Thanks. I can't wait to get home and hang it up. Thank you all so much. Really. I wish there was some way I could…” My voice caught in my throat.

Abigail fluttered her hands like she was trying to shoo away a pesky fly. “Enough of that now. Go on! Go pick up your children.”

“Okay.” I smiled as I ran down the stairs and out the rear door into the back alley where I'd parked. I locked the door, double-checking to make sure it was secure. The others all lived close enough to walk home, and on such a pleasant evening they would, going out the front door of the shop and locking it behind them.

It was a lovely night, warm for September. The moon was full and bright, streaming a beam of bluish light into the alley.

That's why I was able to see the man. His back was toward me and he was hunched over the side of my car. The strained play of muscles under his shirt told me he was trying mightily to jimmy open the car door.

For a split second my mind raced back to that night so long ago when I had been startled awake by the sound of a stranger trying to break into the backseat of the car where Bethany and Bobby were sleeping. Then, my heart had pounded in terror. Now, it pounded again, in anger. I recognized that head of hair, the set of those shoulders. This was no stranger.

“Hodge! Get away from my car!”

He flinched ever so slightly, startled by the sound of my voice, but then his shoulders dropped and he turned, smooth and slow, to face me. “Ivy. I've been waiting for you. Did you have to work late?” He smiled.

“What are you doing?” I asked and then answered my own question. “You were trying to break into my car.”

His head hinged back on his neck and his brows drew together to signal his surprise at my accusation, but I knew what I'd seen. “No, I wasn't. I was just trying the door to see if you'd left it open. I've been waiting out here for a while and it's cold. I just thought I'd be warmer waiting in the car.”

It was close to seventy-five degrees outside, but I didn't bother pointing that out. Something I'd learned about Hodge years ago was, the less I let him talk, the better. If you let him talk long enough, he could convince you that water ran uphill.

I pulled my car keys out of my pocket and readied them in my hand. “Get away from my car. I have to go home.”

He grinned. “Well, actually, it's my car. I paid for it. Remember?”

I didn't say anything.

Hodge leaned back against the driver's side door, casually crossed his right foot in front of his left and his arms across his chest, like a teenager hanging out on a street corner, and smiled broadly. “Ivy,” he said, drawing out my name and then laughing. “Come on. Don't look at me like that. I was just kidding. Though, it actually is my car, but big deal. I don't care about the car.”

He paused for a moment, gauging his timing, and let the smile fade slowly from his face and melt into a mask of concern tinged with regret. He was very, very good. Utterly convincing. Or would have been if I didn't know him so well. He sighed heavily, a sound that even a year ago would have made me sorry I'd doubted him.

A year is a long time.

He shifted his weight from the car door to his feet, stood again, uncrossed his arms and opened his hands expansively. “Listen, I know you're upset at finding me out here, but I'm not trying to scare you and I wasn't trying to break into your car. Honestly. We need to talk, don't you think? I tried to call you but couldn't find your number.”

“It's unlisted. I don't want to talk to you. If you have something to say, you can call my lawyer. He's in the book.”

“Yeah, I know. I know all about your lawyer. And mine. That's why I want to talk to you. Ivy…baby, we need to talk. This whole thing has gotten out of hand, you know? Lawyers. Social workers. I just…” He swallowed hard, as if trying to keep his emotions in check. “I just want you to come home. You and me and the kids—we're a family. We're not exactly Ozzie and Harriet, but we belong together. I don't want a divorce. And if you think about it, you don't really want one either, do you?”

“Yes, I do, Hodge. I want a divorce. Now get away from my car.”

“You're mad at me.” He lifted up open hands, an admission. “I know. I know. That night you left…I was wrong, one hundred percent. I'm sorry. But I was crazy, jealous. I thought you were fixing yourself up for somebody else, you know? Ivy, baby,” he pleaded, “I love you so much it hurts. That's what made me act like that. But, it won't happen again, I swear it won't. You wanted to teach me a lesson and you did.”

He tilted his head to one side and shrugged as if conceding the point. “When I came home that night and you weren't there, I was so mad. I punched a hole through the bathroom door. Had to get Kittenger to come over and stitch me up.”

He rolled his eyes and chuckled, as if embarrassed by the image of his younger, more impulsive self now seen through older and wiser eyes. Out of everything he'd said so far, this was the one detail I found believable: That upon coming home and finding we'd fled, he'd put his fist through a door. I had no doubt he was capable of doing so again.

“Don't worry. I fixed it.” He looked at me with smiling eyes, searching for signs of softening in mine, and then went on. “Anyway, after you left, I was really mad for a couple of days, but it was good, you know? It gave me some time to think about how I'd acted and then I felt really bad. I shouldn't have let myself fly off the handle like that, Ivy. I figured that's why you left; you wanted to let me stew in my own juice for a while. I kept thinking you'd be back any day. But when a week passed and then two, I thought maybe something had happened to you. I was so worried about you and the kids. You have no idea. I missed you so much.”

It was a mistake to engage him, I knew that, but the enormity of this lie shook my resolve. I couldn't let him get away with it.

“Really? Is that why you never even bothered to report us missing? Or why you haven't shown up for any of your scheduled visits with the kids?”

Hodge wasn't used to me challenging him. He pressed his lips together, trying to keep his temper under control. “You mean my
supervised
visits with the kids? Yeah, Ivy, I was really anxious to abandon my business responsibilities and drive five hours so I could sit in some government office and visit my kids with some snotty social worker watching to make sure I didn't smack them or look at them sideways! Yeah, I was real excited about doing that, Ivy. What father wouldn't be?”

His voice was raised. I knew I should tread more lightly, but part of me was happy to see him angry, happy to know that, for once, I was the one holding the strings and making him dance to my tune, piercing holes in the mask of composure he was working so hard to maintain. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I could almost hear him mentally counting to ten as he told himself to calm down.

“And I did report you missing,” he insisted. A lie. “The police must have lost the paperwork or something, but I did file a report. Not at first, though. I didn't want cops chasing after you like you were some kind of criminal or something. After all, it was just a little marital squabble.”

I remembered hurrying between the chest of drawers and the bed as I'd filled a suitcase with clothes, rushing to make sure we were gone before he returned, blood dripping from my lacerated hand onto the carpet, the pain, catching a glimpse of my left eye in the mirror above the dresser, swollen purple turning to black. A marital squabble.

“And anyway, I really thought you'd come back. I didn't think you could make it without me, but I was wrong. Okay? I admit it, I was wrong. You found a job, a place to live. You proved your point. Now it's time to come home.”

“I am home.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure you are. Come off it, Ivy! You can't seriously mean you'd rather live here, in this crappy little town, in your dingy little apartment, working at your dead-end job, than go back to your beautiful house right on the golf course with the Jacuzzi and three-car garage?”

“Yes, I can. I do.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and decided to try one more time. “Ivy, I know you're mad. I know you're trying to punish me. I get it. I really do. But you have to believe me. I love you and you have to come home now.” I shook my head, but he ignored me. “It's all going to be different, I promise. A whole new start. We're going to go on a second honeymoon, back to the Caribbean. I already bought the tickets. I called the hotel and reserved the same bungalow we had on our honeymoon. It'll be a fresh start for us. And when we get back, I'm going to buy you a new car. Any model you want. And I'm going to hire a housekeeper so you have more time for yourself. And, if you want, we can even go to one of those marriage counselors. You'll see. I'm a changed man. From here on out, it's going to be a whole new ballgame, but I don't want to hear one more word about divorce, ever again. Do you hear me?” His nostrils flared, white with frustration in the face of my silent refusal.

“Do you hear me? You're coming home,” he declared. “And you're doing it now! You belong at home.”

“I belong where
I
say I belong. I belong to myself. I'm nobody's property. Not anymore. Now get out of my way.”

With my keys still in my hand, I took three long steps toward the car and turned my shoulder slightly, trying to shove Hodge away from the car door. The heat of my anger made me feel powerful and strong, deceptively so. He never supposed I'd have the nerve to challenge him physically. The surprising force of my body against his muscled torso caught him off-guard and he lost his balance, tottering a good four feet from the door he'd been blocking. Seeing my chance, I clicked the keychain to unlock the car door, accidentally dropping my quilt in the dirt as I sprang for the door and wrenched it open. I tried to get behind the wheel and slam the door, but I wasn't fast enough.

I felt a searing pain in my scalp as Hodge grabbed hold of my hair and dragged me from the car. I tried to grab on to the interior frame of the car, but it was no good. He hauled me out of the car. My flat-soled tennis shoes scuffled on the loose gravel as I scrambled to keep my feet under me; if he got me on the ground, I'd have no chance of escape, and escape was the only thing on my mind.

The sense of power I'd known a bare moment before had fled; terror rushed in to fill the void. I fought back my fear, tried to get a grip on myself, watching for an opening. I knew there would only be one.

Still holding my hair with one hand, he dragged me away from the open car door toward the hood. He twisted his left hand backwards, slapping me as hard as he could with his knuckles and wedding band leading the blow, knocking my head sideways so the pain ripped through my cheeks and my scalp simultaneously.

He shoved me back against the hood of the car, grabbed the waist of my jeans, unsnapping the closure and opening the zipper in one movement. “You don't belong to anybody? Is that what you said? Is that what you said to me?” he bellowed.