A Thread of Truth (33 page)

“I've always known that,” Abigail said with a proud little smile. “He's handled my business affairs for thirty years. Of course, now that we're family, I get a reduced rate on billable hours.”

Abigail, who had poured her Dr Pepper into a glass, took a tentative sip and pinched up her face in disgust. “Something must be wrong with mine; it's like drinking cherry perfume.”

“No, that sounds about right,” Mary Dell said and took another swig from her soda can. “It's an acquired taste.”

Abigail pushed her glass away and got up to pour herself a glass of water from the pitcher that was sitting on the end of the table.

Margot picked up where she'd left off. “The really amazing part was how Franklin tricked Dr. Kittenger into spilling the beans. We didn't have access to Kittenger's travel records at all, but Franklin had been watching him in the courtroom and noticed how nervous he was. He figured that, some way or other, Kittenger had to be directly involved. Somebody had to make those deposits and, from what Ivy told us, we knew that Hodge never traveled out of town overnight. Franklin guessed Kittenger was the mule, but he didn't know for sure. All he did was ask Kittenger if he liked traveling to the Caymans and that was it! He cracked like an egg.”

Mary Dell whistled her admiration. “That is some story, Margot. And I particularly like the part where you and that cute little Arnie got to work side by side the whole time, smokin' the midnight hour just like Perry Mason and Della Street.” Mary Dell rested her chin on her elbow and raised her eyebrows suggestively. “So tell me, Della. Did any sparks fly between you and Mr. Mason? Any foolin' around with the legal briefs?”

Margot turned bright red and the smile faded from her face.

Oh no
, I thought.
Here we go again.
The last time anybody hinted at any possibility of romance between Arnie and her, Margot had burst into tears. Ivy and I both started to say something, anything, to deflect Mary Dell's imprudent inquiry, but Margot beat us to it.

“Actually,” she said softly. “He's asked me to go on a picnic with him tomorrow afternoon. A date. A real date.”

“He asked you out?”

“Margot, that's wonderful!”

“Arnie is such a great guy!”

The smile slowly returned to Margot's lips. “I know. But I told him I couldn't go.”

I stared at Margot, completely confused. “Why not?”

“I'm on the schedule tomorrow. You and Mary Dell and Howard are going up to the lake to see the leaves and I said I'd cover for you, remember?”

“Margot! Are you kidding? Don't worry about that. We've got all week to see the leaves. You go on your date with Arnie.”

Margot's face lit up. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Heck, yes!” Mary Dell affirmed. “We can watch the store. Evelyn can run the register, I'll cut yardage, and Howard can help people figure out what color fabrics go together best. We've got you covered, honey. So you get on the horn and tell Arnie you're going on that picnic. Scoot! Young love can't wait.”

“Well, I wouldn't know about
young
love, but thanks, Mary Dell. Thanks, Evelyn.” Margot let out a little squeal of excitement and ran out the door and down the stairs, where she could talk to Arnie in private.

Mary Dell smiled as she reached toward the serving platter and piled her plate high with dripping, spicy chicken wings. “Well, that worked out, didn't it? I'm glad. She seems about as sweet as tea.”

“She is,” Liza confirmed.

“And speaking of young love, Liza, how are things going with you and that good-looking Garrett?”

“Mary Dell!” I gasped. “You can't ask her about that! Not when I'm sitting right here!”

Mary Dell hinged back, offended. “Well, why not? Heaven knows you're never going to ask, you're much too polite for that, and inquiring minds want to know. So come on, Liza, what's the scoop?”

I started to protest—she shouldn't have to answer personal questions about her boyfriend in the presence of his mother—but Liza waved me off.

“It's okay, Evelyn. I don't mind. The scoop is that we're in an exclusive relationship, but”—she shrugged noncommittally—“that's it for now. I've got a year to go before graduation, then I've got to figure out how to make some kind of living with a degree in studio art. So for right now that's about as far into my future as I can see.”

“Well, you've sure got an eye for color,” Mary Dell said. “Not that I'd know personally, of course. Everybody knows I've got no more taste than a hothouse tomato, but Howard was bragging on you. He just loves all the displays you did for the shop and the way you arranged all the stock into seasons. Said it helps people imagine way more possible color combinations than they would if the fabric was just sorted like a color wheel. You've got a real special talent.”

“Thanks. It's not a big deal, really, but I do like working with fabric.”

“Well, darling,” Abigail interjected, “maybe that's how you can make a living with a degree in studio art. All these fabrics must be designed by someone. Perhaps you could do that after you graduate. If you'd like, I could make a few calls…”

Liza held up a hand to stop her aunt. “Thanks, Abbie, but let's not go calling in any favors yet. Besides, whatever it is I end up doing, I want to get there on my own, because of my own talents and hard work, not because I'm your niece. Okay?”

Abigail's mouth flattened into a line. “Fine. Have it your way. I just don't see what's so wrong about using connections if you've got them. A million girls would…”

“Abbie,” Liza warned.

“Fine.”

Mary Dell wisely changed the subject. “Ivy, what are your plans now?”

“Things have been so crazy the last few months, I haven't had much chance to think about the future. I'll stay on at Cobbled Court—at least, I will if Evelyn still wants me.”

“I do,” I assured her. “You're not going anywhere. Don't even think about it.”

Ivy smiled. “Other than that, my biggest concern is finding a new place to live. But you know, I'm not really that worried about it,” she said in a voice that sounded almost surprised. “One thing I've learned recently is that, one way or another, things have a way of working out. It's good to know what direction you're heading in, but it's better to be flexible about your route. Sometimes the back roads turn out to be the fastest way home.”

“In other words,” Mary Dell said sagely, “when life hands you scraps, make a quilt.”

“Right,” Ivy said.

Abigail narrowed her eyes and tapped her fingernail on the table thoughtfully. “Speaking of homes, I heard some very interesting news today. Homes,” she mused. “You know something Ivy, I just might have an idea about that…”

I
t's a good thing there aren't many cops in New Bern. If there were, Franklin Spaulding would have to give up his regular practice in favor of spending his days clearing up his wife's tickets.

“Ivy! Quit being such a Nervous Nelly. Open your eyes. I wasn't within a mile of hitting that man.”

I followed orders. She was right. We'd missed the pedestrian, but only because he had quick reflexes. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw him standing on the side of the road, shaking his fist at Abigail's car.

The tires squealed as she made a hard left onto Proctor. “There it is. On the right.” Abigail pointed to the right and swerved the car in the same direction, finally coming to a jerky stop in front of her enormous white mansion.

“But…this is your house. I can't afford to rent your house. I can't even afford to heat it.”

Abigail sighed, impatient that I was so slow to catch on. “No, not the main house, Ivy. I told you, I sold the main house. The Wyatts have wanted a house on Proctor for years, but they almost never come on the market. When I called and offered to sell them mine, they jumped at the chance. Everything worked out beautifully. I called Donna Walsh and told her to make an offer on the old elementary school before some wily contractor beat us to it. The proceeds from my house enabled her to make a fifty percent down payment on the school. So everybody's happy—me, Donna, the Wyatts, the school district, not to mention the families who will live in the newer, bigger, better Stanton Center!” Abigail beamed, entirely pleased with herself.

“Even those unimaginative drones in zoning have agreed it's a perfect solution! I'm still irritated that they blocked my original plan, but when I heard that the school district was building a new elementary school and wanted to sell the old one, I realized it was perfect for our purposes—even larger than my house and in a more convenient location. Isn't it lovely how everything worked out? Of course, we still have a good bit of money to raise, but I've already made a few calls. People have been very generous with their pledges. When the bell rings to dismiss the students in June, we'll have a construction team standing by, ready to tear out old walls, electrical, and plumbing, and rebuild the top two floors of the school into fourteen new apartments! Isn't it exciting?”

“It is,” I agreed sincerely. “I'm just having a hard time understanding where I fit in with all this. You said you found a perfect, affordable rental for me and now we're sitting here on Proctor. Abigail, there is nothing on this street that I can afford to rent.”

“Oh yes, there is.” She pointed to a spot slightly behind us. “There. The carriage house. I still own it. I had it subdivided from the rest of the property. Remember?”

I twisted to my right to see where she was pointing. And there it was: the red door like a laughing mouth, two winking windows for eyes. “Oh, my gosh,” I whispered. “The house that smiles…”

“What?”

I turned. Abigail was staring at me. “Never mind. It's just…it's just something that Bethany said one day. It doesn't matter. Abbie,
this
is the house you wanted to show me?”

“Yes. Of course. Why else would I have brought you here? Really, Ivy. Do try to keep up. Focus. You're beginning to make me wonder about you.”

“Sorry. I knew the big house was yours. I just never made the connection that the little house went with it.”

“Well, it does,” she said, absentmindedly picking up the reading glasses she wore on a chain around her neck and examining the lenses. “Originally, I'd planned on moving here myself, but that was before the wedding and, really, it's too small for both Franklin and me; besides, I've found a piece of property that will be just right for the house I'd like to build. Very similar to the one I designed for your quilt. I've already got an architect working on plans.”

She found a spot on her glasses, breathed on the lens, and rubbed at the smudge with the sleeve of the sweater that hung carelessly over her shoulders. “I thought about Liza, but she's not interested. You saw her quilted house, all soaring expanses and walls of glass. She doesn't want to live in an antique with squat ceilings and six over six windows.”

“Well…couldn't you just sell it?” I spoke hesitantly, not wanting her to agree with the idea but knowing that, in all fairness, I had to put it out there. Selling would certainly be the most logical solution.

“I could, but honestly, I don't want to. Call me sentimental, but I've lived here a long time. Woolley and I may not have been madly in love, but we did have some good times together. I guess this is my way of honoring those memories.” She shrugged, unable to put her feelings into precise language, but I understood what she meant.

“Then, when we were at the quilt-circle meeting last week, I realized it would be perfect for you and the children. At least”—she smiled—“that's my opinion, but you'll have to judge for yourself. Shall we go inside?”

 

Abigail turned the key in the lock and opened a door that led into a living room with a beamed ceiling, built-in bookshelves under the windows, and a deep stone fireplace. I couldn't breathe.

“Well,” Abigail said brightly. “What do you think? It needs painting, but it's solid and the roof is practically new. There are three bedrooms upstairs and two baths. There's a half-bath off the kitchen and…”

I swallowed hard. “Abigail. The kitchen. Does it have blue and yellow tile?”

She nodded slowly. “Why, yes. Yes, it does.”

“And distressed white cabinets with glass fronts?”

“That's right. How did you know? Have you been here before?”

I turned in a slow circle, taking in every inch of this oh-so-familiar room until I faced the open door. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw my father standing on the stoop, smiling, and waiting…

Ivy Peterman

I
f you wait until Christmas Eve morning to buy your tree and ornaments, you can get both very cheap. So we did.

Of course, by that time the selection was pretty limited, but the trunk of the tree is mostly straight and when I turned it to face the corner, you can barely see the bald spot in back. There were plenty of strings of lights left at the discount store, but only odd boxes of ornaments. We dug through the pile and found one burgundy, one pearl, and one copper box of glass balls and decided that together with the white paper and silver glittered snowflakes we'd made, they would look beautiful. And they do, especially in the glow of the firelight.

Bethany took two of the smallest burgundy balls from the box of ornaments and looped them over the tops of her ears for earrings. “Mommy, how do I look?”

“Oooh, very glamorous. There's just one thing missing.” I took a pinch of silver tinsel from the box and sprinkled a few strands in her hair. “Perfect!”

Bethany giggled. “Mommy, you're weird.”

“Yeah, I know. I get that a lot.”

Bethany glanced at the clock that stood on the mantel and creased her tiny brow. “Only an hour until they get here,” she said. “I'll help you clean up this mess.”

“No, peanut. That's all right.” Bethany is always so good, so eager to please. More like an adult than a little girl and it worries me. I know that kids who've gone through the kinds of experiences Bethany has tend to be either too good or completely the opposite, angry and lashing out at everyone. Given the options, I suppose the former is better than the latter, but it's still a concern, one we're working on. These things take time.

“I can clean up. Why don't you go in the kitchen with Bobby and finish the oranges?” The kids made presents for everyone who was coming to the party—pomanders, oranges studded with spicy sweet-smelling cloves to hang in closets.

“Okay,” she agreed grudgingly. “Call me if you need help.”

“I will.”

“Should I check on the lasagnas?”

“I already set the timer. You don't need to worry about a thing. Go on and enjoy yourself. Be creative!”

“All right,” she said slowly. “But are you sure you don't…”

“Bethany.” I laughed. “Scoot! I've got everything under control. Trust me.”

These things take time.

 

I still have the dream, but it's different now.

The bell rings. I open the door and there is my father, smiling, waiting. I invite him to come in. That's what he was waiting for all along. Behind him comes my mother, then Abigail, then Evelyn, then Margot and a long line of other people, Franklin, Charlie, Liza, Garrett, Mary Dell, and Carmel Sunday and, believe it or not, even Hodge. I have to tell you, that last one threw me at first but, in a way, it makes sense.

I spent so much time living a life that was almost true. I don't do that anymore. Now, everything that's happened to me—the good, the bad, the mistakes of the past and my hopes for the future—is part of the life I'm living today. Nothing gets ignored, or denied, or left to lurk on the doorstep. I've invited it all in. I've embraced the truth and it truly has set me free. Maybe that's why we had to live in the Stanton Center for all that time. It's a place of transition, a way station for women on the road to learning who they are and what they can become. Until I faced my past, I wasn't ready to come home. Now I am.

Abigail refused to accept a deposit for first and last month's rent, tearing up the check I handed her. I want to stand on my own two feet, and I am, but that shredded check really did make things easier. My savings bought three new mattresses. That was the biggest expense. The rest—dressers, sofa, coffee table, and a wonderful antique oak dining table with six chairs—we bought very cheap at tag sales. I could still use some more lamps and it would be nice to find a side chair, but that can wait.

I've been painting the house, room by room, giving Bobby's room a coat of sapphire blue, Bethany's a sweet princess pink. The other walls are now a sunny yellow that look cheery even on the snowiest winter days. For now, I've given up quilting in favor of drapery sewing. Soon there will be fresh, crisp curtains at every window.

It's all worked out pretty well for everybody—for me, for my children, and for Abigail, who, these days, is all about architects and blueprints. And not just for the house she is designing for herself and Franklin to live in, the house with the square footage that seems to get just a teeny bit larger with every updated set of plans, but also the blueprints for the new Stanton Center—make that the Stanton Center
and
the Spaulding Women's Center for New Beginnings.

The bottom floor of the old school will house New Beginnings, a place where victims of domestic violence can get the education, training, encouragement, and support they need to begin life anew. There will be classes for women who want to earn their high school equivalency diplomas, or study for college entrance exams, or learn interview skills, plus counseling and recovery groups, parenting classes, and vocational training.

Eventually, they hope to have a wide range of vocational classes, each sponsored by a local business owner who has agreed to offer hands-on internships for interested participants, but to begin we'll just have three: an administrative assistant program sponsored by the law firm of Spaulding, Ketchum, and Ryan; a culinary arts program sponsored by the Grill on the Green; and a retail and quilting program offered by Cobbled Court Quilts. Everything should be up and running by this time next year.

Evelyn is very excited about the program and so am I. This is going to be a chance for women just like me to pick up the tattered scraps of their lives and stitch together a new vision of themselves and their future. Some will only pass through, learn to run a cash register or to make a quilt or two, and will then move on, taking what they've learned with them; but others will stay on at Cobbled Court Quilts, taking jobs and staying here for a season, or a year, or forever. The way the business has continued to grow at the shop, we'll be able to offer jobs to many of our interns.

And the best part? Evelyn and Donna Walsh took me to lunch last week and asked if I would be willing to head up the Cobbled Court internship program. We're going to promote Karen to Assistant Manager for the department so she can fill in for the ten hours a week I'll spend at New Beginnings, but I'm going to be in charge of the whole thing! Isn't that something? I could never have imagined that the pain and trouble in my life could be turned around and used for good, but it will be.

It's just like that verse Margot taught me, the one that was her grandmother's favorite and now is mine: “All things work to good for those who love God and are called to His purpose.” I believe that now. I believe that God can and is taking all the stuff in my life—my pain and past, my shame and sorrows, the lies and losses, all of it—and using it for a good purpose. And I believe it all started on that dark night, when I was lost and frightened and didn't know how to find the road. That was the night I tossed up a puny, mustard seed prayer, asking for guidance from someone who, at the time, I wasn't even sure existed. I don't feel that way anymore.

Soon, my doorbell will ring and the people I've come to think of as my family—Abigail, Franklin, Liza, Evelyn, Garrett, Charlie, Margot, and Arnie—will come through the door carrying armloads of presents to go under the tree and platters filled with food to lay on the table next to the lasagnas I've got baking in the oven. We'll share a meal, exchange gifts and love and laughter and, when it gets dark, we'll tromp through the drifted snow, up the street, across the Green, and into the church for the candlelight Christmas Eve service, packing into the pews cheek by jowl, kneeling next to the others who want to come this night and say a prayer of thanks for unexpected gifts.

I already know what my prayer will be. With Bethany on one side of me and Bobby on the other, I will kneel down, close my eyes, and say: