Threads of Hope: Quilts of Love Series (9 page)

Nina stepped into the elevator and stared straight into the eyes of Brady Lambert. “What . . . how . . . why are you here?”
At least I’m incoherent when no one else is here
. Before she could step aside, he reached around to press the button for their floor. His arm grazed hers and she caught a wisp of his familiar Dolce & Gabbana woody-citrus scent.

“Hmm. I still work here, right?’ He shifted his black leather camera bag just as Nina attempted to sidestep him. But, too late. The bag hit her cup, and launched a spray of foam and coffee. Some of it splashed on Nina’s pumps, but Brady’s grey cable-knit sweater soaked up the rest.

“Thanks. What a great way to start my day,” he said and glared at the half-dry napkin Nina offered him as if she just pulled it out of a baby’s diaper.

She was just about to tell him that he should be glad the cup was half full, and he needed to be more careful swinging heavy camera bags in small spaces when the doors opened on their floor. Brady had a foot out the door before it had opened all the way. He pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket and, as he left the elevator, turned to Nina and said, “Elise must be saving a bundle in dry-cleaning bills keeping you off the big stories.”

Stunned into muteness, Nina rode the elevator right back down to the parking garage again. Fortunately, no one got on, so she had time to compose herself and think of places she could have finished off what was left of her coffee on Brady. And when did he become so snarky? And why?

When she finally made it through the office doors, Nina knew the latte aroma did as well.

Michelle raised her eyes over her reading glasses. “I’ve been wondering when you’d surface. Mr. Happy steamrolled in here complaining about your lack of gracefulness. He might have mentioned something about a dry cleaning bill . . .” She smiled at Nina. “Have a nice day, dearie. Ignore the malcontents.”

Nina dropped her cup in the wastebasket by Michelle’s desk. “The thrill is gone . . .”

“Speaking of thrills, I emailed you a few messages. Seems you’re stirring the nepotism pot in that county election.”

Maybe Aretha was wrong about this one. How can a quilt auction compete with election fraud? Readers want corruption exposed, not benefit dollars
. Nina decided she’d postpone a discussion with Elise about her idea for an ongoing feature story about the We Care benefit and auction. If anyone understood the importance of news that mattered, it was Elise.

Nina planned to meet Aretha after work so they could shop for something to wear to the benefit. After spending most of the day talking to county officials, the District Attorney’s office, more research into how contracts were awarded and to whom, Nina was ready for an afternoon that involved nothing more than, “love it/hate it.” She thought they were going to start at The Galleria, but Aretha’s text said to meet at a shop on Richmond.

“Why are we here?” Nina whispered to Aretha as they walked over to a rack of cocktail dresses. “I thought we were going shopping for new dresses, not used ones.”

Aretha laughed. “Look at this store. Does this look like a used clothing shop?”

Nina swiveled her eyes from one end of the store to the other. Chandeliers, Oriental rugs, period furniture. “No, it doesn’t. But I still don’t understand what we’re going to find here.”

“Look, we can’t compete on the same playing field as some of those divas who’ll be sashaying around at that benefit. We’re so not on the same playing field, we couldn’t even be the water girls.” Aretha scoped out the cocktail dress rack, flipping price tags as she talked. “So, we’re not even going to try to play their game. Vintage clothes are classics. Just because they’re old, doesn’t mean they’re outdated. We’ll make a statement, but in a way that’s unique and sophisticated. I promise.”

Several racks and hours later, they each found the dress of their dreams. Aretha bought an off-shoulder, wine velvet dress with a scallop trim on the neckline, shoulders, and back. Nina’s dress from the 1950s seemed to have been designed to fit her. The black taffeta dress had a polka dot illusion net bodice, cropped sheer sleeves, and a tulle skirt lining.

Nina had heard Brady might be there. She hoped so. Maybe seeing her in this dress would cause him to redefine
clumsy
.

Peyton and I are about to leave. We wouldn’t mind swinging by to pick you up,” said Elise. “Would we?” She directed the question to her husband, who must have been in the room when she called. Peyton answered loudly enough for Greg to hear him, “I think Greg trusts that you’re telling the truth.”

Greg laughed. “Ask him if he wants me to pick him up instead.”

“The two of you deserve one another,” she said, the smirk apparent in her voice. “But the truth is, he looks so great in a tux, I think I want to walk in with a trophy husband on my arm.”

“Thanks for the offer, really. I’m leaving as soon as I tuck Jazarah in.”

“Give the little princess a hug and kiss from the two of us. See you soon,” said Elise.

Greg tucked his phone in his pocket and headed upstairs to his daughter’s room. He knew his sister wanted him to ride to the benefit with them to spare his having to walk in alone. And he appreciated, not only that she offered, but that she didn’t say the obvious. But for Greg, it wasn’t just the arriving by himself that magnified Lily’s absence on nights like tonight.
He missed her little rituals, like when she’d lift her hair so he could zip her dress, and he’d always take the opportunity to softly kiss the back of her neck. Or when she’d spray a new perfume on the inside of her wrist, then hold it up to him to ask if he approved. And before they’d walk out the door, she’d make him stand perfectly still while she adjusted his tie, smoothed the lapels on his jacket, and declared him presentable with a soft kiss. Then she’d laugh that she’d just given him a lipstick cheek, and she’d smooth it over with her hand that was as soft as her face.

Will someone ever love me that way again?
And, as he opened the door to Jazarah’s room, he wondered if someone would ever love her again with Lily’s fierceness and abundance. One thing he knew for sure. They were a package deal. And that was his prayer, always, that God would open his heart to a woman who would accept them both. A woman after God’s own heart.

Greg tapped lightly on the partially closed door. “Is there a special little girl here?”

“Daddy, Daddy, come see!” His daughter’s excitement reached him before he stepped into the room.

Paloma sat, Jazarah on her lap, in the pink-and-white ticked armchair that Jazarah called her reading chair. The small crib quilt that Lily had sewn for her while they waited for word they could finally fly to her was an uneven ball of fabric bunched in her arms. Every night Greg tucked her in with the quilt, always showing her the square that Lily stitched with, “I’ll love you forever,” and his daughter’s sleepy eyes would blink as she’d clutch the quilt to her chest and whispered, “J woves you, too.”

Jazarah waved him over and pointed to the page in Max Lucado’s
You Are Special
where Eli, the woodcarver, explains to the wooden Wemmick Punchinello that the stickers the others use to label him only matter if he lets himself care about them.
Greg loved the story’s message, that joy comes from what God thinks of us, not others, and that in His eyes we are all special, regardless of how we look.

When he and Lily bought the book years ago, they knew their daughter would face all sorts of issues and not just because of her race. Being an HIV-positive child would not be a ticket to popularity. But what made Jazarah special was what made her different, and what made her different would make her later question her self-worth. As her parents, Greg and Lily were determined their daughter grow with the conviction that nothing could sway God from loving her.
You Are Special
became a book that they gave to their own families and many of their adult friends, some of whom apparently either forgot or were never told the message.

His daughter pointed to Paloma’s face, then his, then her own. “No ’tickers!” She grinned as she clapped her hands.

“Come hug me, no sticker girl.” Greg held out his arms, and she reached for him. He gathered her close with her familiar just bathed, lavender soap smell and still damp hair. “Paloma will tuck you in tonight because daddy is going to Aunt Elise’s party.”

Jazarah loosened her arms from around his neck and leaned back against his arms, her brown eyes targeted on his own. “Why?” Her expression, so solemn and yet so parental-like, made him want to laugh.

“Remember Daddy told you about the party to raise money so more mommies and daddies can bring home beautiful little girls like you?”

She glanced up at the ceiling, then back at him. “Uh-huh.”

Greg kissed her forehead, then settled her in Paloma’s lap. “Well, that’s where I’m going. I’ll wake you up in the morning, and we can have pancakes for breakfast.”

She grabbed her quilt and wiggled comfortably back in her reading spot. “Like me?”

He laughed. “Yes, I’ll make ‘J’ pancakes just for you.” One morning he made pancakes in an assortment of alphabet shapes, and they hadn’t been round since. Unless they were the letter “O.”

“Both doses, right?” Greg asked Paloma as he smoothed his daughter’s hair.

She nodded. “Yes, sir. Both on time.”

Even though he asked the question daily, and even though she answered the same daily, Greg appreciated that Paloma responded each time as if his daughter’s required regimen of drugs was new. She knew, because of the drugs she took herself, that missing a dose of antiretroviral therapy or even juggling the times the drugs were administered were the biggest threats to HIV-positive kids. A disruption in the schedule either way could mean chancing the virus would become resistant to the therapy.

“Great. Thanks.” Greg kissed his daughter one more time. “I love you, my special Wemmick.”

She smiled and mashed her quilt against her chest. “Me, too. Forever and ever.”

When Nina entered the Astor Ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel, every notion she had about attending a benefit of this magnitude hid in shame. And she promised herself to never roll her eyes again when someone described an event as “breathtaking.” Well, perhaps if they sounded like Marilyn Monroe when they said it, she might have to reconsider.

The scene before her was spectacular. Tens of thousands of sparkling white lights canopied the ceiling. Huge spindly trees
wrapped in the same white lights branched across the room and met one another. Tables were draped in subdued silver cloths of polished cotton. The tailored chair covers matched the tablecloths but were anchored to the chairs with wide white satin ribbons wrapped around the backs and tied with generous bows. Riding the waves of conversations, the stringed music of the violins and harps sailed across the ballroom.

Thanks to Aretha, she didn’t feel at all uncomfortable among the couture collections that surrounded her. Brady did attend, camera in hand, and she could tell by the appraising nod when he walked past her that he didn’t, at first, recognize her. Aretha told her that he turned around, took a few steps toward her, then must have changed his mind because he stopped and headed in his original direction. Nina decided that if their paths did cross again that night, she’d ask him why he wasn’t in New York with Janie scouting out places to live. Between bites of steamed asparagus stems, Aretha warned her that such a question was truly none of her business. “He doesn’t owe you an explanation. And even if he gives you one, I don’t know why you are torturing yourself. If he says there’s no more Janie, are you really interested? And if you are, don’t tell me. I don’t want to lose all respect for you.”

Nina ignored Aretha’s dire predictions. “Let’s go view the quilts before the silent auction ends,” she said.

“I’ll meet you there. I just saw someone I want to say hello to.” Aretha dashed off before Nina had a chance to find out who the someone was.

The quilts were in the adjoining room. They covered every wall and just walking around the room was like stepping inside a giant kaleidoscope with a landscape of fabrics and textures and even dimensional objects. When Elise first gave her the tickets, Nina expected that the auction would feature quilts that memorialized family or friends lost to AIDS. But it was the
money raised from the event that would go toward supporting the efforts of the NAMES Project and their ongoing work with the Memorial Quilt. The ones on display that night were sewn by local support groups throughout the Houston area. Nina recognized some of the traditional quilts, classic patchworks with patterns dizzyingly intricate. Lace, beads, even trinkets embellished some of the contemporary quilts.