Ties That Bind Read online

  My mother sighed. “You’ve been so secretive lately, Margot.”

  Dad let out an impatient snort. “It’s almost as bad as trying to talk to Mari.”

  At the mention of my sister’s name, Mom, in a voice that was half-hopeful and half-afraid to hope, asked, “Is she still planning on coming for Christmas?”

  “She’s looking forward to it.”

  Looking forward to it was probably stretching the truth, but last time I talked to my sister she had asked for suggestions on what to get the folks for Christmas. That indicated a kind of anticipation on her part, didn’t it?

  “She’ll probably come up with some last-minute excuse,” Dad grumbled.

  In the background, I could hear a jingle of metal. When Dad is agitated, he fiddles with the change in his pockets. I had a mental image of him pacing from one side of the kitchen to the other, the phone cord tethering him to the wall like a dog on a leash. Dad is a man of action; long phone conversations make him antsy.

  “Wonder what it’ll be this time? Her car broke down? Her boss won’t let her off work? Her therapist says the tension might upset Olivia? As if spending a day with us would scar our granddaughter for life. Remember when she pulled that one, honey?”

  A sniffle and a ragged intake of breath came from the Buffalo end of the line.

  “Oh, come on now, Lil. Don’t cry. Did you hear that? Margot, why do you bring these things up? You’re upsetting your mother.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was too. I hadn’t brought it up, but I hate it when my mother cries.

  “I just don’t know why you’re keeping things from us,” Mom said.

  “I’m not keeping anything from you. But at my age, I don’t think I should be bothering you with all my little problems, that’s all.”

  I heard a snuffly bleating noise, like a sheep with the croup, and pictured my mother on her big canopy bed with her shoes off, leaning back on two ruffled red paisley pillow shams, the way she does during long phone conversations, pulling a tissue out of the box with the white crocheted cover that sat on her nightstand, and dabbing her eyes.

  “Since when have we ever considered you a bother? You’re our little girl.”

  “And you always will be,” Dad said. “Don’t you ever forget that, Bunny.”

  Bunny is my father’s pet name for me—short for Chubby Bunny. My pre-teen pudge disappeared twenty-five years ago when my body stretched like a piece of gum until I reached the man-repelling height of nearly six feet. I haven’t been a Chubby Bunny for a quarter century, but Dad never seemed to notice.

  “It’s Arnie, isn’t it? Is he seeing someone else?”

  Mom didn’t wait for me to answer her question, but she didn’t have to. Somehow she already knew. How is that possible? Is that just part of being a mother?

  “Don’t you worry, Margot. Arnie Kinsella isn’t the only fish in the sea.”

  “Maybe not. But all the ones I haul into my boat seem to be bottom feeders.”

  “Stop that. You can’t give up,” Dad said with his usual bull moose optimism and then paused, as if reconsidering. “You still look pretty good … for your age.”

  Ouch.

  “You know what I think?” he asked in a brighter tone before answering his own question. “I think maybe your husband’s first wife hasn’t died yet.”

  “Werner!” My mother gasped, but why? Was she really surprised?

  “What?” Dad sounded genuinely perplexed. “At her age, a nice widower is probably her best shot at getting a husband. I’m just saying …”

  “Hey, guys, it’s sweet of you to call, but I need to get ready to go.”

  “Are you going out with friends? Are they throwing you a party?” Mom asked hopefully and I knew she was wondering if my friends had thought to invite any bachelors to the celebration.

  “I’ve got a meeting.” Not for two hours, but they didn’t need to know that.

  “On your birthday?” Dad scoffed. “Margot, they don’t pay you enough at that quilt shop to make you go to meetings after hours. I keep telling you to get a real job.”

  Yes, he does. Every chance he gets.

  I used to have a “real job” according to Dad’s definition. I worked in the marketing department of a big company in Manhattan, made a lot of money, had profit sharing, a 401(k), and health insurance, which I needed because I was forever going to the doctor with anemia, insomnia, heart palpitations—the full menu of stress-related ailments. After I moved to New Bern and started working in the quilt shop, all that went away. Insurance and a big paycheck aren’t the only benefits that matter—I’ve tried to explain that to Dad. But there’s no point in going over it again.

  “It’s a church meeting. I’m on the board now. Remember?”

  “Oh. Well, that’s different, then.”

  My parents are very active in their church. Mom has taught fourth grade Sunday school since 1979. When there’s a snowstorm, Dad plows the church parking lot with the blade he keeps attached to the front of his truck and shovels the walkways. No one asks him to do it; he just does. That’s the way my folks are. They’re good people.

  “What a shame they scheduled the board meeting on your birthday,” Mom said.

  “This is kind of an emergency thing. We’ve got to pick a new minister to fill in while Reverend Tucker is recovering.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, remembering our last conversation. “How is he?”

  “Better, I think. I’ll find out more tonight. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Love you.” I puckered my lips and made two kiss noises into the phone.

  “Love you too, sweetheart. Happy birthday! If that sweater doesn’t fit, just take it back. But promise me you’ll at least try it on before you return it.”

  “I’m not going to return it.”

  “Well, there’s a gift receipt with the card if you do.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “And there’s a hundred-dollar bill in there too. That’s from me. Buy yourself something nice.”

  “Thanks, Dad. But you didn’t have to do that.”

  “Why not? Can’t a father spoil his daughter on her birthday? After all,” he chuckled, “you only turn forty once.”

  Thank heaven for that.

  “I don’t care how old you are, Bunny. Don’t forget, you’re still our little girl.”

  As if I could. As if they’d ever let me.

  After I hung up, I went back to work on the quilt. This time I left the television off and just focused on the stitches, trying to make them small and even. It’s a very soothing thing to stitch a binding by hand, almost meditative. With my tears over Arnie spent, I turned my thoughts, both hopeful and anxious, to Christmas, and my sister.

  Mari’s full name is Mariposa. That means “butterfly” in Spanish, so when a bolt of fabric with butterflies in colors of sapphire, teal, purple, and gold on a jet-black background came into the shop, I made two important decisions—I would use it to make a quilt for Mari and I would invite her and my parents to come for Christmas.

  It’s been five years since the last time we tried it. Olivia, my niece, was only a few months old. I’d seen the baby a couple of times, but my parents had never met their granddaughter. There is a lot of bad blood between my sister and parents. I talked Mari into coming to Buffalo for the holidays, but at the last minute she called and canceled. Mom was crushed and cried. Dad and Mari got into a shouting match. It was awful. Mari blamed me. It was almost a year before she’d answer my phone calls again.

  That’s why making a second attempt at bringing the family together for Christmas really was a big decision, but I had to do it. When I saw those sapphire blue butterflies, the exact blue of Mari’s eyes, I knew I had to take the chance and at least try. Honestly, I didn’t really expect Mari to say yes. At first, she didn’t.

  “No, Margot,” she snapped, almost before the words were out of my mouth. “I am never going back to Buffalo. Too many bad memories.”

  “No, no. Not Buffalo. I didn’t say that. Come
here, to New Bern.”

  In truth, I had been thinking we’d get together at Mom and Dad’s, but perhaps things would go more smoothly if we met on neutral ground.

  “New Bern is beautiful at Christmas. There’s a huge decorated tree on the Green and they outline all the buildings with white lights. You and Olivia can stay here and I’ll reserve a room for Mom and Dad at the inn.”

  Would the inn already be booked for Christmas? It didn’t matter. I talked as fast as I could, spinning out a vision of the perfect Christmas, making it all up as I went.

  “My friends, Lee and Tessa, have a farm outside of town where we can cut our own tree. Lee just refurbished an old horse-drawn sleigh. I bet Olivia has never been in a sleigh! And the quilt shop has an open house on Christmas Eve with cookies and punch and presents. Everyone will make the biggest fuss over Olivia, you’ll see. I’ll ask Charlie, Evelyn’s husband, to dress up as Santa Claus and deliver her presents!”

  Would Charlie agree to that? I’d get Evelyn to ask him. He’d do it for her.

  “And after the open house we can decorate the tree together and go to the midnight service at church, all of us together, the whole family, and …”

  “No, Margot … just. Wait. Give me a second to think.”

  I clamped my lips shut, closed my eyes, said a prayer.

  After a long minute, Mari said, “I don’t know, Margot. It’s just … we have plans for Christmas Eve. Olivia is going to be a lamb in the church nativity play.”

  “Oh, Mari! Oh, I bet she’s adorable!”

  “She is pretty sweet,” she said in a voice that sounded like a smile. “I had to rip out the stupid ears on the costume three times, but it turned out so cute.”

  “I’d love to see her in it. I bet Mom and Dad would too. Would you rather we all came to Albany for Christmas?”

  “Nooo,” Mari said, stretching out the word for emphasis. “Very bad idea. Too much, too soon. But … what if we just came for Christmas dinner, just for the afternoon? I think that’s about all I can handle this time.”

  This time? Did that mean she thought there might be other times too? I was dying to ask, but didn’t. She was probably right. After so many years apart and so many resentments, an afternoon together was probably as much as anyone could handle.

  It was a start. Sometimes, that’s all you need—a decision, a second chance.

  Sitting quietly and sewing that bright blue binding inch by inch to that border of brilliant, fluttering butterflies, covering all the uneven edges and raveled threads with a smooth band of blue, seeing all those different bits and scraps of fabric come together, stitch by stitch, into a neatly finished whole helped me look at things differently.

  Coming upon Arnie and Kiera in the restaurant was a blessing in disguise, I decided, an opportunity to change my outlook, a chance to quit feeling sorry for myself and find peace and purpose in my life as it was, not as I wished it to be. I came to this conclusion just as I placed the final firm stitch in the edge of the binding. When I was done, I spread the quilt out on the floor.

  It would have been easy enough to create a pretty pieced quilt using the butterfly focal fabric. Every quilt I’ve made has been a variation on that theme, but this time I wanted to try my hand at appliqué. Having taken that leap of faith, I decided to go one step further and create my own design. And rather than planning out every little detail of the quilt, I decided to gather up my fabrics and just “go with the flow,” letting inspiration come to me as it would, leaving myself open to the possibility of new ideas and insights.

  The center medallion, which I’d come to think of as “the cameo,” was an ink-black oval appliquéd with flowers and leaves and fat curlicues, like dewdrops splashing on petals, all drawn by me, in teal, cobalt, azure, butterscotch, honey, and goldenrod, colors I’d picked up from the butterfly wings. The cameo was framed by curving swaths of sunshine yellow, making the oval into a rectangle. Next, I built border upon border upon border around the edges of the rectangle to create a full-sized quilt; three plain butterfly borders, of varying widths, and the same number and sizes of sawtooth and diamond borders, one with the diamonds all in yellow, another all in blue, a third with colors picked at random, and a thin band of black to make those brilliant colors even more vibrant. Finally, I dotted the top with individual appliquéd butterflies “fussy-cut” from the focus fabric and placed here and there on and near the cameo and borders.

  That idea had come to me at the last moment, but it made a world of difference. It was almost as if a migration of butterflies had seen the quilt from the air and come to light gently upon the smooth expanse of cloth, taking a moment of respite in that rich and lovely garden of color before going on their way. That’s how I felt looking at it, rested and renewed, hopeful, ready to rise again and resume the journey.

  It was the most beautiful quilt I’d ever made, and it had come about all because I’d been willing to lay aside my old habits and leave myself open to new possibilities. There was a lesson in that.

  God had something new in mind for me, something better, I was sure of that. And, though I can’t tell you how, I was sure it had something to do with my family, my sister, my niece. If I was never to have children of my own, perhaps I was to play a role in Olivia’s life? I barely knew her, but I longed to shower my little niece with love, to regain my sister’s friendship and heal the wounds that had torn us apart.

  Maybe this would be the year that we could all finally put the past behind us. Maybe this Christmas would be the moment and means to let bygones be bygones, the year we would finally cover all the raveled edges and loose threads of the past and be a family again, bound by blood, tied with love, warts and all.

  Maybe.

  3

  Margot

  The church vestibule was cold and a little gloomy. The big overhead chandeliers were dark so the only light came from a few low-watt faux-candle wall sconces topped with tiny gold lamp-shades. Though the sanctuary had been decked for Christmas more than two weeks before, the clean, sharp scent of cedar and pine boughs hung in the air. That’s the upside of an unreliable furnace; chilly air keeps the greens fresh longer.

  Abigail stood on the mat and stamped the snow off her boots. “We’re late,” she said in a slightly accusing tone, nodding toward a trail of melting slush left by those who had arrived first.

  It wasn’t my fault. Abigail left me cooling my heels in her foyer for ten minutes while she was in the kitchen giving Hilda, her housekeeper, last-minute instructions about Franklin’s dinner. I almost reminded her of that, but then thought better of it. I’ve known Abigail long enough to know she doesn’t mean to sound snappish. She just hates being late. When you think about it, it’s kind of sweet that she fusses over Franklin’s dinner like that, as though they’d been married three months instead of three years.

  If I ever get married, that’s just how I’d want to treat my husband, as though we were newlyweds forever. I wish …

  I stopped myself. I wasn’t going to go there. I was going to stick to my resolution, be content in every situation. And what was so bad about my situation anyway? Things could certainly be much worse. Think of poor Reverend Tucker, lying in a hospital bed.

  “Have you heard any more about Reverend Tucker?” I asked as I followed Abigail down the stairs. “Mr. Carney made it sound pretty bad.”

  “Ted likes to make things sound bad,” Abigail puffed. “Makes him feel important to get everyone else in a flutter. There’s no such thing as a good heart attack, but Bob will be fine. I called the hospital and pried some information out of the administrator.”

  I’ll bet you did. I smiled to myself. Abigail is one of the biggest donors to the hospital and about fifty other charities. She has clout in New Bern and no qualms about exercising it on behalf of people she cares about.

  “I insisted that they put the same doctor who treated Franklin on the case. He’s the best cardiac man in the state. Don’t worry, Margot. After a few months of rest and re
habilitation, the good reverend will be back to his old self.”

  “That’s a relief. I can’t imagine anyone else being able to fill his shoes.”

  “Nor can I. But we will have to find someone to replace him, at least for the next few months. On such short notice, especially right before Christmas, I don’t suppose we’ll have much to choose from in the way of candidates. But,” she said with grim determination, “beggars can’t be choosers. We’ll just have to find ourselves a warm body and hope for the best. I just hope Ted doesn’t let the meeting drag on and on. I don’t want to be here all night.”

  “Well, there’s only one item on the agenda. All we have to do is discuss the candidates and vote for an interim minister. How long could that take?”

  Abigail arched one eyebrow. “Obviously,” she said, “you don’t know Ted Carney as well as I do.”

  I was sketching lines of intersecting squares along the margin of my legal pad, thinking about side dishes to serve with the Christmas turkey. Somebody coughed and I jumped, startled by the noise, worried that I’d missed something.

  I hadn’t. Ted Carney was talking. Still.

  When Abigail and I arrived, Ted, president of the board, was reminding everyone that the pastor was already scheduled to take a sabbatical in the spring. Ted proposed we extend the sabbatical to six months, giving Reverend Tucker plenty of time to recover, and that the Tuckers stay at Ted’s cabin on Lake Winnipesaukee, leaving the parsonage vacant to house the interim pastor. Everyone liked the plan and voted in favor of it. So far so good. Now all we needed to do was choose our interim pastor. Easy.

  But instead of getting directly to a presentation of the candidates, Ted began going through a list of every minister who had served in the pulpit of New Bern Community Church for the last two hundred years and spelling out the relative strengths and weaknesses of each one—in excruciating, mind-numbing detail.