A Thread of Truth Page 7

  A hint of a smile bowed Liza’s lips. “Such as?”

  “Such as,” Abigail answered haughtily, “my upcoming presentation to the zoning board on the subject of turning my house into transitional apartments for families in crisis.”

  “What?”

  I dropped the piece of cake I’d been serving, missing the plate entirely and scattering crumbs across the floor. Margot sat wide-eyed at the sewing machine, hands in her lap but so shocked she’d forgotten to take her foot off the pedal. The mechanical whirr of the machine underscored our expressions of disbelief.

  “You’re selling your house?”

  “But why?”

  “You can’t be serious,” Liza declared. “This has to be some kind of joke.”

  This time it was Abigail’s turn to smile. Clearly she was enjoying being the one to set Liza off balance instead of the other way around.

  “It’s no joke,” she answered. “I’m quite serious. But, I’m not selling the house; I’m donating it. The Stanton Center is desperate to find a larger facility.”

  “So you just thought to yourself, ‘Hey! I’ve got an idea. Why not give them the house?’”

  “The Stanton Center needs a large building. I do not. At my age, do I really need to live in a house with eight bedrooms, six baths, and a ballroom? No. If the Stanton Center needs the space and I don’t, why not give it to them?”

  “You’re very generous, Abigail,” Margot said diplomatically. “But wouldn’t it make more sense for Stanton to buy an empty lot and build from scratch? It won’t be cheap to convert your antique home into modern apartments. I’m sure you’d have to make all kinds of changes to the plumbing and such. Not to mention the remodeling you’d have to do for it to meet fire codes and handicapped accessibility requirements. It could run into hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  “Oh no,” Abigail said assuredly. “It will run into millions. I’ve already looked into it. But, there are simply no available lots that are large enough or close enough to town. The new center must be close to bus lines, schools, and the downtown area.”

  Abigail squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “These women are facing enough problems trying to move beyond the legacy of domestic violence without our community making it even more difficult for them to obtain decent housing, and the access to transportation and good schools for their children that they need in order to become productive members of the workforce while raising their children to be responsible citizens. This is an issue that concerns our entire community and it will take the efforts of our entire community to meet and conquer this challenge!”

  “Let me guess,” Liza said sarcastically. “You’re running for Congress. Either that or this is the speech you’re planning on making to the zoning board.”

  “It is. And I’m sure, once they hear my arguments, the board will see things my way.”

  “Abigail, are you crazy? The neighbors are never going to go for this. The Hudsons? Dale Barrows and the rest of them? Do you really think they’ll stand aside and let you put an apartment building on Proctor Street? Where did you ever get such a ridiculous idea?”

  “From Ivy. I was driving her home a couple of days ago; her car had broken down again. And I was telling her about the problem we were having trying to find a place large enough for the new building, and she said it would be nice if one of the big houses on Proctor Street were for sale. I think she was just making a joke, but as soon as she mentioned that, I could see she was right.”

  Liza made a noise with her lips, a sputter like a whinnying horse. “You’re insane. Really, this is about the dumbest scheme you’ve ever come up with.”

  I loved Liza, but there were moments when I could happily have slapped her. This was one of them. But I wasn’t her mother and it wasn’t my place—it was Abigail’s, but she didn’t see that. She was too busy sitting in her chair and feeling stung by Liza’s out-of-hand dismissal of what was a very well-intended, though less than well-considered, gesture.

  Liza grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. “Hey, I’m gonna run. I want to see if I can find Garrett.” She kissed the wounded Abigail on top of her head and breezed thoughtlessly out the door.

  There was no point in trying to pretend we were going to get any more quilting done that night.

  We shut off the irons and sewing machines and ended the evening as we so often did, sitting around the table eating, drinking, and talking.

  “Drink this.” I handed Abigail a cup filled with 2003 Pinot Gris. Abigail took the cup but didn’t lift it to her lips. She was still upset.

  “I don’t understand. Before Liza came into my life, I was capable, erudite, respected. Even occasionally brilliant. Everyone liked me and I liked myself. But as far as Liza’s concerned, no matter how good my intentions are, I’m completely inept. How did that happen?”

  “You had a baby,” I said matter-of-factly. “Not literally, I know, but for all intents and purposes, you’re Liza’s mother now. Liza still has one foot in adolescence and, trust me, no matter what you do or don’t do, an adolescent will find some way of making you feel stupid. It’s a stage. She’ll outgrow it, but it can take a while.”

  Abigail finally took a sip of her wine. Actually, it was more like a gulp, as if she’d just realized that she really wanted a drink.

  “Well, she makes me feel just awful. Why is that?”

  “That,” I said as I handed Abigail a plate of cheese and grapes to go with her wine, “is maternal guilt. Unfortunately, it’s a stage you’ll never outgrow.”

  Abigail groaned.

  “Sorry. But I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t tell you the truth.

  “Abigail, tell me something. It really is incredibly generous of you to donate your home to the Stanton Center, but Liza does have a point. Do you think all your wealthy neighbors on Proctor Street, all those bank presidents and real estate moguls and movie producers, are really going to be excited about the idea of having a bunch of formerly homeless families living on their street?”

  “Well, why not?” she said, sitting up straighter in her chair. “I’ll be living there, too.”

  Margot pulled her chair closer in and pulled a grape off the vine. “But I thought you said you were moving out of the house.”

  “I am,” Abigail confirmed, “but that doesn’t mean I’m moving away from Proctor Street. It’s been my home for forty years.”

  “How are you going to manage that? There aren’t any other houses on Proctor for sale. There never are. People always pass those houses down through their families.”

  Abigail nodded and swallowed her wine before answering. “That’s right, just like the Wynnes did. My late husband, Woolley, was born there, as were his father and his father before him all the way back to the 1830s. Since Woolley and I never had children, I always planned on having the house sold and the proceeds donated to charity after my death. Nothing has changed. I’m just donating the house a little sooner than I’d planned on, that’s all. I’m going to simplify my life.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain where you’re planning on living,” Margot said.

  “Right where I always have. Well, nearly. That’s why I’m going before the zoning board. The first step is to subdivide the property. I’ll donate the main house and the larger parcel of land to the Stanton Center, keep the smaller parcel, and move into the carriage house next door. It’s smaller, but there are three good-sized bedrooms, a nice kitchen and dining room, a large living room, and lovely gardens. There’s no office, but that’s all right. I was considering adding on a solarium. And a walk-in closet. I won’t have a pool anymore, but I suppose I could always have one put in,” she mused. “The ground is fairly flat. It wouldn’t be that hard to do.”

  I bit my lower lip, trying to keep from laughing at the manner in which Abigail Burgess Wynne, the sixth wealthiest woman in the state, went about ‘simplifying’ her life.

  “Abigail, isn’t a carriage house a fancy word for a
garage?”

  Abigail pursed her lips and shifted in her chair. She knew where I was going with this. “In the old days, it was where people parked their carriages, so, yes, technically you could call it a garage, but ours was converted to a guesthouse years ago.”

  I grinned. “So you’re moving into the garage?”

  Abigail took another sip of wine, peered at me over the rim of her cup and said stonily, “I suppose you could say that.”

  “And your garage is what? Two thousand square feet?” I guessed.

  “Actually,” she said imperiously, “it’s closer to three.”

  For some reason, this struck me as hilarious.

  “You could fit three of my little cottages in there, Abigail! Can you imagine? My house could fit in your garage three times over. In your garage!”

  Abigail frowned, not at all pleased to be the butt of the joke, which only made me laugh harder. Margot joined in, her musical giggle rippling through the air.

  “Abigail,” she asked sweetly, “would you like to adopt me?”

  “Absolutely not!” she growled. “I’m having enough trouble with the adopted child I already have, thank you very much!”

  For some reason, fatigue and relief at the end of a long day, or the effects of the wine, or both, this comment sent us into fresh waves of hilarity. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and Margot laughed so hard she laid her head down on the table.

  “Oh! You two are ridiculous! Fine. Go ahead and enjoy yourselves. Liza mocks me constantly. Why shouldn’t everyone else?”

  I gasped, trying to catch my breath and wiping the tears from my eyes. “I’m sorry, Abbie, but it just cracks me up that your garage is bigger than my whole house. And it’s got a solarium!”

  “Not yet.” Margot giggled. “But it will. And a pool. And walk-in closets. Wait! What about a garage?” She feigned a serious expression before collapsing with laughter. “Abigail, don’t you need to add a garage to your garage?”

  “But that’s exactly my point! Why shouldn’t I give the main house to those who really need it? The carriage house has everything I need.”

  “Hey, everybody.” Garrett was standing in the doorway. “Where’s Liza?”

  “Hi, sweetheart. Did you have fun babysitting?”

  He shrugged. “While it lasted. We were about ten minutes into a game of Candy Land when Ivy came home. So, Franklin and I went to the movies. I figured you’d all be done by the time it was over and then I could pick up Liza and take her out for a late dinner.”

  He looked around the room. “Where is she, anyway?”

  “She went out to look for you.”

  “Well, why did you let her do that?” he asked. “How was she supposed to know I’d gone to the movies?” Garrett was the best of sons, but clearly he’d been looking forward to seeing Liza and was irritated to find her missing in action. He looked at the three of us, sitting around an open bottle of wine, drinking and laughing while one of our number was out wandering the dark streets of New Bern, with an expression of disgust. He dug his cell phone from his back pocket, put it to his ear, and headed toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find my girlfriend,” he answered in a tone that made it clear he felt that indeed there were such things as stupid questions and then left without saying good-bye.

  Yep, I thought. Maternal guilt. It’s yours for life.

  9

  Ivy Peterman

  Monday dawned bright and clear. The weatherman said the high temperature would be in the mid-seventies, with low humidity. The kids ate their breakfast without any complaints. And when we got into the car for the drive to the day care center, the Toyota started up without any fuss. It should have been a great start to a great day.

  But I knew it wouldn’t be, not after the way things had ended on Friday night.

  I was just putting on my coat and getting ready to leave for the day when I heard the sound of female voices and the hollow clatter of feet on the stairs, several pairs of them. For a moment I thought it must be quilters coming up to take a class, but then I remembered there weren’t any Friday-night classes on the schedule.

  The door opened. Evelyn, Abigail, and Margot entered carrying project bags and trays loaded down with platters of cheese, fruit, and other snacks, plus a bottle of wine. Liza brought up the rear carrying a tray with a collection of mismatched coffee mugs I recognized as coming from the break room.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, remembering what day it was. “I’d forgotten this was your quilt-circle night. I’ll get out of your way.” I zipped my jacket and grabbed my purse.

  “Not so fast!” Margot declared cheerfully. “Take off your coat and sit down. We have a surprise for you!”

  “You do?”

  “Evelyn, you tell her. After all, you’re our official leader.”

  “There’s a dubious honor, but all right.” She cleared her throat as if about to make an important announcement. “Ivy, we are all here to tell you that, after about two seconds’ deliberation, you have been voted into the membership of the Cobbled Court Quilt Circle.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Margot said. Liza and Abigail put down the trays they were carrying and clapped.

  I was stunned.

  “Oh. Gosh. That’s nice of you, really, but I can’t. I’ve got to get home to my kids.”

  “We’ve already taken care of that,” Abigail reported. “Franklin has volunteered to watch Bethany and Bobby on Friday nights so you can spend your evening with us.”

  “He did?”

  Franklin Spaulding was a very nice man. The kids were crazy about him, but…“You shouldn’t have asked him to do that. It’s sweet of Franklin, really it is, but watching my rascals every Friday night? It’s too much to expect.”

  “Nonsense!” Abigail injected, interrupting me again. “Franklin volunteered to do it, and besides, Bethany and Bobby aren’t rascals, they’re perfectly darling. Franklin loves being with them. After a week at his law office, dealing with the real rascals of the world—bankers, accountants, and, worst of all, other lawyers—your children are an absolute breath of fresh air.”

  I tried another approach. “But…I’m not a very good quilter. I’ve only made that one log cabin quilt in Evelyn’s class.”

  Liza took one of the mismatched mugs from the tray and filled it. “Okay, now you’re just making excuses. Except for Evelyn, none of us knew a presser foot from a pastrami sandwich this time two years ago. Trust me, our standards of membership are extremely low. I mean, look at us,” she said, raising her cup. “We’re here drinking cheap wine out of cracked coffee mugs. This isn’t exactly the Daughters of the American Revolution you’d be joining.”

  “That wine was not cheap,” Abigail corrected. “It’s a 2003 pinot gris. The last of a very good vintage from my personal wine cellar.”

  “Well, we’re still serving it out of coffee mugs. So, I don’t see where Ivy is getting the impression we’re such an exclusive club. Heck,” she said blandly, “we’ll take anyone. We need the dues.”

  Margot, who was very sharp when it came to marketing and business but was known for being gullible, furrowed her brow. “Liza, we don’t charge any dues, do we?”

  She turned to Evelyn. “When did we decide to start taking dues?”

  “Liza’s kidding,” Evelyn said.

  Liza’s eyes sparked mischief as she peered over the rim of the coffee mug. Margot, realizing she’d been duped again, gave her a good-natured nudge in the ribs.

  “Ivy, we’d really love it if you’d join us.” Evelyn smiled, waiting for me to say yes.

  A moment passed.

  “If you’re put off by the coffee cups, we can get some real glasses,” she joked.

  I pressed my lips together, trying to come up with some excuse that they’d buy, but nothing came to mind.

  They were all standing there, certain that I would never dream of refusing this gift of time and friendship they were offering me.

 
With all my heart, I wished I could accept it. But that was impossible.

  I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “You’re so kind to want to include me, but I really can’t.”

  Their faces fell.

  “But, why not?” Margot asked. “You’re just worried about leaving the children with someone else, aren’t you? I’ve volunteered to watch them for you a dozen times, but you’ve never once taken me up on it. Don’t worry, Ivy. Bethany and Bobby will be fine with Franklin.”

  “Of course they will,” Evelyn affirmed. “But if you’re that worried, we could even bring them over here. I’m sure Garrett wouldn’t mind watching them at his apartment as long as Franklin was there to help. That way, if the kids needed you, you’d be right across the hall.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that.”

  “Well, then, what is it?”

  “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  The room was silent again. Four pairs of eyes looked at me; the smiles of the previous moment faded. They just stood there, waiting for me to offer some reasonable explanation for my behavior. None existed. At least, none that wasn’t a complete lie, and I didn’t want to lie to them. I was tired of lying.

  From the moment I’d come to work at Cobbled Court Quilts, these women had been nothing but kind to me. For no reason other than their own goodness, certainly not because of anything I’d done, they’d accepted me into their community, given me a chance to create a safe home for my family, cared about my kids—even made quilts for them. I remembered how I had cried, actually cried, when Abigail gave Bethany the beautiful pinwheel quilt she’d made herself. No one had ever shown such kindness to my children or, by extension, to me. I was so touched.

  But even so, I couldn’t permit myself to be drawn further into their circle, opening myself up to the kinds of questions and confidences that would follow if I did. Evelyn might say there were no dues, but she was wrong. The price of membership was honesty and trust, and that was something I couldn’t afford. They were good women, kind women, but even so…an inadvertent slip, a careless contradiction in my history accidentally passed from me, to one of them, to someone outside, could shred my story into confetti.