Threading the Needle Read online

  “That’s sweet of you, Margot, but I’m just not creative.” I dropped one half of my raffle ticket into the empty fishbowl and put the other half in my pocket.

  “Yes, you are! You’re very creative! Look at what you did with For the Love of Lavender. The space was so dark and gloomy before. You’ve transformed it.”

  I shook my head. “I reproduced it. From pictures in a magazine. Right down to the paint colors and the plates on the light switches.”

  “Well, what about all those wonderful potpourris and lotions you make?”

  “That’s just gardening and following a recipe. It’s a whole different thing.”

  Our conversation was cut short when a woman approached the table to buy a ticket. Over the next two hours, Margot and I sold seventy-eight raffle tickets. In between customers, Margot kept at me about quilting, overruling my every objection.

  When I told her I couldn’t leave my shop during the day to take classes, she suggested that Emily could watch the shop while I did. When I told her that today was Emily’s last day before returning to college and admitted I couldn’t afford to replace her, Margot said that I could join their quilt circle, a small group that included Margot, Evelyn, Evelyn’s mother, Virginia, Ivy, who also worked in the shop, and Abigail Spaulding. The group met on Friday nights after work. Margot had an answer for everything.

  “We need fresh blood in the quilt circle. Now that Abigail’s niece, Liza, has moved to Chicago, we’re down a member. And, actually, I already talked to Evelyn and the others about you. They think you’re the perfect person to take her place. So do I,” she said with a triumphant little smile, then crossed her arms over her chest and looked at me pointedly.

  “You know something? I used to think that Evelyn Dixon’s business savvy was the reason Cobbled Court Quilts is so successful, but now I’m beginning to wonder. I think you’re her secret weapon. You just don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

  Margot giggled and dropped her arms, her posture changing from obstinate to amiable in the time it took to crack a smile. “I didn’t spend ten years learning marketing in Manhattan for nothing.”

  Margot blinked twice, pausing for a moment before speaking. “Salesmanship aside, it would be good for you. I’d like to get to know you better, and I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but . . . I think you could use some friends right now. Am I right?”

  I didn’t say anything, just dipped my head to one side to signal assent.

  “You won’t find a better group of women in the world than in our quilt circle. We’re all as different as we can possibly be, but everybody has something to offer. We’ve been through a lot together, but what is said in the circle stays in the circle.

  “You get all that and quilting too. You’ll love it. Maybe you don’t see yourself as a creative person, but if you’ve got an ounce of creativity in you, quilting will bring it out. Plus it’s a great way to put aside your troubles and focus on something positive and productive. Quilting can even be therapeutic. It’s way cheaper than therapy,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh, “and a lot more fun. So? What do you say?”

  I looked at the glass fishbowl where seventy-eight red raffle tickets already covered my lone and unlikely slip of chance, then glanced back at the maple leaf quilt.

  “You think I could learn to make one of those?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I was quiet for a moment, replaying her reasons in my mind.

  “Friday night, you said?”

  “Friday nights,” she confirmed with a nod. “Six o’clock. You could come tonight if you wanted.”

  “No, not tonight,” I said, thinking of Lee and his interview. Tonight I wanted to be with my husband. “But soon. You’ve convinced me.”

  9

  Madelyn

  Returning to New Bern has aged me—on many levels. I’m long overdue for a round of Botox, but that sort of thing is far out of my budget now. Maybe it’s just as well. It never worked on that deep frown line between my eyebrows anyway. And another thing: Those injections hurt. They do. Don’t let anybody tell you different. I don’t miss that part one bit.

  But I do miss my hairdresser. Deeply. My roots look awful. I can get away with backcombing over my part for another week or so, but then I’m going to have to pick up a bottle of dye at the drugstore or something. There are limits to how far I’m willing to succumb to the “natural look.” But for today an altered appearance suits my purpose.

  When I called to schedule a Friday morning appointment at the bank, I gave my name as Beecher. Eventually the bank manager is bound to figure out my connection to Sterling, but I’m hoping to buy myself some time before that happens—time enough to win him over and convince him that, my unfortunate marital status notwithstanding, I’m a good risk. I need a loan. I need it badly.

  Just because I don’t pay a mortgage on Beecher Cottage doesn’t mean that I get to live here for free. The property taxes are high, and according to a letter I received from the town last week, they’ll be higher next year. Utilities for such a large house aren’t cheap either. The estimate for my winter heating oil nearly stopped my heart!

  And then there’s maintenance. Over the last few years of her life, I doubt Edna spent ten cents maintaining Beecher Cottage, preferring to leave that legacy to future generations—i.e., me. I’ve already spent over a thousand dollars on plumbing. I’m not talking about remodeling the dated bathrooms; this is money I’ve had to spend just to make sure the toilets flush. Don’t even ask about the roof; I wish I hadn’t. But those watermarks on the upstairs walls and ceiling are there for a reason. We’ve had a dry summer and fall, but come spring, when the snow melts on the eaves and April showers start to shower, what am I going to do?

  In its current condition, Beecher Cottage is all but unlivable. But performing even the most basic and necessary repairs on the house will empty my bank account by a third—I’ve got estimates to prove it. With zero money coming in and lots of zeros going out for taxes, utilities, and repairs, how am I supposed to live?

  I’ve got to sell Beecher Cottage; I’ve just got to. It’s the only solution. But I’ve no hope of selling the house at any price unless I remodel it first. Remodel, not repair. New roof, new bathrooms, new kitchen, new appliances, new paint, wallpaper, and carpets—new everything. And, as everyone knows, new everything doesn’t come cheap.

  And so, with her crow’s feet and worry lines in full flower, her hair backcombed and swept into a ponytail to hide the gray, and wearing the most nondesigner, nondescript outfit she owns, Madelyn Beecher is walking downtown to try to borrow one hundred thousand dollars from the New Bern National Bank.

  The bank sits two blocks south of the Green, about a mile’s walk from my house. The stone exterior is solid and serious, the interior cool and formal, with tall ceilings, ornate woodwork, wrought-iron teller cages, and marble floors that echo when walked upon. Employees work at desks on the outer walls of the lobby, their activities overseen by the bank manager, whose walnut desk sits on a raised platform in the center of the room surrounded by a carved wooden railing with a swinging gate that subordinates must unlatch before entering this holy of holies. Everything about the structure is designed to inspire confidence and a certain level of awe. Inside the sacred confines of New Bern National, no one speaks above a murmur, and no one questions the manager, Mr. Fletcher, a well-fed man, not quite sixty.

  Until I saw his face, I didn’t realize that Mr. Fletcher was, in fact, Aaron Fletcher, one of the few boys whose attentions I had utterly rejected in high school, partly because my taste trended toward athletes but mostly because his superior attitude irritated me. Apparently, Aaron was unchanged.

  He rose halfway from his chair with an acid smile and gestured for me to take a seat in one of the low chairs opposite his desk.

  “Madelyn. Or should I say Mrs. Baron?” he asked in a voice slightly louder than necessary, a tone that attracted surreptitious glances from customers standing in the tel
lers line. “How nice to see you after all these years. How can I help you?”

  The moment he called me Mrs. Baron, I knew I was in trouble, but I had to at least try to win him over. I smiled as sweetly as I could and murmured some nonsense about it being good to see him as well and how impressed I was that he’d risen so far but that I wasn’t really surprised, that even in high school it was apparent he was destined for big things. When I ran out of compliments, I leaned a little closer, close enough for him to spy a glimpse of cleavage (yes, I was that desperate), and made my request.

  He listened, sort of, with his eyes glued to my décolletage. When I was finished, he looked up and proceeded to subject me to a ten-minute lecture on the links between the soft housing market, the credit crunch, toxic assets, bank failures, the Wall Street meltdown, rising unemployment, sinking tax revenues, and, if I recall correctly, the falling test scores among eighth graders in math and science, and the “shenanigans”—he actually used the word “shenanigans”—of Bernie Madoff and people like him.

  The writing was on the wall. Aaron Fletcher was not going to give me a loan. Not today. Not ever. I gathered up my things.

  Aaron rose from his chair and placed his hand on a stack of papers in the top tray of his in-box. “I’ve got sixty applications for home equity loans here, Mrs. Baron. All from honest, hardworking people who’ve done nothing wrong but have lost their jobs or their savings because of the greed of others. I doubt I’ll be able to help more than one in twenty. Most of them owe more on their homes than the homes are now worth.”

  “Yes, I understand, Mr. Fletcher. Thank you for your time.”

  Being polite was an effort, but I made it. When you live in a small town, politeness is more than just good manners; it’s a survival skill.

  “Do you understand? Do you, Mrs. Baron?” He was grandstanding now, playing to the crowd of onlookers. His fleshy jowls wobbled as he moved to the other end of the desk and laid his hand on another pile of papers even higher than the first.

  “This is the paperwork on loans that are in foreclosure or about to be. Some of them belong to my friends and neighbors, people I’ve done business with for years.”

  He glared at me. “These are decent folks. People my grandkids go to school with! For one reason or another, they can’t make their house payments. Either they lost their jobs, or their mortgages adjusted to higher rates, or some fly-by-night operation put them into a loan they didn’t understand and weren’t qualified for in the first place . . .”

  I had had enough. I circled around the desk, trying to make my exit. Aaron moved his beefy body between me and the wooden gate that separated the king from the commoners, then reached out a pudgy finger and poked me—poked me! Right in the chest. As though I were an errant spaniel or a disobedient child.

  So much for good manners.

  Advancing toward him, raising myself up to my full height, which gave me a good two inches on the fat financier, I put my face up next to his, so close he must have felt the heat of my breath.

  “Loans?” I spat, pushing deep into Fletcher’s personal space and forcing him to back away. “The kind of loans your bank bought up in bundles without a second thought because there was money to be made off them and the opportunity was just too good to pass up?

  “People losing their homes because they’ve lost their jobs is a terrible thing. My husband obviously added to the misery of a lot of people and that’s why he’s in prison, paying for his crimes. Of course, I don’t understand all the ins and outs of what he did or how he did it. After all, I’m no financial expert. Not like you, Mr. Fletcher.

  “I wonder . . . a couple of years ago when you were raking in record profits, did you stop to think that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to make a loan to newlyweds with twenty thousand dollars in credit card debt who were both working for minimum wage? Did you stop to wonder why the paperwork on the loan application for a man who makes a living changing oil and rotating tires listed his income as a hundred thousand a year? Did you ask yourself what would happen when the two teachers who could well afford the five and a half percent teaser rate for their newer, bigger house woke up one morning and found the rate had adjusted to nine?”

  I glared into his piggy little eyes, daring him to answer. He opened and closed his mouth, a strand of saliva strung between his upper and lower lips stretching and shrinking, but no sound was forthcoming. I was too angry and too loud. Tellers and customers stared, some with grim smiles on their faces. I lowered my voice. But not by much.

  “You know what they say, Mr. Fletcher, money is the root of all evil. And there are plenty of people guilty of perpetrating that evil. But not all of them are behind bars.” I reached out and pushed the dumbstruck banker out of my path with a sweeping gesture.

  A man waiting in the teller line clapped and called out, “Damn straight!”

  A couple more patrons joined in as I stormed out of the bank. Their applause filled me with a sense of righteous indignation—right up until the moment I went through the door and was hit by a blast of chilly autumn air and the realization that before the sun went down, everybody in town would know that Madelyn Beecher Baron, New Bern’s most infamous prodigal daughter, had returned.

  10

  Madelyn

  Istood on the street feeling stupid. And angry with myself. By tomorrow half of New Bern would know about my run-in with Aaron Fletcher. A quarter of them would claim to have witnessed it personally. I could have kicked myself. Instead, I kicked a pebble and watched it skitter down the sidewalk in the direction of the Green.

  As I’d walked to the bank earlier, I’d noticed a bit of a bustle on the west end of the Green, near the church. There had been more than the usual number of cars parked nearby and quite a number of people setting up tables and tents, plus two men stringing long lengths of rope between trees. In summer, New Bern plays host to all kinds of events, everything from al fresco concerts and 10K runs to craft fairs and poetry readings. It was a bit late in the season for it, but I supposed this was just another one of those.

  But this event was larger than New Bern’s usual community function, much larger, with all kinds of different areas for crafts, and food, and carnival games. It took up the entire western half of the Green and spilled over onto the grounds of the church. The fair didn’t appear to be quite ready for business—people were still scurrying about setting up tables—but a crowd had already gathered. A few fair-goers wandered past the booths, but most were gathered near the trees, looking at rows of colorful quilts hung on ropes like freshly laundered rainbows.

  My pipe-dream plans for the day—hiring contractors to begin remodeling Beecher Cottage—had been blown out of the water, so I decided to join the festivities. Why not? I had nothing else to do. The fair was a welcome distraction and there was no charge for admission. Good thing; I only had four dollars in my pocket.

  I didn’t want to be recognized, so just to be safe, I put on my sunglasses before walking across the grass to see the quilts.

  Grandma Edna was a quilter, a pretty good one too. All of her quilts were handmade, very traditional. I liked it when Edna worked on her quilts. Quilting seemed to calm her—or perhaps making all those teeny stitches required so much focus that it sapped her ability to focus on my many failings. In any case, Edna was happier when she was quilting. She tried to teach me how to quilt once but got furious and started screaming because I kept trying to make changes to the patterns. I was never very good at following directions.

  At the end of one of the rows I saw a card table with two chairs and a sign saying QUILT RAFFLE TICKETS—$1. A pretty quilt would have been a nice addition to one of my empty bedrooms, but I couldn’t tell which was the one being raffled, nor was there anyone selling tickets. I decided to investigate the rest of the fair and come back later.

  For two dollars, I bought a glass of lemonade and a simply enormous cookie from a man with a charming smile and an even more charming Irish accent. The cookie, loaded with macad
amia nuts and some sort of butterscotch bits, was delicious, crunchy but chewy and warm from the oven. The lemonade, tart and sweet, was made from real lemons. It might not have been the breakfast of champions, but at that moment, sound nutrition was the least of my worries.

  Beecher Cottage was still a drain on my fast-dwindling bank account, a millstone around my neck. I couldn’t sell it without remodeling it and I couldn’t remodel it without money. Of course, I could try other banks, but I suspected it would be the same story everywhere. Loans were hard to come by now—doubly so if your last name happened to be Baron. My Plan A was dead on arrival. I had to come up with a Plan B. How?

  I walked across the street to the church grounds and into a roped-off area where a tag sale was being held. I hadn’t been to one since my marriage. Sterling had forbidden me to buy anything at a tag sale, thrift store, or even high-end consignment shop.

  “What will people think if they see my wife going around in somebody’s old clothes? I don’t want to see you wearing anything but the best.”

  Funny. When he first made this pronouncement, after our wedding, I thought it was because Sterling wanted me to have the best, but now I realize it was because he wanted other people to see me wearing the best. It was always about him. His image. His reputation. His wealth. His wife. What a pathetic excuse for a human being he is.

  Defiantly, I joined the others who were already sifting through piles of cast-off clothing, jewelry, books, and an odd mishmash of old glassware, throw pillows, toys, tools, typewriters, and appliances. I spent half an hour at it without finding anything that made me want to part with my money. It was disappointing but not surprising.

  The best sales, the ones where you can unearth real treasures amongst the trash, tend to be estate sales, the ones where everything is up for grabs. Sometimes family members of the deceased are so stunned by grief or so anxious to clear out the house that they don’t realize that Aunt Thelma’s old dishes were actually Limoges or that the ugly old portrait of some long-dead ancestor whose name no one can remember was painted by a renowned folk-art painter. You never know what you’ll find hidden up in somebody’s attic.