A Thread of Truth Read online

  Charlie clapped his hands together and grinned, back in his element, as delighted by the end of his culinary exile as a major-league pitcher who is called back to the mound after a season spent warming the bench. “Good! Get them out. I’ll need a mixing bowl and an apron too.”

  Glumly, I started looking for the items he requested, but Charlie interrupted my search, kissing me lightly on the lips.

  “There now. You’re taking this much too hard. Don’t worry. I’ll be able to salvage our supper.” His eyes twinkled as he hefted the fish poacher off the stove and poured the liquid down the sink.

  “Just like I did last Sunday.”

  I smiled as I turned the key in the lock and opened the shop door on Monday morning. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, the kind of morning that makes you think that the rest of the day will hold nothing but good.

  Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

  I had plenty of things to do besides worry about Ivy. The best thing to do was to act as if Friday had never happened and just get on with my day. One thing I knew for certain is that it was going to be crazy busy. But until I snapped on the overhead light and the telephone started ringing as if on cue, I had no way of knowing how crazy.

  11

  Evelyn Dixon

  “Ms. Dixon, would you please hold for the First Selectman?”

  The secretary pressed the hold button before I had a chance to say whether I would or wouldn’t, and was treated to a tinny version of “Muskrat Love” while I waited for Porter Moss to come on the line.

  “Good morning, Evelyn!” Porter’s voice exuded chummy warmth, as if we were old friends. “Sorry to keep you waiting. How’s everything at the shop? Saw in the paper where you’ve got a big anniversary sale coming up this weekend.”

  “Yes, our second.”

  “Wonderful! You must be proud to have reached such a milestone.”

  And before I could say if I was or wasn’t, he changed the subject.

  “Listen, you probably have a million things to do. I won’t keep you. Let me just cut to the chase.”

  Good, I thought as I eyed the blinking light on my answering machine and wondered how many calls I’d need to respond to before I could begin cataloging the new stock that had come in over the weekend.

  “It’s about this television show…”

  “Um, yes,” I said distractedly, going over my to-do list in my mind. “It’s going to be awfully crowded with the cameras and crew and all, but the producer thinks she can squeeze in a couple of…”

  “Great! Sorry not to have gotten back to you right away like I’d said I would, but I wanted to run a few things by the board before I called. They’re very excited about this, as you can imagine. Just full of ideas about how the community can really capitalize on the opportunity.”

  Something about the gusto of his tone drew my mind back from thoughts of phone calls, catalogs, and to-do lists. Cradling the receiver between my shoulder and ear, I reached up to rub a kink out of my neck, suddenly certain that my life was about to become very complicated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said so confidently that I could almost see the beam of his self-congratulatory smile streaming through the phone line, “that we’ve got plans, big plans for this event. It took a little arm-twisting, but I got the board to declare September 26th Mary Dell Templeton Day in New Bern. How do you like that! We’re going to have a parade, a picnic on the Green…Hey! I just thought of this! Maybe we could have some kind of quilt show. You know, string up some clotheslines between the trees where the ladies could show off their quilts and then Mary Dell could pick the winner! That’s a good idea. Gimme a second. Let me write that down….”

  He finally took a breath and I could hear the scratching of his pencil as he jotted a note to himself.

  “Porter,” I began slowly, searching for a diplomatic response, “this is all very interesting and I’m sure you’ve put a lot of thought into it, but I…”

  “Oh! You don’t know the half of it! We’re going to put up a giant television screen, a JumboTron, on the Green so that everyone can watch the broadcast live.”

  Well, at least one of his ideas has some merit. If Porter and Lydia can watch the show from the Green, then they won’t be in the shop getting in everyone’s way and making me nervous.

  “That,” he continued, “will be helpful for crowd control, give the average citizens and the visitors that will be coming from out of town someplace to watch but won’t make them feel like they’re being left out. You don’t want to try to film a show with a bunch of people underfoot. I talked to Dale Barrows about it…”

  “Dale Barrows the movie director? The man who lives three houses down from Abigail, on Proctor Street?”

  Porter chuckled, clearly delighted that he’d had an excuse to call up New Bern’s most famous resident. “Well, he’s been retired for a number of years now, but yes. Back in the eighties, Dale directed some of the biggest-budget pictures in Hollywood.”

  Also, if my memory served me correctly, some of Hollywood’s biggest-budget flops. Fabulously forgettable films like Drive-In Disco and Binky and Bunny’s Hawaiian Holiday, movies that explained his early retirement from the glare of the Hollywood spotlight to the sleepy seclusion of New Bern.

  “Anyway, Dale says that you need plenty of space for the cameras to maneuver. You can’t have a bunch of people hanging around and getting in the way.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Dale is absolutely right. I’m so glad you understand. I was afraid you were going to be offended when I explained that we really don’t have room for a lot of onlookers.”

  As I was speaking, Garrett came downstairs, his hair still wet from the shower and carrying his cell phone. Catching my eye, he held up the phone and silently mouthed, “It’s for you.”

  Who would be calling me on Garrett’s cell phone? I squashed my eyes shut and held my left hand up flat. I could only talk on one phone at a time.

  “Don’t you worry about that for another minute,” Porter said. “I’ve worked everything out. We’re moving everything into the gym.”

  For a moment, his meaning didn’t register. “I’m sorry?” Surely, I’d misunderstood him. “The gym?”

  “Yes, at the high school. There’s plenty of room there. You can film on the floor and put the audience up in the bleachers with no fear of them blocking the cameras. You’ll have room for 250 dignitaries, maybe more! Don’t go getting your hopes up, but I’ve put a call into the governor’s office and I think there’s a good chance she’ll come.”

  “What!”

  “I know! Isn’t that something? But, I’ve saved the best for last. Dale Barrows himself has agreed to come out of retirement to direct the whole thing.”

  “He what?” I cried. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “I know!” he repeated, completely misreading my reaction and emitting a laugh that was practically a giggle, as giddy as a teenage girl who’s just learned that the captain of the football team, the editor of the yearbook, and the student body president all want to take her to the prom.

  “This is going to be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in New Bern!”

  “Porter,” I said, taking a deep breath and trying to get a handle on the situation. “We’ve got to talk…”

  “What? Hold on a minute, Evelyn.” There was a brief pause before he came back on the line.

  “That was my secretary. I’m ten minutes late for a meeting over at the fire department. Completely slipped my mind.”

  “But, Porter…” I protested.

  “I know. I know. We’ve got a lot to talk about. Lots of planning to be done, but there’s time. The broadcast is still months off. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to come off without a hitch. After all, we’ve got Dale Barrows directing!” he crowed. “Have to run. Talk to you later.”

  And before I could say anything else, he’d hung up.

 
My arm suddenly went limp and I stood there open-mouthed, the receiver dangling from my wrist.

  “This cannot be happening,” I said to no one in particular.

  “Mom?” Garrett wore an apologetic look as he held his cell phone out to me. “It’s Mary Dell.”

  “Give me a second.”

  I hung up the shop phone and laid one hand over my eyes like a shield. It was the same gesture I used when the sun came streaming through my bedroom window too early, a feeble tactic meant to delay the inevitable need to get out of bed and, ready or not, face the day.

  I would have preferred a few minutes to process everything before talking with Mary Dell, but maybe now was best. Together, maybe we could figure out a way to put a lid back on Pandora’s box and save the broadcast before Porter and Dale Barrows decided to hire Busby Berkeley as Assistant Director and bring Binky and Bunny in for a surprise on-air reunion. Better yet, maybe we could just cancel the whole thing.

  “Mom?” Garrett looked worried.

  “I’m okay.” I took two big, cleansing breaths, nodded my preparedness, and took the cell phone from Garrett’s outstretched hand.

  “Hey, Mary Dell,” I said, slipping into the traditional Texas salutation.

  “Hey, yourself, Baby Girl. Where’ve you been? I must have left about ten messages on your machine before I thought to call Garrett’s cell. And why’d you keep me waiting so long? I’ve got two cameramen and a floor director standing around cooling their heels and looking at their watches while I waited for you to pick up the line. Were you off somewhere necking with Charlie? Hope so. Honey, that is one cute Irishman you’ve got yourself there.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary Dell. It’s been kind of a crazy morning around here, but I’m glad you called.”

  “And you’re going to be even more glad I called once I tell you the news. Flip on your TV set, darlin’, and get ready to be a star! The first on-air promo is going to run on this morning’s show. Should be on in about forty-five minutes.”

  My knees felt weak. “It’s running today?”

  “Yes, it is. And don’t sound so nervous. I saw the tape and you look great. Gather up the troops and watch. Gotta run. Sandy is wearing her ‘time is money’ face.”

  Click.

  I looked at Garrett. “What time is it?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch and said, “Ten minutes to nine.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” Garrett said cautiously, as if worried that his normally reliable mother was about to slip over the edge of sanity. Which, at the moment, was a distinct possibility. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. I just can’t quite believe so much could go so wrong so early in the day.”

  No one was interested in my tales of woe regarding Porter Moss, Dale Barrows, the Governor of Connecticut, and the many sound reasons I had for wanting to cancel the broadcast now, before things got even more out of hand than they already were.

  As soon as Garrett and Margot learned that the first promotional spot was to appear that morning, they didn’t hear another word I said.

  The next thing I knew, Garrett was ferreting around the back office, moving piles of shipping boxes, papers, bags filled with empty soda cans that we always said we were going to take to the recycling center but never did, trying to unearth the small television that no one ever watched from a back corner shelf.

  Margot followed him into the office. I followed Margot, holding Garrett’s cell phone and hitting the redial button.

  “Isn’t this exciting!” Margot chirped.

  “No! It’s not. It is the opposite of exciting. It’s a catastrophe!”

  Garrett pulled the TV from the corner and lifted it up onto my desk where it would be easier for everyone to see the screen. “Actually, the opposite of exciting would be dull or maybe boring. It’s neither of those. Margot, can you hand me a kitchen towel or something? I want to wipe the dust off the screen.”

  “Sure.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a dish towel, and tossed it to Garrett. “How much longer?”

  Garrett looked at his watch. “About six minutes.”

  Margot squealed. Actually, it was more like she trilled; clapping her hands together and emitting this half-whistle, half-hoot that was her signature sound for expressing excitement.

  The TV in place and free of dust, Garrett declared that he was going to run over to his apartment and get his video recorder. “That way we can watch it again later.”

  “Good idea!” Margot said.

  “Didn’t either of you hear anything I said?” I pulled the phone away from my ear, stabbed the end button with my forefinger, and hit redial yet again.

  “Porter Moss is trying to turn this whole thing into some weird mixture of a three-ring circus, quilt show, and campaign rally! We’ve got to call it off before it’s too late. Or at least postpone airing the promo video until we can figure out how to put a lid on this thing.”

  With the phone back at my ear, I paused a moment, waiting for an answer, and then growled my frustration when none came. “But how am I going to do that if Mary Dell won’t answer her stupid phone so I can tell her not to run the video?”

  There were only six minutes left to airtime—now, more like five. I simply had to get hold of Mary Dell and tell her to put the video on hold. If not, there would be no going back. We’d have to…I’d have to go through with the live broadcast in September. It had been a distressing prospect before. Now, after my one-sided conversation with Porter, it was a terrifying one.

  I punched the redial button again, held the phone to my ear and chanted, “Pick up, Mary Dell. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up!”

  Garrett, returning with the VCR, laughed and turned on the television set. “Mom, calm down. She’s not going to answer; she’s probably taping a show and turned the phone off. Even if she did answer, I doubt she could stop the video from airing. They probably get these things set way in advance. There’s nothing you can do to stop this. Deal with it. Better yet, enjoy it. Personally, I think it’s pretty neat.”

  I looked at my watch. Two minutes left. Garrett was right, it was too late. As he fiddled with the volume control, I could hear the Quintessential Quilting theme music. The horse was out of the barn now and there was nothing I could do but hang on for the ride.

  Margot walked toward me and took the phone from my hand. “Come on. Sit down and watch the show.”

  Grabbing my shoulders from behind, she steered me to a straight-backed chair near the set and pressed me into it. My knees folded under me and I sat, reluctantly ceding control of the situation.

  The back door opened and Ivy came in. Everyone turned, briefly noted her presence, and then turned their attention back to the television screen, where Mary Dell was sitting at her sewing machine, talking about a technique she’d learned for simultaneous piecing and quilting that she couldn’t wait to share with us.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Margot turned and grinned. “Mary Dell phoned. They’re running the new promotional video today.”

  “Really? Cool!” Ivy pulled up an empty chair and sat down next to me, squeezing my arm encouragingly even though her eyes were glued to the screen.

  I thought to myself that, even if this video was the harbinger of disaster that I was absolutely certain it was, at least it had gotten us past the awkward events of Friday night.

  Mary Dell looked straight into the camera and smiled genuinely, speaking to her invisible audience of viewers (millions and millions of them, as Charlie would say) as if they were old friends. She looked so comfortable, as if she did this every day, which, I reminded myself, she did. But still. She hadn’t always been a television personality.

  Back in Texas, when I first met her, she was just plain, old Mary Dell…no. Not plain. Mary Dell was a lot of things, but you could never have called her plain. Nothing, from the pointy tips of her pink faux-leopard-print pumps to the wide streaks of blond on her newly highlighted hairdo, was plain. It neve
r had been. Even in the ordinariness of her pre-celebrity life, taking care of Howard, shopping for groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, hanging out in my sewing room while we quilted, and laughed, and talked each other through the peaks and valleys of life, including my divorce, Mary Dell sparkled.

  I smiled as I watched her holding up a quilt block she said she’d worked on that weekend, telling the cameraman to zoom in close so everybody could see what a wreck she’d made of it.

  “Just look at those points.” She clucked and shook her head. “They aren’t within a mile of meeting at the center.” And she was right; they weren’t.

  “Well,” she laughed, “it just goes to show you. If you’re just dying to try out a new recipe for mojitos, don’t do it at the same time you’re trying to sew the points on an eight-pointed star, you hear what I’m telling you?” Her expression became mockingly serious. “Learn from my mistakes, children. I am not a role model.”

  She laughed again and everyone—Margot, Garrett, Ivy, and I—laughed with her. It was no wonder that Quintessential Quilting had the House and Home Network’s fastest growing audience. How many other quilt show hosts would let the audience see their blunders? She gave people permission to take risks, to try and enjoy taking on new, more challenging projects even if the results weren’t always perfect. Even people who’d never quilted and never wanted to tuned in to Quintessential Quilting. I could see why. Mary Dell was just plain fun to watch.

  Look at you, girl. You could give Barbara Walters a run for her money. How did you ever learn to do this?

  Mary Dell tossed her pathetically off-center quilt block off to the side with an exaggerated shrug. “Well, that one’s a lost cause, but I want to tell you about a cause that’s anything but, about a battle that millions of people around the globe are fighting and winning, thanks to the help of quilters like you…”

  “This is it!” Garrett exclaimed and turned the volume up.

  Everyone leaned toward the screen. I shifted nervously in my chair, resting the point of my chin on my balled-up fist.