A Thread of Truth. Marie Bostwick
“That’s right. And Evelyn has invited me to participate in the broadcast. Isn’t that wonderful? Of course, I’m sure she’ll want you there, too. After all, you’ll certainly want to include New Bern’s most prominent political figure in your program, won’t you, Evelyn?”
My head suddenly started to hurt and it wasn’t from the wine. “Well, yes, normally I would, of course, but it is a show about quilting and…”
“Wonderful!” Porter boomed. “I’ll have someone from my office call you next week. Lydia, we’ve got to run now. I’m supposed to lead the Pledge of Allegiance at the game. It was nice to meet you, Miss Templeton,” he said, grasping her hand again before walking to the door with Lydia on his arm. “Good night, everyone.”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked once the door was closed and the Mosses were out of earshot. “Not only has Lydia, who as far as I know can’t even thread a needle, horned her way in on this broadcast but now she wants to bring her husband in, too? This is a nightmare. All I wanted to do was raise a little money for breast cancer research and suddenly I’m surrounded by gate-crashers and groupies!
“Seriously, Mary Dell. This is a bad omen. Let’s just forget about doing the show here. I know you’re trying to do a good deed, but the whole thing is getting out of hand.”
“Hush now,” Mary Dell said. “Don’t go getting your bloomers in a twist. Pull yourself together, Evelyn. So the mayor, or the First Electman…”
“Selectman,” I corrected.
“If the First Selectman and his wife want to be on the show, fine. Let them. We’ll stick them in a corner somewhere. They’re just two people. What matters is that by the time this show airs, Cobbled Court Quilts will be a household name.”
“That’s not why I agreed to do this.”
“I know,” Mary Dell soothed. “I know that’s not why you’re doing it, but think, Evelyn! You’ve got a chance to really do some good! You could help raise thousands upon thousands for breast cancer research! And did Sandy tell you? We’re planning on having your doctor on the broadcast.”
“Dr. Finney?”
Sandy jumped in. “That’s right. We thought it would be a good idea to have her talk about the importance of regular mammograms and we’ll have her use a model to show the viewers how to perform self-exams. Charlie is exaggerating the size of our viewing audience, but it is considerable. Think of the chance to educate people about early detection! This broadcast will be about more than just quilting, it’ll be about saving people’s lives.”
I was silent for a moment, thinking. “But, couldn’t you just do a show about breast cancer anyway?”
“We could,” Sandy said, “but the story of how you risked everything to open your own shop, and were diagnosed with breast cancer right before hosting your first Quilt Pink Day is so compelling. Women are going to be inspired by your story, Evelyn, and by your recovery. That’s going to make them more willing to go in for early screening.”
I knew there was something to what Sandy was saying. Sometimes people ignore the signs and symptoms of their disease because they are afraid of finding out the truth. Stories of breast cancer survivors and understanding how treatable the disease can be, especially in the early stages, can make women more willing to engage in early detection, and early detection saves lives.
“Charlie? What do you think I should do?”
His handsome blue eyes were full of encouragement. “I think it’s a great opportunity for you to help other people and, knowing you like I do, I suspect you’ve already made up your mind.”
I took a deep breath. “You’re right. This is too important to pass up. But, I’m just so nervous.”
Charlie put his arm around my shoulder and then reached up to brush the hair off my face. “You needn’t be. You’re absolutely up to this. And I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“You will?”
He nodded.
“Well, you can start by not saying anything more about millions of people tuning in to watch the show.”
“So noted,” Charlie said. “So that’s it, then? You’re going to do it?”
“I guess I am.”
“That’s the spirit!” Charlie cheered and everyone else joined in, even Ben, who had finished eating and was looking for a waitress, probably wondering what was for dessert.
“This calls for a toast!” Charlie declared, getting up from the table. “Mary Dell, your glass is empty. I’m going to open another bottle of that pinot noir you like so much.”
“Oh, no,” she protested. “Charlie, darlin’, I really couldn’t.”
“Don’t be stupid, woman. You’re staying with Evelyn tonight. That’s a one-block walk from here. Of course, you can,” he insisted as he headed over to the bar.
Mary Dell turned toward me, the sparkle in her eyes matching the sparkle in her crystal chandelier earrings. “I like that man so much.”
6
Ivy Peterman
A champagne-colored sedan pulled up at the bus stop. It was raining so hard that, until I rolled down the window, I didn’t realize the driver was Abigail.
“Ivy? What are you doing standing out here in this deluge?”
“My car broke down.”
“What? Again?” Abigail pursed her lips and clucked, as if my car breaking down had been a matter of extremely poor planning on my part. Much as I appreciated all Abigail had done for me, her high-handed manner could be irritating. It wasn’t like I enjoyed standing at the bus stop in the pouring rain. Of course, it might have helped if, before I’d left the shop, I’d remembered that the buses only ran every forty minutes instead of every twenty after five-thirty. I’d have stayed inside a bit longer before venturing into the downpour.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Abigail ordered. “Get in. I’ll drive you home. I’ve got a board meeting to attend at the Stanton Center.”
My sodden clothes and hair dripped a rivulet onto the seat. Abigail pursed her lips again, reached behind the seat, pulled out a towel, and handed it to me.
“Here. Franklin insists on bringing his dog, Tina, with us when we go on hikes. She’s a big darling of a black Lab but she makes a mess of my upholstery. I started keeping a towel in the car to dry off her muddy feet. It’s clean. Use it to dry off a bit.”
“Thanks,” I said, wrapping the towel around sections of my sopping hair and squeezing out the water. “Sorry about dripping on your upholstery.”
“That’s all right. It’s leather.” Abigail pulled into the road quickly, without bothering to use a turn signal, ignoring the protesting honk of a white SUV she’d just cut off, as if she were accustomed to living in a world where others yielded to her. Looking at her, with her perfectly coiffed hair the exact same shade as the string of pearls that circled her long, elegant neck and hung to rest above the pearl buttons of a powder-blue cashmere cardigan that probably cost more than my last paycheck, it was easy to believe that traffic—or crowds, or the seas—parted for her. Abigail, I was sure, had always had things her own way and probably always would.
I flexed my toes inside my shoes and felt water squish out of the stitching. Some people had everything handed to them, I thought. It wasn’t fair.
Abigail pulled up to a stoplight, waiting for the signal to turn green, and looked at me curiously. “Where is your umbrella?”
“I don’t have one!” I said, more sharply than I’d intended.
“Oh.” She lifted her chin as she made the turn. “I see.”
I