A Thread of Truth. Marie Bostwick
and notions to be cataloged and stocked. And this was in addition to all of our regular duties.
Come Monday, I couldn’t just sneak in the back door, grab my stack of orders, and tiptoe up to the workroom unseen. I would have to be downstairs with everyone else, trying to do my job while avoiding making eye contact with my coworkers.
I sighed. Monday was going to be just awful. But I didn’t have to think about that. Not yet.
I gave the kids a five-minute warning and went into the bathroom to draw water for their baths.
Bethany moaned, “But we’re just getting to the good part! The sea witch is going to make Ariel into a real girl.”
“I mean it. Five minutes,” I repeated. Something in my tone must have told her I was in no mood for argument. She slumped into her beanbag chair and rested her pouty chin onto her hands, but turned off the television without comment when I called out that it was bathtime.
After I finished reading, probably my two-thousandth rendition of Goodnight Moon, and kissed Bobby, who was already asleep, Bethany asked if she could come sleep in my bed.
I said yes.
She scampered into my room, climbed in next to me and snuggled in, her skin still pink and warm after her bath. I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the sweet, innocent scent of baby shampoo from her hair. I stroked her silky, baby-fine hair slowly. She sighed her contentment and was asleep even before I turned off the bedside lamp. After I did, I closed my eyes, wrung out from a long, emotional day, longing for the oblivion of deep and dreamless sleep.
It did not come.
In my dream, I was standing at the bus stop and the rain was coming down in torrents, like someone was standing on top of the bus shelter and pouring tub after tub of water down upon it. A car pulled up. Abigail’s champagne-colored sedan.
The window rolled down, a loud and steady mechanical whine, like the sound of a garage door going up.
“Get in,” she said.
“No. That’s all right. I’m just waiting for the bus. It’ll be here soon.”
Abigail shook her head. “No, it won’t. The storm is too strong. All the buses are broken down. No one is coming to get you, and you can’t stay here. Get in the car.”
I didn’t want to get in but when I looked up, I saw a crack in the Plexiglas ceiling of the bus shelter. It was already starting to leak and the crack was getting bigger, moving slowly from one side of the roof to the other. If I stood here any longer, it would split in two. All the water would come crashing down upon me, sweeping me away completely. There was no choice. I got into the car.
“You’re soaked,” Abigail said. “Take this towel and dry off.”
I took the towel that was sitting on the seat next to me and dried my sodden hair.
“That’s better,” Abigail said, glancing at me as she drove down the road. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a shiny black tube of lipstick, and thrust it toward me. “Here. Put this on.”
Compliantly, I flipped down the sunshade, peered into the mirror, and dutifully applied the bright red lipstick.
“That’s better,” she said with a smile. “You’ll want to fix yourself up a little. There’s someone I want you to meet. I found him. It turns out he isn’t dead after all.”
I looked into the mirror and saw him sitting in the backseat. Staring at me. He’d been there all along, waiting.
“Hello, Ivy.”
I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, my heart pounding. I felt a searing pain in my left hand, as if the heavy crystal vase had smashed down on it only moments before. I put my fingers in my mouth and tasted blood, metallic and sharp, where no blood was, using my hand to keep myself from crying out.
Bethany was in bed next to me, still sound asleep. I bit my lips to push away the nightmare, whispered to myself, repeating the words the trauma counselor had taught me to say when this happened, words I hadn’t needed to say in weeks.
Everything is fine. It was just a dream. We are safe. No one can hurt us here.
But I didn’t believe it. It was everything I could do not to wake Bethany and Bobby, pack our bags, and sneak off in the night.
But I didn’t.
The image of Evelyn Dixon’s face, her kind, understanding eyes, held me fast.
I forced myself to lie back down, pulling up the quilt that had slipped to the foot of the bed, the log cabin quilt with the brave red center squares that stood for my heart, my home, my children, and everything that mattered to me, tucking my daughter in tight under its sheltering warmth, hiding beneath the log cabin fortress that I had sewn to protect my baby.
It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.
10
Evelyn Dixon
Even before I unlocked the door of the shop on Monday morning, I knew it was going to be a crazy day.
Cobbled Court Quilts was about to celebrate its second anniversary and, like any good retail establishment, we planned to mark the occasion with a sale. It might not be the most creative way to celebrate our birthday, but I was incredibly proud that, in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, we’d actually managed to keep our doors open this long and I was looking forward to this opportunity to thank our customers for their support by offering special prices on the thing quilters love best—fabric!
Over Margot’s objections, I’d decided we were going to offer two free fat quarters with every two purchased for two hours on Saturday. Basically, that meant I’d be selling those fabrics at cost, which was why Margot argued against it.
Margot had been a fairly high-level marketing executive at a corporation in New York before she’d been downsized and come to work for me at Cobbled Court Quilts. She had an incredible head for business. Without Margot, Cobbled Court would never have survived to celebrate its first anniversary, let alone a second. Of course, I can’t pay her anything like what she was making in the corporate world—I wish I could—but Margot says she’s happier working here than she ever was in New York and I do my best to make sure she knows how much I value her. Appreciation isn’t something you can take to the bank, but I think people want that as much as a paycheck, maybe more so. On Saturday, after the sale was over, I intended to take Margot out for a very special dinner at the Grill on the Green.
Charlie planned a special menu: Asian pear and ginger salad, black cod with miso marinade, bok choy and sticky rice, topped off with chocolate bread pudding. The dessert didn’t quite go with the oriental theme of the menu, as Charlie told me in no uncertain terms, but chocolate bread pudding is Margot’s favorite, so that’s what we’re having, end of discussion. She who pays the check calls the shots.
However, if Margot knew what the dinner bill was going to be, she’d argue with me about that, too, just like she did the profitless fat quarter sale. As the keeper of the books, and therefore the one who posted our monthly profits or, more frequently, our losses, stuff like that just makes her teeth hurt. But if there is one thing I have learned in the last couple of years, thanks to my divorce and bout with breast cancer, it is that tomorrow comes with no guarantees. If you’ve got something to celebrate, celebrate it now. It might be your last chance. And one of the things most worth celebrating is the people you care about, your family and friends.
Of course, Margot wasn’t the only person I was planning on celebrating with and that’s where things got complicated. I wanted to include everyone associated with the shop—Abigail because of her generosity in letting us occupy the building practically rent-free, Garrett, and, of course, Ivy. At least, that had been my plan until Friday night.
Now I was wondering if I should invite her to join everyone for the anniversary dinner or not. It wasn’t something I could discuss with Margot or Abigail.
I