Apart at the Seams (25 page)

O
n Monday morning, my cell phone rang. It was Lanie, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't let the call go to voice mail.

“Good morning, my darling!”

“Good morning yourself,” she said suspiciously. “What are you up to? You sound nauseatingly cheerful.”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just washing the breakfast dishes before I go outside to water the garden.”

“Oh. How are you? How are things?”

“Great! Couldn't be better. Brian left at about five-thirty. He had to get back to the city for a breakfast meeting.”

“Wait a minute. You mean he spent the
night
there?”

I turned on the faucet and rinsed toast crumbs from a plate.

“I mean he spent two nights here—Saturday and Sunday. And I'm pretty sure that he'll be spending weekends in New Bern from now on—at least through Labor Day. Then I'll have to shut up the house and go back to New York.”

“Oh, my God,” she moaned. “You slept with him. You lost your mind, and you slept with him. Gayla, that was the stupidest . . .”

Lanie sputtered on, but I wasn't listening. Nothing could put me in a bad mood that day, not even Lanie's prognostications of misery.

She'd been wrong about Brian and me, wrong in her predictions about the impossibility of us repairing our broken marriage, and I wanted her to know it.

“But I won't be in Manhattan for long,” I said, talking right over her. “Just long enough to get my clients on track for the school year, answer the backlog of mail, and pack my bags. Brian and I are going to Italy for two weeks! He arranged the whole thing himself and surprised me on Saturday night. We'll spend the first week visiting Nate in Scotland and then touring the vineyards in Tuscany and the second barging on the
Lucia Dolce
. Isn't that romantic? It'll be like a second honeymoon!”

Lanie, who had finally stopped sputtering and started listening, let out a deep sigh.

“Gayla,” she said, her voice deliberately patient, “I understand you haven't had sex in a very long time and that the postcoital high is making you a little giddy, but you've
got
to listen to me. I'm saying this as a friend. Letting Brian sleep over on weekends, agreeing to go to Italy with him—it's a mistake. I know that right this second, everything seems hunky-dory, and you're certain your problems are over, but you're
wrong
. A man who strays once is going to stray again; he can't help himself.”

I groaned and shut off the faucet. “Lanie, don't be such a—”

“No!” she barked. “You've
got
to hear me out. I know what I'm talking about.”

I was quiet. Even though I'd spent the last several weeks avoiding her calls or returning them only when I was pretty sure she wouldn't pick up, Lanie was my friend. I'd sit still and listen to what she had to say.

But she didn't say anything, not for a few moments. When she finally spoke, her voice was strange, uncharacteristically flat, as if she were trying to recount the story without reliving any of the emotions that had accompanied it.

“A few weeks after I threw Simon out of the apartment, he called up and begged to see me. Stupidly, I said yes. He took me out to dinner at the Plaza, made an abject apology, told me he'd broken it off, and promised never, ever to see her again, then pulled a Tiffany's box with a diamond tennis bracelet out of his pocket.

“I was all over him after that. I couldn't even wait to get back to the apartment to get my hands on him, so we went to the front desk and got a room. The only thing they had was a junior suite, eight hundred dollars for the night. But we got our money's worth. We did it in the bathtub, on the sofa . . . even on top of the minibar. It was amazing. Makeup sex always is. But it also clouds your judgment.

“Two weeks after our orgy at the Plaza, I found out he was seeing another woman—not the yoga instructor, so technically he hadn't broken his promise—that's what he kept screaming at me while I smashed the hood of his car with a baseball bat. He was seeing a different woman—actually, two different women. And when the bills came in a week later, I found out he'd charged the Tiffany's bracelet to my credit card.”

I put my hand over my eyes, wishing I could block out the sound of her voice. “Lanie, why are you doing this? I know all about what happened between you and Simon, and I'm sorry for it, but that has nothing to do with Brian and me. We've worked through the worst of our problems. I know we've got more work to do, but everything is going to be fine. And we're more in love than ever. Why can't you just accept that and be happy for me?”

“Because I know how this turns out!” she barked. “And I care too much to just sit idly by and watch you careen over the cliff. Do you know what I did the day
after
I smashed Simon's car with a baseball bat?”

I nodded and moved the phone to my other ear. “You went to Rio for Mardi Gras. I remember because your mother called to say you'd flown off spur of the moment and could I go to your apartment and feed your cat while you were gone.”

“Wrong. That's just what my mother said. I was actually in the hospital. After the baseball bat incident,” she went on, her voice a little less flat, a little more bitter, “I went home and swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills and washed them down with vodka. The only reason I survived is because Mom came over to borrow some earrings and found me. After they pumped my stomach, I spent a week in the psychiatric ward.”

My mouth dropped open. I'd had no idea. She'd kept it a secret all these years, even from me.

“Lanie, I . . . I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I was embarrassed!” she snapped. “I felt stupid enough the first time, but to let him make a fool of me a
second
time? And then to try and kill myself over him? No, worse than that—to
fail
to kill myself over him. How pathetic is that?”

She choked out a single, mirthless laugh. “Let me tell you, Gayla, when they break your heart a second time, there's not enough glue on the planet to put Humpty-Dumpty together again. After I got out of the hospital, I adopted a strict one-strike-and-you're-out policy. No man gets a second chance to make a fool of me. Because no man
deserves
a second chance.”

“Brian does,” I said quietly. “I know you don't think so, but you're wrong. He's genuinely sorry for what he's done. He keeps apologizing, but it's over now. I've forgiven him.”

“I don't believe you,” she said. “Forgetting to put the milk back in the refrigerator, or even drinking it all and putting the carton back in empty; that you can forgive. Even forgetting your birthday is a forgivable offense. But when they forget they're married? No. That's a bridge too far, my friend. Even for you.”

“But I have. I've forgiven him completely.”

“If you've been able to forgive him, then why does he feel like he needs to keep apologizing?”

I took in a breath and held it for a moment, not knowing how to answer.

“Be careful, Gayla. I don't want to open the door to your apartment one day to find
you
lying on the floor, unconscious and covered in vomit.”

I
t was quilt circle night, and once again, we were going on a field trip.

Other than her appearance at Virginia's party, Abigail had been missing in action all summer, busy working on her sabbatical project. We still didn't know what she was up to, only that we would find out tonight.

Abigail had given us instructions to meet at her house promptly at five-thirty, to dress for an evening out and not worry about having dinner beforehand because refreshments would be provided, and to feel free to bring our family members and that she hoped we would. However, she needed to know in advance exactly how many people would be attending. Other than that, we had no inkling of what would be going on that evening.

I'd picked the kids up early from day camp at three and brought them to the shop for the rest of the afternoon. For a while, Bobby drew pictures, mostly of him bowling. Then he played with Virginia's cat, Petunia, before going outside and racing circles around the cobblestone courtyard, pretending he was a NASCAR driver. Bethany, inspired by my most recent project, sat down at one of the workroom sewing machines and started making a crazy patchwork pillow for her bedroom while I cut baby quilt kits.

“I told her she could use scraps and trims from the box of miscuts,” I told Evelyn when she came upstairs. “I hope that was all right.”

“Of course it is.” Evelyn smiled and looked across the room at Bethany, who had her earbuds in and was completely absorbed in her music and sewing. “I can't believe how she's grown. When I first met her she barely came up to my waist, and she was so shy. Hardly had a word to say for herself.”

“Oh, that's not a problem anymore,” I said. “You should have heard her at the hearing with Judge Dranginis; she had plenty to say. And she wasn't emotional or the least bit nervous. She laid out her facts just like Franklin told her to. She explained to the judge how Hodge had hit her when she was younger, that she had no desire to have further contact with him, that this was her idea, not mine, and that, the way she saw it, it didn't seem right or fair to force her to have contact with her dad just because she was eleven instead of twelve.”

Evelyn laughed and pulled up a chair and started assembling kits, taking the patches I'd cut, organizing them into groups, and slipping them into clear plastic bags with a pattern.

“And what did the judge say to that?”

“She asked her a few questions, especially about what had given Bethany the idea to hire Franklin as her lawyer and how she'd gone about doing her legal research—I think she just wanted to make sure Bethany wasn't simply reciting something we'd taught her to say. Then she looked at her, said she'd rarely had the pleasure of hearing an argument stated so clearly and concisely and that if some of the lawyers in town would do the same, justice would be a lot swifter, and then granted her request. Just like that. And just in time.”

“You were lucky to get a hearing so quickly,” she said, putting aside a finished kit and starting on another.

“That was all Franklin's doing. He was able to convince the court that it was an emergency since Hodge arrives in New Bern next week. I'm
not
looking forward to it,” I said. “But it is what it is.”

I stepped away from the cutting table and peered through the window down into the courtyard. Bobby was standing on top of one of the brick planters, bowing and waving. Apparently, he'd won the race.

“Bobby's excited, though.” I sighed and went back to the table. “He wants a father so much. If Hodge really can be that to him, nobody will be happier than me, but . . . I just don't know.”

“Maybe things will be different now,” Evelyn said, trying to stay positive even though her tone was laced with doubt.

“Maybe,” I said, my tone matching hers. “He's not a nice man, Evelyn. He never was, but I was too young and stupid to know that when I met him.” I shook my head, remembering how gullible I'd been. “I just don't want Bobby to get hurt—emotionally, I mean. The father he's created in his mind is a hero. When he finds out that Hodge isn't, he'll be crushed.”

“No,” Evelyn said, counting out a stack of five-inch squares. “He'll be disappointed. Nobody gets through life without disappointment. But he won't be crushed. He's tougher than he looks, just like his big sister. They must get it from you.”

“I don't know about that,” I said, smiling as I bent over the table, lined the ruler up, and sliced through the layers of fabric. “But I do my best.”

“Is this the last one?” Evelyn asked.

I shook my head. I needed to finish one more set.

“Charlie and Paul will be here in a few minutes,” she said. “I thought we'd all walk over to Abigail's together. The others will meet us there. Gayla said Brian is driving in from the city, so we'll finally get to meet him. Is Dan coming?”

I looked up from my work, surprised by the question. “Abigail said family.”

“I know, but you've been seeing him for a while now.”

“A month. That doesn't exactly make him family.”

Evelyn shrugged. “I'm sure Abbie would have been fine with you bringing him. Madelyn is bringing Jake, and they're not married.”

I smiled absently and started layering another stack of fabric. “What do you think this is all about anyway?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I've been trying to figure that out. What could Abigail want to do that she's never done before? She's been just about everywhere and done just about everything.”

“She doesn't know how to cook,” I offered. “Or she didn't. Maybe she's learned. Maybe she's invited us all over for dinner to show off her skills.”

Evelyn lifted her brows. “She took eight weeks to cook us dinner?”

“To
learn
to cook us dinner. It could take a while; she doesn't even know how to scramble an egg. And you know Abbie; she doesn't do anything halfway. She probably enrolled in a course at Le Cordon Bleu or something. We'll be having beef bourguignon and Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert.”

“Sounds good to me.” She glanced at the clock on the wall and got up from her chair. “You coming downstairs?”

I nodded. “Ten minutes. I just want to finish this kit so Vesta can get it ready to ship tonight. I sent her to the post office to pick up some more boxes.”

“How's she working out?”

“Great,” I said. “She's reliable, she learns fast, and she's getting more confident every day. I think she's going to make it.”

“I'm not surprised,” Evelyn said, pausing at the doorway. “She's had a good teacher.”

 

Once again, Abigail had arranged for transportation.

When we arrived at Franklin and Abigail's house, two full-sized Ford vans were sitting in the driveway. Franklin was there to greet us, handing out boxes of cold roast chicken with sides of dill potato salad and fruit, and walnut brownies for dessert. Abigail still didn't know how to cook.

“If she was going to use a caterer,” Charlie groused, “why didn't she call the Grill? I've always catered Abigail's parties.”

“Because she wanted everything to be a surprise,” Franklin said, climbing behind the wheel of one of the vans. “Hop in, everybody. We can eat on the way. There are coolers with drinks in each van. Paul, you want to drive the other vehicle? Margot can sit up front with you.”

“Sure,” Paul replied and caught the set of keys Franklin tossed to him. “Where are we going?”

“To Sherman,” he said, firing up the engine. “Just follow me. I know the way. I must have driven Abigail there fifty times by now.”

 

Sherman, Connecticut, as it turned out, was the home of the Sherman Players, a community theater founded in 1923 that staged its shows in an old church turned playhouse.

It was opening night for their current production, Oscar Wilde's
The Importance of Being Earnest,
with our own Abigail taking the part of the formidable and haughty dowager, Lady Bracknell. To my surprise, Dr. Streeter was in it, too, playing the part of the Reverend Chasuble.

The play was very entertaining. I was worried about Bobby being able to sit still through an entire play, but he was very well behaved. All the actors were good, but Abigail was excellent and so funny. When she came out for her bow at the end of the show, everyone jumped to their feet and applauded like crazy.

“Wasn't she terrific?” I said to Madelyn, raising my voice so she could hear me over the applause.

“How could she not be?” Madelyn replied. “It was Abigail playing Abigail.”

I had to smile at that. She definitely had a point.

After the curtain came down, we all hurried to congratulate Abigail and the rest of the cast at a backstage reception. When she came out of her dressing room, still in her stage makeup but wearing a robe, Franklin gave her a bouquet of roses and a kiss.

“You were wonderful, Abbie! The consummate Lady Bracknell! Better than the woman I saw play the part in London.”

“Thank you, darling,” she said, returning his kiss. “But I think you might be just a wee bit prejudiced.”

“Were you nervous at all?” I asked. “You didn't look it.”

“Nervous? I was petrified. At the last minute, the prop master gave me the fan to hold so the audience wouldn't notice how badly my hands were shaking. But once I started in on my lines, I was able to calm down. After a bit, I almost forgot the audience was there. By the second act, I was actually having fun.”

“I thought you were just great!” Margot exclaimed. “So did Paul. Do you think you'll do more plays in the future?”

“Oh,
heavens
no!” Abigail exclaimed, pulling her stage fan from the pocket of her robe and waving it in front of her face. “It had been in the back of my mind for years, so I'm glad I finally tried it. But acting takes a lot more work than I realized, and a lot more time. At my age, memorizing lines is a nightmare. I've missed my evenings with all of you, and with Franklin,” she said, glancing at her husband, who was standing with the men a few feet away. “It was a lovely sabbatical, but I think I'm ready to get back to real life now.”

I moved off so Abigail could greet her other admirers and searched for Dr. Streeter, who was standing at the opposite end of the stage, talking to some other people. When he saw me, he threw his arms wide.

“Ivy! What a pleasure! I had no idea you were coming this evening. You should have told me.”

“To tell you the truth, Professor, I didn't know myself.”

I explained that I'd come with a group of Abigail's friends and that the whole thing had been a surprise.

“We had no idea that Abigail had been rehearsing a play all these weeks. In fact, I didn't even know there was a play.”

“I'm not surprised. Sherman is a bit of a hike from New Bern,” he said. “I'm sure I put a thousand miles on the odometer coming back and forth to rehearsals, but I do like to get back on the boards during the summer break, and I knew this would be a fun production. You can't go wrong with Wilde,” he intoned. “The script is so comical that it does most of the work for you.”

“Well, I thought you were wonderful.”

“Thank you. I see you brought your children along,” he said, his face brightening as he noticed Bobby and Bethany walking around the stage, investigating the false walls of the set. “Good for you. Children should be exposed to theater at an early age. So what have you been up to this summer?” he asked. “Have you registered for a fall class yet?”

We chatted for a bit. I told him about what was going on in the shop, my failed application for the directorship of New Beginnings, and Virginia's skydiving adventure. That tickled him. The sound of his laughter boomed across the stage.

“Eighty-five, you say!” He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Virginia on the opposite side of the stage, sitting in a chair someone had brought to her, swinging her legs a bit because they were too short to touch the floor. “That's marvelous! Just marvelous!”

Gayla, whom I hadn't had a chance to talk to yet—she and Brian had ridden in the other van and had been so engrossed in conversation with each other during the intermission that I hadn't wanted to butt in—spotted me across the room, waved, and walked over.

“Congratulations,” she said, greeting Dr. Streeter first. “It was a wonderful show. I'm Gayla Oliver, one of Ivy and Abigail's friends.”

“Ah,” he said, shaking her hand. “One of the quilters. A pleasure to meet you. I'm Dr. Streeter, one of Ivy's professors from the community college.”

Gayla's brows lifted as she heard this. “Is that so? Then I think both you and Ivy will be very interested in my news.”

She turned to me. “Ivy, I've found several scholarship possibilities for you, including a brand-new program targeted at single mothers and offered through the Floche-Meyerson Foundation that will not only help pay for your tuition but give you a stipend for living expenses. As it turns out, the director is an old friend of mine from Hunter College. I gave her a call this morning and told her about you. She was very impressed. There are no guarantees, so you still have to fill out the application, but I'd say the chance of you getting the scholarship from them are better than half. There's not enough time to process the application before the fall term, but”—she smiled—“if things work out like I hope they will, you could be enrolled as a full-time student at Carrillon College by January.”

“Ivy! That's wonderful news! Congratulations!” Dr. Streeter exclaimed.

But Margot, who had wandered over to join our group in the middle of Gayla's announcement, wasn't quite as enthusiastic.

“Carrillon College. But isn't that in Delaware? You mean you're going to leave New Bern?”