Beyond the Storm: Quilts of Love Series (3 page)

“Whoa.” Brooke was impressed.

“Yeah, whoa. Well, anyhow, The Rawston Raw-Edges have not won in six years, and we’re tired of eating crow. We’ve all been trying to come up with a great theme, but so far,” Selma stuck out her tongue and blew, “
Ppfft
. Nada. Zippo. Thelma Edwards suggested a garden patch theme with flowers. Mae Dewsbury suggested berries or grapes. I’m thinking those are just . . . oh, what’s the word?”

“Mind-numbingly dull?” Abigail yanked her shear drawer open and stared inside. What was she looking for again?
Ooo
,
this food cart thing honked her off.

“Okay. I might not put it that way, but sure. Anyway, I don’t know what is wrong with me, but this year I just can’t seem to think of a winning theme. Nothing seems to . . . to . . . to just
jump out
at me, you know?”

“That’s cool.” Abigail was only half listening as she was still fuming about the guy who’d just dumped the food cart problem in her lap. Thank heavens Jen Strohacker was coming in at ten. Maybe she could help her untangle some of this mess.

“I know God will eventually show me the perfect idea, because I’ve been praying over it for some time now,” Selma said. “I’m sure that I’ll know it when I hear it.”

Abigail closed her eyes so Selma wouldn’t see her rolling them.
Like anyone—let alone God—cared about cool ideas for quilts.
All her life, Abigail had listened to Selma natter on about the tedious subject of quilting. All those little pieces of material, making all those little designs and filling them with all those little stitches . . . Just thinking about it had her falling into a coma on her feet. Because,
come on. Who cared?
A quilt was a quilt was a quilt.
Booooring
.

“
Quilting isn’t just sticking pieces of material together
,” Selma liked to say, “
it’s about putting the pieces together
.” Abigail wanted to ask, “
Putting
the pieces together?
Sticking
the pieces together? What did that even mean? And why should I care?” But she didn’t because she loved her quirky aunt, and so she tried to listen and feign interest.

The bell over the door jangled. Isuzu’s sister-in-law was here to pick up Brooke.

“Hey, Mieko.” Abigail put on her professional façade of tranquility, though on the inside she still fretted. “You guys have something going on today?”

“I’ve gotta get the kids up to the Southshire ice rink for a training session with their coach,” Mieko said.

“On Saturday?”

“Every day.” Mieko sighed. “Monday through Friday the kids practice from three to seven, then we have to drive back in time for school. It’s a hassle.”

“Wait, you’re talking three
a.m.?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow! And you and your husband still have to work all day at the restaurant?” Abigail occasionally ran over to the Sakura Garden for sushi. As far as she knew, aside from Isuzu pulling some evening shifts in the kitchen, Mieko and her husband were the only people who worked there. “When do you guys sleep?”

“Sleep?” Mieko laughed. “What’s that? The kids sleep in the car to and from, and I doze while they practice. It all works out. And, in the end, God willing, it will be worth it. Come on, Brooke. Tyler’s waiting in the car and he’s hungry. Let’s go!”

Abigail looked back and forth between mother and daughter. “Are we still on to put your hair up this afternoon for prom?” she asked Brooke.

“Oh, yeah!” Brooke was wriggling like a puppy.

Mieko’s smile was exhausted. “Four-thirty. Okay. Zuzu! You coming to help roll sushi tonight?” Isuzu answered in Japanese, but because her head was bobbing, Abigail figured that’s where she’d no doubt go after closing.

“And I thought I had a busy schedule,” Abigail deadpanned as she began wetting down Selma’s still thick, snow-white hair.

Selma tsked. “They are too busy. Everyone is these days. Busy, busy, busy. No time to sit back and enjoy the splendor of God’s creation. The devil must get a real charge out of all this stuff we think we need to do.”

“You preach, sister!” Isuzu shouted from her station.

“Who needs it? I’m telling you, Zuzu, I miss the good old days. The days where people turned off the boob-tube and went outside and visited with their neighbor—”

Abigail tuned the sermon out. Nobody ever said anything about her having to help build the stupid food cart. That was
his
job. For pity’s sake. She was a volunteer. She had already put dozens of hours in on this project, and all she ever got was complaints. Well, this was the last time she was ever gonna step up to the plate. Let some other poor slob take the heat. Just as soon as Selma was out of here, she was going to call this goon and give him a piece of her mind.

8:30 a.m.

“Mike! We’ve got Elsa Lopez on the line! She says she knows who performed that last Hair Band number from 1988! Come on, Elsa! Tell us who it is!”

“Guns
N
’ Roses?”

Horns blared and Mike and Julie shouted in jubilation. “That’s right, Elsa! Who are you going to take to the concert with you?”

“My mom.”

“Your mom must be awesome!” Julie shouted. Elsa’s giggles and heavy breathing cracked over the phone line. “How old are you, Elsa?”

“Sixteen.”

“You weren’t even born when Guns
N
’ Roses performed that hit! Congratulations, Elsa and Elsa’s mom! What are your plans for the day, kiddo?”

“I’m going to prom.” More giggling.

“Prom! That’s right. Tonight is the big night out at Rawston High, huh? Have fun, Elsa! And, don’t forget to keep an eye out for some rocky weather this evening. Bring an umbrella, because you won’t want to get that prom dress wet, okay?”

“Okay.” More giggling.

T
wenty-year-old Heather Lathrop was sitting in the kitchen of her single-wide mobile home, feeding her toddler son, when her husband staggered into the room and yanked the cord to the radio out of the wall. Without glancing at them, Bob Ray plugged in the blender and began to assemble the ingredients he needed to whirl up a batch of his special protein drink. He spent hundreds of dollars on that stuff and the majority of his time in the gym, sculpting his beautiful body. Heather eyed his bulging muscles with distaste.

Whenever they argued about how little time and money he spent on his son, Bob Ray would claim that his body was his investment. Without it, how would he support her and the brat? He acted like his massive biceps were the gold that would someday get them out of the trailer park and into the good life.

“Morning.” She forced herself to smile at Bob Ray.

“Da-da!” Robbie shouted and smacked the tray with his spoon.

“Shut him up, will you?” Bob Ray grunted.

Heather touched Robbie’s lips with her fingertip. “Shushie, Robbie.” How typical. Bob Ray was not a morning person. And, since the baby had been born, he wasn’t an afternoon or evening person either. “Are you going to be around today?” Heather asked as she snapped the lid on her two-year-old’s sippy cup.

“No! I’m not going to be home today!” His tone had lost any pretense of civility about a year ago.

“Tonight?”

“No.”

Bob Ray spent every day down at The Pump where he served as a personal trainer to bored and lonely housewives and young singles in pursuit of a bikini bod. Heather knew the women who congregated there were young and slender and eager to steal her man.

“Da! Da!
Da!
” Robbie held his arms out and squirmed, anxious to be noticed by his father. But Bob Ray rarely touched the kid anymore.

“Here, honey.” She poured some Cheerios into a cup for Robbie to mangle. The blender screamed, and Bob Ray’s batch of miracle juice was born.

Heather knew that Bob Ray saw Robbie and her as an anchor around his finely sculpted neck. She had yet to lose the baby weight she’d gained with Robbie, and there never seemed to be enough money for her to go out and get some new clothes or a haircut. She was a mess—and she knew it—a mere shadow of the Rawston Rah-Rah who’d stood on the high school football field’s sidelines and cheered for Bob Ray only three short years ago.

Heather tried not to think about the pretty, starry-eyed, college-bound girl she’d been. The future had been filled with the thrill of untapped potential. That is, until junior year when the tiny plus sign appeared on the pregnancy test stick and life as she knew it changed forever. Within a month, she and Bob Ray had bowed to her daddy’s demands and married the day after Bob Ray’s graduation. Robbie had been born at Christmas. Seemed Bob Ray wasn’t wild about his gift.

Heather peeled and sliced a banana for Robbie, and he clutched a chunk of it until it squished out between his fingers. “Robbie gave the pastor a bloody nose last night at his dedication.”

Bob Ray snorted as he poured himself a drink. “That’s my boy.”

“I’m sorry you weren’t there. It was really very sweet.”

He slammed the glass blender pitcher on the counter, and Robbie jumped. “Climb off, will ya? You know I have to make a living, okay?”

Robbie’s face screwed up and his lower lip stuck out. He glanced at mama to make sure everything was okay.

Heather patted his slimy fist before she bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
God, give me strength not to throw this butter knife at Bob Ray. Please love him for me. Please love him through me. Because I can’t stand him, and he’s the father of our son.

Bob Ray was even more miserable than she was, she figured, as she watched his Adam’s apple bob. They’d had to grow up so fast. The stress was horrible. But deep in her heart she believed that it didn’t have to be this way. They’d been happy once—best friends since she was in first and he was in second grade. With a little effort, she believed they could be again. She didn’t even want to think about trying to raise Robbie on her own. “Sorry. Anything you need at the grocery store? I thought I’d head out this afternoon. We’re low on milk.”

“Just don’t spend any money, okay?”

Heather frowned. What was she supposed to spend? A number of ludicrous ideas flitted through her mind: Dirty diapers? Bob Ray’s golden muscles? Rocks?

Moving to the sink, she rinsed and wrung out a cloth to mop up the mess under Robbie’s high chair.

Bob Ray finished chugging the magic elixir that kept him beautiful and then belched. He left the room without a word.

8:55 a.m.

“Remember to be thinking about that speed quilting idea for me,” Selma called as she left Abigail’s shop. “Something snappy, now!”

“Right,” Abigail called back.
Not gonna happen
. “See you at lunch.” She waved at her aunt, then scanned the business card that Isuzu had given her.
Justin Girard, owner, J.G. Construction Company
. But the address was Dan Strohacker’s Lumberyard.
Must have an office there?
She stabbed his phone number into her lobby’s desk phone and drummed her nails on the tabletop while she waited for him to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Oh. Uh. Hello.”
Now what
. She hadn’t really thought out how she was going to express her dismay. Touching her tongue to her suddenly dry lips, she glanced at the card again. “Is this, uh . . . er . . . Justin Girard?”

“Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

Didn’t he just sound chipper?
“This is Abigail Durham? You were in my hair salon a little while ago?”

“Right!”

“I understand that the food cart for the Quilt Fair’s Rawston Taste is not finished yet.”

“That’s right. There are some permit issues. In fact—”

“Why am I only just now hearing about this?” Her eyes narrowed at his business card.

“
Beee
-cause the county just told me?”

“Well,” the fact that he was innocent only exasperated her further. “How’m I supposed to get it to the field and set up on time if it’s not already done? The fair is in less than two weeks. We can get this permit thing squared away in two weeks, right?”

“Actually, no. The city planning commission is really cracking down on food carts lately. They have new, very particular ordinances and—”

“Excuse me?” Abigail wound the phone cord around her finger so tightly the tip began to turn blue. “What . . .
ordinances
?”

“As long as the awnings are supported by the cart, it’s fine. But, the minute the poles touch the ground, it becomes a structure. And, if it becomes a structure, you are looking at permits and other costs, and the permit process is . . . involved.”

“What?
You have got to be kidding me! That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard! We are trying to
raise
money, here, not
spend
it. And we can’t wait around for some stupid awning thing to be . . . to be . . .
approved!
The booster club just spent their last dime on tortillas and frijoles. Plus, we have to use this thing for football and baseball games in the future. I don’t want some skimpy old shrimpy excuse for awnings! I want the big ones we planned for! Can’t you just build the thing the way we originally designed it, and I’ll deal with the commissioners when, and if, they catch us?”

“No can do. Besides, the fines would be more than the permit fees.”

A pang of guilt had her suddenly feeling less like a volunteer and more like a criminal. Her face flamed. “May I ask just what am I supposed to do with the wandering mariachi band and the tables and . . . and chairs and stuff? They’ll cook out there under the sun! We will fry like . . . like . . . something
fried!
And in the fall, we’ll get soaked! I don’t know if you’ve been down to the Rawston High Football field lately, but there is precious little shade, okay? And you know what, I—”

“Look, lady. I can see you’re getting a little hot under the collar.”

Lady?
He’d interrupted her to call her . . .
Lady
? It might have been the humidity. It might have been a touch of sleep deprivation. Then again, it might have been a pinch of PMS. Whatever the cause, Abigail was in no mood for this clown. “You bet I am, buddy! This whole thing got dumped on me, and it’s been a pain in my neck since day one, okay? Last week, it was the salsa guy, recalling the salsa because of
e-coli
! Before that it was the price of—”

“Okay. I can see we’re not gonna get anywhere over the phone.”

Again
, with the interrupting! Abigail’s lips screwed into a wad of agitation. Was he even
listening
to her? Shocking herself—as well as him, she suspected—Abigail slammed the phone down. She snatched her shears off the lobby table and welcomed Guadalupe Lopez to follow her back to her chair. Eyes wide, Guadalupe folded her magazine and stood. “You’re not going to take your frustration out on my hair, are you?”

“Phone ringing,” Isuzu called from where she bent over Kaylee Johnson’s bridal nails.

“Don’t answer it.” A glance at caller I.D. told Abigail it was one Mr. Justin Girard calling, and she was too embarrassed to pick up, so she smiled in the mirror at Guadalupe Lopez instead. “What are we doing for you today?”

“Something short, but stylish. My daughter, Elsa, wants you to make me look like a glamour puss, okay?”

Abigail gave her the thumbs up. T
his would be distracting
. Guadalupe was short, stocky, middle-aged and just this side of frumpy. “You’ll be ready for your close-up.”

Guadalupe jiggled when she giggled.
No wonder Aunt Selma loved working with her at Quilty Pleasure
, Abigail mused. She had this wonderful, huge laugh that made Abigail smile. And today? That was saying something.

Justin fumed as he spun the screwdriver in circles on his desktop and waited for the crazy Ms. Durham to pick up. He had no idea who this broad was, but she must have had a bowl of rusty nails for breakfast.
“Hello, this is Abigail Durham at the Doo Drop-In Hair Salon. I’m with a customer right now, so if you’ll leave your name, number, and the best time to call, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

He hung up and hit redial. Message machine. Again. This was a business. She could hardly take her phone off the hook. So, fine. Two could play this game. He’d just keep calling until she went berserk. Or answered the phone. Either way was fine with him.