A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) (17 page)

I
t was a week until Christmas. I’d finished the appliquéd tree skirt just in time. But that night, sitting on the floor of the apartment and sorting through the box of ornaments I hauled out of the storage closet, I suddenly didn’t feel like putting up the tree anymore.

We’d held our “Holiday Open House and Quilt-In” that day. Invitations had gone out to all our customers, inviting them to drop by for cocoa and cookies and to bring along any last-minute projects they wanted to work on before the holidays. Probably a hundred people showed up, though—thank heaven, not all at once. The flow of guests was steady but manageable.

We ran some in-store specials, but by the time we paid for invitations, postage, refreshments, and a small gift for everyone—a wrist pincushion—I don’t think we made any money. But that wasn’t the point. I just wanted to do something to thank my regulars. It was a nice party.

Margot, who knew that our improved sales still hadn’t caught up with expenses, scolded me a little. The extra sales generated at the Quilt Pink day were an unexpected boon, but it wasn’t enough. No matter what we did to advertise, Cobbled Court’s tucked-away location made it hard for people to find us. With Christmas fast approaching, the streets of New Bern were packed with shoppers, but only a fraction of them wandered into our courtyard. Margot was worried. “If we had the new class listings ready we could probably have registered twenty or thirty new students today. You said you’d have it ready a week ago.”

“I know. I’m just having a hard time deciding what classes to offer. I’ll get to it as soon as I can. I’ve just been a little overwhelmed, what with the holiday traffic and all.”

It was an excuse. Business had been better since Thanksgiving, especially on the weekends, but it was far from overwhelming. Most days, I’d manned the store myself with a little help from Liza, who had put together the most darling display in the bowfront window. Using rolls of quilt batting for their bodies, she’d constructed a fluffy snow family “warming” themselves around an icicle-festooned fireplace with a mound of snowballs where the logs should have been. In the corner she’d tucked a little snow-flocked Christmas tree hung with clear white and blue and silver balls strung on white ribbons. She spent hours on that display. I think she really enjoyed doing it, and it certainly drew a lot of attention. In fact, the newspaper used a picture of it to accompany a story, “New Bern Merchants Deck the Halls,” and credited Liza as creator of “one of the village’s most charming holiday windows.” And they were right.

Liza’s display and the resulting story had brought some extra customers our way, but not in the numbers that would have kept me too busy to plan for next year’s classes. Margot knew that as well as I did.

“I’m sorry,” Margot said and put an arm around me. “I’m sure you’re still not feeling one hundred percent after the surgery. I don’t mean to nag, but I hate to see you lose potential business.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re right. I should have had it done by now. I’ll get to it just as soon as I can. Really,” I said and then changed the subject. “Do you know if we have any more of those chocolate macaroons in the back? They really went through them. No wonder people gain weight during the holidays.”

“I’ll check to see what we’ve got left.” Margot went into the break room, taking an empty cookie tray with her. I rang up a sale, assuring the disappointed customer that the new class schedule would be ready soon.

Customers came and went all afternoon. Margot and Liza helped work the counter when things got busy, but we all had a chance to sit down with the rest of the customers and chat while we worked on our various projects. It was nice. Even Abigail dropped by to show me her nearly finished pinwheel quilt. The only thing she had left to do was sew one side of the binding so it would be ready to give to Bethany at the Women’s Shelter Christmas party the next day.

When she spread it out on the worktable, everyone put their projects aside and gathered around to see what Abigail had done. I think she was uncomfortable at first, finding herself at the center of a crowd of strangers, but quilters are never strangers for long. Once she’d relaxed and quit tearing out the blocks over and over, the quilt had come together fairly quickly, and while it wasn’t perfectly sewn, it really was a lovely quilt.

“I can’t believe this is your first quilt. It’s just gorgeous!” Wendy Perkins exclaimed, pushing her rhinestone glasses higher on the bridge of her nose and leaning down for a closer look. “I love the colors you picked. All those blues and greens. It’s cheerful but soothing at the same time. Wish I had your eye.”

Another woman, who’d taken my Mariner’s Compass class, crowded in to have a look. “Look how well her points match! It’s hard to believe you’re a beginner.” The others murmured their agreement. “What’s your secret?”

Abigail thanked the woman but assured her she didn’t have a secret and turned the conversation around, asking her admirer about her own project. I’d noticed that Abigail always did that, deflected any conversation that centered on herself, so that without their even realizing it, she got the questioner to talk about herself instead. There was no more expert interviewer in the world than Abigail Burgess Wynne. She knew that almost everyone loves to talk about themselves. Not for the first time, I wondered what made her so hesitant to open up to other people. It simply didn’t make sense. Recently though, I felt that was changing. The other day, with only minimal prodding from me, she’d gone on for a good ten minutes about her volunteer work at the shelter and Bethany, the little girl she was making the quilt for.

A few minutes later, I looked up from my own work and saw Abigail carrying on a conversation with some of the other quilters and looking, not precisely relaxed, but more comfortable than she had before. Like I said, quilters are never strangers for long.

It had been a long day, but a successful one. When the afternoon light started fading, casting the dull rays of the setting sun through the bowfront window and stretching the shadows of the fat snow people out of shape like pulled taffy, and everyone began collecting their things and heading home, I felt sad. I didn’t want the night to come.

Everyone had somewhere to go. Liza was going to the movies with a friend, and Margot had choir practice at the church. Since it looked like she was going to be in New Bern for a while, certainly until after the New Year, when she said companies might start hiring again, she’d decided to join the church. As it was the last Saturday before Christmas, Abigail had a round of parties to attend. I would have liked to call Charlie and see if I could join him for dinner, but I knew he’d be too busy for that.

Business at the Grill was booming. The city dwellers who owned weekend places in New Bern opened them up for the holidays and brought lots of friends along to enjoy the snow-covered hills, the picturesque shops, and the antique homes bedecked in fresh evergreen wreaths and garlands with the poignant glow of a single candle in each window. At the end of a day of antiquing, or shopping, or sledding, or skiing, or just hanging around a cozy fireside, residents and visitors alike flocked to the Grill on the Green. Every table was full every night of the week. Even the regulars had to call in for reservations. And Charlie’s catering business was going great guns too. Abigail had a list of six parties she had to attend that evening, and the Grill was catering three of them. I hadn’t seen Charlie in weeks, he was so busy. He’d even had to put a temporary moratorium on our morning coffee dates.

I counted up the till, locked the shop door, shut off the lights, went upstairs, and put a plate of leftovers in the microwave. Standing by the counter, waiting for the timer to go off, I sighed and said aloud, “Poor Evelyn. It’s Christmas. Everyone has somewhere to go. Everyone but you. Poor you.”

The microwave timer dinged cheerily, and I pulled the plate of leftover kung pao chicken out of the oven. “This is ridiculous. Stop being such a baby. This is a perfect way to spend the evening. You’ve got a warm house on a bitterly cold night, a nice big plate of your favorite Chinese food, and a whole evening to yourself. What’s so bad?” I asked myself, and then, echoing one of my mother’s favorite admonitions, “Life is what you make it. Quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

Thinking I had given myself good advice, I decided to have a little Christmas party of my own. After spending so much time and effort decorating the shop for the holiday, I’d completely neglected my personal surroundings. No wonder I was feeling so blue.

I put a CD in the stereo, a compilation of Christmas music that Garrett had burned for me when he was still in college, and listened to it while I ate. After washing my dishes, I started hauling boxes marked “Xmas Décor” out of the closet. It wasn’t long before I realized there was no way that my one-bedroom, seven-hundred-square-foot apartment was going to accommodate all the items that had previously decorated my three-bedroom, three-thousand-square-foot home in Texas. Even if it could, there was no point in putting up so many decorations just a week before Christmas. I decided to limit myself to two: the ceramic Nativity that had belonged to my mother, and a Christmas tree.

I preferred fresh trees, but Rob always insisted on a fake tree because he said real trees were too expensive and dropped too many needles. “Besides,” he’d say every year, “you can’t tell the difference. The manufactured ones are better anyway. You’d never find a natural tree with a trunk that straight.”

He was right. And that was my point exactly. You’d never mistake a fake tree for a real one; they didn’t look the same, and they certainly didn’t smell the same. As far as I was concerned, the fragrant, resiny scent of pine was half the pleasure of putting up a Christmas tree. Still, even a fake tree was better than none at all. I pulled pieces of evergreen “branches” out of the box and assembled them into a five-foot tree, noting wryly that there were a good many manufactured needles littering the floor before I finished.

After sweeping up the needles, I opened the boxes, unwrapping several layers of tissue-wrapped bulbs and ornaments, including one with a picture of Garrett beaming a toothless, infant grin and the words “Baby’s First Christmas!”, until I found the strings of lights.

They were tangled, of course. It took forever to unravel them. After I sorted out the mess, I wrapped each branch in lights, put on the ornaments, and then plugged in the tree only to discover that two of the strings of lights didn’t work.

I muttered a few choice words under my breath. I should have checked them before putting them on the tree. The last time these lights had been used was two years ago, back when it was Rob’s job to untangle the lights and check for burnt-out bulbs while I unwrapped ornaments and Garrett played DJ, making sure the music selection was sufficiently festive. Two years ago. Back when we were a family. When everything seemed safe and certain, and the only change I could have imagined in our holiday traditions was that they would expand to include Garrett’s someday wife and someday children, who would make our Christmases grow taller and wider and more splendid each year.

Instead, Christmas was shrinking, from the three of us to just me. And next year?

All day long, I had tried not to think beyond this day, to take Dr. Finney’s advice and enjoy the holidays, and not to let my mind wander into the land of what next, worrying about what would happen come January.

Further testing had shown that there was cancer in both breasts. Given this news and the fact that the lumpectomy had failed to achieve clean margins, Dr. Finney now recommended that I undergo a double mastectomy. At her urging, and because I hoped she was wrong, I sought the opinions of two other surgeons; both of them concurred with Dr. Finney’s assessment. And so I agreed to the surgery, though not to the doctor’s suggestion that I tell my family and friends about it—not until after the holidays at least. I was determined that Christmas should be as merry, and as normal, as possible. Whatever that meant now.

But suddenly, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a nest of tangled tree lights and discarded tissue paper like some lone, sickly bird abandoned by the rest of the flock, I was overcome by sadness, a loneliness that went to the bone. I was so tired. I didn’t want to do this alone anymore. I couldn’t. I had to talk to someone.

I took one of the crumpled balls of tissue from the floor and used it to dry my eyes and nose before picking up the phone. I started to dial Margot, but then remembered she was at choir practice. Instead, I tried Garrett, first at the office and then on his cell phone, but he didn’t answer either call, so I left a message.

“Hi, honey. It’s Mom. Hope you’re doing well. I sent a box with your presents. It should be there by now but don’t open them until Christmas or you’ll spoil the surprise.” I paused for just a moment. “Um, listen. Honey, give me a call when you can. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Okay? Anyway, I’ll hang up now. Hope you’re out doing something fun. Miss you. Love you. ’Bye.”

When I hung up I felt even worse than before. Now that I’d admitted the need to talk to someone, it was like I couldn’t turn it off. I simply had to talk to someone, someone I cared about and who cared about me. At the moment, that was a very short list and everyone on it was unavailable. But suddenly I knew what to do.

What I needed more than anything was to hear that honeyed Texas twang, dark and thick as praline syrup, and the laughter bubbling up like Dr. Pepper fizz poured into a tall glass. I picked up the phone again and dialed Mary Dell.