A Thread of Truth (15 page)

It was February. There was snow on the ground. I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, no shoes. Bethany was wearing only a diaper and terry cloth pajamas. She'd been crying from the moment Hodge had come in the nursery but now she wailed, her little face turning red and tears streaming from her eyes. I called to Hodge to knock it off and open the door, that the baby was going to freeze in this weather, but he didn't answer.

It was starting to get dark. The streetlights flickered on as the shadows lengthened, but the houses that surrounded ours were dark and still, most of them half-finished with exposed, skeleton walls and gaping holes where windows were yet to be placed. We were the first family to have moved into the subdivision and it would be weeks before we had neighbors. There was nowhere to go.

I started to bang on the door with my closed fists, pleading for Hodge to open the door. Nothing. I heard footsteps walking away from the sound of my voice and the baby's cries.

A minute later, the light turned on in the upstairs master bedroom. With my back to the door, I sank until I was sitting cross-legged on the porch, my sobs mingling with my baby daughter's. That's where I was nearly three hours later, when Hodge finally opened the door and asked if I'd learned my lesson.

I had.

 

And tonight I'd learned it all over again. I wasn't capable of taking care of my children alone. Hodge had been right all along.

I stared hopelessly at the quilt once more, at the rings of interconnecting “logs” that corralled the patches of red, each slightly different from its neighbors', touching at every end and side, stacked row on row, united log on log to build a strong and sure fortress around the small red centers and the words rang anew in my mind.

I'm not capable of taking care of my children alone.

It was true but suddenly the words didn't mean what I thought they had a moment before. I couldn't give my children the safe, secure home I so desperately wanted for them, not by myself. I needed help. But I wasn't helpless.

All those years before, my only option was to let my child die from exposure or beg Hodge to open the door and go through it on the terms he dictated.

That wasn't true now.

All around me there were sturdy, neat little houses with warm, welcoming fires in the hearths and caring faces at the windows; the faces of Margot, Evelyn, Abigail and Franklin, Wendy Perkins, Charlie, Garrett, Donna Walsh, and many more. A whole community of people peered anxiously out their windows, watching me as I stood in the middle of the street holding my children by the hands, waiting to see in which direction I would turn, hoping it would be toward them, ready to open the door if only I could find courage enough to stop running, faith enough to knock.

Now I had choices. Now I had friends.

“W
ell, why shouldn't I sue him?” Abigail blustered. “He threatened to sue me. Am I just supposed to sit there and take it? The only way to deal with this is to fire a shot over his bow! Let him know that he can't push me around. The best defense is a strong offense. I'm surprised you don't see that, Franklin. What kind of lawyer are you, anyway?”

Franklin turned to me. “See? Everyone goes around blaming attorneys for these frivolous lawsuits that are clogging up our courts, but there's plenty of blame to go around and much of it should be heaped on the doorsteps of hot-headed clients who insist on suing other people…”

He shifted his gaze to Abigail and finished the rest of his sentence very slowly, clearly, and at an increased volume, as if she were hard of hearing, “…without grounds for doing so.”

Abigail bristled. “What are you talking about? I've got plenty of grounds for a lawsuit. He said I was only interested in donating my house for the tax write-off. He called my intentions disingenuous and implied that I was cheap. He insulted me!”

Franklin laughed. “Well, you insulted him first. But even if you hadn't, so what? So he insulted you; big deal. You insult me all the time. Just this morning you said my tie was ugly. You insulted my taste in haberdashery, which wounded me deeply, but do you see me going off and hiring a lawyer because of it? No. I let it go. I moved on. So should you.”

Franklin picked up his knife and sawed a piece of steak. I ducked my head and picked at my salad, keeping my face as blank as possible. There was no way I was going to insert myself in the middle of this argument.

“I wasn't insulting you,” Abigail said, looking pointedly at the very wide purple and silver striped tie that Franklin wore knotted around his neck. “I was merely giving you good advice. That tie is ugly and you should throw it away. It makes you look like a mob lawyer. Or, if you simply must wear it, at least don't do so when you're dining with me. Someone might think I bought it for you.”

“Do you see how she treats me?” Franklin asked me, sighing, his face a mask of martyrdom. “These continual insults and barbs? And all of them unfounded.”

He grabbed the tail of his necktie and held it out from his chest. “Tell me the truth, Evelyn. What do you think of my tie?”

“Well, it does kind of bring the word
consigliere
to mind.” I speared a cherry tomato and popped it into my mouth.

Franklin clutched at his chest as if I'd just used my fork to stab him instead of my salad.

“Ouch! You sure know how to hurt a guy, Evelyn. In fact, I'm deeply insulted. And yet,” he said, raising his eyebrows and turning to address Abigail, “I shall resist the desire to salve my wounded pride by slapping you with a lawsuit. And why? Because while I am distressed by this unfounded and personal attack, I have suffered no material damages from your insult. What you have said is hurtful, but not actionable. Therefore, a lawsuit would be a waste of everyone's time and money.”

Abigail was in no mood to be swayed by logic. She was offended and wanted revenge. Wasted time and money didn't enter into the equation. “But what about him suing me? What about firing a warning shot over his bow?”

Franklin shook his head, took another bite of steak and chewed it at a bovine pace, taking his time before answering Abigail's question. “Nobody is firing a warning shot over anyone else's bow, or stern, or anything else. Trust me. Right now, Dale Barrows is sitting at the country club having lunch with his attorney, George Caldwell, the second-best lawyer in town. George may not be as fine a litigator as yours truly, but he's a level-headed sort.

“As soon as Dale finishes his rant about how
you
insulted
him
”—Franklin pointed the tip of his steak knife in Abigail's direction—“George is going to tell him to calm down and let it go because he's got no grounds for a lawsuit.”

“And it's true; he doesn't,” Abigail huffed. “I said Dale's toupee looked like week-old roadkill. That's not an insult. It's the truth. It's high time someone told him so to his face. People certainly haven't been shy about saying so behind his back. If you ask me, he ought to thank me for helping him see the light.”

“Yes,” Franklin said sarcastically, “I'm sure that's just the way Dale will look at it. Really, Abbie. Leave it. This won't go anywhere good.”

“I don't care,” she insisted. “I still think we should sue.”

Franklin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “God give me patience,” he muttered before opening his eyes again. “Evelyn, you're her friend, talk some sense into her, will you?”

“I'm touched that you think I've got that kind of influence, Franklin, but you're on your own.

“Listen,” I said, “not to change the subject…”

“Oh, I wish you would.”

Abigail shot Franklin a look.

“But, as much fun as it is sitting and listening to you two discuss nonexistent lawsuits, I was hoping Franklin would be willing to give me free advice.”

“Certainly,” Franklin said. “Though I warn you, it may be worth exactly what you pay for it. What's on your mind, Evelyn?”

“I'm having trouble getting the permits I need for the sound trucks.”

“Let me guess. Cecil Waldgren wants tickets to the show for his mother-in-law?”

“How did you know?”

Franklin lifted his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It's a small town, Evelyn. Everybody knows everything.”

“Well, can you do something about it? Call up his boss or something? I mean, this is ridiculous. He can't hold my permits hostage like that. Tell him if he doesn't play ball, we're going to sue the town or something.”

Franklin clucked his tongue against his teeth. “What's going on today? Everybody wants to sue everybody else.”

He picked up his drinking glass and examined it before taking a sip. “Do you think they put something in the water? Look, Evelyn, we don't need to threaten Cecil with a lawsuit. We don't even need to bring his boss into it. All I have to do is pick up the phone and call Cecil's wife, Candy.”

“His wife? Why would you do that?”

“Because Candy Waldgren is the one who's causing all the problems, that's why. Have you ever met Cecil?”

I shook my head.

“Well, trust me, he's no one to be scared of. He's the most mild-mannered man in New Bern. Wouldn't hurt a fly. But when it comes to his relationship with his wife? Well, let's just be polite and say he's henpecked. Cecil is only bothering you about the tickets for his mother-in-law because that's what Candy is telling him to do.”

Franklin reached across the table, took two more pats of butter out of the dish, and worked them into his pile of mashed potatoes.

“I'm still not following this, Franklin.”

“Candy's mother is Elizabeth Gage. I think you know her from church.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “She sings alto in the choir. But she's not a quilter. Why is her daughter so bent on getting her tickets to the show?”

“Because whether you're a quilter or not, the taping of
Quintessential Quilting
is the hottest ticket in the history of New Bern, that's why.”

Franklin swallowed a mouthful of potatoes before going on.

“You see, Candy has a sister, Norah, who is married to a very well-to-do banker and lives in Boston. Norah, being very well-heeled, is forever whisking her mother away on exotic vacations or sending her expensive gifts. Obviously, Candy and Cecil can't compete in the presents department and Candy is sure that's why her mother disapproves of her husband. I suspect it really has more with the fact that Cecil never has more than two words to say for himself than with any failure to provide appropriate expressions of tribute. Elizabeth isn't a bad person. Maybe a little insensitive, but she's all right. And for that matter, so are Candy and Norah. They're just too competitive. I've known the Gages for years. They're a little dysfunctional, but not any more than most other families. I'll give Candy a ring later today. Tell her to call off the dogs.”

“But, how are you going to convince her to do that?”

Franklin narrowed his eyes and stroked the silk of his ugly tie. “I'll make her an offer she can't refuse,” he said in a raspy voice.

He winked at me and turned to Abigail, resuming his normal tone. “Abbie, can you help us out here? What have you got in your back pocket? Something impressive enough to make Candy back down.”

Abigail thought for a moment. “Let me see. Elizabeth likes music. Maybe tickets for opening night of the opera season? They can't have my box, but I'm sure I could make a call and arrange for a couple of seats. That way, Candy can go with her. Front row on the parterre? And a suite at the Waldorf for the weekend? They'll need a car and driver as well, but I'm sure something can be worked out.” Queen-like, Abigail waved her hand, leaving the details for lesser mortals to arrange.

“Abigail,” I protested, “I can't let you do that. A weekend like that will run into some money.”

“No, no. Not as much as you think. There are people all over town who owe me favors. All I'll have to do is make a few calls and it's done. Really, Evelyn. Don't worry about it. It's my pleasure. Besides, Elizabeth and Candy were a big help organizing the food for the last library fund-raiser. They deserve a little reward for their efforts.

“But,” she said, raising a warning finger in Franklin's face, “just make sure that Candy tells her mother that I'm doing this in appreciation for the splendid job old Cecil has done in helping me get my permit to subdivide my property. We want Elizabeth to think this all came about from the efforts of her wonderful son-in-law.” She dabbed her napkin to her lips daintily.

“He really was quite a help. He walked me through the process, helped fill in the forms. In fact, Cecil Waldgren is the only person at Town Hall who's been the least bit supportive of my plan for the new shelter apartments.”

Franklin shook his head. “He's not supportive. He's just scared of you. Anyway, Evelyn, don't worry. You'll get your permits. Problem solved.”

“Thanks, Franklin. No wonder everyone says you're the best lawyer in town.”

“The best lawyers are the ones who keep you out of court.”

He looked at Abigail over the top of his glasses. She sipped her water and hummed to herself, ignoring him.

Charlie walked in the front door of the restaurant, carrying several brown paper grocery bags and calling to one of the waitresses, “Gina! Take these back to Maurice, would you? He's waiting for them.”

Charlie handed off the bags to Gina, who carted them back to the kitchen. Charlie flopped down into the booth next to me.

“Hullo, all. Enjoying your lunch?”

“Where've you been, anyway? I was hoping we'd be able to have lunch together.”

“The tomatoes are ripe,” he said, and his whole face lit up.

“Mrs. March called me this morning and said they'd picked most of them and were holding back a bushel for me, so naturally I hopped into my car and drove out to the farm as fast as I could. Wait until you see them! Big! Gorgeous! All organic. And the flavor! Beyond belief! Mrs. March sliced one up for me to taste and I nearly passed out from the sheer joy of it. Amazing! Wait five minutes for Maurice to get them washed and sliced and you'll see what I mean. It's like summer on a plate.”

I glanced at my watch. “Five minutes is about all I've got. I told Garrett and Margot I'd be back by one at the latest.”

“Well, maybe I'll bring some over to your house later tonight. We can throw in some mozzarella and good bread and call it dinner. What do you say?”

“It's Friday night. Quilt Circle night.”

“That's right. I forgot.” He drew his eyebrows together. “Well, maybe I'll bring a platter over to the shop later. You can share it with the ladies instead of me, I suppose.”

“Thanks, Charlie. You're a sweetheart.”

“Aren't I, though,” he growled. “But listen, Evelyn, we're absolutely going out on Sunday night. Just you and me. Reservations are light and Gina can handle the door and any walk-ins. I'm taking you to the movies.”

“Really? The new Renée Zellweger?”

He made a face and drew back in horror. “No! Lord, no! The old James Bond. They're having a festival at the Red Rooster theater. An entire weekend of Bond:
Goldfinger, Diamonds Are Forever, Moonraker, License to Kill
. All Bond. All the time. Not a chick flick in sight.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “I don't know. Who's buying the popcorn?”

“I am. The big bucket.”

“Well, in that case, okay. It's a date.”

The kitchen door swung open and Gina came out carrying two plates of tomatoes and basil.

“Ah! Here it is!” Charlie exclaimed. “I know you've got to get back to the shop, but just take one bite of these before you go. Believe me, you owe it to yourself.”

But before Gina could put the plates down, the telephone started ringing. Charlie groaned and got to his feet.

“Why is it that someone always calls right when I'm in the middle of something important?”

He picked up the phone. “Grill on the Green. This is Charlie. May I help you?”

“Charlie's right. They're gorgeous.” The flesh of the tomatoes was a brilliant ruby red. A sprinkling of verdant basil sliced into slivers and tossed over the plate like cheery confetti made them appear even more vibrant.

Abigail leaned over the plate and sniffed. “They smell heavenly. Shall we give them a try?” Abigail picked up a fork and knife and started cutting the tomato slices into bite-sized pieces, but before she was finished Charlie was back at the table. His face was serious.

“That was Margot. You're needed at the shop. You as well,” he said, nodding to Franklin and Abigail.