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 needed advice from someone who wasn’t involved in the situation, someone patient, empathetic, and sensitive, who had a keen insight into and appreciation of the female mind-set.
Unfortunately, no one like that was available, so I had to settle for Charlie.
Charlie came over to my house for dinner on Sunday. He can cook circles around me, but he seems to be appreciative, or at least amused, by my efforts and I was determined to show him that I knew my way around a kitchen. After all, I’d made dinner for my family every night for more than twenty-four years before I met Charlie and no one had died of ptomaine yet. I wasn’t exactly a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu, but I was perfectly capable of making a nice Sunday dinner for two.
Charlie leaned against the kitchen counter, picking at a bowl of Kalamata olives I’d put out as an appetizer while we waited for the salmon to finish poaching and I told him about what had happened on Friday.
“It was so strange,” I said as I leaned down, peering at the flame while I fiddled with the stove, trying to find the exact height of flame needed to induce the ‘slow but steady simmer’ my recipe called for. “She just said, ‘I can’t.’ No more explanation than that. Well, not quite. When Abigail pushed her, asking if she meant can’t or won’t, Ivy said ‘won’t.’ It was a very uncomfortable moment.”
Charlie made an impatient, clucking sound as he sucked the pit out of an olive and put it on a nearby cocktail napkin. “Well, why did Abigail do that? Isn’t her motto ‘never complain, never explain’?”
“Hmmm. I think that’s her personal motto. She doesn’t mean for it to apply to other people.”
“Convenient for her.”
“Yep.” I lifted the lid on the poacher. It seemed to be simmering nicely, so I put the lid back down and started chopping vegetables for the stir-fry I planned to serve alongside the salmon.
“Do you want some help with that?” Charlie asked, looking over my shoulder. “The peppers will cook more evenly if you cut them into strips.”
I turned around and gave him a look, still holding the vegetable knife in my hand.
“All right! All right!” he said, backing away with his hands in the air as if begging for surrender. “I was just trying to help.”
“You just stay over on your side of the kitchen. I can do this myself. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to be a guest?”
“No,” he said and popped another olive into his mouth before continuing.
“So what’s the big problem? It was nice of you to want to include Ivy in your quilting club…”
“Circle,” I corrected. “Quilt circle.”
“Okay. Your quilt circle, but she doesn’t want to join. Why is that so terrible?”
“It isn’t that it’s so terrible, not exactly. I mean, at first my feelings were a little hurt. It was like we tried to give her a present and she just handed it back without even bothering to open it, but the more I’ve been thinking about it, the more it worries me.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t add up.” I picked up a slice of green pepper and ate it. “Ivy likes all of us, I’m sure she does. She’s quiet, keeps to herself, but it isn’t like she’s unfriendly.”
Charlie
