the same for Ivy. By the way, are you sure you don’t want me to…” He took a tentative step in my direction.
I glared at him.
“Never mind. I’ll just stay over here and eat my olives.”
“Good plan,” I said and went back to chopping.
“No, that’s not it. I know Ivy enjoys quilting. I knew that when I first met her, in my beginners’ class. She was really excited about her quilt. And just a couple of weeks ago, she said she’d like to try an Ohio Star pattern, but she just doesn’t have time. So, now she’s offered a chance to do something she enjoys, with free babysitting thrown in, and she says no? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, you’re right, it doesn’t, but what can you do about it? Let it go. If she won’t join your group, she won’t.”
“Yeah, but that’s just it,” I said, scooping up a pile of vegetables and tossing them into the wok I’d had heating on a burner and listening to them sizzle. “Abigail pushed Ivy to say she won’t, but I don’t think that’s it. I think she meant what she said the first time. She can’t. Or at least she thinks she can’t. Something is holding her back. It’s almost like she’s afraid of being friends with us. But why?”
“You really need to quit stewing about this.”
“I know. I know, but what am I supposed to do now? Ivy doesn’t normally work weekends, not unless we have a big sale like we will on Saturday, so I’ve had all weekend to worry about exactly how awkward it will be when she comes in on Monday. Do I talk to her about it? Do I not talk to her about it? Do I ignore the elephant in the room? And do I invite her to come to the Grill on Saturday night or not? Maybe I should just assume she doesn’t want to see any of us outside of work hours.” I sighed. “Monday is going to be awful. I don’t know how I should handle this.”
Charlie shook his head and sighed deeply. “Women. You make everything so complicated.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“No, I mean it. You’d never find a man wringing his hands and worrying over something like this. Look. This is simple. Just handle this like a man would. Go to work on Monday, do what you normally do and pretend nothing happened on Friday. Do your job and let Ivy do hers. Later, you can invite her to the dinner on Saturday. If she says yes, fine. If not, that’s fine too. It’s as simple as that.”
“But it’s not. What if she’d really like to come, but feels awkward about accepting the invitation after saying she didn’t want to join the circle? Or what if she really doesn’t want to come, but feels like she has to because she said no before? It’s a complicated situation.”
“Arrggh!” Charlie rubbed his face with his hands, as if scrubbing at his frustration. “No, it’s not! It’s only complicated if you make it complicated!
“Why is it that women, even women who are only bound together by the fact that they happen to work in the same place, aren’t happy unless everyone becomes everybody else’s best friend?”
I sprinkled the vegetables with salt, pulled a pepper out, and bit into it. Almost ready.
“Because we’re social animals, that’s why. It’s how we evolved. Strength in numbers. Or something like that.” I shrugged. “It’s just the way we are. Women need the friendship of other women. At least most of them do. Maybe Ivy’s different, but I’m not convinced.”
Charlie snorted and spit out another olive pit. “Well, maybe she just doesn’t want to be friends with the people she works with. Can’t blame her for that. You’re a pretty scary bunch. Margot’s a sweetheart, but Liza looks like she’s ready to pose for a biker chick photo op. Empress Abigail refers to herself in the third person. And you? Sure. You may look like a mild-mannered quilt shop owner, but maybe Ivy has caught wind of your dark side. Maybe she’s heard the rumors about how you threaten your boyfriend with kitchen knives just because he’s trying to help you keep from ruining dinner.”
I put the spatula down and turned to face Charlie, my hands on my hips. “I am not ruining dinner.”
Behind me, the sound of sizzling vegetables reached a crescendo but was suddenly overcome by a loud, long hiss, followed by repetitious staccato clicks—the noise my gas stove makes when something boils over and extinguishes the cooking flame.
Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Actually, you might be wrong about that.”
“Oh no!” I turned off both burners, and then grabbed a kitchen towel to lift the lid off the poacher.
“It’s ruined,” I moaned, peering into the pan. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“What? And take my life into my hands?”
Charlie came up behind me, wrapped one arm around my waist and, resting his chin on my shoulder, examined my over-cooked salmon.
“There now, it’s not so bad. Not beyond all hope, at least.”
“No? So you think I can still serve it?”
“Well,” he said doubtfully, “not like that. What do you say to a nice salmon salad? Do you have some vinegar and capers, maybe a bit of fresh dill?”
I nodded.
Charlie clapped his hands together and grinned, back in his element, as delighted by the end of his culinary exile as a major-league pitcher who is called back to the mound after a season spent warming the bench. “Good! Get them out. I’ll need a mixing bowl and an apron too.”
Glumly, I started looking for the items he requested, but Charlie interrupted my search, kissing me lightly on the lips.
“There now. You’re taking this much too hard. Don’t worry. I’ll be able to salvage our supper.” His eyes twinkled as he hefted the fish poacher off the stove and poured the liquid down the sink.
“Just like I did last Sunday.”
I smiled as I turned the key in the lock and opened the shop door on Monday morning. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, the kind of morning that makes you think that the rest of the day will hold nothing but good.
Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe I was making a mountain out of a molehill.
I had plenty of things to do besides worry about Ivy. The best thing to do was to act as if Friday had never happened and just get on with my day. One thing I knew for certain is that it was going to be crazy busy. But until I snapped on the overhead light and the telephone started ringing as if on cue, I had no way of knowing how crazy.
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