An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (97 page)

In a cold and steady voice, Ellen said, “That’s how it really happened.”

“How it really happened doesn’t matter,” Deneford said. “What matters is that it’s believable.”

“You mean as believable as one man saving a legion of Green Berets from the entire Colombian army?”

“That could happen,” Rick shot back.

Ellen snorted disgustedly and sat back in her chair, folding her arms.

“I fail to see what’s so unbelievable about a woman performing heroic acts,” Julia said. “Especially to protect her children. Women were widowed all the time on the frontier. They could hardly afford to wait around for a man to rescue them.”

Ellen shot her a grateful look. Julia gave her a small nod in return, her con-science pricking her. She had spoken up to protect her role, not the integrity of Ellen’s script. The scene where Sadie faced down the unscrupulous cattle ranchers with nothing more than an unloaded rifle and a pitchfork contained one of the film’s best monologues. Julia wasn’t about to let Rick Rowen get it instead.

Jim’s attention was still on Deneford. “Given Rick’s draw, would it really be such a bad idea to steer the picture in a more action-adventure-type direction?”

Deneford stroked his chin, thinking.

Encouraged, Jim pressed ahead. “It would be like
Little House on the Prairie
meets
Die Hard.
”

Suddenly Samantha spoke up. “I like
Little House on the Prairie.
”

Everyone stared at her for a moment before her agent jumped in. “If Samantha likes it, I have no argument with expanding Rick’s part.”

“Hold on just a second,” Ares said, without needing any prompting from Julia. “I’m not about to let Julia’s best scenes go to Rowen. We’re ready to walk away right now.”

Julia felt a flash of panic as he shoved his chair away from the table, but to her relief, Deneford held up his hands. “Julia won’t have to sacrifice any of her screen time. We’ll just cut out some of the domestic scenes and add new material for Rick.”

“Domestic scenes?” Ellen echoed sharply.

“Not all of them. In fact, since Augustus will be sticking around, we’ll probably need a few love scenes between him and Sadie.” He looked at Jim. “Any problems with that?”

Jim glanced at Rick, who grinned. “No problems,” Jim said, than glanced at Julia. “Um, which Sadie are we talking about?”

“Julia.”

Jim made a barely perceptible wince and glanced at Julia once again. “I’ll have to speak to my client.” As he bent his mouth close to Rick’s ear, Julia pictured herself leaping across the table to claw his eyes out. She knew what he was whispering into the young actor’s ear—would he be willing to do love scenes with, to put it politely, an actress of Julia’s maturity? How dare he, and right in front of her. It took all her strength of will to keep her expression serene.

When Jim straightened, Rick grinned. “I’m cool with that,” he said, leering at Julia. “When I was a kid I used to dream about doing it with the mom from
Home Sweet Home.
”

“How charming,” Julia muttered, as disgusted as she was surprised that someone his age remembered her first series.

“Fine. Augustus lives, Augustus and Sadie have a roll or two in the hay, maybe literally, everyone’s happy.” Deneford raised his eyebrows at Ellen. “Can you make those changes without delaying our production schedule?”

Ellen looked faintly ill.

“If you can’t do it, say the word and I’ll get a team of studio writers—”

“I’ll do it,” Ellen said quickly. She slumped back in her chair in disbelief.

After a brief discussion of the production schedule, the meeting broke up. Julia and Ares went out to the parking lot, where Ellen caught up to them and asked to speak with Julia privately.

“I can’t believe they want so many changes,” Ellen said. “I’ve never written by committee before. Is this typical?”

“That’s part of the business.” Julia patted her on the arm and smiled. She was in a good mood, since the meeting had worked out largely in her favor. She hadn’t lost a moment of screen time, and although Rick disgusted her, a few love scenes with a popular young actor couldn’t hurt her image. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it.”

Ellen looked dubious. “I’m afraid they’re going to ruin my movie.”

It’s Deneford’s movie now
, Julia almost said, but she decided to be kind. “Nonsense. You’re a gifted writer. I’m sure the revisions will be just as wonderful as the original.”

“If you say so, I’ll believe you. I feel like you’re the only person who shares my vision about this project. You’re the only one who cares about my great-grandmother’s history as much as I do.”

Julia forced herself to keep her smile in place. “Of course I do.” She patted Ellen on the arm again and hurried off to her car before the conversation could make her even more uncomfortable.

Grace returned home from the doctor’s office in a gray fog of depression. Her condition was unchanged—no better, no worse. She was lucky, according to the doctor, especially after she told him about the minor exacerbations she had experienced at quilt camp. “No exacerbation can be considered minor,” he reminded her for what must have been the thousandth time. “You need to take it easy. Stress can aggravate MS.”

MS. He tossed off the initials so casually, as if her life weren’t at stake. Grace knew he was not trying to be unkind; he was so used to treating multiple sclerosis patients that he had learned to be matter-of-fact with the disease, while she still treated it warily, like an enemy who had moved into her home, some-one she could not ignore but must address with cautious respect.

For nearly eight years Grace had experienced strange symptoms—tingling in her hands and feet, pain in her eyes and problems with her vision, and slight uncoordination. The symptoms would flare up unexpectedly, then completely disappear. So much time elapsed between occurrences that she attributed the odd sensations to stress, fatigue, poor circulation, and over-work, and in fact, the first few doctors she consulted had made the same diagnosis. Not until a frightening incident four years before had Grace, at Justine’s insistence, pursued a more aggressive search for answers.

She had been driving to the deYoung Museum to study some new acquisitions when suddenly her hands felt as if they were being pricked by hundreds of needles. Her hands gripped the steering wheel clumsily, and suddenly alarmed, she set a turn signal and pulled over to the shoulder of the freeway. When she tried to ease off the gas and apply the brake, her right foot was numb and unresponsive. Grace used all her force of will to command her sluggish foot to move—and it did, but too late to prevent the car from slamming into the guard rail.

Although the car sustained substantial damage in the accident, she was physically uninjured but emotionally traumatized. Her little difficulties, as she had called them, had never affected her so strongly before. What if she had been on a road with no guard rail? What if she had struck another car and injured its occupants? She could not trust herself to drive again until she knew for certain what was wrong with her.

She consulted one doctor after another. Some found nothing wrong with her; others suggested she try antidepressants. Grace, who knew her emotional state was a symptom and not the cause of her physical problems, persisted. She underwent blood tests and CT scans, none of which yielded any conclusive answers. Finally a practitioner of alternative medicine provided some help. She suggested that Grace was suffering from some autoimmune response to toxins in her environment. Purging her home and her diet of harmful chemicals, combined with daily meditation, might help her manage her symptoms.

At first Grace was skeptical, but to her grateful surprise, the prescription seemed to work. At least she certainly felt healthier, more relaxed and at peace. She even began driving confidently again. But three months into her treatment, Grace’s symptoms returned with such force that she went to the emergency room, certain she was having a stroke. That was where she was referred to Dr. Steiner, who took a clinical history, ordered an MRI and a spinal tap, and determined she had MS.

She had been seeing him ever since, as well as participating in clinical trials and learning all she could about the disease. At first she retained some confidence, because it seemed that her disease followed a relapsing-remitting course, which meant that she could expect some or even complete recovery between attacks. But as the months dragged by with no new advances in treatment, no miraculous remissions or sudden leaps forward in the medical understanding of MS, her faith began to ebb. Dr. Steiner had never tried to conceal her prognosis, and she knew she was looking at a future of possible incapacitation, the abandonment of all the activities she cherished, and total dependence—the one thing she simply could not bear.

Grace had told Justine and her immediate family but had sworn them to secrecy. Not even her closest friends suspected what she was going through, and that was exactly how Grace wanted it. She would not have anyone treating her any differently than they always had.

“Eventually they’ll know something’s wrong,” Justine had told her. She meant that eventually the disease would progress so far that Grace would no longer be able to conceal it. A wheelchair was a difficult contrivance to ignore.

“So that’s when I’ll tell them,” Grace had said, and refused to discuss the subject further. Justine insisted that the support of her friends was what she needed most, but what Grace wanted most was her old life back. She wanted a sense of normalcy and ordinariness; she wanted the same blissful ignorance of the future most people enjoyed.

She prayed for guidance, for serenity, for a miracle, but her sewing machine gathered dust and her fabric stash permanent creases from being left folded in the same positions for so long.

Since returning from Sylvia’s nearly eight weeks before, Grace had tried to maintain her resolve to work through her creative block. She thought of how Sylvia had worked through the impairment brought on by a stroke and knew she had to keep trying. She went to her studio and sat on a stool, propping her elbows up on a work table and studying the shelves full of fabric. No matter how low she felt, the colors never failed to lift her spirits.

After a while, she took out the fat quarter of the autumn leaf print Vinnie had given her. According to the loose rules the Cross-Country Quilters had established, she couldn’t begin sewing her block yet, but she could choose some suitable complementary fabrics. She spent a quiet hour searching through her inventory, comparing the colors in the fat quarter to the many shades in her collection. She had chosen a rich burgundy cotton with a visual suede texture and a purple floral print with striking blue highlights when someone buzzed her loft from the front door. When, a moment later, the elevator sounded, she knew her visitor was Justine, who had a key.

Grace left the material on a work table and went to meet her daughter at the loft door. To her delight, Joshua was with her.

“How did it go?” Justine asked after Grace had greeted her visitors with hugs and kisses.

Grace shrugged. “Same as before.”

Justine’s tense expression eased. “That’s good news, at least.”

“I’d hardly call it that.”

“It’s better than hearing that you’ve gotten worse.”

Grace felt a flash of annoyance. “Little pitchers,” she said, tilting her head toward Joshua, who was playing with blocks on the floor.

Justine gave her a look that said she was being ridiculous. “You don’t like to talk about it, but you should.”

“I’ll talk about what I please, when I please.”

“You’d feel better if you were more open and honest about this. Not just with me, but with yourself.”

“The way you’ve been open and honest with me?” Grace shot back.

Justine stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” She leaned over to pick up a block that had tumbled away from Joshua’s pile and returned it to him.

“No, you brought it up. Something’s obviously bothering you. Let’s air it out.”

Grace took a deep breath. “I know you’re seeing someone.”

Justine’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“I know you’re seeing someone, and I know …” She glanced at Joshua and lowered her voice. “I know it’s serious.”

“Mom, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Don’t give me that. Sondra saw you together at a restaurant back in July. Joshua was with you.”

Justine set her jaw. “Your friends are spying on me?”

“That’s hardly fair. Sondra happened to see you, and she asked me who the man was, and of course I had to tell her I didn’t know, since you didn’t have the decency to tell me on your own.”

“Mom—”

“And what’s worse than being the last to know about these important developments in your life—and Joshua’s life, I might add—is that your new boyfriend is my age.”

“Mom, you have it all wrong.”

“I most certainly do not. Sondra told me he’s old enough to be your father.”

“That’s because he
is
my father.”

“What?”

“The man Sondra saw us with is my father.”