Let it Sew (10 page)

Chapter 13

Two years earlier, when she’d attended her first-ever Sweet Briar tree-lighting ceremony,
Tori had been all too aware of the non-Christmas-like climate and the absence of anything
resembling the kind of weather Bing Crosby had sung about on her great-grandmother’s
record player growing up. Yet thirty minutes later, after the tree had been lit and
the first round of carols sung, she’d quickly realized how unimportant the outside
temperatures were compared to the heart and spirit of a decades-old tradition.

She’d learned a lot that night about preconceived notions and the benefits of being
open minded, the town’s age-old tradition quickly claiming a spot on her own annual
holiday must-do list before the night had even officially come to a close. But even
knowing that, and having experienced that, she still couldn’t manage to muster up
so much as a shred of excitement for this year’s event.

And it wasn’t hard to see why.

Seeing families huddled together on picnic blankets and beach towels as they stared
at a darkened projection screen on the other side of the Green just didn’t have the
same feel as standing shoulder to shoulder around a tree with people of all ages—waiting.
There was no magic, no sense of wide-eyed anticipation, no impatient squeals.

There was just sitting.

And yawning.

And a fair amount of whining and complaining from both children and adults alike.

“I tried to get the kids excited for this at school but I wasn’t terribly convincing.”
Milo’s chin moved against the top of her head as he spoke. “It’s like they knew it
wouldn’t be the same—and these are kids! They’re used to virtual sports and virtual
drawing and all sorts of computerized things.”

Tori closed her eyes briefly, savoring the feel of her back against his chest and
his arms around her midsection as they waited for Maime Wellington’s version of Christmas
in the millennium. “I know. It’s why I almost called you tonight and asked if we could
go to a movie or take a walk instead of coming here for
this
. But I couldn’t.”

“You could have persuaded me,” Milo joked. “And pretty easily, too, I might add.”

“At the moment Maime told us about this, Dixie, Rose, and I were ready to get up and
walk out, boycott all of these changes on principle . . .” she mused, her words disappearing
into the night as she thought back to the last committee meeting.

“What stopped you?”

It was a question she knew he’d ask and, thus, a topic she’d avoided until that very
moment, when she was as certain as she could be that she could talk without crying.

“Kyle Jordan stopped me.”

She felt Milo’s chin leave the top of her hair, felt the way his head bobbed to the
left in an effort to see her face. “
My
Kyle Jordan?”

She allowed herself to draw some much-needed strength from the smile his words created.
Milo Wentworth was the kind of teacher that parents adored. He was motivating and
creative in the way good teachers were, but he also truly loved each and every student
in his classroom. “Yes, your Kyle Jordan.”

“How, may I ask, did Kyle stop the three of you from boycotting this debacle?”

Reluctantly, she wiggled out from the warmth of his arms and turned around on the
blanket to face him, the amber flecks of his eyes nearly impossible to see in the
faint glow of the streetlamps that bordered the green. “Of all the people sitting
around us tonight, no one is sadder about the changes taking place than Kyle. Margaret
Louise might be upset that her hard work over the past decade or two has been tossed
aside, but Kyle? His heart is breaking.”

Despite the low lighting, the worry in Milo’s eyes was unmistakable. “Breaking? Why?”

“Because doing away with the tree-lighting ceremony as it was is just one more way
his mother is disappearing from his life.” Sure enough, despite her best intentions,
her voice cracked, the passage of time since seeing Kyle’s face and hearing his sobs
doing little against the very real emotion invoked by the mere memory.

Milo’s brows furrowed. “How so?”

“He remembers his mother picking out some of the ornaments for the town’s tree.” It
was a simple statement but one Tori knew he’d understand. And he didn’t disappoint.

He raked his hand down his face, releasing a sigh as it passed his mouth. “Wow. I
didn’t realize.”

“What I don’t understand is how Kyle can remember that,
treasure
that, yet his father can be so clueless as to its significance for his child.” She
drew her knees upward and rested her forearms across them. “I mean, the kid’s mother
died, right?”

“My guess is he’s only aware of himself right now.” Milo sat up straight on their
blanket and canvassed the crowd between them and the projection screen. “He’s feeling
hope with this new woman because he sees it as a new beginning. Unfortunately, he’s
obviously so focused on that, he’s forgetting the fact that his son wants the memories . . .
even
needs
the memories. Especially during the holidays.”

She nodded, yet said nothing, her gaze joining Milo’s in what she suspected was a
shared pursuit.

“Maybe I could say something to Avery the next time I see him, though in all fairness,
the girlfriend seems to have taken over the task of bringing Kyle his lunch whenever
he forgets it at home. Maybe I should mention something to her. Perhaps she just doesn’t
understand.”

Three blankets shy of the projection screen she found Kyle and his brother huddled
together while Maime commanded their father’s full attention. “I don’t think it’ll
do any good,” Tori mumbled. “Besides, it’s not like she doesn’t know how Kyle feels . . .”

Milo stared down at her. “She knows?”

“She knows,” Tori repeated. “Kyle told her outright.”

“And . . .”

Waving her hand toward the projection screen, she managed to speak around the lump
of emotion lodged in her throat. “You don’t see a tree any longer, do you?”

“Mizz Victoria, is that you?”

Tori glanced up, Frieda Taylor’s narrow face barely discernible in the growing darkness.
“Oh. Frieda. Hi.” She turned to Milo and held her hand up in the nurse’s direction.
“Milo, this is Frieda Taylor, Charlotte Devereaux’s nurse. Frieda, this is my fiancé—Milo
Wentworth.”

After a handshake and a few pleasantries, Frieda focused in on Tori once again. “I
hope all those books I dropped off last week made it in time to be part of your library’s
Christmas book fair, Mizz Victoria.”

And just like that, Tori’s focus shifted to the other worry nagging at her heart.

“They most certainly did, Frieda . . . and thank you. Charlotte’s books found good
homes, and the money raised will certainly help to fund many of our programs throughout
the coming year.”

Frieda’s smile grew. “I’m so glad. Mizz Charlotte . . . she loved her books right
up until the very end. Why, during some of her clear spells, I could read two or three
chapters to her while she sat in her chair and drew. Sometimes, she’d even lay her
pencil down long enough to comment on something I’d just read.”

She took in the woman’s words and let them process for a moment. “And the picture
book? Was there a particular reason she liked you to read that one when all of the
other donated titles were adult books?”

“Picture book?” Frieda echoed in surprise. “I didn’t read no picture book to Mizz
Charlotte. We read stories about women who accomplished great things.”

“But what about Messy Mikey?” she asked.

“I don’t know a book called—”

Her hand shot up as the cover of Molly Sue’s new book flashed before her eyes. “Wait.
No. It was called,
It’s Not Mikey’s Mess
.”

Frieda’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. “I didn’t read that to Mizz Charlotte.
Mizz Charlotte used to read that to Brian every day when he’d come into her room for
a goodnight kiss. At least she did up until about six weeks ago.”

“What happened six weeks ago?”

“I guess he could sense a change in his mama. Because one evening he came in and held
the book in his hands and began reciting the story—page by page—to
her
. I had to walk out of the room that night to keep my blubbering from ruining his
story. But he did it again the next night . . . and the next night . . . and every
night thereafter until Mizz Charlotte left this earth. And every night, after he’d
finished the book and had given her a kiss, she’d sit there in her chair and just
hold that book for hours.”

It all made sense now—the inscription, the lone children’s book in a large donation
of adult titles, and even the presence of one of Charlotte’s sketches. Tori slumped
against Milo’s chest once again, although her gaze, her focus, remained on Frieda.
“I’ll let my friend Melissa know just how special that book was to Charlotte. I’m
sure that’ll only make reading it to her daughter all the more special.”

Frieda’s left brow hiked upward. “That’s an old book. Where did your friend find it?”

“Well, actually, her daughter, Lulu, found it while searching for the best trio of
picture books for her baby sister at the festival yesterday. When she showed me the
inscription inside the front cover, I figured it must have come from Charlotte’s collection.”

Slowly, the nurse’s mouth dropped open. “Brian’s book? I didn’t donate that.”

She sat upright again as the shock in Frieda’s tone registered in the forefront of
her mind. “It was checked off and initialed by one of our volunteers. It came in on
the same day you donated the rest of Charlotte’s books.”

Several long beats of silence gave way to a burst of anger that skittered across Frieda’s
face. “You know, I told Ethan to leave that book alone. I told him it was something
his mother would have wanted Brian to have. Shame on me for thinking he’d leave his
jealousy at the door and heed his mother’s wishes . . . shame on me.”

“Jealousy?” she parroted. “What was Ethan jealous of?”

Milo looked from Tori to Frieda and back again. “I don’t think Ethan was jealous of
a what so much as a who.” At Frieda’s nod, he continued, filling in a little backstory.
“Despite all of the advantages Ethan Devereaux has had in life—good looks, a comfortable
upbringing, his parents’ obvious adoration, and good health—he seemed to be bothered
by the attention his mentally challenged older brother got from his father.”

She looked to Frieda for confirmation of Milo’s words, the nurse’s follow-up delivering
so much more than she could have imagined. “I tell you, Mizz Victoria, this town and
its police have it all wrong. Mizz Charlotte wouldn’t have hurt her husband if her
life depended on it. No way. No how. But Mr. Ethan? He wouldn’t think twice if he
thought it could benefit him somehow.”

Tori heard the sharp intake of air through her lips, felt Milo’s hand on her arm,
but it paled in comparison to the sudden roar in her ears.

“Tori? Are you okay?”

Could Frieda be right? Could Ethan Devereaux have killed his own father?

“Hey . . . Baby. Are you okay?”

And if he did, how would Charlotte have known where to find the body?

“Tori?”

The sound of her name brought her back into the moment to find Milo’s face mere inches
from her own. “I’m sorry, Milo, I guess I was just caught off guard by all this talk
of . . .” Her words petered out as she looked up. “Wait. Where’s Frieda?”

Milo rocked back on his feet. “I don’t know. I was so busy looking at you, I didn’t
notice she’d walked away until she was already gone.”

Tori rose up on her knees and looked around the crowd but to no avail. “Ugh. I hope
she wasn’t mad that I zoned out like that.”

“I suspect she just wanted to get a seat for”—Milo nudged his chin toward the projection
screen that was suddenly illuminated—“the show.”

Sure enough, a large cartoon-like tree appeared on the screen along with a talking
magic wand tasked with taking the crowd through the process of a virtual tree trimming—one
animated lightbulb and one singing ornament after the other until the entire tree
was decked out in all its virtual finery.

Five minutes later, amid a prolonged bout of stunned silence, blankets were folded
and carried off by one disappointed family after the other.

“I can’t believe we just sat here for over an hour waiting for . . . that.” Milo blew
out a whoosh of frustration and then helped Tori to her feet. “I—I’m speechless. Truly.”

Tori stepped off the blanket and reached for the two corners closest to her feet,
folding them toward one another and then again toward Milo before finding some semblance
of a response. “I am, too.”

“All we can say is how glad I am my mama refrained from coming.”

Pulling the folded blanket against her chest, Tori spun around. “Melissa . . . Jake . . .
hi!”

Milo sidled up beside Tori and offered his hand to Margaret Louise’s son and a warm
embrace to the man’s wife. “You know something? I was actually hoping against hope
your mom wasn’t here tonight. She’d have been heartbroken.”

Tori followed the path made by Jake’s eyes as he took in the couple’s seven children
sitting quietly on a blanket of their own. “She’s already heartbroken, bein’ here
would’ve just made it worse. Much worse.”

Melissa hooked her hands around her husband’s forearm. “Today wasn’t all bad for your
mom, Jake. She was bubbling with excitement when she stopped by after Molly Sue’s
nap.”

The image Melissa’s words evoked brought a smile to Tori’s lips. “Oh?”

“She went back to that center she took you and Aunt Leona to the other day, Victoria.
Signed up as a volunteer.”

Tori’s smile widened still further. “She’s going to teach some cooking classes?”

“First one will be next week.”

“Mee Maw’s not plannin’ on teachin’ them folks how to make sweet potato pie, is she?
’Cause a recipe like that might get her in a little trouble,” Jake teased before shooting
his hand into the air and gesturing for the Davis Seven to gather up their blanket
in preparation for the drive home.