The Fortune Quilt (20 page)

“Oh, honey,” I say, putting my hand on her arm. “It probably was. But that’s not the point. The thing is that she’s your mother, and she hurt you. She hurt all of us. You can’t just decide you’re going to forgive her and it magically happens. You have to work at it.”

“Why? You didn’t. You freaked out and ran away. Why can’t I do that?”

“Um… you did. Only difference is, you’re going back and you’re going to make it all work because you’re Ella and that’s what you do.”

She grabs another chip and stuffs it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again.

“And what are you going to do?” she says finally.

“Hmmm?”

“It’s not like you’re really going to stay here forever, are you?” She glances around. “The walls are all different colors.”

“Yeah? So what? I like my walls.”

“And you like… what? Working in an art supply store?”

I think on that for a moment, and when I answer, I answer honestly. “Yeah, I like it.”

“But what are you going to
 
do? With your life? When you’re done screwing around here?”

“I’m not screwing around. I’m…” I squinch my eyes shut and mumble, “I’m re-imagining my life.”

Ella stares at me, her expression frozen as though I’d just sprouted polka-dot wings and announced I was a ladybug. “You’re
 
what
?”

Looking at her, for the first moment since coming to Bilby, I’m filled with doubt as to whether I’ve made the right decision. Have I gone off the deep end? Because my sister, who knows me about as well as anyone, is looking at me like I’ve gone off the deep end, and that can’t be a good sign. Can it?

Ella leans forward and grabs her purse off the coffee table. After rummaging through it for a few moments, she pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to me.

“What’s this?” I start unfolding it and see the name “Rob Jenkins” and a phone number scribbled in Ella’s handwriting.

“It’s something Christopher asked me to tell you about. I guess now that
 
Tucson Today
 
is
 
Tucson Yesterday
, the independent station is trying to build up a new show. They’re doing a series of half-hour documentaries - full documentaries - and they need freelance producers.” Her face beams at me. “It’s just the kind of stuff you’ve always wanted to do, and they’re looking for people.”

Wow. This should be really good news. I should be really excited. And yet… I shrug and toss the paper onto the coffee table. “I’m happy where I am.”

There’s a long silence, and I can feel the frustration coming off Ella in waves.

“Carly. You’re an award-winning television producer—”

“Oh, whatever,” I say. “A couple of local press club awards hardly make me award-winning.”

“Yeah,” she says. “They do, you big stupid. And you’d be perfect for this, and then you could come home and—”

“And totally mess up my life again by going back to the very thing I left? No. Thank. You.”

“Wow.” She stares at me, her blue eyes narrowed and evaluating. “I never realized it before, but you can be really stubborn sometimes.”

“And this from the woman whose husband doesn’t know she left him.”

Ella opens her mouth to say something back, but stops and lets out a small laugh.

“We’re a hell of a pair, Car,” she says, grabbing the bag of Doritos out of my hand and diving in. “We should take this act on the road.”

***

Ella and I spend a quiet evening at home, eating ice cream and talking things to death. We decide that my fledgling relationship with Will is an exciting new start, and that her marriage is just going through the classic first year bumps. Before she leaves the next morning, she promises to call me when she gets home, and makes me promise to call the guy from the independent station. We hug tightly before she takes off, and I watch her walk away until the foliage overtakes the path and she disappears. I go inside, tuck the piece of paper away in the front of my phone book, stick it in a drawer and decide to think about it later.

Work is work. I stock shelves, I ring up customers, and I gossip with Janesse. Best of all, when I leave, I don’t think about it anymore. I’m not loaded with tapes or worrying about scripts I have to write or how we’re going to do in sweeps, or anything. My mind is free and clear, and I like it. Ella may not understand, but there are some great benefits to being a clerk at an art supply store. As I walk on the path back to my little cabin in the foothills, I form all my arguments about why I won’t be calling the guy from the independent station, why I don’t want to work in television, why I’m happy with my re-imagined life. My mind is swirled up in the hurricane fury of my thoughts when I emerge into the clearing, and it takes me a moment before I realize there’s music playing. I look up and see lights on in Will’s cabin, and my heart skips. I sneak up on the porch and peek in the front window. Will is in an apron, cooking over his stove, dancing and singing to the Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back,” and he’s awful. Off the beat, off-key, and I’ve never seen anything more adorable in my life. I sneak back off the porch and go to my place, where there’s a note tacked to my door that just simply says,
 
Call me when you get home.

I grab my cell phone from my bag and dial. After a ring or two, the music lowers and I hear Will’s voice on the other end.

“You’re back,” I say.

“I’m back. Where are you?”

“On my porch.”

He pokes his head out his front door and we look at each other for a moment.

“Nice apron,” I say.

He smiles. I can see it even from my porch and it makes my insides get all zingy. “So, you coming over or what?”

“Give me five minutes.”

We each hang up and go back inside our cabins. I rush through the cabin, brushing my teeth and my hair at the same time, then jumping into a fresh pair of jeans and my only nice sweater, a creamy cable knit. I do a light mascara/lip gloss touch up and rush out the door, then turn back to grab my purse, in which I have two just-in-case condoms. It’s still very early and I doubt we’ll use them, but knowing they’re present and ready makes me feel all tingly, and I like it.

I’ve barely knocked on his door when it opens. He’s lost the apron, his hair is still in a thousand directions but cutely so, and he looks really good in his dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I’m trying to put a damper on my smile because my face is starting to ache, but I can’t help it. He touches my shoulder lightly to guide me inside and then swipes his hands on his thighs as he heads toward the kitchenette.

“Um, I’m not a great cook, but I thought maybe I’d try to whip up something. It’s just spaghetti. Probably inedible.”

“It smells great,” I say, but to be honest, I haven’t noticed. Instead, I find myself watching him move with that tall, lanky grace and I accept that I am so far gone in this crush that I’m probably never coming back.

He grabs a bottle of wine off the counter. “Can I pour you some wine?”

“Yes. Please.”

He pours two glasses, puts the sauce on simmer and we settle on the couch.

“So, did you have a good weekend?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Ella stopped by.”

“Ella? Really?”

“She had a fight with Greg, so she came down here and we made up and actually had a pretty nice time.”

“She had a fight with Greg?” Will says. “Everything okay there?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, it’s fine. He didn’t even know she left him.”

Will’s eyes widen in surprise. “She left him? I thought you said they just had a fight.”

“No. They did. It’s a long story. It’s just… Ella.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

The comment makes me feel a little tense, and I can see by his face that my internal reaction is obvious. He puts his wineglass on the coffee table. “I mean, she used to get upset with me and I would never know. She never said anything. It was crazy.”

There’s an awkward silence. I sip my wine. Will sighs.

“Is it going to be weird, that Ella and I used to date? Maybe we should talk about it.”

“No,” I say, “I think it’s okay. It just takes some getting used to. It was a long time ago, and she’s fine with it, so really, I think it’s okay.”

A small smile spreads over Will’s face. “You told her about us?”

I can feel my face heating up. Crap. “Well. Kinda. I, uh… have this painting I bought of yours and she noticed it so I kinda mentioned…” I giggle like an idiot, beg myself internally to shut up, and yet keep going. “Not that there’s anything to tell, really, yet, but you two dated so… you know. It’s a little weird. But not very. She’s fine with it. I’m fine with it.” I meet his eye. “Are you fine with it?”

Will smiles and leans a little closer, looking into my eyes as he speaks. “Yeah. I’m fine with it. You seem a little nervous, though.”

“Oh,” I say. “I thought I was hiding it so well.”

He reaches up and touches my chin, turning my face toward him a bit.

“If it helps, I’m a little nervous, too.”

“It helps.” I smile up into his eyes. “Nervousness loves company, right?”

He watches me for a moment. “I think maybe there’s something we need to get out of the way so we can relax.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” I ask as he leans toward me. His lips whisper over mine and the kiss is sweet and light, but I still feel dizzy when he pulls away, a light smile on his face as his eyes catch mine.

“Is that better?” he asks.

“Mmmm,” I say, nodding.

He puts one hand on the couch behind me and lightly grazes his fingers over my hair and then there’s another kiss, this one longer and even more dizzy-making. I’ve been kissed a fair amount of times in my life, but I’ve never been made dizzy before. I didn’t know it was possible. When he pulls away, I emit a small, inadvertent whine.

“Sorry.” He gives a self-conscious laugh. I adore it. “I was planning on feeding you before we got to this, I swear.”

“It’s okay,” I say, although I’m not sure if I’m audible over the crazy pounding in my chest. All I want is for him to touch me again. I don’t care where. The elbow’s fine. But he’s got a look on his face like he doesn’t want me to think he’s just out for sex and I don’t want him to think I’m a slut and yet we’re sitting with our faces inches apart and neither one of us is moving away.

“Maybe we should talk for a while,” I say helpfully.

He nods, leans back a bit. “Sure. Talk. Good idea.”

I sit up, smooth out my sweater, and reach for my wine.

“So, maybe tell me about your family?” I say, and at the same time Will says, “What painting?”

I stare at him for a moment, then realize what he’s asking. “Oh. Yeah. Um, I got it the day I got here. The one with the girl with her hands over her face and you can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying?” I giggle nervously. Good God. I sound more like a fifteen-year-old than ever. “Ella saw it and recognized your style. She said it was of me, but that’s crazy, right? Because we didn’t even know each other when—”

I catch the expression on his face and stop talking.

“Oh. Wow.” I take a sip of wine, then turn back to face him. “It’s me?”

“Um. Well.” He gives an awkward laugh. “Yeah. I went down to the Café to get it after you moved to town and it was gone, so I just figured I’d dodged the bullet, you know?” He stares at me for a minute, his expression wary. “You think I’m gonna put you in a pit and lower lotion down to you in a basket, don’t you?”

“Not until you said that,” I say, laughing. “It’s… you know, sure. A little weird, but—”

He pivots on the couch to face me.

“Look, I paint things that catch my imagination. That day, at the wedding, you were…” He watches me for a moment, and I can see the internal debate playing in his eyes before he finally talks again. “You were so strong and in charge and yet there was this part of you that just seemed… I don’t know. Vulnerable. And after that I couldn’t get you out of my head, so I painted you.”

“And then I was out of your head?”

He laughs. “Until you showed up in my bed, yeah. Since then…” He sighs and trails off. “Are you freaked out?”

I smile. “Only by my apparent narcissism.”

“Good.” He smiles back. “And, just so you know, your narcissism is kinda freaking me out, too.”

“So, what happened in New York?” I say suddenly, and just as suddenly regret it. His face goes tight, and he leans away from me a bit.

“Ella told you about New York?”

“Well, a little,” I say, suddenly very unsure of myself. “I mean, she said something about Granny Smith apples and Andy Warhol.”

He is quiet for a while, just staring into his wineglass. Then he shakes his head. “Yeah. Well, it was a dumb thing to do.”

“Why?”

He takes a breath to say something, then stops himself and shakes his head, saying nothing. I turn my body sideways to face him.