Ties That Bind (18 page)

March

P
aul squatted down to hold the dustpan while Philippa swept up a bright tangle of colored confetti and eggshells. “What a mess.”

“But the kids loved it,” Philippa said. “Margot, this was a great idea.”

After a couple of weeks of sitting in and watching how she ran the youth group, Philippa suggested Paul and I get together and create our own lesson plans and activities. While we were sitting in Paul's kitchen talking about how difficult it was to engage some of the kids, James wandered in and offered a few relevant observations.

“It's too much like school,” he said. “All day long, we sit in classrooms while adults lecture us about stuff we don't really care about. Like algebra. Who needs it? I'm going to play pro basketball when I grow up.”

“James,” Paul said, laying a hand on his son's shoulder, “I don't want to burst your bubble, but you're about a foot too short to play in the NBA.”

“I'm still growing,” James said defensively.

Paul nodded. “I wouldn't be surprised if you top me by an inch or two before you're done, but that'll still leave you too short for the pros, buddy. Don't give up on algebra just yet.”

He smiled and ruffled his son's hair, but James pulled away.

“Whatever.”

“James,” I said, pulling out a chair, “do you have a second? I'd like to hear what kinds of things you would like to talk about at youth group.”

“What
I
want to talk about?” James sat down. “Really?”

Our conversation was very illuminating. What it all boiled down to was relationships. James desperately wanted to feel understood, accepted, and heard even while he struggled to understand, accept, and hear others. It wasn't that surprising when I stopped to think about it. That's what everybody wants and what everybody finds so hard to do.

After a bit of brainstorming, Paul and I decided that our emphasis for the spring would be on relationships, focusing on how Jesus handled his human relationships while on earth and employing lots of discussion, games, and activities to keep the kids engaged and help drive home the point. Today's discussion centered around the story of Zacchaeus, a dishonest tax collector whose life had been transformed because Jesus took time to call him by name, seeing beyond the little man's sinful shell and into his heart, a heart that yearned for God's love and a new life.

Our quiet activity had been to pass out colored cards for each child and ask the others to, anonymously, write something positive about the person whose name was on the card. Our “active” activity had been the eggs. My quilt circle sisters, who only complained a little about not getting any quilting done that Friday night, and I blew out five dozen eggs and then stuffed the empty white shells full of red, yellow, blue, green, and orange confetti.

At the end of the night, the kids chased each other around the fellowship hall, shrieking as they cracked the eggshells on each other's heads, releasing explosions of colorful paper and peals of laughter. Both activities were supposed to encourage the kids to look beyond appearances or first impressions and search for the good that exists inside everyone.

“I don't know,” I said as I walked around the tables picking up empty paper cups and napkins the kids left behind after their snack. “The card activity was good. I could see that a lot of them were really thinking about what to write, but the eggs? I think they were having so much fun that they might have lost sight of the point.”

“Nothing wrong with fun,” Philippa said as she swept eggshells out of a corner. “That's part of what keeps them coming back.”

“Well, I hope the kids aren't counting on confetti eggs every week. It took six women three hours to make them, four minutes for the kids to destroy them, and half an hour for us to clean up the mess.” I smiled and tossed a stack of cups into the trash can.

“James loved it,” Paul said. “He didn't want to leave when Melanie came to pick him up.”

Paul and his ex-wife have a shared custody arrangement. She is supposed to have James every other weekend, but sometimes she has to cancel at the last minute. That upsets James, but rather than take it out on his mother, he gets angry with his dad. Poor James. He's had a lot of changes in a short time. But Paul is a great father, so patient. Paul is a great guy in general. Why didn't I notice that right off? I guess I could use some practice in looking beyond the surface too. That beat-up car of his threw me off at first.

He's nice-looking too, more handsome than I realized at first glance. His eyes are deep brown with little flecks of gold, like pieces of polished amber held up to the light. He's taller than I am and has an oddly athletic build for a lawyer. But maybe that's not a fair assumption on my part. Geoff Bench is athletic. He's always so quick to point that out. But the way he wears a suit always makes me think of the Incredible Hulk, as if the seams might burst at any moment and reveal some kind of slobbering monster, barrel-chested and hideously green. I swear he buys them too tight on purpose, just to give that impression. But where Geoff Bench is preeningly masculine, Paul is just manly. Paul is sort of the anti-Geoff. Come to think of it, he's sort of the anti-Arnie, too, but in a different way.

He's creative and talented. Next week, we're going to talk about the church body and how everyone has something unique and special to offer to it. Paul came up with the idea of having a jam session to illustrate the point. Kids who play can bring their instruments, Paul will bring his sax, and Philippa will have a supply of percussion instruments—tambourines, bongos, and such—available for everyone else to use.

Paul said, “It'll either be fabulous or a huge train wreck, but it'll be fun either way.” It won't be a train wreck. Paul is a very good musician. He and James played a duet for me one day when I was at their house—James plays alto sax—and it was great.

It's so wonderful that he's willing to put himself out like that for the kids. And that he spends so much time with James—playing music together, working on the car. If I were still in the marriage market, Paul Collier would be exactly the sort of man I'd fall head over heels for.

A few weeks ago, I would have done exactly that. But the accident changed everything. The things that used to worry me—my age, still being single, the way other people viewed me—are barely blips on my radar screen anymore. Now my focus is on Olivia and this custody battle. It has to be. I don't have energy for anything else.

Just as well. I'm sure Paul won't be single for long. In New Bern, the ratio of unattached females to available men is pretty high. And the arrival of any new bachelor sparks a lot of interest among the people who find that kind of thing interesting. Just last week, Wendy Perkins came into the shop in a flutter, saying how she'd heard that Paul and Philippa had been spotted having lunch in the back booth at the Bean. It's a ridiculous rumor. Not the part about Paul and Philippa having lunch, but the implication there's anything improper going on between them. Philippa is just as focused on her work at the church as I am on trying to win custody of Olivia; neither of us has time for anything else.

But I did see Jeannine Baskins flirting with Paul after the coffee hour at church. I don't really blame her. What woman wouldn't fall for a man like Paul Collier?

 

With the floor swept and the tables and chairs set up for Sunday, we put on our coats and headed upstairs. Philippa brought up the rear, turning off lights. It was dark when we stepped outside and chilly and the air felt heavy, as though it might rain. The last of the snow melted off this week. Breathing in, I could smell that wet, musty, grassy scent that means spring is on the way.

Paul walked to his car, which I now know is a 1973 Mustang hardtop, and a classic. Paul's father was a mechanic in Chicago and this was his car; he left it to Paul in his will. Paul and James are trying to restore it to its original condition. Progress is slow, but they just installed a new muffler so it runs quieter now. Well, a little quieter. I think it's sweet that Paul wants to fix up his dad's old car. And I'm impressed that he actually knows his way around an engine and is passing that knowledge on to his son, just like his father did to him. Arnie doesn't even know how to check the tire pressure on his car.

Paul got into the Mustang and started the engine, but instead of driving away, he rolled down the passenger side window and called out, “Hey, are you two hungry? Want to go to the Blue Bean for a hamburger or something?”

“Thanks,” I shouted, “but I can't. I've got quilt circle tonight.” When Philippa asked me to help with the youth group, the circle voted to move our meetings from five to seven on Friday nights. It turned out to be a more convenient time for everyone anyway.

Philippa put the keys in her pocket and walked to my side. “Sure you can't skip it? Just this once?”

“We're going on sort of a field trip, to the inn. Madelyn just finished remodeling the garage into a huge quilting classroom, and we're all going over for a tour. Everybody will be waiting for me.”

Philippa gave Paul a quick glance and nodded her head. “Well, all right. I kind of wish I could tag along. I can't get the blocks on my baby quilt to come out the same size. Maybe I need some private tutoring from Virginia. But a burger is pretty tempting too. I'm starving.”

Philippa had gained a little weight since coming to New Bern. Maybe the stress of running a big church was making her eat more, or maybe she was one of those people who always put on a few pounds in the winter. Abigail swears she gains six pounds every winter, but you can't tell by looking at her. She always looks skinny to me.

Paul, who couldn't quite hear us over the noise of the engine, shouted, “What about later? After your quilt circle? I don't mind eating late.”

“No, no. You two go on without me. Maybe another time.”

Philippa looked at Paul and shouted, “I've got to run home and take Clementine out. Can I meet you at the restaurant?”

“See you there,” Paul said. “Margot? Can I give you a lift to the inn? It's not that far out of my way.”

“That's all right. I brought my car.”

We said our good-byes. Paul pulled away. As he did, I had a sudden impulse to run after him, tell him I'd changed my mind. I didn't, of course. I couldn't. Everybody was waiting for me.

I unlocked my car. Paul's blue Mustang paused at the intersection, made a right turn, and disappeared around the corner. Darn it.

I
t was starting to drizzle when I pulled up in front of the Beecher Cottage Inn. The hand-painted sign next to the brick walkway said N
O
V
ACANCY
and every light in the place was on, making the stately Victorian look warm and welcoming in spite of the rain.

I wiped my feet on the mat before stepping into the inn's bright, elegant foyer. It was hard to believe this was the same dreary space that I'd seen on my first visit to Beecher Cottage. Madelyn had transformed the run-down ruin, and she'd done it on a shoestring budget. For instance, she'd spent hours sanding the ornately carved staircase and replaced the dark mahogany stain with a rich cherry color. And, after stripping off rolls and rolls of truly awful paper, she painted the walls a warm ivory and hung a collection of elegant framed floral pictures from the floor to the ceiling. They looked like something you'd find in a very expensive interior design store, but the “pictures” were really just pieces of wallpaper samples. The frames, painted with an antique silver color on the outer edges and a thin strip of ebony on the beveled interior edges, had been salvaged from the attic of the house. In terms of sweat equity, those pictures were priceless, but in terms of dollars and cents, they were practically free.

I walked from the front door toward the back of the house, peeping first into the living room with its eclectic mix of antique and modern pieces, including the dollhouse Madelyn had played with when she was a little girl, and the wall hanging she'd stitched and hung only recently, an abstract, paper-pieced creation with hundreds of brilliant, jewel-toned patches of fabric in various shapes and sizes outlined with thin black fabric leading that remind me of cathedral windows. In the dining room I spied the huge table Madelyn refinished herself, and more silver-framed florals, but no people.

“Is anybody home?”

“In here!”

Tessa was in the kitchen placing slices of cake on china plates. “You're just in time to give me a hand.”

“Where is everybody? The place is lit up like a Christmas tree, but I don't see any guests.”

“Madelyn didn't take any bookings this week. Made it easier for the construction crew to finish up. She's out in the addition, giving everybody the grand tour. Can you get a couple of tea trays out of the cupboard? I've got frosting on my hands. Over there,” she said, pointing with the cake knife toward one of the lower cabinets.

Before she started making herbal bath amenities for boutique hotels, Tessa worked for Madelyn at the inn, so she knows where everything is.

I pulled out two trays and carried them to the counter. “Do we need anything else? Teacups? Wineglasses?”

“Nope. We're good,” she said, continuing to slice the cake. “So, how're things? How is Olivia? Any good news on the custody front?”

“More of the same. My parents and I aren't speaking except through lawyers. But Olivia is getting better every day. Her ribs are healed and the head injuries don't seem to have done any damage to her brain. She's even starting to read a little bit. At least, that's what the nurses tell me. She's still not speaking to me.”

Tessa made a sympathetic clucking sound with her tongue and wiped a glob of frosting off the knife with a paper towel before cutting the next slice. “What about your parents? Does she talk to them?”

“Nope. She's mad at the whole family. She's so stubborn! Mari was just the same. She and Dad could go ten rounds and still come back for more. But now that I'm working with all these junior high kids, I'm starting to think my sister wasn't much worse than most teenagers. It's the age. I'm sure I was the same way ….”

Tessa grinned. “Bet you weren't. I bet you never put a foot wrong when you were a kid. Admit it, Margot, you were the good girl in the family, a little angel.”

“I was not!” Tessa rolled her eyes. “I wasn't! I did plenty of bad things.”

Tessa wiped a final glob of frosting off the knife with her thumb and forefinger. “Like what?” she asked before sticking her fingers in her mouth.

“Well … when no one was looking, I used to slip my green beans under the table and feed them to the dog. And one time, I stole a pack of erasers from the drugstore.”

“What did your parents say about that?”

“Nothing. As soon as I left the store I felt guilty, so I went back inside and told the clerk what I'd done.”

“That was it?” Tessa deadpanned. “That was your big foray into a life of crime?”

“Stop it!” I laughed. “Okay, so I didn't do all kinds of terrible things when I was a kid. That doesn't make me an angel. I just didn't like upsetting my parents, that's all. It was easier just to do what they wanted than not.”

Tessa carried the dirty knife to the sink and rinsed it off. “I was kind of a goody-two-shoes too. That's why Madelyn and I became such good friends. When we were kids, Madelyn did whatever she wanted, didn't give a hoot what anyone else thought.

“Come to think of it,” Tessa said, “she still does that. And I still like her for it. Madelyn is much braver than I am. And stubborn? Oh, gosh, she can be stubborn! Kind of sounds like your niece. But the flip side of stubbornness is determination.”

Tessa put the knife away in a drawer and then turned around. “Look at this,” she said, spreading her hands to encompass the beautiful kitchen. “Do you remember what a wreck this place was when Madelyn moved in? A less determined woman … a less stubborn woman would have given up before she even started. Not Madelyn. There are worse things than being stubborn.”

“I know. But my parents …” I sighed. “Everything is black and white with them. That's not all bad. I always knew where I stood with them, but what worked for me didn't work for Mari. We were so different. And Dad just couldn't acknowledge the other side of Mari's coin. If he could have just focused on her good qualities a bit more, he might have been able to help her bring them out. Because, you know, she really did care what he thought. No matter how much she pretended she didn't. She just wanted to be loved.”

Tessa bobbed her head slowly, letting me talk. I guess she knew I needed to.

“I'm not saying it was all my parents' fault. If Mari hadn't gotten into drugs, I think everything would have turned out so differently.

“I finished cleaning the junk out of my spare room and turning it into a bedroom for Olivia a couple of weeks ago. I painted the walls a soft lilac color and added these decals that look like clouds because I thought it would look sweet with a white bedroom set. But I'm starting to wonder if she's ever going to sleep there. What if I go through all this, jump through all these hoops, alienate my parents and Olivia, and it all turns out to be for nothing? What if I end up all alone and with a family that hates me?”

I put the last three plates on the tray. “Don't listen to me. I'm just tired. It's been a long week—make that a long winter.”

Tessa squeezed my arm. “You know, there's a couple of bottles of prosecco out in the studio. Madelyn says it's the perfect accompaniment to chocolate orange cake. And, I believe, a great cure for custody battle fatigue. What say we go find some?”

 

The transformation of Madelyn's carriage house into a state-of-the-art “stitching studio” was amazing.

A glassed-in walkway led from the back door of the kitchen to the studio. Two additional guest rooms with private baths were housed on the upper floor. The studio itself was on the main floor. It was a cheerful space with yellow painted walls, white woodwork, large windows that looked onto an herb garden, and lots and lots of bright lighting in the ceiling that made it easy to quilt even at night. There was a large stone fireplace on the back wall surrounded by a cozy collection of sofas and armchairs, a comfy spot to take a break from sewing. A wet bar stood on one side of the fireplace, a perfect place for Madelyn to serve tea or snacks to her guests. Walls on the opposite ends of the room were lined with low cabinets where supplies and extra sewing machines were stored, very convenient for guests who might be traveling long distances and couldn't bring their own. And all those cabinets were topped with thick padding and heavy-duty muslin and lined with wall plugs to create a roomy and convenient ironing station where as many as a half dozen people could work without bumping into each other. The sliding doors of a double closet in the corner were also padded but were covered with white flannel instead of muslin, creating a generously sized design wall where quilters could arrange and rearrange their blocks before settling on a final stitching plan.

“What are those?” Ivy asked, pointing to one of several black plastic rectangles in the wood floor.

“Covers for electrical outlets.” Madelyn bent over and flipped up one of the covers, revealing two electrical plugs. “That way, however we arrange the tables, everyone can have their own outlet. I don't want to have a bunch of extension cords snaking around the floor and tripping people.”

“You've thought of everything, haven't you? Right down to the chairs!” Virginia sat down in one of the ergonomically designed black sewing chairs that stood in front of every sewing station and shook her head with wonder. “I've been on a lot of quilting retreats over the years and, most of the time, the experience was a whole lot like camping, right down to the bunk beds and mosquitoes. Once, my guild rented a fishing cabin up in Door County for our retreat, and we blew out the electricity in less than an hour. Spent the whole rest of the weekend hand-stitching by candlelight and kerosene.” She chuckled. “Of course, we still had a good time—a bad day of quilting is still better than a good day doing just about anything else—but this! This is a regular quilting palace!”

Madelyn smiled, pleased by the compliment, and topped off Virginia's glass with some sparkling cider—Virginia is a teetotaler.

Abigail, who was looking very tan and fit after spending the winter in Bermuda, said, “I couldn't understand why you wouldn't let
my
architect take on this project. That man is a genius. But I'll be the first to admit that it turned out well.”

“I didn't use Guillaume because I couldn't afford to, Abbie. This whole thing was already enough of a gamble. But I think it was a gamble worth taking.” Madelyn lifted her glass. “Ladies, a toast: to one hundred percent occupancy!”

When our glasses were empty, Madelyn said, “I think we should do a little beta testing. Let's plug in the machines and get to work. There are notepads on every table. If you think of anything in the way of improvements, jot it down. I want to make sure everything is perfect before my first group arrives so, tonight, you're all my guinea pigs.”

“I'm game,” Evelyn said and started unpacking her project bag.

“Wait a minute,” Tessa said. “I want to propose something—a group project. Twelve-inch blocks, any pattern or technique you like, with white on white backgrounds and lilac as the principal color. If everyone makes at least two blocks and a couple sign up to sew three, we'll have enough for a quilt for Olivia's new bedroom. I'm willing to make three blocks. Anyone else?”

“I'm in,” Ivy said.

“Yes, me as well,” Abigail added.

“I can do three blocks and take care of the borders,” Evelyn offered.

“I'll do the quilting,” Virginia said.

Madelyn raised her hand. “I'll make brownies to keep up everybody's strength. That's what I do best.
And,
” she said with a dramatic pause, “I'll stitch the binding.”

Tessa beamed. “Ha! See? I knew it! It was just a matter of time before you'd start stitching with the rest of us!”

“Well, I wouldn't get excited just yet,” Madelyn countered. “It's possible I'll stink at this. But …” She shrugged. “I figured I'd give it a try. It's just the binding, right? If I mess it up, somebody else can fix it.”

“You won't mess it up,” Tessa said. “You'll do fine.”

My eyes started to tear up. I hate being so emotional, but sometimes I just can't help it. “You shouldn't go to all that trouble. Not when I don't know … I mean, what if the judge sides with my parents? What if Olivia never—”

“Shh!” Tessa walked over and clapped her hand right over my mouth. “No more of that. Olivia is going to get out of the hospital and come home to her lilac cloud bedroom. Everything will work out. The quilt is just a pledge of good faith, a down payment on all the good things that are coming for both of you. Got it?” She raised her eyebrows into a questioning arc. I nodded and she removed her hand so I could speak.

“Got it.”

 

Tessa was right—a piece of cake, a glass of bubbly—just one—and a couple of hours of quilting with my friends did a lot to lift my spirits. I felt better than I had in days and was looking forward to going home and getting a good night's sleep. But instead of taking the most direct route home, I ended up driving downtown, passing slowly in front of the Blue Bean Café. Paul's car was still parked in front.

It was dark and raining pretty hard by then, too hard to be able to see inside the restaurant. Not without parking my car, walking right up to the restaurant window, and peering inside.

What a ridiculous idea. Why would I even think of something like that?