Weave of Absence (2 page)

“I wish I could have seen the look on your face. Were you surprised?”

“You bet I was. Any more surprised and I might have dropped dead from the shock,” she said, her hand still on her chest. “So this whole Della-hurt-her-ankle-and-needs-me-to-rearrange-the-display was a ruse?” she said.

Mercedes grinned. “It was my idea. Della couldn't think of any other way to get you here without making you suspect what was really going on.”

Marnie glanced at my shoes. “Considering the skyscrapers you wear, it sounded plausible.” I ignored the comment. Since I'd moved here, I'd held on to my city shoes. And from the way most of the townsfolk reacted to them, you would have thought I was the only woman who wore four-inch heels. “Although,” she continued, “I did think it was strange that you wanted that done on a Sunday night.”

“I worried you'd come in early and ruin the surprise.” I turned toward the man, smiling. “You must be Bruce.”

“I am. And you must be Della—so happy to meet you at last.” He looked around at the group of women. “I think I just crashed a hen party. Seeing as I'm the only rooster here, I think I'd better go.”

“Don't be silly. Why don't you stay and meet everyone? I'm sure all of Marnie's friends are dying to get to know you.” I threw Marnie a look. “She certainly kept you hidden long enough.”

He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled attractively. I could see why Marnie had fallen for the man. He was tall, a bit over six feet. And at one time in his life he must have been well built. Now he carried a few extra pounds around his waist. His hair was dark with a little gray at the temples. He had blue eyes, an easy smile, and perfect teeth—the kind that must have cost a fortune in orthodontia. He looked like he was in his early to mid-forties, which, if my guess was right, would make him about a decade younger than Marnie. All at once, Liz Carter's words came back to me: “He's so good-looking and she's so . . .” I flushed with shame, realizing the same thought had just flitted through my mind.
So what if he was younger? He wouldn't be the first man to marry an older woman.

“Oh, please don't go, sweetheart. I'd love you to stay,” Marnie insisted.

“If you're sure you don't mind,” he said, following us to the center of the room. Women
flocked over and introductions were made. When the crowd dispersed, I noticed Melinda Wilson across the room. She was staring intently at Marnie's fiancé, as if trying to catch his eye.
I must be imagining things,
I thought
.
But at that moment he happened to glance her way, and his gaze froze.

I watched her tilt her head imperceptibly, as if signaling him to come over. And then her eyes darted around the room nervously.

“I think I'll go grab myself a glass of wine,” Bruce said to Marnie. “Be right back.” But instead of heading for the bar, he went straight to the table where Melinda was standing. He picked up a napkin and took his time choosing a few nibbles. I watched as Melinda nodded curtly and looked away. Her mouth wasn't moving, but I had the strangest impression that she was speaking through her teeth. Bruce's back was to me, so I couldn't swear to it, but I had the impression he was too. It struck me that I was watching a covert conversation. All at once I became aware that Marnie, who was standing next to me, had grown quiet.

“Marnie, how about I get you something to drink?” I said quickly. “Does a tall glass of champagne sound like a good idea?”

“Like a mighty fine idea, if I do say so myself.” I led her toward the bar, praying she hadn't noticed the shenanigans going on just a few feet away.

I poured her champagne, and we clicked glasses. “Isn't my fiancé a handsome man?” she said,
gesturing toward Bruce. She was so in love, she could barely take her eyes off him.

“He certainly is.”

A group of women gathered around us, kissing Marnie and offering their best wishes. When everyone had a turn, Mercedes grabbed Marnie by the hand and dragged her toward the pile of gifts.

“You have to open your presents.”

“Are those all for me?”

“They sure are,” said the teenager. “Mom couldn't be here, but she bought you a present. It's from both of us. I hope you like it.” Mercedes's mother was a dot-com millionaire. I suspected that anything she would have bought would be outrageously expensive. I followed, keeping a discreet eye on Bruce and Melinda. They were still carrying on their secret conversation, unaware that a few pairs of eyes were beginning to stare at them with suspicion. One pair of those eyes belonged to Helen Dubois. Helen was a middle-aged local woman—in her late forties or early fifties—who had recently joined one of my weaving classes. She stood rigidly across the room, her eyes focused on Bruce with a peculiar intensity. The blood had drained from her face, leaving her so pale she might have seen a ghost. I made my way over to her.

“Helen? Are you all right?”

She nodded, still staring at Marnie's fiancé. “Yes, yes, I'm fine,” she said, sounding far from it.
She looked ill, wavering on her feet as if she might faint.

“Can I get you a glass of water, or maybe something to eat?”

She turned to me, as if suddenly noticing me for the first time. “What did you say his name is?”

“You mean Marnie's fiancé? His name is Bruce. Bruce Doherty. Why? Do you know him?”

She shook her head and then, snapping out of her trance, she said, “What I could really use right now is a drink.” She put up a hand, stopping me. “Don't bother. I can get it myself.” And she headed toward the bar.

I followed her until I noticed Liz Carter across the room. She was staring at Helen through narrowed eyes, not unlike the way Helen had been staring at Bruce. She put down her glass and, cutting through the crowd, made a beeline for Helen. She tapped her on the shoulder and pulled her aside. “Oh, Liz, I need to speak to you. Maybe I'm going crazy, but I think Bruce—” She suddenly noticed me standing a few feet away and froze.

“Sorry, ladies. Didn't mean to eavesdrop,” I said and crossed the room.

There was no reason to worry about Helen. As long as Liz was there to participate in the gossip, she would be fine.

Thank goodness
. Helen shouldn't be left alone. She looked unwell. Maybe Liz would turn out to be of some help after all. I turned my attention back to the party.

“Hey, Della,” Nancy Cutler said, coming over. Nancy was a bookkeeper who commuted to Charlotte daily for her work. “I think we're getting a bit low on the bubbly.” She brandished a half-empty bottle. “This is the last one.”

I'd left a number of bottles upstairs in my apartment refrigerator to chill, and had completely forgotten to bring them down. “I've got more at home,” I said. “I'll be right back.”

“Need any help?”

“No, thanks. I can manage.”

My apartment was above the store, so a few seconds later I was already halfway up the stairs. The main reason I'd bought this building last summer was that not only did it have great commercial space, but it also had two rental units on the second floor. I'd kept the larger one, a two-bedroom, for myself and was renting the second one, a smaller, one-bedroom apartment. Convenience and added income. What more could a penny-pinching entrepreneur ask for?

I unlocked the door and dashed down the hall to my old-fashioned kitchen—complete with a farmhouse sink, black Formica counters trimmed in nickel, and antique glass-door cabinets that reached to the ceiling. This kitchen was the second reason I'd bought the place. I'd fallen in love with it the moment I'd laid eyes on it.

I pulled half a dozen bottles of wine from the fridge and rushed back downstairs, almost colliding with Nancy Cutler as she dashed out the door.

“Sorry,” she blurted. I held on to the bottles.

“Nancy? What's wrong? Why are you leaving?” But she was already halfway down the sidewalk, moving at speed-walking pace. “Nancy?”

She either ignored me or didn't hear me as she hopped into her car and drove off with a squeal of tires—as if she couldn't get away fast enough.
What the heck was that all about?
I stepped back into the party and looked around. Melinda had wandered away from Bruce—
thank goodness
—but now Helen Dubois had taken her place. However, there was definitely no secret flirtation going on between her and Bruce. She was stabbing him in the chest with her finger, her face tight with anger. He was backing away from her, making placating gestures, all the while glancing around nervously.

What was that all about? I set the bottles on the counter and called, “Jenny, can you take care of the wine for me?” I rushed over to Helen and rested a hand on her arm.

“Helen, what happened to your glass of wine? Let me get you a fresh one.” Without waiting for her to agree, I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and guided her gently toward the bar. When I glanced back, Bruce was adjusting his tie, relief painted all over his face. A moment later he was standing next to Marnie, a protective arm around her. Strangely, I had the impression the arm he had thrown around her shoulder was more for his protection than hers. Still, it was about time the man paid some attention to his fiancée.

“What in the world were you two arguing about?” I whispered.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to create a scene. It's just that—”

Suddenly, Liz Carter appeared next to her. “There you are,” she said, interrupting Helen. “One minute you're telling me about the exhibit you're organizing, and the next thing I know you're gone. Tell me more about your plans. Maybe I can help. I'm good at that sort of thing.”

The two women walked away, Helen having completely forgotten my question. Or had she? It might have been my imagination, but when Liz cut short our conversation, Helen had seemed to welcome the interruption.

“Good party,” said a voice next to me. I turned to see Margaret Fowler, my upstairs neighbor and tenant. She was a pretty brunette in her early twenties. An avid weaver, she had hit it off with Marnie and me from the moment we all met. “I wanted to get here at seven thirty, but I had to drive to Charlotte and back. I only got here a few minutes ago.” She looked apologetic.

“Don't worry—you didn't miss a thing.”

“Was Marnie totally shocked?”

“I'll say. I was worried she might suspect something, but obviously not. She looked as if she was about to have a heart attack.”

“Too much of a surprise, by the sound of it.” She chuckled and looked around. “Everybody seems to
be having a good time, especially Marnie. Look at her. I don't think I've ever seen her look so happy.”

“She does look happy, doesn't she?” Marnie was holding up cookie sheets—probably part of Jenny's gift—and she was glowing with happiness.

“Oh, that's my present,” Margaret said, as Marnie picked up another silver-wrapped gift. She excused herself and as she darted over, Jenny appeared at my elbow.

“Can you feel it?” she asked, two deep lines between her brows.

“Feel what?” I asked, confused.

For as long as I'd known her, Jenny had claimed to have an ability to read auras and sense danger. I'd always dismissed her “feelings” as nothing more than a vivid imagination mixed with a better than average ability to read people.

She scanned the room, glowering. “Something bad is about to happen. I can feel it in my bones.”

T
he next morning I woke up with a massive headache. I couldn't blame it on the wine, since I'd had only two glasses all night, and both of them were diluted with soda water. On the other hand, I'd gone to bed late and spent most of the night worrying about Marnie. I threw back the covers and stumbled to the kitchen to make myself a strong cup of java. As I rummaged through the cupboard, I happened to glance at the clock.
Five o'clock?
I pulled up the shade. Sure enough, it was still dark outside. Well, there was no point in climbing back into bed. If I hadn't slept all night, I sure as hell wouldn't fall asleep now. Once I was up, I was up.

I made a pot of strong coffee, and while it brewed, I changed into a pair of black pants and high heels. It was April, still a bit early for linen, but I figured
what the heck?
and threw on the cream-colored shirt I'd made from some of my own handwoven yard goods. Every time I wore it, I got loads of compliments. And when I told people that the
fabric had been made right here in my shop, the explanation invariably created more interest in my weaving classes and in my merchandise.

I carried a cup of coffee down to the shop and looked around. The nickel-plated antique cash register was back in its place on the long wood counter facing the entrance. On the tea table a few feet away, a collection of place mats was prominently displayed. On a rocking chair were half a dozen throws, beautifully arranged in a rainbow of colors. Next to it, in a large basket on the floor, were a number of rolled-up woven rugs. Everything was in its place. The party room had disappeared and my beloved weaving shop had returned. I'd been so tired when I locked up last night that I hadn't fully appreciated how much help Jenny and Margaret had been. They had stayed after the party, and with the three of us, the cleanup had barely taken an hour. On my own, it would have taken me half the night. Thank goodness for friends.

When my real estate agent had first showed me this building, the square footage of the store had seemed huge. It was, in fact, twice the size I needed for my tiny business. When I mentioned to Jenny that I could never fill that space, she had come up with a great idea. She'd offered to rent a portion of the space and open her own shop alongside mine. I'd loved her suggestion so much that I'd gone right out and made an offer on the building. Two months later I'd moved in.

After studying the room, we'd decided to divide the two businesses with two walls of shelves, separated by an opening that would provide a doorway into the back portion, Jenny's shop. These bookcases would give us both extra storage. I could use mine for yarns and weaving paraphernalia, and she would stock all of her special blends of teas and coffees in hers.

The beaded curtain in the doorway had been a gift from Marnie, as was the antique penny arcade gypsy woman in the corner of the coffee shop. It was old, from the twenties or thirties, and added a touch of mysticism to the atmosphere, which was perfect since, along with her coffee and teas, Jenny also offered tea-leaf and tarot readings, hence the name of her shop, Coffee, Tea and Destiny. I'd since grown accustomed to the sound of the beads chiming as they brushed against one another.

I took a last gulp of coffee and marched over to my dobby loom. My latest project was an entire collection of white household linens with a fine navy chevron border, which I had persuaded a few of my weaving friends and students to help make as a surprise for Marnie. With half a dozen of us collaborating on the project, it was only a matter of weeks before the entire trousseau would be finished. I was still on the first piece, a dishcloth. I bent over the loom and studied the weave. It was tight and uniform. Perfect.

I picked up my shuttle and loaded it with a new
bobbin of navy yarn. Soon I was lost in the pleasure of weaving. There was something soothing about weaving—the rhythmic movement of my hands as I tossed the shuttle through the shed from one to the other, the walking of my feet on the pedals. To me, it was a form of meditation. Whenever something bothered me I sat at my loom and wove, and somehow all my stress seemed to evaporate. This morning, it almost made me forget my worries about Marnie's fiancé—almost, but not quite. Now that I had met him, I was certain Marnie had avoided introducing him because she worried I wouldn't like him. And judging from my first impression of him, she'd been right.

The next time I looked up was when the front door opened, throwing the bell above the door into a frenzy of excitement.

“What are you doing here so early?” I said as Jenny came in. She was wearing a long lacy tunic over a pair of leggings, and silver earrings in the shape of spiderwebs. When I'd first met her, I'd been envious of her great figure and sexy bohemian style. Much as I was trying to adopt a more casual style myself, it was still a struggle to stop wearing business suits. All that proved was that you could take the girl out of the city, but you couldn't take the city out of the girl. “You look amazing,” I added.

She waved away my compliment. “The question should be, why are
you
already here? Another sleepless night?”

I put the shuttle down and got up to stretch my back. “You got it.”

She glanced at her watch. “Oh, rats. It's already ten past eight. I'd better go put the coffee on. Be right back,” she said and hurried to her area.

“I'll just run out for a second,” I called after her. “Keep an eye on my shop, will you?” I pulled on a sweater and walked briskly down the street for a copy of the
Belmont Daily
. Picking up a copy of the paper to read over a cup of Jenny's coffee was part of my morning routine. There was something reassuring about this mundane habit, as if this regular morning activity helped assure me of a good day. I folded the paper under my arm and went back to the shop.

“It's only me,” I called out, closing the door behind me.

“Coffee will be ready in a couple of minutes,” Jenny yelled back, followed by a burst of noise from the grinder.

I walked over to the beaded curtain that separated our stores and brushed it aside. “Any chance the good doctor might come around? He could just feed me the caffeine intravenously.”

Her face glowed, the way it always did at the mention of her boyfriend. “Sorry. He's at the hospital. You'll have to take it the old-fashioned way.”

Shortly after her ex-husband's death last summer, Jenny had met Ed Green, a doctor from nearby Belmont. They had been inseparable ever since.

Why couldn't Marnie have met a nice man like him? “It's not like I'm fussy,” she'd once told me. “I'll be happy as long as the man has a pulse.” No wonder she had fallen so hard for this character. He had not only a pulse but good looks to boot.

The aroma of freshly brewing coffee drifted out from the back. A moment later, Jenny popped her head through the curtain.

“Here you go,” she said, carrying a small basket of pastries and two mugs. She set everything on the counter. “I'm beginning to worry about Margaret,” she said, looking at her watch. “She should've been here by now. By the way, the muffins are from Saturday, so they're not the freshest.”

“I'm sure they're fine.” I looked at the selection. “What kind have you got here?”

“Cranberry-orange and carrot-raisin.”

I picked one. “What do you think of Bruce Doherty?” I asked.

But before she could answer, the door swung open and Marnie came in, carrying half a dozen boxes of freshly baked goods and effectively putting an end to that conversation
.
She set them on the counter.

“You look happy this morning,” Jenny said, catching my eye with a meaningful gaze. She wanted me to keep my mouth shut. “How did you like the party?”

“I don't know how to thank you girls. Bruce was so touched by the way my friends all made him feel so welcome.”

Especially Melinda,
I thought.

“Don't thank me,” Jenny said. “It was all Della's doing.”

“It was my pleasure,” I said.

Jenny lifted the flaps of the top box. “Fresh scones!” she said. “I could kiss you.”

Marnie grinned. “I had such a good time last night, I couldn't get to sleep. So I spent the night baking.”

“What about Bruce? He doesn't mind you getting up in the middle of the night and leaving him alone in bed?” Jenny asked.

Marnie did a double take. “What in the world are you talking about? Bruce doesn't spend nights at my place—not until we're married.” She smiled secretly. “He respects me too much for that.”

This struck me as more than just a little bit odd. Two mature people who were already engaged did not—at least did not usually—hold off on spending nights together. And I especially did not buy Bruce's being okay with that, unless . . . I wondered what he was doing with his nights, and with whom he might be doing it.

I glanced at Jenny and found her looking at me, her brows raised quizzically. She gave me a slight nod, which told me that she was asking herself the same questions.

Marnie picked up a couple of the boxes. “I'll drop these off in the back and be right back. I have something to show you. Wait till you see!” Jenny picked up the other boxes and followed. A
moment later Marnie was back, carrying one of the boxes.

“I should have told Jenny to leave this one here. This is what I want to show you.”

The front door opened and a couple of women walked in, nodding their hellos on their way to the coffee shop.

“Morning, Della. Morning, Marnie.”

“Good morning, ladies.”

Marnie waited until they disappeared behind the beaded curtain and then she opened the box. “Take a look at this.” She lifted out a parcel wrapped in dark blue onionskin paper. She pulled the paper back, and I was looking at a neatly folded piece of striped fabric. She spread it out, revealing a blue square stitched to one corner. Inside the square was a patchwork of stars in a circle.

“What do you think?” she asked.

It looked like an early version of the American flag. I ran my hands over it, smoothing the wrinkles along the way. The fabric was rough and full of slubs—linen, most certainly homespun, and old, very old. The white had yellowed with age, the red had faded to pink. But the most important detail, I noticed, was the number of stars that had been hand-appliqued on the blue square. There were only thirteen.

“How old is this?” I asked.

“I did a Google search, and found out that this particular flag is what's called the Betsy Ross design. It was adopted in 1777, and remained the
official flag until 1894. But because communication was slow in those days, some parts of the country continued to make them for some time after, so it could be from as late as the early 1900s.”

I snatched my hands away, realizing that this piece of history could be worth a fortune. “Have you had it evaluated?”

“I have no idea how much it could be worth. I remember my grandmother telling me about it when I was a child. She got it from her mother, who got it from her mother. I got it from her when she died. I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. I came across it just a few days ago, when I was going through my stuff to figure out what I would sell and what I would keep when Bruce and I get married.”

I leaned in to examine one corner where the fabric seemed to be unraveling. “This could be worth tens of thousands of dollars,” I said, awed. “You'd better get an expert to look at it as soon as possible.”

“That's what Bruce said when I showed it to him. He wanted to take it into Charlotte right away and get the curator at the Charlotte Museum of Art to take a look at it. But I wanted to show it to you first.”

“Put it back in the box and keep it somewhere safe. You shouldn't even let anybody touch it until it's evaluated.”

The bell above the door tinkled. I turned around to see Matthew strolling in with Winston, his
French bulldog. My heart leapt and I just knew I was grinning like a fool. I turned my smile down a few degrees.

“Hi, Matthew,” Marnie said.

Matthew was tall, nearly six feet, which meant that when I stood next to him in my high heels, I
almost
reached his shoulder. His hair was dark, and his eyes could change color—from a light golden brown when he was in a good mood, to almost black when he was furious. I'd seen them both ways, but lately they were more often the former. I dared to hope that meant the friendship he felt for me might be growing into something more. He walked over to the counter.

“I have to go into Charlotte today,” he said. “So, if you don't mind, could you keep Winston until dinnertime?”

“As if you need to ask,” I said.

Winnie padded over and dropped his butt to the floor, staring at me. He had a flat, wrinkled face on a squat, muscular body. His large soulful eyes softened his otherwise ferocious mug into that of an adorable teddy bear.

From the day I'd opened my store, Matthew had been dropping him off each morning. It was an arrangement that made everyone happy. Matthew needed peace and quiet while he wrote, whereas poor Winnie was miserable without attention all day. And truth be told, I liked having him around. What I liked best about it was that once Matthew had finished his daily word count,
he'd come by and pick him up. So I got to see him twice a day. And once in a while, I'd get an invitation to dinner out of it. What this girl wouldn't do for a date.

“How's your book coming along?” Marnie asked. “This is your second one, right?”

“It's going well. I just hope I finish it on time.” A year ago, a publishing house had accepted Matthew's proposal for a book on criminology. He'd quit his teaching job at UNCC, moved back to Briar Hollow, and settled down to write. He'd finished his first book and was now hard at work on a second one. “I never realized how stressful these deadlines can be.”

“Tell you what,” I said. “You can just leave Winnie with me until you're finished.” I ruffled the fur on Winston's head. “You love spending time with me, don't you, big boy?”