A Thread of Truth (6 page)

A
bigail was indignant.

“No? We're kind enough to invite her to join our quilt circle and she just says no? After all we've done for her! Especially you, Evelyn. Where would she be if you hadn't given her a job?” She answered her own question. “In the unemployment line, that's where! I've never heard of such ingratitude!”

She practically stabbed the needle through the quilt top and batting she was basting together. Looking at her, I decided it was a good thing Ivy had left as quickly as she did. If not, Abigail just might have turned that basting needle into a lethal weapon.

We were in the workroom, Abigail, Liza, Margot, and myself, going on with our usual circle meeting like we normally did, but the evening's previously festive atmosphere had definitely faded.

Margot was working on a quilted tote bag she planned to give her sister for Christmas. Liza was supposed to be sewing a bunch of shells with holes she'd drilled herself onto the back of a jacket, but mostly she seemed to be drinking wine. And I sat at my sewing machine with my head down, using my seam ripper to remove the stitches from a seam I'd accidentally sewn wrong sides together, the sort of beginner's mistake I hadn't made in years.

“Abigail, calm down. It's not like joining the quilt circle is a condition of employment around here. Ivy must have her reasons for not wanting to be part of the group,” I said evenly, though for the life of me, I couldn't think what those reasons could be.

I was so sure that Ivy would be happy, even excited, at the prospect of being included in our circle. If not for the quilting, at least for the chance to have an adult evening out now and then. It never crossed my mind that she'd refuse the invitation. I couldn't help but feel a little hurt by Ivy's reaction.

“Well”—Liza shrugged and took another sip from one of the coffee cups we used in lieu of wineglasses—“it isn't like she was rude about it, Abigail. She just said she'd rather not, that's all. You're just mad because someone isn't doing what you want them to do. That always ticks you off.”

Abigail glared at her niece. “That's simply not so. I don't know why you always think the worst of me, Liza.”

“Then why are you so upset? Why should you care if Ivy joins the quilt circle or not? You don't even like her. Admit it, you're just mad because Ivy isn't doing what you want her to do. You're not happy unless everyone is dancing to your tune.”

Oh great,
I thought.
Here they go again.

The last thing I was in the mood for was to listen to Liza and Abigail's bickering. They were each other's only living relatives, thrust unwillingly together when the court had briefly made Abigail responsible for her niece after Liza had experienced a minor run-in with the law. Their relationship was often rocky but they truly did love each other, though Liza knew exactly how to push her aunt's buttons and never tired of doing so.

I never understood why Abigail, so intelligent about so many things, couldn't see that Liza was setting her up, striking the match of her aunt's temper and then laughing at the ensuing shower of sparks.

“Margot, what did you put in that pound cake? It's fabulous. I'm going to have another piece. Abigail, can I get you some more cake?”

It was a weak attempt at a diversion, especially since Abigail hadn't had any cake to begin with, but I was tired; it was the best I could come up with on short notice.

“That's not true,” Abigail said airily, ignoring my question. “It makes not the slightest bit of difference to me if Ivy joins us or not. I do think it was rude of her to refuse, but it's no skin off my nose that she did. I'm perfectly happy for things to stay as they are. I wasn't all that sold on adding someone new to the group anyway. I've got other things on my mind besides Ivy Peterman, I can assure you.”

A hint of a smile bowed Liza's lips. “Such as?”

“Such as,” Abigail answered haughtily, “my upcoming presentation to the zoning board on the subject of turning my house into transitional apartments for families in crisis.”

“What?”

I dropped the piece of cake I'd been serving, missing the plate entirely and scattering crumbs across the floor. Margot sat wide-eyed at the sewing machine, hands in her lap but so shocked she'd forgotten to take her foot off the pedal. The mechanical whirr of the machine underscored our expressions of disbelief.

“You're selling your house?”

“But why?”

“You can't be serious,” Liza declared. “This has to be some kind of joke.”

This time it was Abigail's turn to smile. Clearly she was enjoying being the one to set Liza off balance instead of the other way around.

“It's no joke,” she answered. “I'm quite serious. But, I'm not selling the house; I'm donating it. The Stanton Center is desperate to find a larger facility.”

“So you just thought to yourself, ‘Hey! I've got an idea. Why not give them the house?'”

“The Stanton Center needs a large building. I do not. At my age, do I really need to live in a house with eight bedrooms, six baths, and a ballroom? No. If the Stanton Center needs the space and I don't, why not give it to them?”

“You're very generous, Abigail,” Margot said diplomatically. “But wouldn't it make more sense for Stanton to buy an empty lot and build from scratch? It won't be cheap to convert your antique home into modern apartments. I'm sure you'd have to make all kinds of changes to the plumbing and such. Not to mention the remodeling you'd have to do for it to meet fire codes and handicapped accessibility requirements. It could run into hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“Oh no,” Abigail said assuredly. “It will run into millions. I've already looked into it. But, there are simply no available lots that are large enough or close enough to town. The new center must be close to bus lines, schools, and the downtown area.”

Abigail squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “These women are facing enough problems trying to move beyond the legacy of domestic violence without our community making it even more difficult for them to obtain decent housing, and the access to transportation and good schools for their children that they need in order to become productive members of the workforce while raising their children to be responsible citizens. This is an issue that concerns our entire community and it will take the efforts of our entire community to meet and conquer this challenge!”

“Let me guess,” Liza said sarcastically. “You're running for Congress. Either that or this is the speech you're planning on making to the zoning board.”

“It is. And I'm sure, once they hear my arguments, the board will see things my way.”

“Abigail, are you crazy? The neighbors are never going to go for this. The Hudsons? Dale Barrows and the rest of them? Do you really think they'll stand aside and let you put an apartment building on Proctor Street? Where did you ever get such a ridiculous idea?”

“From Ivy. I was driving her home a couple of days ago; her car had broken down again. And I was telling her about the problem we were having trying to find a place large enough for the new building, and she said it would be nice if one of the big houses on Proctor Street were for sale. I think she was just making a joke, but as soon as she mentioned that, I could see she was right.”

Liza made a noise with her lips, a sputter like a whinnying horse. “You're insane. Really, this is about the dumbest scheme you've ever come up with.”

I loved Liza, but there were moments when I could happily have slapped her. This was one of them. But I wasn't her mother and it wasn't my place—it was Abigail's, but she didn't see that. She was too busy sitting in her chair and feeling stung by Liza's out-of-hand dismissal of what was a very well-intended, though less than well-considered, gesture.

Liza grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. “Hey, I'm gonna run. I want to see if I can find Garrett.” She kissed the wounded Abigail on top of her head and breezed thoughtlessly out the door.

There was no point in trying to pretend we were going to get any more quilting done that night.

We shut off the irons and sewing machines and ended the evening as we so often did, sitting around the table eating, drinking, and talking.

“Drink this.” I handed Abigail a cup filled with 2003 Pinot Gris. Abigail took the cup but didn't lift it to her lips. She was still upset.

“I don't understand. Before Liza came into my life, I was capable, erudite, respected. Even occasionally brilliant. Everyone liked me and I liked myself. But as far as Liza's concerned, no matter how good my intentions are, I'm completely inept. How did that happen?”

“You had a baby,” I said matter-of-factly. “Not literally, I know, but for all intents and purposes, you're Liza's mother now. Liza still has one foot in adolescence and, trust me, no matter what you do or don't do, an adolescent will find some way of making you feel stupid. It's a stage. She'll outgrow it, but it can take a while.”

Abigail finally took a sip of her wine. Actually, it was more like a gulp, as if she'd just realized that she really wanted a drink.

“Well, she makes me feel just awful. Why is that?”

“That,” I said as I handed Abigail a plate of cheese and grapes to go with her wine, “is maternal guilt. Unfortunately, it's a stage you'll never outgrow.”

Abigail groaned.

“Sorry. But I wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't tell you the truth.

“Abigail, tell me something. It really is incredibly generous of you to donate your home to the Stanton Center, but Liza does have a point. Do you think all your wealthy neighbors on Proctor Street, all those bank presidents and real estate moguls and movie producers, are really going to be excited about the idea of having a bunch of formerly homeless families living on their street?”

“Well, why not?” she said, sitting up straighter in her chair. “I'll be living there, too.”

Margot pulled her chair closer in and pulled a grape off the vine. “But I thought you said you were moving out of the house.”

“I am,” Abigail confirmed, “but that doesn't mean I'm moving away from Proctor Street. It's been my home for forty years.”

“How are you going to manage that? There aren't any other houses on Proctor for sale. There never are. People always pass those houses down through their families.”

Abigail nodded and swallowed her wine before answering. “That's right, just like the Wynnes did. My late husband, Woolley, was born there, as were his father and his father before him all the way back to the 1830s. Since Woolley and I never had children, I always planned on having the house sold and the proceeds donated to charity after my death. Nothing has changed. I'm just donating the house a little sooner than I'd planned on, that's all. I'm going to simplify my life.”

“But that still doesn't explain where you're planning on living,” Margot said.

“Right where I always have. Well, nearly. That's why I'm going before the zoning board. The first step is to subdivide the property. I'll donate the main house and the larger parcel of land to the Stanton Center, keep the smaller parcel, and move into the carriage house next door. It's smaller, but there are three good-sized bedrooms, a nice kitchen and dining room, a large living room, and lovely gardens. There's no office, but that's all right. I was considering adding on a solarium. And a walk-in closet. I won't have a pool anymore, but I suppose I could always have one put in,” she mused. “The ground is fairly flat. It wouldn't be that hard to do.”

I bit my lower lip, trying to keep from laughing at the manner in which Abigail Burgess Wynne, the sixth wealthiest woman in the state, went about ‘simplifying' her life.

“Abigail, isn't a carriage house a fancy word for a garage?”

Abigail pursed her lips and shifted in her chair. She knew where I was going with this. “In the old days, it was where people parked their carriages, so, yes, technically you could call it a garage, but ours was converted to a guesthouse years ago.”

I grinned. “So you're moving into the garage?”

Abigail took another sip of wine, peered at me over the rim of her cup and said stonily, “I suppose you could say that.”

“And your garage is what? Two thousand square feet?” I guessed.

“Actually,” she said imperiously, “it's closer to three.”

For some reason, this struck me as hilarious.

“You could fit three of my little cottages in there, Abigail! Can you imagine? My house could fit in your garage three times over. In your garage!”

Abigail frowned, not at all pleased to be the butt of the joke, which only made me laugh harder. Margot joined in, her musical giggle rippling through the air.

“Abigail,” she asked sweetly, “would you like to adopt me?”

“Absolutely not!” she growled. “I'm having enough trouble with the adopted child I already have, thank you very much!”

For some reason, fatigue and relief at the end of a long day, or the effects of the wine, or both, this comment sent us into fresh waves of hilarity. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and Margot laughed so hard she laid her head down on the table.

“Oh! You two are ridiculous! Fine. Go ahead and enjoy yourselves. Liza mocks me constantly. Why shouldn't everyone else?”

I gasped, trying to catch my breath and wiping the tears from my eyes. “I'm sorry, Abbie, but it just cracks me up that your garage is bigger than my whole house. And it's got a solarium!”

“Not yet.” Margot giggled. “But it will. And a pool. And walk-in closets. Wait! What about a garage?” She feigned a serious expression before collapsing with laughter. “Abigail, don't you need to add a garage to your garage?”

“But that's exactly my point! Why shouldn't I give the main house to those who really need it? The carriage house has everything I need.”