Madelyn nodded and let it lie. “Until then, I have a little project that might interest you.” She walked across the room to the coat-rack, picked up a Cobbled Court Quilts shopping bag from the floor, and carried it to the table.
“Actually,” she said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I'm hoping this will interest a couple of you. Remember Angela? She came to stay with me when the inn first opened?”
“The basketball player's wife?” Virginia clucked her tongue. “Poor thing. Somebody ought to take some dull scissors and do surgery on that husband of hers.” No one disagreed.
“Her baby is due soon,” Madelyn said, “and I was wondering if I might talk some of you into making a baby quilt for her.”
She pulled a pile of fabric out of the bag, a collection of green, cream, blue, and yellow cottons patterned with stripes, stars, checks, and polka dots that complemented the anchor fabric, featuring a picnic of smiling, pajama-clad teddy bears flying kites on a background of sea-glass green. I was sure that these fabrics weren't part of a manufacturer's collection, but they went together perfectly, in a combination more interesting than any planned collection could ever have been.
How was she able to do that? I'd tried to pull off that bold, scrappy look when buying fabric for my most recent project, spending over an hour pulling bolts and piling them on the table only to chicken out at the last moment and replace the scrappy patterns with a yawn-inducing collection of safe solids. Maybe I should have asked Madelyn to choose my fabrics. She could play Howard to my Mary Dell.
The moment Madelyn spread out her fabrics, everyone abandoned their sewing and gathered round. The sight of a new fabric attracts quilters as surely as a magnet attracts steel.
“Oh, that teddy bear fabric is so sweet!” Margot exclaimed. “Is it new?”
Evelyn nodded. “Just came in on Monday. But I didn't know we'd sold any yet.”
“Madelyn bought it while you were at lunch with Charlie,” Virginia replied. “I was sort of hoping she'd decided to start quilting after all. But this is the next best thing. Who wants to help?”
Margot ran her hand over the yardage and said, “I love making baby quilts.”
Poor Margot. She was bright, beautiful, cheerful, and, nearing her fortieth birthday, single. She loves children and wants a family of her own, but there seems to be no sign of a husband or babies on her horizon. I remembered what that felt like to want a baby so badly but be afraid you'd never have one of your own.
The wistful tone in Margot's voice pulled me up short. My mom always used to say, “Enjoy the little things in life, Tessa. One day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” I was so lucky to have Josh. And Lee. And friends.
“I'll help with Angela's quilt,” I said.
“Me too,” Margot said in a deliberately cheerful voice.
The others echoed her and, in less time than it takes to unsew a seam, were chattering about the fabric, sketching out patterns, and having a wonderful time. Even me. I told Madelyn that I'd come to the quilt shop to quilt, eat, and forget my problems, and that's exactly what happened.
Sometimes, if you're lucky, you realize that the little things are really the big things. Or, as Lee might say, “Broke I may be. Poor I am not.”
42
Madelyn
March
Â
I
t was March 20, the first day of spring. I wonder if Tessa realized that when she chose that date to close For the Love of Lavender? There was a certain irony, even poetry, to closing a shop devoted to all things herbal just as the earth was stirring, waking to a season of growth. With all she had on her mind, I doubt she'd given much thought to the significance of the date or the fact that our birthdays were coming up later in the week. It didn't matter. I had memory enough for us both.
It was a Saturday morning and two of my rooms were filledâthe first time I'd ever had more than one room occupied at a time. At the moment, the most notable feature in my reservation book was a lot of white space, but I hoped warmer temperatures would change that.
So far, I'd experienced a few bumps on the roadâthe occasional leaking toilet or burned breakfast, a broken coffeepot, the guest who ignored the prominently placed sign on the hearth stating that the fireplace was only ornamental but, using several rolled-up magazines for fuel, tried to light a fire anyway, another who stayed out until two in the morning, lost his key, and was nearly arrested when a neighbor caught him trying to jimmy open a back window and called the police. But those few missteps aside, things were going well. My guest book was filled with praise from my customers as well as promises to come back soon and spread the word. I hoped they were telling the truth.
The easiest way to reach my target audience would be to advertise, preferably in the
New York Times
. But that was way, way beyond my means. Instead, I had to settle for a sixth of a page display ad in
Passport
magazine, which was distributed free of charge at restaurants, museums, boutiques, and anywhere else tourists might frequentâthe same magazine my guest had used as fuel for the forbidden fire. Evelyn's son, Garrett, had designed a basic website for me, offering information, pretty pictures, and a phone number to call for reservations. Other than that, I had to rely on luck, word of mouth, and my new brochures, which had just arrived from the printer.
After feeding my guests, doing the dishes, cleaning the rooms, and changing the sheets, I planned to drop off a stack of brochures at the visitor information booth on the Green, then stop in at For the Love of Lavender to give Tessa her birthday present and a big dose of moral support. Jake said he'd stop by around noon to watch the office for me. The moment I could afford it, I had to hire some part-time help. I couldn't keep imposing on Jake.
I use a back corner of the kitchen for my office. That's where Jake found me when he arrived. He greeted me and grabbed one of the leftover breakfast muffins from a platter on the countertop.
“You're going to get fat if you keep that up.”
“Think so?” he asked, glancing down at his stomach with a grin.
I laughed. “You are so irritating.”
The phone rang. It was Angela Radnovich, calling to thank me for the baby quilt.
“You're welcome, Angela. But you should be thanking the women over at Cobbled Court. They did all the work. I just bought the fabric.”
“I'm sending two thank-you notes, one for you and one to your friends. I love the quilt. It's already in the crib, ready for the big day.”
“It'll be here before you know it. How are you feeling?”
“As well as can be expected, considering my husband's publicist just sent out a press release announcing his wedding to the next Mrs. Radnovich. Their timing is good, mid-May. The baby will just avoid being born illegitimate.”
“What? How can he do that? Your divorce isn't final yet, is it?”
“It will be at the end of April. Mike wants this wedding to go forward on schedule. He accepted my first settlement offer without batting an eye. I get the apartment in New York, the house in Vail, two million a year in child support, and twenty-five million in cash. After all he's put me through, I should have asked for fifty,” she said in a voice dripping with loathing.
“Anyway, it's all but done. I don't want to talk about it. I just called to thank you and, believe it or not, to talk to you about a wedding.”
Reading my thoughts, Angela barked out a bitter little laugh and said, “No, not mine. I've sworn off men forever. But my personal assistant, Kerry, just got engaged. I told her not to do it, that all men are lying sacks of scum, but she won't listen. Anyway, I want to throw her a wedding. . . .”
“Angela, that is so sweet of you!”
“No, it's not. This is purely out of self-interest. She wanted three weeks off to go home to California for a wedding and honeymoon trip. I can't spare her that long, not with the baby coming, so I offered to fly her family out here, pay for the wedding, plus a five-day honeymoon in Vermont. This way she won't be gone more than a week.
“We'll need to book all your guest rooms,” Angela said. “We can have the ceremony out in your herb garden, assuming the weather is good, and the reception in the living room. I'm willing to pay another thousand for use of the garden and public rooms and five hundred more for helping coordinate the details. We'll need a caterer, florist, and photographer, but I'm sure you have contacts. So? What do you say? Do you have a weekend open in May or June?”
I wedged the telephone between my ear and shoulder and frantically flipped through the calendar, looking for a completely open weekend, mentally kicking myself for letting people book single rooms for single nights during tourist season.
“Wait! What about the third weekend in May? We're wide open.”
“The same time as Mike's wedding,” Angela said flatly. “How ironic. I'll send a deposit. Kerry will call you on Monday.”
I hung up the phone, clapped my hands, and stomped my feet for joy. All five rooms booked for a weekend! Plus fees for public room rentals and wedding coordination! It added up to . . . ? I was too excited to do the math, too excited to contain myself. Without stopping to think, I let out a whoop, flung myself at Jake, and kissed him on the lips.
And Jake kissed me back.
His lips were soft, but his kiss was hard, slow, almost lazy, and so assured. His arms rested at steep angles across the small of my back and the blades of my shoulders. He spread his fingers wide and pressed them gently but firmly to my body, as if trying to leave his imprint on my flesh and in my memory.
It worked.
The certainty of his touch summoned images to my mind, memories of our first date and of a young Jake running through twin columns of light spilling from the headlamps of a borrowed car to open my door; images of Jake older and wiser and handsome, waiting on my porch steps with patience and twenty gallons of paint; of Jake leaning against a wall, watching me struggle to control and conquer the floor sander, muscled arms crossed over his chest, wanting to help but holding back because he knew I wanted to do it myself; of Jake laughing, and frowning, and listening, and telling me the truth no matter what; of the way his glass eye wandered when he was tired, the way he smiled when I entered a room. The heat of his hands warmed me, made me forget myself and my need to maintain control, made me remember myself and the spark of long-dormant desire.
I gave myself up to it, melting into the circle of his arms, leaning in, lifting up, softening my mouth and opening my lips, tasting his tongue with mine. For a few sweet moments, it felt right to forget and safe to remember. And then Jake's arms angled even lower, his fingers closed tight and his hands slid down and around the swell of my hips, and that spark of desire surged inside me, igniting an ancient and instinctual flame, an elemental longing. My hips rocked forward to meet his without permission or precaution.
He responded in kind and suddenly my brain reengaged, overriding the careless cravings of biology. I uncoiled my arms from his body and planted my palms on his shoulders to push myself back as hard and far as I could.
“Stop it,” I gasped.
Jake frowned, doubting me. I took a step back and dropped my arms to my side, taking in a deep, slow breath through my mouth and exhaling raggedly but deliberately.
Jake spread out his hands. “Why?”
“Because I know what happens next. I know where this goes. And I'm not going there again, not ever. Every mistake of my life has begun by tumbling into bed with someone. I like you too much to add you to my list of regrets.”
He gave me a long, appraising look.
“Wow. That's the smoothest brush-off I've ever received. Did you make that up as you went along? Or have you been practicing? What comes next? Are you going to tell me you âjust want to be friends'? Don't play games with me, Madelyn.”
“I don't know what comes next, Jake. I haven't the slightest idea how all this works. But let me ask you something. Where is the âjust' in friends? I've never wanted to be friends with a man before,
never
. Do you know how big a deal that is for me? Up until now I've only seen men in terms of what they could do for me or buy for me or get for me. I don't feel that way about you.”
“Really? Well, for somebody who wasn't looking to get anything out of me, you seem to have taken a lotâa newly roofed house, sanded floors, snowplowed driveway, somebody to watch your phones . . .”
He crossed his arms over his chest defensively. I'd wounded him and so he wanted to wound me back. And he had. His words were cruel and his insinuation was insulting. I'd never have taken that from a man I liked less than Jake, but I
did
like him. I was only just beginning to realize how much. And so instead of throwing him out of my house and my life, I stood my ground.
“That's not fair, Jake. You've done a lot for me, much more than I could ever have expected or asked. But everything you did for meâthe roof, the discounts, the snowplowing, and all the restâwas
your
idea and you know it. I never asked you for anything. Even so, I went to some effort to repay you for your unsolicited kindness to me. The muffins? The anniversary getaway for your sister? My insistence that we go dutch on our dinner dates? That was my way of trying to keep our relationship friendly rather than romantic, and I think you know that too. That was the unspoken agreement. In fact, we
did
speak of itâor you did. Be honest. You understood my concerns. When we started going out to dinner together, you assured me that we were just going as friends, that you weren't trying to lure me into bed, remember?
“And I took you at your word, Jake. I was relieved because I value our relationship too much to let it become sexual. Sex always ruins everything.”
“I see,” he said sharply. “So I should be honored that your feelings toward me are platonic? Now who's not being honest?”
He pointed a finger at me, all but poked it into my chest. “You kissed me first, Madelyn. And don't try to tell me that you didn't mean anything by it, that you just got carried away. You didn't give me a peck, or a smooch. That was a
kiss,
an incredible one. I didn't know you could kiss like that. You sure didn't in high school. So don't try to pretend there's no sexual spark between us, because we both know it isn't true.”
“I didn't say that,” I retorted, not bothering to let him know I'd been
about
to say all of those things. People who can demolish your arguments before you even give voice to them are irritating enough; it's not necessary to let them know how right they are.
“Of course there's a sexual attraction between us. We'd hardly be human if there wasn't. But that doesn't mean we have to give into it, does it? Remember what you told me about Beth? About waiting for the real thing?”
“I have been waiting! I didn't want to pressure you. I've been waiting months for you to make a move so I'd know you felt . . .”
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that, but I was just . . . I lost my mind for a minute, okay? Let's not ruin a really good thing because I went crazy for thirty seconds. Think about it, Jake. You've already had two failed marriages and probably five times as many failed relationships in your life. I'm not that far behind you. Do you really want to add ours to the list?”
Jake hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and stared at me for a moment, his posture less defensive but no less angry.
“It really doesn't matter what I want, does it? You've decided for both of us.”
“I want to keep being friends, Jake,” I said quietly. “You matter to me.”
“Yeah? Well, I guess that should make me feel better. But somehow it doesn't.”
He pulled his truck keys out of the pocket of his jeans and walked to the door. Before he left, he turned toward me and inclined his head in farewell. Or good-bye?
It took all my resolve not to run after him, to grab him by the arm and ask him to stay, to kiss him again. But I was resolved. And I was right. Of that I was sure.