Authors: Marie Bostwick

Threading the Needle (33 page)

She laughed at her own tears, swiped them away, too, and squeezed my shoulder. “You don't have to worry about that, Madelyn. We may disagree sometimes. We may argue. Once in a while, we may even yell at each other. But you're not losing me, my friend, not ever again. That's the deal. And anybody who doesn't like it? Well, you know the rest.”

When Steve Straub called from
Good Morning America,
I said thanks but no thanks to his offer to send a film crew to New Bern. Ours was a private party.

Madelyn

E
ven after we'd moved the furniture out to the garage (excepting the dollhouse, which we moved near the front window), we still couldn't fit eight eight-foot tables in the living room, so we tucked one in the foyer and one under the stairs. We had four ironing boards, three in the living room and one in the foyer, and a portable “design wall” (really just a white flannel sheet stretched and hammered into place on a wooden frame) in the dining room. Orange, black, and white extension cords were plugged into every available outlet, snaking along the floors to provide electricity for the irons and sewing machines. When we were done setting up, Tessa and I stood at the doorway between the living room and foyer and surveyed the scene.

“It looks so crowded,” I said.

“Because it is,” Tessa replied.

“Can't we get rid of one of the tables? After all, I'm not going to be sewing.”

“It's two quilters to a table. We need just as many for fifteen as sixteen. Besides, you might change your mind.”

“I'm going to be too busy taking care of the guests, making meals, cleaning rooms, that sort of thing.” This was true, but it was also a convenient excuse and Tessa knew it. But she also knew when to back off.

“Well. All right,” she said reluctantly, “but in case you change your mind, I've set up your sewing machine at the table under the stairs. You're sharing with Mary Dell.”

“I'm not going to change my mind. Look, Tessa, I like hanging out with the quilters, but I have no desire to quilt and I never will. Why can't we all just be good with that?”

“Never is a long time. I'm just saying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Tessa, were you this much of a nag when we were kids? Why does Lee put up with you?”

“I don't know,” she said, grinning. “Maybe he's blinded by lust?”

The doorbell rang. I made a gagging face and went to answer it. “Oh, ick. You've been married for a million years. Shouldn't you two be over that kind of thing by now?”

I opened the door and found my porch crowded with laughing and chattering women carrying suitcases, project bags, and, in some instances, sewing machines, with more streaming up the walkway behind them. I greeted the ones I knew: Margot, Virginia, Abigailâwhose luggage was Vuitton, the same style as the pieces I'd sold to pay for the plumbingâBella, Connie, Dana, Ivy, and, of course, Bethanyâwho proudly showed off her “Disney Princess” roller-board suitcase, purchased for the occasionâand introduced myself to the ones I didn't, the other students from the GED program, Melissa, Cathy, Lauren, and Antoinette.

I directed everyone to leave their suitcases in the foyer for now, then find the sewing station with their name on it and set up their machine if they'd brought their own before following Tessa into the dining room for tea and cookies and a quick orientation before we handed out keys and roommate assignments.

The last one through the door was Mary Dell. Even if I hadn't seen her on television, I'd have recognized her immediately. One look and you knew she wasn't raised in New England. Her smile was nearly as big as her earrings, her lipstick was the color of a candied apple, her hair was bleached a shade of blond that would have done Marilyn Monroe proud, and her outfit? I'd never seen anything quite like it.

Evelyn had said that Mary Dell liked animal prints. I like them too. I have a pair of leopard pumps and a faux cheetah belt that I just love. But when I do wear one of those items, I make sure that everything else I'm wearing is as plain as possible, a monochromatic outfit in a neutral color: black, cream, perhaps brown. Or, if I'm looking for a casual but fun look, a pair of jeans and a plain white blouse, something simple. Otherwise, you run the risk of appearing to be “open for business,” as Edna would have put it.

Mary Dell, who apparently had not heard or did not subscribe to the “less is more” rule of fashion, was wearing alligator shoes and a belt in two completely different shades of brown, leopard-print jeans, and a tight zebra-striped shirt with a black collar and cuffs embellished by three rows of rhinestones along the edge. She carried a pink cheetah-print project bag with her name emblazoned on the side, also in rhinestones. The woman was a walking menagerie.

I stood at the door, open-mouthed and completely at a loss for words. But that didn't matter. Mary Dell had no problem filling the silence.

“Well! Look at you!” she hooted as she mounted the porch steps. “You must be Madelyn. I'd have known you anywhere. Evelyn said you were as pretty as a picture and had more curves than a Coke bottle. She wasn't exaggerating, was she?

“Tell you what, I'm glad Hub-Jay decided to take Howard off for a boys' weekend in San Antonio instead of coming out here with me. I just might have had to put a brand on that steer to make sure he didn't stray. You're sure a looker!” she exclaimed as she crossed over the threshold and dropped her bag on the floor and took a look around.

“My! Your place is just as pretty as you are. This is nice, real nice. You know, my Hub-Jay is an innkeeper too. He owns the Hollander Hotels. I don't know if you've heard of them?”

The Hollander Hotels? Indeed I had heard of them. It was a small chain that bought up old buildings in downtown areas and refurbished them into beautiful little boutique hotels. Most of their properties were in the Southwest, places like Dallas, San Antonio, Santa Fe, Oklahoma City, and Tulsa, but they'd recently opened a hotel in New York and another in Boston, to favorable reviews.

Hubble James Hollander was
that
Hollander? The one whose hotels had a reputation for excellent service and understated elegance? And he was dating Mary Dell?

Mary Dell looked at me expectantly. When I failed to answer her question she said, “Oh my goodness, where are my manners? I didn't even introduce myself, did I? I'm Mary Dell Templeton.”

“Yes. I'm Madelyn Beecher. It's nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand for her to shake, but she ignored that and wrapped her arms around me in a hug that was not quite bone-crushing, but nearly. Mary Dell hugged like she meant it.

“It's nice to meet you, too, darlin'! Evelyn's told me so much about you. I feel like I know you already. You're just so sweet to invite all these gals to stay. We're going to have ourselves a time! Aren't we?”

“Yes,” I replied, though I'd already picked up on the fact that most of Mary Dell's questions didn't actually require answers. She used them more as a means of conferring affirmation than seeking information.

I liked her. I don't know that I'd ever encountered anyone with such enthusiasm or energy, and as the weekend went on, I saw that it was entirely genuine. There's something very attractive about that. It helped, too, that I knew her story, how her husband had deserted her upon the birth of their son, Howard, and how Mary Dell had soldiered on alone to raise a child with special needs, eking out a living as a quilt teacher. Mary Dell was optimistic, not because she didn't know hardship but because she had overcome it. Oh, yes. In spite of the fact that any room she was in seemed a little short on oxygen, I liked Mary Dell Templeton. It was impossible not to.

“It was awfully kind of you to volunteer to teach this weekend, especially since you're on your vacation.”

“Oh, it's my pleasure,” she said sincerely. “These days, Howard and I are so busy with the TV show that I don't get much chance to teach. I miss it.”

“Well, everyone is very excited that you're here.”

“And I'm excited too. Now, Madelyn, honey,” she said in a more serious tone, “do you have anything to drink? I'm dying for a Dr Pepper. I'm so dry I'm spitting cotton.”

“We're just about to serve tea in the dining room.”

“Tea?” she said, briefly lifting her eyebrows to a skeptical arc. “Well . . . sure. All right. Tea will do just fine for now.”

Some of the ladies knew one another well and some were meeting for the first time, but they seemed to find an almost instant bond, the way I've noticed quilters do. It's interesting.

After tea and introductions, everyone went to get settled in their rooms and then came back downstairs to start quilting. The weekend's project was a wall hanging based on a variation of the card tricks block. An original design by Mary Dell, the “Texas Hold 'Em” pattern would appear in her next book. The ladies were thrilled to be among the first to make it.

While everyone else got to work cutting out their fabric, I cleared away the tea things and then got to work on dinner. Tessa came in a couple of times, wanting to help, but I shooed her out of the kitchen, reminding her that the weekend was my gift to her as well.

“Are you sure you're all right in here?” she asked. “You look like something's bothering you.”

“I'm fine. If I look bothered it's only because standing here talking to you is throwing off my schedule. Now, scoot!”

She did, and I went back to my work, setting the table, warming up the soup, dressing the salad, preparing and baking big loaves of garlic bread, opening the wine, and making pots of coffee and fixing platters of brownies to serve for dessert. While I worked, I could hear the sound of conversation and laughter, sometimes gales of it, rising above the whir of sewing machines. I was glad they were enjoying themselves, but in spite of what I'd said to Tessa, I'd admit to feeling a little melancholy, or maybe just introspective. I'm not sure why.

After serving dinnerâwhich seemed much appreciated; I bet they all thanked me ten times eachâand cleaning up the kitchen, I went into the living room for a while to chat and see how their projects were coming. But when Bethany started to yawn around nine o'clock, I volunteered to take her up to the attic and put her to bed so that Ivy could keep quilting.

“Are you sure you don't mind?” Ivy asked.

“Not at all. I'm tired too. I was going up soon anyhow. You all stay up as late as you want; just make sure to turn out the lights before you go to bed. Breakfast is at eight. See you all in the morning.”

I showed Bethany where the bathroom was and, after she was washed and had her pajamas on, I tucked her into bed and read a chapter of
Little Women
to her. It was her fourth time reading it. At certain passages, I noticed that her lips moved silently as I read, echoing the dialogue between the March sisters. At the end of the chapter, she snuggled down under the quilts and yawned. I sat on the edge of my bed, took off my slippers, and hung my robe on the bedpost.

“It'd be nice to have a lot of sisters,” Bethany said in a drowsy voice. “I have a little brother, Bobby, but that's not the same. Do you have any sisters?”

“I'm an only child. No brothers or sisters.”

“I've got a best friend, Erica. She's almost like a sister. Do you have a best friend?”

“Yes,” I said as I slipped in between the sheets and pulled up the quilt. “Tessa is my best friend and she's practically like a sister. I've known her since I was about your age.” I reached over to turn out the lamp and found a little hand clutching at my wrist.

“Madelyn? Could you leave the light on until I'm asleep? It's nice up here in the attic but it's kind of scary too. It seems like there might be ghosts up here.”

I got up and flipped the switch to illuminate the string of white Christmas lights, thinking that they'd be dimmer, before getting back into bed and turning off the lamp.

“Those are nice,” Bethany said, looking up at the ceiling. “They look like stars. Good night, Madelyn.”

“Good night, Bethany. Sweet dreams.”

She was asleep within minutes. I was tired too, but sleep eluded me. I stayed awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to Bethany's breathing, the soft laughter that emanated from the floors below, and the voices of ghosts.

When we sat down to our breakfast of homemade muffins and fruit the next morning, I learned that about half the group, Mary Dell included, had stayed up and quilted until long past midnight. Mary Dell looked as fresh as a daisy, but some of the others were definitely dragging. Still, that didn't deter them from doing the same thing on Saturday night. I guess they wanted to squeeze every last drop of fun, companionship, and quilting from the weekend. And they seemed to do just that.

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