Apart at the Seams (10 page)

“Dan, you don't have to—”

“It's okay,” he said, waving away my concerns with a sweep of his hand. “I want to. It'll be fun. See you on Sunday, Bobby.”

“See you, Dan!” Bobby waved his hand and grinned at him, displaying a gap where his front tooth used to be. Dan grinned back.

“Hey, Ivy. Do you want me to come pick up Drew for you later?”

“Oh . . . you don't have to do that. It's not that far.”

“I know, but Bobby will probably be asleep by then. You don't want to leave him alone while you're bringing Drew back.”

He was right; I didn't. It took only ten minutes round trip, but ten minutes was long enough for something to go wrong. He was only seven. And if Bethany wasn't home . . .

“Well, if you're sure you don't mind, I'd really appreciate that.”

“No problem,” he said. “My pleasure.”

When we got to the top of the driveway, I looked in the rearview mirror. Dan was going back inside. After the door closed behind him, I took a right and headed toward town.

“Your dad seems like a nice guy.”

“He's okay.” Drew grinned. “For a dad.”

Q
uilt circle meetings were usually held in the workroom above the shop, but we were down a few people that night. Abigail wouldn't be back from Bermuda until Monday—it seemed like she and Franklin were spending more and more of their time there—and somebody had given Virginia, who loves sports, tickets to a Connecticut Sun basketball game. Tessa was out with Lee, celebrating their anniversary, and Madelyn was busy hosting a wedding rehearsal dinner at the inn. Philippa had planned to join us, but there had been a death in the congregation, so she'd been called upon to comfort the family. Since we were such a small group, Margot suggested we meet at her house for dinner and quilting. Paul had just remodeled the attic over the garage into a new sewing room for Margot and she wanted to show it off.

I love all my quilting friends, but Evelyn and Margot are probably my favorites. I was looking forward to our evening together.

I see Evelyn and Margot almost every day at the quilt shop, so they already knew all about the situation with Hodge and had offered their sympathy and encouragement. I appreciate their support, but it doesn't really change anything. In the last week, I'd talked to everyone I could think of who might conceivably know of some way to keep Hodge away from my kids. They all said the same thing: Once he is released, Hodge has a legal right to see his children. There's nothing I can do to prevent it.

Even so, Evelyn, Margot, and I probably will end up rehashing the whole Hodge thing yet again tonight. Not because it will change anything but just because I need to vent. It's a woman thing, I guess. Tell a man about a problem, and he automatically assumes you're asking him for advice. He'll think you're asking him to fix it, when, really, you're just looking for a listening ear. Men just don't get it.

But Evelyn does. Margot does. All my quilting friends do. And they're trustworthy, too, which is very important. On quilt circle nights, we can talk about anything and everything, knowing that what's said in the circle stays in the circle.

I've really missed that. I've been so overwhelmed—with work, school, kids, and now having to fit in extra appointments with Arnie and Sheila Fenton and the therapist who is supposed to be helping the kids deal with Hodge's reentry into society and their lives—that I had to miss our last two meetings.

I probably would have done the same tonight, but Margot said I
had
to come, that it would be such fun, that she couldn't wait to show off her new sewing room, and she was going to make a pan of her special moussaka, which she knows I love, just so I wouldn't say no. Margot can be very convincing when she wants to be.

I stood on the stoop, but the door opened before I was able to press the bell. Paul, Margot's husband, grinned when he saw me standing there.

“Hi, Ivy! Come on in. The kids and I are going out for pizza, so the three of you can have the place to yourselves.

“Honey! Ivy's here!” he shouted in the direction of the kitchen, and then turned toward the stairs and clapped his hands together three times. “James! Olivia! If you're not in the car in ten seconds, I'm leaving without you!”

There was a sound of female laughter coming from the kitchen and a sudden thunder of tennis shoes on the stairway. James, Paul's fourteen-year-old son, and Olivia, the eight-year-old niece Margot had adopted when her sister was killed in a car accident, raced down the stairs, barely stopping to say hello to me before running out the front door to the car. Margot appeared a moment later.

“Ivy!” she squealed, hugging me as tightly as if it had been months instead of hours since we'd last seen each other. “Now we can start the party!”

Margot kissed Paul good-bye, thanking him for getting the kids out from underfoot. Paul kissed her back, saying it was no problem, that she deserved a break, headed halfway out the door, and then turned around, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her again, as if he could hardly bear being parted from her for even a few hours.

If it hadn't been so sweet, it would have been nauseating. Paul is such a terrific guy. It took Margot more than forty years to find Mr. Right, but obviously, he'd been worth the wait. Too bad it can't work out like that for everybody.

When they finally managed to pull themselves apart, Margot collapsed with her back against the door. “Isn't he wonderful?”

She sighed and started toward the kitchen without waiting for me to answer because, as we both knew, this was a rhetorical question. Paul
was
wonderful, and that was all there was to it.

“Evelyn's already in the kitchen, scraping the burned spots off the garlic bread. We were so busy talking that she forgot it was still in the broiler.” Margot giggled as we entered the kitchen. “You'd think, what with being married to the man who owns the best restaurant in town, she'd have picked up a few things by now. Wouldn't you?”

“I heard that,” Evelyn said, pointing a butter knife coated with black crumbs at Margot, who giggled in response.

Evelyn put down her knife and gave me a hug. Then, without saying another word, she handed me a glass of white wine. I must have looked like I needed it.

“If anything,” Evelyn said as she placed semiscorched pieces of garlic bread on a plate, “being married to Charlie has eroded my culinary skills. He's such a great cook that I hardly even bother to try anymore. What's the point?”

“Aw,” Margot murmured as she pulled a pan of moussaka from the oven and carried it to the kitchen table. “Charlie is such a sweetheart.”

“He is that.”

Evelyn picked up the wine bottle, poured another half glass for herself and Margot, then looked at mine and did a double take.

“Whoa! You got to the bottom of that pretty quick. I'll pour you another if you want, but maybe you should have something to eat first?”

Evelyn stared at me with an expression of concern, her fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Margot, who had just placed the moussaka on a trivet in the middle of the table, turned to look at me and frowned.

“Ivy, are you all right? You look a little—”

In answer to her question and before she even had time to complete her thought, I burst into tears. And when I say “burst,” that's exactly what I mean—a breaking apart and pouring out, an explosion of tears, complete with hiccups, shoulder spasms, and a runny nose. There was nothing ladylike or delicate about this crying jag. It was ugly, and it came out of nowhere.

Margot and Evelyn rushed to my side, putting arms around my shoulders and tissues in my hand, begging me to tell them what was wrong. It was several minutes before I was able to speak. Even then, I had a hard time answering their question because I honestly wasn't sure what to say.

“It's because Hodge is coming back, isn't it?” Margot said, patting my back as I sobbed. “You poor thing. It must be so stressful.”

“Yes . . . I . . .” I sniffled a huge, disgusting-sounding sniffle and grabbed another handful of tissues from the box. “I mean, yes. That's it, I guess. But it's not
just
that . . . I don't know.”

“Is it because of me and Paul? Because I was saying how wonderful he is? And that Charlie is a sweetheart? I should be more sensitive. I know how it is, being alone and single when it seems like everybody in the world is happily married. Was it that?”

“Partly, I guess,” I said, giving up on the wad of soggy tissues and wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Every man I've known has brought me nothing but trouble, but . . . sometimes I just wish things were different. I don't want Hodge back; I wouldn't ever want that. But there were times, especially early on, when he was sweet to me, said nice things to me. It made me feel good, you know? Just to think that somebody found me attractive and wanted to take care of me a little.” My eyes filled and I swiped at them again.

“It's just hard to know that I'll never have that. So, yes, that's part of it. But I don't think that's the whole reason. Not exactly.”

“Well, is it school?” Margot asked, keeping her bright blue eyes fixed on mine.

“No. Yes. Not entirely . . .”

I took in several deep breaths, making a conscious effort to get a grip while Margot continued to quiz me.

“What about work? The shop? Or maybe it's the internship program. I know you're worried about Judith. Or is it the kids? Are you feeling stressed-out?”

“Uh-huh,” I replied, nodding after each question.

Evelyn had gone to the sink and refilled my empty wineglass with water. She pulled up a kitchen chair, sat down across from me, watched while I drank, and then took the empty glass from me.

“You know what I think it is?” she said. “Everything.”

My eyes swam with liquid. Tears ran down my cheeks. She'd hit the nail on the head. That was what was wrong with my life—everything.

Absolutely everything.

We talked all through dinner. Or rather, I talked. Margot and Evelyn listened, nodding in sympathy, laughing in solidarity with me, tearing up for the same reason, filling my plate, and filling my glass, letting me let it out. Being my friends.

I don't know how long they sat there listening to me, only that it was a long time. Evelyn never moved. Neither did Margot, not even when Paul poked his head in the door to let her know they were home. She just smiled at him and made a kiss noise with her lips. He said he'd make sure the kids got to bed and that Margot should take her time, not to worry. I think he must have gotten a glimpse of my red eyes and runny mascara and figured out what was going on. Paul is a nice guy. Margot deserves a nice guy like Paul.

In a way, I think that's what I was really crying about.

If nice people like Margot and Evelyn deserve to have nice things happen to them, and those things
do
happen, then what does that say about people like me? People who can't seem to catch a break? Do I deserve the misery that has come my way? Have I brought it on myself? Am I being punished for something?

I didn't say that to Evelyn and Margot—not in so many words—because I already knew how they would respond. They would tell me that I'm wrong and that lots of good things have happened to me.

Look at your kids,
they would say.
They are happy and healthy and they love you! And look what a wonderful home you have. The cutest little carriage house imaginable, the one you used to walk past when you first came to New Bern but never dreamed you'd be lucky enough to live in. And now you do! Look at your job. You'd never worked a day in your life until you came to Cobbled Court. Now you're head of a whole department! Not to mention your work with New Beginnings. Dozens of women have found meaningful work and the confidence to leave their abusers and never go back because of the internship program you coordinate! And look at your friends. Seriously, could anyone have more loving and loyal friends? Definitely not! All kinds of good things have happened to you! Millions of people would love to be in your shoes!

It was all true. I knew that without even having to bring up the subject, which is why I didn't. But even so . . .

After a while, I looked around and realized that the wine bottle and the moussaka pan were both empty.

“What time is it?”

Margot craned her neck, trying to see the clock on the microwave oven.

“Ten forty-three.”

“Is it? Oh, my gosh! I've got to go. I told Drew I'd be home by eleven. I'm sorry. I talked away all our quilting time. And I still haven't seen your new sewing room!”

“Don't worry about it,” Margot said dismissively. “You'll see it another time. It's not going anywhere. Tonight you needed to talk more than you needed to stitch. We'll make up for it next week.”

She got to her feet, picked up the moussaka pan, and carried it to the sink. Evelyn gathered up the empty glasses. I jumped up, too, and quickly started clearing away the plates. I was in a hurry to get home, but I couldn't very well leave without helping clean up.

“I'm not sure if I'll be able to come next week or not. Things are so crazy right now, and I've still got one more paper to write for my poetry class. I haven't even had a chance to turn on my sewing machine in weeks!”

Evelyn took a stack of plates from my hands and smiled.

“Here, let me do it. You need to get home to Bobby. I'll stay and help Margot clean up.”

“Are you sure?” I asked uncertainly. I hated to eat and run, but I really did need to get going.

“It's no problem. Charlie won't be home from the restaurant for another half hour at least. I'm in no rush. But listen, Ivy,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder after she set the plates down on the counter. “I'm worried about you. I know you've got real, legitimate reasons for feeling the way you do. But I think your biggest problem is that you're exhausted, overworked, and overwhelmed. You're the mom. You're trying to do everything for everybody else.

“Every single thing you're dealing with right now is important. You're not wasting time or misreading your priorities. Believe me, I get it. I remember what it was like when Garrett was little. Every night, I went to bed feeling like I was failing, that I hadn't been able to give anyone or anything the kind of attention it deserved. There were never enough hours in the day. And I only had one child and a husband to help carry the load. It's ten times harder for you!

“But I will tell you something that I learned along the way, something that every young mom needs to know: If you're not good to yourself, you can't be any good to anybody else either.”

Evelyn Dixon is my boss, but she's also my friend. She doesn't offer advice lightly or often. But when she does, it's good. It's the very best.

“So,” she said, keeping my gaze, “will we see you at quilt circle next week?”