Apart at the Seams (21 page)

Evelyn frowned. “Wait a minute. I thought that's what I said. And what Donna Walsh said. And what
all
of us have said to you at one time or another.” She chuckled and picked up her stitching. “I guess it just sounds more convincing from Dan Kelleher.”

“I've been making a little progress on the sabbatical front too,” Evelyn said as she fashioned a length of red silk ribbon into a tiny rose to embellish her crazy quilt. “Ever since I moved to New England, I've wanted to learn to sail. I kept telling myself I'd get around to it one of these days, but of course, I never did.”

She paused, squinting to make sure her needle was piercing the ribbon at the perfect spot. “But this week, I thought, ‘What the heck. If I don't do it now, when will I?' I found a sailing school that offers a weekend course that's just for women and signed up. Charlie is grumbling because he thinks we should do it together, but it would make me nervous if he were there. I told him he can come with me to Newport for the weekend, but he has to stay on shore until I get my certification. Then we can sail together. As long as he lets me have the tiller.”

I laughed, and so did everyone else. Knowing Charlie, we could just imagine how that conversation went.

“The only problem is it's the same weekend as our Midsummer Madness sale. Can you manage without me?” Evelyn asked, looking at Margot and me.

“Absolutely. Not a problem. You and Charlie deserve some time off,” I said.

Virginia, who had been quiet for several minutes, intent on embroidering a line of perfectly sized French knots on her crazy quilt, sat up a little straighter in her chair and cleared her throat.

“Evelyn's not the only one who made progress on her sabbatical project, you know.” She lifted her eyes from her work and peered over the tops of her reading glasses momentarily before returning to her sewing.

“Two Sundays from now, I will turn eighty-five. I've decided to give myself a little birthday party, and I'd like all of you to come. No gifts, please. There's only going to be one present at this party, and I'm giving it to myself.”

“But, Mom,” Evelyn said, “Charlie and I were planning to throw you a party. He's already worked out the menu.”

“Yes, I know. He accidentally left it sitting on the countertop at your house. I saw it when I came over for breakfast last week. Honey,” she said, giving Evelyn a pointed look, “osso buco with porcini mushrooms and lemon zest? I don't even know what osso buco is! Baked Alaska for dessert? What's wrong with a nice piece of cake and some ice cream? I just can't stomach all that rich food anymore.”

Evelyn began to protest, but Virginia shook her head.

“No,” she said firmly. “I know Charlie means well, but I've made up my mind. This birthday, I want to have things my own way. I've already made all the arrangements. I've even talked Garrett into coming in from the city to cover the shop. Wendy said she'd help, too, so you'll all be able to come. You, too, Gayla. You're part of the circle now. We'll meet at church,” she informed us, “right after the first service. Plan on being gone the whole day. I've got a lot of activities planned.”

“Such as?” Evelyn asked, drawing her brows together.

“Not going to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I did,” Virginia said, snipping off the end of her thread, “you'd try to talk me out of it.”

T
he July sun was high and hot. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my neck. I should have remembered to bring my hat outside, but I didn't want to bother going back into the house to get it; I was nearly finished.

I grabbed the last weed by its prickly leaves, grateful for my new gardening gloves, and gave it a tug. It didn't budge. I tried again with the same results, then pulled a trowel from the pocket of my gardening apron.

By this time, I had all the equipment. Hats, hoes, rakes, trowels, watering cans, baskets, shears, nippers, and even a thick, waterproof foam kneeler to cushion my poor knees while I was weeding. Best twenty dollars I ever spent. Gardening can be an expensive hobby, I've found. I calculated the price for one of my lavender stalks at about a buck each. And that wasn't even counting the money I paid Dan for the installation.

But, I thought, as I shifted back onto my haunches and looked around at a stand of bright-faced Shasta daisies and the rose of Sharon bush I'd planted in the corner, which was just beginning to bloom, it was worth every dime I'd spent and would spend in the future.

This year, I'd planted a few flowering shrubs and other perennials, but also annuals, pansies, and geraniums and the like, so I would have color in my garden from the first. But the annuals were just placeholders for the perennials I intended to plant in the fall: lupine, daffodils, tulips, and coreopsis, which wouldn't come up until the following spring. I'd spent many afternoons at White Flower Farms since that first field trip, picking the brains of the staff and adding new flowers to my wish list, and had become a regular customer. The peace and quietness of mind I discovered while digging in the dirt, the pleasure I derived from the daily discovery of each new bud and bloom, the lessons I had learned about the value of slowing down, paying attention, and taking time to enjoy the small things, were worth the price of admission twice over.

I shifted my weight forward, thrust my trowel into the dirt four times, rocking the blade back and forth to loosen the soil around the weed, and then grasped it again and gave a good, hard tug.

“Aha!” I cried, holding the culprit in the air. “Trying to choke out my echinacea, were you? That'll teach you!”

“Gayla? Do you always talk to the weeds?”

“Ack!” I gasped and jumped, then turned around, squinting up into the sun. “Dan. I didn't hear you come up. You scared me!”

“Sorry. But really. Do you always talk to the weeds?”

“Not usually. Mostly I just talk to the plants. I heard that it helps them grow faster. But you should know that, being a landscaper.”

“Uh-huh. Think I've heard that somewhere once or twice too. But since I've never met a plant that had ears . . .”

He smirked and rubbed his nose. I got to my feet.

“I was just finishing up,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Care to come inside for a glass of iced tea?”

“No, thanks. I wanted to come over and see how things are going. See if those tomato cages I brought you were working out all right.”

“Yes,” I said slowly, giving him a bemused look. “I told you that yesterday, when I saw you and Ivy at the Fourth of July parade, remember?”

“Oh. Right,” he said, shuffling his feet. “I forgot. Good. That's good.”

“Say, how is Ivy anyway? We didn't have quilt circle this week because of the holiday, so I haven't talked to her. How did her interview go? I forgot to ask.”

“It's not till tomorrow. She's nervous, but I'm sure she'll do fine. She keeps telling me that her chances of getting the job are infinitesimal, but I keep telling her that a tiny chance is better than none at all. Can't hurt to try, can it?”

“No, it can't,” I said with a smile, thinking what a good man he was. Just the sort that Ivy needed. It didn't hurt that he was good-looking either.

“You and Ivy have been seeing a lot of each other, haven't you?”

“Uh-huh. But we're taking it slow. With her husband coming back to New Bern soon and the kids and all . . .” He shrugged. “She's got a lot on her plate. I don't want to push her too fast.”

Dan sniffed and scratched the side of his face. “Well. I guess I should let you get going. You're probably ready to get in out of the heat,” he said, looking down at his feet and bobbing his head without moving one inch from where he stood.

“Dan,” I said, laughing, “is there something I can do for you?”

He lifted his eyes from his shoes to my face and nodded quickly.

“There is. I hate to ask. I know you're up here on vacation, but . . . Drew just got the results of his SAT test. They were pretty bad,” he said.

“How bad?”

He told me the number.

I winced. “Well, that's not the worst score I've ever heard, but it's not very good,” I admitted. “But, listen, it'll be all right. A lot of kids choke on their first go-round. Tell him not to worry. I'm sure he'll do better next time.”

“That's the problem,” Dan said. “He says there won't be a next time.

“He's been saving up since he was fourteen to go to college. Every dime that you paid him for watching your place, the money from every babysitting job he's ever had, every lawn he's ever mowed—it's all gone into the bank. He's got close to six thousand dollars saved. Now he says he's going to take the money and buy a truck.”

Dan shook his head and kicked at the ground with the toe of his work boot. “Stupid, stubborn kid. I've tried talking to him, but he says there's no point in doing it again, that he's just no good at tests.”

“That's not true,” I said. “He's just not used to this kind of test—that's all. Did he take any preparation classes beforehand?”

“No. I got him a book, and he read it, but that was about it.”

“Right,” I said. “Listen, that's not an uncommon experience. I've spent enough time around Drew to know that he's smart and can do much better on these tests. He just needs a little coaching. You tell him that I'm going to be his coach, that I've helped plenty of kids bring up their scores. He'll do much better next time—I promise. In fact, if he's willing to work with me, tell him I'll bet him twenty bucks against a set of mud flaps for this truck he says he's going to buy that he'll add at least two hundred points to his score.”

“Yeah?” he asked, relief written clearly on his face. “But are you sure you don't mind? You're supposed to be on sabbatical.”

“Dan, over the last five weeks I've taken up Zumba, guitar, quilting, gardening, pottery, Chinese cookery, kayaking, and watercolor painting. I even tried juggling. Some of my experiments have been successful. Others, not so much. I've enjoyed it all—well, almost all of it. But sometimes, it's nice to do something you already
know
you're good at.

“I know I can help Drew,” I said. “And I'm happy to do it. Tell him I'd like to see him for two hours, twice a week, until the next test. What days do you think would be good for him?”

“Between helping me with my landscaping clients and babysitting for Ivy, he's pretty booked,” Dan said, pulling on his nose again, thinking. “Would Tuesday nights be okay? And maybe Saturday afternoons?”

“That'll be fine.” I bent down to pick up my discarded trowel and placed it back in the pocket of my apron. “As long as we're finished before four on Saturday. I like to have a little extra time to get ready before Brian arrives.”

“That's right,” he said. “I almost forgot. You two go out every Saturday, don't you?”

“Uh-huh,” I said with a smile. “Saturday night is date night.”

I
should have worn a longer skirt.

When I sat down, my skirt hiked halfway up my thighs. I had to keep squeezing my knees together to avoid giving the panel more insight into my personal life than they'd bargained for. But from the way that Brad Boyle kept staring at my knees, I'd have sworn he was hoping I'd do exactly that.

Whoever decided that a guy like that should serve on the board of an organization that serves women—many of them survivors of domestic violence? If, by some miracle, I did manage to get the job, my first act as director of New Beginnings would be to boot Boyle from the board. The second would be to abolish the practice of conducting panel interviews. Or making the job applicant answer questions while sitting on a metal folding chair in the middle of a room with six sets of eyes staring at her. Talk about feeling exposed.

When I left for the interview, dressed in a gray jacket and black pencil skirt I'd borrowed from Margot, the last piece of advice she gave me was to just relax and be myself. If you're trying to make a list of the top ten most useless job interview tips, “relax and be yourself” would definitely make the top five. Nobody in that room was the least bit interested in discovering who I truly was or what I was capable of doing—me least of all. I was focused on keeping my knees together and telling them what they wanted to hear.

For a few minutes, it seemed like it was going pretty well.

I breezed through their questions about my personal background, speaking of how I became involved with New Beginnings without revealing too many gory details about the years of beatings, the mental and emotional abuse, the common history I share with so many of the women who come through the doors of New Beginnings and how that has ignited a desire to help repay the debt I owe to providence and the people who rescued me and helped me turn my life around by doing the same for other women.

Instead I said, “I believe my personal experiences give me a unique ability to appreciate the stresses and challenges that many of our clients are facing and will also allow me to gain their trust.”

And when they asked about where I saw New Beginnings heading in the future, I emphasized the need to expand the internship program, which, as we all knew, I was already in charge of.

I said, “This program has been an enormous success for the clients of New Beginnings as well as the businesses that have taken part in it. With the right kind of leadership”—by which I meant mine, but I didn't spell that out to the panel because I didn't have to; we all understood the rules of the game we were playing—“I'm convinced we could double our current rates of participation and job placement.”

Every member of the panel smiled as I said it; they loved the idea of New Beginnings helping women find full-time, good-paying jobs. So did I. Finding a job isn't the answer to every problem facing victims of domestic violence, but it sure helps.

I smiled to myself, thinking that it really was going well, much better than I'd hoped.

But that was before Brad Boyle started asking his questions.

“I'd like a little clarification on the educational portion of your résumé,” he said, frowning as he scanned one of the ivory-colored sheets of paper I had distributed to the panel when I entered the room. “It says here that you graduated from high school but doesn't mention where you went to school or when you got your diploma.”

Squeezing my knees together so tightly that it would have taken a crowbar and an act of Congress to pry them apart, I cleared my throat. “I got my high school equivalency diploma three years ago.”

He lifted his eyes from the paper and stared at me with raised brows. “You got your GED? So you didn't graduate from a real high school?”

“I didn't graduate from a brick-and-mortar high school,” I said, forcing myself to maintain eye contact, not wanting him to know how the question rattled me, “but I studied for and passed a series of tests that demonstrated I had mastered the equivalent educational standards required by the state. And I've been taking classes at the community college since then. I have a three-point-six grade average.”

Boyle shifted his eyes to the left and right, making sure his fellow interviewers heard my response.

“I see. And you're a sophomore now? After three years.” He coughed. “You know, Miss Peterman, I appreciate your special circumstances. I'm sure we all do. But you're the only candidate we've interviewed who doesn't have
at least
a bachelor's degree.”

My cheeks went red.

“I was encouraged to apply by Donna Walsh, the executive director at the Stanton Center—”

“Yes, we all know who Donna Walsh is.” Boyle smiled patronizingly, and I took a moment to silently loathe him, even more than I had before. “She's written you a very impressive letter of recommendation, but she isn't a member of this committee. The letter that Abigail Spaulding wrote on your behalf praised you just as highly. How long have you lived in New Bern—just five years? The fact that you've gained the support of both the executive director and one of the more prominent board members of the Stanton Center in such a short period of time certainly says something about you. But I feel I should remind you that, while New Beginnings is associated with the Stanton Center, we are now a separate entity with a separate and
independent
board. I think what I'm trying to say here is that—”

Susan Cavanaugh, who I knew from my work at New Beginnings and from the quilt shop, where she was a regular customer, cut him off.

“What Brad is trying to say, Ivy, is that we're very impressed with all you've been able to accomplish personally and professionally, especially in such difficult circumstances.”

She rose from her chair and extended her hand, letting me know that the interview was over.

“Thanks, Ivy,” she said, clasping my hand in both of hers. “We'll be in touch just as soon as we've made our decision.”

 

I went into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, not because I'd been crying but because I was angry and needed to cool off before I met Dan and the kids at the bowling alley. If Brad Boyle had walked into the ladies' room at that moment, I'd have spit in his face. Or at least on his shoes.

Brad Boyle didn't walk into the bathroom, but Susan Cavanaugh did.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Did you come in here to tell me I'm hired?” I asked sarcastically. I yanked a paper towel from the dispenser. “I know I wasn't a shoo-in for this job, but what was the point of embarrassing me like that? Why did Brad have to make me feel like I was three inches tall? What a jerk!” I threw the balled-up paper towel in the trash.

“You won't get any arguments from me there,” Susan muttered. “But Brad is looking to launch a political career. He wants to establish a reputation as a maverick, someone who can't be influenced or prodded by the old guard. And the others really are anxious to make sure that our board is operating independently of the Stanton Center. Those letters of recommendation from Donna and Abigail definitely helped you get the interview—the committee couldn't ignore them—but they also made it tougher for you to get the job.

“Don't take it so hard,” she said, standing behind me and addressing my reflection as I reapplied my lipstick. “You just got caught up in the politics of it—that's all. And let's be honest, you've been doing good work at New Beginnings, but your résumé is still a little thin. If you had a college degree, I don't think the rest of the board would have gone along with Boyle. You really need to go back to school, Ivy.”

“I already did.”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “Ivy, you are smart, hardworking, and passionate. I'd love to see you run New Beginnings. But no one is going to hire you for a position with that much responsibility without a college diploma. You need to go back to school full-time and finish your degree now. Not ten years from now.”

I put the cap back on my lipstick tube and turned to face her.

“Thanks for the advice, Susan. And the minute somebody steps up to pay my tuition and bills so I
can,
I'll be happy to take it.”

 

When I arrived at the bowling alley, Drew and Bethany were sitting on blue plastic benches, drinking soda and eating pizza while awaiting their turn to bowl. Dan was standing a few feet behind Bobby with his arms crossed over his chest, watching as my little guy crouched forward, swung his arm, and sent the ball spinning down the lane.

“Yes!” Dan cried, pumping his fist as Bobby's ball struck the pins. “Spare! Way to go, Bob-O!”

Bobby did a little dance of celebration, wiggling his hips and waving his arms.

Dan gave Bobby a high five. “You are a champion, buddy!”

“Ha! Beat that!” Bobby said as he took his sister's place on the bench.

Bethany got to her feet slowly and picked up her ball. “Shut up, Bobby.”

Dan spotted me standing in the back, grinned, and lifted his hand to greet me. I waved back and tried to smile, but I must not have been very convincing. Dan frowned and started walking toward me.

“Hey, Bobby,” he called over his shoulder. “Let's be good sports, okay? Bethany hasn't had as much practice as you have.”

Drew put down his drink and jumped up from his seat. “Hang on, Bethany. Let me show you how to aim the ball.”

Dan kissed me on the cheek, then placed both hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said, knowing how things had gone without having to ask.

“Thanks,” I sighed. “It's just that I really, really
wanted
this job, you know?”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Until now, I think I was afraid to admit how much.” I shrugged. “Well, I'll get over it. I always do. This is just one more item on the long list of things I've failed at. Honestly, I don't know why I even bothered to fill out the application. The whole thing was a big waste of time.”

“Hey. Stop that.” Dan squeezed my shoulders. “Maybe you didn't get the job this time, but another time, you will. There will be other jobs. And you're not a failure,” he insisted.

I pulled away from his grasp.

“Next time? Jobs like this don't come along very often, especially in New Bern. Whoever does get the job will stay there until they drop. Of course,” I said with a derisive little laugh, “maybe by then I'll actually have finished my stupid degree. Maybe
then,
when I'm about ninety, I'll finally be qualified for the job.”

There was a crash of bowling pins. I looked up to see Bethany standing at the top of the lane, grinning, and Drew clapping for her. Bobby was clapping too.

He turned toward me and yelled, “Mommy! Did you see that? Bethy got a strike!”

I forced a smile, waved, and called out, “Good job, sweetie!”

As soon as she saw me, Bethany's grin was replaced by a glare. “Your turn,” she said to Drew and sat down.

I made a sputtering sound with my lips and turned back to Dan. “Wonderful. And on top of everything else, my daughter hates me. Oh, and I was also treated to a snippy phone call from Sheila Fenton, reminding me that the kids' first meeting with Hodge is just weeks away and that she certainly hopes Bethany will have improved her attitude before then. As if I had any control over that! And I'm sorry, but Bethany gets to feel however she feels about Hodge. She may be a child, but she's still a person. She's got a mind of her own. And a memory.”

I sank down into a chair, propped my elbows on one of the café tables, and put my head in my hands. Dan sat down next to me and rested his hand between my shoulder blades.

“Can I buy you a beer?”

I shook my head but didn't look up. “Beer makes you fat.”

“How about a glass of wine, then? And a cheeseburger. I'm taking everybody out to dinner.”

“You don't have to do that,” I said. “I'll be okay.”

“I already told the kids we were going out. I figured if you got the job, we should celebrate. And if you didn't? Well, I figured you'd need a cheeseburger. And maybe a chocolate milk shake.”

“Wine is better,” I mumbled into the tent of my arms. “Thanks. Sorry I'm such a grump.”

“It's all right. You're entitled. Hey, I was thinking that on Sunday we could take a picnic to Tanglewood and go to the James Taylor concert, just you and me. I'll bring a whole bottle of wine and ask Drew to babysit.”

“Can't,” I said. “Virginia's birthday party is on Sunday.”

“That's right. I forgot. Well, maybe next week. I don't know who's playing, but it doesn't matter. It'd just be nice to get away by ourselves for a few hours.”

“Uh-huh,” I said distractedly, then picked up my head.

“You know what makes me crazy? Susan Cavanaugh said that if I just had my diploma, they probably would have given me the job. It's so unfair! It's a piece of paper! Why should it matter? And that snotty Brad Boyle . . . he made me feel about this big,” I said, pinching a couple inches of air between my thumb and forefinger. “Susan says he wants to go into politics. Ha! I wouldn't vote for him for dog catcher!”

“Me neither,” Dan said soberly. “Can't stand that guy. Hate his guts.”

His deadpan tone made me smile in spite of myself. “Do you even know Brad Boyle?”

“Nope. But that's not the point. I'm being supportive. Hate his guts. Hope he gets hit by a trash truck.”

“Very funny. I should call Susan later,” I said, my smile fading. “I was kind of nasty to her today.”

“Why?” Dan asked. “I thought you liked her.”

“I do. She tracked me down in the bathroom after the interview, trying to cheer me up, and said I should go back to school full-time. I was pretty snippy to her, but . . . she's right. Nobody is going to hire me for the job I really want until I finish my degree. Which, at this pace, will take until I'm forty! By then, they'll probably say I'm too old to do that work.”