The Beach Quilt (28 page)

“Thanks for having us over to work on the quilt, Mrs. Bauer,” Cordelia said. “I always love being here.”

The five women were gathered around the kitchen table. Sarah's mother had made her infamous butterscotch chip cookies and already—not that Sarah was counting—Cordelia had eaten three. Well, she thought, reaching for her second cookie, they were pretty hard to resist.

Stevie was absorbed in her work, her face a mask of concentration. Clarissa sat on the table, carefully watching every move of Stevie's skilled hands. Mrs. Kane and her mother were chatting idly about the exploits of some impossible neighbor while they sewed, and Cordelia, when she wasn't eating, was leafing through a magazine devoted to needlecraft, the pile of material before her largely ignored.

As for Sarah, her work was going slowly as her mind was mostly elsewhere. (Unlike her mother, she wasn't skilled enough to multitask.)

It was odd, but in the past few days or so, Sarah had realized that she no longer felt
any
connection to Justin whatsoever. She felt—and this was weird—almost as if she had generated the baby on her own. She wondered if this was a common feeling among women who were pregnant by men they didn't love or by men who didn't love them. Or maybe
all
pregnant women experienced this feeling of exclusivity on some level, even if they were happily partnered. She glanced over at her mother and Mrs. Kane. She supposed she could ask them about what she was feeling, and Dr. Westin might have some insight, too.

Besides, no matter how alien Justin
seemed
, he
was
always there with her, one half of the baby growing inside her. She knew all about the nature versus nurture argument, an argument that could never be fully resolved. A child was not born a blank slate. At the same time, the experiences a parent or caretaker provided counted enormously toward creating the adult that child would become.

So what traits
had
Justin contributed to their baby? Who
was
Justin Morrow, anyway? It was frustrating to know so little about him, but maybe there just wasn't all that much to know. Maybe he really
wasn't
a person of any nuance or complexity. And maybe, in spite of her very best efforts—and this was a scary thought—her child would grow up to have a shallow personality and a weak character just like his father. Maybe he would grow up to exhibit Justin's lack of moral fiber. Maybe, in spite of her encouragement, he would barely be able to finish high school without flunking out due to sheer laziness.

Sarah wondered now if that really was why Justin had barely managed to graduate. Maybe he had a learning disorder that had never been identified. Maybe it
had
been identified, but his parents had ignored the doctor's findings out of embarrassment or simply a lack of concern. Sarah figured she would never know the answers to any of these vexing questions.

Anyway, she thought now, eyeing the rapidly dwindling supply of cookies, hopefully her son would be more like his mother simply because
she
would be the primary influence on him. Maybe he would love the harsh cry of seagulls and enjoy walks through the woods and rambles on the beach and the glorious sight of the sun setting over the marshes at the end of the day. And all because
she
would have taught him to love and appreciate those things. She would have introduced him to the natural world through her own eyes of wonder.

Sarah's mother laughed at something Mrs. Kane had said. Well, Sarah thought, if she would be the primary person in her child's life, her wonderful parents and her amazing sister would not be far behind in importance. It would be a very good thing for her son to grow up with a strong male figure like Joe Bauer. It wasn't strictly necessary to have a good male role model in the home—lots of people went without this and did just fine in life—but it certainly couldn't hurt. She would be giving her son the gift of a superlative grandfather. That was something to feel good about.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the back door to the house opened and Sarah's father came in, closing the door carefully behind him.

“Ladies,” he said, and was greeted by a chorus of welcome. “Hard at work, I see.”

Cordelia laughed. “Well, some of us are!”

He indicated the brown paper bag he was holding. “I brought some ice cream, but I see you already have cookies so . . .”

“Dad!” Sarah laughed. “What kind did you get?”

Joe Bauer smiled. “Maple walnut, of course.”

“Sarah's current favorite,” Stevie explained. “She eats so much maple walnut ice cream the baby is probably already addicted to it.”

“Well,” Sarah said, putting down her sewing. “He
is
my son!”

Adelaide was at The Busy Bee alone. Cindy had the afternoon off, Sarah would be in after two, and Jack was taking Cordelia for her annual checkup. And, after that, they were going for nachos at her favorite Mexican place. Going to the doctor made Cordelia a nervous wreck, and she claimed to need nachos as part of her recovery.

If things at the shop got busy, Adelaide might feel pressed, but otherwise she enjoyed the times she was on her own. She felt a bit like the queen of her very own kingdom. True, she hadn't made the business a success entirely on her own, but she
was
the guiding spirit of The Busy Bee.

And Adelaide was in a good mood. That very morning, Cordelia had complimented her mother on a new blouse. She said that it brought out the brilliant blue of her mother's eyes. Brilliant blue! Adelaide saw the compliment as a gesture of reconciliation, a pretty big step in the right direction. Maybe Cordelia had told Sarah about the long-ago adoption, and maybe Sarah had helped her come to terms with it. There was no point in Sarah
not
knowing; even Cindy had said so.

The bell over the door announced the arrival of a customer.
Well,
Adelaide thought,
maybe.
He didn't exactly look like her usual customers. He looked to be about sixty, wearing a clean but frayed plaid shirt, old jeans held up with suspenders, work boots, and a John Deere cap.

“Hello,” Adelaide said with a smile. “May I help you?”

The man nodded. “I saw an ad for your shop in the paper,” he said. “That's down in New Hampshire. My wife, Betty, loves quilts. Can't get enough of 'em. She's been feeling poorly lately, can't even leave the house some days. Thought I'd come up here while her sister's visiting—don't like to leave her alone—and buy her something nice. Cheer her up. Problem is, don't know what I'm lookin' at!”

Adelaide came out from behind the counter. “Well, then,” she said, “let's see what I can do for you.” Talking budget to men buying a gift for their wives could be delicate. She didn't want to insult him by suggesting a very expensive item or, conversely, by suggesting one that he might see as costing suspiciously little.

She asked the man about his wife's favorite colors. He thought for a moment and came up with blue and “that red that's like brown.”

“Maroon?” Adelaide suggested. He nodded. She asked him if anything in the store looked like the kind of quilts his wife already owned, and after examination he pointed out a few pieces. She asked if a quilt was what he would like to give her or if supplies were more what he had in mind. “Her hands are pretty shaky at the moment,” he said. “It better be something finished.”

Adelaide thought she had just the right quilt for this devoted husband. She went to one of the shop's long, flat drawers and carefully opened it. “This,” she said, lifting a quilt from the drawer, “is a piece your wife might like. It's a sampler quilt. The design is called ‘Farmer's Wife.' It was made by my dear friend Cindy. She and her family live right here in Yorktide.”

“It's pretty,” the man said. “Colors are right. Looks like it might perk her up some. And she is a farmer's wife.”

“I don't know what you had in mind to spend,” Adelaide said. By now she was determined to let this nice man have the quilt at whatever price he could afford.

Without taking his eyes off the quilt he mentioned a dollar figure. Adelaide smiled. “Well,” she said, “you'll have change in your pocket on the way home.”

The man smiled now. “Can you wrap it up?” he asked. “Truck's not as clean as it should be.”

Adelaide completed the purchase and handed the man the quilt carefully wrapped in layers of tissue paper. “I hope your wife loves it,” she said. “And I hope she feels better soon.”

“Thank you kindly,” the man said, and took his leave.

Adelaide realized that she was smiling. The encounter with that loving husband had been the icing on what was already a good day. She decided she would give the entire amount he had paid to Cindy, forgoing The Busy Bee's usual cut. There were more important things in life than money. Like the fact that her daughter didn't hate her after all!

It was almost four o'clock. Joe would be home soon. At least, Cindy hoped that he would. He had taken on another new client even though he was already stretched. “We need the money,” he had argued, and Cindy couldn't deny that. Still, she was concerned that he not work too hard and become careless. Accidents on a job site could be minor, but they also could be major. Just the previous year, a guy Joe knew pretty well had fallen off a ladder while doing some repair work to a roof and had broken both legs. He was still on disability, and his family was really feeling the pinch.

Well, assuming Joe would walk through the door under his own steam, Cindy had decided to make brownies for him. (And for her.) Brownies from a box mix were all well and good, but Cindy enjoyed the process of making them from scratch. There was something very soothing about carefully measuring the flour and slowly melting the chocolate, and finally, about spreading the gooey mixture into a pan. And, of course, there was the eating part.

“Hi.”

Cindy smiled. “Hi, yourself.” Sarah's body was very clearly a woman's body now. Not once had she complained to her mother about swollen feet or an aching back. Maybe she really wasn't feeling any discomfort. Maybe she felt she didn't have a right to complain. Unfortunately, that sounded a lot like Sarah.

“Mmm, that smells so good. When are they going to be ready?”

“Soon,” Cindy said. “In about ten minutes.”

“Good. I can't wait.”

“You'll have to let them cool a bit first.”

“Why?” Sarah said. “It's just you and me. Who cares if I've got brownie goo running down my chin?”

Cindy laughed. “Good point.”

Sarah took a seat at the table. “So guess what, Mom?” she said. “I've decided on a name for the baby.”

“I can't wait to hear it!”

“It's Henry. Henry Joseph.”

“Oh.” Cindy was immediately aware that her tone had been less than enthusiastic. She had been hoping that Sarah would choose the name David. It was a good, strong biblical name. She had planned on naming her second lost child David.

Sarah's face fell. “You don't like it?”

“It's not that,” she said quickly. “But no one in our family is named Henry. At least, as far as I know.”

“That doesn't matter, does it? I just really like the name. Henry.”

“It's a fine name,” Cindy said with a nod. “Old. Traditional. And not something silly like some of the names these celebrities are calling their children.”

“Not only celebs, Mom. You know Maureen Ross, who works at the Dunkin' Donuts on River Street? She just had a girl and named her Cognac.”

Cindy cringed. “I know Maureen's mother. She's one of the shop's most loyal customers. I wonder what she thinks of having a granddaughter named after an alcoholic beverage.”

“I hope she's not a teetotaler. Can you imagine?”

“No. But I just thought. Brandy is a girl's name. Maybe Cognac will sound normal someday.”

“How about Kahlúa? Mint Julep? Oh, I know! Sloe Gin Fizz!”

“How do you know all those names of drink?”

Sarah smiled. “I read a lot.”

“What are you reading, exactly?”

“Oh, Mom, you can't honestly think I drink!”

But Cindy had, for a split second. She had thought:
Is that why Sarah got pregnant? Had she been drunk when it happened?
“Of course not,” she said firmly.

“I've never even had a beer though Justin—” Sarah looked away.

Cindy tensed. Every time his name was mentioned, and thankfully that wasn't often these days, she felt a surge of pure anger. She hated that she couldn't seem to get control over her emotions where Justin was concerned. “Justin what?” she asked, keeping her tone even with effort.

“Nothing,” Sarah said, turning back to her mother. “I feel absolutely nothing for him anymore so I wish . . . I wish I could just forget about him completely, have my memory erased or something.”

Don't we all,
Cindy answered silently. “Well,” she said, “that's not going to happen. But maybe over time . . .”

“No.” Sarah's tone was firm. “Every time I'll look at Henry, I'll see Justin, won't I? At least, I'll think of him.”

“Not necessarily,” Cindy argued, but she wasn't sure she believed what she was arguing. “You'll see Henry first and foremost and that's who you'll love, just Henry, for who he is all on his own.”

Sarah looked doubtful. “I hope you're right, Mom.”

Cindy hoped she was right, too. The oven timer went off then, and she reached for a dish towel. “Brownies are done.”

“Excellent. I feel like I could eat the whole bunch.”

Cindy took the hot pan from the oven and put it on top of one of the burners on the stove. “I remember being ravenous all the time when I was pregnant with you,” she said. “Not with Stevie, though. I had all sorts of weird reactions to different foods with that pregnancy.” Cindy gestured to the pan of cooling brownies. “Like chocolate. I love chocolate, but for some reason it nauseated me when I was pregnant with your sister. It's funny how every pregnancy can be so unique.”

Sarah laughed shortly. “I doubt I'll ever know.”

“What do you mean?” Cindy asked.

“Come on, Mom. I'm having a baby at seventeen. Who knows how I'll be able to afford things in the future? Who knows if I'll even be able to go to college, let alone travel like I had planned? It would be stupid to have another baby when I'll be struggling to handle the first one for the rest of my life. After all, I can't be relying on you and Dad forever. It wouldn't be fair.”

Cindy felt immeasurably saddened by her daughter's attitude of defeat. “Oh, Sarah, don't talk like that,” she pleaded, joining her at the table. “Your entire life is still ahead of you. You just have some challenges now that you didn't have before. You could still go to college someday and get married and have more children and—”

“Mom,” Sarah said, taking her mother's hand. “Thanks, but I know the reality. I've read the statistics. They're pretty grim. And I know, I know, I'm not a statistic, I'm an individual, but still. There's a lot stacked against me. It would be silly to deny it.”

My poor baby,
Cindy thought, fighting the urge to sob. Was there really to be no mystery or magic left in her world, no innocence or possibility of simple joy? It couldn't be. It wouldn't be fair.

Then again, who ever said that life was fair?

Cindy gave Sarah's hand a squeeze. “I think we should eat a brownie now.”