The Second Sister (25 page)

“Nothing ever is,” Daphne said. “You can't help things changing.”

“I know,” Celia said with a pout. “Doesn't that suck?”

 

We finished just in time for Peter to get to the ice rink. His tiny players had a game that afternoon.

“Want to come along?” he asked, rolling down the window of the truck so we could talk. “We're playing a team from Sturgeon Bay. I hear they've got a six-year-old on the squad who's nearly four feet tall. Should be quite a battle.”

I whistled low, mirroring his tongue-in-cheek tone. “Wow. Hate to miss that. But I should really go back to the house and help Celia settle in. You understand.”

“Sure, sure,” Peter said. His grin disappeared so quickly that I had the feeling he also understood what I wasn't saying, at least some of it.

I'd texted him only because I was worried about what might happen. If Rinda broke out her wire cutters, somehow, I knew Peter would come up with a way to defuse a potentially explosive situation. It was kind of an emergency. But I needed to keep a little distance between me and him. His clipped tone of voice told me that he understood that. But what he didn't get was that I wasn't withdrawing because I wasn't attracted to him; quite the opposite. I'd lain awake half the night thinking about him. And that kiss.

For a couple of days, at least until the memory of that spectacular, passionate, brain-numbing kiss and the feeling of giddy surrender that flooded my body when he'd picked me up in his arms faded a little, I needed to stay away from Peter Swenson. But as I looked into his gorgeous, soulful brown eyes, I realized that a couple of days might not be enough.

Peter turned the key in the ignition and the truck came to life.

“Thanks so much,” I said. “This could have gotten ugly if you hadn't been here.”

“No problem,” he said, refusing to meet my gaze. He rolled up the window, shifted into gear, and drove off.

“See you later!” I called, lifting my arm high.

I'm pretty sure he heard me, but he didn't wave back.

Chapter 33

W
ith all the cargo, there was space for only two passengers in each vehicle, so Daphne drove back to the cottage with Celia and I got into Rinda's van. Celia drove right off, but as we were starting to back out of the driveway, Rinda hit the brake and then put the van into park.

“Hang on a minute,” she said, switching off the ignition and opening the door. “There's something I need to say to Pat.”

My pulse started to race. Heaven only knew what Rinda might say to Pat. Or how he might react.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?”

She didn't answer, just grabbed her purse off the floorboard and hopped out.

“I won't be long,” she said.

I watched her stride up to the door like a woman on a mission; the square set of her shoulders and every step she took spoke of determination. I shouldn't have let Peter leave until the rest of us did. He'd have known what to say or do to ward off a confrontation between Rinda and Pat. But I knew she wouldn't listen to me.

I sat in the passenger seat, watching anxiously as Rinda hammered on the door, hoping that Pat would refuse to open it. But he did open it and Rinda went inside. The door closed and I sat there, waiting.

Fifteen minutes later, about the time I was thinking I should knock on the door myself to make sure that everything was all right, Rinda came outside. She climbed in the van, backed out of the driveway, and headed down Birch Street without saying a word.

The suspense was killing me.

“Well? What took you so long? What were you doing in there?”

“Talking to Pat,” Rinda said calmly, her eyes glued to the road. “And giving him tracts.”

“Tracts?”

“Uh-huh. One from my church and the other from Alcoholics Anonymous. They meet in my church every Monday and Thursday.”

She started humming a little tune as she drove, a snippet of some hymn, as if she had suddenly gotten into a very good mood.

I sat there for a moment, trying to make sense of it. Only a couple of hours before, Rinda had been masterminding a plan to lay siege to Pat's house and, on the drive over, had voiced a few other creative ideas on how her wire cutters might be used to inflict a few further lessons on that “no-good, worthless fornicator.” And now she wanted to invite him to church? I didn't get it.

“So . . . did he read them?”

“No. Mostly he sat there feeling sorry for himself and blubbering about Celia. He's not ready to read them yet. But someday he might be. He said I could leave them on the table and that's a start. And he let me give him my phone number too.”

My eyes went wide. “You gave him your phone number? Why?”

“Because someday he
is
going to be ready. And when that day comes, I told him I'd be his AA sponsor.”

Rinda went back to humming and driving and I just sat there for a second, trying to digest this information and to make sense of the walking bundle of contradictions that was Rinda Charles, ultimately deciding that it couldn't be done and I'd just have to accept her as she was.

“That was really nice of you,” I said, but Rinda shrugged off the compliment.

“No. I'm just doing unto others what somebody else already did for me. That's all. But you know what is nice?” She turned her head so she could see my face. “You watching out for our Celia. Taking her into your home.”

Now it was my turn to wave off words of praise. “Oh, that's not anything. I don't mind. I like Celia.”

Rinda turned her gaze forward again. “So do I. I would have asked her to come live with Lloyd and me, but . . .” She sighed.

“What is it?” She dismissed my question with a wave of her hand. “Come on. I can tell that something is bothering you.”

“Nothing. It just wouldn't be a good time to have somebody move in with us. I'm going to have to put our house up for sale.”

Since the night when Daphne showed up at my door with the remainder of the FOA in tow, we'd gathered together a few more times for “quilt-ins,” as Rinda termed them. In that time I'd learned a lot about quilting and even more about my fellow quilters. Quilting, I'd noticed, loosened tongues even faster than liquor did. However, conversation among quilters tends to be a lot less rambling and make a lot more sense than conversations among your average group of barflies.

It won't leave you with dry mouth or a headache the next morning either. But that's another issue.

The point is, though our time together was short, I'd already learned a lot about the FOA. I knew all about Celia's unhappy childhood that kept her looking for love in all the wrong places. I learned more about Daphne's history and her struggles trying to raise four girls on her own. I'd learned about Rinda too.

I knew that Lloyd, her husband of thirty-one years, had been in the Marines when they met and that Rinda had started drinking during his long and lonely deployments. Eventually, Lloyd gave her an ultimatum and Rinda started going to AA. Lloyd retired from the military and they decided to move to Door County because they thought life in the country would offer fewer temptations and a lower cost of living. They'd invested their life savings so Lloyd could open his own HVAC business and worked hard to finally purchase their own home, a three-bedroom, two-bath bungalow with a garage and a peekaboo view of the bay. Rinda loved that house and often pointed to it as evidence that if people would just work a little harder and solve their own problems, they could “pull themselves up by their bootstraps.”

And now she was going to sell? Something must be really wrong.

“Lloyd hasn't been feeling very good,” she admitted. “We went to the doctor and it turns out that his kidneys are failing. Eventually, he's going to have to have a kidney replacement, assuming we can find a compatible donor. Everything is all right for the moment; the doctor said that he can go at least a year and maybe a few before he'll need a replacement, but he just can't keep working like he has been. It's such physical work and he gets tired so easily. Looks like he's going to have to retire early, sell the business.

“At first, I wasn't too worried, at least not about that part. With what he can get for the business, plus his military pension and my job, I figured we'd be able to get by. But I just found out that someone is buying the Save-A-Bunch. The new owners are going to put in a lot of those automated checkout counters. They won't need so many cashiers. Since I was the last one hired . . .”

“You'll be the first one fired. Oh, Rinda. I'm so sorry.”

“Me too. We'll make it somehow or other,” she said, her brave-sounding words a sharp contrast to the worried expression on her face.

“But you know how it is around here. Most of the retail work is seasonal, and that's all I know how to do. I'll find another job in the spring. But in the meantime, we've got to tighten our belts. The house is our biggest expense. We just can't afford to keep it.”

I told her again how sorry I was. What else was there to say?

“You know something else that really gets to me?” she asked, and then answered her own question. “The people buying the market aren't even from here. It's some investment group out of California. And yet, they're just going to waltz into town, tear down the old store, and build a new one. I love the old building. It's been Nilson's Bay's only grocery store since 1922. It has history! And character! But this thing they want to build . . .” Rinda shook her head and curled her lip.

“It's like something you'd see in a strip mall in Mendocino—because it is. It looks exactly like all the other stores in that chain. Fake adobe on the exterior. Adobe! In Wisconsin!”

“That's crazy,” I said. “That won't fit in with the rest of downtown. And you're sure they're going to tear the old store down completely?”

“Oh, not just the store—the old Herzog building, too, so they can expand the footprint of the market and add more parking. I saw the plans. They're going to put in one of those ready-to-go meal counters, an imported cheese section, an olive bar, a café with an espresso maker—stuff they can charge higher prices for—and then decrease the amount of shelf space for basic groceries, like baking supplies and canned goods. But they're going to raise the prices for that too. I know that the tourists like all that fancy, prepared stuff, but what are the people who live here year-round supposed to eat? I can't afford the time or gas to drive all the way to Sturgeon Bay just so I can buy a can of corn or a bag of flour!”

“No, and you shouldn't have to. That's terrible.”

As Rinda turned the van onto Lakeview Trail, she pressed her lips together, exposing a web of worry lines around her mouth. “I don't know how we're supposed to pay more for groceries when I'm about to lose my job, but I guess we'll just have to figure it out. What else can I do? You can't fight city hall.”

I turned in my seat and stared at Rinda with a mixture of confusion and amusement. Didn't she realize who was riding in her car?

“Don't be silly!” I exclaimed. “
Of course
you can!”

Chapter 34

O
ur quilt-ins are kind of a movable feast; everyone takes turns hosting. We were supposed to meet at Rinda's house that evening, but since we were already at the cottage after having gotten Celia moved in, we just decided to stay put and sew at my house.

It was kind of an exciting night for me because my quilt top was nearly complete. The only thing I had left to do was sew the batting to the front of the quilt and then hand-stitch it to the back. Rinda had promised to help and teach me how to miter the corners so they'd look tidy and sharp. I'd wanted to use the easier “self-binding” method, where you just cut the backing wider and then fold it, iron it to the front, and stitch it down, but Rinda made a face and then suggested I “jazz it up” by adding prairie points to the binding, a row of colorful triangles to add dimension.

“Don't be such a chicken! You can do it. I'll show you.”

She'd said the same thing about having me do the quilting myself on my good old Singer instead of sending it out to a professional.

“I don't hold with that. All these people who piece their tops but hire somebody else to do the finishing . . . Hmph. They're not quilters. They're toppers!” she declared, curling her lip in a way that made it sound almost like a dirty word.

Frankly, I'd been pretty darned impressed with myself just for finishing the top, and it would have bothered me not one whit to be called a topper—until Rinda started giving me a hard time about it. But the idea of quilting the top was far more intimidating than piecing it. Ripping out a seam in a piece of patchwork isn't so bad, but removing stitches quilted through two layers of fabric plus a center batting is complicated. I was terrified that after so many hours of hard work, I'd end up ruining the quilt. But in the end I caved in to peer pressure and did it myself.

And, believe me, even just doing basic stitch-in-the-ditch quilting, sewing into the seam lines so my mistakes would be less noticeable, wasn't as easy as Rinda had made it sound, but, I had to admit, I felt a certain pride in knowing I'd done the whole thing myself and could legitimately claim the title “quilter” as my own. And, considering it was my first quilt, it really had turned out pretty well.

I'd worked hard on it, but I knew that the real reason I was sitting in the sewing room with an almost completed quilt top on my lap that night was because of the FOA. Daphne, Rinda, and Celia had made it their mission to ensure that I finished my project before the end of my final sojourn in Nilson's Bay, knowing that once I returned to DC and plunged back into the swift current of politics, I wouldn't have time to quilt, not for years. Or perhaps ever.

I knew I would miss those quiet hours at the sewing machine, the way my worries would recede and my imagination would drift when I submerged myself into the steady
thunkedy-thunkedy-thunkedy
of the needle moving over and through the fabric, the sense of satisfaction I felt when I lifted the presser foot, snipped off the thread, opened the patch or block or row to the right side of the fabric, and saw what a pretty combination the colors made and how neatly the seams met.

I would also miss these evenings with the FOA, the pride I felt when showing them what I'd been able to accomplish since the last time I'd seen them, the excitement of seeing what they were working on, too, and the connections we created as we worked together to correct a mistake or tackle a problem. And it was amazing how much pleasure I got from something so simple, or the sense of accomplishment I derived from something as basic as joining one square of fabric to another, but my vacation was fast coming to a close, the days flying far more quickly than I could ever have imagined.

Soon I would pack my bags and leave this house I had grown up in and this town that held so many memories, good and bad, but more good than I had been willing to acknowledge until recently. Yes, I would return to Nilson's Bay, but only briefly, to finish the last of my Alice-mandated residency and sign over the deed to a home that represented a huge part of who I was and what had made me this way. It would all belong to someone else then.

I hadn't wanted to come home for a day, let alone two months, but now that my time here was coming to a close, I felt a little sad.

But still, I had this quilt, and I was grateful for that.

Whenever I saw it or touched it, I would remember this room, the hours I had spent here, and the supposedly simpleminded sister who had a wisdom I could never hope to match, whose legacy brought me home.

And, of course, I would remember Rinda and Daphne and Celia. They were without question three of the oddest women I'd ever met—especially when encountered as a set. But, eccentricities aside, they were as good a trio of women as you could hope to meet. The fact that, out of all the available candidates, Alice had picked these three to be her best friends was more evidence of my sister's inexplicable wisdom. I really was going to miss them.

After I left we might exchange Christmas cards, or maybe, if they ever came to DC, I'd take them to lunch and arrange a private tour of the White House. Aside from that, it was doubtful our paths would cross again. But I would miss them. I knew they'd only helped me out of a desire to honor Alice's memory, but had I been able to stay, I think they might have become my friends too.

All day, ever since that uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability in the van when Rinda had confessed her problems to me, I'd been thinking about ways to stop the demolition of the market and, in turn, save Rinda's job. I'd trotted out a couple of different possibilities to Rinda during the remainder of the drive, but she'd told me, in pretty clear language, to butt out of her business.

But I couldn't. The whole time Rinda was helping me sew those prairie points, I was thinking about how I could help her. Alice wasn't the only doggedly determined Toomey sister. And I just couldn't sit there and do nothing, not when I knew in my heart that there was a possibility of helping!

So after my beautiful blue, white, and orange quilt was finished and we were sitting in a circle, each holding one edge of the quilt and hand-stitching the binding, I spilled the beans and told Daphne and Celia about Rinda's predicament.

She was not pleased.

“Who said you could—!” she sputtered. “Didn't I tell you to keep that to yourself?”

“No,” I said. “And even if you had, I'd have ignored you. Why shouldn't they know?”

“Because there's no point in getting people upset about things that can't be helped. Now look what you've done. Celia! Stop crying! Everything is going to be fine.”

“But what about Lloyd?” Celia said, fighting to keep her lip from quivering. “And your house!”

“The doctors say that Lloyd will be fine for now, but he needs to take better care of himself. They're putting him on the list for a new kidney and, God willing, one will be available by the time he needs it. Lloyd and I are leaving this in God's loving hands. And as far as the house . . .” Rinda said stoutly, “it's just a house. It's not like we'll be homeless.”

“But you love that house,” Daphne said.

“No,” Rinda corrected. “I
like
my house, but I
love
my husband. Lloyd's health is all that matters.” Daphne gave her a doubtful look and started to say something, but Rinda cut her off. “Now, don't you start in too. It's just a house. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be his name.”

“Listen to me,” I said sharply. “This
can
be helped. We need to take this up with the village council, and—”

“Pfft,” Rinda puffed, and then rolled her eyes. “As if anybody ever got anywhere by relying on the government to solve their problems.”

“Rinda! Will you just shut up and listen for a minute!” I shouted, loudly enough to make Rinda jump in her chair and shock Celia from her tears. Daphne just grinned as if she were enjoying the show.

“Don't you get it?” I stabbed my needle into the batting, let the quilt drop into my lap, and clapped one hand onto my chest. “We
are
the people! The government exists and functions of, for, and by us!”

Rinda scowled at me, but she didn't argue. I stayed quiet, knowing that she was at least thinking about what I'd said.

“Maybe,” she said, “but I think it's too late for that. The plans are all finished. I just don't see how—”

“But I
do,
” I said urgently. “This kind of thing—grassroots, hands-on political campaigning—is my job. And, not to brag, but I'm really good at it! Just the other day, a man called me up and offered me ten thousand dollars to sketch out a plan to help his client drum up community support that would help him win government approval to create a new housing development. I said I wouldn't do it because the project was sketchy, definitely not in the best interests of the community. But this! Preserving a historically important building? Staying true to our traditions and the unique, rural character of life on the peninsula? Saving jobs? That's the kind of project I'm more than ready to support. And if we can get the word out, I know there are plenty of other people who will feel the same.”

As I talked, Rinda's hostile scowl softened into a frown of concentration. When I finished, she pressed her lips tightly together and blew out a heavy breath through her nose.

“I don't know. Seems like a long shot. And ten thousand dollars? Where would we get—”

“Rinda!” I shouted again and threw up my hands. I couldn't help myself. “I am not going to charge you a ten-thousand-dollar consulting fee! I'm not going to charge you anything. I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do!

“Look, I know that you and I could not be on more opposite sides of the fence when it comes to a whole range of issues and attitudes, but as different as we are in ideology and methodology, I have come to see that your heart is absolutely in the right place, and that you are a caring and compassionate”—I smiled—“if somewhat intolerant woman.”

Rinda's scowl returned, but I paid no attention and kept talking.

“Now, if I can ascribe good intentions to you, why can't you do the same for me? Because really? It's starting to hurt my feelings.”

I blinked a few times and pretended to sniffle. Rinda's brow went smooth and her lips flattened into a line as she fought, and nearly succeeded, to keep herself from smiling.

“Hmph. You politicians. Always ready to make a speech, aren't you?”

“I'm not a politician; I just work for them. And in this instance, I think you'd really call me more of an activist.”

“Just as bad,” she grumbled. “Worse!”

She hesitated and I could see in her eyes what was holding her back, the fear of hoping for something she wanted so badly, of trying and failing and then having to resign herself all over again.

“You think there's really a chance?”

“I do,” I said. “There's no guarantee, but it's definitely worth a try.”

“It would be such a load off Lloyd's mind if we could keep the house,” she mused. “He's been so upset, feeling like he's let me down . . . foolish old man . . . he's never let me down a day in my life.”

During this entire exchange, Celia and Daphne had been sitting by silently, Celia's eyes darting from Rinda's side of the quilt to mine and back again, Daphne keeping her head down, continuing to stitch, neither of them missing a word.

Now Daphne looked up. “You know what King Lear said—nothing will come of nothing.” Celia bobbed her head in agreement. Rinda still had doubts.

“And you really think that the council will listen to us?”

“If by us, you mean you, me, Daphne, and Celia—the answer is no. We're going to need more people. A lot more people. And a plan.”

I picked up my needle again, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, and started stitching again.

“Daphne, when is Winter Fest?”

“On Saturday.”

“Okay, so we've got to hurry. Here's what we're going to do . . .” I said, and smiled wide because, not to brag, but I
am
good at this.

Really good.