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Excerpt

Excerpt

A Tapestry of Secrets

Craggy Mount, Virginia

June 2008

Why did she agree to have lunch with Mark? He’d been out of her life for almost a year now. What had possessed her to say yes when he suggested meeting? Ella peered at her former fiancé over her menu, then refocused on the day’s special when he caught her looking.

Honestly, she wasn’t even attracted to him anymore. She’d once thought those dense, dark curls and square jaw were handsome, but what she’d once seen as chiseled just looked hard now.

“Don’t you have Perrier?” he asked the server.

“We have bottled water,” she said.

“Only still, though. Am I right?”

The server looked confused.

“Not effervescent.” Mark spoke slowly as though talking to someone who wasn’t very bright.

“Oh. Right.” The server nodded. “Yes, only still.”

Mark sighed. “Fine. Unsweetened tea for me, and Ella, do you still prefer yours sweetened?”

“Yes, please.” She folded the menu and gave the server an apologetic look.

Mark dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “We’ll order in a minute.”

The server raised her eyebrows at Ella and headed for the kitchen.

“I was ready to order.” Ella tried to tamp down her annoyance. Although she wasn’t seeing Mark anymore, she could still be nice. Based on what she knew of him, he could use a few examples of nice in his life.

Mark leaned in. “We’re in no hurry, right? Now that I’m an associate at the firm, I can afford a long lunch now and again. And you, well, artists set their own schedules, don’t they?”

Ella bristled. She bit her lip to avoid speaking too quickly. Gran always said, “Sow in haste, repent in leisure.” She tried to take that to heart. Words were hard to take back once spoken.

“Generally, that’s true, but I do have a deadline I need to meet so I can’t stay too long.” That was almost the truth. She did have a self-imposed deadline that she had pretty well already met, but Mark didn’t need to know the details.

Mark’s face pinched, but then he smoothed it back out and smiled. “Fine. What looks good to you?”

Ella caught the eye of the server, who was approaching with their drinks. “I’ll have the shrimp quesadilla special.”

The server nodded and looked at Mark.

“Are the crab cakes made with lump crab?”

“I think so,” she said.

Mark rolled his eyes. “Bring me the crab cakes.”

As soon as she walked away, Mark shook his head at Ella. “Ten to one it’s backfin.” He smirked. “I could probably bring suit against them for false advertising.”

Ella suppressed a sigh. What was she doing? “But you wouldn’t waste your talents on a frivolous lawsuit.”

Mark considered her. “No. I wouldn’t.”

“So,” Ella began as she smoothed her napkin in her lap, “what have you been up to? Seeing anyone?”

Again, Mark looked annoyed. “Well, as I mentioned, I’m an associate now. It was down to Paul Warren and me, and Paul, well, he just didn’t want it as much as I did. You’ve got to be willing to sacrifice to get ahead at Finley, Robertson, and Ellison.”

“What did you sacrifice?” Ella chastised herself. That wasn’t a nice question.

“Whatever I had to,” Mark said. He watched the server approaching and narrowed his eyes at the plate she set in front of him. He poked a crab cake with his fork and opened his mouth as if to speak.

Ella jumped in. “Thank you so much. It looks delicious.” She widened her eyes at the server, who darted a look at Mark and then scurried away.

“This is not lump crab. I was going to send it back.”

“I’ve found that backfin can be more flavorful,” Ella said, cutting into her quesadilla. “Why don’t you taste it first? And anyway, we’re here to catch up with each other. Let’s not let the food be a distraction. By the way, has the name of the firm changed? Seemed like it used to just be Finley and Robertson.”

Mark’s mouth twitched as he examined her. “You should probably study the law yourself. You’d make a fine defense attorney. Yes, Mr. Ellison is the newest partner. I’m still getting a feel for him.”

Ella sipped her tea. “I suppose that’s one of the advantages of making my quilt hangings—no co-workers or supervisors to figure out.”

Mark sneered, then caught himself. “You’re a fine craftsperson. How’s business, by the way? Still dreaming about running off to your family farm to live the artist’s life?”

Ella bit the tip of her tongue, wishing she’d never confided her dream of building a studio near her family and creating quilt hangings that would carry the art of Appalachia to the wider world.

“Dreams are just that, I suppose.” She wasn’t going to defend her ambition to Mark. Not now.

Ella suffered through another twenty minutes of chitchat and did her best to enjoy her food, which was really good. She persuaded Mark that she honestly didn’t want dessert and walked through the front door into the heat and humidity of June in southwestern Virginia with a sense of relief. But Mark wasn’t quite done with her yet. He draped an unwelcome arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him.

“We should do this again.” He stopped and turned her to face him. “I’ve missed you. I know you had your reasons for leaving, but I’ve changed. I’d like to try again.”

Ella swallowed and used all her self-control to keep from twisting away from him and running for freedom. “That’s quite a compliment, Mark. I appreciate it. But I really don’t think there’s a future for us.” His face darkened, and she rushed her words. “Thanks for lunch. I wish you luck at the firm—I’m sure you’ll be successful.” She smiled and took a step back so that he had to release her. “After all, you’re quite the eligible bachelor. I’m sure you’ll find the right girl for you.”

Mark’s head drew back, and he sucked air in through his teeth. “Yes, well, I think I know which girl is right for me.” He reached out and tweaked her chin. “We’ll talk again.”

Ella opened her mouth, but Mark had already turned and was disappearing around a corner. She watched him go as dread rose in her belly. Why oh why had she agreed to lunch today?

****

Perla got out the good sheets with the embroidered pillow slips. She flicked the fitted sheet over the bed in the guest room, letting it drift into place. She couldn’t say why, but she had a feeling someone might come for a visit. And if no one did, it was still nice to use the good linens. Maybe she’d sleep on them herself. She smoothed out the creases and wished it were Ella coming. Perla worried about her granddaughter—maybe more than she should. She sometimes thought Ella was too willing to make sacrifices to please others. And when you got right down to it, there was only one opinion that mattered. A Bible verse popped into Perla’s head: “For they loved human praise more than praise from God.”

She shook her head. She’d never really tried to correct what she saw in Ella, even though she well knew how destructive it could be to spend too much time worrying over what everyone else thought of you.

She sat on the edge of the bed to rest a moment, reaching up to smooth a stray wisp of white hair back into its twist. Maybe it was time to share her own story. It was common knowledge that she’d had Sadie out of wedlock back in 1949, something no one raised an eyebrow at anymore. It had become an overlooked fact rather than the shame she once carried. What Perla had never shared—what she’d long assumed she never would—were the circumstances and the name of the man she once loved. She’d loved him and wanted to please him enough to risk everything and suffer the consequences. Of course, she wouldn’t trade a minute of that pain now, but that was because God had been merciful enough to redeem her.

Perla finished making the bed and leaned against the headboard. She was so very tired. Normally the thought of visitors—actual or hoped for—energized her, but today she felt worn to the bone. Maybe it was thinking about her mistakes and dredging up those days she’d long put behind her. And such thoughts inevitably brought her around to Sadie. Should she try to tell Sadie the truth first? Sadie had refused to hear her the one time she offered to share the tale. Her daughter said that Casewell Phillips was more than father enough for her and she didn’t want to sully his memory with another man’s name. Perla had felt shamed by her daughter and never mentioned it again, but maybe now was the right time.

Perla stood to go into the kitchen when a wave of dizziness washed over her. She braced against the bedside table, taking deep breaths and fighting nausea until the moment passed. That was the second time she’d felt like that—she should probably mention it to someone. Maybe she’d tell Henry when he came to get her this afternoon. Her son tended to worry less about her health than Margaret did. Perla smiled. Maybe that’s why their marriage was so strong—Henry took things in stride while Margaret paid attention to every little detail.

But right now she had some details of her own to tend to. Like baking a caramel cake for supper with her son and daughter-in-law this evening. She’d worry about sharing her story with Ella and Sadie later, as right now she had more pressing things to do.

****

When Ella returned to her apartment after lunch, the phone was ringing and her message light was blinking. She spied her cellphone on the counter. She was forever forgetting to stick it in her purse when she went out.

Snatching up the receiver, Ella used her other hand to thumb at the keypad on her cell, trying to see if she’d missed any calls. She had. Six.

“Ella, oh thank goodness. Where have you been?”

“Mom? Is everything okay? Looks like I’ve missed a bunch of calls.”

“Sweetheart, it’s your grandmother.” Ella felt like she’d been splashed with ice water. Mom never got worked up.

“What about Gran?”

“We’re here at the hospital with her. Your dad went to fetch her over for the afternoon, and she . . . well, we’re not sure what happened. It might have been a stroke.”

“Is she . . . ?” Ella couldn’t think of what word to use.

“We don’t know much at this point. They said we can go in and see her soon, which seems encouraging. Your father is talking to your aunt Sadie right now. I think she’s planning to come.”

It must be serious if Aunt Sadie was driving in from Ohio. She only came once or twice a year as a rule. Ella wanted to ask if Gran would be okay, but couldn’t bring herself to put something like that into words. Instead she asked, “Should I come?”

“It’s up to you, but I think it would be a good idea. Oh, Henry’s waving me over. I’ll call you again after we see her.”

Ella dropped the phone back into its cradle and considered her options. She could sit tight and wait to hear more, or she could throw a bag together and hurry home. An image of Mark saying they’d talk again floated into her mind. She remembered the primary reason she decided to break up with him and found her decision suddenly easy. She hurried to her bedroom and considered what to pack.

****

Ella pulled into her parents’ driveway and sat for a moment, staring at the white farmhouse she’d known her entire life. She had the strangest feeling something was different, but she couldn’t say what. She assured herself that everything was going to be okay. Mark would forget about her all over again and Gran would be fine. She shook off the strange feeling and opened the car door, appreciating the cool breeze even on a June evening.

She pasted a smile on her face and put a bounce in her step, but no one came out to greet her. Normally Dad would rush out, with Mom usually not far behind. She opened the rattling screen door and called out, “Anybody home?”

Her mother poked her head around the corner from the kitchen. “Oh, Ella, thank goodness. You can come with me to the hospital. I was about to write you a note, but felt terrible about not being here when you arrived.”

Fear shot through Ella. “Is Gran worse? Where’s Dad?”

“He’s at the hospital—he simply won’t leave Perla’s side. Will you drive me over there? I know you just got out of the car—”

“No, that’s okay. I can drive.”

They climbed back into the car, Ella’s luggage still in the trunk, and headed to the hospital in Clarksville.

“So tell me more about what happened,” Ella said.

Her mother took a deep breath and let her head fall back against the seat. Ella noticed, maybe for the first time, that her mother was more than a little gray.

“Henry went to get Perla and found her . . . unresponsive on the kitchen floor. He called for an ambulance, and they got there right away. Now we’re just hoping for the best.”

Ella gripped the steering wheel and tried not to speed. She had so many questions, but looking at her mother’s exhausted expression, she resigned herself to riding in silence the rest of the way to the hospital. She thought she saw Mom’s eyes drooping a bit at one point, but then she jerked and sat upright, rubbing at her face. She gave Ella a weak everything-will-be-all-right smile, but Ella wasn’t buying it. At least not yet.

 

Chapter 2

Comstock, West Virginia

April 1948

Perla walked out onto the porch of her aunt and uncle’s house. She needed some air and a moment to herself. Coming to help out while Uncle Chuck was laid up with a broken leg had sounded like a good idea when her mother suggested it, but was turning out to be more difficult than she anticipated. Uncle Chuck was a terrible patient, forever trying to get out and work the farm, and Aunt Imogene—often described as “high-strung”—seemed determined to live up to the label.

At least spring had finally come. After a long, harsh winter, the deep purple buds of the lilac bush at the end of the porch were about to burst open. Perla closed her eyes and leaned into the branches, hoping to catch the sweet scent on the verge of release.

“Howdy.”

Perla jumped a foot and whirled toward the voice. A young man who couldn’t be any more than Perla’s own eighteen years stood with one foot on the ground and the other braced against a step.

“I’ve come to help,” he said in a voice deeper than Perla expected. And for a moment she thought he meant to help her in particular.

“Help?”

“Cousin Imogene sent Ma a message saying she couldn’t keep Chuck in bed and needed someone to see to the chores, so he can put his mind to rest as well as his leg.”

Perla smoothed the apron covering her simple cotton skirt. She hoped she looked presentable. “I’m a fair hand with chores. Not sure why we need anyone else.”

The young man shrugged. “I’m not saying you do or you don’t. I’m just following orders.”

Imogene walked onto the porch with a hand shading her eyes as though the light were too much for her. “That you, Sonny?”

Perla saw a flicker of annoyance cross his features. He glanced at her and then back to Imogene. “It is. Ma sent me to help out.”

“Humph. Is that what she said.” Imogene’s comment was a statement rather than a question. “Well, we can work you sure enough. Perla does a fair job, but there’s always more than one person can do on a farm.”

Perla bristled. If Imogene helped, there’d be more than one. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut when she saw a look of amusement on the man’s face.

“Come on in then. Perla’s got supper on and she cooks like she has an army to feed.” Imogene disappeared inside.

Perla let her shoulders sag. Why did that sound like criticism? Maybe she was being too sensitive. She started for the door when Sonny stepped forward to open it for her, making the springs creak.

“My name’s not Sonny,” he said. “That’s a pet name my mother uses.”

Perla looked at him sideways. “Well then, what is your name?”

He gave her a sly grin. “Maybe I’ll see if you can guess it.”

Perla flipped her yellow braid over her shoulder and flounced through the door. “Maybe I don’t much care to know it.”

****

Perla tried to process what was happening to her. For a moment she thought she was back on Chuck and Imogene’s farm that fateful summer. But no. She’d been reaching for the glass cake stand with the cover when her right hand began lowering of its own volition. She’d watched it droop like it belonged to someone else, but then her right leg seemed to give out. It hadn’t hurt; she’d just felt surprised to find herself on the floor. Henry came in after that—she wasn’t sure how much later—and when she’d tried to explain, her words didn’t make sense. Henry did a double take and grabbed the phone. She knew he was calling 911 and tried to tell him she’d be fine if he would only help her up, yet the words wouldn’t come.

Now she was at the hospital where doctors and nurses kept peering and poking at her. They’d put her in that awful machine that made her feel trapped, but coming out hadn’t been much better. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t ask questions, and didn’t know where her family was. She closed her eyes—well, the left one anyway—as the right one wasn’t cooperating and had been drooping closed since her hand gave out. There wasn’t much she could do at the moment other than pray. She asked for what comfort God could afford and must have slept after that.

When Perla awoke, she lay in a bed with beeping machines attached to her. The smell of rubbing alcohol burned her nose. She opened her eyes, although the right one continued to droop. Henry, Margaret, and Ella stood around the bed with stricken looks on their faces. Perla tried to lift her right hand, but it wouldn’t cooperate. She found the left one more amenable and reached out to grasp Ella’s hand, looking into her granddaughter’s blue eyes—so much like her own.

“Bllphtt, murrgh.”

Oh dear. That wasn’t it at all. Perla tried again, but much to her horror the sounds she made were no better than a newborn baby’s blather. Ella’s hand tightened, tears welling up in her eyes. Perla willed herself to speak slowly, clearly, but it was no good. She couldn’t do it.

“It’s okay, Gran. The doctor said you—” she hesitated—“that you had a stroke. Dad must have found you soon after. They say your chances of making a full recovery are really good.”

Perla thought she might suffocate under the horror of her granddaughter’s words. A stroke? Merle Donaldson had a stroke and had to be institutionalized. Oh, to be able to ask questions, to get someone to talk to her. She wanted to thrash and cry out, to demand someone tell her exactly what had happened and what would happen next. She swallowed—even that was hard to do—and did her best to look her questions at Ella. She felt like she could almost see the jumble of words fly through the air and hoped somehow her granddaughter could sort them out.

Ella smoothed Perla’s hair with her free hand. “You’re getting the best treatment possible. They say the most dramatic improvement will likely happen over the next few days and then you should keep improving over the next few months. If everything goes the way they hope, you might even be able to go home soon.” Ella’s eyes seemed to reach deep inside Perla to the place where words flowed smoothly before they hit a jagged shoreline of confusion. “Either way, I thought I’d stay with you for a while.” She laughed softly. “I’ve been wanting to get away lately so it’s a win-win situation.”

Tears flowed down Perla’s cheeks. She hadn’t even known she was going to cry until she felt the moisture. Yes, Ella needed to know her story—she could sense how important it was. She’d tell her, too. Just as soon as she could.

****

Ella insisted on spending the night at the hospital with her grandmother so that Dad could go home. The nurses were kind, providing extra pillows and blankets for the chair that folded out into a semblance of a bed. Gran, of course, had nothing to say about anything, though Ella could tell she was grateful to have someone there. She moved her makeshift bed as close to Gran’s as possible without being a hazard to the nurses. She kissed her grandmother good-night and settled down to pretend to sleep.

Even with the overhead lights off, it wasn’t dark. Light filtered in from the hall, and there were lights on the machines hooked up to Gran. There was a low, steady beep that Ella tried to tell herself was soothing. And the smell of . . . Ella couldn’t quite identify the mix of medical and cleaning odors, but what it boiled down to was not home. She wished for a bar of Dove soap to wash her hands and face—Gran always used Dove. Maybe she’d find some tomorrow.

A nurse crept in, checked Gran’s vitals, gave Ella an apologetic look, and slipped back out with a little wave. Oh well, she hadn’t expected to sleep. Without meaning to, she let her thoughts wander back to Mark.

She probably should have seen Mark’s true colors sooner than she did, but she’d been so smitten at the time. She finally recognized how important status was to him when he competed for a spot as clerk with the chief judge of the Virginia Court of Appeals. He’d spread rumors and half-truths about the young man he was up against. Chad was his name. Then when Chad died in a mysterious drug overdose, Mark became a shoo-in. He wanted Ella to celebrate with him on the same day as Chad’s funeral, and Ella knew then she needed to end the relationship.

Mark didn’t take it well.

She’d taken the coward’s way out. Instead of being up front about what really bothered her, she claimed Mark’s lack of faith meant they weren’t suited for each other.

Ella rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position. She might have even quoted that Scripture about being “unequally yoked.” Although what she’d said was mostly true, her intent had been to get out of the relationship without a lot of fuss. Jesus was just a convenient excuse.

She sighed and sat up, too uneasy to sleep. She hoped that, in spite of Gran’s illness, a visit home might give her the distance she apparently still needed from Mark, and—she smiled in the dark—as an extra bonus she hoped it would provide inspiration for some new art quilts. In the past, the beauty of the farm with its abundance of earth, sky, and water would set her mind to spinning with images of rich corduroy, soft linen, and slippery satin.

She eased out of bed and pulled a plastic chair close to Gran’s side. She leaned her head against the cool sheet near her grandmother’s hand. She closed her eyes and felt Gran’s fingers tangle in her hair.

Gran sighed. And then, against all odds, they both slept.

A Tapestry of Secrets
by by Sarah Loudin Thomas