of such ingratitude!”
She practically stabbed the needle through the quilt top and batting she was basting together. Looking at her, I decided it was a good thing Ivy had left as quickly as she did. If not, Abigail just might have turned that basting needle into a lethal weapon.
We were in the workroom, Abigail, Liza, Margot, and myself, going on with our usual circle meeting like we normally did, but the evening’s previously festive atmosphere had definitely faded.
Margot was working on a quilted tote bag she planned to give her sister for Christmas. Liza was supposed to be sewing a bunch of shells with holes she’d drilled herself onto the back of a jacket, but mostly she seemed to be drinking wine. And I sat at my sewing machine with my head down, using my seam ripper to remove the stitches from a seam I’d accidentally sewn wrong sides together, the sort of beginner’s mistake I hadn’t made in years.
“Abigail, calm down. It’s not like joining the quilt circle is a condition of employment around here. Ivy must have her reasons for not wanting to be part of the group,” I said evenly, though for the life of me, I couldn’t think what those reasons could be.
I was so sure that Ivy would be happy, even excited, at the prospect of being included in our circle. If not for the quilting, at least for the chance to have an adult evening out now and then. It never crossed my mind that she’d refuse the invitation. I couldn’t help but feel a little hurt by Ivy’s reaction.
“Well”—Liza shrugged and took another sip from one of the coffee cups we used in lieu of wineglasses—“it isn’t like she was rude about it, Abigail. She just said she’d rather not, that’s all. You’re just mad because someone isn’t doing what you want them to do. That always ticks you off.”
Abigail glared at her niece. “That’s simply not so. I don’t know why you always think the worst of me, Liza.”
“Then why are you so upset? Why should you care if Ivy joins the quilt circle or not? You don’t even like her. Admit it, you’re just mad because Ivy isn’t doing what you want her to do. You’re not happy unless everyone is dancing to your tune.”
Oh great, I thought. Here they go again.
The last thing I was in the mood for was to listen to Liza and Abigail’s bickering. They were each other’s only living relatives, thrust unwillingly together when the court had briefly made Abigail responsible for her niece after Liza had experienced a minor run-in with the law. Their relationship was often rocky but they truly did love each other, though Liza knew exactly how to push her aunt’s buttons and never tired of doing so.
I never understood why Abigail, so intelligent about so many things, couldn’t see that Liza was setting her up, striking the match of her aunt’s temper and then laughing at the ensuing shower of sparks.
“Margot, what did you put in that pound cake? It’s fabulous. I’m going to have another piece. Abigail, can I get you some more cake?”
It was a weak attempt at a diversion, especially since Abigail hadn’t had any cake to begin with, but I was tired; it was the best I could come up with on short notice.
“That’s not true,” Abigail said airily, ignoring my question. “It makes not the slightest bit of difference to me if Ivy joins us or not. I do think it was rude of her to refuse, but it’s no skin off my nose that she did. I’m perfectly happy for things to stay as they are. I wasn’t all that sold on adding someone new to the group anyway. I’ve got other things on my mind besides Ivy Peterman, I can assure you.”
A hint of a smile bowed Liza’s lips. “Such as?”
“Such as,” Abigail answered haughtily, “my upcoming presentation to the zoning board on the subject of turning my house into transitional apartments for families in crisis.”
“What?”
I dropped the piece of cake I’d been serving, missing the plate entirely and scattering crumbs across the floor. Margot sat wide-eyed at the sewing machine, hands in her lap but so shocked she’d forgotten to take her foot off the pedal. The mechanical whirr of the machine underscored our expressions of disbelief.
“You’re selling your house?”
“But why?”
“You can’t be serious,” Liza declared. “This has to be some kind of joke.”
This time it was Abigail’s turn to smile. Clearly she was enjoying being the one to set Liza off balance instead of the other way around.
“It’s no joke,” she answered. “I’m quite serious. But, I’m not selling the house; I’m donating it. The Stanton Center is desperate to find a larger facility.”
“So you just thought to yourself, ‘Hey! I’ve got an idea. Why not give them the house?’”
“The Stanton Center needs a large building. I do not. At my age, do I really need to live in a house with eight bedrooms, six baths, and a ballroom? No. If the Stanton Center needs the space and I don’t, why not give it to them?”
“You’re very generous, Abigail,” Margot said diplomatically. “But wouldn’t it make more sense for Stanton to buy an empty lot and build from scratch? It won’t be cheap to convert your antique home into modern apartments. I’m sure you’d have to make all kinds of changes to the plumbing and such. Not to mention the remodeling you’d have to do for it to meet fire codes and handicapped accessibility requirements. It could run into hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Oh no,” Abigail said assuredly. “It will run into millions. I’ve already looked into it. But, there are simply no available lots that are large enough or close enough to town. The new center must be close to bus lines, schools, and the downtown area.”
Abigail squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “These women are facing enough problems trying to move beyond the legacy of domestic violence without our community making it even more difficult for them to obtain decent housing, and the access to transportation and good schools for their children that they need in order to become productive members of the workforce while raising their children to be responsible citizens. This is an issue that concerns our entire community and it will take the efforts of our entire community to meet and conquer this challenge!”
“Let me guess,” Liza said sarcastically. “You’re running for Congress. Either that or this is the speech you’re planning on making to the zoning board.”
“It is. And I’m sure, once they hear my arguments, the board will see things my way.”
“Abigail, are you crazy? The neighbors are never going to go for this. The Hudsons? Dale Barrows and the rest of them? Do you really think they’ll stand aside and let you put an apartment building on Proctor Street? Where did you ever get such a ridiculous idea?”
“From Ivy. I was driving her home a couple of days ago; her car had broken down again. And I was telling her about the problem we were having trying to find a place large enough for the new building, and she said it would be nice if one of the big houses on Proctor Street were for sale. I think she was just making a joke, but as soon as she mentioned that, I could see she was right.”
Liza made a noise with her lips, a sputter like a whinnying horse. “You’re insane. Really, this is about the dumbest scheme you’ve ever come up with.”
I loved Liza, but there were moments when I could happily have slapped her. This was one of them. But I wasn’t her mother and it wasn’t my place—it was Abigail’s, but she didn’t see that. She was too busy sitting in her chair and feeling stung by Liza’s out-of-hand dismissal of what was a very well-intended, though less than well-considered, gesture.
Liza grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. “Hey, I’m gonna run. I want to see if I can find Garrett.” She kissed the wounded Abigail on top of her head and breezed thoughtlessly out the door.
There was no point in trying to pretend we were going to get any more