Wreath Read online

  Feeling as though her heart might explode with joy, Wreath smiled and turned back to the box.

  By late afternoon, with Law and Mitch putting leftover boxes back in the attic, the store looked the way the girl had sketched in her notebook, a cozy mix of classic and corny items, clustered so that each grouping could have been a movie set. She pulled out her pack and jotted the scenes the boys had helped her create, thinking of each of them as a story of its own, with sentimental items that had stood the test of time. The red-and-white kitchen area was bright and inviting, the garden “room” restful and calm, and “Santa’s library” invited you to sit on a love seat covered with a faded quilt and read a book.

  “What’s next?” Law asked, brushing his hands against his dusty pants and helping Mitch push the attic ladder back into place.

  “All I have to do is put prices on everything, and I’m going to letter a few signs to draw people in,” Wreath said.

  “You have to eat first,” Law said, and the trio meandered into the workroom, where Wreath put her feet up and started eating the best meal she had had in weeks.

  “Aren’t you going to heat that up?” Mitch asked.

  She cringed that she hadn’t even thought of warming the food. “It’s still good,” she said, her face hotter than the food.

  Julia clomped down the steps of the garage apartment and put the packages of brown-and-serve rolls and tray of carrots and broccoli in the backseat.

  She didn’t quite fit in with other faculty members and dreaded the Thanksgiving get-together at the home of another young teacher, married with two small children. But Julia didn’t have time or money to go home to Alabama, and she hated to think about eating alone. Four or five other Landry High colleagues were coming, a motley collection of people Julia thought of as strays, mostly singles like herself who didn’t have any other place to spend the holiday.

  Putting off her solitary entry into the group, she drove down the alley and wove around downtown, sketching in her mind. After a few minutes, the emptiness of Main Street caught at her heart, making her want to create a picture that showed how the empty street mirrored her heart.

  Considering going back to her apartment and pretending she was under the weather, she turned around. Instead of eating too much and listening to people she didn’t know tell exaggerated stories, she could go for a long run out to the park. She had another project she wanted to finish, too, a portrait of a faceless student, drawn in pastels.

  As she circled back down Main Street, she saw Wreath’s bicycle propped up in front of Durham’s Fine Furnishings and wondered what kind of boss would make a student work on the holiday. Or maybe the girl needed the money. Julia recalled that she had mentioned saving for college.

  Feeling guilty for whining about her job and the lack of time for art, she gave an audible groan. Lots of people had it worse than she did, the girl Wreath being one of them. Julia’s students, even though not all college material, were smart and energetic and friendly to each other more often than not. The rent on her little apartment was nothing compared to big cities, and she was only minutes from work. Her running times were improving by the week, and even though the weather in Landry was hot in the summer, winter runs were brisk and refreshing, not snow-covered and bitter.

  Her mother, who had died when she was a freshman in college, had told her always to expect good things and to appreciate what she had. “Too many people focus on what’s wrong instead of enjoying what’s right,” her mother liked to say. “You be different.”

  “You’re going to do great things,” her father always said with his easy smile. She would call him that afternoon and tell him how thankful she was for her family and how she wished she could be home.

  Julia smiled, remembering her mother’s hospitality when people gathered around the table, the gentle smile and the faded cotton apron she always wore when she cooked. She looked like something out of an old painting, and Julia often wondered why she had turned out so different—a fan of abstract art and modern trends. She shook her head, then took a deep breath and turned the car toward her coworker’s house.

  A boisterous crowd greeted Julia at the cute frame house near the school, colleagues throwing out names and introductions, the smell of food drawing her into the kitchen, where she was greeted with warmth and immediately put to work.

  “I made rolls … sort of,” she said, holding up the plastic grocery bag.

  “Thank goodness,” said a handsome man, snatching the sack from her. He looked to be about her age. “I’ll preheat the oven.” He leaned over to pull a cookie sheet out of the cabinet and looked back up. “I’m Shane, by the way.”

  “Julia,” she said and was dragged out of the kitchen by a curly-haired preschooler who wanted to show off the new goldfish her Uncle Shane had brought her.

  The child’s mother shooed them both out of the room. “We’re so happy you could come today, Julia. We missed you at the cookout.”

  “Thanks for having me,” Julia said as the little girl tugged on her arm again. “I was feeling homesick this morning.”

  The day was unseasonably warm, and after lunch most people wandered out into the yard, the men and older children tossing a football, the women groaning about how much they’d eaten and wondering which dessert they’d have next. Julia sprawled on an old blanket on the grass, enveloped by the friendliness of the crowd.

  “Julia, it sure is good having you with us for a change,” an English lit teacher said.

  “You should join us more often,” another young teacher said. “We know you don’t plan to stay in Landry, but as long as you’re here, we’re not bad company.”

  Two or three other women laughed and murmured their agreement. “We eat well, too,” another woman said, patting her stomach. “As you can tell.”

  “Look out,” the good-looking man from the kitchen yelled and made a diving catch right in front of Julia, putting his arms up in the air as though he had scored a touchdown.

  “I believe my brother’s flirting with you,” the hostess said as the man rejoined the game.

  “Looked to me like he was trying to catch a bad pass,” Julia said. The banter made her feel relaxed and connected.

  “Shane’s a great guy, even if I am a little prejudiced. He works for the sheriff’s department out near Wooddale.”

  “Just stay away from that one,” another teacher whispered, pointing to a man with a ponytail and heavy boots. “He’s trouble with a capital T.”

  Julia looked over to see a man pulling his shirt off a little too obviously. He’d brushed up next to her when they were filling their plates for lunch, but she’d turned the other way, pretending not to notice. “Who is he?” she asked.

  The hostess rolled her eyes. “My husband’s sorry cousin. He moved near here a few months ago, and I got the family guilt trip to ask him over. Thank goodness he’s only here for the day.”

  “He’s mighty proud of those muscles.” Julia tried for a joking tone that didn’t quite work.

  “He thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Big Fun’s never been married, but every time we turn around, he’s got a new girlfriend.”

  “Big Fun?” Julia blurted out the name louder than she intended, and she saw the man throw her an interested look. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “He’s been called Big Fun since middle school. If he weren’t a relative, I wouldn’t have anything to do with him, but he plays on everyone’s sympathy.”

  The teacher reached for a stray napkin that had blown nearby. “My husband says I’m too rough,” she said. “One of his girlfriends died a few months ago, and he’s been acting different ever since.”

  “Good different or bad different?” Julia asked, not all that interested but trying to be polite.

  “Like he’s got something on his mind.”

  When the football game broke up, Julia hurried into the house. She would have enjoyed getting to know Shane better, but she was afraid she might have to talk to Big Fu
n instead. That guy definitely gave her the creeps.

  With half an uneaten pie pushed into her hands, she prepared to drive off in her little red import, bought used after college. A flashy refurbished Chevrolet pulled out of the driveway as she fastened her seat belt, and the man called Big Fun caught her eye and gave her a casual wave.

  She saw Shane standing in the door, watching the other man with narrowed eyes.

  Sluggish from too much food, Julia traded her run for a brisk walk through neighborhoods, enjoying the occasional cluster of cars in driveways where families gathered, some waving as she walked past.

  “Want a ride, teacher lady?” a male voice called, and the overdone car from the Thanksgiving party pulled into sight. Big Fun. A cloud of smoke came out of the window.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I need to walk off that turkey.”

  For a moment, the man looked like he might argue, but he gave another careless wave and drove away, turning off the main thoroughfare as though heading out of town.

  Shaken more than she wanted to acknowledge, Julia turned toward the garage apartment, scanning the area as she cut through the alley. Booming music and laughter came from the furniture store, both sounds she’d never heard there before.

  Curious, she ran upstairs to retrieve the leftover pie and pounded on the back door of the store. She had to beat on it repeatedly, the volume on the music lessening and the sound of voices conferring.

  “It’s me, Julia Watson,” she yelled.

  Her student Law Rogers opened the door, a piece of gold Christmas garland draped around his neck. He had a fresh black eye, the bruise still red and just beginning to purple.

  “Is Mrs. Durham here?” Julia asked, holding up the pie and looking past the boy to where Mitch stood on a ladder with a staple gun, while Wreath smiled and nodded.

  “She’s not working today,” Law said, “but we can take that pie off your hands.”

  Wreath, wearing a strip of garland around her braided hair, waved and gave an order to Mitch, who appeared cheerfully to comply.

  “I hope we weren’t making too much noise, Miss Watson,” Wreath said. “The guys are helping decorate.”

  The look of pleasure on the girl’s face gave Julia a feeling of gratitude that mirrored the spirit of the day. The store had a fresh look. “Did you do this?” She stepped inside and looked around.

  “She designed all of it, Miss Watson,” Law said, pride in his voice. “Doesn’t it look great?”

  “It’s nothing really,” Wreath said. “We scrounged around and used what we had. Lots of good stuff was going to waste.”

  Law spoke up again. “Wreath says most people don’t realize what you can do with what you’ve got.”

  As Julia walked back to her apartment, she thought Wreath had the right idea. Julia needed to do more with what she had.

  Chapter 25

  The busy workday was over, and Faye’s feet hurt as she walked into her house. She was eager to slip on her house shoes, eat a frozen dinner, and crawl into bed.

  Maybe she’d finally finish the paperback she’d started weeks ago, but more than likely she’d fall right to sleep.

  Wreath’s research had been correct. This was the busiest time of year for the store, and the number of daily shoppers had increased dramatically. The week since Thanksgiving had flown by, busy with customers who oohed and aahed over the old Christmas ornaments and snapped up every one that was for sale. They also bought outdated vases filled with fresh pine and holly branches covered with red berries that Wreath picked somewhere near her house.

  Faye was astounded at how much people were willing to pay for the arrangements, and she had even stopped at a garage sale or two to pick up extra containers. She had watched over her shoulders as she paid a dollar for vases they would clean up and sell for twenty times that.

  She felt a little guilty and even downright embarrassed, but buying the discarded items was … fun. Each time she found a bargain, she wanted to rush to the store and tell Wreath, as though she’d done something special. As though Wreath were her boss and not the other way around.

  She leaned against the kitchen counter and wondered what was happening to her. She used to breeze through stores in Lafayette or Alexandria, buying whatever caught her eye, no matter the price. Now she was getting a thrill when she found a piece of glassware without a chip and figured out how to sell it. She knew she owed most of her new happiness to a part-time teenage employee.

  Wreath got such a kick out of whatever Faye brought in that she’d taken to going through her closets, relieved to get rid of an expensive accumulation of nonsense and make money in the process.

  Sitting on the fancy tufted stool in her pink-tiled bathroom, Faye looked at herself in the mirror. She was not an old woman, although she lived like one. She fingered the costume-jewelry angel Wreath had pinned on her jacket and made a decision. Wearing her pajamas and robe, she held her breath and shoved open the door to her sewing room. A blast of warm air hit her in the face, and a sweet, stale smell tickled her nose. The sewing room looked as familiar as if she’d walked in yesterday.

  Pieces of material lay sorted on the daybed, and the iron was still plugged in, the spray starch can sitting next to it. The wall hanging she’d been stitching when Billy had his heart attack almost a year ago was still in the machine.

  She walked over and touched the sewing chair, where she had been sitting when Billy had stumbled in, clutching his chest. His face, always pale, had been a chalky white, and his eyes had bulged with fear. “Call 911,” he had said and plunged to the floor.

  For six days she had sat in the Intensive Care Unit waiting room, surrounded by dozens of people who cared for them both. On the seventh day, the doctor had walked out, shaken his head, and her thirty-five-year marriage was over. The afternoon of Billy’s funeral she pulled the door to her sewing room shut and had not gone in since.

  The hobby that had gained her a reputation as “quite a seamstress” seemed pointless. The gifts she’d made for women at church or her bridge club were frivolous.

  But Wreath had told her today they needed to order more throw pillows, and Faye couldn’t bear to pay good money for cheap designs that felt like cardboard covered with low-quality cloth.

  Faye had yards of unused material sorted in plastic bins, bought when she had money. She and Nadine spent hours at their favorite fabric stores in Lafayette and Baton Rouge, sometimes making an overnight trip of it. Just walking into the stores made her want to start sewing, and she always had a project under way.

  While she could barely remember where she and Nadine ate lunch or what they talked about, she remembered the way the outings felt.

  She wanted that feeling again.

  She could get Wreath to watch the store one Saturday—or when the Christmas rush slowed down, she’d close and invite her to go with them.

  Within ten minutes she found the green- and wine-colored velveteen and bags of polyester batting she had bought on sale last year. She rubbed the fabric against her cheek and tried to summon the feelings she’d had the day it was chosen, a day when she had not known her life was about to change forever, that Billy was about to die.

  Memories haunted her, and she stood and headed for the door. “Coward,” she said aloud, stopping. She had to make a choice. She could give up and live in the past, or she could buck up and move forward.

  She thought of the fierce teenager pedaling to work, scrimping, coming up with one idea after another to try to save the store, friends who kept reaching out.

  She would go forward.

  Suddenly Faye could hardly wait to sit down at the high-dollar sewing machine Billy had bought her for Christmas two years ago.

  Hurrying back to the table, she drew patterns on freezer paper and made a rectangular pillow. She scavenged through her supplies to find buttons to add in the shape of a geometric Christmas tree. She liked the design so much that she made a pillow in the shape of the tree. On a round cushion, she added fri
nge that had been garish a few years ago but now was all the rage. She made a big square pillow lined with bright green rickrack that she knew Wreath would love.

  Threading her machine over and over, she unknotted the bobbin and started on another sample. When her upper back began to throb, she went to the kitchen for a cup of tea and was astonished to see that it was nearly 3:00 a.m. She hadn’t stayed up that late since she and Billy were newlyweds and went to a New Year’s Eve party at a fancy hotel in New Orleans.

  Stashing the dozen pillows in a large plastic bag, she couldn’t wait to show Wreath.

  “No way!” Wreath squealed, sounding like an ordinary high school student instead of her usual serious self. “You did not! These are gorgeous.”

  Faye took a step back as the girl touched each cushion and reverently lined them on a sofa, as though she’d never seen a throw pillow before. “You made these yourself?”

  “I did,” Faye said, ridiculously pleased. “I can sew as many as we need.”

  Perhaps she had overestimated her abilities, she thought two weeks later, suddenly a pillow-machine. Certain designs flew out the door headed for homes all over the country, and custom orders began to arrive. Wreath suggested free gift-wrapping and shipping for a modest fee, and customers practically played tug-of-war over the most popular designs.

  The teenager tracked which sold best and made suggestions on color and trim, and ordered labels that said “Faye’s Fine Pillows.” On slower afternoons, she shooed Faye out the door to sew more.

  When the demand exceeded Faye’s ability to keep up, Wreath volunteered to stuff cushions after the store closed. On those days, Faye drove Wreath to the cutoff road out north of town and dropped her off. She always refused to let Faye go farther but clearly appreciated the ride.

  On the way to work one morning, Faye stopped at the library, bringing a look of delight to the face of her old friend Jim Nelson.