Threaded for Trouble Page 3

  Another boy, a slightly younger replica of Russ, complete with the sneer, torn jeans, T-shirt, and uncombed hair, slouched in behind his siblings. With a sardonic toss of the head, he held up a white cowboy shirt trimmed in mint green for the audience to see, then bunched it between his hands and stumbled into the row to sit beside the girl in the unfortunately tiny dress.

  “And now,” Felicity announced in her nasal voice, “the winner of the Chandler Challenge, Darlene Coddlefield!”

  It should have been a proud moment for Darlene Coddlefield, but as she marched into my shop, she frowned down the row of seats at her older offspring. She tossed what looked like a white cowboy shirt trimmed in candy pink onto Russ’s lap. I couldn’t hear her words, but the meaning in her attitude was obvious. “Put it on.”

  Darlene Coddlefield was nearly as wide as she was high. Her eyes were bloodshot and baggy, as if she’d spent the night finishing her beautifully tailored ivory silk pants suit and ironing the children’s dresses and shirts. She trundled up the aisle and straightened the smallest boy’s collar before shaking hands with Felicity and me. Darlene’s hands were clammy.

  “My, my,” Felicity said with a brightness I didn’t expect, “now we understand why Darlene won Mother of the Year back in—when was it, Darlene?”

  Darlene waved her hand in front of her face as if driving smoke away. “Many years, and six children ago.” The audience laughed. “It was easier to be a good mother with only two babies.” I guessed that would be Russ and the scowling older girl.

  With a grunt of disgust, Russ stood, threw the pink-trimmed shirt into the lap of the sister wearing the matching dress, and climbed over the back of his chair, which folded and slammed down onto the floor. He flung himself out the front door. My sea-glass wind chimes banged and clattered.

  Together, the owners of the yarn, notions, and quilting boutiques turned to watch him stride off the porch and out of sight down Lake Street.

  I couldn’t help comparing Darlene Coddlefield to these Threadville colleagues. Opal, Naomi, and Edna had met each other in kindergarten and had immediately become closer than many sets of sisters. By the end of junior high, after reading Macbeth, they’d started calling themselves The Three Weird Sisters. Then, at sixteen, Opal had become pregnant, and her folks kicked her out of their home. Edna and Naomi had teamed up to help look after Opal’s fatherless child. The three women had lived together and taken turns working and going to school. They’d all ended up with degrees and professions. They’d also ended up with a clever, polite, kind, and sensible daughter whom they all adored.

  Naturally, that daughter, Haylee, called them The Three Weird Mothers. When I’d moved to Threadville to open In Stitches, The Three Weird Mothers had figured out that my mother was distant in more ways than one. Opal, Naomi, and Edna had adopted me, and Haylee seemed glad to share them.

  Haylee’s mothers didn’t divulge their ages, but Haylee was my age, thirty-three, so the math was easy—her mothers must be nearing or had quietly celebrated their big five-oh. Often, the rambunctious and enthusiastic women acted like they were still seventeen, and Haylee and I had to keep them out of mischief.

  I had a sinking feeling that The Three Weird Mothers were considering ways of helping Darlene Coddlefield with all eight of her children. I would hate to see Haylee’s mothers hurt if their good intentions were rejected. Always tenderhearted, Naomi looked about to cry in sympathy with the twelve-year-old in the baby dress and shoes.

  I was behind the four younger children, close enough to admire Darlene’s careful stitching and neat buttonholes. The girls’ pinafores strained across their backs. The eight-year-old’s wouldn’t button at the waist, and the bow in the sash didn’t hide the gap. Darlene must have planned and cut out these dresses, pinafores, and shirts a while ago. Meanwhile, her children had grown.

  She was obviously an excellent seamstress, but I couldn’t help a teensy bit of jealousy on behalf of some of my customers and students who were every bit as talented but didn’t possess top-of-the-line sewing and embroidery machines like the one that must have helped Darlene win the Chandler Challenge. Darlene had never shopped in my store, so I didn’t know what kind of machine she already owned, but judging from the outfits she’d made, it was a good one. And now she was going to take home another.

  I gave my speech, following my own impromptu script, not Felicity’s. Although she was a yard away from me, the heat of her fury at my disobedience radiated from her. I concluded with, “I will be privileged to display Darlene’s excellent handiwork, all these dresses and shirts that won her the challenge, in my shop for the rest of you to admire.”

  Felicity elbowed me aside and stepped in front of me. “It certainly would be a privilege for Ms.…um”—she consulted her notes—“Ms. Vanderling to display these garments, but they’re scheduled to go on tour throughout the U.S., and after I spend the afternoon in the Coddlefield home, giving Darlene the free lesson she earned as part of her prize, I’m leaving for Cleveland and taking the prize-winning garments with me.” She turned around and gave me a prissy and obviously fake version of an apologetic smile. “So sorry.”

  She was planning to leave the vicinity this afternoon. My mood suddenly improved.

  The women in the audience nodded sympathetically. I could almost feel pats on my shoulder. Still smiling, I held my hands out in the age-old what-can-I-do-about-it manner. Haylee winked. Her three mothers frowned and whispered to each other.

  Naomi beckoned to me. I made my way past rows of Threadville tourists to her.

  We were behind the audience. She murmured, “We can lend those children clothes to wear home.” Why wasn’t I surprised?

  Naomi’s shop, Batty About Quilts, displayed quilted clothes in addition to bed coverings and wall hangings. In Tell a Yarn, Opal showed off scads of hand-knit and crocheted garments. Edna had some highly decorated outfits in Buttons and Bows, and Haylee’s shop was full of clothes in different sizes, examples of what people could make using fabrics they bought and skills they learned in The Stash.

  Garments embellished with thread art hung in my store, but at the moment, I wanted to lend that embarrassed, purple-mouthed twelve-year-old a pair of jeans, which she’d have to roll up, and a T-shirt. Sneakers, too, though mine would be too big for her.

  I squeezed Naomi’s arm in appreciation and turned my attention to the dog pen in front of us. The Chandler Champion glowed like a gem, spotlighted underneath the bulb that Russ had installed. Felicity droned on about how Mr. Chandler had hoped to make the award presentation himself. She turned to Darlene. “While you’re at home washing, starching, and ironing these lovely outfits before I take them on tour”—Darlene gasped and leaned against the railing—“Ms. Um and I will pack this sewing machine for you.”

  Great. Another chance to work with Felicity. I’d have preferred to give each of Darlene’s children an outfit to keep.

  In a voice made breathy by nervousness, or perhaps by the thought of repeating all the washing, starching, and ironing that must have kept her up most of the night, Darlene asked Felicity to bring the sewing machine with her when she went to the Coddlefield farm to give the free lesson.

  Felicity paled. “I’m expecting important phone calls. Mr. Chandler may call. Besides, I have a bad back. I can’t lift it.” With great drama, she announced that she would now present the certificate. Darlene made a frowny signal toward the row of chairs holding her older children. Prolonging a handshake, Felicity gave Darlene a sheet of paper.

  A printed paper certificate, not an embroidered silk one. It figured.

  The oldest Coddlefield daughter, the one with the practiced sneer, shot up, took a flash picture, and plunked back into her chair. The back of her neck reddened. The brother who resembled Russ snickered. The young photographer slapped him while the twelve-year-old in frilly pink hissed at them to stop because everyone was staring. The poor kids. Being a teenager, or almost one, wasn’t easy.

  Darlene thanked Feli
city, then turned to the audience and flashed us a triumphant smile.

  Beside me, Naomi and Haylee stiffened. That smile had been more than triumphant. It had been gloating to the point of maliciousness, as if Darlene had been saying to someone in the audience, “Winning is the best revenge.”

  4

  I WASN’T THE ONLY ONE WHO THOUGHT THAT. Darlene’s mean glance had been directed at one of us standing near the door. “Well,” Edna huffed, her sweet brown eyes wide in amazement. During the summer, she’d gone overboard on coloring her hair. What was left of it resembled short stalks of platinum straw.

  “Who was that nasty look aimed at?” I murmured.

  Haylee’s brow furrowed. “One of us, I thought. But I can’t imagine why. I’ve never seen her before.”

  Russ’s brother, the one who looked about fourteen, slouched out the door and down the street in the direction Russ had taken, toward the beach. Frowning, Darlene gathered the shirts the two boys had discarded and told Felicity she’d return later to collect her machine and lead Felicity to the Coddlefield farm. Darlene and the rest of her children clambered into the fire chief’s red SUV. I only knew the fire chief by his nickname, Plug. Was he also Darlene’s husband?

  Naomi patted my arm. With worried looks at each other and at me, Haylee and her mothers returned to their shops.

  The look of hateful triumph that Darlene had thrown toward us was still creeping me out. I felt like I needed to protect someone. Haylee? Her three mothers? Susannah? Mona had gone back to her home décor store, but she’d been at the back of the audience with us, as had other locals, plus Threadville tourists who hadn’t found seats in the crowded shop.

  Susannah stayed in my shop a little longer to help serve refreshments. Most of the Threadville tourists hung around, too, vying for a closer look at the Chandler Champion. I poured lemonade. Susannah, bearing plates of cookies, mingled among our guests.

  Felicity could have seized the opportunity to demonstrate the Champion’s many fine features. Instead, she stationed herself at the refreshment table and gobbled cookies straight out of their tins. What a strange way to promote her company’s star product.

  Finally, she noticed the excitement swirling around the Chandler Champion. Crumbs cascading down her front, she fumed, “Willow, you need to shoo those people away from Darlene’s machine so you can pack it up.”

  After following her commands earlier, I had to be stubborn. “Packing it will only take a few minutes.”

  “Darlene could be back anytime. It’s not like Elderberry Bay is very big.”

  Darlene had said she lived on a farm. Wouldn’t that be out in the country? “I don’t think Darlene lives in the village.”

  “That’s her address,” Felicity snapped.

  I turned away without arguing. Felicity had a point. The Coddlefields had arrived in a vehicle belonging to the fire department and could conceivably come roaring back into Threadville at great speed.

  Susannah and I tidied away the refreshments, then Susannah left for The Stash.

  I needed to pack Darlene’s Champion, but women were still experimenting with it. I guided them to the other Chandlers in my shop, a Champion and two machines that didn’t have as many features, but were attractive anyway.

  Felicity became frantic, pointing up at the ceiling. “I need to take that banner back with me.”

  I retrieved my ladder. Georgina, an avid and very artistic customer who lived in Elderberry Bay, gravitated to my side. She made all of her own clothes, and I’d never seen her wear more than one color at a time. Today, her pants and long tunic were a yellowy gold she’d obviously chosen for this sunny August day. Always helpful, she had given Susannah loads of emotional support during Susannah’s marriage breakup. Georgina steadied the ladder while I took the banner down. Maybe Felicity would learn something about cooperation from the helpful Threadville women. Georgina and I rolled the banner. Felicity reminded us to smooth out the wrinkles.

  I tried to unplug Darlene’s new sewing machine. The plug was stuck. Jiggling it, I pulled harder.

  All of the lights in the back of the store went out.

  Felicity shrieked, “What have you done to the Champion? Your electricity’s faulty.”

  How could that be? Clay had renovated the building, turning a century-old bungalow into a gorgeous shop over an equally appealing apartment. He had installed two electrical panels, one up here, and another downstairs for my apartment. I charged into the storeroom and opened the shop’s panel. None of the circuit breakers appeared to need resetting. I pushed the one for the rear of the store to its off position, then back on. The lights stayed off.

  Perplexed, I returned to the dog pen. With Felicity shadowing me and muttering threats about what Mr. Chandler might do to me if I destroyed his pride and joy, I yanked the plug out of the outlet, lugged Darlene’s super-heavy Champion to an outlet near the front of the store, and plugged it in. The machine powered on perfectly. Threadville tourists cheered.

  I brought the carton, accessories, manual, and packing material out of the storeroom.

  Georgina offered to check the electrical panel. Another customer, a wiry woman with a dandelion fluff of platinum hair, accompanied Georgina into the storeroom.

  Felicity fussed about my ill treatment of the Chandler Champion.

  Georgina emerged from the storeroom and interrupted Felicity’s tirades. “We couldn’t see anything wrong with the circuit breakers.”

  “Thanks, Georgina,” I said, “and…” I looked at the woman with the fluff of blond hair.

  “Mimi Anderson,” Georgina supplied. “She’s renting a cottage near the beach. She loves to sew.”

  Mimi cleared her throat. “I’m renting a cottage in Threadville because I love to sew. And all three of my children went off to college orientation this week, leaving me with an empty nest. So I flew the coop. And then I got here and discovered that I could have come on the tour bus from Erie every day! But I am enjoying my month in a beach house.”

  The village’s fame was spreading. I welcomed her to Threadville. “And after the month’s up and you go back home, you can come on the tour bus whenever you like.”

  “I love Threadville. And your shop.” She appeared to be enraptured by the lined-up machines, natural fabrics, and embroidery threads and supplies. To sewing and machine embroidery fans, In Stitches was a treasure trove.

  Georgina asked, “Mind if we borrow one of the lamps near your sewing machine display?”

  “Sure, that’s fine.” With difficulty and no help from the hovering Felicity, I maneuvered the Champion into its carton. What had Chandler used to weight the bottom of the machine, lead? If they’d added a couple more pounds, I’d have needed a forklift to move it.

  Georgina and Mimi took a lamp to the back of the shop and plugged it into the outlet where the Champion had been. Nothing happened. Georgina wiggled the plug. All of the lights in the rear of the store flickered and flashed. She pulled the plug out. The lights stayed on.

  Astonished, I gaped at the two women.

  Georgina explained, “I had a similar problem with an outlet at home. It turned out to have a loose connection. You’d better have your electrician check it.”

  I managed not to sigh. I would have to ask Clay for help. Again.

  Georgina and Mimi put the lamp back. I continued packing the Chandler Champion and its accessories. Glowering like I couldn’t possibly do it right, Felicity supervised.

  My students folded most of the chairs away in the storeroom, leaving only enough for the class to gather around the machine where I usually did my demonstrations.

  “You didn’t give the speech I told you to give,” Felicity complained. “If you couldn’t remember it, you could have read it.”

  I counted to ten, probably too fast. “I’d already memorized one. It said the same thing.”

  “I don’t see how you can hope to be a reasonable seamstress if you don’t follow instructions explicitly.”

  Wishi
ng that Susannah or Haylee could have heard Felicity’s latest criticism, I pointedly did not look at the bulky seams and bunchy corners of the jacket she’d interfaced with corrugated cardboard. I taped the Chandler Champion’s carton shut. Darlene wasn’t back, I was antsy to begin the morning’s already shortened class, and my dogs were whining to return to the shop. I let them out of the apartment and into their pen. Wagging their tails, they accepted greetings from my students. Felicity sniffed like someone scheduling an allergic attack.

  I showed my students how one type of digitizing software created shapes that could be arranged to form embroidery designs. Felicity smirked, obviously ready to pounce if I said anything wrong.

  Darlene returned, with Russ behind her. Finally, Felicity would leave. She magnanimously led Darlene to the sealed carton. I offered a wheeled dolly, but Russ refused.

  “He can carry it,” his mother said, marching out my front door. “He’s only sixteen, but he’s strong.”

  She was right.

  His face taut and his muscles straining, Russ hauled the box outside and set it carefully into the back of an old pickup truck, maroon with a wide white band around it.

  But that was the end of the boy’s caution. As soon as his mother climbed into his passenger seat, he peeled away, tires spewing billows of smoke.

  In a small black sedan, Felicity pulled out behind Russ’s truck. I hoped she’d be able to keep up. If she got lost, she might return to In Stitches.

  “Good riddance,” said Rosemary, one of my hardest-working students and also the Threadville tour bus driver. “That Felicity was unpleasant.”

  Mimi, who had stayed to attend my embroidery class, hid a cough in her elbow. “I hope she does corners better in her car than she does in her sewing.”

  Everyone laughed, and I felt fine again. Life in Threadville could go back to normal.