Fabric of Life Read online

  FABRIC OF LIFE

  by

  Judith Post

  Dedication:

  I have many people who have supported me and believed in me as a writer. Too many to thank properly, but I’d like to acknowledge some here:

  To my husband, John, who loves me no matter what my moods, no matter if I have dirty hair and bad breath, who took “for better or worse” at its word—who’s my rock. He’s pretty fun to live with too.

  To my daughters Holly and Robyn, who always believed that someday, I’d make it and always encouraged me. No mother could have daughters who are more fun to hang out with. And to my “adopted” daughter Heidi who always makes me feel better than I am. And to Tyler and Nate—some teenagers are pretty cool.

  To my partners in crime—my writing group, The Summit City Scribes—for their honest critiques. They tell me what they like and what they don’t, and they don’t let me get away with lazy or sloppy writing. A special thanks to the brave friends who critique my entire manuscripts (and who are wonderful writers themselves): Ann Staadt, Mary Lou Rigdon, Paula Adams, and Connie Paxson. They don’t cut me any slack, and for that, I’m profoundly grateful. A special, special thanks to ANN WINTRODE, who has faithfully copy edited every manuscript I’ve ever written (even the beginning, bad ones that shall not see light). Any errors in my novels are due to the fact that I’m a hopeless tinkerer and rewrote scenes and sentences after she returned a clean copy to me—which means, it was my mistake, not hers. And to Karen Lenfestey, who was the first of us brave enough to give online books a shot—she’s made us all proud with her sells!

  Last, but not least, a huge thank you to my agent Lauren Abramo—whose patience, I hope, shall be rewarded. She is constantly cheerful, positive, and unfailingly nice. I always dreamed for an agent I could work with. I got better. I found an agent I like and admire. And to Abby Reilly (who made everything easy for me) and Michael Prete (who designed my book covers).

  Chapter 1

  Thea was tearing greens for a salad when she stopped and tensed. She tilted her head to the side, concentrating on the feel of the air, the vibes in the wind. Something was different. She could sense it. Not like the vibes she felt last week. Those were a chaos of energy, disturbing. These were odd, confused.

  She closed her eyes, emptied all thoughts from her head, and immersed herself in the moment. An energy pulsed in the room. Not the usual pang she felt when a baby dropped and a mother was about to give birth. This was different. Alien. She couldn’t pinpoint it. She hadn’t been able to identify the first vibes, either.

  A moment later, the buzz was gone. Her body relaxed, and she got busy finishing lunch. Her three, close friends would be here any minute. Thea lifted the lid on her soup pot and inhaled the heady aroma of bouillabaisse. Mmm, liquid heaven. A little extravagant, but this would be their last regular quilting session for months. A loaf of crusty bread sat on the heavy pine table in the dining nook. Beside it, a chocolate pavlova waited for its topping of freshly beaten whipped cream.

  Shari was the first to gun her car up the long, winding drive that led to the cabin. Thea saw her white, Cadillac convertible streak past the windows to park under the overhang of the A-frame’s deck. Soon, she heard Shari trot up the steps to the side door.

  “My God, it smells good in here.” Shari tossed a sweater on the back of the tan, leather sofa, then plopped down at the pine table to visit while Thea drizzled olive oil into raspberry vinegar. “I told Hank to grab something to eat at the bowling alley tonight, because I sure wasn’t going to cook for him.”

  “Who’s watching the inn?”

  “Hank’s mom. She’s at loose ends since she retired, poor woman. Bored out of her skull.”

  “Must be nice for you.” Thea did a little rumba as she shook the salad dressing. Shari was unimpressed. “Not really. She calls me all the time, asking if I want to run here or there with her. I could take off every once in a while in the afternoons during our slow season, but we’re already busy enough that I’ve started asking her to come to the inn and help me.”

  “And does she?”

  “Like a shot. Even helps change the sheets when Tillie doesn’t show up.”

  “Is that often?” Thea sautéed pecans in a hot pan.

  “Not since she graduated from high school. Tillie’s saving for her wedding. I think the baby’s going to beat her to it, though. The girl looks like she’s going to pop.”

  Thea removed the nuts from the burner and let her mind drift for a minute. She’d learned the hard way that a moment’s distraction could mean a burned meal. Shari reached for a chunk of cheese from the array on the table. All of Thea’s friends recognized the look in her eyes when she zoned for a few minutes. They understood.

  Was the energy that she’d felt earlier a sign that Tillie was almost ready to give birth? She listened to the hum of the universe and shook her head. Nope. It wasn’t that.

  “You back?” Shari asked, reaching for a small clump of grapes.

  “It’ll happen soon,” Thea said, “but not yet. What are you going to do when she has the baby? Do you have to find someone else?”

  “Nope, we’ve already talked about that. Hank’s mom is going to help out until Tillie’s ready to come back.”

  “Won’t that take a while?”

  “No, she needs the money. She’s going to bring the baby with her. We’ve already set up a play pen in the break room.”

  A black BMW sped past the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the chalet-style cabin.

  “Cynthia’s here,” Shari said.

  A moment later, the side door burst open and Cynthia Raker strode into the room. Cynthia was immaculate, as usual, with her platinum hair hugging her head in a smooth bob, unlike Thea’s untidy ponytail. Cynthia always had the perfect tan and wore the perfect make-up. Today, she wore a crisp sundress and cork-soled sandals. Unlike Thea’s jeans and beat-up flip-flops. None of Cynthia’s friends envied her, though. They knew she was driven. She washed and ironed her and her nine year-old son’s sheets every day. She swept the house and dusted the woodwork every evening. She exercised every morning.

  “Hello, ladies,” Cynthia said, greeting them. “Isn’t this a fabulous afternoon?”

  “Fabulous,” Shari said, grinning.

  Thea pointed to the cheese and fruit on the table. “Make yourself at home.”

  Cynthia took a plate and studied the food on offer. “You rinsed these grapes, didn’t you?”

  “No, I want to poison you all. I was only going to eat the bread and cheese.” When Cynthia’s eyes went wide, Thea laughed. “They’re rinsed. You’re safe.”

  “So how’s the art gallery?” Shari asked as Cynthia sat across from her.

  Cynthia’s blue eyes twinkled. “I have good news.”

  “What is it?” Shari had no patience.

  “I sold the new wall hanging Thea wove. A woman fell in love with the primary colors and didn’t even quibble about the price. Just opened her purse and handed me fourteen hundred dollars.”

  “Fourteen hundred bucks?” Shari looked at Thea. “I’m glad you’re my friend, or I’d never have been able to afford my hanging.”

  “Yours was different,” Thea said. “Yours was your personal map.”

  “Yeah! That would have cost even more,” Shari said.

  “You needed it.”

  “Which doubles the price of everything else. Guess you haven’t bought any meds lately.”

  Thea munched on a carrot stick and waved her arguments away. “We’re friends.” After all, why be a weaver if she couldn’t use her gift to help people she loved?

  “Thank God!” Shari went back to the cheese tray.

  Cynthia said, “I have a big, bare wall in the gallery now.
Have you got anything else ready?”

  “Not a hanging, but I have a quilt.” The other women worked together to make one quilt a year to raffle for the nearby Indiana parks programs. Last year, the money they raised built a gazebo at the public beach down the street from Thea’s property. Before that, it built a pavilion in the national park a few miles out of town. Thea, however, stitched one quilt after another, finishing a dozen a year.

  “What design?” Cynthia asked.

  “Block houses.”

  “I love that one!” Shari said. “I’ve looked at it every time we go into your studio. It’s the one with the cute, little rectangle houses in each row, and the triangle roofs and little chimneys. . . “

  She would have gone on, but Cynthia cut her off. Nothing personal, and Shari didn’t take offense. Shari’s nickname was Jabberwocky, and her husband often referred to her as Motor Mouth, because silence was not one of Shari’s virtues, so if a person wanted to get a word in edgewise, she had to jump right in.

  “It has wonderful, bright colors,” Cynthia said. “It will look perfect on the gallery wall.”

  They were talking about the tourists’ early return this year when a red SUV braked by the side door and Nancy hurried in. “Sorry, last minute emergency,” she said. “The meatloaf special almost became the charcoal surprise when my new cook rammed his fat ass against the oven knob and changed the temperature from 350 to broil.”

  “You caught it?” Thea asked.

  “Oh, yeah, the kitchen went hot in five minutes. It’s a good thing I was there, though. Everyone else just stood around bitching about the heat.”

  Nancy was known for her big heart and her foul mouth. She was also known for her thick, auburn hair and lush figure. She was a drinker and a smoker who ran a great restaurant on Green Street.

  Every street in Emerald Hills was named after a color. The art gallery was on Brown Boulevard. Shari’s inn was on Gold Galleyway. Thea’s studio was off the beaten track on the Ruby Riverwalk.

  “Come on, ladies. Let’s eat,” Cynthia said, looking at her watch. “We need to finish the quilt today.”

  They were eating the pavlova and sipping coffee when Thea straightened slightly, and her face took on its far away look. The others quieted for a moment, then went on without her.

  She could sense a presence, she was sure. But it wasn’t a new soul getting ready to come to Earth. What was it? With a sigh, she admitted defeat. Whatever this was, it was something new, something she hadn’t experienced before. The second mystery vibe in less than a week. She frowned. Nothing to do but wait and see what happened.

  She looked at her friends. “Let’s leave all this and get to the studio. We have work to do.”

  “But the soup?”

  “I’ll stick it in the fridge. Everything else can sit.”

  They didn’t argue. They climbed the stairs to the huge loft area that ran the width of her house, and each woman took a corner. The quilt had to be finished. It was going to be raffled off next week.

  Before Thea took her first stitch, though, she looked across the back yard to her studio above the barn. She’d been a weaver for over twenty years. She thought she knew everything there was about the gift. But something was wrong. She didn’t know what, and it worried her.

  Chapter 2

  Cynthia, as usual, was the last to finish. A perfectionist, she wanted each stitch to be exactly the same size. Shari and Nancy weren’t nearly as dedicated. They completed their sections and moseyed back downstairs to the kitchen for another glass of wine until Thea joined them. The three of them were chatting and waiting on Cynthia when Thea stiffened slightly and turned her head.

  “Sorry. It’s time. I have to go.”

  Nancy waved a hand. “Want us to lock up when we leave?”

  “No need. Josh’s around somewhere.”

  Shari rolled her eyes. “Take your key. We’ll lock the door behind us.”

  Thea’s friends were generous concerning her twenty-two year old son. Josh was so bright, such a wonderful human being. But so lost. Thea watched his daily wanderings to the stream. A heavy chunk of wood awaited him there. He’d learned to whittle when he was young and turned into a master over the years. His creations were wonderful and sold well. But they didn’t make him happy. Nothing made him happy lately, and Thea didn’t know what to do about it. “Weave him a map,” Nancy suggested. “Like you did for Shari.”

  “He’d hate me.” It was tempting, but she’d vowed never to study a person’s bookmark unless she had permission. Looking at someone else’s preordained journey would be an invasion of privacy, like reading his diary. The minute a friend or loved one asked, though, she’d do everything in her power to help him.

  “It’s healthy for a kid to hate his mom,” Nancy said. “Part of growing up.”

  That, Thea could believe, but the time had come. She had to go. “Can’t talk. Gotta weave,” Thea said and hurried to the barn at the back of her property. The barn was stained gray with white trim to match the cottage, and Thea loved it every time she looked at it. Her loom was on the second floor, near the window, so she could look out over the hilly terrain and the stream at the edge of her property after she finished her work.

  She was almost to the double doors when Rachel came to join her at a half-run.

  “I was helping Isak at the bakery when I felt it,” Rachel said. “I’m getting better, aren’t I?”

  Thea smiled. “You’re going to be as good or better than I am.” Every Patek was born with a special gift, but one daughter in each generation inherited her mother’s special talent since time immemorial. Before she died, Thea’s older sister, Aggie, helped heal hundreds of people. Aggie’s daughter, Hannah, could see ghosts and talk to spirits. Rachel was especially lucky. She had two gifts. She could see auras, as well as weave.

  The Patek women had recorded the predestined life swings for each person in Jefferson County since the world’s population had grown too large for the three Greek sisters known as the Fates. Each swing of the needle meant an up or a down for the new soul readying to enter the world. A lot of his life’s course was determined by his time of birth and the name he was given. Each letter and each time had a secret meaning for the life lessons chosen. And the scale’s needle picked up on every celestial nuance, each planet’s influence, that was preordained.

  Thea unlocked the barn doors and led Rachel inside. They sped up the steps to the short, narrow loom, designed specifically to weave bookmarks of a person’s life. Thea pulled the small loom, only twelve by three inches, closer to her on the table and sat before it. She poised her fingers over the threads. The large loom, on which Thea wove life maps, sat at the other end of the studio.

  “No one from our town,” Rachel muttered, absorbing the vibes drifting on the air.

  “Down river from Emerald Hills,” Thea said.

  Rachel tilted her head. “The soul’s stepping on the scale.”

  Thea sensed the needle bounce and her fingers flew over the threads.

  Rachel let out a relieved sigh. “Thank God, a healthy childhood.”

  The needle bounced again. Another sigh from Rachel. “Good parents.”

  At nineteen, Rachel was still idealistic enough that it pained her to weave a dismal childhood for any soul. But Thea constantly reminded her that it was not their choice. It was like being a weatherman. They merely predicted and recorded the storms and sunny weather that were already on the way.

  Rachel flinched when the scale lurched suddenly. Thea’s fingers wove a darker, twistier pattern. This soul would experience a minor adversity when he reached eight years of age. Maybe a broken arm or the death of a grandparent, some hurdle that he had to overcome. Then the needle swung happily again. Thea wove a smooth, brightly colored pattern for the next six years. At fourteen, the new soul hit a more serious challenge. Thea’s fingers wove a contorted, muddied pattern followed by a tight knot. The soul would hit a serious life bump during the early teens. There were more s
mooth patterns and more knots to follow, none as serious as the one at fourteen; the fabric grew into a long, attractive bookmark.

  Rachel sighed when the soul stepped off the scale. This person would live a full, rich life.

  “It was a happy weave, wasn’t it?” she asked her mother.

  Thea shook her head as she cut and tied the final thread. “We can’t predict happiness. We can’t even predict outcomes. All we record is the journey.”

  “But this life was pretty smooth,” Rachel argued.

  Thea gave her daughter a quick hug. “I’ve seen people with knot after knot, one hardship after another, face them head on and live happy lives. And I’ve seen people with smooth, bright weaves commit suicide. Each person makes his own choices, even about happiness.”

  Thea was always tired when the weaving was finished. A new soul had weighed in, and within minutes, a baby would be born. She released the bookmark from the loom and it floated upward, to hang with all the others, from the many beams that crisscrossed the barn’s ceiling.

  Thea went to stand at the long window at the end of the loft. Rachel followed her. They looked out over the tops of maple trees at the huddle of houses on the far side of the stream where most of the shop owners from Emerald Hills lived.

  “You’ll do my children’s weave, won’t you?” Rachel asked.

  Thea nodded. “Their bookmarks.” Life maps were another matter. Any weaver could do those. “No mother does her own children’s. It’s too personal.” Thea’s mother had done Rachel and Josh’s weaves. Thea’s grandmother had done hers. Later, once Thea was grown, she could have asked either of them to do a life map for her, to help her look at her ups and downs and see a pattern--like the one she’d done for Shari--but she’d always been reluctant to know. Thea didn’t look at her children’s bookmarks, either. When the time came, if they asked, she’d be happy to. But was she right? If she’d looked at her own, would she have married Gabe when she was only nineteen? Or would she have made a different choice for that particular meeting of Venus and Jupiter? If she had a map weaving of her children’s lives, would she know how to handle their teenage years better?