The Quilting Bees
When Leigh Dillon first viewed the two-story colonial house on Covered Bridge Road in White Pines, Vermont, it was a warm, sunny day in early October. With the brightly colored foliage on the trees that dotted the sprawling property, the scene resembled a postcard or a travel brochure for autumn in New England. The beauty of the serene, bucolic setting was spoiled only by her husband Burke's sarcasm.
"Enough of this Kodak moment," he rudely told his wife. "If this is the house you want, we need to get the ball rolling right away or else we won't be in by Christmas. You know how slow these small-town people are."
Despite Burke's pessimistic prediction to the contrary, the paperwork went through quickly, and the closing was held in late November. The weather had changed during the intervening weeks, and the day the couple moved into their new home, the sky was steel gray in color. The few leaves that remained on the trees were shriveled and dead as were the leaves that lay scattered on the lawn, occasionally taking flight when the cold wind blew.
"I suppose I'll have to find a lawn service to take care of all these damned leaves," Burke declared with annoyance. "We never had to worry about such things when we lived in the city."
Leigh held back an angry retort. True, relocating to rural Vermont had been her idea, but her husband had agreed to it. The relocation was a grand attempt to stabilize their rocky marriage. Hopefully, in a small town, they would be able to relax, spend time together and enjoy life. They hoped to have a child and become members of the community, a drastic change from the stressful, career-centered lifestyle they had previously led.
Despite the damp, dreary weather outside, once a fire was lit in the living room fireplace, warmth pervaded the home and dispelled the chilly gloom. Both Leigh and her husband were glad to see that the movers had already put their furniture in place and stacked the cardboard cartons containing their clothing, personal items and housewares in the appropriate rooms.
"While you're unpacking, I'm going into town to meet my new law partner," Burke announced. "Don't worry. I'll be back later this afternoon to give you a hand."
Leigh smiled, happy to see her husband take an interest in his new job. She prayed things would work out for him. Burke had been employed at one of the most prestigious law firms in New York, handling only high-profile criminal cases. She seriously doubted he would be called upon to defend any serial killers, celebrity defendants or mafia kingpins in White Pines, and she feared he might be disappointed working at a small-town law office. Only time would tell, she supposed.
* * *
By mid-afternoon, Leigh had all the dishes, pots, pans, glassware and cutlery organized in the kitchen cabinets and drawers. She was heading upstairs to the master bedroom to begin unpacking her clothes when the doorbell rang.
"Hello. I'm Hattie Erskine, your neighbor from next door."
The woman looked to be somewhere between sixty and seventy years old. She was pleasant enough but seemed a bit stern, like a strict schoolteacher or a librarian.
"I wanted to welcome you and your husband to our town," the unsmiling Hattie said, handing Leigh a scrumptious-looking Bundt cake loaded with fresh cranberries.
"I was just about to make a pot of coffee," Leigh lied. "Why don't you come in and join me?"
"Don't mind if I do. Where are you folks from?" Hattie asked as the two women sat down at the kitchen table.
"Manhattan," Leigh replied.
The look on the older woman's face spoke volumes. New Yorkers, as Leigh well knew, were universally disliked outside the Empire State. Most people, especially those in small towns like White Pines, saw them as an arrogant, pushy and contentious lot.
"But I'm not from there originally. I moved to the city because that's where my husband worked. I was born and bred in New Jersey."
Hattie's raised eyebrow indicated that she thought people from New Jersey were little better than those from New York, that the Garden State was filled with arrogant, pushy and contentious New Yorkers that spilled over the Hudson from the city itself.
"Around here we get lots of tourists from New York and New Jersey, especially in the fall when the leaves turn."
It was clear from Hattie's tone of voice that tourists, while a blessing to the owners of the local shops and restaurants, were about as welcome as a swarm of locusts. They were often seen by the local residents as weekend interlopers invading the peace and quiet of their little hamlet.
"Ayah. New Yorkers come here every October. They bring their fancy cameras and cell phones with them and take pictures of the lighthouse, the old mill, the covered bridge, the falls and even our homes—all the while tossing around words like quaint and picturesque," Hattie laughed.
"It's certainly a lot different here from the city. Some more coffee?" Leigh asked politely.
"Don't mind if I do. So, what kind of work does your husband do?"
"He's a lawyer. He's just accepted a position with Hoffman and Peters over on Ethan Allen Street."
Again, Hattie's look said it all. If there was any form of life lower than New Yorkers and tourists, it was lawyers!
"Sy Hoffman's a good person," Hattie declared.
She did not add "for a lawyer," but the words were understood.
Despite Hattie's preconceived notions about New Yorkers and lawyers—or was the negativity only in Leigh's imagination?—the new homeowner felt a fondness for the older woman. It was a feeling that was about to pass through the forge of tribulation and emerge as a strong bond of friendship.
* * *
Once all the boxes were unpacked and the house was running smoothly, Leigh turned her attention to the couple's integration into the seaside community. With Hattie's help, she began planning a combination housewarming and New Year's Eve party. The favorable response to the invitations she sent out was encouraging. All but two people, who would be visiting family members out of state, RSVPed their attendance.
The second week in December the two neighbors went out to lunch at the Green Mountain Pub to discuss the menu for the party. During dessert Leigh asked Hattie, who had no close family living nearby, to be her and Burke's guest for Christmas dinner.
"Thank you, dear," she replied with genuine warmth and affection for the younger woman, "but I always spend the holiday with my fellow Bees."
"Bees?"
"That's what we call ourselves. A few years back my friends and I formed a little clique—for lack of a better word."
"Are they anything like the Red Hat Ladies?"
"Not quite. It started with a handful of wives who met over coffee and cake once or twice a week. We gossiped about the neighbors and complained about our husbands, housework and children—all the usual coffee klatch topics. We eventually later grew tired of just griping about our problems and decided to do something positive with our time. So, we formed a quilting bee; hence, the nickname 'Bees.'"
"Do you and your friends still make quilts?"
"Occasionally. Each of us has one, and we sometimes make one to be raffled off for charity at the Harvest Fair."
"I'd love to see some of your work."
Leigh's interest was not politely feigned. For some time, she had wanted to buy a hand-sewn quilt for her bed.
"Do you ever take orders? I'll pay whatever price you ask."
"Sorry, dear. We don't make the quilts to sell. Heavens! We wouldn't even know how much to charge. You have no idea how much blood, sweat and tears go into making one."
* * *
Although he had only been in Vermont for less than a month, Burke already decided he hated living there and missed the life he once led in New York. Every morning, he voiced his complaints over breakfast and then repeated them each evening at dinner. His new job was boring, and the pace in White Pines was much too slow for his taste. There was also a serious lack of culture and nightlife in the town.
"I don't see why that should bother you. When was the last time you and I went to a Broadway show, the Metropolitan Opera or even a ballgame at Yankee Stadium?" his wife asked. "We never had the time. The only nightlife we saw was when we took your law partners out to dinner."
"Well, now we've got plenty of time to spend together. Tell me, what do you want to do tonight, hang out at the mall?"
"Your sarcasm doesn't make things any better, Burke."
"No, but this will," he said, reaching for a bottle of scotch on the sideboard.
* * *
On Christmas Day, husband and wife, in honor of the holiday, were civil toward each other. Surprisingly, Burke remained sober. However, the good humor was forced, and by the end of the evening, Leigh was feeling the strain. The move to White Pines was meant to improve the relationship, yet it seemed to be making things worse.
On New Year's Eve, the party guests came bearing gifts. Burke welcomed them with the dazzling charm he normally reserved for members of a jury. The party was a success and lasted long into the night. The next day Burke and Sy Hoffman staked their claim to the Dillon family room and its sixty-inch Sony to watch the New Year's Day bowl games. Leigh disliked football, so when Hattie invited her to tea, she eagerly accepted.
"It was a great party," the older woman told her neighbor. "Everyone seemed to have had a good time—everyone except you, that is."
Leigh managed a weak smile.
"You must know what it's like. The hostess is always too busy to enjoy her own party."
"I think there's more to it than that."
Leigh dropped the false good cheer.
"You don't miss anything, do you?"
"What's wrong? Are you homesick for New York?"
"Me? No, I love it here. I love the house, the town and the people."
"And your husband? How does he feel about White Pines?"
Leigh normally did not believe in airing her dirty laundry in public, yet there was something about Hattie that compelled her to open up to the older woman. Over several cups of tea, Leigh told her neighbor about her husband's dissatisfaction with his new environment, her failing marriage and Burke's accelerating drinking problem.
"I feel so ashamed," Leigh cried, her carefully preserved image of domestic bliss having been shattered.
"Don't be silly," Hattie insisted. "There's nothing for you to be ashamed of. Besides, you're not the only one to ever find herself trapped in an unhappy marriage. Hell, you're looking at one of the original desperate housewives! My late husband was a musician, or at least that's what he dreamt of being. In reality, he was nothing but an out-of-work piano player with a penchant for illegal substances and fast women."
Leigh suddenly felt like Alice after she stepped through the looking glass. Hattie belonged to a quilting bee, for heaven's sake!—one step away from being Amish, or so Leigh had thought. She could not reconcile this wholesome image with that of a wife of a womanizing junkie.
"Yes, my husband's bad habits nearly cost us everything. He went through most of savings. All we had left was this house, and we would have lost it, too. But then he died, and the life insurance helped me get out of debt."
"Losing your husband seems a high price to pay for financial stability."
"By the time he died, there wasn't much of a marriage left. And this house had been in my family for three generations. It means the world to me. I couldn't imagine losing it."
Leigh looked out the window toward her own house. Although she had only lived there a short time, she already felt a strong attachment to it. It was her home, something the New York apartment had never been.
"A man goes where his career leads him," Hattie continued, "but it's different for a woman. She puts down roots. She needs the security of a home. Now don't go thinking I'm one of those Neanderthals who believe a woman's place is in the kitchen! Hell, no! I'm all for equal rights and women's liberation. But I also believe that it's a woman's instinct to nest, even if there are no eggs to put in that nest. It's just nature's way."
* * *
The relationship between Leigh and Burke did not improve after the holidays. In fact, with the onset of winter, Burke's dissatisfaction grew and his drinking increased. This led to more frequent and increasingly bitter arguments. During one heated altercation, Burke actually reached out and struck his wife. Leigh was astounded. Her husband had never raised a hand to her before.
Once he sobered up, he was apologetic.
"I swear I'll never hit you again," he promised, eager to put the incident behind him. "I was drunk, and you know I have a short fuse on my temper even when I'm sober."
"That's no excuse. Besides, when was the last time you weren't drunk?"
"I realize I've been drinking more than usual. It's just because I hate it here. Why don't we admit the move was a mistake, sell the house and go back to New York?"
"Don't you remember? We moved here because we were having problems in New York. Those problems won't just disappear if we go back now. No, I think we should stay here and try to work things out."
"How do we do that?"
"For starters, you might consider cutting down on your alcohol consumption."
"My drinking is only a symptom. The problem is this one-horse town and that Mickey Mouse law firm. I was one of the best criminal defense attorneys in New York. I was the lead counsel on the Central Park Slasher case, and now I'm defending Beulah Halloran for shoplifting a pair of pantyhose at the White Pines Drug Store."
"We moved here so you wouldn't be working eighteen hours a day. You said you wanted us to spend more time together and start a family. What happened to that resolution?"
Burke's answer was to head toward the liquor cabinet.
"How can I make you happy when I'm so miserable myself? The decision is yours," he declared, pouring himself a large scotch. "If you really want this marriage to work, you'll consider going back to the city."
* * *
For the next several days, Leigh searched her soul and gave serious thought to returning to New York. In the end, she vetoed the idea. She had come to love White Pines, her house and her new friends, and she had no desire to leave. Besides, she honestly doubted her marital problems would be solved by the move. In fact, she came to the sad realization that she no longer loved her husband. Perhaps she never had. Maybe it had just been the idea of being in love that attracted her to the young law student in the first place.
And what did Burke feel for me? she wondered.
Had he been infatuated with her or with the generous trust fund her wealthy parents had left her? In the past, she would never have considered the latter alternative. She would never have dared to dispel the romantic illusions she cherished, but now she saw Burke in a new light.
"I've made my decision," Leigh resolutely announced when her husband brought up the subject of moving once again. "I'm staying here in White Pines. You, of course, are free to make your own choice. You can either remain here with me or return to New York alone."
"That's it, huh?" Burke asked, drunkenly slurring his words. "I gave up my job and my apartment, and now that you've got what you want, you dismiss me like some poor relative."
Leigh sensed the immense well of bitterness Burke had kept buried behind the façade of a loving husband. He resented her because she had been born into money and privilege while he had had to work his way through college and law school.
The argument escalated as Burke poured himself another drink and then another.
"There's no use discussing the matter any further tonight," Leigh said. "You're drunk, and I'm tired."
Despite his promise to keep a tighter rein on his temper, Burke struck his wife, and as his rage grew, the blows continued. Finally, Leigh ran from her home to Hattie's house to seek safe shelter from her husband.
"What happened, dear?" the neighbor asked, putting her arms protectively around the younger woman.
"I had a fight with my husband."
"And he hit you? I had no idea things were that bad between the two of you. Come into the kitchen. I'll make us both a cup of tea, and we can put an ice bag on your swollen lip."
Leigh tearfully told her friend about the explosive argument.
"I don't want to go back to the city," she concluded.
"I don't mean to interfere, but sometimes it's best to admit a marriage is a mistake and end it."
"I agree, but apparently Burke doesn't feel that way. He's against any separation or divorce."
"He's abusive. You can press charges."
"He's also an excellent lawyer and a convincing liar. The courts won't be able to do anything. The only way I'll be able to rid myself of him is to tear up the prenuptial agreement and give him half of my trust fund."
Hattie put her teacup down and placed her hand on top of Leigh's.
"There is another way."
* * *
Leigh spent the night at her neighbor's house. Around ten the following morning, the other members of the quilting bee began arriving at the Erskine house. She had met all of the women before but knew little about their private lives. As the Bees sat in the living room cutting squares out of various lengths of cotton, Hattie enlightened Leigh with stories from each woman's past.
"Dorcas's husband molested her teenage daughter, Merle's had a gambling problem and wanted her to turn tricks to pay off the loan sharks, Nita's beat her so badly she was hospitalized for over a week and Rue's so-called 'better half' had somewhat bizarre sexual preferences."
"What she means is he was a pervert!" Rue said with disgust.
"In short," Hattie concluded, "we were all in your position once. We all wanted our freedom and a return to normalcy."
Leigh looked at the other women, merrily chatting and joking as they cut out quilt swatches.
"They all seem so happy now," she whispered to Hattie.
"That's because they're all widows, women whose marriages came to a sudden, timely and fortunate end. Divorce can be so messy, not to mention expensive. And all too often a court decree is no guarantee that a woman will be able to rid herself of an unwanted, sometimes dangerous man. I used to volunteer at a women's crisis center in Boston where I heard hundreds of heartbreaking stories about women going to court for restraining orders, custody hearings and collection of overdue alimony and child support. Worst of all, some women had to live in constant fear of their ex-husband's hurting either them or their children."
"I can't imagine how terrible that must be," Leigh said.
"That's why the Bees and I formed our own little crisis management group. Our quilting bee serves a much larger purpose than sewing a family heirloom."
The other women laughed and nodded their heads in agreement.
* * *
When Leigh returned to her home that evening, she swallowed her pride and apologized to her husband.
"You're right," she told him with a forced smile. "We stand a much better chance of saving our marriage if we move back to the city. Why don't you go to New York next week and ask about getting your old job back? And while you're there, you can see what apartments are available."
"What about you?" he asked with suspicion. "Why don't you come along with me?"
"I want to start the ball rolling on this end. I'll contact the real estate agent who sold us this place, and instruct her to put it back on the market."
Burke decided to leave on Saturday night and avoid the heavy traffic that plagued I-95 every Sunday. Early the following morning Leigh showed up on Hattie's doorstep, carrying a shopping bag.
"These are all the cotton shirts I could find. Burke prefers silk."
"They'll do."
After a quick breakfast, the two women went into the living room. Hattie turned on Lifetime Movie Network while Leigh began cutting quilt squares out of her husband's tailored shirts. Meanwhile, one by one, the Bees arrived.
"That's it," Hattie announced shortly before noon. "We've got plenty of squares; let's get busy sewing."
The Bees went to their cars and retrieved their sewing machines.
"Not you, dear," Hattie told Leigh. "You have to sew yours by hand. I know it's difficult, but that's the way it has to be."
In a bizarre parody of a wedding ceremony, the Bees presented Leigh with the supplies she would need.
"Something old," Rue announced as she handed her an antique gold thimble. "It belonged to my grandmother."
"Something new," Dorcas said, producing an unopened package of quilting needles.
"Something borrowed," Nita added, passing her favorite pair of Fiskars scissors to Leigh.
"And, finally, something blue," Merle declared, handing over a spool of pale blue thread.
Hattie turned up the volume on the television so that they could hear the movie above the drone of the sewing machines. But Leigh could not concentrate on the televised drama; her mind was on her husband. Memories of earlier, happier times surfaced. Her tears fell and left dark spots on the light blue cotton square she was holding. She put down her sewing, and the motors of the Singers suddenly stopped. Leigh looked into the faces of the other Bees who were all staring at her expectantly.
"I'm sorry," she said in a low, strained voice. "I don't think I can do this."
"No need to apologize to us," Hattie assured her. "The decision is yours, and we'll abide by your wishes."
"I just never believed in eye-for-an-eye justice or a don't-get-mad-get-even philosophy."
Leigh's lower lip quivered. She turned her head to hide her anguish from the eyes of the Bees.
"It's not an easy decision to make," Dorcas said with compassion.
Through the blur of her tears, Leigh glimpsed her house out of Hattie's bay window. A light snow had fallen, covering the roof and yard with a layer of white.
"The place looks so peaceful," she said.
She was reminded of the snow that fell on the streets of New York and how quickly it turned from white to shades of black and gray, as though its purity had been corrupted by the city. The idea of leaving White Pines broke her heart. Here, some people cared about her, knew the terrible situation she was in and were unselfishly willing to help. What safety and warmth would she find in New York? Who was to say that Burke would stop drinking or that his violent outbursts would not be repeated when they were living in Manhattan? And if things did not improve, could she, even with a good lawyer, make her husband go away and stay away? With renewed determination, she picked up the needle and continued to sew.
By the end of the week, the final squares were joined and the binding tape sewn in place. Hattie disassembled the wooden quilt frame and stored it in the hall closet.
Rue folded the finished quilt and handed it to Leigh, announcing, "A present for you as you begin a new phase in your life."
"You were right," Leigh told Hattie. "You couldn't charge enough to make a profit on one of these quilts. I never realized how much effort went into one."
"Blood, sweat and tears," Hattie repeated her earlier statement. "But in cases like this, the effort is well worth it. You'll see."
The Bees then retired to the kitchen where Hattie had prepared a quick supper for them. The humor that had reigned during the project was gone. The women were all exhausted. Many messaged sore necks, aching backs and stiff wrists. After dessert and coffee, the Bees went home. Leigh offered to help Hattie clean up the mess, but the older woman refused her help.
"Don't be silly. You have to get home and wait for the phone call."
"I don't know how to thank you."
Hattie hugged her neighbor.
"If you need me during the night, just holler."
* * *
Throughout the viewing and memorial service, Leigh maintained a calm exterior. Hattie had been a blessing, helping her with the arrangements and giving her the strength to face the heartfelt condolences of the mourners.
"Such a tragic accident," Sy Hoffman said. "He was a fine young man and an excellent attorney. We'll miss him down at the firm."
The other people who gathered at the funeral home to pay their last respects to Burke Dillon expressed much the same sentiments in the presence of the widow. Yet when out of her hearing, they all voiced the belief that Burke's excessive drinking had led to his demise.
"You think he'd have known better than to drink and drive," Sy commented.
"At least he didn't kill any innocent people while he was at it," his wife replied.
Finally, the last of the mourners left the funeral home. Leigh was glad the ordeal was over.
"Let's go, dear," Hattie said, taking her friend by the arm.
After the two women departed, the mortician closed the casket. It was then placed in the hearse that would deliver the remains to the crematorium.
That night, when Leigh retired to her four-poster bed, she climbed beneath the hand-sewn quilt that, with the help of the Bees' blood, sweat and tears—not to mention some good, old-fashioned New England sorcery—had magically sealed her husband's fate. At first, the young widow feared that her conscience would rob her of a much-needed rest, but once she was safe beneath the warm, cozy quilt, Leigh closed her eyes and slept peacefully.
Anyone want to buy a quilt made with blood, sweat, tears and a few black cat hairs?
