A Thread So Thin by Marie Bostwick Page B

me on Monday night and, as usual, he got straight to the point.
    “When are you coming home? I miss you.”
    I smiled. Charlie sounded cranky. I had no problem envisioning the scowl on his face, but it was nice to be missed. Hearing his voice, I realized I missed him, too, and for some reason, this pleased me.
    “I know. I want to come home but I can’t. Not yet.”
    “Things not going well with Virginia? Is she all right?”
    “Yes. More or less. She’s not ill or anything. For her age, she’s actually pretty healthy. Certainly as feisty as ever,” I said, recalling the imperious tone she’d used with me in the restaurant. “But she really shouldn’t be driving. And she won’t admit it, but I think she’s lonely. In the three days since I’ve been here, the phone hasn’t rung once and no one has stopped by. So many of her friends have passed or retired and moved. I don’t think she has many contacts left in town. And she needs to eat better. She’s losing weight. I don’t know how much, but more than she should.”
    “She’s not eating?” Charlie was horrified. “That’s terrible! She should come out here for a while. Bring her to the restaurant. I’ll work up a few special dishes for her. A week at my table, maybe two, and we’ll have her back at fighting weight.”
    I laughed. “Fighting weight isn’t a problem, my love. Mom can still spar with the best of them, at least verbally. Seems we’ve done nothing but fight since I arrived. We’re either arguing or trying to bite our tongues and not argue, which makes for a lot of uncomfortable silences. She just refuses to admit she shouldn’t be living alone. At this point in her life, she needs a little support. It wouldn’t take much. She’s as sharp as ever. But she refuses to let me find someone to come in and help her and she refuses to come to Connecticut, even just for a visit.”
    I sighed. “The bottom line is, she doesn’t want anything to change. But things have changed. Deep down, she knows it.”
    “You must feel like you’re banging your head against a wall.”
    One of the things I love about Charlie is his ability to speak plainly. He didn’t tell me everything would be fine, or offer me advice, or, like so many men, grab a toolbox and sledgehammer and try to fix things. Not that the urge to play Mr. Fixit is necessarily a bad one, but there is a time to jump in and take charge and a time to listen. Charlie Donnelly knows the difference.
    “Yes. I just keep putting forth the same arguments and getting nowhere. Thank heaven for quilting! That’s the one thing we can talk about without it blowing up into a fight. I suggested we go on our own little shop hop. We visited all the quilt shops in Green Bay and we had a great time. I’ve been a quilt shop owner for so long that I’d almost forgotten how nice it is just to be a customer.”
    “But I bet that didn’t stop you from taking notice of what those other owners were doing right and wrong, did it?”
    I laughed. Charlie knew me so well.
    “No, it didn’t. I was jotting down some notes when you called. And I took a few pictures of some displays I liked. But mostly I just enjoyed Mom’s company. Charlie, she has such an eye. Her color sense is flawless. She picked out some fabrics for a wall hanging with birds and birdhouses…. Did I tell you how she loves birds?”
    “No.”
    “She must have six feeders in her yard. I bet she’s feeding half the birds in De Pere. They eat better than she does. Anyway, you should see the fabrics she chose—gorgeous combinations. And there was no hemming and hawing about it. She just walked down the aisle of the shop eyeing the bolts, grabbed the ones she wanted, eight fabrics in all, and was right on the money the first time. She didn’t have to fuss and fret and lay out the fabrics to see what worked and what didn’t. She just knew . She’s got such a gift.”
    “Are you surprised? You got it from her and she probably got it from