The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,95
of the dresser. “Okay, let’s do this. Ready? One. Two. Three.”
“Use your knees!” Pris cautioned, just as a twinge in my back gave me the same reminder. I held my breath and shuffled across the floor, following Pris’s lead, who was making this look annoyingly easy, until we reached the wall.
“Great. Looks good.” At that point, I honestly didn’t care how it looked, but I was the boss so I felt like I should be encouraging. “Now we just need to make the bed.”
“Sit down and rest for a minute,” Pris said. “I’ve got this.”
I sank into a nearby chair, feeling bad about leaving the bed-making to Pris, but not bad enough to actually get up and help. “How’s your mom doing?” I asked.
Pris grabbed the edge of a sheet and unfurled it with a snap of her wrist. The field of crisp white cotton hovered in the air for a moment before floating down onto the bed. “Better. We finally have something to talk about besides my wardrobe choices and career prospects. Guess what? She knows how to embroider but never told me. Yesterday, she showed me how to make French knots. I’m stitching a sunflower on the pocket of a jacket and want to use them for the middle part, you know, the seeds.”
I nodded because, yes indeed, I understood about sunflowers and seeds. Pris jabbered on. She was in a very chatty mood.
“I never knew she’d kept all Dad’s old dress shirts. After he died, she was preoccupied with the funeral, and the lawyers, and the estate, and then moving here, starting her business, and hardly ever talked about him. I thought maybe it was because she didn’t love him, didn’t really care. Now I’m wondering if it was because she cared too much.”
Pris picked up a pillow and stuffed it in a case. Guilt overcame exhaustion, so I stood up and helped with the second pillow. “Some people find it really hard to let themselves be sad or grieve.”
“I guess. It was a big deal, though, her coming over and joining the group. No idea what changed her mind but whatever it was, I’m glad.”
“Did she decide what kind of quilt she’s going to make from your dad’s shirts?”
“Not yet,” Pris said. “She’s still thinking about patterns. But it’s nice, you know? She has all the shirts out on the dining room table. Sometimes I walk past and see her just sitting there, looking through the pattern book, and smiling. She told me a story about one of the shirts, how they went to some party and she tripped and spilled red wine on his shirt, and instead of getting mad, Dad asked her to dance.”
I fluffed the pillow and dropped it on the bed. “That’s a great story.”
“Dad was like that,” Pris said. “Didn’t sweat the little stuff. But he wasn’t much of a businessman. Now that I’m older, I understand how much strain that put on Mom after he died. But I’m glad she’s starting to remember that there was good stuff about him too. Anyway,” she said, putting her arms to her sides, “I just want to thank you for making that happen.”
“Happy’s the one making it happen,” I said, “and it’s very brave of her.”
“Well, thank you anyway. And listen, Celia.” Her gaze flitted from mine. Her cheeks colored and she bit her lower lip. “About the other day, when she got so hammered and came over here. I’m really, really sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but—”
I made a chopping motion with my hand, cutting her off mid-apology. “Pris, something I wish I’d learned a lot earlier in life is that it’s not my job to ask forgiveness for other people’s bad behavior. Did I ever tell you when I finally decided to divorce my husband?”
Pris shook her head as she stuffed a pillow into a case.
This was not a story I enjoyed relating but I felt like I had to, for Pris’s sake. Sharing a personal story, even if it’s embarrassing—and maybe especially if it’s embarrassing—is sometimes the best way to make a lesson stick. There are lots of advice columns out there, but the reason so many people loved reading Dear Calpurnia was that she was willing to be vulnerable. Writing behind the veil of Calpurnia’s persona was one thing, but being willing to open up like that in real life is a lot harder, and more uncomfortable. For Pris’s sake, I would. She was my