CHAPTER 49
Before it became the first five-diamond, five-star hotel in the state of Texas, the Mansion on Turtle Creek really was a mansion, built by a cotton mogul in 1908. President and Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt once stayed there as guests of the owners, and Tennessee Williams wrote the play Summer and Smoke during a visit in the 1940s.
Though it changed hands many times before being purchased in 1979 by Caroline Rose Hunt and undergoing a twenty-one-million-dollar transformation to turn it into a world-class restaurant, and later expanded to include a 143-room hotel, the sixteenth-century Renaissance Italian–style structure continued to retain the intimate feel of a private home, albeit a private home owned by a very wealthy family. Those who crossed its threshold were treated like visiting celebrities as, indeed, many were.
It was probably just as well that Mary Dell knew nothing of the illustrious history of the establishment, or that the governor, two state senators, and a TV star were among the other guests seated in the dining room that night. She was awed enough by her surroundings as it was and by the elegance of the other patrons, including Mrs. Evard, or Libby, who was wearing a black knit cocktail dress with modestly sized shoulder pads and a black silk ruffle and bow on the hem. The dress was a little sedate for Mary Dell, who was relieved she’d thought to bring her gold lamé wrap dress with the extra-big shoulder pads with her to Dallas, but Libby’s emerald and gold pendant and matching earrings were stunning, and Mary Dell told her so.
“I got them at Neiman’s.” Libby leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Thirty percent off.”
Mary Dell smiled, feeling more at ease. Libby Evard was elegant and wealthy, but under all her finery she was still just a woman who got into her girdle one leg at a time and liked a bargain, just like everybody else.
“Yes,” C. J. said in a dry tone, “Libby saves me hundreds of dollars at Neiman’s every week.”
“Aren’t you lucky?” Libby said in a flirtatious tone.
C. J. took his wife’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “I certainly am,” he said, then looked up to address a waiter. “Good evening, Gene. We’ll have the usual.”
“Bombay Sapphire and tonic for you, Mr. Evard, and a Dubonnet on the rocks for Mrs. Evard. Very good, sir. And for the lady?”
“Mary Dell, what would you like?” C. J. asked. “A martini? A glass of white wine?”
“Oh, no,” Mary Dell said quickly. “Alcohol does bad things to me. I’d better stick with Dr Pepper.”
They chatted easily over their drinks, though Mary Dell did most of the talking, answering C. J.’s questions about Too Much, her family, the ranch, and her hopes for the future. She didn’t mean to go on so, but the Evards were so easy to talk to. And they seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. C. J. waved the waiter off twice before finally saying they should order.
The menu listed all kinds of dishes that Mary Dell had never heard of, and some of it was in French, and to make matters more confusing, there were no prices listed. Mary Dell didn’t want to embarrass her hosts or the waiter by pointing out the mistake, nor did she wish to be rude and accidentally order the most expensive thing on the menu, so, after a moment, she asked C. J. to choose for her.
The tortilla soup, a specialty of the house, was delicious, made from a rich tomato-and-chicken broth with just a bit of spicy heat and topped with a sprinkling of avocados, white cotija cheese, and strips of fried tortillas. While C. J. and Mary Dell enjoyed their soup, Libby nibbled a green salad.
“I hope I get to see your quilts someday,” Libby said. “C. J. says some of your techniques are revolutionary.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mary Dell said. “I’m just doing what comes naturally.”
“Naturally to you,” C. J. said, pointing his soup spoon in her direction, “but not to everyone. You have a gift. I was thinking about your Lone Star quilt, the one you’re going to use for the first class in your new shop. I’d like to publish it in the magazine. That issue wouldn’t be out until spring, so your students would still get first crack at it. Would that be all right with you?”
Mary Dell nearly choked on her soup. “Would it? Does a cactus have spines?”
“Good, good. The pay isn’t much, but we’ll include a sidebar about your shop, maybe with a photo of you and your sister under the sign. It’ll be good publicity.”
“Really?” Mary Dell put her hand over her mouth to cover her shock. “Thank you, C. J. A thing like that could put the Patchwork Palace on the map!”
“Patchwork Palace,” Libby repeated with a smile. “What a darling name. I told C. J. that he should have chosen a more interesting name for his business. White Star Fabrics doesn’t have any magic.”
C. J. lifted his hands in an exasperated gesture. “Yes, it does. How many times have I told you? This is a Texas company, and I wanted the name to reflect that—a white star, like on the flag.” “If you wanted it to evoke Texas, you should have called it Lone Star Fabrics. Or Alamo Fabrics. White Star could be anything from anywhere,” Libby said with a shrug, then speared a cherry tomato with her fork.
Mary Dell frowned, not sure she was following the conversation correctly. “White Star . . . that’s the company we’re planning on getting most of our fabric from. Mr. Evard—I mean, C. J., what’s your connection to White Star?”
“I own it,” he said simply. “I own a couple of different businesses. The magazine is just one of them and by far the least profitable. That’s something I do to indulge my love of quilts. Remember I told you about how I started off selling thread?”
Mary Dell put down her spoon and listened, fascinated by his story, barely noticing when a waiter removed her soup plate and replaced it with a tiny dish of grapefruit sorbet.
“That’s what started it all,” C. J. continued. “I’m a good salesman, but I wanted more. One of my customers was a small textile mill. They made cotton prints to sell in dry goods stores, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, I had an idea of improving the quality of the material and implementing new designs, creating high-quality fabric specifically for quilts. Now, the owner of this particular textile mill had a daughter. She was very beautiful but very spoiled.”
C. J. glanced at his wife, who was primly dabbing vinaigrette from her lips with the edge of her linen napkin, and his eyes twinkled.
“Her father was so anxious to get her off his hands that he let me have the mill, but only on condition that I marry her.”
Libby pretended to slap his hand. “C. J. Evard, that’s a lie, and you know it. My father didn’t want you to have me or the mill. He only let me marry you because I threatened to run away from home, and he only let you buy the mill because his doctor said if he didn’t quit working so hard he was going to drop dead of a stroke. Which he did, but not for another twelve years.
“But,” Libby said, leaning toward Mary Dell, “Daddy wouldn’t give C. J. even a penny’s break on the price. He had to sell his quilt collection and our car to come up with the money. My C. J. is a self-made man,” she said proudly.
Mary Dell took a tentative bite of the sorbet. It was cold and icy, like eating a snow cone with a spoon, a little bitter, but good.
“Just like Mary Dell,” C. J. said.
“Now you’re just teasing me,” Mary Dell said. “I haven’t made anything of myself.”
“Not yet, but you will. You and I are cut out of the same cloth. If not, you wouldn’t have submitted all those quilt patterns over the years—fifteen! That’s got to be a record. But even in the face of all those rejections, you didn’t give up.”
“But sometimes I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t,” C. J. said. “That’s what matters. You know, before Libby civilized me, I used to be a bit of a gambler. That’s all behind me, but I still know a winner when I see one. And I think you’re a winner, Miss Mary Dell. The quilt shop could be just the beginning.
“Too Much sounds like a wonderful place with a proud history. You must never abandon your roots, Mary Dell, or forget where you came from. But don’t forget that there’s a great big world out there too, with all kinds of new people, experiences, ideas—all sorts of discoveries and adventures. I’ll bet your ancestor Flagadine would agree with me. After all, it was that spirit of adventure, the desire for something more, that brought her to Texas in the first place, wasn’t it? I bet there’s a lot of her in you.”
“I hope so,” Mary Dell said with a smile.
“If you’re open to the possibilities, there’s no telling what might happen.”
Mary Dell swallowed another bite of sorbet. “You mean I might become a quilting legend?” She laughed and waved her hand. “That’s just something silly my grandma Silky says.”
C. J.’s expression remained serious. “Your grandma Silky might be right. This is an exciting time in the quilting world. This is a new generation of quilters with a new kind of passion and energy, a willingness to innovate and take risks. They’re looking for someone to show them how. Why shouldn’t it be you?”
“I can see why you were such a good salesman.”
“I’m serious, Mary Dell. I think you’re on the verge of finding your best self, and I believe you’ll use it to bring out the best in a lot of other people.”
Mary Dell stared vacantly into her sorbet dish, considering this. It was one thing to dismiss that kind of talk when it came from Grandma Silky, but when Mr. C. J. Evard, founder and president of White Star Fabrics, publisher of Quilt Treasures magazine, offered you advice, you’d have to be a fool not to pay attention. She was going to have to spend more time thinking about this, but there was something she wanted to get to the bottom of first.
She looked up. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he declared. “Anything.”
Mary Dell looked to the right and then the left, to make sure no one was listening.
“Why are we eating ice cream before dinner?”
While enjoying their dinner—Mary Dell and C. J. had the filet mignon with béarnaise sauce; Libby had sautéed Dover sole—the Evards explained the tradition of serving a sorbet as a means of cleansing the palate between courses, the purpose of various types of forks, the difference between red and white wineglasses, and that a lady who is the guest of a gentleman in a fine dining establishment is often presented a menu without prices.
During a trip to the restroom, Libby explained the concept of leaving a little something for the attendant, which led to a discussion of gratuities in general—who to tip, who not to tip, and how much to leave. It was a very informative dinner, and the Evards imparted their wisdom without making Mary Dell feel the least bit awkward.
“After all,” Libby said, “people aren’t born knowing these things. C. J. and I certainly weren’t. Honey,” she said, addressing her husband, “remember that time we went to the country club, and you drank the finger bowl?”
C. J. laughed. “How could I forget? Learn from our mistakes, Mary Dell, and feel free to ask us anything. This might be your first time dining at the Mansion, but it won’t be your last.”