CHAPTER 52
It had been an exhausting few days. Mary Dell’s body was almost as tired as her brain, but sleep eluded her.
She lay in the dark, wondering how it was possible to go from the pinnacles of triumph to the depths of despair in the course of twenty-four hours and trying to figure out what, if anything, she could do about it. Lydia Dale had bought them some time, but Mary Dell couldn’t think of a way to come up with the entire payment they would need to take ownership of the shop, not within ten days—soon to be nine days, she noted, glancing at the glowing face of her clock radio.
She planned to make another visit to the bank manager first thing on Monday, but doubted he would be willing to loan them the money. Lydia Dale was more optimistic about their chances for obtaining a loan, especially given C. J. Evard’s generous offer to give them fabric on commission, but her sister was optimistic by nature. Normally, Mary Dell was too, but Lydia Dale hadn’t seen the way the bank manager had talked to her the first time. He’d dismissed her out of hand, making her feel as dumb as a doll, basically telling her to go home and tend to her washing and cooking and ironing and leave business to the menfolk.
She’d briefly considered asking Mr. Evard for a loan, but rejected the idea almost as quickly as it came to her. He was a kind man, a generous one, but Mary Dell couldn’t ask him for the money. Generosity has its limits, and besides, she barely knew him.
And it wasn’t like she had to open a quilt shop. Now that Graydon was in the picture, she was convinced that the ranch could support the family. She hoped he’d stay on with them forever, but even if he didn’t, he’d shown her what to do. She could hire a new manager and run things herself, if need be. No, she didn’t have to open the quilt shop.
But she wanted to, so very much, much more than she’d realized. Her trip to Dallas had only fanned that desire. Too Much was her home, her history, the taproot of her strength, and it always would be. But Mr. Evard was right—there was a whole big world out there. She wanted to be part of it, to taste and see all that life had to offer, to open doors for herself, her son, her family, and her town.
Only twenty-four hours ago it all seemed possible; every avenue was open to her. Now all she could see were dead ends. And all because Marlena Benton was so hateful.
She supposed she should hate her back, and she sure didn’t feel like tucking her into bed with a cookie and a kiss, but mostly, and much to her surprise, she felt sorry for Marlena. What kind of misery must it be to live life so eaten up by jealousy and the desire for revenge?
Mary Dell didn’t have time or mental energy to waste on hatred or on revenge. All she could think of was that money and time were running out for her and her dreams. Try as she might, she couldn’t come up with any earthly way to get her hands on so much cash in such a short time.
In moments of darkness and despair, Silky was often known to quote one of her favorite verses from the Bible: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” When Mary Dell got into bed at the hotel the night before, smelling of gardenias, slipping into the cool luxury of freshly ironed sheets, and closing her eyes, that verse had floated unbidden into her thoughts, and she’d been filled with gratitude that God had given her such incontrovertible confirmation of His plan, plans that meshed so perfectly with her own desires.
Now she didn’t know what to think. Was God paving the way for a divine plan for her life? Or putting up roadblocks to keep her from heading down a dangerous path? Was she wrong to want this so much? Every thought that came to mind seemed to circle round on itself. Sleep was obviously not going to come anytime soon, so she decided she might as well get up. She put on her red Chinese silk robe with the dragons embroidered in gold.
“If you do want me to buy Waterson’s,” she said, casting her eyes toward the ceiling as she cinched her belt around her waist, “you’re going to have to do the heavy lifting, because I’ve got nothing.”
She slid her feet into a pair of pink marabou bedroom slippers and tiptoed down the hall as quietly as possible, stopping to check on Howard before going to the kitchen.
She took the milk carton out of the refrigerator and searched for a glass. She didn’t bother turning on the light switch; the moon was giving off plenty of light. More than enough light. Was there a full moon?
She walked to the sink and peered out the window. Instead of seeing a yellow orb in a clear sky, she saw an angry orange glow on the ground, about a quarter mile off. Mary Dell gasped and dropped her glass. It stayed intact, but the milk splashed onto the counter, dripping onto the floor and down the drain.
She picked up the phone and punched in a number.
“Pick up the phone!” she begged. “Pick up, pick up!”
On the fifth ring, Dutch answered, mumbling and irritated, stupid with sleep.
“Daddy! It’s Mary Dell. Daddy, wake up. Listen to me. You’ve got to wake everybody up. The barn is on fire!”