Patchwork and Politics Read online

  Copyright

  ISBN 1-58660-860-6

  Copyright © 2003 by Christine Lynxwiler. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  “This can’t be!” Megan Watson slammed the newspaper on the dining room table. How could someone she had once welcomed into her home, someone she’d trusted, turn out to be so evil?

  Twenty-three-month-old Sarah awakened at the sudden outcry from her mother and began to wail. Still trembling, Megan stepped to the playpen and lifted the sleepy toddler to her shoulder. As she jostled Sarah gently, her gaze fell again on the blaring caption. Still reeling from the unexpected attack, she fought the desire to collapse on the floor and join the baby’s cries.

  Instead, determined to think rationally, she retrieved the star-spangled newspaper from the table. This edition featured Fourth of July advertisements from a variety of businesses. The accusing headline seemed out of place.

  GRIEF-STRICKEN WIDOW OR GUILTY CO-CONSPIRATOR?

  Her image stared back at her from above the hateful words. She was dressed in black, tears streaming down her face. A close look at the background revealed the photo had been taken two months ago as she left the cemetery after Barry’s funeral.

  Her hands shook as she scanned the article that debated her guilt in her late husband’s investment disaster. Right next to the piece about her, a furniture store ad proclaimed, “Let Freedom Ring!” Megan shook her head. What about her freedom? What about the right to be considered innocent until proven guilty?

  Immediately following Barry’s death, shock and anger had rippled through the community when long-time friends discovered their investments in his theme park venture were lost. Megan understood their despair. She should. She’d been taken in by Barry Watson’s charm as well. And even though she would do anything to make up their financial loss, there were some things worse than losing money. Like betrayal by someone you love.

  She snuggled the sleeping Sarah closer and moved a pile of boxes over so she could sink into the wicker rocker. The top box was marked “Sarah’s room.” A white eyelet quilt peeked out from under the lid. Her grandmother had made it as soon as she’d found out Megan was pregnant.

  Although losing her precious grandmother had been a nightmare, at least Granny Lola wasn’t here to see her now. She’d always been sure Megan would make something of herself one day.

  Megan bit back a half-sob, half-laugh as she considered the boxes that constituted her life. She’d sold everything of value, so there wasn’t much left to look at. A man was coming this afternoon to pick up the rest of the furniture.

  She ran her hand across the smooth arm of the rocker. Barry had bought it for her for ten dollars at a yard sale when she was pregnant with Sarah. She’d considered saving it, but there were rocking chairs at the farm. Her past wasn’t worth holding on to.

  The jangling of the phone interrupted her maudlin thoughts. During the first few weeks after news of Barry’s death and financial ruin had become public, she had let the machine take the calls. Now, since she’d developed a plan of sorts, she answered them all, preferring to face her troubles head on.

  “Hello?”

  “Megan Watson?” The raspy voice sounded odd, as if the speaker couldn’t draw a deep breath.

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s going to take care of all the old people you’ve swindled?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Who are you? People trusted you. How can you live with what you did?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Save your excuses for the police.”

  The line went dead. Megan sat with the phone still in her hand. “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and—” Careful not to wake Sarah, she quickly pushed the off button.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. The caller had sounded like a man, but he’d definitely been disguising his voice. Judging from the article she’d just read, Ivo Pletka seemed the most likely suspect. The reporter had been Barry’s best friend through high school and college. But she hadn’t heard from him since the funeral.

  He’d once been a frequent guest in their home, bragging on Megan’s cooking and teasing her about making him want to get married. Now he was persecuting her in the statewide newspaper, trying to make her look like the mastermind behind Barry’s fraud. When had the world turned upside down? How could she ever trust anyone again?

  Given the circumstances, Megan could accept Ivo’s anger. His grandfather was a Russian immigrant who hadn’t lived far from her grandmother. The elderly man had lost money in Barry’s deal. A month or so ago, Megan heard that his wife had admitted him to a nursing home. Megan’s heart had ached for the cheerful old man and his beloved grandson. But she still wished Ivo had come to her and checked out the facts for himself.

  In a way, she hoped the anonymous caller had been Ivo. Better to have one known enemy than many unknown ones.

  The phone rang again. Anger poured over Megan, white and hot, jolting the fear from her body. She yanked up the receiver. “Hello,” she snapped.

  “Hi, Honey.” Her mother’s troubled voice sent shards of guilt through her. She’d obviously seen the newspaper.

  “Hi, Mom.” She should have made an exception this afternoon and let the machine answer.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “We’re fine. I was wondering if this might be a good time for me to come up and help you. . .with the baby and all. . .” Her mother’s voice drifted off as if she didn’t know what to say.

  “Not really.” Tears threatened to clog Megan’s voice completely. She cleared her throat. “I appreciate it, though.”

  “Oh. I’d like to help. Like I told you—”

  “I know you would, Mom.” Each word had to squeeze past a lump the size of Texas. If her mother realized she was crying, she wouldn’t let it go. “There’s not really anything you can do right now. But thanks.”

  “If you’re sure, but your father and I love you, and we’d love to help. . .” Megan cringed at the wistful tone in her mother’s voice.

  “I know. I love y’all too.” The words sounded clipped, but they were all Megan could manage without breaking down.

  “Well, then, we’ll be praying for you and our sweet grandbaby too.”

  Megan bit back a sob. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Bye then.”

  “Bye.” She mashed the button and allowed the sobs to come.

  Her mother had invested her inheritance in her son-in-law’s dreams and lost it, yet her concern was for her daughter. But Megan couldn’t face her. Not until she could pay her back.

  The doorbell rang, and for a fleeting moment, Megan had the crazy thought that her mother had shown up in person. Like she could drive ninety miles in two minutes.

  Megan swiped at her tears and eased out of the rocker with the sleeping baby still on her shoulder. She pulled the front door open. Two men in suits stood on the porch. Their grim faces had her grabbing the doorframe for support.

  “Mrs. Wa
tson?”

  “Yes?” Her heart thudded against her ribs.

  Their expressions remained stony as they each flashed a badge. “We need to ask you some questions about your involvement in your husband’s business.”

  One

  Senator Holt McFadden knew the dangers of praying for patience, but the silent plea he aimed heavenward was the petition of a desperate man. No one tested his forbearance like Marshall Whitmore. Holt had attempted to break all ties with the man who’d almost become his father-in-law, but Marshall refused to stop pestering him to vote according to his own private agenda.

  The current cell phone conversation was no exception. Though he needed to make a deposit, Holt had parked two blocks from the bank so he could soak in the beauty of the perfect spring day in the heart of his district as he walked. Instead, he’d been subjected to Marshall’s badgering the entire time.

  “You have to think about others, Holt. You can’t just go off on some Pollyanna crusade for old folks. What about those of us who are trying to eke out a living the best way we can?”

  “You know, Marshall, you’re not even in my district. Have you told Mike Bradley how you feel about things? He would really be the one you need to talk to.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Holt. Bradley doesn’t have the influence you do, and you know it. I’m not asking you to compromise those values you hold so dear. I’m just offering a way we can all win.”

  In spite of his exasperation, Holt grinned. Only Marshall could make values sound like an ugly word.

  He cradled the cell phone against his shoulder, trying to tune out Marshall’s insistent drone. He wished he could just hang up, but unfortunately, the man did have a lot of political pull. Reverting to a habit left over from his childhood, he studied the cracks in the sidewalk as his feet cleared them, taking care not to step on a single one.

  “Oomph.” He grunted against the impact and looked up, helpless to stop the phone as it flew from his hand. A myriad of brightly hued fabrics cascaded to the sidewalk in front of him. Sprawled in the middle of the splash of color, a young woman gazed up at him with eyes that exactly matched the blue of the May sky.

  He dropped to his knees beside her. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded slowly and eased herself into a sitting position, pushing long blonde hair off her face with a slender hand. “I think so. Nothing seems to be broken.” Her shy smile hinted at dimples. “I’m sorry I didn’t —”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t —”

  They each nodded for the other to go ahead.

  “—see you,” she said. Her smile grew wider, confirming his dimple theory.

  “—looking where I was going,” Holt finished with a wry grin. He retrieved the phone lying beside her on the concrete, amazingly unharmed. Shaking his head in disbelief, he pushed END to be sure Marshall was really gone. “I was on the phone.”

  She hurried to gather her scattered belongings, then grimaced as her gaze fell on some broken porcelain pieces. Disappointment flashed across her face.

  Holt suddenly realized that, in spite of her petite frame, she was older than he’d first thought. Closer to his own age.

  She shrugged, her easy smile returning, and retrieved a gold hair-clip from the sidewalk. “Great. The one time I decide to carry my bolts of fabric instead of going around to the loading dock, I run into one of those cell phone maniacs you hear about.”

  Holt watched in awe as her nimble fingers twisted her hair into an upswept style and secured the long tresses.

  Her hand froze in place as if she was struck motionless by a thought. “Wait a minute.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Aren’t you people just supposed to be dangerous drivers? I’ve never heard of any warnings about pedestrian cell phone use. There ought to be a law.”

  He chuckled and helped her to her feet. “As soon as the senate is back in session, I’ll speak to my colleagues about passing a law against it on your behalf.”

  She abruptly dropped his hand. “You’re a senator.” It wasn’t even a question. More like a statement of disgust.

  Resisting the urge to flinch, Holt reminded himself that even his own family had struggled with his chosen career. Prejudice against politicians was something he ran into frequently. Usually the direct approach worked best. “I admit it. I’m a state senator, but other than that, I’m a pretty nice guy. Here, I’ll even prove it.” He hefted her fabric up before she could protest. “Where were you headed with these?”

  “Over there.” She nodded toward an older model red minivan, but the lack of emotion on her face made him feel like a bag boy at the supermarket.

  He loaded the material into the back seat. Unwilling to lose the easy camaraderie they’d established when they first bumped into each other, he forged on. “How about a cup of coffee? It’s the least I can do for knocking you down. There’s a little place right around the corner. . .”

  When she avoided eye contact with him, Holt knew she was slipping away. She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’d better not. I left my daughter with a neighbor.”

  He instinctively glanced at her left hand, then felt heat rush to his face as her gaze followed his.

  “I’m a widow.” Now her blue eyes confronted his without wavering under the scrutiny.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. . . .” He let his voice drift off and held his breath waiting for her to fill in the implied blank, then blew it out in soft disappointment when she didn’t.

  “It’s been three years. I’ve become accustomed to it, but thank you for your sympathy and your help.” Her gentle smile eased the awkwardness, but the formal words signaled an end to the conversation as she slid under the steering wheel, closed the door, and started the motor.

  “Wait!” He thanked God for a town where people left their windows rolled down in the summer.

  “Yes?” She paused in mid-act of slipping on the black sunglasses she’d removed from the rearview mirror.

  “I’m Holt. . .Holt McFadden.”

  “Yes, I recognized you after you said you were a senator. Nice meeting you.”

  She let the sunglasses drop into place on her pert little nose. His own slightly frustrated expression reflected back at him from the mirrored lenses.

  “And you are. . . ?”

  “Late to pick up my daughter.” With a wave, she eased onto the road and sped down the highway, fading into a tiny dot of red.

  Holt stood, rooted to the spot, watching the van disappear on the horizon. Why hadn’t she told him her name?

  ❧

  Megan Watson hurried up her neighbor’s wooden steps and banged on the rickety screen door.

  “Come on in. It’s open.”

  “Open? Of course. Why would I expect anything else?” Megan muttered to herself, frowning as she entered the house. “Aunt Irene, how many times have I told you. . . ? I could have been an ax murderer.” Megan worked hard to maintain her scowl. Not an easy task, when she was confronted with that precious wrinkled face, wreathed in smiles.

  “Too many times, Honey. Tell me again, and I might just have to call the police.” The wizened old woman winked and turned back to the pie crust dough on the Formica counter. After a few seconds of energetic rolling pin use, she paused in midstroke and swung around. Her gaze searched Megan’s face. “Now, Meg, don’t you go pale on me, Girl. I didn’t mean nothin’ by that, and you know it.”

  Megan rewarded her elderly friend with a rueful grin. “I’m not about to ‘go pale’ on you. I’m tougher than I used to be.” As she spoke, she realized it was true. Even a joke about calling the authorities would have made her ‘go pale’ a year ago, but she’d come a long way since then. “You’d have to actually call the police before I’d get scared.” She looked around the spotless kitchen. “Where’s my little rapscallion? You get tired of her and sell her to the egg man?”

  “Very funny, young lady. You wouldn’t talk so smarty to me if your grandma was still alive.” The gray-haired woman wiped her flour-covered hands on the f
aded cotton towel that hung from the cabinet door handle.

  “No, sirree, you got that right. She wouldn’t have allowed me to sass you. Only she could do that.”

  “That’s right, and don’t you forget it.” Aunt Irene wrapped Megan in a hug, smoothing the younger woman’s hair with a papery hand. “Your little one is sound asleep in the den. She’s all tuckered out from chasin’ the pups, I reckon.”

  The two women walked arm in arm into the den and stood silently admiring the tiny girl, dozing contentedly among four snoring Golden Retriever puppies.

  “Looks like she wore them out too,” Megan whispered. “Sorry I didn’t make it back from town before her naptime.” I would have, if not for my little run-in with the senator.

  She’d spent the whole trip home banishing him from her mind. The last thing she needed was to get involved with a public figure. Or anyone else, for that matter. She grunted in disgust as the charming man wormed his way back into her thoughts. She hadn’t had even a passing interest in anyone since Barry’s death, and now she was reeling like an awestruck teenager after a five-minute encounter with this man.

  Ignoring the older woman’s puzzled look, she turned the grunt into a small cough. “I’ll try to get her out to the van without disturbing her. I’ve got to get Mrs. Wallace’s quilt done before tomorrow.”

  “Ah, Child, now you do sound like your Granny Lola. Always hurryin’ to finish quiltin’ somebody’s precious quilt top.” Megan pretended not to notice the tears that sprang to Aunt Irene’s eyes whenever she spoke of her best friend and neighbor of fifty years. The elderly woman didn’t want to be pitied. “The good Lord knows I’m grateful to have you for a neighbor, Honey. But I don’t know if Lola gave you a blessing or a curse when she left you her little house and that big old quilting machine.”

  “Yes, you do know. If it weren’t for those two things, I don’t know what we’d have done after. . .after Barry’s death,” Megan whispered, mindful of her sleeping daughter.

  “Yes, but you’re young. When are you going to quit hiding, Child? You didn’t do anything wrong. You need to get out more. . .not be chained to a quilting machine twenty-four hours a day.” Aunt Irene’s melodramatic word picture elicited a muffled giggle from both women that broke the melancholy mood. “But since you insist on being a slave to the business, why don’t you let Sarah stay here while you do your work?”