"It was pretty hokey," I laughed.
He laughed too. "You loved it." I did love it. "I was trying to impress you with how romantic I could be."
"You were?" I thought about how I felt with him that night, nervous and excited and almost in love. "I thought you were so smooth you didn't need to impress me."
"I want to keep impressing you, and I feel like I've fallen down on the job lately."
"It's okay," I said softly. "We can't spend our lives on a third date."
"But you still love me?" he asked.
"I still love you," I said. I did love him, and maybe that was reason enough not to just throw things away, not if they could be repaired.
"Well, then, look for the invitations."
"I will. First thing tomorrow."
By four the next afternoon I hadn't looked, so after spending the day at the shop, I dragged myself to the bedroom and began opening the boxes from my apartment.
I found a CD I'd been looking for and my favorite pair of socks, but I almost missed the invitations until I opened the last box. The one containing summer clothes and other items I didn't think I'd need for a while.
I pulled out the dark blue box of invitations and opened it. Inside were dozens of beautifully printed cards waiting to be addressed and stamped. I stared at them for a long while, unsure of what to do. But I had been right when I spoke to Ryan, you can't live your life on a third date. Maybe the excitement of standing near Jesse or kissing Marc was just the thrill you have at the start of something, whether it's a quilt or a relationship. But excitement has to give way to work, and if I wasn't willing to give up on Ryan, and I wasn't, then I had to be willing to try.
I took the invitations downstairs, intent on spreading them out on the dining room table to work. But downstairs was still quilt central. Nancy was showing a new line of Indian-inspired fabrics to Eleanor and they were debating which of the fabrics to order. One woman was pulling out bolt after bolt of fabric while two other women were choosing fat quarters from a large basket.
"Shop still open?" I asked. "I thought you closed at four."
"We are." Eleanor looked up. "What's that in your hands?"
"The wedding invitations. I promised Ryan I'd get them in the mail by Monday." I plopped down next to my grandmother at the dining room table.
Just as Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, a woman walked over. "Excuse me," said the woman with half a dozen bolts under arm, "I'm having a little trouble here."
The woman dropped the bolts on the dining room table and held up a quilting magazine. Nancy walked up behind the woman and offered her assistance, I assume to give Eleanor and me a chance to talk. But I wasn't interested. I preferred to watch Nancy and the customer than talk about the sudden appearance of wedding invitations. It seemed that the woman wanted to make the quilt in the magazine, but only if she could find the exact fabrics that were in the picture. Nancy patiently explained that this wasn't likely, but something very similar was sure to be here. I watched her maneuver through the room, pulling fabric after fabric for a full twenty minutes until the woman was satisfied. All the while Nancy smiled.
But as soon as she left, Nancy shook her head. "I wish people had a little more faith in their imaginations," she sighed. "It's a beautiful quilt in that magazine, but instead of duplicating it, she could have chosen her own colors. People are so afraid of making their own choices that they end up with something that isn't really theirs. I'm not putting it down, mind you," Nancy said to me, "I've done it myself. But there is something to blazing your own trail." She smiled a little and moved over to help the women picking fat quarters.
I looked down at my box of invitations. The pretty, simple lettering that looked like a thousand other wedding invitations. "Better get to it," I said to no one in particular, as Eleanor was playing with the computer and Nancy was busy with customers. "I can't believe these will be in the mail."
"Neither can I." Eleanor gave me a slightly confused smile and I left the room to look for a quiet place to work.
I sat in the kitchen and placed envelopes, invitations and RSVP cards in separate piles. I took each envelope and wrote the name and address of each friend or family member invited. It didn't take long before I got to the end of the list, but I realized there were a few people missing. I wrote the names of each of the women from the quilt club on an envelope to be hand-delivered. Then I stared at a blank envelope. "What the hell?" I said to myself. I wrote Jesse Dewalt on it.
CHAPTER 46
On Monday I took my pile of invitations with me to the shop. Tom had the place freshly painted in a soft white that made it look very clean but a little sterile.
"Strict instructions from your grandmother," he said when I commented on the color. "She doesn't want anything to interfere with the colors of the fabrics and the quilts."
"What if we just did one wall? Something in a really neutral tone. Maybe behind the cash register. With the window there, there's hardly any wall anyway. She can't object."
"Your funeral," he said. "Pick up the paint and I'll do it."
So I headed out to the hardware store down the street and picked out a soft, creamy beige that would have looked dull in any other room. But when Tom put it on the wall it gave the place a nice crisp pop. Hopefully Eleanor would agree.
Then I headed over to the police station to see Jesse.
"Want to have lunch?" I asked.
"Sure," he said, pushing aside a pile of papers on his desk. "What's under your arm?"
"Invitations."
He eyed the box. "To what? The reopening of the shop?"
"No," I said, then wished I'd lied. "Ryan asked me to address them and put them in the mail."
Jesse sat back. "Wedding invitations. I guess you figured out what you wanted."
"I guess. He is a good guy. And sometimes it's better to fix something than to just throw it away."
"Absolutely." The flat cop tone was in his voice.
"I have something for you," I said, and reached into the box, pulling out an envelope. "It's for you, and a guest, if you want to bring somebody."
"Thank you," he said, eyeing the invitation as if it were a piece of evidence. "I'd be very honored." He dropped it on his desk.
"There's a catch."
"Solve Marc's murder first?" He smiled. "I might be able to do that." He dumped a plastic bag on his desk. "What do you see?"
There wasn't much to see. A wallet, a car key, a handful of change. "What are you showing me?"
"It's what I'm not showing you."
"Are you the riddler now? Because we could be here all day if I have to list all the things you're not showing me."
"When we were at Marc's apartment, we found that key to your grandmother's house. At first we thought it might be his apartment key, but you said that he probably would have had that with him."
I looked at the items again. "He didn't, though." I looked up at Jesse. "And if he didn't…"
"Somebody else does." Jesse leaned back in his chair. "But who that is…"
"Carrie."
"Carrie? Why would…?"
"I saw her the day after the murder with the same key chain that Marc had. She said it was the key to her husband's office."
"You are sure it was the same key?"
"I am absolutely certain." I looked at the pile of Marc's things on Jesse's desk. Was it the same key? "I'm positive," I said. "I think."
Jesse smiled. "As long as you're sure."