A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) Read Online Free PDF

though I don’t know that for certain. Franklin, my attorney, keeps track of my investments and financial dealings. I’m not much interested in the actual figures or details of my portfolio, but Franklin says I have plenty of money to live well and to be a generous benefactor in my community, so I do and I am. Certainly that generosity could lead you to believe that many of those who came to celebrate my natal day did so because they felt they had to—not that I’d have faulted them if they did; there’s nothing wrong with filling one’s community and social obligations—but that wasn’t the case. I have proof.
    During the course of the evening, I had to visit the ladies’ room. When I went in, both stalls were occupied, so I was obliged to wait my turn. While doing so, I inadvertently heard an interesting exchange between two of the partygoers. It’s so strange, isn’t it? The way women have long, in-depth conversations while in the toilet? I don’t think men do that, do you? And I certainly never would, but all the same, if you’re careful about where you stand and keep quiet, you can learn a lot in the ladies’ room. Not that I’d want anyone to think I’m an eavesdropper, but really, who isn’t interested in hearing how people honestly feel about them? It isn’t my fault that women insist on talking in semipublic places.
    One of the speakers was Grace Kahn. I’ve known Grace for years. She volunteers three days a week at the library and sits on the board too. For the previous twenty-four years, until her knee surgery a few months ago, we played doubles tennis every Wednesday.
    The other voice belonged to a woman I’d met for the first time that night, Margot Matthews. She owns a little two-bedroom carriage house on Marsh Lane that, until recently, she only occupied on weekends. We have a few of those in New Bern, New Yorkers mostly, who keep a house in the country for weekends and summers. Some of the locals grumble about them, but not me. They’re nice enough people for the most part, and they certainly help out the local economy, so what’s to complain about? I go to Manhattan to enjoy the delights of the city; why shouldn’t urbanites feel free to enjoy the delights of the country? Everyone needs a change of scenery now and then.
    But I digress. I was speaking of Margot Matthews.
    Until recently, she worked in Manhattan, in the marketing department of some large firm that sells semiconductors or some such thing; I wasn’t paying that much attention when she told me about her former business. Dull stuff, business. But once I found out that Miss Matthews studied ballet as a child, the conversation became much more interesting. People’s hobbies tend to be so much more intriguing than their professions, don’t you agree? Grace whispered in my ear that the poor thing had been downsized—that is to say, fired—and was living in New Bern full-time because finances had forced her to sublet her apartment in the city until she could find a new job.
    Grace had noticed Margot sitting at the same computer workstation in the library, day after day, searching the Internet for job postings.
    “She seemed so forlorn. She doesn’t know anyone,” Grace whispered to me as she beckoned to the young woman, who was just getting a glass of wine at the bar, “so I invited her to come along tonight. I hope you don’t mind, Abigail.”
    And, of course, I didn’t. Why should I? It wasn’t as if I had to take on Margot Matthews as my new best friend; besides, I enjoy meeting new people. And they enjoy meeting me, as evidenced by the cross-stall conversation that took place between Margot and Grace in the restaurant ladies’ room.
    “Thank you for bringing me along tonight, Grace. I can’t tell you how ready I was for a night out! After all those hours I’ve spent sending out e-mails to human resources departments and getting no response, it’s lovely just to talk with some real human beings—especially