Saints Among Us

by Anne Marie Rodgers

  Louise’s eyebrows rose. “So Florence isn’t going to be much help, I suppose?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jane said reflectively. “It seems to me that she might come around if she were asked to help with a special project or something.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Alice agreed. “I know she can be a trial, but Florence needs to feel included. Now that the vote is over, I think we all should try to make her feel she can make some important contributions to the crafts fair.”

  “You’re right, Alice,” said Jane. “But it sounds to me as if that will require a direct invitation from Aunt Ethel in there somewhere.”

  “Why don’t you give it a shot first?” Louise suggested. “I’m not so sure Ethel and Florence will be ready to talk just yet. This way, if Florence doesn’t react graciously, Aunt Ethel doesn’t even need to know we asked.”

  Jane nodded. “Good point. Okay. I’ll try to sweet-talk Florence.”

  The sisters shared wry smiles.

  “I was thinking that the ANGELs could become involved with a craft,” Alice said, referring to the church group of middle-school-aged girls she had founded and with whom she still met each week. “We have been learning about macramé, and I believe the girls could make some pretty bracelets with embroidery floss.”

  “Thank you, Alice. I think those will make lovely Christmas gifts.”

  “You should make a sign to advertise them,” Louise said.

  “Maybe you could do that for me,” Alice said to her elder sister.

  Louise opened her mouth, then closed it again and smiled. “I suppose I asked for that job, didn’t I?”

  Jane nodded, chuckling. “Just like I ‘volunteered’ to head up the crafts committee.”

  “It won’t be so bad,” Alice said. “Just don’t forget to talk with Sylvia. She’ll be a great resource.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jane assured her fervently. “Sylvia’s shop is going to be my very first visit tomorrow morning!”

  Two of the inn’s guest rooms were occupied, and Jane made breakfast for the three guests the following morning. She had been wanting to try a new recipe for banana-walnut buttermilk pancakes. Topped with sautéed banana slices and served with fresh sliced kiwi and strawberries, the meal was everything Jane could have hoped. All three guests raved about the fare.

  The single gentleman, Silas Cornish, was on a trip north to visit one of his children. He checked out and went on his way shortly after eating. The couple in the Sunrise Room, the Dickersons, was from Georgia. Civil War buffs, they had planned a day trip to the Gettysburg Battlefield approximately two hours away, and after receiving directions from Jane, they set off as well.

  As soon as the breakfast dishes were cleaned up, Jane donned a lightweight jacket and walked into Acorn Hill, the small town she had called home as a child. Returning to live here after her father died had been the smartest decision of her life. She still felt a twinge of regret that she had not been here more while he was living.

  She gave a contented sigh as she moved along Hill Street at a leisurely pace. Walking the town’s lovely brick sidewalks and waving at the many familiar faces still gave her a warm glow. She had lived away from the area for years until she and her sisters opened the inn. Coming home, to Jane, had meant far more than simply returning to the home of her youth. It meant comfort and familiarity, friendship and acceptance.

  As she walked along the tree-lined streets, Jane enjoyed the unseasonably mild weather. November was often chilly or downright cold, with possibilities of early snows. However, this November had been utterly lovely, with temperatures so mild she actually raked leaves in a short-sleeved shirt the other day.

  Sylvia’s Buttons was on Acorn Avenue, just around the corner from the Good Apple Bakery. The little sewing shop occupied the ground floor of a two-story building made of warm, rosy-pink brick.

  Jane paused for a moment to admire the window dressing before entering the shop. Sylvia always had such creative ideas. The current window display featured a stunning variety of quilts that Sylvia took on consignment for women in the Amish community around Lancaster. Sylvia had chosen quilts with predominantly autumn colors, and the background of the window was ablaze in crimsons, rusts, brilliant golds and oranges, soft browns and even a few muted greens.

  Scattered along the bottom of the display were soft sculptured pillows in the shape of leaves: long, slender oak leaves, three-pointed maple leaves, and an elongated oval that might represent elm or black walnut. Sylvia even had made some adorable acorn pillows, which were scattered among the leaves.

  Jane pushed through the door, setting the bell attached to it jingling. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Jane.” Sylvia was an attractive forty-something with strawberry blonde hair. Today it was twisted up in a messy bun that was charming in a distinctly Sylvia kind of way. She wore a simple denim dress with more than a dozen safety pins fastened through one of the pockets, and two needles threaded with white were stuck through the other. Around one wrist was a stuffed fabric heart attached to an elastic band, and it bristled with a forest of straight pins.

  Sylvia’s shop was a kaleidoscope of color. Quilt fabric covered one long wall, bolt after bolt of small prints and solids in every color imaginable. A selection of other fabrics suitable for garments made a maze of the interior floor space. Sewing notions, threads, other needlework accessories and craft kits were on display as well.

  In the middle of the shop was a large table for cutting patterns and laying out projects. As Jane approached, Sylvia straightened from the quilt she had been working on, massaging her lower back with both hands. “I bet I can guess why you’re here.”

  Jane grinned. “I bet you can. I’m sure my aunt Ethel asked you for your input on this crafts fair.”

  “Actually, I volunteered.” Sylvia smiled back. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, and I’ll be more than happy to help.”

  “Oh, good. You’ll be my very first committee member.” Jane pulled a notebook from the capacious bag she had slung over one shoulder. “The next thing I’d like to do is pick your brain for the names of crafters who might be interested in participating.”

  “Do we have to call them?” Sylvia sounded apprehensive, and Jane remembered that although Sylvia was a successful business owner, deep down she was rather shy.

  “No, I told Aunt Ethel I would generate a list, and she promised to find me some other volunteers to begin inviting them.” Jane rolled her eyes. “We’re going to be quite busy as it is, organizing craft ideas for the congregation to work on.”

  “All right.” Sylvia began listing the names of local crafters whom Ethel could contact, while Jane dutifully scribbled down every name. When they finished, Jane put aside the list to give to her aunt.

  “Now we need some ideas for crafts our church members and friends can help to make,” Jane said.

  “Why don’t we start with the people we know we can count on to make their specialties,” Sylvia suggested. “Several members of my intermediate crochet class might help. One lady makes those cotton dishcloths that everyone loves, and I bet we could get someone to donate a baby layette for the raffle.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.” Jane started a new list. “I also have a suggestion: Louise has a piano student whose mother always brings cross-stitch to work on while she waits for him. The child’s name is Bobby something-or-other’”

  “Oh, you mean Bobby Pfiffer. His mother’s name is Monique. She comes in here for DMC floss all the time.”

  “Yes, that’s it. The last time she was at the house, she was cross-stitching Christmas ornaments. I thought perhaps we could ask her to lead a group of cross-stitchers to make some simple ornaments.”

  Sylvia rushed over to a rack of craft items. “Here!” She waved a package at Jane. “These are little, gold plastic heart frames. Helpers could cross-stitch simple designs and frame them with these.”

  “That’s a great idea!”

  “And oh! He
re’s another thought’I could design a simple cross-stitch pattern of Grace Chapel. I bet they would sell like hotcakes.”

  Jane was writing madly. “I’m sure they would. What else could we do?”

  “Mabel Torrence makes gorgeous knitted scarves. You know the ones everyone is wearing these days, with feathery and metallic threads, and super-soft luxury yarns? I’m sure there are other members of the Seniors Social Circle who knit. Perhaps Mabel would organize a group of them to make scarves.”

  “I’d buy one,” Jane declared as she wrote down that idea. “I think they’re beautiful.”

  “I also have a pattern for a microwave bag that bakes potatoes just like the oven does.”

  “Really? How does it work?” Jane was instantly intrigued. While she had a thousand uses for the microwave oven, she generally used it to aid in her preparations and rarely relied on it for the finished product. There was just no substitute for an oven-baked meal.

  “I have no idea. I saw one being demonstrated at a craft show last summer. The potato tasted exactly as if it had been baked, so I bought one of the bags and took it apart. I was sure there had to be some special lining, but it’s just a fabric bag. I could write up the directions and find a few volunteers to make them.”

  “I’m sure some of the seniors would help.” Jane made herself a note to mention it to them.

  “And note cards would be another easy craft idea.”

  “Note cards?” Jane envisioned stick-figure sketches.

  “Like these.” Sylvia lofted a package toward Jane.

  Catching it in midair, Jane opened the sealed plastic sandwich bag and pulled out eight simple note cards. Made of a finely woven heavyweight paper, there were two each of four designs glued onto the front. The first was a simple Christmas tree cut out of printed green scrap fabric. The edges were sealed with a product designed to prevent fraying, and the print on the fabric gave the impression of ornaments. The tree was topped with a simple star of some shiny gold fabric.

  The second was a set of two flat fabric bells, one glued to overlap the other a bit. A red bow garnished the top, and it looked as though the bells were ringing. Yet another note card design was a wreath made of felt holly leaves and tiny red circles for berries with a ribbon bow. The final one was a Christmas gift in a deep red print with shiny silver ribbon “wrapping” it, and a silver bow glued at the top.

  “I taught a 4-H club in Potterston how to make these for a fund-raiser,” Sylvia explained. “I would be happy to help a group of volunteers make some to sell at the crafts fair.”

  “I’m getting excited about this,” Jane declared. “We’re going to have some lovely things to offer. Already we have more than I’d expected to come up with.”

  “I was thinking,” Sylvia said tentatively, “that perhaps we could ask Florence to contribute. She wasn’t very happy last night at the meeting, and I thought that if she felt needed, she might be more supportive.”

  “I agree.” Jane thought of her conversation with Alice and Louise just a few hours ago. “I’m going to speak with her this afternoon. Any good ideas on how to present this?”

  “Very carefully,” Sylvia said with a sly smile.

  Jane laughed. “Exactly.”

  Chapter Three

  As soon as she returned home from her planning session with Sylvia, Jane called Florence to make arrangements for a visit.

  “What’s this about?” Florence asked suspiciously.

  “My aunt has asked me to chair the crafts committee for the upcoming crafts fair.” Jane strove for an innocent tone. “You immediately sprang to mind since you’re the local expert on crafts. If you’re interested, I would like to talk with you about some ideas I have had. I know you’re a busy person, though, so I will understand if you can’t fit me in.”

  There was a short silence. “All right,” Florence finally said. “You can visit around two o’clock today and tell me what you’re planning.”

  It was a good thing she had not made any plans for the afternoon, Jane thought a short while later as she parked her car in front of the Simpsons’ lovely brick home. Florence had not even appeared to consider that Jane might not be able to see her that very day.

  She knocked on the beautiful mahogany door, eyeing the colorful autumn arrangement displayed there. Florence’s tastes, like Jane’s sister Louise’s, veered toward what Jane considered a formal, traditional look. Jane herself preferred simple, clean, uncluttered modern lines.

  Florence answered the door so quickly that Jane supposed she had been peeking out a window waiting for her guest. “Come in, Jane,” she said graciously.

  Florence was a heavy woman. She dressed carefully and usually looked well put together. Today she was wearing brown slacks with an oatmeal-colored cotton sweater covered with embroidered squirrels and acorns. Gold acorns hung from a chunky necklace of deep green, sand, rust and brown polished stones separated by small gold beads, and similar acorns hung from her ears. Florence was quite possibly the only person Jane knew who could afford to buy jewelry to match one specific outfit. Though to be fair, the pieces could be worn with any autumn-colored clothing.

  Florence hung Jane’s coat in a hall closet and led the way into her formal living room. The room was crowded with antiques, large pieces of leather and mahogany furniture. Brocade curtains tied back with gold rope swept to the floor and added to the cluttered look. Several large oil paintings in ornate gilded frames hung on the walls, while pieces of ornamental china, silver and crystal covered nearly every surface. Two mahogany display cabinets held additional expensive dishes and knickknacks that Jane knew were pieces passed down through several generations of her family. Jane wondered how Ronald, Florence’s husband, felt about living in a museum dedicated to Florence’s family history.

  “Sit down, Jane.” Florence indicated a wingback chair as she settled herself on a loveseat nearby. “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be lovely.” Jane was amused to note that Florence actually had a silver tea set on the table before them. It held a small selection of petit fours, delicate china plates and cups, and a dish of mixed nuts. She took a cup and saucer from Florence, hiding a smile. Florence was keen on appearances; she loved to play lady of the manor. Jane could not see the harm in letting Florence enjoy the moment even though it would cut into Jane’s afternoon more than she had hoped.

  As she suffered through tea and small talk, she struggled to hide her impatience. She consoled herself with the reassurance that Florence would be in a more receptive frame of mind if Jane indulged her for a while.

  Finally, finally, Florence delicately patted her lips with the linen napkin she had been using and set it aside. “So tell me about this wild idea,” she said. “I understand you’re in charge of crafts?”

  And just like that, Jane understood the real problem. Florence’s feelings were hurt. Beneath the belligerent tone Florence had used was a tiny, telltale quaver.

  “I am,” Jane said, “but all I’m going to be doing is organizing the crafts that will be offered for sale. You know my talents are far more suited to cooking. I really need skilled craftspeople to volunteer a little of their time as well.”

  “I’m sure it’s going to fail. Ethel doesn’t begin to have adequate time to plan such a big undertaking.”

  “I believe they are intending to start small.” It was not a lie, although Jane was pretty sure her aunt had bigger plans in mind. “If you’re not interested in participating, we can try to find someone else. But you know, Florence, there is probably no one else in the community who could come up with such original and lovely creations as yours.” She was quite sincere, even though she had an ulterior motive for the compliment. She had seen some of Florence’s crafts and flower arrangements. While they were not always to her more contemporary tastes, Florence definitely had an eye for color and design.

  Florence almost visibly swelled with pride. “Thank you, Jane. I like to think I have a gift.”

  “You
do, indeed.”

  “Perhaps there is something I could do.”

  “I’m certainly open to any ideas. To be honest, I was hoping I could talk you into getting your craft group together to make several different items. Alice mentioned that you have a get-together every year around Christmas.”

  Florence frowned. “I don’t know how many things we really can get done in such a short time frame.” She was determined to hammer away at that theme.

  “I’d be grateful for even one idea,” Jane told her. Then she added, “I spoke with Sylvia this morning and she came up with several.” True, Sylvia was not actually making all of them, but the note cards, microwave bags and Grace Chapel cross-stitch ornaments all were her ideas, and she also was the one to suggest the knitting projects.

  “Well, of course I could come up with several if I choose.”

  “I’m sure you could. And I’m equally sure each would be a big hit. Aunt Ethel has one of those little sleighs made of a woven basket that you crafted several years ago. I’ve always thought it was lovely. She displays it every Christmas.” Jane felt it might not hurt to remind Florence that Ethel did value her friendship.

  “Oh, those old things. They take barely any time at all.”

  “By the way, how did you make the runners curve like that?” Jane was genuinely curious.

  “I soak thin strips of grapevine in water so that they’re pliable,” Florence told her. “Very, very easy. In fact, I know my craft club and I could have more than a dozen of those ready for you.”

  “Oh, Florence, that would be wonderful! The finished product is so impressive.”

  “Speaking of grapevine, I have a number of miniature wreaths laid away that I could donate. I dried apples and mums to add to them. I think they’re going to be lovely.”

  Jane got out her notebook. “Thank you so much! May I put you down for the grapevine wreaths and the basket sleighs?”

  “Of course. And how about hand-painted welcome signs? I have a beautiful design that I made several years ago that a number of people have asked me about. Several of my friends are good folk-art painters, and I know those would sell quickly.” With that, Florence was off and running so fast that Jane had a hard time writing down everything she was saying.