Quilt As Desired

by Arlene Sachitano

  "Let's spread the quilt out on the cutting table, and you can tell me what you have in mind."

  Harriet gasped. Avanell had hand-dyed white cotton and made a series of pieced blocks she then alternated with squares of off-white. She had used trapunto, a technique typically done on a neutral-colored background fabric, using dense stitching and extra batting or fill material to create raised areas, often in traditional wreath or flower designs. This design would only need machine stitching in the pieced areas.

  The dyed-fabric colors were vibrant and had been pieced in intricate patterns. The points in the pieced areas were perfect and the color transitions seamless. It was utterly different from anything Harriet had ever seen. If this exemplified Avanell's stress level, she hoped it didn't go down anytime soon.

  Avanell favored a wreath-like pattern from the samples that would give a circular impression to echo the curved lines of the trapunto. The border areas would be stitched with closely placed parallel lines that were set on a diagonal and would pull the eye inward toward the design. Harriet made careful notes regarding the lines and patterns.

  "I'll put your quilt on the machine first thing,” she said.

  She gathered the sample squares up, carefully organizing them by stitch type. She fumbled and dropped the stack.

  "Let me help you,” Avanell said and smiled. “Are you nervous with your aunt being out of the country?"

  "Does it show?” Harriet asked, knowing that it wasn't Aunt Beth's absence as much as her aunt's preemptive strike on her future that had her distracted. If she dropped anything else, Avanell was likely to gather her quilt up and run for the nearest exit.

  "Only a little,” Avanell replied. “Listen,” she said “The Vitamin Factory is just down the hill. It wouldn't be out of my way to drop back by when I go to lunch to see how you're doing."

  "That would be great,” Harriet said. She couldn't believe she was acting like such a nervous fool. She was confident in her quilting ability; and when she'd moved to California, she'd made unique home furnishing accent pieces for an upscale furniture shop, so it wasn't like she hadn't ever had her work scrutinized by a paying customer.

  Somehow, though, being in Foggy Point, where she would have to see those customers every time she went into the grocery store or picked up her mail at the post office was intimidating. And in spite of everything, she did want to do a good job, and Aunt Beth would be a hard act to follow.

  It seemed like only moments had passed, but she had loaded the pieced top and its backing and batting onto the long-arm machine's frame and had stitched the first square area. She straightened and was rubbing the small of her back when the doorbell rang and signaled Avanell's return.

  "I just finished the first part,” Harriet said. “Come see."

  Avanell didn't need an invitation; she came over and inspected the work. Harriet held her breath as Avanell rubbed her fingertips lightly over the closely spaced rows of parallel stitching.

  "This is just what I'd imagined,” she said and smiled.

  Harriet took a breath of air. Maybe she would survive the next couple of weeks after all.

  Chapter Three

  "I'm going to run down to The Sandwich Board and get a bite to eat,” Avanell said. “Would you like to join me? I thought I'd pop into Pins and Needles and look at the new Hoffman prints Marjory just got in on the way back."

  Pins and Needles was the local quilt goods store, located in downtown Foggy Point and boasting seven thousand bolts of fabric as well as every tool and notion on the market—at least, it seemed that way to its devoted customers. Marjory Swain had purchased the store seven years before when the previous owner decided to trade the gray winters of Foggy Point for the sunny warmth of Mesa, Arizona.

  In its past life the store had been oriented more toward the practical fabrics used in the construction of clothes—Marjory still kept a small room at the back of the shop devoted to dressmaking supplies—but Pins and Needles's main focus now was the making of quilts.

  No matter how large or small, every reputable quilt shop can be counted on to carry the high-quality long-staple cotton that can be trusted not to shrink, twist, bleed or wear out before its time, as well as cotton thread imported from Germany and wound on slender spools in an array of neutral colors. They all carried several sizes and thicknesses of both cotton and wool batting, too.

  Harriet made a point of checking out the quilt store in every city she visited. Foggy Point was no different. She'd badgered Aunt Beth into taking her to Pins and Needles the day she'd arrived.

  Aunt Beth had opened the door to the shop, and a light floral scent had enveloped them. The main room was filled with bolts of colorful fabric. At the end of each row of shelves was a display of quilted samples artfully arranged around scented candles that she'd learned were made at a shop around the corner.

  "Can I help you find anything?” Marjory had asked.

  "I'm just getting my bearings,” she'd replied.

  "There's cookies in the kitchen there on your left, and if you need the bathroom it's behind the small classroom to the right."

  Harriet found chocolate chip cookies on a hand-thrown pottery plate on the Formica-topped kitchen table. Two coffeepots and an electric hot water pot sat on a countertop beside the small sink at the back of the room. She'd grabbed two cookies and then strolled up and down the fabric aisles. Civil War prints, thirties reproductions, an ample selection of both pastel and bright children's fabric—Harriet ticked the selections off her mental list. This would do quite nicely.

  Two large carved oak hutches stood along one wall and held the small tools and accessories that helped make any project go together smoothly. Harriet had noticed two Amish-style quilts her aunt had made hanging with several others on a cable that was strung from the rafters.

  Marjory had followed Harriet's gaze to the display. “We try to change the quilts every month, but I'm a little late this time. Some months it's hard to think up an appropriate theme. When you get settled, you can join in if you want.” She'd looked hopeful, but Harriet didn't plan on being here long enough to make a theme-quilt for a display. Even if she did think it was a clever way to keep people engaged.

  "I'd love to come to lunch,” Harriet said to Avanell, turning her thoughts back to the present. “I haven't been to The Sandwich Board yet, either. Is it good?"

  "They have a roast pork tenderloin on focaccia with fresh basil and homemade mozzarella that's to die for,” Avanell told her.

  "Let me get my purse.” She went through the connecting door to the kitchen, grabbed her purse and denim jacket from the closet by the back door and left with her aunt's friend.

  "How's it feel to be home?” Avanell asked as she put the car in reverse, maneuvered it into a tight circle and then turned it down the driveway.

  Home? Harriet thought. This wasn't home. Not her home, anyway. She looked out the car window. The pastel-painted Victorian houses that lined Aunt Beth's street could just as easily have been in San Francisco, or even some parts of Oakland. As they dropped down the hill toward town the larger houses gave way to smaller bungalow cottages, tucked behind neatly planted juniper bushes and dogwood trees.

  The car gave a sharp bounce, and Harriet jumped.

  "Sorry,” Avanell said. “Hot flash."

  Her comment barely registered. The salt air rushed over Harriet. She held her breath but finally let it out with a gasp. She resisted with every fiber of her being, but it was no use—she was home. She could kid herself and try to pretend that her home was Oakland, but she'd felt it as soon as she'd driven into town, and waited while a doe and her twin fawns crossed Main Street unmolested and disappeared into a grove of pine trees. She'd been sure when she'd cruised past coffee shops with names like Human Beans and Lucy's Lattes—not a franchise business as far as the eye could see.

  She ran her fingers through her close-cropped hair.

  "We gave the Vitamin Factory a face lift a few years ago,” Avanell pointed out as the neig
hborhood gave way to a light industrial area. She slowed as she drove past her long, low building.

  "I'm embarrassed to admit that I don't remember what it used to look like."

  "No reason you should,” Avanell smiled. “You were a teenager. You had much more on your mind than industrial buildings. Just for the record, we removed the fifties style brick facade from the office area and replaced all the old pink siding with dark green Hardy plank."

  "It looks nice,” Harriet offered.

  Avanell laughed and turned the car left over the bridge that carried them across the Muckleshoot River and into the downtown area.

  "Things look different here. What happened to the library?” Harriet asked.

  "They built a new one two blocks over. Did a nice job, too. It looks Victorian, but without all the leaky pipes and crumbling plaster of the original.

  Avanell guided her car to the curb in front of the restaurant and parked.

  The food at the Sandwich Board was every bit as good as Avanell had promised. Harriet ordered the pork loin sandwich, while Avanell opted for egg salad on fresh-baked multi-grain bread with fresh basil and an aioli-style mayonnaise.

  Harriet began to relax. They'd dispensed with the inevitable conversation about Steve, his untimely death and her resulting widowhood early in the conversation, with Avanell offering the usual condolences but not pushing for details.

  Avanell then filled their lunch with stories of her own experiences with widowhood. She had raised three children who were now young adults. Her husband and brother had founded a vitamin distribution company at a time when America was just starting its love affair with supplements. Avanell's husband had died when her older children were in high school. With three sets of college tuition staring her in the face, she hadn't had a choice but to take his place in the company. She was self-effacing, but Harriet knew from her aunt that Avanell had turned the company from a modestly successful vendor of children's vitamins into a multi-million-dollar supplier of herbal supplements. Her natural cold remedy blend was taking the country by storm, and she was just introducing a line of herbal pet supplements.

  Avanell was not only able to pay her children's college tuition, she also set up a scholarship fund that sent five deserving Foggy Point High School graduates each year to the college of their choice.

  Harriet took advantage of Avanell's knowledge of the local residents and their buying practices. Avanell was more than willing to share what she knew about the other stitchers in the Loose Threads.

  "Mavis Willis doesn't care a whit about competition. If she has a project that fits our theme for a particular show she enters it, but her main reason for quilting is to top the beds of her children and grandchildren with covers that suit their individual personalities,” Avanell said. “And you can pretty well count on Sarah Ness to ask you to do her project about two days after whatever deadline you set."

  "Aunt Beth warned me about her. She said Sarah makes a lot of quilts and is willing to pay a lot of money to have them stitched, so it's worth the aggravation."

  "That's the truth,” Avanell agreed. “She's on a mission to give everyone she's ever met a handcrafted quilt made with her own hands. She really cranks them out."

  "Aunt Beth said something like that."

  Avanell laughed. “I can imagine what Beth said. I'm sure the word quality was in there somewhere. Sarah's quite predictable, if you think about it. Your aunt Beth says that as soon as she hears Sarah's doing something for a show, she blocks out the last spot before the real deadline on her schedule and puts her name on it. Beth says she's never failed her yet."

  Harriet laughed. The waiter brought the check, and Avanell had her wallet open and her card out before Harriet even had her purse open.

  "Thank you,” she said. “Next time I'll treat."

  "When you have yourself established as the new It Girl of machine quilters you can pay. In the meantime, don't look a gift horse in the mouth.” Avanell smiled.

  She gave the waitress her card and was waiting to sign the receipt when a thin woman with long stringy hair and bad skin shuffled into the restaurant. The woman looked around and, when she spotted Avanell and Harriet, came over to the table.

  "Can I talk to you?” she said to Avanell, and looked down. A line of sweat dampened her forehead.

  Avanell's face lost its animation. “What's wrong now, Carla?"

  Carla looked at Harriet and back to Avanell.

  "It's all right, Carla. Tell me what's happening."

  "Mr. Tony, he's got Misty in the office. He says she's been stealing vitamins and that's why we been missing inventory. He's called Sheriff Mason and says he's pressing charges."

  "Is she stealing vitamins?” Avanell asked in a no-nonsense voice that was nothing like the friendly tone she'd used during lunch.

  Carla looked at her feet. “Not exactly,” she said.

  "Don't keep me waiting, Carla,” Avanell said. “Tell me the truth. All of it, now.” She signed the Visa receipt and picked up her purse and sweater.

  Carla hesitated, looked at Harriet again and finally spoke.

  "Misty is pregnant. Maryanne and me have been saving the broken and chipped prenatal blends for her. We just throw them out after we count them anyways. The sheriff is on his way now,” she finished.

  "Go ahead and go,” Harriet said. “I'll just take advantage of this nice spring day and walk home. It isn't that far."

  It was clear Avanell was torn.

  "Really, I'm fine. The exercise will do me good after this lunch."

  "Thanks, I'll make it up to you,” Avanell said and hurried after her employee, who was already shuffling out the door.

  Harriet watched her leave. Aunt Beth was right; something was definitely wrong.

  Chapter Four

  Harriet turned left toward Post Office Street. Pins and Needles was located around the corner and up the block. Aunt Beth had told her the previous store had been ten blocks down in a less prosperous part of downtown Foggy Point, but over the years had traded its way up as other, less enduring shops folded. Eventually, it moved into the coveted center-of-the-block location on Main Street that it currently occupied.

  She looked at her watch. She still had an hour before her next customer was due to show up. She could spare fifteen minutes to see what was new.

  "Hi, Harriet,” Marjory called from the back of the store. “Make yourself at home. I'll be with you in a minute."

  A slender woman who looked to be around Avanell's age was at the counter.

  "I'm sorry, I sent Marjory to search her new shipment to see if she got a maroon fabric I need. How are you surviving with Beth gone?"

  Harriet wasn't sure she'd ever get used to the way news traveled in this town. The Threads probably knew Aunt Beth had left before she had—and she'd watched the taxi drive away.

  She'd been a child when she first lived here with Aunt Beth. Back then, Foggy Point had seemed a wondrous place, filled with beaches to walk on, woods to explore and friendly neighbors who always had a warm cookie and glass of milk for an intrepid explorer. She had been unaware then of how everyone knew everyone else's business, leaving little room for privacy.

  "I'm Jenny Logan,” the woman said when Harriet didn't offer any additional information. “I came late last week, so I didn't get to meet you. I'm bringing you my show quilt in...” She glanced at her watch.” ... not quite an hour."

  "I'm on my way home now,” Harriet said. She turned to go back out.

  "There's no need to rush,” Jenny said. “I'm going to look at the new fall fabrics Marjory got in. If I start now, I might get a Halloween wall hanging done this year."

  "I'm on foot, though,” Harriet explained.

  "Why don't you let me give you a ride, then? If you would, you could give me some ideas for this crazy baby cover I have to make. My son Mark and his wife just had a baby boy. They're both in school at Texas A&M and want a maroon-and-white quilt with black-and-grey trim. I'm trying to figure out how to use
those colors and have it still look like it's for a baby."

  Harriet and Jenny spent the next fifteen minutes carrying bolts of fabric to a table in the smaller of the two classrooms that adjoined the retail area of the shop. They finally came up with a plan that used three-and-a-half-inch squares surrounded by two-and-a-half-inch strips. Scrap quilts are a popular style that use many small geometric shapes cut from a large number of different fabrics, in imitation of the quilts made by pioneer women. By going for a scrappy look, they were able to incorporate more grey tones and even some pink to soften the contrast, but still maintain the Aggies’ color scheme.

  They had just finished when Marjory returned from the staging area.

  "Come here, child,” she said, and held her arms out for a hug.

  Harriet allowed herself to be pulled to Marjory's ample bosom. She could remember the first time her own mother had hugged her. A photographer had staged it for a magazine article. It was supposed to show the warm side of the world-renowned scientist. Harriet had been eighteen and had been summoned to her parent's home when Time magazine came calling. She'd always wondered if hugs would have felt more natural if she'd been exposed to them at a younger age.

  She had seen Marjory several times since she'd returned, and the woman had employed the same bear hug on each occasion, oblivious to Harriet's discomfort.

  "I'm so glad you've come back to Foggy Point,” she said. “Your aunt Beth has been so worried about you."

  Not so worried that she'd cancel her cruise to Europe, Harriet thought.

  "I'm glad to be back, too,” she said, not sure if she was telling the truth.

  "You two just missed your opportunity to bask in the glow of Foggy Point's newest celebrity,” Marjory said.

  "Who would that be?” Jenny asked.

  "Lauren Sawyer,” Marjory replied. “She got some little company to publish her cat designs."