"How very nice to meet you,” Lauren said. “We've heard so much about you."
"All good, I hope,” he said, reminding Harriet of her own reaction to the same pronouncement and making her wonder what he might have to hide. He straightened up and turned toward the table full of women.
Avanell's oldest son was a few years younger than Harriet and had been a pimple-faced teenager with a crush on her when she'd left for college. Her daughter was a few years younger than that, and Aiden was the proverbial afterthought. He must have been around when Harriet had lived with Aunt Beth, but she was pretty sure she would have remembered those eerie eyes if she'd seen them before. Then again, she had been pretty self-absorbed in those days. Her anger at her parents for once again dumping her with Aunt Beth while they partied their way across Europe under the guise of academic research pretty well eclipsed anything that was happening in Foggy Point.
"My, how you've grown,” Jenny said. “I can remember you eating Popsicles at my kitchen table with Mark. He's married and has a baby boy, but somehow it didn't occur to me that you'd be growing up, too.” She smiled. “I guess when your mom said you were coming back to town, I expected to see that gangly boy with eyes too big for his face. Funny how your mind works when you get old and senile."
"You're not old,” Aiden said. “And even though I've grown up, I really missed your Popsicles while I was in Africa. We had a small refrigerator run from a generator, but we had to stuff it full of animal medications."
"Aiden is a veterinarian,” Avanell explained. “He just took a job at the clinic on Main Street."
"Welcome home, mijo,” Connie said and stood up to give him a hug. Even when she stretched to her full height, Aiden had to bend down to receive her greeting.
Connie claimed she was five feet tall, but no one believed her. She had been the favorite first grade teacher of everyone who had passed through the doors of Joseph Meeker Elementary School in Foggy Point for the thirty years she'd taught there, including all three of Avanell's children.
"Will you be seeing cats?” Sarah asked. “My Rachel has been sneezing and I'm not sure if she has a cold or an allergy."
"I don't start for two more weeks, so I don't really know what I'll be doing. For all I know, I'll be scrubbing the kennels."
"Rachel can't wait that long,” Sarah pressed. “Do you make housecalls?"
"I really can't see animals until I officially start at the clinic. I don't have access to medications until then. I'm still waiting for my stuff to arrive, too—I don't have my bag or anything,” he said. “Sorry."
Harriet looked over at Avanell. Avanell rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
Sarah returned her attention to the seam she was sewing in her backing material.
Avanell was anxious to visit with Aiden, and no one could blame her.
"Go ahead and go with your son,” Harriet said. “I've got to wait until Sarah finishes her backing, and I'm sure she won't mind driving me and her quilt back to my place."
Aiden gave her a curious look.
"I don't want to take my mom away from what she's doing,” he said. “I know how important her quilting is."
"You always could charm the socks off a zebra,” Mavis said. “But we all know your mom is going to win best in show even if she does take the afternoon to catch up with you, so you just go ahead. And we'll make sure Harriet gets home, don't you worry, Avanell."
It was a toss-up whether Sarah or Lauren had the nastiest glare for Avanell's retreating back. Harriet knew Sarah would have made an excuse to avoid driving her if it hadn't meant she would be walking home carrying the woman's quilt.
It only took Sarah an additional hour after the meeting broke up to finish her quilt back, and it became obvious to Harriet that if she sat in the same room with her, she would never finish. There seemed to be no end to the young woman's ego or her desire to talk about it, so she went to the kitchen and sat at the table with the latest copy of Quilters World until Sarah was done.
Chapter Eight
Harriet dropped Sarah's quilt off in the studio and went into the kitchen. Fred wove figure-eights between her legs, making forward progress nearly impossible.
She picked him up. “Well, Fred, we survived our first Loose Threads meeting on our own."
Fred meowed.
"And we discovered that Avanell has been holding out on us. She has a really hot-looking son we never knew about."
Fred jumped to the floor and fluffed his tail.
"Don't worry, Fred, you're the only man in my life and that's not changing.” After what Steve and his family had done, she would never share her heart again. “Besides, Avanell's son is too young for us. He's probably younger than you are in cat years."
Fred flicked his tail and sauntered to the pantry where the kitty treats were stored. Harriet opened the door and gave him three fish-shaped kibbles from the foil pouch. She wondered what she'd do if she didn't have him to talk to. She'd like to think she wouldn't talk to herself, but you never knew.
Before Steve had died, she'd had girlfriends she could call anytime, even if she just had a random thought to share. She should have known. They had been Steve's friends. They knew the truth, and even after all the nights they'd stayed up laughing and crying when one of them had broken up with her boyfriend, and the days they'd spent bringing food and cleaning house for another one after she'd had a miscarriage—after all that, still, no one thought she was important enough to be let in on Steve's secret.
Harriet had spent the first year after Steve's death wallowing in self-pity. She rarely left their apartment, and spent her days going over their life together, trying to figure out if there had been clues she'd missed. She'd been sure it was her fault. If she'd just been less involved in her business, or spent less time with her faux friends, maybe she would have seen the signs of Steve's condition. And if she'd seen the signs, maybe she could have found some new treatment or therapy that would have saved him.
Eventually, she'd agreed to see a therapist; and now, most of the time, she believed what had happened was out of her control. Steve had suffered from Marfan's syndrome, an inheritable genetic disorder that was often fatal without aggressive medical intervention. Until as recently as 1977 there was little that could be done to reverse the damage to connective tissue it caused, particularly in the heart. Perhaps if his parents had sought medical intervention when he was younger things could have been different; but by the time she'd met him the die had already been cast.
She opened the refrigerator door and reviewed her options. Aunt Beth had disapproved of the pounds she had gained over the last five years. In spite of her own comfortable bulk, Aunt Beth had insisted Harriet was using her weight as a way to stay disconnected from the world. To this end, she had binge-proofed the house before she left on her cruise. There wasn't a chip, cookie or sweetened fat nodule of any kind. The refrigerator was filled with cleaned carrot sticks, pickled beets, tomatoes, cucumbers and precooked boneless, skinless chicken breast meat in several flavors.
Harriet pulled out a plastic bag and poured herself a bowl full of romaine lettuce pieces. She tore up two slices of chicken breast and added them to the lettuce. Her hand skimmed past the fat-free Italian salad dressing in the refrigerator door and settled on the bottle of creamy organic sesame, clearly an oversight on Aunt Beth's part. She promised herself a trip to the grocery store when she got all of the show quilts done.
She had a smaller project to finish this afternoon before she could start Sarah's—she had hoped to get Sarah's call last night. The deadline for receiving quilts to stitch had been yesterday morning, but Sarah was bold. When the call didn't come, Harriet had started a baby quilt one of Aunt Beth's regular customers had asked her to fit into her schedule.
Sarah was a good customer, but her lateness this time wouldn't allow Harriet to use the kind of care she had on the other show quilts. It couldn't be helped, and besides she was confident that if Sarah's didn't win a prize it wouldn't be because
of her stitching.
She finished her salad under Fred's watchful eye and returned to her quilting machine.
* * * *
It had been dark for more than an hour. Harriet had finished the baby quilt and had about a foot left to stitch on Sarah's quilt when the brass bell tied to her studio doorknob jingled.
"Anyone home?” a male voice called. Aiden Jalbert stepped into the room. “Oh, good, you're still here,” he said.
Harriet pushed the needle-down button and walked to the reception area, where he was pacing in great agitation.
"Of course, I'm here,” she said. “I live here. Is there something I can help you with?"
She couldn't help but stare at those eyes. He was probably used to that.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “But I've got a bit of a problem, and I was hoping you could help me out."
Harriet took a good look at him. His white shirt was smeared with what looked like blood. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his left arm had a long scratch down its length.
"What happened?” she asked.
"I'm staying in a studio apartment over the vet clinic,” he explained. “My mom was working late, so I took her Chinese food from that Rice Bowl place on Fourth Street, and since I was driving right past here on my way home, Mom asked if I would drop her quilt off. I guess she finished putting the trim on it at work this afternoon."
"Binding,” Harriet corrected. “She finished binding it."
"Whatever,” he said.
"If she finished binding it, where is it?"
"That would be the problem part,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I was on my way here, and right at the bottom of your hill the car in front of me hit a dog. We both stopped, and the lady that was driving went to the two closest houses. No one knew who the dog belonged to, and it couldn't wait any longer."
"Please tell me you didn't wrap the dog in your mother's quilt,” Harriet said.
The muscle in Aiden's jaw jumped.
"I couldn't let her lay there and bleed to death,” he protested. “She's a big Lab, and I think she's pregnant. I didn't have anything else to use as a stretcher."
Harriet looked pointedly at his shirt.
He grabbed his shirttails in his hands. “My shirt wouldn't hold a dog that big. I know my mom will understand if it comes to that.” The misery was clear in his voice.
Any kid who grew up to be a vet and then went to Africa to save wild animals had probably brought his share of damaged wildlife home to his mother. Avanell likely would understand.
"I can't promise anything, but go get it and let's see what we have."
His shoulders sagged in relief. He went out and gathered the quilt in his arms. Harriet watched him from the door and took it from him. She spread it out on the big cutting table then pulled up a tall stool for herself and another for Aiden.
"Here, sit."
"I can't until you say you can fix it."
"First aid for a quilt is all I can manage right now. If you keel over, I'm leaving you."
He looked at her and must have decided she was serious because he sat.
Harriet turned on the true-color ceiling lights over the cutting table then plugged in her freestanding Ott light and pulled it over to the table. In order to be sure the colors in a quilt truly complement each other, most quilters use lights that are made to match natural sunlight. Any stitcher worth her salt had both a floor version in her home and a portable unit for group gatherings.
Although it was possible to buy a true-color light that wasn't made by Ott, they so dominate the crafter's market that, like Kleenex being used to refer to all tissues or Scotch tape for all transparent cellophane tape, people called all true lights “Ott Lights."
She bent over the quilt, looking at the entire top surface, then flipped it over to look at the back side in two places. Aiden started tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. Harriet glared at him.
"You're killing me here,” he said.
"Tapping your fingers isn't helping me do my job any faster."
She let him squirm for another two minutes. At last she stood up.
"You are one lucky dog savior,” she said. “And it is especially fortunate that the blood didn't get on the cream-colored areas. Your mom used a hand-dyed fabric that has enough shading to it that I think after it's cleaned you won't be able to tell anything happened."
He shocked her by grabbing her in a bear hug and twirling her around in a circle.
"I knew you could fix it. Mom told me you're really talented. Thank you so much."
"Hold on here,” she said, and pushed him away. “This isn't a done deal yet. It all depends on a few things working out just right."
"Anything,” he said. “I'll do anything. Tell me. Just make my mom's quilt be okay. I'm begging you here."
"Calm down,” Harriet said. She couldn't help smiling, though. “First, I need to fix this one place where the stitches are broken.” She scooped it up off the table, grabbed her hand-sewing kit and headed for the chairs. Aiden sat on the ottoman.
"Can I do anything to help?” he asked.
"Here, hold this,” she said. She handed him the half of the quilt she wasn't working on. She didn't really need anyone to hold it for her, but at least it would keep him from tapping his fingers.
"When I finish here, you still have to take it to the dry cleaners on Nisqually Street and get them to clean the spots and then get it back to me by Thursday morning. Can you do that?"
"I have to go to Seattle tomorrow, but I should be able to drop it off before I leave,” Aiden said. “I just have to turn in my final research report, then I can drive back and pick it up."
"As long as you get it to me before ten on Thursday morning, it should be fine."
"I'll bring it to you Wednesday night as soon as I get back. I don't want to take any chances."
"Probably a good idea,” Harriet said. “If tonight is any indication."
"This is probably a dumb question, but is there some reason we didn't just throw it in the washer?” he asked.
"It's not a dumb question, just don't ever do it. You never throw someone else's quilt in the washer. If they haven't pre-washed the fabric, it can pucker and bleed. And you pretty well never wash an art piece. They use techniques that aren't meant to stand up to water or agitation."
Aiden sighed. “I figured that would be too simple."
"You should tell your mom what happened,” Harriet said.
"I know I should, but she seems really preoccupied and tired. I was hoping we could take care of this without her ever needing to know."
"It's your call,” she said. “I'd tell her, if it was me, even if everything is fine."
"I'll tell her after it wins the blue ribbon. Then she'll think it's funny. And she'll be a lot less likely to kill me.” He grinned. He'd probably kept Avanell on her toes when he was growing up.
Harriet tied a single knot in her thread, buried it in the batting and clipped the thread end.
"There you go,” she said. She stood up and folded the quilt. “I'll call the cleaners in the morning, but you remind them, too, that it's hand-dyed cotton. And let them wash the pillow slip it was in, too. That way, you'll have something clean to put it in when you pick it up."
"Thank you so much,” he repeated. “And I'm sorry I came barging in here in the middle of the night."
"Not a problem.” She opened the door for him and watched as he carried the quilt to his car, gently setting it on the backseat. He was the one who looked tired, she thought.
Chapter Nine
Harriet's phone was ringing as she came downstairs after her shower Wednesday morning. She dashed across the entrance, through the dining and living rooms and grabbed the phone just as the caller hung up. She didn't recognize the number the caller ID was showing her, but that wasn't unusual. She dialed.
"Oh, Harriet,” Avanell said. “I'm glad you calle
d back. I have a favor to ask."
"Sure, anything.” Maybe Aiden had come clean.
"I need you to go to a Chamber of Commerce fundraiser with Harold."
"I don't date,” Harriet said flatly. She could feel her face turning red.
"I'm not asking you to go on a date, honey. The company bought tickets to this thing a month ago. I was going to go, but we're shorthanded, and the end of the month shipping is piling up. We paid a hundred dollars a ticket, and I just hate to see it go to waste. Besides, Harold is a teddy bear. He's our finance guy. I can guarantee he'll be a perfect gentleman. And Delilah's Catering is providing the food, so you know it will be good."
Harriet didn't have experience with Delilah's Catering, but she knew her aunt used them whenever she was putting on an event. After days of lettuce and carrots, the thought of well-prepared food made her mouth water. For a hundred dollars a plate, they might get steak or prime rib, or even chicken with skin. She decided it wouldn't matter if Harold was a troll if she got hors d'oeuvres. She wondered what kind of rolls they would have.
"Okay,” she said. “I'm there. When do I need to be ready?"
"Harold will pick you up at six. Dinner will be at seven."
"How fancy do I need to dress?"
"No blue jeans but leave the elbow-length gloves and tiara home,” she said. “Thanks, gotta go."
Harriet went upstairs and tried on the little black dress she'd brought with her from California. It was loose—days of lettuce and water did that to a person. She looked in Aunt Beth's closet. Her aunt was shorter and wider than she was, but a good scarf could make up for any bodily shortcoming. She knew Aunt Beth must have a stash of the things somewhere.
She opened the middle drawer of an oak chest and wasn't disappointed—it was crammed full of scarves of every size, texture and color. She picked a purple-and-blue bit of froth and tied it around the waist of her dress. You'd never see the look on the runways in Paris, but she had to admit it wasn't bad.
She changed back into her jeans and turtleneck and went back downstairs. She had a full day of stitching ahead of her—Aunt Beth booked long-arm stitching appointments months in advance. People often reserved spaces without even knowing which quilt they would bring when the time came. Harriet wasn't going to lack for work while she waited for her aunt to return.
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