“It is, isn’t it?” Caroline joined him by the table, which was really a frame with rollers that held her long arm model. The sewing machine head and table ran the length of the room. “It’s easier to use than you’d think.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Rodney said, shaking his head. He walked over to her display board and studied the small quilt pinned to it. “Is this your project?”
Caroline’s heart swelled. “Yes, I’m going to be a grandma.” She’d shared this news with few people, the neighbors and her good friend in Arizona. Not because it bothered her like it did some women her age. Who did she have to tell? She was an only child, like Jason, and both of her parents had passed away. She’d stopped socializing with their couple friends after Ted’s death.
“Congratulations! Judging by the pink and white colors, it’s a girl.”
“Well, it could be.” Caroline’s cheeks grew warm when Rodney’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “My son and his wife, Jason and Angela, don’t want to know the sex until it’s born, so”—Caroline walked over to a worktable and unfolded a blue bundle—“I’m prepared for both.”
Rodney’s laugh echoed in the basement. “I can tell you’re excited about the new addition to your family.”
“Very much. Do you have children or grandchildren?”
“No.” Rodney sighed the word more than said it. The smile slipped from his face. His eyes glazed with a faraway look as they rested on the blue quilt she held.
She’d managed to ask the wrong question, again.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” Judging by his wistful expression, she’d hit a tender spot in his heart.
Rodney lifted his eyes from the quilt. His face brightened. “I have two nephews, though, fifteen and eighteen. It’s hard to remember them small enough to be covered with a quilt that size.” He shrugged. “But I wasn’t around them much as babies either.”
“I was around Jason all the time and it’s still hard to remember him that small.” Caroline rubbed her palms together. “I’m anxious to look at your quilt. Is it in the bag?”
Rodney held the shopping bag out to Caroline with the handles resting on two gloved fingers.
Caroline lifted the bag and carried it to a long white table in the center of the room. “You can have a seat. Help yourself to some coffee or tea. The carafe is filled with hot water.” Caroline motioned toward the card table in the corner. She set the bag on the table and removed the quilt.
“Thank you.” Rodney slipped off his gloves and coat. He rested them on the chair before unwrapping a tea bag and pouring hot liquid over it.
Caroline held her breath until Rodney reached for the creamer and measured out two spoonfuls. Guess she’d worried for nothing.
“I’d like to look at the quilt with you.” Rodney stirred the powder into the liquid as he walked over to the table.
“Sure,” Caroline said as she scrutinized the tattered block in the quilt top before turning the quilt over. She inspected the muted yellow fabric with small white daisies. “Hmm, just what I thought.”
“What?” Rodney stepped closer to her.
“The quilter used flour sacks as the fabric. See where it’s seamed together to make the back big enough for the quilt top?” She ran her fingers over several horizontal seams in the back.
“Is that bad?”
Caroline smiled at Rodney. “No, not bad. It just means it’s older. Fabric flour or feed sacks disappeared sometime in the 1950s.”
“I don’t remember ever seeing flour in a fabric sack.”
“Me either, but my grandmother showed me one of her aprons made from flour sack material. She said sometimes it was hard to find enough of the same patterned sacks to actually make an item.” Stop rambling. Focus on the quilt. Caroline cleared her throat. “By the size of the pieces on back, I’d say whoever made this quilt bought their flour in ten-pound sacks and at the same time.”
“Hey, that might give me a clue to go on.” Rodney laughed.
Caroline furrowed her brow at him. “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, you said every quilt had a story. I know that my mom didn’t make this quilt, but now I’m wondering who did and how it got in Mom’s possession. I showed it to my sister, Michelle, and she doesn’t remember it either.”
“Do you have any relatives who quilted?” Caroline laid the quilt with the top faceup on the table.
“I’m one jump ahead of you. Michelle and I e-mailed digital pictures to all the relatives in my address book to see if they can shed some light on it.”
“Smart thinking.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Rodney rolled his free hand in front of his waist and bowed, holding his cup steady with the other hand.
Caroline smiled at Rodney’s playfulness. You used to be lighthearted before Ted’s death. She felt her shoulders sag at the thought, but she managed to keep her smile in place. Ted’s death brought more than the loss of a loved one. Her basic necessities were covered, but…Aware that her mind had started to wander, Caroline pushed her financial miseries from her thoughts and focused on her profession.
“ ‘My lady’?”
Rodney chuckled. “Well, according to Mildred, you are the Queen of Quilting.” Rodney straightened to his full height.
The title catching her off guard, she stammered, “I don’t know about that….”
“Your repair work was a blessing to Mildred. She gave a piece of his mother’s love to her grandson, and Proverbs tells us, ‘She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple,’ so I think it’s okay to call you a queen.”
Proverbs 31. She’d read that scripture many times in church on Mother’s Day. “Okay, but I hope I live up to her and your expectations.”
“I’m sure you can.” Rodney affirmed his statement with a firm nod of his head, then sipped his tea.
A lump formed in Caroline’s throat. No one had ever displayed that type of confidence in any work she’d done, not her parents, Ted, or Jason. Although she knew they loved her, none of them expected her to want to be more than a wife and mother. Flustered, she cleared her throat and turned her attention to the quilt.
After inspecting a few of the quilt blocks that formed the top, she looked up at Rodney.
“Well, is it worth repairing?”
Caroline laughed. “All quilts are worth repairing. Some just can’t be restored, but yours is in pretty good condition.” She pointed to the blocks’ seams. “This quilt was hand sewn and used, maybe not by your mother, but someone. The stress of being used and laundered pulled at the seams until the thread broke. Cotton thread was used back then and didn’t stretch like the nylon type made today.”
“You got all that from looking at a block? What else can you tell me?”
“Well, the quilt was tied together versus quilted.” Caroline pointed to knotted string in the corner of one block. “That will make it easier to repair. The cotton batting in between the top and back needs to be replaced. It’s separated in spots from use. That’s why the quilt is bumpy.”
Caroline grabbed the quilt with both hands, held it firm, and tugged. “The fabric shows no signs of rot or it would’ve pulled apart. This”—Caroline ran her fingers down the ragged hem fold of the quilt—“is not rot; it’s wear.”
“What about that block in the corner of the top? The way the cloth looks, an animal chewed it.”
“Well,” Caroline said, fingering the block, “it looks more like it got caught in something with gears, maybe the wringer of a washer? See these small black marks?”
Taking reading glasses out of his flannel shirt pocket and slipping them on, Rodney took a closer look at the quilt block Caroline held up. “Grease stains?”
“That’s my guess. And that block is the problem if you want the quilt restored. The block will need to be replaced. There’s a quilt shop in Sioux Falls that carries replica feed sack material, so I may be able to match the fabric. If you want it repaired, I can work around i
t, but the quilt will be smaller because I’ll have to take blocks out.”
Rodney removed his glasses and returned them to his pocket. “Okay.”
Caroline knitted her brows. “Okay to which option?”
“I don’t know.” Rodney shrugged his shoulders. “I thought you’d just tell me what needed to be done and I could say do it.”
“Don’t you want an estimate of the price for each?”
“No, that doesn’t matter.”
“Wow, I should have gone into lawn care and snow removal instead of quilt repair.” The words were out before Caroline realized how it sounded. She could never be that casual about money, especially now. She lived on a tight budget, but that didn’t give her the right to be rude.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. It’s just since Ted died, I keep a close watch on my finances.”
Rodney finished his tea. “Don’t worry about it. Another lifetime ago, I excelled as an ad exec and made good investments.”
“Impressive and exciting. A boomer with good career planning in your youth, so you were able to retire”—Caroline made air quotes with her fingers—“at a young age.”
“It wasn’t quite like that.”
“Nothing goes as planned, I guess. I dreamed of an exciting career in clothes design but played it safe and got a teaching degree in home economics.” She shrugged.
“You traded it for another dream, a home and family?”
“You might say that a heart attack stole that dream away from me, too.” Caroline sighed. What was wrong with her? She seemed to spill out personal information around Rodney.
“Health issues can do that, but maybe that’s God’s plan.”
At one time Caroline would have agreed with that statement, but not anymore. God wasn’t a topic that she wanted to discuss. She’d respected her parents and husband’s wishes as instructed in His commandments, and what did it get her? A life filled with uncertainty. Not that it was any of Rodney’s business. Before she blurted out any more of her personal life, she steered the conversation back to business. “Are you interested in the name of your quilt block?”
“Quilts have names?”
Caroline grinned. “The blocks do. Mildred’s was the Fisher Boy. I think yours is a lily of some sort. I can try a search on the Internet. Or maybe you don’t have time or aren’t interested?”
“Unless a blizzard just blew in, I have the time and I am interested. Knowing the name of the block may be another clue to the quilt’s story.” Rodney rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Or at least jog someone’s memory.” He walked over to the table. “Can I fix you a cup?”
“I’ll join you.” Caroline slipped the folded quilt over her forearm before grabbing the dish with the tea bags in it and the instant coffee jar. “My computer is upstairs, so let’s just take the carafe up with us.”
Caroline led the way to the den. Rodney set the decanter on the bookshelf. Caroline measured some instant coffee into her cup while Rodney removed a tea bag from its packaging. He shook creamer into his cup while Caroline poured the hot water into the mugs. Rodney slipped his free hand into his front jeans pocket and watched as Caroline booted up her computer and accessed her Internet provider.
She typed lily and quilt block into the search feature and hit ENTER. She sipped her coffee as the results appeared on her screen.
“I know it’s not a Carolina Lily because that is usually an appliquéd block.” Caroline clicked on another web address.
“Appliquéd?”
Caroline turned and looked over her shoulder at Rodney. “Like Mildred’s quilt blocks, where the pattern pieces are sewn onto the background material with decorative stitching around each piece. I did a tight zigzag stitch on Mildred’s.”
Rodney nodded.
“Your quilt is a pieced block, which means the pattern shapes are cut out and sewn together to create the block, pattern, and background.” Caroline pointed to the small seams within the patterned block on Rodney’s quilt between the plain yellow, white, and flour sack material, then turned back to the computer screen. “Well, this has been no help,” Caroline said. “Not one of these blocks matches your quilt. Perhaps I’m wrong that it’s a lily.”
“Maybe if one of my relatives recognizes it, they’ll know the name of the block.”
“If you want to forward a digital picture to me, I’ll try to upload it to my website. My e-mail address is on my card. I’m a member of a few online quilt groups. I can inquire there and point them to the picture on the website. I do have several books I can look through, too. I’m just certain I’ve seen that pattern before.”
“You have a website? I didn’t notice the address on your business card.”
“I had the cards printed before I realized I needed a website. It’s not very fancy. I just used a free service with basic templates.”
“What’s the web address?”
“It’s cbakerquilts.com.”
“Do you mind pulling it up? I’d like to see it.”
“Really?” Is he just being polite? “Again, it’s not much….” Caroline bit at her lip as she turned to the keyboard and typed in the address. What would an experienced businessman like Rodney think of her amateur site?
Rodney assessed the basic layout of Caroline’s home page. Based on her comments about her finances, she needed her business to succeed. But this layout wouldn’t do much to grow her business. She’d chosen a good readable font, but the content lacked flair. He liked the white background with black lettering; however, some color was needed to attract attention.
In addition, Caroline’s lackluster website wasn’t an appropriate showcase for her work. The one-page site needed links to pricing, to a contact address or phone number, and to pictures of her studio and repaired quilts. Adding a patchwork border under her name, various quilt blocks to the left for the information links, and a snazzy paragraph or two about the services she provided on the right would be a definite improvement. A more attractive web page promised double site hits, which, in turn, would bring in more customers.
“You don’t like it.”
Caroline’s words broke into his thoughts. He turned to her, and her shoulders sagged. Disappointment filled her pretty blue eyes and pulled her lips into a grim line. Her body language said that she had tried her best with the website. Caroline’s talent lay in creativity with fabrics, not website design. No shame in that.
Rodney, pulling a trick from his adman’s hat, flashed a reassuring smile. He’d lead with all the appealing things her website had going for it, and then he’d talk about improvements. “Sorry, it’s the adman in me. For a first attempt, your site is eye pleasing—easy-to-read font that’s black on white with no loud colors or music.”
“Do I hear a but floating around in there?” Caroline raised her eyebrows in question.
She was pretty and intuitive. No use in sidestepping around issues. “But this layout won’t sell your business and bring in customers if that’s what you want it to do.”
Caroline sighed and placed one elbow on the computer desk, then rested her chin in her hand. “It is. I ran an ad in a couple of quilt magazines, but everyone at the quilt conference I attended insisted websites attract customers.”
“It’s true. We live in a computer era. After all, where did you go to look up the quilt block name?”
“The Internet.” Caroline nodded. She lifted her cup and took a sip. “Since this is how I earn my living, I guess I should hire someone to design my website. Trouble is, I don’t know anyone who does that. Do you?”
“I know someone who can do it.”
“Do you know what they charge? Is it expensive? I can’t afford too much.”
Rodney fought the urge to use his thumb to rub away the worry indent that formed between Caroline’s brows when she frowned. The deep crease indicated she wore that expression often. To keep his hands busy, Rodney slipped his fingers into the front pockets of his blue jeans, hooking his thu
mbs in the belt loops. “Well, I work pretty cheap. Maybe a home-cooked meal or two.”
Caroline shook her head. “You’re retired from that type of business. I can’t ask you to do that.”
Rodney’s insides wrenched at the word retired. He enjoyed his life now but seldom felt the vibrancy that came with selling a product, especially one he believed in. He believed in Caroline’s products and her business. It had nothing to do with his interest in her personally. She was a good quilter and deserved to succeed.
“Caroline Baker, are you a hard sell? Because I must warn you that was my favorite kind of potential client when I worked in the ad game.”
“Hard sell?” Caroline’s eyes began to twinkle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not a bad thing, but I’m afraid my persuasive skills are rusty and I’m tired of eating my dinners perched on the arm of the sofa while I watch the news. So what do you say? Let me punch up your website. Please.” Rodney clasped his hands together in a begging fashion.
Caroline laughed out loud. “All right, but no backing out if you don’t like my cooking. And don’t even expect pie for dessert, because there is no way I can compete with your mom’s.”
Laughter relaxed the tense expression Caroline usually wore. Her curly hair, touched with gray, framed her face. She looked carefree. An expression she should wear more often. It suited her.
“I like chocolate cake, too,” Rodney offered with a wink.
“Thanks for that subtle hint.” Caroline continued to chuckle. “Any other requests?”
“Yes. That you work with me on the website. I’ll need to study the template; then I’ll update and add links. You’ll need to supply the pictures of quilts you’ve made or repaired, your studio, a price list—” Rodney stopped when Caroline held her hand up.
“I meant food requests. I make a mean pot roast.”
“Oh.” Rodney smiled sheepishly. He’d kicked into autopilot on this new project, a habit he thought he’d broken. In his excitement to work on Caroline’s website, he’d forgotten about his diet restrictions. Good thing she asked. “I prefer chicken, turkey, or fish.”
Dakota Love Page 3
