“Oh, not just the store—the old Herzog building, too, so they can expand the footprint of the market and add more parking. I saw the plans. They’re going to put in one of those ready-to-go meal counters, an imported cheese section, an olive bar, a café with an espresso maker—stuff they can charge higher prices for—and then decrease the amount of shelf space for basic groceries, like baking supplies and canned goods. But they’re going to raise the prices for that too. I know that the tourists like all that fancy, prepared stuff, but what are the people who live here year-round supposed to eat? I can’t afford the time or gas to drive all the way to Sturgeon Bay just so I can buy a can of corn or a bag of flour!”
“No, and you shouldn’t have to. That’s terrible.”
As Rinda turned the van onto Lakeview Trail, she pressed her lips together, exposing a web of worry lines around her mouth. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to pay more for groceries when I’m about to lose my job, but I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. What else can I do? You can’t fight city hall.”
I turned in my seat and stared at Rinda with a mixture of confusion and amusement. Didn’t she realize who was riding in her car?
“Don’t be silly!” I exclaimed. “Of course you can!”
Chapter 34
Our quilt-ins are kind of a movable feast; everyone takes turns hosting. We were supposed to meet at Rinda’s house that evening, but since we were already at the cottage after having gotten Celia moved in, we just decided to stay put and sew at my house.
It was kind of an exciting night for me because my quilt top was nearly complete. The only thing I had left to do was sew the batting to the front of the quilt and then hand-stitch it to the back. Rinda had promised to help and teach me how to miter the corners so they’d look tidy and sharp. I’d wanted to use the easier “self-binding” method, where you just cut the backing wider and then fold it, iron it to the front, and stitch it down, but Rinda made a face and then suggested I “jazz it up” by adding prairie points to the binding, a row of colorful triangles to add dimension.
“Don’t be such a chicken! You can do it. I’ll show you.”
She’d said the same thing about having me do the quilting myself on my good old Singer instead of sending it out to a professional.
“I don’t hold with that. All these people who piece their tops but hire somebody else to do the finishing . . . Hmph. They’re not quilters. They’re toppers!” she declared, curling her lip in a way that made it sound almost like a dirty word.
Frankly, I’d been pretty darned impressed with myself just for finishing the top, and it would have bothered me not one whit to be called a topper—until Rinda started giving me a hard time about it. But the idea of quilting the top was far more intimidating than piecing it. Ripping out a seam in a piece of patchwork isn’t so bad, but removing stitches quilted through two layers of fabric plus a center batting is complicated. I was terrified that after so many hours of hard work, I’d end up ruining the quilt. But in the end I caved in to peer pressure and did it myself.
And, believe me, even just doing basic stitch-in-the-ditch quilting, sewing into the seam lines so my mistakes would be less noticeable, wasn’t as easy as Rinda had made it sound, but, I had to admit, I felt a certain pride in knowing I’d done the whole thing myself and could legitimately claim the title “quilter” as my own. And, considering it was my first quilt, it really had turned out pretty well.
I’d worked hard on it, but I knew that the real reason I was sitting in the sewing room with an almost completed quilt top on my lap that night was because of the FOA. Daphne, Rinda, and Celia had made it their mission to ensure that I finished my project before the end of my final sojourn in Nilson’s Bay, knowing that once I returned to DC and plunged back into the swift current of politics, I wouldn’t have time to quilt, not for years. Or perhaps ever.
I knew I would miss those quiet hours at the sewing machine, the way my worries would recede and my imagination would drift when I submerged myself into the steady thunkedy-thunkedy-thunkedy of the needle moving over and through the fabric, the sense of satisfaction I felt when I lifted the presser foot, snipped off the thread, opened the patch or block or row to the right side of the fabric, and saw what a pretty combination the colors made and how neatly the seams met.
I would also miss these evenings with the FOA, the pride I felt when showing them what I’d been able to accomplish since the last time I’d seen them, the excitement of seeing what they were working on, too, and the connections we created as we worked together to correct a mistake or tackle a problem. And it was amazing how much pleasure I got from something so simple, or the sense of accomplishment I derived from something as basic as joining one square of fabric to another, but my vacation was fast coming to a close, the days flying far more quickly than I could ever have imagined.
Soon I would pack my bags and leave this house I had grown up in and this town that held so many memories, good and bad, but more good than I had been willing to acknowledge until recently. Yes, I would return to Nilson’s Bay, but only briefly, to finish the last of my Alice-mandated residency and sign over the deed to a home that represented a huge part of who I was and what had made me this way. It would all belong to someone else then.
I hadn’t wanted to come home for a day, let alone two months, but now that my time here was coming to a close, I felt a little sad.
But still, I had this quilt, and I was grateful for that.
Whenever I saw it or touched it, I would remember this room, the hours I had spent here, and the supposedly simpleminded sister who had a wisdom I could never hope to match, whose legacy brought me home.
And, of course, I would remember Rinda and Daphne and Celia. They were without question three of the oddest women I’d ever met—especially when encountered as a set. But, eccentricities aside, they were as good a trio of women as you could hope to meet. The fact that, out of all the available candidates, Alice had picked these three to be her best friends was more evidence of my sister’s inexplicable wisdom. I really was going to miss them.
After I left we might exchange Christmas cards, or maybe, if they ever came to DC, I’d take them to lunch and arrange a private tour of the White House. Aside from that, it was doubtful our paths would cross again. But I would miss them. I knew they’d only helped me out of a desire to honor Alice’s memory, but had I been able to stay, I think they might have become my friends too.
All day, ever since that uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability in the van when Rinda had confessed her problems to me, I’d been thinking about ways to stop the demolition of the market and, in turn, save Rinda’s job. I’d trotted out a couple of different possibilities to Rinda during the remainder of the drive, but she’d told me, in pretty clear language, to butt out of her business.
But I couldn’t. The whole time Rinda was helping me sew those prairie points, I was thinking about how I could help her. Alice wasn’t the only doggedly determined Toomey sister. And I just couldn’t sit there and do nothing, not when I knew in my heart that there was a possibility of helping!
So after my beautiful blue, white, and orange quilt was finished and we were sitting in a circle, each holding one edge of the quilt and hand-stitching the binding, I spilled the beans and told Daphne and Celia about Rinda’s predicament.
She was not pleased.
“Who said you could—!” she sputtered. “Didn’t I tell you to keep that to yourself?”
“No,” I said. “And even if you had, I’d have ignored you. Why shouldn’t they know?”
“Because there’s no point in getting people upset about things that can’t be helped. Now look what you’ve done. Celia! Stop crying! Everything is going to be fine.”
“But what about Lloyd?” Celia said, fighting to keep her lip from quivering. “And your house!”
“The doctors say that Lloyd will be fine for now, but he needs to take better care of himself. They’re putting him on the list for a new ki
dney and, God willing, one will be available by the time he needs it. Lloyd and I are leaving this in God’s loving hands. And as far as the house . . .” Rinda said stoutly, “it’s just a house. It’s not like we’ll be homeless.”
“But you love that house,” Daphne said.
“No,” Rinda corrected. “I like my house, but I love my husband. Lloyd’s health is all that matters.” Daphne gave her a doubtful look and started to say something, but Rinda cut her off. “Now, don’t you start in too. It’s just a house. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be his name.”
“Listen to me,” I said sharply. “This can be helped. We need to take this up with the village council, and—”
“Pfft,” Rinda puffed, and then rolled her eyes. “As if anybody ever got anywhere by relying on the government to solve their problems.”
“Rinda! Will you just shut up and listen for a minute!” I shouted, loudly enough to make Rinda jump in her chair and shock Celia from her tears. Daphne just grinned as if she were enjoying the show.
“Don’t you get it?” I stabbed my needle into the batting, let the quilt drop into my lap, and clapped one hand onto my chest. “We are the people! The government exists and functions of, for, and by us!”
Rinda scowled at me, but she didn’t argue. I stayed quiet, knowing that she was at least thinking about what I’d said.
“Maybe,” she said, “but I think it’s too late for that. The plans are all finished. I just don’t see how—”
“But I do,” I said urgently. “This kind of thing—grassroots, hands-on political campaigning—is my job. And, not to brag, but I’m really good at it! Just the other day, a man called me up and offered me ten thousand dollars to sketch out a plan to help his client drum up community support that would help him win government approval to create a new housing development. I said I wouldn’t do it because the project was sketchy, definitely not in the best interests of the community. But this! Preserving a historically important building? Staying true to our traditions and the unique, rural character of life on the peninsula? Saving jobs? That’s the kind of project I’m more than ready to support. And if we can get the word out, I know there are plenty of other people who will feel the same.”
As I talked, Rinda’s hostile scowl softened into a frown of concentration. When I finished, she pressed her lips tightly together and blew out a heavy breath through her nose.
“I don’t know. Seems like a long shot. And ten thousand dollars? Where would we get—”
“Rinda!” I shouted again and threw up my hands. I couldn’t help myself. “I am not going to charge you a ten-thousand-dollar consulting fee! I’m not going to charge you anything. I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do!
“Look, I know that you and I could not be on more opposite sides of the fence when it comes to a whole range of issues and attitudes, but as different as we are in ideology and methodology, I have come to see that your heart is absolutely in the right place, and that you are a caring and compassionate”—I smiled—“if somewhat intolerant woman.”
Rinda’s scowl returned, but I paid no attention and kept talking.
“Now, if I can ascribe good intentions to you, why can’t you do the same for me? Because really? It’s starting to hurt my feelings.”
I blinked a few times and pretended to sniffle. Rinda’s brow went smooth and her lips flattened into a line as she fought, and nearly succeeded, to keep herself from smiling.
“Hmph. You politicians. Always ready to make a speech, aren’t you?”
“I’m not a politician; I just work for them. And in this instance, I think you’d really call me more of an activist.”
“Just as bad,” she grumbled. “Worse!”
She hesitated and I could see in her eyes what was holding her back, the fear of hoping for something she wanted so badly, of trying and failing and then having to resign herself all over again.
“You think there’s really a chance?”
“I do,” I said. “There’s no guarantee, but it’s definitely worth a try.”
“It would be such a load off Lloyd’s mind if we could keep the house,” she mused. “He’s been so upset, feeling like he’s let me down . . . foolish old man . . . he’s never let me down a day in my life.”
During this entire exchange, Celia and Daphne had been sitting by silently, Celia’s eyes darting from Rinda’s side of the quilt to mine and back again, Daphne keeping her head down, continuing to stitch, neither of them missing a word.
Now Daphne looked up. “You know what King Lear said—nothing will come of nothing.” Celia bobbed her head in agreement. Rinda still had doubts.
“And you really think that the council will listen to us?”
“If by us, you mean you, me, Daphne, and Celia—the answer is no. We’re going to need more people. A lot more people. And a plan.”
I picked up my needle again, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, and started stitching again.
“Daphne, when is Winter Fest?”
“On Saturday.”
“Okay, so we’ve got to hurry. Here’s what we’re going to do . . .” I said, and smiled wide because, not to brag, but I am good at this.
Really good.
Chapter 35
“Mrs. Lieshout!”
I stood next to an archway of ice, artfully carved with a design of white-blue roses and vines, like a summertime arbor that had been magically frozen in full bloom, and waved my arm over my head to get the librarian’s attention. She turned around, eyes searching the crowd to see who had called her name, her face lighting up when she saw it was me.
“Lucy!” She walked toward me quickly, weaving through the clusters of people on the sidewalk and a clump of giggling preteen girls as she passed the elegant, life-sized sculpture of St. Lucia, the Swedish saint whose name day coincides with the start of the holiday season, complete with a crown of boughs and lit candles, and another, more abstract sculpture, an enormous six-foot-high pyramid composed of hundreds of perfectly formed snowballs.
“Isn’t this fun? Only the third year of the festival and look at this crowd!”
She opened her arms as if to give me a hug, but then, remembering the big paper cup full of hot chocolate she was carrying in her hand, laughed and pulled back.
“Oops! I’d better be careful or I’ll end up spilling cocoa all over that pretty white sweater. Where did you get it?”
Anxious as I was to steer Mrs. Lieshout to my desired topic of conversation, I knew it would be best to bide my time and make a little small talk. Nobody likes being pushed. And anyway, I was kind of pleased with my bargain.
“The consignment shop. Fourteen dollars. Cashmere.”
“Fourteen dollars!” Mrs. Lieshout’s eyes went wide. “Oh, I have been shopping at the wrong stores!”
“I’ve got an in. Juliet keeps an eye out for things she knows I might like and then calls me.” I laughed. “I think I’ve bought more clothes in the last month than I did in the last five years. I’m hoping Santa brings me some bigger suitcases for Christmas.”
The light of Mrs. Lieshout’s smile dimmed a little. “That’s right. You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you? Say, how is your quilting coming along? I forgot to ask when I saw you at the fish boil. And how is Peter?”
She craned her neck, as though expecting him to pop out from behind the nearest bush, as though wherever Lucy Toomey went, Peter Swenson was sure to follow.
“I guess he’s fine. I haven’t heard anything to the contrary,” I said, moving past the question, ignoring the little flash of speculation I saw in Mrs. Lieshout’s eyes. “And my quilt is all finished. I’ve even started another! It’s red and white. I was inspired by some of the pictures in that book you suggested I check out. I don’t think I’ll be able to finish it before I go, but the FOA kind of gave me a nudge. The theory is that if I finish the top while I’m here, I can quilt it after I get to DC. We’ll see.”
“Sounds like a good
idea, a nice way to relax at the end of a long day. I know it’s selfish of me because you’re going to be doing such important work, but I do hate to see you leave Nilson’s Bay.” She sighed and then swallowed hard. For a moment, I thought she might actually tear up.
“Oh,” she said, waving her hand and forcing a smile, “I’m getting sentimental in my old age. Or maybe stuck in my ways. I just hate to see things change.”
There it was—my opening. I nodded understandingly.
“I know what you mean. Did you hear about the Save-A-Bunch?”
“What about it?”
“An investment company from out of state is buying it and planning to tear it down—the Herzog building, too—to make room for a bigger store, a supermarket. Of course, that store will have all kinds of amenities that we don’t have now. Takeout meals, an espresso bar. That sort of thing.” I gave a disinterested shrug. “I guess some people might like that, the tourists and such, but—”
“An espresso bar? What do we need that for? People have been getting their coffee at Dinah’s for years and nobody has complained yet. What will happen to her business if she has to start competing with the market?”
“Nothing good is my guess. I’m concerned that this expansion could hurt several of our small businesses and cost people their jobs. I heard they’re going to let go of at least half the clerks and replace them with those computerized checkout counters.”
“No,” said Mrs. Lieshout, her voice low and her tone scandalized. “That’s terrible. Have you ever used one of those things? They’re so confusing! If you want to buy produce or anything without a bar code, then you have to look up the codes yourself. It takes forever! And then that irritating computer voice keeps barking orders at you. ‘Remove items from the belt! The bagging area is full! Enter your rewards card! Take your change! ’ ” She shuddered.
“So dehumanizing. No conversation. No ‘How are you today, Mrs. Lieshout?’ Or ‘How are things down at the library?’ No civility. No pleasant exchanges about the weather or suggestions for how to cook that pork roast you just bought on special.”
The Second Sister Page 26
