“Do you want a quilt?” Lauren asked without preamble.
“I feel as though I’ve already taken my share,” Duane said politely. “Let’s see that the others’ needs are met before I take anything else.”
“I think we have plenty,” Lauren protested.
“We’ll check with the others,” Harriet said and led her back to the trail.
“I’m just doing our job,” Lauren hissed. “Isn’t that why we’re here? To give out quilts?”
“Yes, that’s why we’re here, but let’s allow the man his dignity. When we’re finished with the rest of the camp, we can give him one, or if we run out, we can bring one back later.”
“Whatever.”
Connie and Joyce came out of Duane’s area, and Joyce took them to a fork in the trail then down the right-hand pathway.
“Brandy lives here,” she said as she held a branch aside, pointing them into the smallest clear area yet.
The brush was thicker here, letting in little light; it took a moment for Harriet’s eyes to adjust. She finally saw Brandy, asleep or unconscious on a muddy sleeping bag, a moth-eaten gray wool blanket draped over her shoulders. Her dark hair would probably have been shoulder-length if it hadn’t been so tangled and matted.
“Now, she looks like a homeless person,” Lauren whispered to Harriet as they stepped aside to let Connie and Robin in.
“I’m not sure how much help Brandy will accept,” Joyce said. “She’s one of the more troubled members of our community.”
“Maybe we could string up a tarp over her spot while she sleeps,” Connie suggested.
Lauren tapped Harriet’s foot with hers. When Harriet glanced her way, she was staring at the base of a small fir tree to Harriet’s left. Harriet casually looked where Lauren indicated and saw a pile of empty whiskey bottles.
“I don’t think she’s waking up anytime soon,” Lauren said in a stage whisper audible to all.
“We generally don’t let people stay here if they use drugs or alcohol,” Joyce said, “but Brandy has mental problems, and so far no one has been able to convince her to go to the clinic and get help. The rest of us agreed it was in our best interest to let her go on self-medicating for the near term. We’re hoping we can get through to her, but I’m not sure how that’s going to happen.”
“Is she from around here?” Robin asked.
“She doesn’t communicate well. We’re not even sure Brandy is her name. Another woman and I found her passed out in the park bathroom this summer. All she would say for the first few weeks was ‘brandy.’ We couldn’t tell if she was identifying herself or asking for her favorite drink, but she answers to it, so that’s what we call her.”
“That’s great,” Lauren said. “Can we get going with her shelter? It’s wet out here.”
“Please pardon our friend’s lack of sensitivity,” Connie said.
“She’s right.” Joyce gave a wry smile. “It is wet out here.”
Harriet uncoiled another package of clothesline and handed one end to Lauren. She pushed through the brush to the trunk of one of the taller trees, tying the other end securely. Lauren did the same and Robin and Connie quickly draped the last tarp over the line.
“Let’s tie the back closer to the ground,” Joyce directed. “I think a lean-to would serve her best.”
Harriet and Lauren did as instructed, and within a few minutes had fashioned a secure shelter that would go a long way toward keeping the rain off Brandy. Connie and Robin put two flannel quilts over the sleeping woman.
“I wish we could do more.” Connie sighed then turned and went back onto the main trail. “We have a few more quilts in the car,” she said when they were all together again.
“We have a new man who might like a quilt,” Joyce told them. “He has a small tent he brought with him. He said he managed to sneak it out of his house and hide it in the park the week before he was evicted.”
“Is he from here?” Connie asked. Harriet knew she was probably thinking about the programs the local churches had to provide transitional housing for people in that type of situation.
“We don’t ask those sorts of questions when people join our community. If a person wants to share they do. If not, then we leave it at that.”
“And did he?” Lauren asked.
Joyce gave her a long look before speaking.
“He didn’t, other than what I’ve just told you. He was evicted, and he was able to hide some stuff in the park. He didn’t say if the park was near his home or miles away.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Lauren said. “You just let any old person live here?”
“Well, we call the park ranger if someone camps here and is doing drugs or drinking to the point of being disruptive to others. Beyond that, it’s federal property that backs up to a city park. No one person has any more right to it than another.”
“Sounds dangerous, if you ask me.” Lauren said.
“Well, the world is a dangerous place,” Joyce replied.
“Let’s go get those last quilts, shall we?” Harriet said and steered Lauren back toward the parking lot.
“I can’t believe they don’t have any vetting process to check people out before they let them move in,” Lauren said when she and Harriet were out of earshot of the others.
“What, exactly, would you have them do? Plug their laptop into a currant bush?”
“Ha. Ha. You’re such a wit. But really, this new guy could be anybody. Haven’t you been reading the news about the serial killer who has been dumping bodies along the interstate?”
“I have seen an article or two,” Harriet said. “But the ones I read said they think the killer is a truck driver, not a newly evicted homeless man.”
“Well, the killer isn’t going to go around with a sign saying ‘I’m a truck-driving killer.’ He probably masquerades as something completely different—like maybe a homeless guy.”
“So, he has a truck parked somewhere nearby and goes on periodic road trips?”
“I don’t know. Do I have to think of everything? I’m just saying you can’t be too careful these days.”
“I suppose. I have to say, what we’ve seen of the homeless camp so far is nothing like what I was expecting.”
They reached Harriet’s car, and Lauren flipped the hood to her jacket down, shaking her long blonde hair.
“I hate hoods,” she muttered.
“You picked the wrong place to live if that’s your problem,” Harriet said and handed her two folded quilts.
“Who said I had a choice?” Lauren shot back.
A black Ford Explorer pulled up beside Harriet’s car and parked, ending the discussion before she could grill Lauren about what she meant. The passenger side window slid down.
“Hey,” called a male voice.
Harriet bent to look into the car.
“Tom!” she said as she recognized Tom Bainbridge, who she’d met the previous spring when she and the other Loose Threads had attended a folk art school in Angel Harbor owned by his mother. “What brings you to town?”
“And here, of all places,” Lauren added.
“I’m working,” he said with a smile. “What are you two doing out here in the rain? It’s not really picnic weather.”
“We’re being do-gooders,” Lauren said.
“What Lauren means is we’re delivering some quilts and waterproof tarps we made to the homeless people who live in the forest behind Fogg Park.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” Tom said and got out of his car. “I’m here to interview the homeless residents for my new project. If everything works out, some if not all of them will be living in new housing by this time next year.”
“Where?” Harriet asked and picked up an armload of quilts.
“Who’s paying for it?” Lauren asked at the same time.
“A redevelopment group wants to build some multi-use apartments a couple of blocks from the docks. They’re still looking at sites, but the city has stipula
ted that some of the apartments be set aside for qualifying homeless people.”
“Qualifying?” Harriet said.
“Believe it or not, there are people of means who live without a permanent residence. Sometimes it’s just a minimal pension, but it’s enough that they could rent a room in low-income housing if they wanted to. Turns out they’d rather live outside in the park than in a room with cardboard walls and gun-toting, drug-using neighbors.”
“I can’t say I blame them,” Harriet said.
“Me, either,” Tom agreed. “Towns like Foggy Point are trying to provide another alternative. This proposed project will have space for homeless vets, very-low-income homeless and then lower-income and so on, up to and including luxury penthouse suites.”
“Sounds like some kind of utopian sci-fi mumbo-jumbo,” Lauren said. “I suppose they’re solar powered and reuse gray water, too.”
“Yes, they’ll be green buildings, if that’s what you’re trying to say.” Tom smiled at Harriet.
“Let’s get these back to the camp,” she said and turned back toward the park with her armload of quilts.
“Can I carry anything?” Tom asked.
Lauren paused as if she were going to hand off her quilts but then looked at Harriet and changed her mind.
“No, we’re good,” she said.
Robin and Connie were standing in the main clearing beside Joyce and a man who had to be the new resident she’d told them about. He was older, maybe mid-sixties, and was dressed in foul-weather hiking clothes, Danner boots, brand-name Gore-Tex jacket, and moleskin cargo pants. His tan was more Club Med than Fogg Park.
“Hi,” Joyce said when the trio reached them. “This is Ronald, the gentleman I was telling you about—the one with a tent. I think he could use one of your blankets.”
Lauren glared and clutched her quilts a little tighter. Harriet handed one to him.
“Nice to meet you,” Harriet said. “Enjoy your quilt.”
“I’m Tom Bainbridge,” Tom said and held his hand out to Joyce then Ronald. “I’m the architect hired to design a proposed housing project designed to provide alternatives to living in the park.”
“I like the sound of that,” Ronald said. “How can we help you?”
“I’d like to talk about space requirements. For instance, would people prefer studio-style apartments or small but separate rooms? And how about kitchen size? Is an under-counter refrigerator adequate, or do people need full-size? I guess I’m asking how much cooking do you envision doing? Will people live alone or with roommates?”
“Being indoors with a roof over our heads will be such a big step up I’m not sure the rest matters,” Joyce said.
“I’m sure that’s true initially,” Tom said, “but I’d like to build apartments people will stay in. I’d like people to be comfortable once they get beyond being warm and dry.”
Joyce looked him up and down without saying anything.
Duane came into the clearing from the trail and introduced himself.
“I heard you say you wanted to talk to people about the housing you’re going to design.”
“That’s right,” Tom said.
“A number of our group are at the Methodist church warming room waiting for lunch, and a couple more are at Annie’s, the coffee shop downtown. You can probably still catch them there if you hurry,” Duane said.
“You might be a bit more comfortable, too,” Joyce added. Rain dripped off her nose, chin and eyelashes.
Tom looked around.
“Okay, maybe you’re right,” he said. He looked at Harriet. “Want to meet for coffee later?”
“Sure, when?”
They agreed to give him an hour to talk to the people at the church and another half-hour to talk to the coffee shop crowd. Harriet suggested they meet at The Steaming Cup, Foggy Point’s other popular coffee shop, and he agreed.
“Well, aren’t you two just cozy,” Lauren said when Tom was out of earshot.
“We’re friends, Lauren. Don’t you have any male friends?”
“Yes, and they don’t look at me the way he looks at you.” She held her hands up in front of her. “Okay, fine. None of my business.”
“Can we leave quilts here for the people who are in town?” Connie asked.
“That would be nice, and we’d take an extra one, if you can spare it,” Joyce said, looking at the full armloads of quilts. “We like to keep a few extra supplies on hand for new people. There is no typical situation when someone becomes homeless, but not many are able to bring as much from their old life as Ronald here did.”
“I’ve always been a planner,” Ronald said. Harriet couldn’t tell if he was blushing, his face was so red from the cold, wet rain, but he looked embarrassed. “This was my fallback to the fallback plan.” He shook his head. “I just never imagined my family would turn me away when I lost my house.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t tell them you’d be homeless, did you?” Joyce said. She turned to the Loose Threads. “People who end up here often are turned away by family who don’t realize how dire the circumstances are, and people like Ronald here are too proud to tell them the real situation.”
“I won’t beg,” Ronald said. “My daughter was right—they have a full house with two kids and another on the way, and her husband’s mother is already staying with them. She said I was always too busy with work to spend the time with her and her brother when they needed me, so how can I expect to come crying to them now that I’m the one who needs help.
“You know what? She’s right. I wasn’t father of the year. I can’t go back and change that, but I can avoid causing them any more pain.”
“Hopefully, that bed will be a bit more comfortable now that you have one of our nice warm quilts,” Connie said.
“And I do thank you for that,” Ronald said with a theatrical bow. “I see this as a temporary setback. I just need to find a job and start over.” His eyes filled with tears.
“We all appreciate the quilts and tarps,” Joyce said. “Let’s get the rest of them in something waterproof before they’re soaked through.”
Lauren and Harriet handed off the quilts after showing Joyce the quillow feature. Connie helped her load them into two wrinkled black plastic garbage bags she’d pulled from under the large table.
The wind lashed the Loose Threads as they walked back to the parking lot.
“Anyone want to join Tom and me for coffee in an hour?” Harriet asked.
“Connie and I were going to swing by the church and see how Mavis and your aunt are doing. If we have time after that, maybe,” Robin said and looked at Connie for agreement.
“We’ll see after we check in at the church,” Connie said.
“As much as I’d love to ruin your date with Tom, I’ve got to go see if anything’s up with my client,” Lauren said with a wicked smile.
Harriet could feel her face redden.
“Ciao,” Lauren said and headed for her car before Harriet could think of an appropriate comeback.
Inside her car, Harriet looked at the clock then drove out of Fogg Park. She could go home and start sewing another rag quilt, but she drove past her turn and headed into downtown instead.
Chapter 3
There were no customers in Pins and Needles, Foggy Point's best—and only—quilt store when Harriet came through the door.
“How’s it going?” she called as she spotted Marjory replacing a bolt of green holly print fabric to a shelf in the middle of the store. A wire stretched the length of the store with placemats, table runners, Christmas tree skirts and other small quilting projects in Christmas colors attached to it with clothespins.
“It’s rough,” Marjory said. “Customers aren’t coming in because of the storm. Meanwhile, the same storm is not stopping my family from paying me an unplanned and, I might add, uninvited visit.”
“Why are they coming?” Harriet asked. “I can’t believe anyone would go out in this storm unless there was no choice.”
> “I tried to tell them. I told my sister Pat they could get stuck here if we have a slide or if a tree goes down in the wrong place. They’re supposed to get here tomorrow.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Not if you know my sister and her money-grubbing husband. Can you stay for a cup of tea?”
“Sure,” Harriet said.
Clearly there was more to this story, and she wouldn’t miss it for anything.
Marjory led her to the store kitchen adjacent to the classrooms at the back of the building. She filled the electric teakettle and plugged it in. Harriet pulled two mugs from a shelf and put tea bags in them.
“Remember how my mom died a couple of months ago?” Marjory asked.
“Of course.” Harriet knew Marjory had been close to her mother.
“Well, my sister and her family were nowhere to be found while my mom was sick. There was always some excuse why she and her husband and daughter couldn’t come. Meanwhile, my bunch came every week and did chores, read to her, listened to her stories and held her hand to the end.”
“And now?” Harriet prompted.
“Mom made me executor of her estate. She didn’t want to leave Pat anything. Years ago, Mom paid the down payment on a house they couldn’t have afforded otherwise, and they didn’t even say a simple thank-you.
“I convinced Mom that if she left them nothing, it would be miserable for me, so she agreed to leave them a little. My parents weren’t rich or anything, but they both had worked all their lives. They owned their house and a couple of rentals. Their cars were paid off. They had some retirement money saved.”
“I’m guessing your sister wasn’t happy with what your mom decided.”
“You could say that,” Marjorie said. “They figured they should get the whole estate, because they need it and I don’t.”
“Your sister said that to your face?”
“Yes, she did. She said I was doing fine with my shop, as near as she could tell, so why did I need more money? She said they had debts and had to have the money.”
“You didn’t tell her you’d give it to her, did you?”
The Quilt Before the Storm Page 3
