“Bob. This isn’t a case of me avoiding a person I find difficult. If I propose the idea of the meeting, Ted is going to shoot it down. The call has to come from you. Please, you’ve got to trust me on this.”
Another brief silence. “All right. If you feel that strongly about it, I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
When I returned to the living room, Clementine was no longer sacked out on the couch. She was at the far end of the room with both big paws on the top of my desk and her jaws working, drool dripping from her muzzle, as she chewed something.
“No!” I shouted. “Not my quilt! Down, Clemmie! Down! Bad girl!”
Clementine, startled by the noise, spun around and immediately dropped to the floor, looking very guilty even while she continued chewing. I sprinted to the back of the room, hoping to pry her big jaws loose and rescue the quilt block, but saw that the whole stack of blocks was sitting untouched on the corner of the desk, right where I’d left them.
What was left of Waldo’s eulogy, the parts that Clementine hadn’t consumed, was lying on the floor, ripped to shreds and covered with dog spit. I crouched down on my haunches and held my hand under Clementine’s jowly jaws.
“Open,” I commanded. She complied, letting a big wad of paper pulp and dog drool drop into my palm.
“Thank you. I’m not going to say you’re a good girl because you really shouldn’t be on my desk for any reason. Never again, okay? But just this once, you may have had a pretty good idea.” Clementine’s ears twitched and she lowered her head onto her paws.
I looked heavenward. “Or somebody did. Either way, I get the message.”
39
Margot
The members of the Ladies in Waiting baby quilt class were right on time. That’s not to say that the class started on time, only that everybody was actually in the shop by ten o’clock. These women, except Philippa, are expecting, and half of them have other children at home—this baby will be Jessica Gunn’s fifth—so Virginia gives them a little extra time to get to class and get settled.
Colleen Murphy and Deb Funkhauser were the first to arrive, breaking into peals of laughter as they tried to come through the door together and ended up bumping bellies. Those two are so funny. They’re expecting their first babies, one boy and one girl, in the same week in May. They’d never met before this class, but now they’re practically joined at the hip, joking about how they’re going to have their children betrothed from birth, a sure way to guarantee they like their future in-laws.
When Natalie Sorenson came in, with the handle of a car seat that held seven-month-old Celia looped over her arm, carrying two diaper bags and a project bag over her right shoulder and one of those designer purses that look like something a Pony Express rider would sling over the back of a horse on her left, I ran over to help.
“Thanks,” she murmured gratefully as she took off a large pair of designer sunglasses and dumped her bags on a nearby table.
The purse, the glasses, and her cashmere sweater are remnants of Natalie’s life P.C.—Pre-Celia, as she calls it—when she was a buyer for a big department store. She had intended to go back to work when Celia was six months old, but this new little “surprise” changed her plans. She doesn’t seem bothered by the course correction, though I did hear her offer some advice to the other moms last week: “You know that old wives’ tale about how you can’t get pregnant when you’re breast-feeding? Don’t believe it.”
Summer Sharp, a freelance writer, who was five months along and mother to Roger, who just started preschool, was next, followed by Jane Weissman, six months pregnant with her first child, and Antoinette DeClerc, who had a twelve-year-old son, Randall, had recently remarried and was expecting a little girl in June. Jessica Gunn, as usual, brought up the rear.
“Jessica, you’re on time!” Virginia exclaimed.
“I know!” Jessica said, sounding as surprised by this development as Virginia was. “The twins are sick. I wasn’t going to come, but my mother-in-law came to the rescue. Being punctual is easy when you don’t have to wrestle two little tornados into their car seats.”
Jessica’s two oldest, Walt and Emerson, are in kindergarten and first grade, so they never come to class, but the twins, Brian and Michael, are just three. They’re cute little boys, but definitely a handful. Jessica doesn’t know the sex of this new baby, due in six weeks, but she’s hoping for a girl.
I bent down to unbuckle the baby from her car seat. “I guess it’s just you and me today, Celia.” I picked her up and settled her on my hip. She gave me a gummy grin, cooed, and started grabbing at my charm bracelet. “Maybe we can just stay down here this morning. You can help me fold fat quarters. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
Normally, I take the children upstairs to the workroom to play while the mommies take their class. It’s a nice break for the mothers and, I think, one of the reasons this class instantly fills whenever Virginia runs it.
“Do you mind, Natalie?”
Natalie, who was pulling fabric out of her project bag, shook her head. “Fine with me. The baby carrier is in the blue diaper bag if you want it. Then your hands will be free while you fold.”
Natalie has more and fancier baby equipment than any mother who’s ever taken this class. It seems like overkill sometimes, but the baby carrier did come in handy. Virginia helped buckle the safety belt around my waist while I slipped Celia into the carrier and put my arms through the straps. The baby faced me, her head crowned by a wispy halo of dark curls, riding close to my body, contented as a baby kangaroo in her mother’s pouch. Celia reached for my silver heart necklace and began happily chewing on it. I looked a question at Natalie, wondering if she thought this was a good idea, but she waved me off.
“It’s fine. It’s Tiffany, I can tell,” she said, as if all sanitary concerns were made moot by the reputation of the jeweler.
Celia continued gnawing on my necklace and I took a pile of fabric that Ivy had cut into fat quarters, those twenty-two-by-eighteen-inch rectangles that quilters collect by the boatload, and began folding them into tidy packets that would later be grouped into collections of complementary colors, tied with a ribbon, and displayed in baskets or stacked on shelves. Folding fat quarters is part of the job description of every Cobbled Court Quilts employee. They fly out the door so quickly we can barely keep up.
Telling the women to gather round and watch carefully, Virginia gave a brief demonstration on how to perfectly join the points on their blocks and then how to “spin” the center seam, carefully removing a couple of vertical stitches on the back of the block so it would press flat when finished. The ladies were absolutely silent as they watched Virginia work, grouped around her like chicks around a hen, their eyes bright with interest, craning their necks to get a better view.
Though Virginia is the first person to remind people that quilting is supposed to be fun, when she is teaching, she’s all business. She expects her students to pay attention and stay on task, but she also cares deeply about them, and they know that. This is the third time we’ve run this class. In each of the previous sessions, at least one of the mothers decided to name her baby Virginia. I bet the same thing will happen this time.
Sometimes I like to think of myself being as old as Virginia is now, still working in the quilt shop and meeting all kinds of Virginias whose mothers named them after their old quilting teacher and who grew up to be quilters themselves. Wouldn’t that be a fine legacy to leave?
When she was done, Virginia carried her work to the ironing board, her pupils trailing behind, gave the block a quick press, and held it aloft. “See? Flat as a Kansas prairie. Remember what I said about taking out those vertical stitches. Remove two. No more, no less.” Virginia squinted through her thick glasses and stuck out her index finger, pointing at the circle of attentive faces. “The only bumps I want to see in this room today are baby bumps. Understand?”
The ladies nodded.
“Good. Well, g
o on,” she said, shooing them back to the table. “I’ll come around and check on you in a little while. Summer, come with me and I’ll help you pick out a border fabric.”
With the demonstration complete, the students returned to quilting—and talking. Quilters are fairly social animals, but our mothers’ groups are more social than most. Jessica, who was still unpacking her project bag, lifted her head and looked around the room, suddenly realizing that there was one empty spot at the table. “Where’s Philippa?”
“Preaching at a funeral,” I answered. “Waldo Smitherton died.”
“I heard about that,” Natalie said, pausing for a moment while she threaded her needle. “He had pneumonia last month and recovered, but it damaged his heart. He was almost ninety-seven and still sharp as a tack. Isn’t that amazing?” she asked, then continued without waiting for a response. “He left the church a hundred thousand dollars in his will.”
“Seventy-five,” I said without thinking, then pressed my lips together. I shouldn’t be talking about the bequest with anyone not on the board. Ted asked us not to. Not that there seemed to be much point in trying to keep the secret. Natalie knew everything, and she doesn’t even go to our church.
“Seventy-five,” Natalie said, correcting herself. “I heard there’s a big disagreement about how the money should be spent.”
I knew I should stay out of this conversation, but I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing while Natalie stirred up rumors. “Not really,” I said, tying a length of blue ribbon around a stack of green fat quarters. “It just hasn’t been decided yet. I only found out about Waldo’s will yesterday, and I’m on the board. How did you hear about this so quickly, Natalie?”
She shrugged, stopping a moment to examine the seam she was stitching. “Oh, well, people talk. You know.”
People do talk; Natalie certainly did.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Smitherton,” Jessica said. “Sylvia was my fourth-grade teacher. She used to teach us geography by telling all about her parents’ travels. Every year, Mr. and Mrs. Smitherton would fly off to some exotic location and send postcards to the fourth grade. We’d pin the postcards on a big world map and when they got back the Smithertons would visit the class and show slides from all the places they’d been. The year my brother was a fourth grader it was Japan. The Smithertons brought everybody a pair of chopsticks and a box of those sticky candies wrapped in clear rice paper that melts when you put them in your mouth. In my year it was India and Nepal. The Smithertons brought us bottles of Fanta orange—they said everybody in India drank it—and tiny animals carved out of sandalwood. Mine was an elephant. I think I still have it somewhere.”
Jessica picked up a pair of scissors and trimmed a seam, frowning. “I wish I’d known about the funeral,” she said. “I’ll have to send a card to Sylvia. And maybe make a contribution or something. Is there a memorial fund?” she asked, looking in my direction.
“Yes, to benefit paralyzed veterans. I was planning on making a donation myself.” Like Jessica, I would have liked to attend the funeral, but I’d already missed so much work since Olivia’s illness that I wouldn’t have felt right about asking for the morning off. “Philippa has the details. You can call the church later and ask.”
Colleen, who was sticking her tongue out the side of her mouth as she searched for the right place to join her points, pierced her needle through the fabric layers and said, “Philippa will be back next week, won’t she? It’s our last class.”
“I think so. Barring any unforeseen emergencies.”
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, pulling her needle and thread through the other side of the block, “I’ve really gotten to like her. It was weird at first, having a minister in the class, especially since she wasn’t pregnant.”
“This was the only beginners’ class that would work with her schedule,” I said.
“Maybe,” Colleen said. “But I don’t think that’s all there was to it. The way she’s always asking questions about our pregnancies and our kids, it’s obvious she wants some of her own. So sad that she never will.”
Antoinette, who was still cutting out the pieces for her quilt block, put down her scissors and frowned. “Why do you say that? Because of her age? I’m forty-four, and I didn’t need fertility treatments or anything. Ray and I just did what comes naturally and—voilà!” She put both hands on her swollen belly and smiled.
“True,” Colleen said in a conciliatory voice, “but most women over forty do have a harder time getting pregnant. At least it takes longer. And you’ve got Ray. Philippa’s not married.”
Natalie, a knowing expression on her face, said, “Well, I think she has something else in mind. Word around town is that she and Paul Collier have been seeing a lot of each other and that their favorite rendezvous spot is the back booth at the Blue Bean.”
Heads that had been bent over their sewing popped up to look at Natalie, who was looking very pleased with herself. A murmur of interest went through the room. The back booth? Everyone knew what that meant.
I turned my back, but couldn’t stop from rolling my eyes. This was obviously the same rumor that Wendy Perkins had been spreading around, and now Natalie was going to spread it even farther.
“Really?” Colleen asked, in a shocked but clearly intrigued tone. “The minister and Paul Collier? You don’t really think …”
“No,” Natalie said. “Not that. Well … probably not. You never know. But more likely Philippa is hoping to get a proposal before her time is up in New Bern, followed quickly by a wedding and baby. Think about it,” she said, spreading her hands in a gesture that dared anyone to defy the logic of her argument. “It all adds up. Why else would an unmarried, un-pregnant minister join a class for expectant mothers? Because she’s hoping to join the club before long and wants to pick up a few pointers.”
The women were quiet for a moment, considering Natalie’s theory. Natalie sounded convinced and, I hated to admit, convincing. I don’t like gossip, but as I thought things over, her explanation seemed … plausible.
I tossed the folded and beribboned fat quarter collections in a display basket and quietly began piling up the remaining fabric.
“Or,” Jessica said slowly, raising her eyebrows and drawing out the word, “maybe she joined the class hoping that all this obvious fertility would kind of rub off on her. If so, she really ought to sit next to me. I can use Gary’s toothbrush and end up pregnant.”
The women chuckled. Jessica looked down at the mound of her stomach and shook her head. “If this is another boy, I swear I’m going to give up brushing my teeth permanently.”
“That’d work,” Antoinette said. “It’d sure keep Gary out of striking distance.”
The chuckles gave way to laughter and noisy hooting, so noisy that I was nearly at the stairs before anyone noticed I’d picked up my pile of unfolded fabric and walked away.
Natalie called across the room. “Hey, where are you going? We didn’t say anything to offend you, did we?”
“No, no,” I said, glancing down at the curly head below mine, lolling to the left, eyes closed, with my necklace still clutched in her chubby fingers. “I don’t want to wake Celia. I’ll go finish in the workroom, where it’s quieter. I’ve got a lot to do.”
And I wanted to do it far from the chatter of female gossip.
40
Philippa
Cynthia Smitherton Reese, the oldest of the four sisters, and the largest, wrapped her arms around me and gave me a huge, breath-stopping hug.
“It was a beautiful service. I am … we’re all so touched that so many people came to Dad’s funeral,” she said when she released me, smiling through a film of tears and looking around the fellowship hall, which was filled with people for the post-funeral luncheon. Every seat at every table was filled with people who were talking and smiling, sometimes laughing, telling and retelling Waldo stories.
“It’s such a comfort to know that so many others cared about
him like we did, but your sermon …” She made a single “tsk” noise, sighed and, still smiling, slowly shook her head, as if she simply couldn’t find words.
“It was lovely,” Sylvia said, filling in the gap for her sister. “Really lovely. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, Reverend, but I was a little disappointed when I realized that you’d be conducting the service instead of Reverend Tucker.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Reverend Tucker knew your dad so well.”
“True. But I don’t think he could have done it any better than you did. It was obvious that you really spent time with Dad,” Cynthia said. “You know, younger people often don’t bother getting to know older people. It’s as if, once you hit retirement age, they think you no longer have anything interesting to offer. Once I retired from the station, people I met would barely talk to me, and when they did it was only to ask how many grandchildren I had.” She puffed indignantly.
“I love my grandchildren as much as the next person, but for heaven’s sake, that’s not all there is to me! But suddenly people started to look right through me, as if I couldn’t possibly have any opinions. I produced the news at channel eight for twenty-three years! Opinions were my business! And I’ll tell you something else …”
Rose, the next oldest of the sisters, a retired children’s librarian who was the polar opposite of her elder sibling, as petite as Cynthia was full-figured and as soft-spoken as Cynthia was opinionated, grabbed her sister’s hand. “I think what Cynthia was meaning to say is that we really appreciate the time you spent with Dad.”
“It was my pleasure. He truly was one of the most interesting men I’ve ever met.”
“You captured him to a tee,” said Gloria, the third sister, a handsome and stylish woman who owned a jewelry store and wore a stunning sapphire brooch that advertised the fact. “I know that he left you that big file with all his clippings and such for you to work with, but you really captured the essence of his personality and his faith.” Gloria wiped away a tear.
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