The Lover's Knot: A Someday Quilts Mystery

by Clare O'Donohue

  "My grandmother told me you have quite accomplished kids. Your son, plus a doctor, two lawyers, and an artist."

  "Sheila isn't a artist. She owns a kind of art gallery. She doesn't actually make the art herself." There was a vague disapproval in her voice, but it quickly softened. "She does have a good eye, though. She always finds something."

  "I wanted to be an artist when I was a kid. I used to love to paint. In fact, when I moved to New York I wanted to work in an art gallery, " I confessed. "Hanging out with artists all day seemed really fun. But I couldn't find a job, and I guess I sort of took a different road."

  "You have time to choose whatever road you like." She took a deep breath and changed the subject. "I wonder if Eleanor knows what she's doing. She takes people at their word, an admirable quality if she isn't being lied to."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That's it on the left," directed Maggie, and I pulled over to a pretty brick house with a well-tended garden.

  "Maggie, can you please tell me what you meant?" I asked again.

  "I didn't mean anything, except I think that Eleanor needs to be careful, and if she won't be careful, then you need to be careful for her."

  "Well, that certainly clears things up for me," I said as Maggie got out of the car.

  "You have her sarcasm," Maggie said. "Never cared for that in Eleanor." She started to frown, but instead she shook her head and smiled. "You really are like her."

  I laughed. "Is that a compliment?"

  Maggie laughed back. "Sometimes," she said, and headed toward her son's house.

  "I hear that you've been getting me out of trouble," my grandmother shouted to me as I walked in the house. "And getting yourself into it."

  I peered into the living room, but she wasn't there. I walked back to the kitchen. She was hobbling around on her crutches, making sandwiches.

  "What trouble am I in?" She pointed to my bandaged hand as she took a slice of bread from the loaf.

  "I can do that. You shouldn't even be out of bed." I took the bread out of her hand. "What trouble did I get you out of?"

  "At the shop. I guess Marc was a little enthusiastic. I hear you smoothed things over with the girls."

  "I did good?" I was not about to let a possible compliment go unnoticed.

  "No, you were just happy to see Marc, but you got me out of trouble anyway by putting off the renovation until Saturday. It gives everyone a chance to get used to it."

  For just an instant I felt the need to deny my interest in Marc, then I decided it was better to let the comment pass. My grandmother was right, and she knew it. There wasn't any point in trying to explain something I didn't even understand myself. "You kind of surprised me too, hiring Marc," I said as I cut a pat of butter.

  "You're doing it wrong." Eleanor had moved on to my sandwich-making skills.

  "How could I be doing it wrong?" I was spreading butter on bread, not exactly a skill requiring an advanced degree.

  "Less butter, and do both sides--it keeps the sandwich moister that way."

  "Have you ever stopped to consider that we simply have different, yet equal, sandwich-making techniques?"

  "Not really, no."

  I buttered both sides her way, put the turkey and tomato slices on the sandwich, and cut it on the diagonal, as instructed. Eleanor sniffed at it a bit, refused to say anything nice about it, but finished it in seconds.

  "I'm dying to hear what you and Marc have planned for the shop," I finally admitted.

  A glint came into her eye. "We'll cut a hole in the wall, make a doorway to the other side, and add shelves for more fabric." She started sketching on a napkin. "And here in the back we'll build an office where the kitchen was, and next to it there will be a small classroom."

  "Is Marc doing all this?"

  She made a face at me. "Don't get too attached."

  "I'm not attached. I just wonder if he's up to the task."

  "Well, when he called me he was so enthusiastic. He really wants the chance to prove his worth, and I like that. No one thought I could run a quilt shop, a widow with two small children and no experience running a business. But I did okay. Sometimes you have to give people a chance."

  "I don't think Maggie likes him. Or Natalie."

  "Well, they have their opinions." She turned back to the napkin and a subject she clearly preferred. "I want to put up a whole wall of quilting tools, but I can't decide where."

  "I have some ideas," I said. Eleanor smiled and handed me the pen, and together we arranged and rearranged the shop until every detail was worked out.

  "This is a great plan, but it's a little ambitious, especially for the crew you've got. Marc isn't a real contractor, Nancy's never run a business before and, let's face it, I don't know anything about any of it."

  "I'm not worried about any of you," she said, and then smiled. "Well, I'm not worried about Marc or Nancy. Your sandwich-making abilities are a little sad."

  CHAPTER 18

  Over the next several days I split my time between doing my grandmother's errands and being her spy at the shop. Nancy complained hourly about the noise Marc was making next door as he pulled old booths and kitchen equipment from the diner. For each regular who came by to express her excitement about the shop expansion, another would predict dire consequences--it was too much work for Eleanor, it would be difficult to make enough money to pay for expansion, it would ruin the coziness of the place.

  We closed the shop on Wednesday and I drove Eleanor over to sit in a corner and bark orders while Nancy and I did the inventory. Nancy spread boxes on the floor and began sorting the fabrics into categories from Christmas to children to plaids. When I incorrectly identified a fabric with ducks on it as children's, rather than Easter, I was taken off fabric duty. Instead Eleanor had me sort through the quilting tools. It was amazing to me that despite the seeming chaos, everything was catalogued and accounted for. When the inventory was done, there wasn't one missing pack of needles or thread color anywhere.

  "I'll make one more check downstairs," I said.

  "Be careful, Nell," Eleanor shouted after me. "I mean it."

  She didn't have to warn me. Not since I'd fallen down the stairs myself, not that Eleanor knew that. Nancy had done an amazing job of bringing all the boxes upstairs and the place was clean and empty. But when I peeked into the little office on the side, I found another story. Boxes were half-packed with old files and binders, and a large box in the corner was filled with cut-up pieces of fabrics and threads. It seemed like a job for Nancy, who would have a better idea which, if any, of this stuff was worth keeping.

  "We should start taking stuff to the car," I said as I came back upstairs.

  "Remember to put supplies for the quilt club in a separate box," Eleanor directed.

  "Like what kind of supplies?"

  Nancy handed me an empty box, then began pointing out a variety of rulers, rubber mats, and rotary cutters. "You'll also need a good pair of these," she said, and handed me heavy metal scissors.

  "Thanks," I said. "I can use these to cut some poster board and make a CLOSED FOR REMODELING sign."

  "No, you cannot," Eleanor snapped. "Cutting paper will dull those scissors, and fabric scissors need to be very, very sharp."

  "Sorry," I said, and placed the scissors at the top of the box. "I'll get the hang of all the quilting rules one of these days."

  Nancy and I took as many boxes out to Eleanor's car as could fit, and then filled up the back of her car. But the shop still had a dozen or more boxes left to go, as well as the quilts that hung on the back wall and the junk in the office.

  "I'll take a trip over to your place, Eleanor," Nancy said. "Then if you two set up the shop there, I'll come back for a second load."

  On the drive to her house, Eleanor hummed to herself cheerily.

  "What's up with you?" I finally asked.

  "I'm just amazed at how easy this has been so far," she said.

  "Of course it's easy," I said. "You'll b
e happy to be back running the shop, even if it is in your dining room. And Nancy will be happy to be working with you. And I can have some peace and quiet overseeing things at the shop."

  "You enjoy being right," she said dryly.

  "Wait--I'm right about something?" I laughed. "This has to be a first."

  "I'm just saying that it was a good idea to expand the shop, that's all. And I'm glad you'll be there to make sure it all turns out right." Her smile made me suspicious, but it left me no room to keep arguing. She was like that, innocence and manipulation with a smile, and I admired the hell out of it.

  At the request of all of the members of the Friday Night Quilt Club, my grandmother agreed to open the shop for one last meeting in the old space. We had done a pretty good job of pulling the place apart the last few days, and no one had bothered to sweep up. On Friday morning I walked over to make sure that the place would be clean and safe. One broken leg was all I could handle.

  As I got to the door I passed a flustered Carrie on her way out.

  She looked embarrassed to see me. "Forgot the shop was closed?" I asked her.

  "No, no, of course not. I just wanted to talk with Marc. See what kind of work he was doing."

  "Why?"

  "I wanted to see, that's all," she said defensively. "I was passing and I thought I'd stop in. I might open my own place one of these days. I miss being in business, you know."

  I nodded, but I didn't know. I'd never thought about owning my own business, or even running anyone else's. These last few days did have a certain element of fun to them, I had to admit, but I was riding this bike with my grandmother grasping the seat firmly. I had no interest in seeing if I could pedal all on my own.

  I wanted to ask her why, if she wanted her own business so much, she didn't just open one. But I realized I probably knew the answer. I'd been saying I wanted to be an artist since I was a kid, and so far I had nothing to show for it. So instead I said good-bye and watched Carrie walk down the street. She walked quickly, looking around to see who else she might run into, but when she disappeared around the corner, I opened the door to the shop.

  Inside the place was almost empty, aside from a few boxes Nancy hadn't been able to fit in her car. Marc was alone drawing an arch on the wall that divided the shop and diner.

  "Is that the opening? It seems small," I said.

  "In order to maintain the structural integrity of the place, I have to keep the arch pretty small, but it's big enough for two people to walk through." He grabbed me and we leaned up against the wall, both fitting into the space outlined for the arch. "See?" he said. I saw. "Maybe it's too much room. Maybe I should make it smaller." He pulled me closer. I couldn't tell if he was flirting with me because he liked me or making fun of me because maybe I liked him, so I just moved away to another section of the wall.

  "If you're not tearing the whole wall down, you'll need to take care of that." I pointed to a hole in the wall near the corner.

  "That mouse hole?"

  "If that's a mouse hole, then he has a glandular problem. I could put my fist in it."

  "I never saw it before." Marc leaned down to examine it.

  "It had shelves in front of it, and piles of fabric."

  "I'll fix it, boss," he said, smiling. He was excited to be there, I could tell. And maybe even excited to see me every day. Or maybe that was just my wishful thinking.

  "Why don't I get some coffee?" I suggested.

  "I could use the caffeine," he nodded.

  "Late night?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

  He blushed slightly. "I was up late, going over the plans for this place."

  "Oh, please. I've heard about your reputation."

  "I've heard it too. I wish I got laid as often as people say, but I actually I spent my night alone." He smiled briefly, then looked down. "I better get back to work."

  "I better get that coffee." I had to get out of there because I knew I was smiling and I couldn't stop. I was almost out the door when I heard a banging.

  "We're closed," I called back. There was a sign on the door that said CLOSED in big black letters, but some people must need more than that to take a hint. The banging started again.

  Prepared to be polite and firm to whatever fanatical quilter I would find on the other side of the door, I pulled it open. Ryan was standing there.

  "Hi," he said as he stood just outside the door. "Your grandmother said you were here." He looked toward Marc but didn't acknowledge him. Marc even waved hello but got no response. Ryan started to take a step inside with the same angry expression he'd had on the sidewalk in New York, but I put my hand on his stomach to stop him.

  "What do you want?"

  "I came to see you. I thought we could talk."

  I looked back at Marc, who was watching the scene with a big grin on his face. I wanted to stay and figure out what was so funny to him, but I knew it was better to get Ryan out of there. "Let's go for a walk," I said.

  "I'll start knocking down the wall," Marc called after me.

  "Tomorrow," I shouted back. "Tonight is the club and I don't want any plaster or nails falling on anyone's head. And don't get any dust on that pile of quilts by the cash register. Nancy will kill me if the quilts get dirty."

  "Whatever you want," Marc said. The grin even wider. Ryan moved toward him, but I pushed him out the door.

  "What are you doing?" I demanded.

  "What am I doing? What is it with you and that guy?"

  "That guy? The guy who is renovating my grandmother's shop?" Ryan wasn't even the jealous type, or hadn't been until he dumped me and Marc came along. Of course, until he broke off the engagement I had been one of those in-love saps who didn't notice any other men on the planet. But if I was noticing one now, it wasn't really any of Ryan's business. "I don't want to have this conversation standing on the street," I said.

  "So let's walk," he said as he took my hand. Since I had no choice, I followed as he led me down the street. We turned toward the river, walking two blocks to the edge of town. The river was looking gray and still, reflecting an unusually dark midmorning sky. It was about to storm. "How long have you known that guy?"

  "Oh my God, Ryan. I met him the day after you broke up with me. I told you already. He's my grandmother's handyman."

  "I don't like him. I don't think you should."

  I thought for a second, but only for a second. "Well, I do like him. He's nice. He's funny. He's really into old buildings and making furniture." Ryan rolled his eyes. "Okay, then. He hasn't hurt me, and I like that in a man."

  "Sleep with him, then," Ryan spat.

  "Maybe I will," I shouted. At that moment I would have slept with Marc just for the revenge.

  Ryan walked away from me, back in the direction we came from. The sky opened up and rain started falling on my head, but I couldn't move. What was I doing? I loved Ryan. I wanted to marry him, didn't I? Maybe he'd had a change of heart and I didn't give him the chance to tell me. Marc was a nice distraction, but was a flirtation with him really worth putting a future with Ryan in jeopardy?

  I headed up the street toward him. I would catch up and we would talk. I would listen, without being angry or hurt or defensive, and whatever he told me I could deal with. I hoped.