by Molly Macrae
“Good. That’s what it takes. Were you really looking for me earlier? You said you were going to ask me something.”
“When I put the program handbooks together, I saw that you’re talking about signature quilts.”
“Signature quilts and crazy quilts. We’re going to piece one that combines both forms, although I don’t know how far we’ll get in two weeks.”
“I’d love to sit in on the discussion, if you don’t mind,” Grace said. “Or if you have room for extra hands, I’d be happy to help with the quilting. I’ve done a few small pieces of my own. A table runner. A wall hanging. Nothing fancy. If nothing else, I can thread a needle.”
I laughed. “And that’s not always a given. Sure, if you have the time, TGIF will be happy to have you.”
“Teaching Eyeff?”
“Sorry,” I said. “TGIF—Thank Goodness It’s Fiber. It’s the needlework group that meets at the Weaver’s Cat. Some of the members are quilters, and they’re going to do most of the work with the students on the quilt. I’m just giving the kids some historical background on textiles.”
“Oh, right. ‘Just,’” Grace said. “Ruth told me about your textile and museum background. It’s very cool. She also told me that she asked you to apply for the assistant director job. She says you could’ve had it pretty much just by asking for it.”
“Ruth said that?” That didn’t sound like impeccable, professional Ruth. She had asked me to apply for the job when the funding came through. And maybe I could have had it without any fuss, if I’d said I wanted it. But why was Ruth discussing her personnel decisions, or mine, with a volunteer? But, then, where else would Grace have heard it?
“So, why didn’t you ask for the job?” Grace asked. She shook her head. Maybe in disbelief at my lack of drive or desire. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “You’re a heck of a lot more modest than Phil has ever been. As soon as he saw the position posted, he owned it. So what gives? I know you’re still dealing with fibers and textiles at the Weaver’s Cat, but they aren’t historic. They don’t have the stories. Have you really given up museums?”
She looked genuinely distraught at that idea. But there wasn’t time to tell the whole, long story of my professional fortunes—what I’d come to think of as my professional yarn—before we caught up to the tour. And I didn’t feel like justifying my decisions on such short acquaintance, anyway. Instead, I channeled my dear, late grandmother. She’d been a master of the subtle arts of deflection and misdirection.
“If you know about Phillip Bell’s lack of modesty,” I said, “does that mean you knew him before he came to work here? Where’d he come from, anyway?” Granny’s trick worked perfectly on Grace, and in a more interesting way than I’d expected.
“Phil?” she said. “Oh yeah. You could say I’ve been there and done that, too. He came here from West Virginia. He’s my ex-husband. Look, he just caught sight of me. Do you see the look on his face? Now watch this.” She waved her whole arm and called over to him, “Hey, honey! Hi! I’ve got a straggler for your tour.” She nudged me again with her elbow. “He hates that I’m volunteering here,” she said with a wicked chuckle. “See you later. Have fun.”
