The Friendship Star Quilt

by Patricia Kiyono

  The morning turned out to be surprisingly busy. Anne suspected the cold weather had made people think about indoor projects like quilting and needlework. Whatever the reason, business kept the two clerks hopping. Around ten o’clock, the UPS driver delivered several large cartons of holiday-printed yardage. Anne was relieved it had arrived on one of the days when she had help in the store. This way, Anne could leave Courtney to wait on their customers while she unpacked the new boxes and verified the style numbers on the bolts to both the enclosed packing list and her printed copy of the order. Later, she would log them into the store’s inventory.

  The task wasn’t as easy as it sounded. For example, the line on the packing list reading “XM TR GR SANT WHT” meant a bolt of white fabric printed with a whimsical Santa decorating a Christmas tree. Another one saying “MR EMB GLD NTY” referred to a bolt of maroon fabric with a silhouette of the Nativity embroidered on it in rich gold thread. As she shelved the bolts in the seasonal area, Anne’s mind whirled with ideas for displaying the holiday goods once the rest of the orders arrived.

  After lunch, Anne approached the cutting table where the part-time clerk gathered the bolts of fabric they’d cut for customers during the morning so she could restock them.

  “Courtney,” Anne began, “do you think you could watch the shop by yourself for a half hour while I take a quick lunch break? I’ll be here late tonight for the quilt group, so I want to run an errand while you’re here.”

  “No problem,” the young mother assured her. “I’ll be fine. I know Tuesdays are a long day for you, Anne. I just wish I could stay and help you while Myra is gone. But I promised Ted when I took this job I’d always be home when school gets out. We were both latchkey kids growing up, and neither of us wanted our children raised the same way.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. You’re here during the shop’s busiest times, and that’s what is most important,” Anne said as she retrieved the bag with Mario’s samples. Hurrying to the front door, she called over her shoulder, “I promise I’ll be back in less than an hour, so you’ll be home on time.”

  “Wait!” Courtney called. “You don’t need to rush off quite so fast. At least take a minute and get your jacket from the office. It’s gotten pretty cold outside.”

  “Good idea,” Anne agreed. As she backtracked to Myra’s office, she thought about her earlier visit from the Carmichaels. I sure hope it doesn’t snow before Thanksgiving and ruin Brad’s parade.

  ****

  The October day held a bite despite the beautiful blue sky and bright sunshine. Anne adjusted the collar of her fleece jacket to block the wind as she headed down the sidewalk toward Falcone’s. Several cars passed by on Wilson Avenue, but foot traffic between the shops was almost nonexistent, slow even for a weekday afternoon. She hoped Mario would be at his restaurant. She hadn’t thought to call ahead to check, and he might have left an employee to cover the place in the lull between the lunch and dinner hours.

  Reaching the restaurant, she peeked in the front window as she went past it toward the entrance. She spotted Mario inside, busily wiping down the tables. He glanced up as she opened the door.

  “Annie, buon giorno!” he welcomed, effusively. “You come to have the bite to eat with-a me this lovely afternoon?”

  Mario had been born and raised in Grandville and spoke perfectly unaccented English. Except when he worked in his restaurant. Anne suspected he did it to give the place a more Neapolitan atmosphere, but it wasn’t necessary. His delicious food already attracted standing room only dinner crowds most evenings. Still, the little show always amused her.

  “Good afternoon, Mario. I didn’t actually come here to–”

  A loud ding from the kitchen interrupted her explanation for the visit.

  “A momento.” Mario held up a finger for her to wait then dashed into the other room. He quickly returned, wiping his hands on his apron. “So sorry, Annie. I had to get the breadsticks from oven so they no burn.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt your work. I just stopped by to get the exact measurements for your curtains. And I brought some fabric samples to show you.”

  “Benisimo!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands with delight. “I make some room for you to work.”

  While he pushed aside a few tables to clear the space in front of the window, Anne pulled a retractable tape measure and a small pad and pen from her jacket pocket. She positioned a chair near the window then leaned on the back to remove her shoes.

  “No, no, no,” the restaurateur said, stopping her from climbing onto the chair seat. “There is no need for you to climb on a chair. Mario will help you get the measurements. You tell me what you need. I’m-a good at taking the orders.”

  Anne nodded and handed him the end of the tape. Directing him to hold it on the top edge of the window, she pulled the lower end down to the sill, holding it taut. She jotted the measurement on her pad then had him move to a spot midway down the side of the big window so they could get the width. With his help, the job went quickly, and they were soon able to move the tables and chairs back in their places.

  “Now, we look-a at the samples you bring,” Mario said and motioned her to the same table where they’d eaten the night before.

  She opened the bag with the fabric and took out the fabric swatches. Anne showed her friend the various gingham and calico patterns she’d found that morning at the store and explained she’d chosen them for their washability and sturdiness. He nodded politely, but she could see none of the samples particularly caught his fancy.

  “I saved the best for last,” she announced and reached into the bag for the piece of yellow fabric. Smiling, she spread it across the table top.

  “Mamma Mia!” Mario said, clapping his hands. “This one, she is perfect for in here. Such happy fellows!” He pointed at the shorter character then patted his own middle and laughed heartily. “I think this one is like Mario and likes to sample the pasta too much.”

  Anne chuckled and shook her head. Mario might be a good dozen years her senior, but he was still an attractive man, tall and dark-haired, with muscular forearms and a trim midsection. “You know that’s not true,” she chided. “You are built more like this other chef. Except you toss a pizza crust with far more panache.”

  “Ah, now you flatter me,” he told her, waving aside the compliment.

  “It isn’t flattery. Everyone in town loves to stop and watch you toss the dough. It’s amazing how you can make it so thin without breaking it. I thought of you as soon as I saw this fabric. I think it might make very cute curtains.”

  “I agree, cara. They would be perfetto. You can make for me?”

  “Well, I’ll have to check these measurements when I get to the shop and see if there’s enough left on the bolt. If not, I can order it from our supplier, but it might take a little longer to do.”

  “That is no problem. I can wait for these happy fellows for however long it takes,” he assured her. “Now, Mario will get you some pasta before you go back to the shop. S’okay?”

  “Mario, if you keep feeding me, I’m going to have a shape like this little guy,” she protested, tapping the chubby chef on the fabric sample.

  He shook his head. “No, you are still too much-a too thin. Besides, is your night for the quilt ladies, so you must eat.”

  “I planned to eat my leftover rigatoni from last night.”

  “Leftovers? Bah! I get you nice plate of-a fresh fettuccine,” he declared then disappeared into the kitchen before she could protest further.

  Chapter Nine

  That evening, the quilters surprised Anne when they arrived at The Stitching Post for their weekly meeting. Instead of just their usual loads of fabric totes and sewing machines, each woman also brought some type of a container—a covered plate, bowl or pan—which she carried to the back of the shop. Ellen and Sylvia, the first arrivals, covered two of the long work tables with white plastic tablecloths. They laid out paper plates, napkins, and cutlery on the one n
earest to the coffee station.

  “What’s the occasion?” Anne asked them. “Are you celebrating someone’s birthday?”

  “Not exactly,” Lila answered, coming up just then to add her contribution, a pan of decadent cookie bars, to the table. “We just decided to celebrate – uhm—the anniversary of our quilting group. And what better way to do it than with lots of food?”

  Ellen nodded and agreed. “Since some of the gals, like Tee and Kirstie, come here straight from work, they don’t have much time to stop and eat beforehand. We decided it might be fun to have a little potluck on our quilt nights. Our families always fend for themselves on Tuesdays, so we can just relax and eat together. I hope it’s all right with you?”

  “Oh, dear, I didn’t know,” Anne apologized. “I don’t have anything to share.”

  Lila gave her a motherly pat on the shoulder. “Don’t be silly, my dear. You always supply the place and the expertise. It’s more than enough.”

  “Not much of a contribution on my part since I have to be here anyway.”

  “Nonsense,” Sue argued, putting down a big salad bowl and a bottle of ranch dressing. “Without you, we’d never get half the things accomplished we do.”

  “That’s for sure,” Tee agreed. The busy realtor added a store-bought cheese ball and crackers to the growing banquet. “I checked with other shops before I started coming to The Stitching Post, Anne. Most places charge an hourly fee for the kind of assistance you give us. Yet, we come here every week, and you donate your time and help. It’s worth a lot to us. Besides, you furnish the coffee and tea we drink, too.”

  The others agreed. There was no time for argument as the rest of the women arrived, bringing more food. Soon, their makeshift buffet table nearly overflowed with the delicious assortment of salads, casseroles, and desserts. Everybody helped themselves to the spread then found seats around the other table to eat and visit.

  “You’ve got to try a bit of this taco salad, Anne,” Sue urged, passing the bowl to her. “It’s one of my kids’ favorites. They have me make it whenever their friends are visiting.”

  “And try this pizza casserole Kirstie made, too. I swear her sauce is nearly as good as Mario’s—but don’t tell him I said it, or he’ll be stingy with the breadsticks next time I go to Falcone’s for take out.”

  “Speaking of Mario…” Anne began.

  “Yes? Are you going to tell us he asked you out?” Sylvia jumped in. “I knew it. I told you last week I thought he was sweet on you.”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I don’t want to date anyone,” Anne protested. She looked around the table then ducked her head. “Mario hired me today to make new curtains for his restaurant.”

  “How wonderful,” Sylvia said, holding out a dessert plate with an enormous wedge of chocolate cake on it. “Tell us all about it while we celebrate with some of my cake.”

  “Oh my, I shouldn’t. I feel like I’m going to burst if I eat one more bite of anything.”

  “It’s Decadent Chocolate Cake,” Sylvia cajoled, waving the plate beneath Anne’s nose.

  Anne groaned and reached for the dessert. “I have absolutely no will power when it comes to chocolate.”

  “None of us do,” Tee agreed. The busy realtor poured herself a cup of coffee to go along with the rich dessert. “Anyone want a refill while I’m up?”

  Ellen held up her cup then turned back to Anne. “I tell my friends chocolate cravings are encoded in a woman’s genetic makeup.”

  The others laughed and agreed. Anne couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much to eat or laughed so hard. The women were so much fun. Even though she’d helped out during their Tuesday quilt nights for almost as long as she’d worked at the shop, she hadn’t ever considered herself a part of their group. They were customers, after all, and she was just a store employee. But tonight, the camaraderie wrapped her in a welcoming embrace.

  She’d never experienced anything like it. Her grandparents’ farm had been way out in the country, so there hadn’t been any other children nearby to befriend. When she married Jeffrey, he had kept her isolated and hadn’t allowed her to even visit with their neighbors. So, she’d never experienced the fun of a girlfriend lunch or sitting and just sharing stories. Now, eating and laughing with this congenial group filled the void. The women accepted her, and she felt as if they were more than just her customers. As she listened to them, she started to plan what she could contribute to the next week’s potluck. Maybe she’d bring her grandmother’s famous meatballs or a nice banana bread to go with their coffee.

  Eventually, the food was put away, and the women moved from the tables to the circle of comfortable chairs where they did their quilting. Anne put the extra paper plates and plastic silverware in a cupboard above the coffeepot then headed toward her usual chair by the cutting table, where she could give them their privacy but still be close enough to help if anyone needed her.

  “Anne, come and sit with us,” Tee invited, motioning to an empty seat beside her in the circle.

  “Yes,” Ellen agreed. “Come join us. I want to get your opinion about the fabric for my new project.”

  Join them?

  “I don’t want to intrude,” she protested.

  “Don’t be silly! You’re not intruding, you’re one of us,” Sylvia replied then gave her a wink. “Besides, you need to tell us all about you and Mario.”

  Anne laughed as she picked up her work tote and moved to the sitting area. “I hate to disappoint all of you, but there’s nothing to tell. I’m just making curtains for his restaurant.”

  “Are you going to work on them this evening, Anne?” Mary asked. The septuagenarian regarded Anne over the magnifier glasses she wore when she quilted.

  “Not tonight. I’m working on a quilt sample for the shop. And I have to make a sample flag for the high school marching band.”

  “Band?” Betty asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Might this have anything to do with the adorable little girl who was in the shop last week? Didn’t she say her dad was a band director?”

  “Jennie Carmichael.” Anne nodded. “Yes, it’s her dad.”

  “Brad Carmichael is quite a remarkable young man,” Lila said, joining the conversation. “The members of my church say he’s done wonders with the music programs at the high school and middle school. And, of course, he’s raised that lovely little girl all by himself since his wife’s death last year.”

  “He’s quite a hottie according to my daughter, Jessica, and her friends,” Audrey commented. “All I know is they’ve all taken a renewed interest in their music lessons the last couple of years.”

  “She’s not alone,” Sue said. “I understand the band has nearly doubled in size since he took over the music program. The kids all adore him… and not just the girls.”

  “Too bad his wife didn’t feel the same way,” Tee remarked, softly at Anne’s side.

  “What do you mean?” Doris asked.

  “Well…” The realtor hesitated then sighed. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but I used to see Mrs. Carmichael at the club where my girlfriends and I occasionally go dancing. We don’t get there often, but whenever we did, she was always there with a friend. A male friend. In fact, I saw her there the night she was killed. I was shocked when I saw her picture on the front page of The Press the morning after the crash.”

  “How awful,” Sylvia whispered.

  Tee nodded.

  The group fell silent digesting the information. Finally, Ellen voiced the question Anne was thinking. “Do you think her husband knew?”

  “Oh, I certainly hope not,” Lila declared with a sad shake of her carefully coifed head. “Losing a wife so young would be hard enough to handle. Suspecting she was unfaithful would make the tragedy ten times worse for him.”

  Anne had to agree. She’d rather think of Brad Carmichael as mourning the loss of a great love than someone dealing with what-could-I have-done-differently guilt. She didn’t want to ask herself why i
t mattered to her, so she opened her tote and took out the drawing she’d tucked inside it for safe keeping.

  “Is that the Rivertown logo?” Betty asked. When Anne nodded, the quilter leaned over to check the sketch. “The drawing underneath it looks sort of like an outline of a flying seahawk. I bet it would be simpler to make, and it’ll probably be more visible from farther away.”

  “That’s what I was hoping,” Anne replied. “Mr. Carmichael needs the flags for the band’s color guard right away. He hasn’t been able to find anyone to do it, so I agreed to take on the job.”

  “Bravo,” Ellen said. “Flags for the high school band, curtains for Falcone’s. You’re getting quite a little sewing business started for yourself, my dear.”

  “You sure are,” Lila agreed. “But we better watch out, girls. If this keeps up, Anne will soon be too busy to meet with us.”

  “Never,” Anne exclaimed. She looked around the group. “No matter what happens, I’ll never be too busy for my… friends.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Anne? What’s wrong? Has something happened at the shop?” The Stitching Post owner’s voice registered her alarm the next morning on the phone.

  “Relax, Myra,” Anne reassured her boss. “Nothing is wrong.”

  She twirled the telephone cord nervously around her index finger as she spoke. She’d arrived at the shop earlier than usual so she could call to tell Myra about the two freelance sewing jobs she’d been offered. The kind-hearted shop owner had been so good to her. Anne wanted to make sure the outside work wouldn’t cause any conflicts of interest. However, she hadn’t thought through exactly how she would broach the subject.