The Friendship Star Quilt

by Patricia Kiyono

  When he finally released her, he leaned down grinned. “Now that we’ve shocked half of Grandville and most of Jenison, what do you say we reclaim Jennie and go have some pizza?”

  Chapter Thirty

  January delivered a spate of weekend storms to the area, disappointing the school children, who’d wanted the heavy snows during the week so school would close. However, it thrilled the winter resort owners and sports enthusiasts. Skiers and snowboarders flocked to the Cannonsburg ski area just north of Grand Rapids, and skaters crowded the outdoor ice rink at Rosa Park Circle downtown.

  The cold weather brought customers to The Stitching Post, too, since the chilly evenings and weekends inspired them to start on new quilting projects. Anne glanced around with satisfaction. She’d replaced the shop’s winter holiday displays with tempting spring-themed samples—colorful wall hangings and cheery decorative ideas for Valentines, St. Patrick’s Day, and Easter—to tempt her customers to brighten their homes after they’d packed away the Christmas decorations. She had hoped to add the Friendship Star quilt to the hanging samples, but business kept her hopping most days so she seldom had time to work on it.

  If the weather had been warmer, Anne might have taken the quilt home and sewn on it there. But the thought of hauling the heavy tote across the back parking lot then down the street to her apartment dissuaded her. It was too awkward trying to haul bulky items up the icy steps to her apartment. Even though she religiously salted the wooden steps and kept the snow swept off them, they still were a winter hazard. Anne clung to the railings every time she traversed them and worried about Brad and Jennie’s safety whenever they stopped by for a visit in the evenings.

  Anne certainly wished she were half as sure-footed as the unseen feline who continued to leave bloody presents for her most days. She had no idea why the cat had chosen her for this dubious honor since, unlike Helyn, Anne had never fed strays or left food or water outside. She’d expected the “gifts” to stop once Helyn returned from visiting her family. However, her landlady had been home almost two weeks now, but the grisly offerings continued. In fact, the size of the victims had grown from the tiny sparrows to bigger prey like cardinals and jays. The night before, there had been a mutilated squirrel waiting for her.

  Now, thinking of what she might find waiting on her porch, she pulled several plastic shopping bags from the roll hanging below the cash register and tucked them in her jacket pocket since she’d used up the last of her grocery bags last night. Anne wished she could find the feline responsible. She had checked the surrounding businesses during the day over the weekend, searching for any sign of the stray but had been unable to find the culprit. Animal control might have had better luck, but Anne hated to call them and have her name and address in a public complaint file. Instead, she continued to clean up and dispose of the carcasses. As she’d told Brad, she’d been raised on a farm and had seen much worse.

  But to be honest, it was starting to get creepy.

  Shrugging away the thought, she tucked the shop’s deposit bag inside her downy jacket—her most recent Goodwill purchase. The garment had a deep, zippered pocket in its lining—probably meant to hold a wallet—which proved the perfect size for the deposit bag. Anne felt more secure on her nightly walks to the bank with the bag tucked out of sight. The reassuring weight of Brad’s phone in her side pocket helped, too. It was nice to know he or the Grandville police were only a speed dial away if she needed them.

  Still, the walk made her edgy. A woman alone was easy prey, so she’d switched up her route over the winter. Some days, she went out the front door to the bank. Other times, she’d go out through the rear and travel along the sidewalks of the street behind the shop. Still others, she’d cut through the lighted lots of the adjoining businesses until she reached the corner then she’d cross the street toward Falcone’s and continue to the bank from there. Tonight, she flipped off the store lights and headed for the rear door, intending to take one of the back routes.

  After making sure the dead bolt had fastened securely behind her, she arranged her keys between her gloved fingers and scanned her surroundings. The motion light had kicked on the minute she’d opened the door, but the lot seemed darker than usual. There were deep shadows in some parts, especially around the dumpster. She glanced up at the fixture, mounted above the back door, and saw one of the bulbs had burned out. She made a mental note to call someone the next day to replace it then hurried on her way.

  The night was crisp and snow crunched underfoot, packing down as she walked. She remembered how her grandparents always bickered over the sound. Grandpa said the crunch was a sign they’d get more snow by morning while Grams claimed it meant colder weather coming. Most times, they were both right, and morning arrived with both frigid temperatures and more snow.

  If we get snow tonight, the slopes at Charlie’s Dump will probably be packed tomorrow, Anne thought as she approached the cross street. Deciding to turn there and swing past Falcone’s, she paused at the curb to check for traffic.

  The sound of a footstep crunching behind her caused the hair to rise on the back of her neck. Her left hand slipped into her pocket and closed around her phone as she spun around. With her keys studding her clenched fist like miniatures blades, she raised her right arm in a defensive stance, but the sidewalk behind her was empty. A quick glance in all directions showed no threats in any of the surrounding lots or in the yards across the road either. Nothing moved in the still night except a few dry twigs in the bushes nearby.

  “Ninja Quilter,” she muttered as she lowered her arm and crossed the street. She scolded herself for overreacting but couldn’t quite shake the lingering feeling of someone back there, watching her.

  She’d definitely be very glad when Myra returned from Florida and could take over this task.

  Hurrying past the brightly lit windows of Falcone’s, she hesitated for a minute. Maybe she should go inside and have a cup of coffee. If she stayed and chatted with Mario and Gina, maybe whoever was following her—if anyone actually was following—would give up and leave. The “if” decided her. She’d behaved like a fool, panicking when she couldn’t even convince herself someone was there.

  You’ll feel better once you make the deposit. Then you can stop for a nice frothy cup of cappuccino on your way back, she told herself.

  With her shoulders squared, Anne marched past the restaurant to Myra’s bank in the next block. Standing in front of the night depository, she tucked her keys into her pocket than unzipped her jacket and reached for the bank bag. With her hand inside her jacket, she felt the odd tingling at the back of her neck again. Someone was watching her. She froze, trying to decide if she should scream, run, or confront whoever it was.

  “Buona sera, cara.”

  Startled, Anne spun on her heel and found Mario standing close behind her, a deposit pouch in his hand.

  He reached out his free hand to her, worry etching his features. “What’s the matter, Anne?” he asked with all traces of his accent gone.

  She swallowed past her lump of fear. Surely Mario couldn’t be the threat she’d felt. She’d never sensed danger around him before, and they’d spent a lot of time together sharing meals and planning his curtains. Still, more than one person had hinted the restaurateur was sweet on her. Might he be upset at her growing friendship with Brad?

  “Nothing,” she assured him. “I’m fine, I just felt…”

  “Do you feel sick, cara?” he pressed.

  His concern seemed so genuine, she almost told him about the footsteps and her uneasiness. At the last moment, she decided against it. Although she was fairly certain he hadn’t been the source of her apprehension, she decided to keep her nervousness to herself. She’d hate for him to think of her as some hysterical female.

  “Not sick,” she answered, forcing a nonchalant tone. “I’m just a little hungry. In fact, on my way over here, I thought about popping into Falcone’s for dinner.”

  Mario grinned. “Is right plac
e to be if you are hungry, little one. My kitchen, she is always full-a the food. You come have bite with Gina and me.”

  He slid his deposit into the night box then waited for her to do the same. When she’d finished, he held out an arm to her. “May I escort-a you to dinner, cara mia?”

  She slid her hand through the crook of his elbow, relieved when all she felt at the contact was his usual sense of playfulness. No sense of danger, no threat. In fact, she felt quite safe with him at her side.

  Still, her sixth sense remained on high alert.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Delivery!”

  Anne pulled her attention from her inventory sheet as the shop door opened to admit an unfamiliar gray-haired stranger. However, she recognized the name of the floral shop embroidered on the pocket of his jacket. Thinking he needed directions, she went toward the entrance to greet him.

  “Hi. Can I help you?” she asked in greeting.

  “Delivery for Anne Brown,” he said, holding up a long, white box. “Is that you, miss?”

  She frowned. “I’m Anne Brown” she said, “but there must be—”

  “Anne Brown. The Stitching Post. Nope, this is the right place.” He pushed the box toward her. “You’re gonna want to put these in water right away, miss.”

  “Okay. But who are they from?”

  “You’d know better than me, I suspect,” the man said with a cheeky wink. “I just transport ‘em. And believe me, today, it’s a big job. My car is full of orders to deliver yet this afternoon. Busiest Saturday I’ve had in a long time. Happy Valentine’s Day, miss.”

  Before she could protest that she didn’t know anyone who would send her flowers, he’d headed back out into the cold, leaving the box in her arms. The glossy cardboard had no markings on it, but the package was heavy and cool to the touch. Curious, she carried it to the counter and set it down.

  When she lifted the lid, layers of floral tissue, secured to the box by narrow red ribbons, hid the contents from her. A small card printed with care instructions was tied to one of the ribbons, repeating the delivery man’s directive to water the arrangement as soon as it was received. She carefully untied the bows, peeled back the layers of tissue then gasped out loud at the stunning arrangement of long-stemmed, deep red roses she found.

  Normally, Anne disliked red roses, because they reminded her of the formal arrangements of them Jeffrey’s mother had kept year-round in her foyer and dining room. However these roses—there had to be at least two dozen of them in a tall, cut-glass vase—were such a deep red their petals might have been cut from burgundy velvet. The deep jade greenery was the perfect backdrop for such exquisite blooms. In awe, she lifted the arrangement from the box and stood it upright on the counter.

  “Oh, Brad, you shouldn’t have,” she whispered as she released the shipping band holding the stems together. However, her smile negated her protest.

  She touched a finger to the floral medium inside the vase. It was wet enough to keep the stunning arrangement moist for a few moments longer. She wanted to just stand and admire it since there were no customers needing her. She’d never received a Valentine’s Day bouquet before. Jeffrey had certainly never sent her one. In fact, he’d never sent her flowers — or any gift — during their entire marriage. It was one of myriad ways Brad differed from her ex, and she wanted to savor it for a moment.

  Finally, she left the arrangement by the cash register where it could be seen by anyone who entered the shop and went to fetch water for the blooms. As she ran the water, she thought about the Valentine cards tucked inside the drawer at the register counter. The roses made her glad she’d decided to buy a card for Brad at the store over the weekend. She debated a long time before doing it and almost hadn’t. After all, Valentine’s Day was meant for sweethearts. She and Brad might speak on the phone every day and had shared a few steamy kisses since the one at Charlie’s Dump, but they weren’t technically dating. Still, he and Jennie had become such an important part of her life she couldn’t imagine not getting something for them.

  Once she’d made up her mind to do it, it had been surprisingly difficult to find a card. There had been hundreds in the store’s selection, but most of them had been mushy, suggestive, or flippant. None suited Brad. Anne had finally settled for a lovely card with a verse addressed “For Someone Special.” Luckily, it had been much easier to find Jennie’s valentine. The minute Anne stepped over to the children’s section, she’d spotted an adorable card with a blond-haired princess on its front. She’d brought both cards to the shop with her in hopes the Carmichaels might stop by for a visit.

  How had Brad handled the dilemma of addressing a card to her? She frowned and realized she hadn’t seen one on the arrangement. She was certain she’d have noticed if there’d been an envelope tucked among its dense foliage when she’d unpacked the arrangement. Still, she hurried back to recheck. Nothing. She looked inside the box then searched among the layers of tissue. Still nothing. No envelope on the floor either.

  Smart man, she thought with a chuckle. He avoided the problem by not putting in a card at all.

  She reached for the phone by the register to call Brad. The roses had to have cost him a small fortune, especially since florist shops raised their prices for the holiday. He shouldn’t have spent his hard-earned money this way. Before she could dial his number, the front door opened, admitting a blast of cold air.

  “Hi, Anne!” Lila called as she entered The Post. “Is it cold enough for—”

  The woman broke off when she spotted the arrangement sitting on the register counter. “Holy mackerel! Are those from your young man?”

  Anne cheeks heated at her friend’s words, but she felt the corners of her lips lift. “Brad’s not my—”

  “Those are absolutely beautiful,” the elderly quilter continued over Anne’s protest. “Back in my day, a girl’s daddy would question her suitor’s intentions over an arrangement like this.”

  If Anne thought her cheeks were warm before, now they felt on fire. To cover her embarrassment, she hastily tucked the empty box on the shelf below the counter and mustered a polite smile. “How can I help you this afternoon, Lila? Did you run out fabric in your stash?”

  “Not very likely. The way I buy fabric, I pity my kids once I’m gone. It will take them days just to sort through all the totes and tubs in my sewing room.” Lila laughed. “Not that I intend to go anywhere for a good long time.”

  “Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that,” Anne replied. “You’re pretty special to me.”

  “I feel the same way about you, dear. Which is why I stopped by today. I have something to give you.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a small envelope.

  “One year, when my children were small,” she explained, “I bought an extra box of valentines when I bought the ones for my kids to exchange at school. I guess I’m a kid at heart myself, because I addressed cards to my friends while my kids did the ones for their schoolmates. Let me tell you, I got a few strange looks when I gave those out. But most people got a real kick out of it. So much so that it became a tradition among my friends.”

  She extended the envelope across the counter. “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”

  “Wait!” Anne said and reached into the register drawer. She sorted through the boxes of candy conversation hearts she’d bought over the weekend for her friends in the quilt group until she located the package with Lila’s name on it. She came around the counter and handed it to the older woman. “I guess I’m a kid at heart, too.”

  The two women grinned and exchanged hugs then chatted for a few minutes before Lila took off to deliver the rest of her valentines. Anne walked her to the door then went back to the shop to continue the inventory she’d been working on when her flowers were delivered.

  A few minutes before closing, the door opened to admit a blast of cold air. A second later, a small blond-haired bundle of energy barreled into Anne and wrapped her in a big hug. “Hi, Miss Anne. Happy Vale
ntine’s Day!”

  “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Jennie.” She returned the child’s exuberant embrace. Taking Jennie’s hand, Anne walked over to greet the child’s father, who stood near the door with his hands behind his back. His brow furrowed as he eyed the arrangement on the counter.

  “You got roses.”

  “Yes, they were delivered a little while ago. Thank you so much, Brad.”

  “Umm, Anne. Jennie and I stopped to deliver my — I mean our — flowers.” He brought his hands from behind his back and offered her the tissue-wrapped bouquet he’d been hiding.

  Anne glanced at the vase on the counter. “But—”

  He shook his head. “Those aren’t from me. I wish they were, because they make this bouquet seem pretty puny in comparison.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought—”

  Unaware of the undercurrent between the two adults, Jennie bounced at her side. “Open them up, Anne. I helped pick them out.”

  Confused, Anne reached for the flowers then carefully pulled back the tissue. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight of the bouquet of delicate pink and white sweetheart roses. “Oh, Brad!”

  “You said you didn’t like red roses,” he said, gruffly. “I thought you might like a different color. But—”

  “Like them? Brad, I love these,” she said and threw her arms around him in an exuberant hug. “I really do dislike red roses.”

  “So who’s my competition?”

  “Competition?” She scrunched her nose. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to tell me—”

  “Brad, I’m serious. I don’t know who sent them. There was no card. I thought they came from you, and you didn’t include—”

  He shook his head and pointed to the bouquet she held. A small white envelope nestled among the leaves. Anne set Brad’s bouquet down on the counter. Compared to its dainty pastels, the arrangement of blood-red roses seemed cold and almost sinister.