The Friendship Star Quilt

by Patricia Kiyono

  Pushing aside the silly notion, she reached for the envelope, eager to see what it said. She glanced at Brad, met his warm gaze then slid the card from the envelope. The message inside was written in a male scrawl—Will you be our Valentine? Love, Jennie and Jennie’s Dad. It was better than any greeting card. Anne stooped to give Jennie a big hug then rose and wrapped her arms around Brad’s middle and gave him a squeeze, too.

  “Nothing would make me happier, Jennie’s Dad,” she whispered then stood on tiptoe, intending to give him a peck on the cheek.

  Instead, Brad’s hands bracketed her face, and he leaned down to touch his lips lightly to hers. A jolt of electricity shot through her as their lips connected. He must have felt it, too, as one of his hands moved to the back of her head, drawing her nearer for a deeper kiss. Aware of Jennie beside them, they separated after a moment then grinned at each other.

  “So,” Brad began, “how soon can you close up so we can take you to dinner?”

  “Dinner?”

  “I thought we’d go to the Grand Villa for steak. Unless you have plans with your secret admirer,” he teased, pointing to the red roses.

  Anne swatted his arm playfully then glanced at her watch. The shop wasn’t scheduled to close for another half an hour. She never closed early, hating to disappoint any last minute customers. Still, no one had been in since Lila’s visit earlier, and it was Valentine’s Day, after all.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. With a sense of mischief, she sent him a grin. “How about now?”

  ****

  Brad and Jennie dropped Anne off at her apartment so she could change her clothes before dinner. She’d insisted on bringing home their arrangement of pink and white roses so she could enjoy it over the weekend. When Brad asked about the other roses, she shrugged and said they’d be fine at the shop until Monday. In honesty, she didn’t want them in her apartment where she’d fret over who might have sent them to her. There was no sense in getting all worked up over nothing. For all she knew, they might have been from Myra. Maybe her boss had wanted them as a decoration in the shop. Anne would call the florist on Monday and get it straightened out.

  While she freshened up, Brad and his daughter drove the deposit to the bank’s night drop box. At first, Anne had been reluctant about having him do it and had argued she could make the run after she got home from dinner. But Brad had insisted, saying it would give him and Jennie something to do while Anne got ready.

  “This way, you won’t have to worry about it later. Besides,” he’d added with suggestive wink. “Maybe I have plans for dessert after dinner.”

  Blushing at the memory of their earlier kiss, Anne tried to come up with a suitable reply. Before she could do so, Jennie saved the day.

  “Dessert?” the little girl chimed in. “Are we going to get ice cream for dessert?”

  Anne wished she’d had a camera. The shocked expression on Brad’s face had been priceless. Apparently, he’d been so caught in the moment he’d forgotten they had a little audience. Laughing, she’d handed him the bank pouch.

  “Go. Drop off the deposit. I’ll be ready for dinner by the time you get back… we’ll discuss dessert later.”

  Now, she stood in front of her closet, studying the contents and wondering what to wear for dinner. Her wardrobe had grown a bit larger over the winter, so she had a few more options from which to choose. The Grand Villa was supposedly just a casual restaurant, neither too dressy nor too casual. But it was still a special occasion, and she wanted to look pretty. She flipped through several options, discarding each one. Finally, she decided on a pair of dressy, charcoal wool slacks from Goodwill and a new rose pink sweater. A matching pearl necklace and earrings, a Christmas gift from Myra and Ed, would add an elegant touch to the simple outfit.

  She carried the garments into the bathroom to change and freshen up. After applying a touch of fresh lipstick, Anne considered her image in the mirror. Brad seemed to like her hair down, so she unfastened her ponytail tie and ran her fingers through the long strands. A few strokes with the hairbrush, and she was ready to go. She flipped off the light and returned to the other room just as a knock sounded at the door.

  Expecting Brad, she threw open the door.

  “Hi! I’m all set just let me get my—”

  “Buona sera, Annie.”

  “Mario! Umm, hello.”

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” the restaurateur said and glanced past her to the kitchen. “You are alone?”

  The question made Anne uneasy, but she nodded.

  “You should-a not open the door without checking, cara. I tell it to my Gina all-a time.” He offered her the white foam box he held. “I go to the shop to bring-a you some breadsticks, but is all closed up so I bring them here. You are very, very beautiful tonight, Annie.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the box from him. It felt awkward not to invite him inside, but she’d feel more uneasy if she did. “I didn’t realize you knew where I lived, Mario.”

  If he noticed her uneasiness, nothing showed in the man’s friendly manner.

  “Si, si! Helyn, she tell-a me when you first move-a here. She’s-a very happy to have nice girl like you for a tenant,” he explained. “Well, Mario must get back to the restaurant, cara. We are much busy tonight. You have the nice evening tonight and tell Mister Band Director your friend Mario say he is one very lucky man.”

  Anne promised she would but had no intention of doing so. She stood in the doorway and watched Mario hurry down the steps then turn towards his restaurant. When he was halfway down the block, she finally went inside and closed the door, leaning against it with her heart thumping.

  If Helyn told Mario where I live, who else might she have told?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Hello. This is Anne Brown from The Stitching Post. I’d like to speak to someone about the delivery I received on Valentines’ Day.”

  “Good morning, Miss Brown. This is Pat Quinn. I’m the owner,” a cheery voice greeted over the phone line. “I hope those beautiful roses are holding up for you.”

  Anne glanced toward the back of the shop and frowned. Until she could get to the bottom of who had sent them, the mere sight of the blood red roses had set her nerves on edge. She’d moved them to the work corner so she wouldn’t have to see them each time she rang up a customer. “With all the deliveries you had, I’m surprised you remember my order.”

  “Of course, I remembered.” Mrs. Quinn laughed. “We’re always swamped with orders for red roses on Valentines’ Day, but Mr. Carmichael’s request was quite—”

  “Brad sent them?” Anne gasped.

  “You didn’t know?” the florist sounded puzzled. “He said he and his daughter were heading right to your shop to deliver the bouquet in person. They didn’t want them boxed, so I made sure to double wrap them. Roses, especially the miniature varieties like those are very delicate. I hope they arrived safely.”

  “Oh they did. I absolutely love them,” Anne gushed. “But I’m not calling about the pink-and-white rose arrangement. I’m trying to find out about the other order — the dark red roses your shop delivered here. I couldn’t find any card in the box with them.”

  “Delivered?” the woman repeated. “I’m sorry I don’t recall a delivery order, Miss Brown. One of my clerks must have handled the order. Can you hold one minute while I check our delivery log?”

  “Of course,” Anne agreed. She heard the hum of a muted conversation as Mrs. Quinn spoke to someone else, but couldn’t make out what was said.

  Tilting her head to hold the phone against her shoulder, Anne picked up the pad next to the register to go over her To Do list while she waited. She’d only made a few notes on it when the florist came back on the line.

  “Miss Brown, I’m sorry I can’t help you. There’s no work order in the books and no record of a delivery.”

  “I understand,” Anne said. “The gentleman who delivered the roses said you were so busy his car was full of orders.�
��

  “Car? All my drivers have vans. They needed them to hold as many orders as we had. I’m afraid your roses must have come from a different florist. Do you still have the box they arrived in? It should have the shop name printed on it.”

  “I do, but the box is plain white.”

  “Then I don’t know what else to suggest…”

  “Wait! The man who delivered it had the name of your shop embroidered on his jacket.”

  When there was no immediate answer, Anne wondered in Mrs. Quinn had hung up. Finally, the woman asked, “Can you describe him? If so, I can check his log and see if the flowers were meant for a different address.”

  “Let me see.” Anne closed her eyes, picturing him. “About six foot tall and average build. I don’t know his eye color, but he had close-cropped gray hair and was probably in his late fifties. Is that good enough?”

  “Good enough for me to know it wasn’t one of my people,” she replied. “I have one regular driver — my son — who is also a designer here. Micky is thirty and a red-head. The other drivers I hired to help last weekend are all high school kids, trying to make a few extra dollars.”

  “But—”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Brown,” the florist apologized, “but there’s nothing more I can do.”

  Anne nodded, thanked the woman for her time then disconnected. She rubbed her arms, feeling a sudden chill.

  Stop working yourself up over nothing, she scolded.

  She glanced outside. They weren’t busy, and there were no cars arriving in the lot, so she decided to pop into Myra’s office and send her boss an email. If she left the office door open, she’d be able to watch for anyone coming to the shop. After another quick glance out the window, she turned and hurried to the office.

  It seemed to take forever for the shop computer to boot up. She recalled how her grandmother had always said, “The quicker you need something, the longer it seems to take.” Grams had meant bread rising and cakes baking, but computers obviously worked on the same principle. Finally, the welcome screen opened, and an envelope filled the screen, indicating new email.

  Anne clicked on the envelope, delighted to see a note from StitchPost to StitchPost1 with the heading “Ready or Not, Here We Come!” Could it mean what she thought? A quick scan of the note confirmed it did. Myra and Ed were finally returning to Michigan. Her boss wanted to make sure Anne had her cell phone number since she and Ed were leaving Florida sometime during the week and would be offline while they travelled. Anne copied down the phone number on a piece of scratch paper then tucked it in her pocket. She could wait until she saw Myra in person to ask her about the flowers.

  As long as she was on the computer, Anne decided to check OTIS. She’d been so busy with Brad and Jennie recently it had been more than a week since she’d gone there to check her ex-husband’s status. She was about to open the browser page when she heard the jingle of the bell on the shop door. She glanced toward the entrance and saw Sylvia and her daughter Lynne.

  “Hi. I’ll be right with you,” she called. Leaving the computer turned on so she could check it later, she rose from the chair and went to greet her friend. “Sorry. I was in the office on the computer.”

  “What unusual roses,” Lynne said, pointing to the vase on the table near the office door.

  “From a certain band director?” Sylvia asked.

  “No. He brought me the loveliest vase of pink-and-white roses,” Anne said, unable to ignore the happy feeling she had whenever she mentioned Brad and his daughter. She smiled. “I took them home with me on Saturday.”

  “How wonderful,” her friend said with a matching smile then pointed to the dark roses in the back. “So who sent those?”

  Anne shrugged. “I wish I knew,” she confided. “There wasn’t a card in the box. When I called the florist, who I thought delivered them, Mrs. Quinn said they didn’t come from her place.”

  “Was the florist’s name on the box?”

  “No, it was just a plain white box. But I could have sworn the delivery man’s jacket had the shop’s name on it.”

  “Have you tried the other area florists?” Sylvia asked.

  “Not yet. I just got off the phone with Mrs. Quinn a few minutes before you came in,” Anne replied.

  “Well, I’m glad they aren’t from your friend,” Lynne said, wrinkling her nose. “They’re very elegant but the red is so dark they remind me of the kind of roses you always see in vampire flicks. You know, the ones they always describe as ‘blood red’ roses.”

  “Lynne!” Her mother gasped.

  “She’s right, Sylvia,” Anne agreed. “I admit I was glad when I found out they weren’t from Brad. His roses were so sweet, but these… well, I know they’re stunning but they have a bit of an ‘ick’ factor, too.”

  “Forget the flowers,” she said dismissing them with a wave of her hand. “What can I help you two with this morning? Are we looking for some nursery fabric?”

  “You sound just like Mom.” Lynne laughed. “Sorry to disappoint everyone, but no babies for Ron and me… at least not yet. I’m here to get material to start a table runner for spring. Mom said you got in some Easter fabric.”

  “Yes. It came in last week,” Anne said and pointed to the shelves where the seasonal fabrics were stocked.

  “Can you believe we’re already talking about Easter? It seems like yesterday we were helping you get the band’s costumes ready for the Thanksgiving parade. The months just seem to fly by—”

  “See what happens when you get up there in years, Mom?” Lynne teased. “Time rushes by.”

  “All the more reason to give me grandkids before I’m too feeble to enjoy them,” Sylvia shot back. Anne chuckled at the loving banter between the two women as they headed over to the new selection.

  If Mom hadn’t disappeared, would she and I be like that with each other? Anne wondered.

  She hoped so. But try as she might, she could only remember flashes of a soft-spoken woman, who had loved to cook and always smelled like gardenias.

  ****

  “Good morning, Anne,” the postman greeted the next afternoon as he came through the door.

  “Hi, Mr. Miller,” she said, hurrying from the back of the shop where she’d been straightening bolts of fabric. “What do you have for me today?”

  He pulled several envelopes and circulars from the bundle of mail in his arm. “Got a bunch for the shop, and there’s an envelope here for you, too. You want me to leave it with you or deliver it to your apartment?”

  “Just leave it here and save yourself an extra stop,” she said, taking the mail from him. “Do you have time for me to get a cup of coffee for you? I have some foam to-go cups.”

  “Sounds wonderful. It’s sure a chilly one out there today.”

  “According to the weatherman, we’re due for another storm.” She set the mail on the register counter then led the way to the back of the shop. “I hope it holds off until after I get home… and you get home, too.”

  “I hope so, too,” he said, accepting the cup from her then heading back out into the cold. “Miserable weather might not keep mail carriers from our ‘appointed rounds,’ but we sure as shooting don’t have to like it.”

  When he’d left with his coffee, a few of the shop’s regulars came in to pick up supplies. When Anne thought of the mail again, it was lunch time, so she carried the stack to the back and flipped through the pile while she waited for her leftover stew to warm in the microwave.

  A couple circulars, several invoices from suppliers, a catalog from a new company trying to get their business. A glossy postcard with a colorful flamingo holding a heart was a Valentine from her boss. Anne posted it on the wall behind the register counter and made a mental note to send Myra an email to say thank you.

  The final piece was an ordinary white business envelope with her name and address neatly typed on the front. She noticed there wasn’t a return address on the front, so she flipped it over. Nothing there either, bu
t companies often used such tactics to send ads. It forced the recipient to open the envelope to see what was inside. Figuring it was one of those, she slit the envelope and removed the single sheet of white paper it contained.

  The microwave buzzed just as she was about to unfold the paper, so she set it down to get her lunch. Using a folded paper towel, she retrieved the hot bowl from the microwave then grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. While she waited for the stew to cool slightly, she sat down and took a swig of her water then opened the ad she’d set aside. Five words neatly typed in the middle of the page caused her to nearly choke on her drink.

  Did you like my roses?

  Anne’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to escape through her chest. This unsigned message confirmed she hadn’t been imagining things. Someone had been watching her, following her. Whoever it was knew where she worked and, from the address on the envelope, knew where she lived, too.

  Was the person outside watching her now to see her reaction?

  With her hand pressed against her pounding heart, Anne hurried to the front of the shop and peered out the window. No one was in sight. She moved to the door and scanned the lot and surrounding buildings. Nothing. Releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, she quickly shut the blinds, hung a closed sign in the window then locked and bolted the door. Leaving the money in the register, she snapped off the overhead lights, retrieved her things from the office then fled for the safety of her apartment.

  Now, she stood there in her bedroom, shaking uncontrollably. Just when she’d started to feel safe, this had to happen! Who was stalking her and why? She needed to call the police. But what would she say? Someone sent me flowers for Valentine’s Day then sent a note to ask if I liked them? Even though the flowers and the letter both had been sent anonymously, there hadn’t been any kind of a threat with them. The cops would laugh at her. So what would a complaint accomplish except to get her name in their files?