The Friendship Star Quilt

by Patricia Kiyono

  "We probably wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Lila," Ellen said then looked behind Sylvia and laughed. "Speak of the old slave driver, and here she is."

  "Did I just hear you call me an ‘old slave driver,’ Ellen Wheeler?" a petite older woman with carefully tinted blonde hair bustled up to them.

  "How about if I just say ‘here’s our slave driver now’?"

  "That’s much better." Lila Haggerty nodded. She might have celebrated her seventy-fifth birthday recently, but the little dynamo would be the last person to acknowledge her age. Besides, she could still run circles around most of them. She gave Sylvia a quick hug then paused to admire the quilt. "This is definitely one of the prettiest quilts I’ve had the pleasure of working on."

  "I could never have done it without you," Sylvia said. "All of you. I can’t find words to thank you enough."

  "No thanks are needed," Sue and Ellen said almost as one voice.

  "You would have done the same if it had been one of us," Lila added. "Everyone knows that. Besides most of us have watched Lynne grow up. So this is our way of showing her our love."

  The Wedding Ring quilt had been a gift of love from start to finish. Sylvia had special ordered the fabric for it, laid out the pattern under Lila’s watchful eye, then had painstakingly hand-stitched the design pieces herself. Afterwards, Sue, Ellen, and the other women in the quilt group had come forward to help assemble the blocks and hand-quilt the patterned top to the batting and plain backing. Lila had been even more determined than Sylvia to finish this quilt in time for the wedding. She’d organized the other quilters and went to the Stitching Post herself every day in order to oversee the time-consuming hand quilting. The other women had worked under her direction so every stitch was uniform and perfect. The spritely widow had far more quilting experience than anyone else in the group. In fact, over her lifetime, Lila had probably made more quilts than all of them combined, and each quilt was a masterpiece of exquisite handwork, so the others were happy to learn from her.

  Sylvia felt blessed to have such caring and loving friends. Their friendship went back a long time, almost to the days when she’d been a newlywed. In those days, she and Dave hadn’t had much money, so they’d always been on the lookout for inexpensive entertainment. One weekend, they had visited a local quilt show and stopped to admire the beautiful pieces on display in Lila’s booth. Sylvia told the quilter how she’d always wanted to try her hand at the craft. That’s when Lila invited her to a small quilt shop in Grandville, The Stitching Post, where she and a few other women met each week to sew and socialize.

  "We’re a modern day quilting bee, but thankfully minus the corsets and petticoats," Lila had told her with her impish grin. “You should visit the group.”

  Intrigued, Sylvia checked out the store the following Monday. While she was there, she met Myra Hodges, the store’s friendly owner, as well as Sue and Ellen who had happened to be shopping that afternoon. They’d also invited Sylvia to come back on Tuesday evening to meet the others. The next evening, Sylvia had kissed Dave goodbye after dinner and returned to The Stitching Post. She’d met the rest of the group and learned they were making lap quilts to donate to the veteran’s home for Christmas. The women had told her to pull up a chair then shared some of their own fabric scraps so she could lend a hand. With Lila’s help, Sylvia had started on her very first quilt that night Over the years, as the hobby gained popularity, the small group grew from the handful of friends to a congenial group of more than two dozen members. Housewives and professional women, newlyweds and retirees. The friends ranged in age from early twenties to a new member who’d decided to take up quilting for her eightieth birthday.

  "We’re as different as the various fabrics in this quilt," Sylvia mused as she tucked the precious gift under her arm and carried it outside to the car.

  Also from Astraea Press

  Chapter One

  Step One: light a candle.

  Meg Albertson smoothed out the folds in the hospice center’s typed instructions and reread the sheet, faded and fuzzy from a trip through the washing machine.

  Light a candle. Say a prayer.

  A box of matches sat on the mantle next to a ceramic jar, the size of her palm. Meg reached for the jar and matches then carried them over to the coffee table next to the candle. She sank down on the couch, her fingers curled around the matchbox. With her other hand, she caressed the smooth sides of the jar.

  Light a candle. Say a prayer.

  She struck a wooden matchstick. Wind rattling down the chimney snaked out the open flue and snuffed the flame. Another draft shivered across her neck. Meg didn’t budge. She sat and stared at the burnt match while the memory candle mocked her from the mantle. Perhaps she should get up and close the flue and light the candle.

  Behind her house, pine trees dotted the edge of the frozen lake, a lake as silent as a dead man. The sky was like the gray film of dust that clung to the family room baseboards. Inside, yellowed newspapers, tightly bound with rubber bands, covered the coffee table. Fast-food wrappers stained with grease and splotches of catsup littered the floor.

  Maybe a real fire in the fireplace would take the edge off the mess, make it seem festive. If she waited long enough, maybe someone would build one for her.

  Loud pounding on the front door saved her from having to endure the obligatory candle ceremony and the rest of the steps.

  “Meg Albertson, you home?”

  Meg darted behind the draperies. The doorbell rang in three quick bursts. Nothing good ever came from an early morning visitor.

  Pound, pound, pound. The visitor reverted to the original technique.

  Meg peeked down the hall to the front door window. With relief she saw a friendly face, someone to light a fire for her. She swept a comforter from the back of the couch and draped it around herself. She pulled the door open and a gust of wind swirled in.

  “Did I wake you?” Her husband’s old friend, Chip, stood on the front porch, stomping snow off his massive boots. The two men had been buddies since second grade in Lake Devine, tucked in the northern woods of Minnesota.

  “Heavens no, up for hours. Since the sun rose.” Meg, bundled in the comforter, leaned against the doorframe.

  “It sure is a cold one.” Chip rubbed his gloves together. Then he stomped his boots again. “Um, can I come in?”

  Meg flushed. “Excuse my brain lapse. Of course.” She waved him into the hallway.

  “Before I forget Meg, Merry Christmas. Well, tomorrow I guess.” Chip hesitated and then reached out to hug her. The warmth of his embrace seemed to seep through his down parka straight through the comforter and into Meg’s thin robe. She needed his touch, anyone’s touch. Two bright patches of scarlet flashed across the frosty pink and white on Chip’s cheeks and he pulled away. He inched closer to the front door before he tugged off his wool cap and reached to scratch his head.

  “Gee, sorry we haven’t stopped in to see you lately. It’s been busy down at the hardware store. Jean’s been busy too, all the holiday stuff.” Chip looked down at his feet. “But here.” Chip thrust a small package into her hands. “Robert made me promise I’d deliver this for Christmas.”

  “Robert?” Meg tossed the package back, like a game of hot potato.

  Chip leaned over and forced the package back in her grasp. Meg stared at the object and began to sway ever so slightly to the cadence of the clock on the wall. The ticking grew louder. Meg squeezed her eyes shut to stop the noise.

  Chip cleared his throat. “Meg? Meg?”

  She opened one eye. Chip still stood there and she still held the package.

  “But, Chip?” Her palm moved up to cradle her jaw as she stumbled over a response. “What’s this all about?”

  “Beats me. I’m just the delivery boy, but call Jean if you need anything. Okay then, I’m off.” Chip scooted out the door. Meg watched him leap over a snowbank and jog to his truck. Dual plumes of exhaust puffed behind it as he tore out of the driveway. Wh
en the truck was no longer visible, Meg turned away.

  Robert, what this time? Meg pulled the paper off as she walked back to the family room, leaving a trail of gold foil. With an index finger, she stroked the white label on the gift, a DVD. “For Meg, Merry Christmas.” It was Robert’s scrawl. She cradled the DVD in her hands and drew it to her chest. Maybe he transferred a copy of their wedding video. After a few minutes, she popped it into the player, unable to wait. Whatever was recorded, she had to see it.

  Meg grabbed the remote and teetered inches away from the screen.

  Robert looked at her, his face drawn and gray.

  “Hi honey, I guess if you’re watching this, I must be dead.”