In her own words, Liz had been so paralyzed with disbelief that a clerk had stopped and asked if she needed help. Evidently he’d been the same clerk who had come to Lydia Gruber’s aid just days before when the widow was having trouble getting her horse under the awning of the drop-off area. It wasn’t until later, when he was sorting through her things, that he’d found the quilt with the wrapping paper half on and half off. Naturally, he’d wondered if she’d meant to donate the quilt, but the store didn’t have any way of getting hold of her to ask. All of which seemed to make sense. Sort of.
“Still, Liz . . . why would the quilt be in the trunk of Lydia’s buggy?” Jessica questioned for at least the third time that evening.
Liz finally seemed to hear her question, and she didn’t have a quick answer. “Hmm,” she drawled while Jessica slowed to a near stop and made a right turn. “Well, maybe . . .” Liz paused again. “Maybe she was taking it to show to friends.”
“I guess that could be.” Jessica wanted to believe the quilt—or at least the thought behind it—had been worthy enough for Lydia to keep and to share with friends. But why not put the quilt inside the buggy and make sure there was no mistake? No leaving it behind?
“Wait a minute.” She glanced at her Secret Stitches partner. “You didn’t have to pay for the quilt, did you?”
“Well, I . . . no. Under the circumstances, the nice people at Goodwill weren’t going to charge me when I said I’d return the quilt to its owner.”
“Oh.” Jessica grinned, knowing what was coming next. “But you paid anyway?”
“I had to,” Liz confessed. “I mean, I felt funny just taking it. Especially when they could’ve made money from the quilt.”
Jessica couldn’t help but smile at Liz’s unending positivity and to wonder at the woman all at the same time. To Jessica’s way of thinking, the jiffy quilt they’d not-so-expertly sewn might not have had the general appeal Liz believed it did. It was possible that Lydia Gruber hadn’t even liked it. Maybe their first Secret Stitches gift had been a dud. A reject. She certainly couldn’t blame a recipient for thinking so. Her aunt Rose would’ve done a better job on it for sure.
Without real proof, however, Jessica agreed they had to make the trip to the Gruber homestead again on the off chance that Lydia hadn’t meant to unload the quilt. If that was the case, then Lydia would have the quilt back safely. They could believe their first Secret Stitches gift was a success—a memorable success to say the least. Lydia Gruber would also know someone had been thinking of her. Not just once, but twice.
Afterward, Jessica could go home, feeling all was right with the world while she cleaned up the kitchen, made Cole’s lunch, folded the last of the laundry, paid bills, got ready for the week—all before her bedtime.
She glanced at the clock to see if she was still on schedule. So far, so good.
“You keep looking at the clock,” Liz noted.
“I do?” Jessica feigned ignorance but deep down felt caught, knowing, of course, it was true.
Liz smiled at her. “Yes, you do.”
“Oh, I just have some things to do when I get home.”
“There’s never enough time when you’re a working mom, is there?” Liz sympathized.
Jessica shook her head. “Doesn’t seem to be.”
“You’re always being torn in lots of different directions.”
Jessica glanced at Liz, appreciating her insight. “No matter what I do, or how much I do, I never feel like I’m doing any of it well enough. Or right enough. Not with Cole and now not with the shop. I don’t know how Aunt Rose did it all. Actually, it’s a good thing I’m not married, come to think of it. I’m sure I wouldn’t feel like I was doing a good job at that either.”
Liz chuckled beside her.
“Sorry. I must sound like a ranting lunatic.”
“No. Just like a mom who cares.”
“Oh, I do.” Jessica focused on the road. “Hopefully I can do better, though. My poor little guy has been having bad dreams.”
“Things will get better. He’s had a lot of adjustments lately with the move and all,” Liz offered.
“I know.” Jessica had been telling herself the same thing. Still, there seemed to be something more going on with Cole. She couldn’t put her finger on it, and he wouldn’t open up and say. Not yet anyway. Her mind had started to drift to the night before, when he’d climbed into bed with her, when Liz spoke up again.
“That’s it, isn’t it, Jessica? Quarterhorse Road?”
“Oh, you’re right.” The road going off to the left did look familiar.
As she made the turn, she hoped for the hundredth time that the Goodwill clerk was right, so that in the end, all would be good with Lydia Gruber and the mystery of the not-so-well-put-together but well-meaning traveling quilt.
“Jessica . . .” Liz leaned toward her, interrupting her thoughts.
“Huh?”
“I think you’re forgetting something, honey.”
“Yeah?”
“The headlights. You need to turn them off.”
“Oh. But—” She started to protest, but she couldn’t. Not when Liz’s voice began to hum.
“S-S-S. Secret Stitches Society, remember?”
Jessica groaned. But true to being an SSS member, she dutifully flicked off the lights. Then hoped that they’d be safe.
The screen door snapped closed behind Lydia, sounding like a thunderclap in the still of the evening. She stood on the porch and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, not sure what to do with herself. Simply being in the cool air felt mighty good. And a relief. Far better than being trapped inside the house, where she also hadn’t been sure of what to do with herself. For hours.
Once again, her early supper had been easy to clean up, especially since she’d been eating on the same pot of carrot soup all week. Holding a ready dishcloth in her hand, she’d purposefully looked around the kitchen more than once for something—anything—else to scrub. Sadly, one bowl, one spoon, and one glass didn’t take time enough to wash.
Aching from loneliness, she had then tried to find refuge in the sitting room. The place she and Henry had spent nearly all of their evenings. The two of them had barely acknowledged each other, rarely ever talking. Him reading, her stitching. Still, he’d been there all those nights, sitting across from her as the stars began to dot the sky. She’d hear the steady sound of his breathing. Occasionally, on some evenings, he’d even read aloud.
The modulation of his voice, clipping along with the clicking of her knitting needles or with the rustling of the quilt in her lap, had created a pleasant rhythm. But mostly, he was quiet. Still, sitting in that quiet room together was the closest she’d ever felt to her husband.
As hard as she tried to sit and stitch, the silence was much too much for her tonight. Her fingers fumbled; her hands trembled. She knew she couldn’t stay in the hushed house one minute longer.
As she made her way to a wicker chair in the corner of the porch, even the noisy creaking of the wooden slats beneath her feet sounded like heaven to her ears. Settling into the padded seat, she closed her eyes, took a long, deep breath, and listened. To chirping crickets. Singing cicadas. The distant shriek of an owl.
Oh, Lord, thank You! Thank You for the sweet, noisy sounds of these! Her eyes welled up with gratitude. Thank You for letting me know that You’re near.
Her anxious heart slowed to a relaxing rhythm as she continued to sit and listen to the comforting sounds all around. They soothed her like a baby’s lullaby, filling her with a peace she hadn’t felt in a long while.
Which only made it all the more startling when she heard a new sound—at close range. The crunch of tires on her gravel driveway.
Her eyes shot open. In an instant, the pleasant noises of the night faded far into the background. She stared into the darkness expecting—hoping—to see headlights. Maybe a driver who had lost their way and was pulling into the drive to turn around.
Pounding repla
ced the peacefulness in her heart when she realized there were no headlights. More sounds drifted through the darkness. One car door closing. Then another.
As two figures came closer, emerging from the shadows, her body stiffened. Oh, why had she trimmed the rose of Sharon bushes along the porch rail? There was nowhere to hide from the pair of trespassers sneaking up the steps.
Gripping the armrests of the chair, she tried to bite back her fear and stay silent. Maybe they wouldn’t see her. Maybe they wouldn’t—
“Lydia!” the first intruder gasped.
“Lydia Gruber!” the second woman confirmed. “What are you doing out here?”
There wasn’t any question in their voices about who she was; they sounded as if they knew her well. But even with the light from the sitting room lantern glowing onto the porch, helping her to see, she couldn’t place their faces. Not the young, thin one with the long dark hair. Or the older, rounder woman with the short brown hair. They were as unfamiliar to her as the constellations in the sky.
“You, uh—you weren’t supposed to be sitting here,” the older woman said, clarifying her comment.
Lydia narrowed her eyes, confused. “But I live here.”
“Well, I know. We know. But what I mean is . . .” The woman scratched at the back of her head while the younger woman offered a concerned look.
“I hope we didn’t scare you, Lydia.”
“I might be less scared if I knew who you both might be.”
The Englischers looked at each other, then glanced at her, then looked at one another again, perplexing her even more.
“We’re . . . um . . . ,” the older woman murmured.
“Uh . . . ,” the younger woman hedged.
“Oh, we should just tell her,” the short-haired woman sighed.
“I know. You’re right.” The long-haired woman pointed to herself. “I’m Jessica. And this is—” She nodded to the other woman.
“I’m Liz. Liz Cannon. I sell real estate.”
“Real estate?” That confused Lydia even more. “I’m not planning to sell my house right now.” And she certainly wouldn’t hire an agent who went out snooping around at night.
“Oh, no.” Liz shook her head. “I just said that because sometimes people will think they know me from somewhere, and that’s because they may have noticed my picture on a For Sale sign in someone’s yard at some point. But that has nothing to do with why we’re here.”
“That’s not why we’re here at all,” the other woman chimed in.
“Who did you say you are again?” Lydia asked.
“I’m Jessica. Holtz. I own Rose’s Knit One Quilt Too Cottage.”
“Oh, goodness.” Lydia put a hand over her heart. “The Rose who—” She faltered, unable to even say the words out loud.
“Yes.” Jessica nodded slowly. “She was my aunt.”
Lydia rose from the chair and stepped close enough to look into Jessica’s eyes. So this was who she’d prayed for? Those times she’d prayed for healing for Rose’s family? “I’m verra sorry for your loss, Jessica.”
Jessica gave her an appreciative half smile. “Thank you. We’re very sorry for your loss too, Lydia.”
“Yes, I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through,” Liz shared. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Again,” Jessica added, and then looked like she’d said something wrong.
“You’ve come here before?” And she hadn’t been home? “I’m surprised I wasn’t here.”
“Oh, well, you . . . we . . . sort of . . . ,” Jessica stammered, and the Liz woman piped in.
“The important thing is we made something for you, Lydia, and we think maybe you lost it.”
“Yes, that’s the important thing.” Jessica’s expression brightened, looking relieved at the turn in the conversation. “We thought if you did lose it, you might want it back.”
“Jah?” Lydia had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.
“Yes.” Liz nodded as she reached into the bag on her shoulder. “Lydia, this is for you. From us.”
Even in the dim light of the porch, as Lydia took their gift, she could tell it was the quilt she’d taken to Goodwill. Stunned, she felt torn all over again, the same way she had the day she’d first seen it. Wanting to have a keepsake of Henry’s, yet wanting to do what was right. Although now that she’d been introduced to the ladies who had made the quilt, wasn’t sparing their feelings the right thing too?
“Oh, the quilt!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you found it!”
She didn’t feel like she was very good at pretending, but evidently she was better than she thought. The two women glanced at one another and seemed to heave dual sighs of relief.
“That’s great news to hear,” Jessica said.
“It sure is.” Liz clapped her hands. “You see, I was at Goodwill earlier and—”
“You saw the quilt,” Lydia finished her sentence.
She could feel her face heat and was thankful the ladies couldn’t see her red cheeks in the dark. She’d been so lost in her own pain at the time she’d tossed the quilt into the rear of her buggy that she hadn’t even considered the time and effort it had taken for someone to come to the auction and then to also make the quilt. Since the quilt definitely looked like the work of beginners, it had to have been difficult for Jessica and Liz to make.
“Yes, I saw the quilt,” Liz continued, a sweet lady but talkative for sure, “and the clerk said you’d been having trouble with your horse when you stopped there.”
“Flora.” Lydia remembered the horse’s apprehension well.
“Actually, no.” Liz shook her head. “The clerk’s name was Nick.”
“I was speaking of my horse. Flora.”
“Oh, right.” Liz laughed. “Anyway, Nick said he didn’t think you meant to donate the quilt with the rest of your things because it was still in the gift paper we’d wrapped it in.”
“Jah. Well . . . ,” Lydia stammered, bent on trying not to tell another fib. “This is all verra kind of you both,” she said because that really was the truth.
The three of them stared at each other for a moment longer while a moth flitted between them and bumped noisily against the window. Jessica rubbed her arms, as if she was chilly. Liz shifted on her feet as if she didn’t know if she was staying or going.
Not used to having company, Lydia wasn’t sure what came next. “Do you . . . would you want to come inside?”
“Thank you, Lydia, but it’s getting late,” Jessica spoke up. “We should get going.”
“But before we go, can we ask you a favor?” Liz added.
Lydia shrugged and nodded even though her stomach stirred, apprehensive about what was coming next. “Sure.”
“Please don’t tell anyone we were here, okay?” Liz peered over her glasses.
“Yes, that would be very helpful,” Jessica agreed.
“Oh, I . . .” She started to say that she didn’t have a long list of people to tell, or even a short one, but decided to keep that to herself. “I definitely won’t,” she said. “Thank you again, Jessica and Liz. Thank you for thinking of me. I know quilts take a lot of time and effort.”
“Do you quilt?” Jessica asked.
“Oh, jah.” She smiled. “Since I was a young girl. I know it’s not easy, so danke.”
The ladies looked pleased with themselves as they turned to go, which made Lydia feel pleased too. As the pair started down the stairs, Lydia spied Jeb—the friendliest dog in all of Sugarcreek—waiting for them at the bottom.
“What a cute dog you have.” Jessica held out her hand for Jeb to sniff.
“Oh, Jeb’s not mine. He’s my neighbor’s. He likes to visit quite often.”
“Jah—he likes to visit whenever he can get away with it.” Jonas suddenly appeared from around the rose of Sharon shrubs. “I hope he didn’t scare you ladies,” he addressed Jessica and Liz. “Or cover you with too much drool.”
“Oh, no,” Liz coo
ed, petting Jeb behind his ears. “He seems to be like my Daisy. A real sweetheart.”
“Jah, he’s everyone’s sweetheart,” Jonas repeated and Lydia watched as he hooked his thumb in Jeb’s collar. “Okay, sweetheart, it’s time to head back home,” he said to Jeb, making the women laugh.
“See you, Jeb.” Lydia waved. “And thank you again, ladies,” she called out, now oddly wishing that the two of them had decided to stay.
“You’re welcome, Lydia.” Jessica waved back. “We hope the quilt brings good memories of your husband.”
“He was a brave man,” Liz added.
Lydia could feel her heart drop at the mention of her departed husband. But this time it didn’t have as much to do with Henry as it did with Jonas. Even in the shadowy moonlight she could see him. His head turned swiftly and his eyes locked with hers. Questioning her. Maybe even looking slightly hurt by her and the way she hadn’t been truthful with him.
Lydia tried to settle down after everyone left, but as she sat staring at the quilt she’d refolded and laid over the arm of Henry’s chair, all she could see was her neighbor’s eyes.
For sure, it was time to be honest with Jonas, the man who’d been so friendly and open with her. She just needed to do it and not think about it. Because if she thought about it, then she wouldn’t do it, and things would be even more uncomfortable the next time she saw him.
Not to mention, she’d be awake half the night again.
After fetching a flashlight from the kitchen drawer, she closed the front door quietly behind her. Cutting across her side yard, she thought about all the times she’d wished for a well-worn path leading to her neighbor’s house. That would’ve been a sure sign that she had a good female friend close enough to visit on days when she could’ve used some company—or on evenings when Henry was running late coming home from work and his volunteer job. Instead, Mr. O’Malley had lived there by himself until he’d left the place vacant over a year ago.
The Sisters of Sugarcreek Page 6
