A month ago, my life was a complete train wreck, and while there’s still a long, long road ahead, I feel like things are back on track for Brian and me.
We’ve seen each other five times in the last two weeks, and each time is better than the last. Yesterday, we spent nearly the whole day together. We started off with a late-morning hike at Steep Rock Preserve—it was even more beautiful than I’d remembered—followed by iced chai lattes at Marty’s Café and a trip to the Hickory Stick Bookshop in Washington Depot, where I picked up a new cookbook. On the drive back to New Bern, just as I was telling Brian about my stop-and-start efforts to teach myself guitar, we spotted a music store. Brian pulled in, saying that regular lessons might help. He was probably right, but after meeting the manager of the store, who was also the guitar teacher, a man with hooded eyes who wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt and talked more slowly than anyone I’ve ever met in my life, Brian decided he should probably teach me himself. I bought some new guitar strings, and we went on our way.
Later, we took in the early show at the Red Rooster Cinema, a charming sixties-throwback movie house that holds only about eighty people and has seats that date back to the Nixon administration, then went out for Chinese food.
The movie was great; so was the organic popcorn with actual butter, sold to me by a skinny girl with braids who also recommended the fair-trade green tea, but the Chinese food was terrible. They just don’t seem to have decent Chinese in Connecticut.
I didn’t let Brian stay the night—I’m just not ready for that—but I invited him inside for coffee after our dinner. He taught me two new chords on the guitar, and then he played by himself for a while. I haven’t heard him play in so long. I’d almost forgotten how good he was.
Anyway, things have been going well. So well, in fact, that I decided to pull out my red fabric and make a birthday quilt for Brian. I don’t care what Lanie says; I think he’ll really like it. Evelyn fixed me up with a used sewing machine that she said was a good buy and would last for years, as well as a pattern, additional fabric, and a couple of private lessons. The base block for the quilt is a pinwheel surrounded by four half-square triangles, as Evelyn called them. Once you sew those, either you add four borders of fabric along the edges, with cornerstones—really just squares of fabric—in the corners or you make four flying-geese blocks and add those to the base block.
When I first saw the pattern, I thought it would be too hard, but Evelyn assured me I was up to it. The thing to do, she said, was take it step-by-step, deal with one block at a time and not try to look too far down the road. That seems like pretty good advice on a lot of levels. And it turns out to be true, certainly as far as quilt making is concerned. When I broke it down into steps, the block wasn’t nearly as difficult as I’d thought at first. Well, except for the flying geese. Those took a little practice to master.
So I’m having fun quilting, meeting new people, and trying new things. The summer that started out as one of the worst in my life is showing potential to become one of the best. I’m really starting to believe that Brian and I are going to be okay. Considering where we began, that’s a medium-sized miracle, so a word of appreciation to the Almighty seems warranted.
I paid for my breakfast, gathered my things, and walked down the Green to the New Bern Community Church.
It’s a pretty building—one of the most photographed in New England, so they say. The exterior is white clapboard, with a high steeple, a bell tower, and a row of big white columns lining the front.
The organ was already playing to signal the start of the service when I arrived. I stood in the vestibule, looking for one of my friends so I could sit with them, but didn’t see anyone. I accepted a photocopied weekly bulletin from a white-haired man wearing a tweed suit that seemed a little heavy for summer and went inside. I saw Evelyn, her husband, Charlie, and Virginia up toward the front. Margot and her family were there, too, but there was no room near them, so I took a seat closer to the back.
The interior is simple, the walls painted pale yellow, the window casings all in white, the wooden pews stained a warm cherry color, worn shiny and smooth from hundreds of years of contact with the hands, arms, knees, and bottoms of praying parishioners and the regular application of lemon oil, the scent of which hung faintly in the air, mixing with the aroma of melting wax from the altar candles. It was a pleasant smell, a peaceful surrounding, an atmosphere that spoke of constancy and the passage of time and made you think that, somehow, things would be all right in the end. Maybe that’s why people go to church—because they want to believe that, somehow, it all turns out.
My mind wandered during the sermon. I was too busy taking in my surroundings and the faces of the people near me to give the minister my complete attention, but I enjoyed the music. The choir, dressed in their red robes, numbered only about twenty, but they had a bigger sound than I’d expected. The acoustics were very good. I also liked the congregational reading, from Psalm 121, I think it was.
I will lift up my eyes to the mountains;
From where shall my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
Who made heaven and earth.
Speaking those words out loud and in unison with other people was kind of encouraging. My concept of God is a little blurry, but maybe standing in the presence of those who have such firm hope and are willing to declare so aloud brings a hope of its own. I guess that’s another reason people go to church.
When the last hymn was finished and the congregation was dismissed to go in peace, the organist played the postlude, and I filed out with the rest, murmuring “good morning” to the people who greeted me first. I stopped to shake the hand of the minister, Reverend Tucker, who said it was nice to meet me and seemed sincere. I echoed his words, relieved that he hadn’t asked how I liked the sermon, because I hadn’t heard that much of it.
The summer sunshine was blinding after I left the cool confines of the church. I was standing outside the door, blinking, when I heard someone calling my name and turned to see Philippa, Tessa, Evelyn, and Virginia standing in a cluster on the far side of the steps.
“Gayla!” Philippa exclaimed, and gave me a big hug. It was funny to see her dressed in her black clerical robes and collar. I’ve only ever seen her at quilt circle, and she always wears her street clothes to our meetings.
“So glad you came to the services,” she said.
“Well, I’m glad I was able to come,” I replied, meaning it. “Where is everybody?”
“Abigail is getting a cup of coffee for the road,” Tessa said. “Margot and Ivy are picking up their broods from Sunday school class. Madelyn doesn’t go to church, but she should be here any minute.”
I turned to Virginia. “Happy birthday! How does it feel to be eighty-five?”
“About the same as it did to be eighty-four. You know something? Aside from the pain in my knees and fuzzy eyesight, I really don’t feel a lot different than I did when I was forty. My thoughts are just as disorganized as they were when I was twenty. Where is this wisdom that’s supposed to come with age? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Oh, don’t give us that, old woman. Nobody’s buying it.” Charlie, Evelyn’s husband, approached carrying three cardboard cups of coffee in his big hands.
“You’re just as wise as an owl and everybody knows it,” Charlie said in his burred Irish brogue as he gave one of the cups to his mother-in-law. “Cream and two sugars for you, Virginia. Black with one sugar for my bride,” he said, giving Evelyn a peck as he handed over her cup. “And black with no sugar for me. Though I don’t know how I’ll manage to choke it down. Philippa, the coffee in this church is as tasteless as day-old dishwater. How many scoops are they putting into the pot when they brew it?”
“Charlie, I don’t know,” she said wearily. “But if you’d like to join the hospitality committee, I’m sure they’d welcome your input on the proper preparation.”
“You know,” he said, “I might just do that.”
“Yes?” Philippa said, looking surprised. “Well, we’d be glad for the help. Call me on Monday, and I’ll give you the particulars. And you,” she said, embracing Virginia, who was so tiny she nearly disappeared in the folds of Philippa’s black robe, “have a very happy birthday. I’m so sorry I won’t be able to join the festivities.”
“You’re not coming?” I asked.
Philippa shook her head. “Sunday is a workday for me. I’m leading children’s church at the second service, and after that, I’ve got a counseling session. But I want to hear all the details,” she said. “Take a lot of pictures.”
“I’ll be in charge of that.” Madelyn, who had just mounted the steps and joined us, took a shiny black camera bag from her shoulder and held it up. “Look! A Nikon D80! They cost over eight hundred new, but I found it at a tag sale for about a quarter of that. Never been used. It’s my sabbatical project. I’ve always wanted to take up photography.”
Our group expanded as the others arrived. Abigail approached, coffee cup in hand, with her husband, Franklin, trailing behind. Since she’d been absent from the quilt circle for so many weeks, her arrival was marked by many exclamations, hugs, and questions about when she would tell everyone what she’d been doing with her Friday nights. “Soon enough,” she said, giving an enigmatic smile, but that was all she was willing to say.
Margot and her husband, Paul, were next, but he didn’t stay for long. She kissed him good-bye and reminded him that she’d left a casserole in the refrigerator. Ivy was last to arrive. She handed her children off to Franklin, who had volunteered to watch them for the afternoon, telling her kids to be good.
“So are we all here?” Virginia asked, looking around expectantly. “Let’s get this show on the road! We’ve got to be in Ellington by ten-thirty.”
“So we’re going to Ellington?” Evelyn asked. “What’s in Ellington?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” Virginia said, lifting her chin.
She marched down the steps toward the parking lot with Evelyn and all the rest of us following in her wake, wondering what she was up to.
“Who’s driving?” Virginia asked.
“No one,” Abigail replied. “I’ve arranged for transportation, so we can all ride together.”
“Oh, my goodness! Will you look at that,” Virginia exclaimed as we rounded the corner of the building.
A sleek, black, stretch limousine was waiting for us. The driver, a burly man who introduced himself as Daryl, was polishing the hood with a chamois cloth.
“I have always wanted to ride in one of these things,” Virginia said excitedly, her eyes wide as she walked around the shining vehicle. “Cross another item off my bucket list! Thank you, Abigail.”
“It’s my birthday present to you. Personally, I think the stretch versions are a little vulgar, but it’ll be roomy enough to hold all of us comfortably. And you’ll find a supply of chilled sparkling cider inside.”
Madelyn raised her eyebrows. “Nothing stronger?”
“It’s not even lunchtime yet,” Abigail reminded her. “Shall we be on our way?”
“Hang on a minute,” Madelyn said, and opened her camera bag. “Let’s get a picture first.”
Everyone lined up in front of the black behemoth while Madelyn fiddled with her camera, muttering to herself. She took six shots, rearranging us into different groupings for each one before asking Daryl to stand in for her so she could be in the last picture.
When we were finished, Daryl gave the camera back to Madelyn. “By the way, where am I driving?” he asked.
Virginia pushed up on her tiptoes and whispered something in his ear. Daryl laughed.
“Seriously?”
Virginia bobbed her head, and Daryl laughed again.
“All right. It’s your day. I guess you can do whatever you want.” Giving a little bow, he opened the door. “Ladies, your chariot awaits.”
The trip took a bit over an hour.
After oohing and aahing over the car’s fancy interior, teasing Abigail about being a cheapskate for not ordering a limo with a hot tub inside, and toasting Virginia’s happiness and continued good health with flutes of sparkling cider, we did what we always did when we got together: We started stitching.
“See?” Evelyn said when she saw me pull a plastic zipper bag containing my crazy quilt from my purse. “You were born to quilt. I knew it from the moment I saw you.”
“I don’t know about that. You’d think a person born to quilt would be able to master a French knot in less than a week. But I finally got it down; the lazy daisy stitch too! Aside from gardening, quilting is the thing I enjoy most. I work on it whenever I’ve got a spare moment. Now that I have some of the stitches mastered, handwork is relaxing for me; it helps clear my head.”
“That’s great to hear,” Evelyn said, opening up her own purse and pulling out her project. “How is your other quilt coming, the one you’re making for your husband?”
“Good! I finished all the blocks, even the ones with the flying geese units. But I’m a little worried about putting them together. Wouldn’t it be easier to just sew them into strips instead of using all those zigzag seams?”
Evelyn shook her head as she threaded a needle. “Setting the blocks on point isn’t nearly as hard as it looks. There aren’t any zigzags involved, even though it looks like there are. You’ll need to add some setting triangles to the ends, but after that, you will be sewing them into strips.”
“Really?” I asked doubtfully.
“Really. Bring your blocks into the shop next week, and I’ll show you what I mean.”
“Okay, thanks.” I unfolded my crazy quilt, which measured about thirty inches square, and smoothed it out on my lap. “Small as it is, you’d think I’d be further along by now.”
Evelyn put aside the little fabric hexagon she was stitching, using a technique I had recently learned was known as English paper piecing, and leaned over to examine my work.
“It’s coming along great,” she said. “Your herringbone stitches are perfect. And those green featherstitches along the yellow floral make a nice transition to the deeper gold patch next to it. Incorporating these touches of black was a good idea—makes the brighter patches pop. But,” she said, brushing her fingers across the black patch, “it’s an awfully thick piece of cotton. We don’t have anything like that in the shop. Where did you get it?”
I bit my lower lip. “Yes . . . I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. How much do you think the napkins cost at your husband’s restaurant?”
Evelyn tilted her head to one side, as if she thought she’d misheard me. “I’m sorry?”
“Grill on the Green was the first restaurant Brian took me to in New Bern. It was also the location of our first date since . . . well, since I came up for the summer. It has a lot of memories for me, so last time I was there I . . . I took one of the black napkins.”
I looked down at my lap, blushing with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I can pay for it. I always intended to, but your husband wasn’t in the restaurant at the time, and I didn’t quite know how to explain it to the waitress. How much do I owe him? Would twenty be enough?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.
“Twenty dollars?” Evelyn laughed. “For one napkin? Don’t be silly. Charlie won’t care. He’s spent enough time with me and this crew to know that even the most law-abiding quilter can go a little crazy in hot pursuit of a fabric. And I think he’d be honored to have a little piece of his restaurant in your quilt. Don’t give it another thought.”
“But I’ve got to pay him back somehow. How about if I bring him some flowers from my garden instead? So he can put them on the tables.”
“If that would make you feel better, sure. He’d like that.”
“I’ve got a bumper crop of daisies,” I said. “I’ll bring him some of those. Hey, how did your sailing lessons go? You haven’t said a thing about it.”
Evelyn’s eyes were fixed on her hexagon patch, but her face
lit up at the mention of sailing. “I was planning to wait until next Friday to give the full report; today is Mom’s day. But since you ask, it was fantastic! At first, I was all thumbs, and during my first attempt at tacking, I forgot to duck and got whacked in the head by the boom, but by the end of the second day, I was feeling pretty comfortable. By day three, I completely fell in love with sailing. In fact, I loved it so much that I’ve decided to buy myself a sailboat.”
“Wow,” I said as I wrapped my thread three times around the needle, poked the tip through the fabric, and pulled, creating a perfectly formed French knot. “So should we start calling you Captain?”
“Well, maybe just Skipper. I’m now licensed to captain a boat up to twenty-eight feet in length, but the boat I’m buying is only half that size. Just a little day sailer, but it’ll be perfect to take out on the lake. I found it used online for a very good price. It even comes with a tow trailer.”
“That’s so great, Evelyn. You must feel really proud of yourself.”
“You know,” she said in a slightly philosophical tone, “I really do. You get to a certain age and I think you quit looking for new adventures.” She tied off her thread and clipped it with a pair of embroidery scissors that hung from a ribbon around her neck.
“Of course, every day is an adventure when you own your own business, but this was different, maybe because it was physically and mentally challenging. Like a lot of quilters, I tend to be pretty good at sitting still for long periods of time,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. “Anyway, it reminded me that you’re never too old to try something new, and I have you to thank for it. If not for you and the sabbatical project, it might never have happened.”
I looked over at Virginia, who was sitting on the far side of the car, squinting at the screen of her new smartphone, making occasional grumbling noises as she tried to get to the next level of Angry Birds.
Apart at the Seams Page 23
