A Drunkard's Path

by Clare O'Donohue

  As if he knew what I was feeling, from across the room Oliver said, “Stop trying to draw the fruit. Draw the form as values. Lights and darks. See that and not the color.”

  I had to laugh. It was something I heard over and over from the quilt club. To them fabric was a palette. A sometimes distracting palette. They held the fabrics at a distance and squinted, separating them into lights, mediums, and darks.

  “Colors don’t matter as much as contrast,” Maggie once instructed me. “Light and shadow: that’s what’s important in an interesting quilt.”

  And so it was, apparently, with fruit. As soon as I applied this quilting logic to drawing, the process became less intimidating.

  “Don’t see the color,” I told myself. “See the value. The banana is light. The green apples are medium. The deep red strawberries sitting in the shadow of the bowl are dark. Simple.”

  “See the sensuality in all the objects you draw. The life,” Oliver instructed as the class drew. “They are not lines; they take up space.”

  I could see him walking behind each easel, nodding approval or making a suggestion. It was so important to each student that Oliver like what he or she did, and I could see the disappointment in those who didn’t hear “lovely,” his official endorsement.

  When he stopped next to me, at Sandra’s easel, I couldn’t help but watch. I was hoping, stupidly, that he would hate what she had done, if only to prove that buddying up to the professor didn’t get you a free pass.

  “It’s charming,” he said. “Quite a lovely interpretation. One of the best in the class.” He smiled at her and lingered near her easel. Though Sandra said nothing, she touched his arm in a way that seemed more intimate than a student and teacher should get.

  I took the chance to step back from my work and glance over at Sandra’s. I’m not an art critic, but it was hardly charming—certainly not one of the best in the class. Neither was mine, to be honest, but Sandra’s drawing was almost unrecognizable as fruit.

  Oliver came to me next. “Lovely. You have mastered value,” he offered. I wanted to be thrilled, but after Sandra’s evaluation, his praise felt flat.

  He stopped next at Kennette’s easel. He studied it much longer than the other students, standing back, then moving in close and standing back again.

  “I’m not finished,” a nervous Kennette explained.

  Oliver shook his head. “You have talent, Kennette,” he said with a quiet certainty but also a hint of surprise. Then he walked to the front of the class.

  “He knew my name!” Kennette nearly jumped when class ended and we packed up our supplies.

  “He said you have talent, which is a much bigger deal.”

  “Everyone in class has talent. Your drawing is way better than mine.”

  I looked at my sketch pad, then hers. I was getting better, I thought, but I was still controlled, even timid. Kennette’s work had a confidence about it.

  “He’s right,” I admitted. “You’re really good.”

  She shrugged. “I’m supposed to open up with your grandmother tomorrow, so I figured I’d head to the shop tonight, if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” I said. I was trying to figure out if it was rude to ask any of the obvious questions, but I couldn’t help myself. “Where do you live?” I finally asked.

  Kennette blushed. “I don’t have the most ideal living situation,” she said. “And I’m kind of broke, so I don’t have a lot of options.”

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem to stay at my grandmother’s tonight.”

  She lit up. “That would be great.”

  “Where were you planning to sleep anyway? I mean, if you came to Archers Rest tonight.”

  “I don’t know. I would have figured out something.”

  I stood back in awe. Awe and fear. With a little bit of envy thrown in. Could I be so free-spirited? And if I was, would I be as good an artist?

  As we left the classroom, I quickly dialed the shop but got no answer. I knew it wouldn’t be a problem with Eleanor to bring home a guest, but I was starting to wonder if Kennette had the common sense to work in a quilt shop. Not that I could stop her at this point. She was a stray cat, and having fed her she was going to come back, day after day, looking for more. And just like a stray cat, there was something endearing in that.

  We were heading toward the car when we both suddenly stopped. At the far end of the parking lot Sandra was in tears while Oliver tried, apparently in vain, to comfort her.

  “What do we do?” Kennette whispered to me.

  “Leave, I guess. I doubt they’ve even noticed we’re here.”

  “Why is she crying?”

  “Maybe because your ‘talent’ trumped her ‘best in class,’” I suggested.

  Kennette looked surprised. “Oh, I hope not. I wouldn’t want something I’ve done to have hurt anyone.”

  I laughed—probably not the right thing to do because it confused Kennette and caused Oliver and Sandra to look our way. It was just that Kennette’s words were so sincere, and so kind, and so unlike anything I would have said.

  As soon as Sandra spotted us, she jumped into a car and sped away. Oliver seemed embarrassed, but in seconds his mood had changed.

  “Ladies, how did you enjoy class?” he called out cheerily as he approached.

  At this Kennette immediately swooned. “It was great. I learned a lot. I couldn’t believe how much I learned.”

  I was mortified. “I wasn’t laughing at Sandra,” I tried to explain. “I was laughing at something Kennette said.”

  Oliver waved it off. “We artists are excitable creatures. It’s what makes us interesting lovers and terrible spouses. Where are you off to, then?”

  “Work,” I replied.

  “At your grandmother’s shop,” he said. “Isn’t that where you work?”

  “Where we both work,” Kennette jumped in.

  He looked over at her. “How lovely. And you’re both going there now?”

  “Yes,” I said, amazed that he would take the time to chat.

  “I’m absolutely fascinated by quilting. A wonderful and underappreciated art form. I’ve always wanted to study a quilt up close and really see the workmanship of a master.”

  Really? I thought. Because if that were true, there were quilt shows.

  But what I said was, “It’s really endless, what you can do with fabric.”

  “You should see Nell’s grandmother’s quilts,” Kennette said. “She’s really wonderful. She has them all over her shop.”

  I was about to point out that Oliver was too busy to bother with my grandmother’s quilts when he turned to me.

  “Mind if I follow you there?” he asked.

  “To the shop?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “It’s in Archers Rest. That’s about a half hour from here.”

  “Lovely day for a drive.” He smiled.

  “That’s our car,” Kennette offered, pointing to my mine, just a few feet away.

  “Fantastic. I’ll be right behind you.” Oliver practically ran off to his car.

  CHAPTER 10

  A half hour later we were parking in front of Someday Quilts. In my rearview mirror I saw Oliver patting his hair.

  “What is he up to?” I asked.

  “He’s just interested in quilting.” Kennette jumped out of the car, all enthusiasm and excitement.

  I could see Oliver get out of his car, straighten his jacket, and move toward the shop. Kennette stopped him, and he smiled and seemed to be listening, but I could see him glancing toward the shop door.

  What is he up to? I asked again.

  Oliver and Kennette walked into the shop before I even got out of the car. A part of me wanted to avoid the train wreck that was almost certainly about to happen, but then—as is the case with actual train wrecks—curiosity got the better of me. I knew I had to see this through, so I went inside.

  “These really are magnificent,” I heard Oliver say from the back room.
>
  I walked to where I could see Oliver, Kennette, and my grandmother looking at the quilts that hung on the back wall.

  “Oliver is a big fan of quilting,” I said, a bit too sarcastically for Eleanor’s taste. I could feel the disapproval boring into me.

  But Oliver apparently didn’t notice. “Great art is great art, regardless of the medium,” he said and turned to face another wall. “Amazing. May I touch?”

  “Of course. Quilts are meant to be touched,” Eleanor said.

  “That’s the thing I love about quilting. It’s so unpretentious.”

  “It can be,” Eleanor laughed. “But, believe me, we have our prima donnas too.”

  Oliver smiled at her, and for a moment seemed to stare into her eyes. Eleanor must have noticed it too, because she did something I’d never seen her do before. She blushed.

  “This is your work?” he asked, pointing to a large winding ways quilt that hung on the wall. “It’s really magnificent. I love your use of bold colors and this design is so exciting.”

  “It’s actually a classic pattern,” Eleanor explained.

  “It’s got so much movement. But that’s due to your use of color,” Oliver gushed as he moved close to the quilt. “And the workmanship is really something. I can tell that I’m in the presence of a master.”

  I looked at Kennette to see if she shared my nausea at all the blatant kissing up. Of course Kennette was eating it up as much as Eleanor.

  “Does anyone want anything? Coffee or anything?” I asked, looking for an excuse to get out of there.

  All three of them turned to me, smiling.

  “Lovely. Black, if you don’t mind.” Oliver walked toward me. “But my treat.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a hundred-dollar bill without even looking at it.

  “Kennette, you want something?” I asked. She was staring at Oliver as if he were George Clooney.

  “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want to help me get the coffee?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  I looked over at my grandmother in the hopes that she was still a little sane, but Eleanor wasn’t looking at me either. She was smiling at Oliver, who was—and this is where things started to get weird—smiling right back.

  “My grandmother has a boyfriend.” I slammed the hundred-dollar bill on the table as soon as I walked into Carrie’s coffee shop, which was still very much in the midst of remodeling.

  “Eleanor?” Carrie looked up from cleaning.

  I heard something fall in the back room, and Natalie came running out, a mop still in her hand. “What did you say?”

  “My art professor followed us to the shop today.”

  “Us?” Carrie interrupted.

  “Kennette, the girl I take classes with.”

  “She’s going to work at the shop.” It was Natalie’s turn to interrupt. “My mom told me about her.”

  “How come I don’t know about her?” Carrie asked.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Natalie answered. “She takes classes with Nell and she wears funky clothes and she’s very nice. At least that’s what my mom said. She sounds interesting.”

  I threw my hands up. “She’s not as interesting as this,” I shouted. “Oliver, the art teacher, he followed us to the shop and is now in there hitting on Eleanor.”

  “How do you know?” I could hear the shock in Carrie’s voice. “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said he liked the quilts.”

  Natalie laughed. “Of course he liked the quilts. They’re great quilts. And since he’s an artist, he’d know.”

  I shook my head. “It was the way he said it. He praised every little thing. And it was more than that.” I paused for dramatic purposes. “He smiled at her.”

  I expected more laughs, but neither woman moved.

  “What did she do?” Carrie finally asked.

  “Smiled back,” I said.

  We all stood in silence in the middle of Carrie’s shop.

  Finally Natalie said, “I want to see this.”

  We were almost out the door when I remembered the reason I supposedly came over. Carrie poured coffee into three disposable cups, and we headed across the street to Someday Quilts, trying to look casual, and absolutely failing.

  Nothing had changed in the few minutes I was gone. Eleanor and Oliver were standing by the quilts, smiling. Kennette was a few feet away, staring dreamily. I gave Carrie and Natalie my best “I told you so” look.

  “Here’s the coffee,” I announced.

  “And it came with friends,” Oliver said happily. In seconds he was charming the new arrivals and asking to see their quilts, which were also on display. It gave me a chance to pull Eleanor aside.

  “What’s going on?”

  Eleanor the unflappable had returned. “Your teacher has a good eye for quilts,” she said, and then went to the counter for her coffee.

  “I would love to sit with you sometime and discuss the techniques you use,” Oliver said to Eleanor as he followed her to the counter.

  “That would be fine. And I’m sure there’s a lot I could learn from someone in your field that would apply to quilting.”

  “No doubt.” He smiled. “Tomorrow perhaps. Dinner?”

  “We have quilt club,” I cut in. “Every Friday.”

  “Saturday, then?” Oliver’s eyes never left Eleanor.

  “I close up the shop about six,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ll pick you up at eight?” He squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “It was lovely to meet you ladies. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

  “At class,” Kennette jumped in.

  “Yes, of course. And perhaps before then.”

  We stood at the door and watched him get into his car and drive away. Everyone but Eleanor. She was busy stacking some newly arrived magazines.

  “You have a date!” Natalie shouted. “A date with a handsome, successful artist.”

  “It’s not a date,” Eleanor scolded her. “He’s interested in talking about quilts, that’s all.” And with that she disappeared into the shop’s office.

  “Wow” was all Carrie could say.

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” Kennette asked. “He’s so sophisticated and charming. Like an old-fashioned movie star.”

  He was. I had to agree. And so did half the women taking his class, including the annoying Sandra. Even in his seventies, he had a sexy, bad-boy quality about him. It seemed clear that he had spent a lifetime playing by his own rules and was celebrated for it.

  So why was a man like that hitting on my grandmother?

  CHAPTER 11

  “It’s off the table,” I whispered. “No one can bring it up. Trust me.” Though Oliver had been in the shop only twenty-four hours before, every member of the quilt club arrived for our usual Friday meeting knowing word for word what had happened. And everyone was dying to talk about it. Except Eleanor.

  Kennette and I had tried to broach the subject when we were sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen having dinner a few hours after Oliver’s visit. The stone silence we got in response made it clear that this was not an open subject.

  All day at the shop Kennette and I made pathetic attempts to look busy while Eleanor waited on every customer who came in, unwilling to let us handle even the easy sales. When we were finally closing up for the night, Eleanor suggested that Kennette stay for the meeting. There was nothing unusual in that, the quilt group was extremely welcoming. But I felt that my grandmother wasn’t just fostering Kennette’s interest in quilting. She was hoping that the presence of a new-comer would draw attention away from her.

  It didn’t work. Ten minutes into the meeting Bernie teasingly asked about Eleanor’s plans for the weekend. Eleanor remembered something she needed in the office and disappeared.

  “She must be terrified,” Bernie said. “It’s been years since she’s gone on a date. When did her husband die?”

  “Almost forty-eight years ago,” Maggie said. “Joe died
just weeks after Eleanor’s twenty-sixth birthday.”

  I’d never done the math before. It took me a second to digest the fact that my grandmother was my age when she was widowed with two small children.

  “And she never went on another date again?” Natalie asked quietly, in case Eleanor emerged.

  Maggie took a deep breath. “She had . . .” Maggie was choosing her words carefully. “Interest.” She stopped for a moment, and then added firmly, “But she had children to raise.”

  “Getting remarried would have made that simpler,” Susanne whispered, sitting forward in her chair.

  Bernie shook her head. “I think she was mad at Joe for getting drunk and wrapping his car around a tree.”

  “And leaving her broke,” I added. “I know she was really blind-sided when she found out that he had lied to her.”

  “About what?” Natalie asked.

  “He’d wanted her to think they were doing better financially than they actually were,” Maggie answered. “Nell’s right. I think she was more upset about the lies than about finding out after he died that she had no money.”

  Bernie sighed. “I think she was just afraid to get hurt again.”

  Carrie sat back in her chair, stunned. “I can’t imagine Eleanor being afraid of anything.”

  As if on cue, Eleanor walked back into the meeting and sat in her chair. “We’ve been asked to donate some quilts to the fire department, if anyone’s interested,” she said. “They find it very helpful to have warm quilts waiting for a family watching their house go up in flames.”

  We all nodded and murmured our willingness to participate. But Kennette sat up and looked straight at Eleanor. “I think it’s wonderful that you have a date with Oliver White. I think he’s a fascinating man, and he clearly has great taste.” She looked around the room. “We all think it’s wonderful.”

  Each member of the quilt club sat silent in her chair, waiting for Eleanor’s reaction. But before she could say anything, Kennette spoke again.

  “But that’s not what we’re here to talk about,” she said, “so I was wondering if you ladies could help me choose a pattern for my first quilt?”