The Lover's Knot
O'Donohue, Clare
New York : Plume, c2008. (2008)
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### From Publishers Weekly
A stitch above most craft cozies, O'Donohue's sweet debut introduces Nell Fitzgerald, a Manhattan publishing professional whose broken engagement leads her to the Hudson River town of Archer's Rest, where her grandmother, Eleanor Cassidy, runs Someday Quilts. After her grandmother takes a nasty fall, Nell decides to help Eleanor recuperate and expand the store with the assistance of Marc Reed, a handsome handyman. The unexpected arrival of Ryan, Nell's ex-fiancé, during a tender moment with Marc causes a major fight. Things get worse after Marc turns up at Someday Quilts scissored to death. Local police chief Jesse Dewalt, an attractive widower, has a roster of suspects, including Ryan. Ryan offers to reconcile, but first Nell must clear Ryan's name by helping Jesse solve Marc's murder. O'Donohue sensitively depicts Nell's romantic quandary of Ryan vs. Jesse within a solid smalltown whodunit. _(Sept.)_
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
### From
O’Donohue debuts her Someday Quilts Mystery series with a promising story about women’s friendships and quilting. It is a pleasant, even a gentle read—except for the cheating boyfriend and the murder. Nell Fitzgerald is excited to receive a beautiful, handmade lover’s-knot quilt as an engagement gift from her grandmother, Eleanor. But then things begin to go horribly wrong. Her fiancé, Ryan, suddenly decides to call off the wedding. Nell leaves New York to visit her grandmother in the small town of Archers Rest. As the grieving Nell becomes acquainted with her grandmothers’ quilt shop, called Someday Quilts, and her circle of friends, two more unfortunate events take place: her grandmother breaks her leg, and the body of a flirtatious handyman is found in the quilt shop. Nell turns her attention to solving the mystery, while the quilters begin to teach her about their art. Fiction about quilting is popular right now, and fans will make the connection to Jennifer Chiaverini’s Elm Creek Quilts books and Emilie Richards’ Shenandoah Album series. Mystery readers will also think of Earlene Fowler’s terrific Benni Harper series. Look forward to Nell’s further adventures in Archers Rest. --Judy Coon
Table of Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
A PLUME BOOK
THE LOVER’S KNOT
CLARE O’DONOHUE is a freelance television writer/producer. She has worked worldwide on a variety of shows for the Food Network, the History Channel, and truTV, among others. An avid quilter, she also was a producer for HGTV’s Simply Quilts.
PLUME
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, October 2008
Copyright © Clare O’Donohue
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
O’Donohue, Clare.
The lover’s knot : a Someday Quilts mystery / Clare O’Donohue.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-436-23651-5
1. Quilting—Fiction. 2. Quiltmakers—Fiction. 3. Quilts—Fiction. 4. Murder—Fiction.
5. New York (State)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3615.D665L68 2008
813’.6—dc22 2008016909
. Kirch
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
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http://us.penguingroup.com
To my mom, for teaching me
to love words and live life
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing may be a solitary process, but this book would not have been written without the aid of quite a few people—a few are listed here. First of all, I’d like to thank Allison Dickens and Branda Maholtz, my wonderful editors, Nadia Kashper, and the team at Plume. My agent, Sharon Bowers, and everyone at the Miller Agency. My sister Mary for serving as head cheerleader, first editor, and unofficial publicity director. My friend and fellow writer Kara Thomas, who nudged and nagged me to sit down and write. Alex Anderson
for her friendship, advice, and quilting knowledge. Laura Chambers and the producers and guests of Simply Quilts. Cindy O’Donohue, Allison Stedman, Kelly Haran, Alessandra Ascoli, Joi De Leon, Amanda Young, Aimee Avallone, Bryna Levin, Kevin Dorff, and V for friendship, support, and for not letting me slack off. Margaret Smith, for serving as official photographer. Peggy McIntyre, for a lifetime of friendship. And my family, Dennis, Petra, Mikie, Jim, Connor, Grace, Jack, and Steven.
CHAPTER 1
“I’m fine,” I said between sobs.
“I know you are, dear.” My mother’s worried voice on the other end of the phone made it clear she knew just the opposite. “Call Grandma. You can go up and stay with her for a few days.”
“I will.”
“And try to get a good night’s sleep.”
That was out of the question. I’d scheduled crying for the next few hours, followed by fits of anger, loneliness, despair and denial. An intense desire to call Ryan would likely keep me occupied from midnight to three. Then, if all went according to plan, I’d fall into an unsatisfying sleep and wake up with a splitting headache and a bed full of tissues.
I pushed the wedding invitations off the bed and watched them fan out over the floor. The envelopes bent and the response cards landed in dust. What did it matter? They were headed to the garbage anyway.
How had this happened? This morning I was happy. I had everything—almost everything. And the one thing that was missing had arrived in the afternoon.
Six months ago when I announced my engagement, my grandmother Eleanor Cassidy, the formidable matriarch on my mother’s side of the family, called me with a question.
“What colors do you want?”
I immediately knew she was speaking of my wedding quilt. My grandmother owns a small quilt shop in upstate New York. She has made me a quilt for all special occasions, from my first day at school to my college graduation to my first apartment. Some are large enough for a bed, but most are wall hangings—intricate, modern, and usually in her preferred bold, bright colors.
So when she asked me to choose the colors, I knew exactly how she’d react.
“Neutrals,” I replied. I had already decorated the bedroom in my mind and decided it would be a soothing, restful place full of neutral colors.
“Neutrals?” I could hear the annoyance in her voice.
I laughed. “Yeah, you know tans, beiges, whites, creams. Can you do it? If not . . .”
“I can do anything.” And with that she hung up. My grandmother is not a woman to waste time.
When she called me and told me she was sending the quilt, I was so excited that I took a vacation day just to stay home and wait for it. Not an easy conversation to have with the boss, but I didn’t care. The quilt was not only going to be beautiful, I was sure, but it was tangible proof that the wedding was approaching.
At about one o’clock, my doorbell rang.
“Good afternoon, Nell Fitzgerald. That’s a huge box you’re getting, ” the deliveryman said.
“It’s from my grandmother,” I told him as if he had been dying to know. “It’s my wedding quilt.”
Before the deliveryman had even left, I ripped open the box. At first all I saw was one large piece of fabric with an embroidered label: “Machine sewn with love by Grandma. Hand quilted by the Friday Night Quilt Club.”
I pulled it out and flipped it over to the front. It was the most beautiful quilt I had ever seen: a lover’s knot pattern, little strips of fabric sewn together to form interlocking diamonds. The background strips were in fabrics of soft whites and ivory, the others in subtle shades of tan and beige. It was as if the quilt were already a hundred years old—its quiet, seemingly faded colors whispering a tale of a long and happy love.
I cleared my fading comforter off the bed and spread the quilt over it. I carefully straightened and smoothed it, running my fingers over the patches and the tiny handmade stitches. My grandmother often would say that when several people work on a quilt, you could see the differences in their stitches. If you looked hard enough, she told me, you could count how many people contributed to a quilt. But as I stared, I could only see perfect stitches, one just like the next. It seemed impossible to me that five different women, the members of my grandmother’s Friday Night Quilt Club, each could have worked on it.
My bed, a futon really, was only a double, so the quilt draped onto the floor, but it was beautiful enough to make even my crappy furniture look dressed up. I lay on it and closed my eyes, feeling the soft fabric with my fingers. I knew that the only thing that would make this more perfect would be the moment when my fiancé, Ryan, and I made love under this quilt for the first time.
But that was eight hours ago. Before Ryan stopped by, before he looked guilty and scared and unsure. Before he told me what he had been waiting to say for, apparently, weeks. Before the life I’d planned turned to dust.
CHAPTER 2
The train left at 12:05 p.m. Even though I had gone to Grand Central, bought a ticket and boarded the train, I still had no idea what I was doing running away to Archers Rest, and to my grandmother. What was it going to solve?
I could have stayed home, pulled the covers over my head and pretended it was a nightmare. My face was red, with the remnants of yesterday’s makeup still visible. My eyes were so puffy they could barely open. My long hair, which yesterday had been neatly pulled back, was now ratty. I hadn’t showered, washed my face or brushed my teeth. I looked like the sort of woman that any man with the slightest amount of common sense would leave. And yet, even looking the way I did, I knew I had to get on the train and go to the prickly comfort of my straight-talking grandmother.
As the train moved north, I tried to hide by slouching down in my seat and staring out the window, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t see the streets of Harlem passing by outside my window. Instead there was a horrible movie playing in my head, over and over, and I couldn’t make it stop.
Ryan and I met two years ago, on my first day at Garvey Publishing. We waited for the elevator together in the lobby of the building.I noticed him immediately. He was tall with neatly cut brown hair and deep brown eyes. He seemed sure of himself, without being cocky. When the elevator arrived, he waved me on first and we smiled politely to each other. He had a lovely smile, wide and sincere and welcoming. I was attracted to him the minute I saw him, but I played it cool. I stared at the elevator buttons and tried to think of something to say. But he talked first.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Thirty-fifth floor . . . doing layouts.”
“Do you work with Amanda?”
“Yes. I guess. I don’t know anyone up there. It’s my first day.”
At that moment the door opened to his floor, but instead of getting out, Ryan smiled and waited for the doors to close. “She’s great. I’ll introduce you.”
We went up the additional five floors and into the layout department, where I met Amanda, a beautiful twentysomething woman who smiled quickly when she saw Ryan. I was about to be jealous until I saw a framed photo of Amanda and a GQ-looking man displayed on her desk. Ryan left me in her care with a wink and a softly spoken good-bye.
“I’ll see you around.”
When? I wanted to ask, but instead I muttered, “Sure.”
From that day on he pursued me relentlessly. He called me his girlfriend on our third date, said “I love you” by the fifth, brought up the subject of marriage long before I’d even thought of him as marriage material, and proposed six months ago without so much as a hint from me.
All along I felt slightly undeserving, as if I’d won a twenty-million-dollar lottery on the only ticket I’d ever bought. But Ryan had always seemed so sure. Of me. Of us. Of everything.
But last night when he came over, he didn’t seem sure of anything. He didn’t really kiss me when he walked in the door, just grazed my lips absentmindedly. He walked around the place as if he had been invited for the first time, unsure of where to go.
“You’re almost completely packed,” he kept saying.
“We’re moving into the new place soon,” I reminded him.
He nodded, lightly touched a few of the boxes, and did everything to avoid my eyes. It was clear there was more than the new apartment on his mind. Not that he was talking.
So I talked. “I picked up the invitations,” I said. “And I was thinking that we could spend Saturday addressing envelopes and have Sunday to do something non-wedding-related.”
He nodded again. Lately he seemed to zone out every time I mentioned the wedding. “Typical cold feet” was what everyone told me. And I guessed that was true, except . . . it kept nagging at me. Something was different, more polite, more formal. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask him, and he didn’t seem willing to tell me. So I ignored it the best I could and kept talking.
“I was thinking that if we did invite Carla and James from work, we really don’t have to invite Diane. I know they work in the same department but . . .” I knew I was rambling, but a part of me was afraid to stop talking.
He was staring at the quilt. Sitting on my bed, he had looked down and noticed that the still-draped quilt was covering the bed and half the floor.
“Isn’t it great ? My grandmother’s wedding gift. My grandmother made the top. I told her I wanted neutrals, you know, beiges and tans and stuff, and she told me it would take months and months to get the right ones. I guess it’s really hard to get neutral fabrics, even if you do own a quilt shop.”
I was talking really fast, the way people do when they’re nervous. First date nervous—with a man you like who may, or may not, like you. I had forgotten that feeling, and let me tell you, it did not feel good.
Ryan seemed equally ill at ease, which was actually starting to frighten me. He just kept staring at the bed. I couldn’t tell if he was hearing me. He looked like he was on the verge of tears. I was hoping, just for a second, that he was overcome with love and excitement, but that seemed unlikely. He was almost panicky. I could have asked him what was wrong, pointed out the obvious, but why do that? That might lead to an open, frank discussion about our future, and who wants that with a man you’re about to marry?
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