The Lover's Knot

by Clare O'Donohue

  “I suppose I can cut out some things,” Tom replied.

  “What things?” I interjected.

  “We can do something simpler. Keep as many of the old materials as possible. I can work without an assistant, but it will take longer.”

  “That won’t do,” Eleanor said. “This can’t take longer than a few weeks or it’s not worth doing.” She seemed to be genuinely considering just returning the shop to its previous, overcrowded state.

  “Oh, Eleanor, we’ve gone too far to turn back now,” Nancy said.

  Tom looked as his feet. “I know a young guy who works practically for free just to get some carpentry experience,” he said. “And as far as my labor is concerned, I can lower the price a bit, for a trade.”

  Eleanor smiled just a little. “Trade what?”

  “Well, I passed this shop many times when I visited my sister. And someone here made her a quilt when she went to the hospital.”

  “The quilt club,” said Eleanor. “The ladies outside, Nancy and myself.”

  “Well, it was really nice, and it cheered up my sister throughout that whole ordeal.” Tom looked toward Jesse, who nodded slightly and looked away. “It got me to thinking. My wife is home with our twin boys all day, and she’s awfully stressed about it. I thought maybe if I . . . if you . . . made her a quilt, she could curl up in it at the end of the day and it would be, you know, something special just for her.”

  “That’s the trade you would like?” Eleanor said.

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “What are your wife’s interests?”

  “Um,” said a puzzled Tom, “she likes to garden, or she did before the boys.”

  Eleanor steadied herself on one crutch and held out her hand. “It’s a deal,” she said. Tom reached out his, and they shook on it.

  “You’ll start tomorrow?”

  “Yes, ma’am . . . Mrs. Cassidy.”

  “So will I. On the day I’m done with the quilt, I’d like you to be done with the shop.”

  “She’s fast, by the way,” I warned.

  Tom just nodded. “First thing we should do is get paper over the picture window. I’ll need to leave tools and supplies in here overnight, and people sometimes help themselves to things on a construction site. Especially if they can get a clear view in like this.”

  I turned bright red, remembering my afternoon with Marc.

  “I’ve got the paper in my truck,” Tom said. “I can do it now, if that’s all right.”

  “It’s fine,” Jesse said. “We’ve done all the fingerprint and blood work here, but I’m not releasing the scene completely until tomorrow morning. I want to give it one more look.”

  “We’ll stay out of your way until tomorrow,” Eleanor said. “In fact, we should all go now.”

  Eleanor headed for the door, and the others filed behind her, like a rock star’s entourage. But my attention had turned to the hole in the wall. I walked over and examined the space.

  “What?” Jesse was suddenly behind me.

  “The hole . . . it’s larger,” I said.

  “You remember the size?” He looked at me, a bit impressed, maybe, but mostly skeptical.

  “Yes,” I said. “Marc and I discussed it. I remember it was about the size of an orange. It’s bigger now, grapefruit size, maybe.”

  “Well, you know your fruits,” he said lightly, but he bent down and examined the hole more closely.

  “Are you coming?” Eleanor called back to me.

  “In a second,” I said. Then Jesse and I both turned and followed the others out of the shop as Tom came back in with a large roll of brown paper.

  CHAPTER 30

  Tom felt he would need two weeks, with one helper, to complete work on the shop. I agreed to supervise the work while Nancy helped my grandmother out at the makeshift shop at her house. helped my grandmother out at the makeshift shop at her house.

  “We have some work to do,” she said to the ladies as she exited the shop. Then she told them about Tom’s extra charge for the work. “Construction on this place starts tomorrow morning, and then it’s a race to see if we finish before Tom. I don’t want to give him any excuse for delays.”

  “I say we keep it simple, maybe small squares in color-wash effect, greens, yellows, pinks, purples . . . a kind of Monet’s garden,” said Nancy, immediately sketching out a quilt on the back of an envelope. “If you all work on that, maybe Eleanor and I can appliqué flowers and vines along the borders.”

  Everyone had gathered around to see her design, and then just as quickly they dispersed to their cars, ready to get started.

  “We should get to Eleanor’s and pick the fabrics,” said Maggie.

  “Natalie,” Jesse called out. “Can I speak with you a second?”

  Natalie stopped and turned to Jesse. “Sure,” she said nervously. “What for?”

  “Just a quick question.”

  “Well, we’ll wait,” said her mother, Susanne.

  “That’s not necessary,” Jesse said firmly. “I can drop her at Eleanor’s.”

  Susanne took a long look at her daughter, then climbed into her car. Ryan was all but kidnapped by Bernie, who insisted repeatedly that he join her for the ride over. After a few protests, he went along.

  Eleanor was taking her time walking toward our car. The hard-nosed businesswoman of a minute before suddenly seemed tired and fragile.

  “Just give me a minute, dear,” she said. “Maybe this has all been too much for me.”

  So while Tom took measurements in the shop, Eleanor leaned against the car as if she needed to catch her breath and Barney and I stood by, waiting. I watched as, inches away from me, Jesse moved close to Natalie.

  “Where did you go the other night?” Jesse asked.

  “Home,” she said quickly.

  “Not according to your husband. And why didn’t you return my calls yesterday?”

  “I was busy,” she said, even more quickly.

  “Try again,” Jesse almost snapped, in an uncharacteristic show of emotion.

  “After what happened I went for a walk,” Natalie said, her voice quivering. “I could hardly go home. I needed time to . . . grieve, I guess.”

  I watched Jesse blink slowly, deliberately. “Where did you walk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know where you walked? You’ve lived in this town your entire life.”

  “So what?”

  “It’s not much of an alibi, Natalie,” he said coldly.

  “Do I need an alibi?”

  “Yes, I think you do, considering your history with Marc.”

  Marc, I suddenly realized, was the man with whom Natalie had had the painful affair my grandmother mentioned—not an old boyfriend from before her marriage but an old boyfriend from a time when she, like me, had been vulnerable. And maybe Marc had been taking advantage of her, as Jesse suggested he was about to do with me. My mind was racing and I leaned toward Jesse and Natalie unconsciously, only to pull back when I saw Jesse look over at me.

  “I have to go to Eleanor’s now,” Natalie said stiffly.

  “We’ll drive you,” I found myself saying, not even pretending I wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “Thanks,” said Natalie, and she hopped into the back of the car.

  Jesse paused, then stepped toward my grandmother. “Feeling better, Eleanor?” he said without obvious sarcasm but with a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe her need for rest.

  “Yes, thanks,” she said, and smiled. With a sudden burst of energy she got herself into the car.

  Jesse looked at me, his face slightly flushed.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, and then felt intrusive.

  He nodded. Then he turned and walked back toward the shop without saying anything else.

  In the car on the way back to the house, Natalie burst into tears and sobbed, “He hates me.”

  “Who hates you?” I asked, but Eleanor touched my hand to quiet me.
/>   “Don’t let him get to you, dear,” she said to Natalie.

  “I’m not a perfect person. I admit that,” Natalie said. “But I did my best. I really did.”

  “Of course you did,” Eleanor said soothingly. “Jesse is just very sensitive on the subject.”

  “It was hard on me too,” Natalie said through her tears.

  “Of course. It was a terrible thing,” Eleanor said. “But you can’t take it so personally.”

  Behind me Natalie sniffed and continued crying, while Barney whimpered and tried to comfort her. With nothing else to go on but the obvious tension between Jesse and Natalie, my mind started to go through the possibilities. Did Natalie have some kind of criminal record? Or maybe there was something about her relationship with Marc that was worth killing over. Or, as unlikely as it seemed, had Jesse, Marc and Natalie been involved in a romantic triangle? Whatever the case, it didn’t seem like anyone was anxious to fill me in on the details. If I wanted to know, I would have to fill them in for myself.

  CHAPTER 31

  All the cars were already parked in the driveway when we pulled up, and everyone was waiting by the front door. Except Ryan. Somehow he must have managed to get away from Bernie’s grip, but I wondered where he had gone.

  “Everything okay back there?” Susanne called out as we pulled up.

  “Fine, just fine,” said my grandmother.

  Natalie jumped out of the car and she and Susanne huddled just a few feet away from the rest of us. I assumed Natalie was filling her mother in on the details of the conversation, but they were just out of listening range.

  While the women went to the dining room to choose fabrics, I went back to the kitchen to make coffee. And to look for Ryan. Mostly to look for Ryan. He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t upstairs. I was tempted to ask Bernie where he had gone, but I didn’t want to seem interested. So I ended my search, went back to the kitchen and made coffee for the others.

  “Look at you, Susie homemaker,” came a familiar voice.

  I turned to see Amanda standing in the doorway.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” I almost knocked over a chair running to hug her.

  She hugged me back and we stayed locked like that until another familiar voice broke the spell.

  “I don’t remember you ever being that glad to see me,” he said.

  It was Ryan, standing just behind Amanda.

  “Did you know Amanda was coming?” I asked.

  “No, she just showed up a few minutes ago.”

  “I took the train up,” she said excitedly. “I tried to call you, but I couldn’t reach you, so I called Ryan’s cell. He picked me up at the train station. I can’t believe this house. It’s so cool.”

  “Why did you come?” I said. “Not that I’m not glad to see you.”

  “You seemed like you needed me,” she said as she sat on the kitchen chair. “Is that coffee for anyone?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I poured a cup, then sat next to her and stared. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I’ll bring the coffee in to the ladies,” Ryan said. “Don’t talk about me while I’m gone.”

  “You think you’re so interesting.” Amanda winked at him in that flirtatious way she had with every man, even ones that were taken. Of course Ryan wasn’t exactly taken, and getting the story was why, I knew, she had really come to Archers Rest. As soon as Ryan was out of the room, Amanda turned to me and leaned in. “So . . . tell me everything.”

  “There isn’t anything to tell. Not really. I mean there’s a million things, but nothing with Ryan.”

  “Where did he sleep last night?”

  “Upstairs in my room,” I said.

  “Then there’s something to tell,” she said.

  “I slept with my grandmother and her dog.”

  “That’s not some creepy small-town tradition, is it?”

  Amanda was anxious to meet my grandmother and the women I’d been talking—and complaining—about since I arrived in Archers Rest, so I led her into the dining room.

  There the group was huddled over piles of fabric in every shade of the rainbow. They all seemed like solid colors until I got close and realized they were mottled, with variations of the same color in a cloudlike effect. Others seemed to have been tie-dyed in different shades. It seemed to me they didn’t need to be cut up and made into a quilt. They were beautiful just as they were. But the rest of the room’s occupants didn’t seem to share my view. They were already debating how to cut the fabric, in what order and by whom. And it was a lively debate. My grandmother sat in a chair leaning over so far to examine the fabrics that I thought she would fall out. Maggie and Natalie, the oddest of friends, yet always joining forces, grabbed fabrics and threw them on the floor to where Nancy sat with Bernie and Carrie. The three women would put each one next to fabrics that had already been chosen, while the others shouted out “yeahs” and “nays” to each new selection. Only Susanne didn’t seem to be interested in the free-for-all. She sat quietly next to Eleanor, staring into the pile of fabrics, a million miles away from the rest.

  “Who’s this?” Eleanor suddenly noticed that Amanda and I were in the room.

  “This is Amanda, my friend from New York,” I said. “This is my grandmother and her Friday Night Quilt Club.”

  “And Ryan,” said Bernie.

  Ryan was busy moving coffee cups out of the way of flying fabric and didn’t even look up.

  “Amanda and Ryan and I work together,” I said.

  “Well, Amanda,” Nancy held up a bolt of mottled light green fabric, “what do you think of this?”

  “I think it’s lovely,” she said, clearly unsure of what answer she was supposed to give.

  “I agree.” Nancy added it to the quickly growing pile of chosen fabrics.

  “Don’t you have enough?” I asked as the bolts of fabric teetered over.

  All the women laughed. Not just laughed, but laughed as if I had uttered truly the stupidest thing ever said.

  “You can’t have too many fabrics, dear,” Maggie admonished sternly.

  “Why not?” Amanda asked with just the right amount of naiveté and interest. They had her.

  “This,” Nancy explained, pointing to the fabric, “this is our paint box. I use one green for, say, a leaf. But I shade it with a slightly darker green from a different fabric.”

  “So the more fabric, the more depth,” I jumped in.

  “Exactly.” My grandmother’s eyes lit up. “The more fabrics you use, the more you can say in your quilt. You can draw someone in, make it so their eyes move across it. Two fabrics in a quilt is fine, but it has to be a deliberate choice. And it can be tricky to create emotion in a quilt with two fabrics. But you can make even the simplest patterns seem complicated by using lots of different fabrics.”

  “Oh, cut out the baloney,” Bernie interrupted. “I use a lot of fabrics for one reason. Because I love to buy fabric and I need an excuse to buy a lot, and I’m not alone.”

  “That’s okay too,” Eleanor laughed. “That’s what keeps me in business.”

  “Well, I guess we should leave you to it, then,” I said. I nodded toward Amanda and we made a quick exit before we were drafted to help.

  Amanda and I grabbed our coats and were heading out the front door when Ryan caught up with us. “Let’s all go out for coffee,” he suggested.

  “Can Amanda and I have some time alone?” I asked. He looked toward Amanda. “Why are you looking to her for permission?” I demanded.

  Amanda smiled. “Don’t worry, Ryan. I won’t give her any more ammunition to throw you out on your ass.”

  I laughed, but Ryan looked back at me worried. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to be here,” I reminded him as I got in the car.

  Ryan stepped back, but I could tell he was not pleased, and— this surprised me—I really didn’t care.

  CHAPTER 32

  We parke
d in front of the bakery, but I’d run out of interest in coffee and pastries, so we walked down the block to Moran’s Pub. Inside it was dark and a little run-down. The sort of place where three or four rumpled old men sit continuously at the bar from opening to closing, drinking without getting drunk. But there were no such men sitting at Moran’s, just a cooing young couple at the bar and two college-age kids playing pool.

  We ordered two beers and sat at a corner booth. I hadn’t even had a chance to take a sip before Amanda started.

  “Ryan is trying to win you back,” she said.

  “That’s the only thing that makes sense, except he isn’t exactly doing anything to get me back.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like telling me that postponing the wedding was a big mistake. Or telling me that he never wants to be with anyone else.” I took a breath. “And that’s just for starters. Where are the flowers, the candy, you know . . . the stuff?”

  “Would that make a difference?”

  That stopped me. I didn’t know. “It might,” I said. “But it doesn’t look like I’m going to find out.”

  Amanda sat back and took a sip of her beer. Behind her the door opened, and Jesse walked in. He waved. I waved back, and Amanda turned around to see who had caught my attention.

  “Who’s that?” she asked with an exaggerated smile.

  “The local police chief.”

  “He’s cute.” I could tell she was heading into flirtation mode.

  “He’s not cute,” I protested.

  He’d ditched his overcoat and was wearing jeans and a sport coat layered over a navy blue V-neck sweater and T-shirt. Between the clothes, the glasses, and the low light of the pub, he looked like he belonged with the college students playing pool. When he glanced up and saw me watching, I turned back to Amanda, but he was already walking over.