The True Love Quilting Club

by Lori Wilde

  “No one’s judging you,” Nina said, then she tilted back her head and downed the entire contents of her cup.

  “Well,” Raylene said, “whaddya know about that?”

  Emma finished Charlie’s quilt on Sunday. She and Sam hadn’t spoken since their odd fight. She’d been so busy with rehearsals that she hadn’t seen him except to occasionally catch a glimpse of him on the square. Every time she did, her heart revved, even though she kept telling herself that Sam’s influence in her life had drawn to a natural close.

  But that didn’t stop her from wrapping the small purple quilt in a box and tying it up with a blue bow. This was about Charlie, not the complicated issues between her and Sam. At three that afternoon, she climbed Sam’s porch steps and knocked on his door.

  Sam opened the door, looking drop-dead-delicious in tan cargo pants and a green and white Dallas Stars T-shirt. His face remained expressionless, but she saw the flicker of welcome in his eyes.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  Sam moved aside, and Charlie came running into the foyer, grinning.

  Emma stepped over the threshold and followed Sam into the living room. He waved at the couch and she sat down. He took the recliner positioned across from her, perched on the edge of his seat, and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “What’s up?”

  “I have a gift for Charlie.”

  “That was nice of you.” His voice was even, devoid of emotion.

  Charlie crawled up onto the couch beside Emma, and she smelled the sweaty scent of little boy. She set the box in his lap, then immediately had qualms about the gift. He was a kid. He was probably expecting a toy, not a quilt. Anxiety bit into her. What had she been thinking? It was a dumb idea.

  “It’s not any big thing,” she added as he untied the bow.

  He was a meticulous kid. Not tearing into the box, but rather going slowly, taking his time. Just like his father on that score. Emma glanced over to see Sam studying her.

  Charlie lifted the lid and stared down at the quilt.

  He hates it. How stupid to think a kid would like a quilt.

  Charlie took the quilt from the box, his green eyes solemn. He held it up to his face and took a deep breath.

  Emma nibbled her bottom lip. “Do you like it?”

  The boy lowered the quilt and stared off as if looking at a memory. Or a ghost. He raised the quilt to his nose again and took another sniff.

  “I made it myself,” she said.

  “From Valerie’s dress,” Sam murmured.

  For the first time, it occurred to her that he might not appreciate her cutting up Valerie’s dress to make the quilt. “Was that okay?”

  “I gave it to you to do as you wish.” His eyes were as enigmatic as his son’s. “Give Emma a hug for working so hard to make you a quilt,” Sam prompted Charlie.

  Emma glanced back at Charlie, her heart a tight knot in her throat.

  A single tear glistened at the corner of Charlie’s right eye, but he just kept sitting there. He made no move to hug her as his father had directed.

  Oh dear. He was upset with her. Misery pushed against her breastbone. Why had she done it? What had she been thinking?

  “Charlie,” Sam admonished. “Give Emma a hug.”

  The boy opened his mouth as if to protest, but he hadn’t spoken a word since his mother’s death over a year ago. His little fingers curled tightly around the quilt, bunching it up.

  “It’s okay, Sam, he doesn’t have to hug me if he doesn’t want to,” Emma said.

  “Go on,” Sam urged. “Emma put in a lot of hard work on that quilt. She made it just for you.”

  “He’s a kid, he doesn’t get that. No worries. I understand.” Emma stood up.

  “No, Charlie needs to learn it’s good manners to thank someone when they give you a gift.”

  Charlie took another deep breath, his small chest expanding on a big gulp of air. Then, in a raspy voice that sounded like a rusty hinge creaking open in an old barn, he whispered, “This quilt smells like my mommy.”

  Emma’s mouth fell open. Was she hearing things? Or had Charlie just spoken? Stunned, she raised her gaze to meet Sam’s.

  He looked as gobsmacked as she felt. “Did he just…?”

  “I think he just did.” Emma grinned.

  She could tell Sam wanted to grab Charlie in his arms, spin him around the room, and holler in triumph, because she wanted to do exactly the same thing. But neither one of them wanted to startle the boy. If they made too big a deal of it, he might stop talking.

  “Did you say something, son?” Sam sank down on his knees in front of Charlie and put his arm on the boy’s shoulder.

  Charlie looked at his dad, pressed the quilt to his nose once more, and then his words came out in a pell-mell rush. “This smells just like my mommy. How come it smells like my mommy? Is she here?” He glanced around the room. “Where is my mommy?”

  Emma’s heart cracked. The child looked so vulnerable with his big, sad eyes brimming with confusion behind the thick-lensed glasses, and she knew immediately she’d committed a monumental mistake by making the quilt from his mother’s clothes. Remorse had her pressing a hand to her mouth. How could she have been so stupid?

  Sam slipped his arm around the boy’s waist. “Charlie,” he said softly, “you talked.”

  Charlie thrust out his chest and cocked his head. A pensive expression crossed his face as if he was considering what Sam had said. Finally, he nodded.

  “You know your mommy is gone, right? We’ve talked about this.”

  He nodded and said haltingly, “She…went to…live with…angels.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But not Aunt Jenny’s angels?” He turned his head in the direction of the Merry Cherub.

  Maddie was standing in the doorway, her hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears. Emma felt tears of her own pushing at the backs of her eyes.

  “No,” Sam said.

  “But this smells like my mommy.”

  “That’s because Emma made the quilt out of your mommy’s purple dress. The dress still had mommy’s smell on it. Emma made the quilt just for you to have something you can always remember your mommy by,” Sam patiently explained.

  Charlie thought about this a moment. “Oh.”

  A plethora of emotions sent goose bumps spreading over Emma’s arms. She was responsible for getting Charlie’s hopes up and then dashing them. She could feel the little guy’s disappointment, and it killed her soul. But because of the quilt she’d made him, he’d spoken for the first time in over a year.

  Maddie could contain herself no longer. She rushed into the room, scooped Charlie into her arms. “You talked! You talked!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She spun him around in circles. Patches got into the mood, doing some spinning of his own. “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie Martin Cheek.”

  Maddie laughed joyfully. “How old are you?”

  “Six years old.”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Maddie.”

  “Why didn’t you talk before now?”

  Charlie shrugged, still holding tight to the purple quilt.

  “Who cares, right? It doesn’t matter. Not at all. I’m making your favorite meal for supper,” Maddie declared.

  “Hot dogs?” Charlie asked.

  “With macaroni and cheese from the box, just the way you like it.”

  Patches barked as if to say he concurred.

  Emma looked over at Sam, mixed emotions swimming in his eyes as well. Would he reproach her for the quilt? She deserved a rebuke for not thinking this thing through. She had no idea Charlie would have such a strong reaction to the quilt.

  “May I see you out on the back porch?” Sam asked.

  Oh no, here it comes. Bracing herself for a strong tongue-lashing, she stepped out onto the porch. “Sam, I am so—” she began, but her words were nipped off.

  Sam pulled her into
his arms, tugged her to the back of the porch so they couldn’t be seen from the kitchen window, and captured her mouth in a rough, demanding kiss.

  As kisses went, well, it was the best damn kiss she’d ever gotten. A girl could get drunk off kisses like that.

  He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his beard stubble brushing lightly against her chin. Emma melted, opening her mouth, letting him have full run of the place. Go, Sammy, go.

  A mockingbird in the backyard mimosa tree sang to them. A slight breeze ruffled her hair. When she breathed she smelled the scent of garden—ripening squash and onions and turnips. And Sam. He smelled like the earth, rich and loamy and alive.

  He kissed her as if it was his life’s mission, as if this was what he’d been put on earth to do. His body pressed hard and hot against hers. Emma’s blood pounded restlessly in her ears. She reached up and threaded her arms around his neck, savoring the kiss, forgetting for a moment where they were and how they’d gotten to this point.

  “Thank you.” He breathed, breaking off the kiss and resting his forehead against hers. She could feel the uneven ridges of his scar against her skin. “Thank you.”

  “I thought you’d be mad.”

  “Why on earth would you think that?”

  “I cut up Valerie’s dress.”

  “You got Charlie to talk.” His hands were shaking slightly as he ran his palms over her upper arms. “You’re a miracle worker. You’re amazing.”

  “I also brought up a painful memory.”

  “He’s talking…” Sam paused. She could hear the emotions clogging his throat. “My son is talking again and it’s all because of you.”

  His dark eyes drilled into hers, shining with the feverish light. She felt a similar fever slip through her veins, heating her from the inside out.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve accomplished? I’ve dragged him to doctor after doctor, grief counselor after grief counselor, therapist after therapist. None of their techniques or suggestions or medications helped. Nothing worked. Until you.”

  He made her sound like a saint. “I’m not a saint.”

  “In my eyes you are.” He stepped back, reached down, took her hand in his, and gazed deeply into her eyes as if he never wanted to stop. Although she was probably projecting that onto him, because she never wanted to stop. “Listen, I’ve gotta call people, tell everyone what’s happened. Go show Charlie off to my family.”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “I understand completely.”

  “I still can’t believe it.” He grinned and planted another quick kiss on her lips. She’d never seen him look so giddy, so trouble-free. It warmed her heart. “You’re awesome, amazing.”

  “You already covered that.”

  “Can’t say it enough. Look, we’re going to have to go out and celebrate big-time. My treat. Charlie’s grandparents on his father’s side are coming up from Florida next weekend and they want to take Charlie camping. How about you and me drive to Fort Worth for dinner? Someplace really nice.”

  “I’d love to go celebrate with you, Sam, but it’s fine with me to stay here in Twilight. We can just go to the Funny Farm.”

  “That’ll be good enough for you?” he asked hopefully.

  “Why would you think otherwise?”

  “You’re from the city. You’re used to nice restaurants and fine dining.”

  Emma laughed. “The ideas you have about struggling actresses in the city. We’re going to have to have a long talk.”

  “Saturday night. For the eight o’clock seating at the Funny Farm. I’ll register with the hostess station.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “It’s a date.”

  He had a date with Emma. A real date, an official date. Their first date, Sam realized. Sixteen years after he first kissed her.

  Was it dumb? Most likely. Did he care? Not at this point. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he’d been so happy. Emma had gotten Charlie to talk and they had a date. Hell, he was even whistling that silly piña colada song.

  Maddie was as excited as he was. She burned up the phone lines calling everyone she knew to tell them that Charlie had started talking again.

  Sam tucked his son in the Jeep and took him around town, showing off with an unabashed fatherly pride. He drove over to his aunt Belinda’s on the other side of town.

  “Hi, Kimmie, Kameron, Karmie, Kyle, and Kevin,” Charlie greeted his cousins, who were all playing Statues on the front lawn. That was quite a tongue twister even for someone who hadn’t gone mute for over a year, and Charlie didn’t miss a syllable.

  His cousins converged on him, asking him a million questions while Aunt Belinda came running down off the porch. “Did I just hear Charlie speak? Sam, was he talking?”

  Charlie raised one hand; his other hand clutched the purple quilt. “Hi, Auntie Belinda.”

  “Oh, oh, my sweet boy!” Belinda grabbed him up in her arms, swung him around. She squeezed him tight and dropped kisses on his face. He wriggled in her arms.

  “Go on,” she said to him, “go play Statues with your cousins.” To Sam she said, “I love games that cause them to stay still for half a second. Come up on the porch.”

  Charlie went to join in the game, quilt in tow, and Sam followed Belinda up onto the porch.

  “What happened?” she asked, plopping down into her rocking chair.

  Sam took the one beside her. “Emma happened.”

  Belinda smiled. “How’d she do it?”

  “She didn’t tell you about the quilt?”

  Belinda shook her head.

  He nodded in Charlie’s direction. “She made it from one of Valerie’s dresses.”

  “That was so sweet of her.”

  “Charlie said, ‘This quilt smells like my mommy.’”

  Belinda’s eyes swam with tears, and Sam had to look away to keep his own eyes from misting up. “She’s quite a woman, that Emma.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Sam said. “But she’s far more than I can ever hang on to.”

  “When it’s meant to be, Sam, it’s meant to be.”

  “I wish I could share your optimism.”

  “Give her some time to figure out what she really wants.”

  “Emma already knows what she wants. She’s known since she was fourteen years old.”

  Belinda studied him a long moment. “I do believe she does.”

  “She’ll get it too.”

  “I have no doubt.” She reached over and patted his knee. “Have you told your mama about Charlie?”

  “Not yet.”

  She stood up, held out her hand to him. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go call her. This news is gonna make her year.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  If you’ve got the blues, need quick comfort, and you’re out of vodka, a quilt will tide you over in a pinch.

  —Raylene Pringle, owner of the Horny Toad Tavern and member of the True Love Quilting Club

  By Saturday night, Emma was a nervous wreck. She couldn’t decide what to wear that would strike just the right note for her date with Sam. Finally, she ended up going with simplicity. A crisp, pink, button-down linen shirt that served as a jacket over a sleeveless white silk tee, blue jeans, and a pair of new cowgirl boots the same color blue as her jeans. The plan was to meet Sam at the Funny Farm.

  The family-style restaurant did not take reservations. Because the home-style cooking was so popular and the place was usually wall-to-wall on the weekends, you had to come early in person to sign up for one of the nightly seating times. Sam had called to tell her he’d gone over at four when the hostess stand had opened and put them down for the eight P.M. seating. She discovered that when you arrived, you waited in line outside while the restaurant emptied of the customers from the previous seating. Then the hostess rang a large dinner bell mounted on a streetlamp outside the restaurant, announcing it was time to enter the building. It created a relaxed, festive atmosphere as the s
treet filled up with people. It was a great opportunity to gab with visiting tourists and fellow denizens of Twilight.

  She got in line and glanced around just in time to see Sam ambling up Cobalt Avenue toward the square. He looked lean and lanky in an outfit much like hers—starched blue jeans, white Western-style shirt with silver snaps instead of buttons, and polished, chocolate-colored cowboy boots. He didn’t wear a Stetson or a baseball cap emblazoned with a sports team like most of the men in the crowd. His hair was neatly combed down over his scar, and it looked slightly damp, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower and hadn’t bothered with a blow-dryer.

  He spied her and raised a hand in greeting.

  Immediately she felt herself go breathless. God, he was handsome. It wasn’t lost on her that several of the women in line turned to look at him as he stepped from the street to the sidewalk. She had a powerful urge to snatch their hair out by the roots. The ferocity of her jealousy startled her.

  Sam gave her a slow, knowing grin, as if he could read her mind.

  “What are you smirking about?” she asked as he came to a stop beside her.

  “I’m not smirking,” he denied, and smirked even bigger. “I’m just appreciating the way those jeans hug your behind.”

  The hostess clanged the dinner bell as if she was calling in hungry field hands. Waitresses in uniforms designed to resemble straitjackets, minus the arms-tied-behind-their-back feature, opened the wide double doors. The crowd poured inside as the waitresses passed out cards with color-coded seat assignments. The Funny Farm was new to Emma. It hadn’t been there when she’d lived in Twilight before.

  “How many in your party?” the waitress asked.

  Sam held up two fingers.

  The waitress handed him a pair of red cards with roosters printed on them. “You’re upstairs.”

  “Thanks.”

  Inside, the walls of the restaurant were covered with farming equipment and memorabilia—an old horse-drawn plow, a glass butter mold, a shiny silver milk bucket, a couple of black-handled pitchforks.

  Sam reached out and took Emma’s hand, disconcerting her. She didn’t pull back. She felt out of her element, and she had to remind herself to enjoy the ride but stay emotionally detached. He led her up the stairs to the section painted red and decorated with everything poultry—hens and chicks and roosters and eggs. He held out her chair for her and she sank down, looping the strap of her purse around the chair.