Blame It on Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  Deydie filled two teacups. They were prettily painted and dainty, not at all fitting with what Ryn had seen of Deydie and her demeanor. A utility stein or perhaps a witch’s caldron seemed more fitting.

  “We’re all making Gandiegow Crossing Path quilts,” Deydie said. “Here’s yere tea.” She didn’t hand it to Ryn, but set it in the windowsill. “I put milk in it…as is proper. Do ye like scrappy quilts?”

  No, Ryn thought, wishing she could pull off one of Tuck’s noncommittal grunts. She liked her fabric planned and perfectly contrasted in advance. A modern-look—clean and organized. Just one of the reasons she was a diehard Modern quilter. But Deydie didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who would agree to disagree.

  If only this old woman was her Granny Kay, Ryn could’ve answered playfully. Sure, I like scrappy quilts. As long as the fabrics are all solid, placed in a particular order, and the quilt looked Modern in the end, I could go for a scrappy quilt.

  “It depends,” Ryn finally said.

  Deydie’s frown deepened as she put her hands on her hips. “Depends on what?”

  Ryn paused for a second to form her answer. The cottage was filled with scrappy quilts. Two slung over each of the rockers by the fireplace. One pulled neatly over the bed. Even the kitchen curtains were sewn together with scrappy strips. And Deydie herself wore an apron of patchwork scraps. It was plain to see this woman represented the scrappy quilt movement, using what she had to make something both beautiful and functional. Also, truth be told, Deydie was ancient and didn’t seem the type who would be into modern anything.

  Choosing her words carefully, Ryn gave her a sliver of truth. “Scrappy quilts are fine by me, but it depends on the design, I guess. Everyone likes different things. Don’t you think?”

  Deydie harrumphed as she pulled off her apron and waddled to the door. “Go on and cut that blue tartan. It’s good shirting fabric and will look nice along the borders.” She grabbed her jacket from the hook. “I have to run up to the Big House. Me granddaughter, Caitie, is pregnant and I like to get the breakfast started for her. Help yereself to the Kilts and Quilts Poppy Seed Bread under the foil on the counter. It’s damn good. I’ll return shortly.” The door slammed behind her.

  Ryn wished she could go back and amend her answer…befriending the old woman would make the morning go so much smoother. The wiser thing would’ve been to ask to see a picture of the finished Gandiegow Crossing Paths quilt first, or at the very least, inquire about the other quilts Deydie had made.

  Involuntarily, Ryn shuddered. Deydie was frightening. And unapproachable. Ryn should’ve heeded Sophie and Sinnie’s warning.

  She took a sip of tea and was surprised she didn’t mind the added milk as much as she thought she would. She glanced toward the door and then went to see the bread under the foil. She grabbed a slice and ate it over the sink—like a kid sneaking candy before supper. She downed it quickly, not wanting Deydie to catch her taking a break. The old woman was right. It was good! She washed her hands and got back to work.

  Ten minutes later, when the old quilter returned, Ryn was pressing more fabric.

  “It’s time to go to Quilting Central. The ladies are coming early today. We all have so much to do.”

  Together, Deydie and Ryn packed up the cut fabric into the wagon outside the front door. Ryn couldn’t help but gaze over to the ocean, wondering when Tuck would come back and rescue her.

  The early morning air was crisp and filled with moisture as they walked along the same path as she’d come with Tuck. But where Tuck had been quiet, Deydie pointed out the highlights.

  She motioned to a small, tired-looking cottage. “And there’s where the Bruces live. The cottage is busting at the seams. She’s got five bairns and another on the way. I’ve tried to tell her where those babes come from, but she seems deaf in that quarter.”

  Ryn opened her mouth, but didn’t get to ask about the next building.

  “This is St. Henry’s Episcopal Church. No Church of Scotland here. Which surprises everyone, except us Gandiegowans.” Deydie chuckled as if a joke was woven amongst her words. “Father Andrew is our pastor. He married our Moira, and because she’s happy with him, then the Episcopal priest is fine by me.” Deydie looked over at her. “Tuck and Andrew are brothers.”

  “Oh.” Ryn was surprised Tuck had a priest for a brother.

  As if Deydie read her thoughts, she added the rest. “Those brothers couldn’t be any more different. Tuck’s a scoundrel. He absconded with many hearts from the young lassies of the village. And a few of the older hearts, who should’ve known better.”

  Deydie’s words confirmed Ryn’s initial impression of Tuck. But in her heart, she was having doubts about judging Tuck so quickly. Maybe she and Deydie were wrong about him. He’d been nothing but a gentleman with Ryn. But then again, love-‘em-and-leave-‘em men could be tricky that way, and sly. All wolves in sheep clothing.

  Deydie stopped in front of a building, handing off her bundle to Ryn. “This is Quilting Central.” She didn’t need to make an announcement as a patchwork sign above the door clearly marked it.

  Deydie went inside and flipped on the light switch. “Put yere things over there.”

  The room was spacious and filled with tools and equipment quilters needed and loved. Tables and sewing machines took up the center of the room. Cutting mats and rulers were organized to one side, along with ironing boards and irons. Two longarm quilting machines rested at the back of the room near a small kitchen area. A comfy sofa was located near a reading nook with shelves of books. The walls had been turned into design walls with quilts in various stages of completeness. Many of the walls displayed the same quilt design made with different fabrics.

  Deydie joined Ryn as she examined the design. “That’s the Gandiegow Crossing Paths quilt.”

  “I can’t believe how many different ways it’s being done.” One of the scrappy quilts was designed as a Colorwash with the fabric patches at the bottom done in dark fabric, but gradually faded to nearly white by the time it reached the top.

  “This one’s Maggie’s,” Deydie said. “She’s finished the blocks and arranged them on the wall, not knowing her da would be dead by nightfall. Then the next day, John had his accident.” Deydie glowered at the door. “’Twas no accident. If he hadn’t been alone…”

  What was that about? But Ryn knew better than to ask, especially since there was such vehemence in the old woman’s voice.

  Deydie turned back to the design wall and carefully straightened one of the blocks. “We’ll piece Maggie’s quilt for her as she’ll be busy with the Kilts and Quilts Retreat in Whussendale now.” Deydie peered over at Ryn. “Ye said ye’re a quilter, eh?”

  Ryn nodded, then looked at the other quilt designs. Another of the Gandiegow Crossing Paths quilt was made with Christmas fabrics. Another—bright Batiks.

  Her gaze went around the room to all the quilts. Every one was made in a traditional style, from the Log Cabin quilt over the arm of the overstuffed sofa to the two scrappy Pinwheel quilt tops stretched out on the long arm quilting machines.

  Ryn was in love with this space, but there was one problem…there wasn’t a Modern quilt in sight. How would Deydie react if she found out the first Kilts and Quilts Retreat in Whussendale would feature a Modern quilt? And with Ryn as the teacher? She won’t take it well. Not well at all.

  Deydie cleared her throat. “Bring in the things from the wagon. Then I’m going to see if ye really have any quilting skills.”

  In this one area, Ryn didn’t worry, feeling confident she could pretty much pass any test the old quilter threw at her. Granny Kay had Ryn on a stack of phone books in front of a small sewing machine at the ripe age of four, making pillows for her stuffed animals. Mom showed Ryn how to mend and hem, not long after. Though back then, Ryn’s stitches weren’t nearly as even as they were now. But when Granny Kay and Mom took her along to a quilt guild meeting, Ryn was hooked. She begged Mom to make a quilt of her own…a blue j
ean quilt. Granny Kay gave Ryn a stack of jeans from a garage sale and one month later, Ryn had a new comforter for her twin bed. She loved every aspect of quilting. Except perhaps the initial pressing and cutting of the fabric.

  As ordered, Ryn brought in the rest of the items from the wagon. Deydie barked out orders, pointing to where she should put things away. As she was bringing in the last item, another old woman showed up. This elderly woman was Deydie’s opposite—tall, slender, with her white hair bobbed short.

  Deydie took a hold of the woman’s arm and dragged her over. “Ryn Breckenridge, this is Bethia. Ryn is Maggie’s cousin from America.” It wasn’t the most elegant of introductions, but it got the job done.

  Bethia smiled. “I’m Deydie’s oldest and dearest friend. No one loves the old girl like I do.”

  Which said a lot about Bethia and her capacity to befriend the growling dog.

  Deydie harrumphed again, but underneath the gruffness, she seemed pleased with Bethia’s declaration.

  Deydie picked up two pieces of fabric, grabbed Ryn’s hand, and thrust them into her palm. The woman certainly knew how to switch gears. “Time to show us if ye can sew a quarter-inch seam. Use that machine.” Near the designated sewing machine sat a roll top desk, piled so high with fabric, there was no way for which to pull down the lid.

  Out of the corner of her eye, as Ryn walked away, she saw Deydie and Bethia put their heads together. Bethia listened, nodding, while glancing at the design wall next to where Ryn took her seat.

  Ryn looked, too—Maggie’s unfinished quilt top—and she was getting a clue as to why the two women looked as if they were scheming.

  Ryn switched on the machine, changed out the current presser foot with a quarter-inch one, and easily stitched the two pieces together. She snipped the thread and stood. Deydie and Bethia lumbered over to her.

  Deydie, the judge, put out her hand. “Let me see.” She pushed her glasses up and brought the fabric close to her rheumy eyes. “’Tis good.” She sounded shocked.

  Ryn knew her quarter-inch seams were spot on. “I’ve been sewing my whole life.”

  Bethia patted her gently on the back. “Lassie, yere whole life isn’t that long. Not when ye compare yereself to Deydie and me.”

  Deydie nodded. “Ye’re just getting started. A pup. Nothing but a wee babe.”

  “I’m twenty-eight.” Ryn gestured to Maggie’s quilt. “Can I get to work now, piecing Maggie’s quilt for her?”

  Bethia’s chuckle sounded like wind chimes in the breeze. “She may be a pup, but she’s quick, isn’t she?”

  “Aye, but cheeky” Deydie said. “Get to work now.”

  Ryn pulled a few of Maggie’s blocks from the design wall and began stitching them together. She felt a little guilty, because this was the second time she was interfering in Maggie’s life, when not asked by Maggie herself. The first was to volunteer to run the retreat. The second was now, stitching Maggie’s quilt together. And the third interference would be when Ryn taught the True Colors quilt at the upcoming retreat, instead of Maggie’s prize-winning wool quilt design.

  As the sun rose, the building filled with women and Quilting Central came to life. Bethia brought Ailsa and Aileen, two matronly quilters with matching plaid dresses, to meet Ryn. Next, she brought a younger woman, Amy, who had a tight grip on the hand of a rambunctious little boy. Each time there was an introduction, Ryn would stop and listen closely, making sure she could put names to faces later. The Scottish quilters hovered over her, asking questions about herself and what it was like to live in the States. Ryn didn’t mind the attention, because it made her feel included.

  Deydie spoke with a thirtysomething-maternity-topped woman. Ryn knew they were talking about her because Deydie kept pointing in her direction. Ryn’s stomach churned. She always felt uncomfortable around pregnant women, but she had to squelch those feelings quickly now, because they were headed straight for her.

  “Ryn,” Deydie called out. “This is me granddaughter, Caitie MacLeod.”

  “Cait Buchanan,” the pregnant woman corrected. “I just wanted to welcome you to Gandiegow.” Her Scottish burr wasn’t as strong as the other women Ryn had met. Fortunately for her, Cait’s sincere smile put her at ease.

  “Thanks for the welcome,” Ryn replied. “Everyone has been so nice.”

  Deydie harrumphed at something going on at the next table. “I need to help Bonnie with her half-square triangles.”

  Cait smiled fondly as Deydie toddled away. “That’s my gran. Always bossy. Always in charge.” She took the seat next to Ryn and looked more serious than before. “I wanted to tell you something about small towns.” She scanned the room. “News travels fast, especially personal information.”

  That sinking feeling came over Ryn. Surely, Cait hadn’t heard that Ryn had slept in Tuck’s bed last night!

  “Bethia talked to Sophie, and told me yere mother died recently. I knew I had to meet you.” Cait picked up a quilt block and spread it out on the table. “My mother died from cancer when I was thirteen so I’m aware of what losing a mother feels like. I also heard from Deydie that the only family you have left is Maggie, Rowena, and Sinnie.”

  Ryn nodded, not completely sure what Cait was getting at.

  Cait touched her arm. “It’s hard to come to Scotland alone and feel like you don’t have anyone in the world. That’s exactly how I felt.” So it was understanding which Cait offered, not pity. “It’s not easy. But I can guarantee things will get better. I’m here to offer my friendship. Now tell me what Deydie has you working on so I can help.”

  Ryn was glad Cait had switched the subject from her mother’s illness and death to quilting. Talking about quilting didn’t hurt nearly as much. “I’m piecing Maggie’s quilt together for her. And yes, your help would be appreciated.”

  For the next hour, she and Cait worked on the quilt, while Cait entertained her with stories about herself and the other quilters of Gandiegow. Ryn worked hard to keep her eyes anywhere but on Cait’s six-months-along belly. She kept telling herself that focusing on having a friend in the small fishing village was so much better than being freaked-out over Ryn’s short-termed pregnancy of long ago.

  At 10:30, the door chimed and everyone turned to look, including Ryn. Tuck stood in the doorway, scanning the room. His cheeks shone red from the wind, and his hair was disheveled. Ryn was surprised when he didn’t stop to primp in the mirror as he passed to put his rich blond locks back in place.

  As Tuck headed toward Ryn, the crowd’s mood shifted, from the cheery conversation before he arrived, to hushed dark whispers. Like an indoor tennis match, their heads glanced from Tuck to her, then back to Tuck. Ryn didn’t understand their frowns and shuttered hostility. Yes, it was aimed at him, but it was also being lobbed her way as well. Where were the welcoming quilters from earlier?

  “Are ye ready to go?” he said quietly. “I’m needed back in Whussendale.”

  “Sure. Let me shut everything down first.”

  The door opened again, and at first, Ryn was taken aback because the man wearing the cleric collar looked so much like Tuck. Maybe not as smooth and put together, but he had an undeniable angelic quality. She liked him right away. Beside him was a woman near Ryn’s age who wore a plum-colored dress.

  “That’s Andrew, my brother,” Tuck said for her benefit. “And with him is his wife, Moira.”

  From across the room, Andrew smiled at Tuck. He took Moira’s arm, and the two walked their way. But when Andrew’s eyes drifted over and landed on Ryn, he stopped suddenly in the middle of the room. His angelic face drained, turning as white as his cleric’s collar, as if he was in the presence of Beelzebub himself. A moment later, his bewilderment at seeing her turned into…hate?

  Ryn sucked in a breath. The pastor’s attire made his evaluation of her official, as if it had been issued by God himself.

  Moira turned to Andrew with a questioning look. He said something Ryn couldn’t make out before the two of them moved c
loser. The priest acted as if he was at war with himself and the battle had to do with Ryn.

  She looked up at Tuck to see if he knew why his brother disliked her so, but his brows were pulled together, as if he was as confused as she was. Ryn didn’t have time to ask what was up before Andrew and Moira were upon them.

  Andrew had wiped his face clean of all surprise and anger. But his smile ended up appearing rigid and phony—as fake as the wood dresser in her last apartment.

  The priest pulled at his collar. “Hallo, Tuck.” He peeked over at Ryn again.

  Ryn caught the downturn of Tuck’s mouth and he was acting wary as hell.

  “Andrew.” Tuck turned to the woman. “Moira. This is Ryn Breckenridge.” Tuck’s mouth was a hard straight line, all of it aimed at his brother. “Ryn is Maggie’s cousin from America.”

  Andrew stared hard at Ryn, his face screwed up in deep concentration, as if he was trying to rearrange her features.

  Tuck shoved his hands in his pockets. “What the hell is wrong with you, Andrew? Why are ye acting so weird?” He didn’t wait for an answer but tilted his head to the side and spoke to her. “My idiot brother isn’t usually so rude.”

  Moira laid a hand on Andrew’s arm and the priest seemed to come out of whatever trance he was under and smiled sheepishly at all of them. He gave Ryn a contrite nod. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” His eyes shifted to Tuck. “It’s just that ye look like someone we used to know.”

  Tuck certainly didn’t seem to understand Andrew’s pointed words or meaningful gaze. He looked as clueless as Ryn felt.

  “It’s nice to meet ye,” Moira’s eyes didn’t meet Ryn’s. But then again, Andrew was staring enough for the both of them.

  “We’ll see you later. We have to get back to Whussendale.” Tuck put his hand on the small of Ryn’s back and guided her toward the door.

  Tuck’s strong hand felt like protection against whatever the priest was thinking, and to how the rest of the room had turned on her. And she may have even leaned into Tuck’s hand. She couldn’t be sure.