by Terri Thayer
Pearl said, "We're going to need these tables out of the way."
"Wait until Vangie or Jenn gets here. We'll clear a space," I assured her.
I added that job and more to my to-do list. Clear out classroom. Bring down more bags from the loft. Scrub the bathroom.
"Celeste is bringing the quilt frame," Pearl said. "It'll take up half the classroom."
Ever since I'd found the old quilting frame in the loft, I'd wanted my customers to see how a quilt was hand quilted. Many sewers new to quilting used professional long-arm machine quitters to finish their projects, and had never even seen handwork done. I'd asked this group to demonstrate at Saturday's sale. Celeste had volunteered to re-stain the wood and make sure that all the moving parts moved.
"Did Celeste do a good job of restoring it?" I asked.
Pearl looked over her glasses at me. "What do you think? We're talking about Celeste. We would not be using it if it were not perfect. As soon as the others get here, we'll get the Old Maid's Puzzle into the frame, and start quilting it," Pearl said.
"Are you okay with that?" I asked. Pearl was a whiz with her sewing machine.
"My hand skills are kind of rusty, but it'll come back to me."
"Don't do too much. Save some quilting for Saturday."
Pearl smiled at my naivete. "No worries. It would take weeks to hand quilt anything this size. We'll just get it started so people can see how the stitching looks. We'll sell more tickets that way."
A new voice entered the conversation. "If you were so worried about selling tickets, you should have let me pick the colors."
Celeste Radcliffe came through the door, snowy eyebrows furrowed. Her words were clipped, her cadence that of an old-time actress in a black-and-white movie, the result of being a native Californian educated at New England boarding schools.
I sucked in my stomach and straightened my spine. Celeste had the effect of making me feel like I was permanently slouching.
Pearl pulled out a chair next to Celeste. "Oh sit down, you old grouch. People love a bright-colored quilt. Not everything has to be turkey reds and browns, you know."
Celeste said to me, "If you'd had those Civil War prints while we were choosing the fabric, they would have been perfect. We'll be lucky now if this quilt sells a hundred tickets."
"Do you think?" I said. "That reproduction line isn't moving very well. This is sunny California after all. My customers don't like those dull colors."
"Historically accurate colors," Celeste sniffed. "Shows what you know."
"The computer doesn't lie," I protested. "My inventory tracks what's selling and what's not."
"Computers can't tell you everything," Celeste insisted.
I bit back a retort. These women were half a century older than me. They'd lived lives I could only imagine, with changes in technology that dwarfed anything in my experience. If they didn't want to carry cell phones, watch TV on an iPod, or trust the information from my computer, I had to respect that.
Celeste was staring at my list. "You've misspelled inventory," she said.
I took a step back. She was right. Right there, after #2, Make pretty fat-quarter bundles, was #3, Check in new inventorry.
"It's just a to-do list," I grumbled, even as I erased the offender. Celeste had been brought up in the days when education meant memorizing epic poems and long lists of vocabulary words. When I'd been a kid doing homework in this room, she'd happily drilled me for hours for the school's weekly spelling tests.
"I don't know how you expect to gain respect from your employees if you can't spell," Celeste said, opening her handled clearplastic block organizer box and taking out her redwork embroidery. She opened her tapestry bag that was fitted with a half-dozen zippered compartments. Inside, needles were divided by size and use, floss was wound onto individual bobbins, and scissors tips were protected with tiny sleeves. Celeste was one of those quilters who spent nearly as much time in Organized Living as the quilt shop. She believed in everything having a place.
She took the seat across from Pearl, her back to me, her fingers already stabbing the needle into the fabric. These women were never without something to do.
As usual, Celeste was wearing expensive knit clothing that complemented her white hair, mostly purples and reds. I'd never seen her in anything but pants, but the hems were perfectly tailored to her extra-long inseam.
The back of her head was covered with a staid-looking bun that had swirls and whorls like a complex mandala.
"I can spell," I muttered. "I just had a flash of dyslexia."
Celeste frowned at my flimsy excuse, pulling the red embroidery floss roughly through the hooped fabric. Redwork was hand embroidery done on muslin. Celeste had drawn a picture on the fabric with a mechanical pencil. She would use the stem stitch to outline the drawing. The result was a perfectly rendered image of the object-in this case, plants with the Latin names underneath. Celeste had been a botanical illustrator before she retired when her children were young. Her drawings were full of authentic detail.
"You need to have one of your people get the quilting frame out of my car," Celeste said.
"Where's Gussie? Didn't Gussie pick you up?" Pearl asked Celeste.
Celeste shook her head. Her mouth was a grim line as she bent over her embroidery hoop. Never a ray of sunshine, today she seemed extra uptight. Gussie and Celeste were best friends. Something wasn't right.
I tried some flattery. "Is that a new quilt you're working on?" I asked. "Celeste's Garden, Part Two?"
The most exciting part about the sale was the launch of our Quilter Paradiso Originals line. I'd asked friends of QP to create original quilt designs. Once the quilts were made, Vangie had produced colorful, easy-to-read instructions and created a pattern for each quilt. We'd made up kits with fabrics similar to the ones used in the original so the customer could take the kit home and reproduce the quilt.
Publishing patterns could become a lucrative sideline for the store, if Vangie and I could find the time to develop more. With the free labor, and the store as our outlet, we'd managed to keep the patterns and kits at a competitive price. I was thinking about taking out an ad in the next issue of Quilter's Home Magazine. If we could get national exposure, I was sure the QP Original line would take off.
"My quilt is nearly finished," Pearl said, holding up her QPO quilt, a simple landscape of sea, sun, and beach, a blend of color and curved lines. Pearl's quilts were unique, not easily reproducible, but she'd come up with an easy rendition of one of her more complex quilts and included some of her hand dyes in the kits. "I just need to fuse my binding."
Celeste flinched as though stuck by a needle. "Ironing on your binding," she shuddered. "You ought to be shot."
Pearl smiled at me, a sly smile that told me she knew she was winding her friend up. "Times are a-changin,' my friend, just like Bob Dylan said."
Celeste sniffed. "I don't know who that is, but he doesn't know the first thing about quilting. Bindings should finish at exactly one-quarter-inch, be filled with batting, and be hand sewn to the backing."
"Different strokes for different folks," Vangie said, appearing at my elbow, her long, lush brown hair slightly damp and curling at her neck, and cheeks flushed from her bike ride to work. Vangie Estrada had been my mother's last and best hire. Only twenty-oneyears old, she'd been brought on to do the heavy lifting. Moving fabric bolts is hard labor. I'd found other ways to use her, though. She had innate design ability and great computer skills, the result of time spent in juvvy as a rebellious teen. She was becoming a good quilter too. Her paper-pieced Starry Night QPO quilt was bound to be a best seller.
"Right on, sister," Pearl said, standing and exchanging a hip bump with Vangie. They'd become fast friends when Vangie'd found out Pearl had been at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival and seen Janis Joplin, Vangie's hero. Their age difference disappeared when talk turned to rock and roll.
"Hey, Vang, have I got a treat for you," Pearl said. "Hiro and I found a box of
old Janis bootlegs on eBay. He figured out how to put them on CDs. Don't ask me how," she said, handing Vangie a stack of jewel cases she produced from her basket.
Vangie broke into a huge grin, her eyes crinkling with pleasure. "Far out," she said, her voice fading as she flipped through the CDs.
"And some brownies." Pearl's eyes twinkled. "Special for you."
"What about the rest of us?" I asked. Why did Vangie rate special ones?
"There's another batch in the kitchen for general consumption, Dewey," Pearl said.
Vangie rubbed her hands together in anticipation. Whether for the CDs or the brownies, I couldn't tell.
Pearl skated back to her seat.
Celeste's eyes followed her friend, and she snapped, "Could you please hold still for one moment, Pearl?"
"Oh, Dewey, telephone," Vangie said, eyes still on the CDs.
I hadn't heard the phone ring. I hated to keep people on hold too long.
I said to Vangie, "Thanks for telling me" My sarcasm hit deaf ears. She was lost somewhere in the sixties.
"Who's on the phone, Vang?"
She came out of her purple haze for a moment. "It's Lark," she said.
I really didn't want to keep her waiting. Lark Gordon was the hostess of the best-known cable quilting show, Wonderful World of Quilts. She was extremely popular and very influential.
"I'll take it in the office." I hurried out the door and across the hall into the office I shared with Vangie. Her computer was booting up without her as I plopped down in my chair and picked up the phone.
Last week Lark had taped a segment in Quilter Paradiso. I'd promised Kym she could be on TV, so she was the one featured. The taping had taken place on a day that both Vangie and I were out of the office. I was sorry to miss seeing Lark, but we'd already paid for our spots at How-to-Run-Your-Small-Business Successfully. We'd had the seminar on the calendar for weeks.
I had an awful thought. What if they needed to reshoot part of the show? If so, her timing was terrible. It had taken the whole day to set up and shoot what they did. My stomach tightened. I couldn't let anything interfere with the sale.
"Sorry to keep you hanging, Lark." I picked up a pencil and tapped it nervously on the desk.
"It's okay, doll. I'm on my cell waiting in line at Starbucks anyhow. Can I have a nine-pump, nonfat chai, please?"
"What can I do for you?" I asked. "Did your piece on the shop come out okay?"
I girded myself for bad news, doodling circles on my desk calendar.
"It's great. So great, in fact, it's going to air this Friday."
The pencil lifted. "Are you kidding?" I gasped. "We're having a huge sale on Saturday."
"I hope you have plenty of staff. Your store is about to go on national TV."
Quilter Paradiso on the airwaves. "Wow. I mean, thanks."
"No problemo. Next time I'm up there, you owe me a coffee."
Or a nine-pump something or other. I said my goodbyes to Lark and hung up. My stomach was still doing flips, but in a good way now.
Vangie had seated herself at her desk and was clicking furiously. She was downloading the music onto her MP3 player already.
I said, "You're not going to believe this."
She wasn't listening.
"Vang!" I yelled.
I waited until she pulled out her earphones, and spread my arms wide. "We're going to be on Wonderful World of Quilts Friday morning."
She jumped out of her chair. I grinned at her.
Vangie grabbed me and we bounced up and down. "That's so far out."
Far out indeed.
"We are on TV," Vangie sang to the tune of Sly and the Family Stone's, "We are Family."
"I've got all my brothers with me,"' I sang.
"What's all the commotion?" Jenn poked her head in the office, a hot-pink, fuzzy scarf dangling from her neck. I glanced at the clock. She was right on time. The store was due to open in a few moments. She was on her way to the kitchen to stash her belongings in the cubbyhole and get to work. She would be working on the floor today, selling fabric.
Jenn was the typical Silicon Valley soccer mom and looked the part. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a perky ponytail. She had two pre-teens and worked parttime during their school hours. She'd been with my mother too. She wasn't crazy about some of the changes I'd implemented, but she was going along with most of them. She was reliable and great at helping customers chose fabrics for their projects.
"We're going to be on Wonderful World of Quilts," I said, gratified by her eyes opening wide.
"On Friday morning," Vangie said.
Jenn looked from me to Vangie and back. "Omigod, think of all the people that'll see it," Jenn said. "Millions"
Jenn hugged Vangie, then me. She squeezed my shoulders. I felt my eyes fill with tears. This was a huge week for Quilter Paradiso. Our twentieth anniversary, our first appearance on TV. And the sale that was going to keep us in business. Maybe things would turn out okay after all.
I broke away from the group hug. "Okay, enough celebrating. We've got a lot to do. More than we did ten minutes ago."
I remembered the Stitch 'n' Bitch request. "I need you two to get the quilt frame out of Celeste's car and go move tables around for the group. While you're in the classroom, sign up for your assignments on the whiteboard. You know yours already, Vangie. Update the database; send out e-mails about the sale Thursday. Now you can include a news flash about the TV show."
"Let me go stash my purse," Jenn said, slipping into the kitchen next to the office to drop her designer purse. A set of cubbyholes just inside the door held our personal items.
Vangie watched her leave, but didn't move toward the classroom. "You know what this means?"
I was thinking about the sale on Saturday. Business was likely to increase. "That I'm going to need temporary help for Saturday? And we'll sell out our inventory? That I now stand a chance of keeping the store open past next week?" I couldn't help but project a little.
She nodded. "Yes, all that. And one more thing. Think computers."
I tried to settle my brain down long enough to think. Computers?
Vangie filled in the blank. "We're going to have to get the online store up and running sooner rather than later."
My hairline tightened. I glanced in the hall. No one was there. I closed the office door. QP Online was not for general consumption. Vangie was the only one who knew about my plan for an online store.
My voice squeaked. "We're..." I started again. "We're not ready for that. We don't have the inventory."
Vangie frowned. "You can't let this opportunity get away from us. QP is going to be beamed into thousands of homes. Hits to our website will be crazy as soon as that show is over."
"But we've got so much else to do before Saturday."
Vangie said, "We can do it." She went into her overdrive mode, talking fast, her voice rising, spit flying. "You take over sending the e-mails out to the customers and updating the database. I've been taking pictures of fabric as it comes in. I just need to load the files and take pictures of some of the older stuff. I'll set up a special email address to handle the traffic. I'll concentrate on getting our webpage more user-friendly."
"Vangie, it's not possible." My head swam with the to-dos on my list. Adding her list to mine was nuts.
"That's what I'm telling you. It is. I can get the webpage ready to accept orders. We won't have all the fabric online, but we can get started."
I nodded, but she wasn't done yet. Her hands were clicking around the computer. I felt her excitement and began to believe her. Maybe we could pull this off.
"I've been talking to PayOne about using their system for collecting the money. They're just waiting for our say-so."
This was about four months earlier than I'd planned. But Vangie was right. It was time to strike. "Are you sure you can do all that?"
Vangie nodded. "Positive" She stopped her mouse and looked at me. "Absolutely."
I blew out a big
breath. "Okay. I'll correct the database and send out the e-mails about the sale. You just work on the online store."
She hugged me.
"Promise me one thing. Don't tell anyone yet," I said. This was news my sisterin-law would need to be prepared for.
THREE
WE HEADED FOR THE classroom. My heart sank, because the room was in more disarray than it had been a few moments earlier. Piles of fabric scraps were laid out in between empty soda cans and water bottles littering the tabletop.
Gussie Johnston was on her usual scavenger hunt. She and Ina Schaeffer made up the remainder of the Stitch 'n' Bitch group. Ina was muttering. Damn. I'd hoped we'd have had the place cleared out before she got here. I hated it when she was annoyed with me.
Gussie, on the other hand, hummed happily as she rummaged through the wastepaper baskets. I sucked in a breath to avoid barking at her.
She loved discovering what she called her treasures, abandoned scraps of fabric. She had a point-students in the classes tossed away pieces big enough to be put in a quilt. Bottles and cans were just a recyclable bonus. I used to object, but Ina had told me I was ruining Gussie's fun. So I forced a smile when she greeted me, waving a treasured two-liter bottle.
Gussie bought all her clothes at the secondhand store-and only when they were running a sale. Consequently, her outfits tended to span fashion trends. Today she was wearing jeans with beaded pant legs and a seasonal sweatshirt with a leering scarecrow. A sparkly hair clip, the kind usually found on a playground, was holding back her brown-and-gray-streaked hair. Some people marched to a different drummer; Gussie jigged to a whole 'nother band.
I sidled up to Ina, who was trying to take down an unused table. The leg wouldn't budge. I kicked it expertly. "I'll do this. Go sew.
"We have to set up the quilt frame first. I'm sick of coming in and having to move things before I can find a place to do anything," Ina said. Nothing torqued her off more than a messy classroom.
