He ruffled my hair and smiled. “No, thanks. With your ability to hide your feelings, we’d be found out in two minutes.”
“That’s not true! I can keep as straight a face as the next person.”
“If the next person is a monkey.”
I brandished my fist at him. “I swear, you are really going to get it someday.”
He covered my fist with his hand and shook it gently. “
Querida
, it’s not an insult. In fact, it’s one of the things I especially enjoy about making love to you.”
I felt my face grow warm. “Oh, geeze, close your eyes next time, Friday.”
His delighted laugh momentarily erased the worried slant of his eyes. “It’s amazing. I can still make you blush.”
“I’m leaving,” I said, pulling my hand away and opening the car door, “before I choke on all this free-floating machismo.”
Stan turned off the water and greeted us with a big smile. “The queen bee’s inside, but I better warn you, we’ve all scattered to the wind trying to stay out of her way. I think that phone is permanently attached to her ear.”
“Why aren’t you working?” Gabe asked.
“One of the advantages of owning your own business,” Stan said, wiping his hands on his khaki shorts. “I took today off to watch the girls so Becky could do her quilt thing.” He looked at me curiously. “You okay? I heard you took a tumble last night.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just tripped over my own feet. I think I’ll go in and see if Becky needs any help.” I looked up at Gabe. “I’ll see you tonight, unless we run into each other around town.”
“I’ll pick you up.” He brushed a kiss across my cheek. “Be careful,” he whispered in my ear.
I found Becky in the kitchen, shouldering the phone as she rinsed dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher. Her pink T-shirt said “A good mother is like a quilt—she keeps you warm but doesn’t smother you.” She raised her eyebrows at me and continued her conversation. “No,” she said firmly. “I told you I don’t care who she is, the vendor slots were set a month ago. Unless she can get someone to change with her, she’s stuck by the restrooms.” She paused and listened, then shoved the dishwasher door closed with a bang. “Tell her everyone has to use the restrooms at some time during the show. It’s actually a very good spot.” I could hear a tinny voice whine something back. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk to her. I’ll be there in about half an hour.” She pushed the Off button on the phone and threw it on the counter with a clatter. “I hope it’s broken,” she said. It buzzed again. She groaned. “Let the machine get it. I need a cup of tea. Want one?”
“Sure. Anything I can do to help?”
Her face twisted ruefully. “Take over my presidency ?”
I laughed. “How about I just take the easy way out and raise your two kids and finish your next five quilts?”
“Ah, the voice of experience.”
She turned the teakettle on and gestured for me to have a seat at the kitchen table. “I’m about ready to run screaming into the nearest cornfield. I don’t know what possessed me to add these evening hours to the quilt show. Saturday and Sunday would have been plenty, but no, I had to be different and suggest we open Friday evening for the extra exposure.” She set two white china teacups on the table, depositing a tea bag in each one.
“It’ll be fine,” I assured her. “By Sunday night it’ll all be over.”
“And I’ll be a raving lunatic.”
After our quick cup of tea, when she took the time to inspect my facial wounds and hear my concocted story of falling with the concern of a seasoned mother, we loaded up her Cherokee with the last-minute raffle tickets, lists, and other sundry items for the show. Going downstairs to the family room to find the rolls of Scotch tape she said were there, I spotted Tyler’s wall hanging spread across the back of a loveseat. I traced my fingers over the fine stitching again, then picked it up and turned it over. The backing was plain muslin—no date, no name. Nothing to indicate what this quilt was about. Nothing except the pattern. I set it down again and went back upstairs. The same questions darted around my mind like hungry goldfish. What
was
Tyler doing in Arkansas? Would I ever find out, or would it just be one of those questions I’d keep asking myself the rest of my life?
Becky talked nonstop on the ten-minute drive to the church. The adrenaline rush she was experiencing, a rush that was very familiar to me, was the only thing that would keep her going for the next three days. I did what I’ve found it best to do when someone is in one of those states—I listened, and murmured general sounds of agreement. The church parking lot was already teeming with cars and trucks, though it was only eleven o’clock and the show wouldn’t open until four. We squeezed around vendors unloading boxes of merchandise, waving at Janet as she directed two husky teenage boys carrying rolled quilts to her vendor spot in the spacious recreation room.
“We’re allowing the Panther Pep Squad to put on a bake sale at the show,” Becky said, rescuing the tilting box of cupcakes a young girl in a cheerleader’s outfit was struggling with. “You’re in space twenty-three,” she told her. “Over by the water fountain.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Kolanowski,” the girl said, giggling.
The quilts, hung and labeled the day before on specially made metal poles covered with white sheets, were already set in place, though the rest of the room didn’t look as if it would be ready for weeks, much less in four hours. I followed Becky to the entrance, where the ticket and opportunity quilt committee were counting change, organizing raffle tickets, and setting out the red-and-white printed programs. In the corner behind them, a tall woman wearing a ruffled white apron was giving instructions to a group of “white glove ladies,” the women who strolled up and down the aisles and lifted the quilts with their gloved hands so visitors could inspect the stitching more closely without touching the quilts themselves.
“What do you think of our president’s quilt from last year?” Becky asked. The jointly made quilt, a traditional gift from the guild to the outgoing president, was a sampler quilt made of myriad gold and brown plaids and calicos with enough touches of green to give it spark. Each square had a Midwestern or farming motif—Ohio Star, Kansas Dugout, Prairie Queen, Road to Oklahoma, Hole in the Barn Door, Whirlwind, Turkey Tracks. “We named it Heartland Memories. It took a total of two hundred seventy-nine hours to quilt.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “So, what can I do to help?”
“Actually, everything’s under control, though it may not look that way. Why don’t you check with Janet? She called me this morning hot as a chili pepper because Megan bought tickets to see Randy Travis in Kansas City tonight and can’t—or rather, won’t—help her tonight.”
“I’d be glad to.” What a break, I thought, ignoring Gabe’s voice inside me telling me to keep a low profile. Maybe I could casually quiz her about the rodeo and her whereabouts last night.
Janet was sitting in the center of the carpeted floor of her booth, a disgruntled expression on her face. A smudge of dirt bisected her cheek, and her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled up in a crooked ponytail. Unpacked boxes of merchandise from the craft store surrounded her.
“Becky told me you might need some help,” I said.
She gazed up at me, chewing the bottom of her lip. “I’m sitting here wondering why in the world I ever bore a child, ungrateful little brats that they are. And my sister, curses on her evil heart, is on a cruise in the Caribbean.” Her eyebrows went up when she noticed my face. “What in the world happened to your face?”
“I fell last night at the rodeo. No big deal.” I stooped down and started pulling quilt books out of a box. Was Janet faking it? Could she have been the one who tried to run me down? It was difficult for me to imagine her or any of Gabe’s friends in that capacity. What must it be like for Gabe? “Who needs her, anyway?” I said blithely, changing the subject. “I have all day, and I’m not doing anything this evening. If you promise me an hour or so to see the show and a free hot dog, I’ll sell my little heart out for you.”
“Bless you, my child.” She stood up and went over to a pile of black plastic trash bags filled with quilts. “I’ll send out for steak sandwiches if you’re serious.”
“Pizza, with pepperoni and black olives,” I countered. “And Coke. The real stuff, not some grocery store brand.” My joking made her smile.
“You’ve got a deal,” she declared.
In the next four hours we unpacked the boxes and arranged the quilts, hooked rugs, and various craft items in a way that hopefully would compel people to part with their hard-earned dollars. One hour before show time, we were sitting on the floor eating the promised pizza when Becky joined us.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, flopping down next to us. She grabbed a slice of pizza and a brown paper towel. “We’re going to open on time. It’s a miracle.”
“I would have never made it without Benni,” Janet said, toasting me with a slice of pizza. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” I drained my Coke and stood up. “I do want to take a quick look at the show before we start work, though.”
“Don’t miss the Elvis quilts,” Becky said. “They’re a hoot.”
I made a quick trip around the perimeter of the large room, glancing quickly over the vendors’ wares to see if there was anything I couldn’t buy in San Celina. The vendors were the usual ones always seen at quilt shows: purveyors of thimbles, quilt pins and needles, templates and patterns; pattern search companies and sellers of hand-dyed fabric, batting (cotton or polyester—the controversy rages on), cards, calendars, and pictures featuring every type of quilt you could imagine. There were also quilt books galore and the always present canisters of Bag Balm. I picked up the tiny green and pink can, remembering the first time Gabe saw one sitting on an end table at home.
“What’s this for?” he had asked. “Are you hiding a milk cow in the spare room?”
“It’s for my fingers,” I answered. “Quilting makes them sore, especially now that I don’t quilt as much as I used to.” He gave me a skeptical look. “Really, it’s also good for calluses, even ones caused by working on cars. Let me show you.” I took his hand and started rubbing some of the lanolin-based leathery-scented salve into his rough fingertips and down his fingers. We started out laughing and ended up making love on the living-room floor.
I cruised the rest of the vendors quickly, not seeing anything I didn’t already have or could buy at home except for a book on Kansas quilters and a book for the co-op’s library, an encyclopedia of four thousand quilt patterns. I glanced at my watch. Forty minutes before the doors opened. Plenty of time to see the show. Following the program’s suggested route, I worked my way up and down the aisles.
The first set of quilts was the general competition between the guild members—no set theme or requirements. Becky had posted a Polaroid picture of each quilter next to the explanation of her work. It was a wonderful touch, making the stories behind the quilts even more personal. The reasons why women quilt were as varied as the quilts themselves.
“I bought some of the fabric for this quilt at a TG & Y in Bakersfield, California, twenty-five years ago when visiting my sister,” one Wichita woman wrote about her Pinwheel Log Cabin quilt. “The rest is scraps because we Mennonites hate to waste anything.” Her rosy, well-fed face attested to that fact.
“I made this quilt for my sister, Martha,” another quilter wrote of her Robbing Peter to Pay Paul quilt made of primarily red, yellow, and brown calicos, “because she was always borrowing my clothes when we were girls.” The Polaroid showed two smiling ladies in their sixties with Lucille Ball-red hair. One held two fingers in a V behind the head of the other.
“This was made for my best friend when she was getting over cancer. I hand-pieced a lot of it waiting for her during her chemotherapy treatments,” wrote another lady pictured in a white Stetson with a long feather stuck in the brim. “She’s from Texas, and she’s doing great now.” The quilt was a Lone Star pattern done in pinks, yellows, greens, and tan.
The “Elvis Lives” Quilt Challenge was next. The innovative ways that people rose to the challenge was fun—fancy jean jackets with quilted Elvis faces, and pictorial quilts based on his hit songs. One swirling, colorful interpretation called Elvis in a Blender was made by a quilter who wasn’t especially fond of the singer but entered the competition anyway.
After the Elvis exhibit came the antique quilts. This section had a theme—A Century of Quilts. It displayed quilts from 1840 through 1940 with small cards giving a corresponding piece of quilt trivia. When the 1840 Chips and Whetstones quilt was made, quilters paid half a cent for a spool of thread; when the 1870 Ocean Waves quilt was being stitched, a whole quilt cost $3.00 to have quilted; and in 1920, when the pastel David and Goliath quilt was finished, Sears was selling American Standard Fancy Calico for ten cents a yard.
The last exhibit was fun and touching, and the quilters rose to the occasion as they usually do with both humor and warmth. Guild members were asked to show a baby quilt they’d made and tell the story behind its conception—a play on words, playfully intended.
The display of quilts ran the gamut from a green and blue split rail with tiny cowboys depicted in the background (“Grandpa is a semiprofessional rodeo announcer”) to a red and white nine-patch with miniature baseball bats and gloves embroidered on every other square (“She never missed a Kansas City Chiefs game except the day I delivered her”) to an elaborate appliquéd carousel quilt made with fabric as glittery as jewels (“Her father and I met on a carousel. He was the operator and he let me ride five times for free”). Both of Becky’s daughters’ quilts were Amish. Whitney’s was a Tumbling Blocks design in cool blues, purples, and greens; Paige’s a colorful Amish Baskets in yellow, orange, and browns.
Customers were already starting to line up when I got back to Janet’s booth. We worked steadily for the next few hours, only speaking when I needed to ask her how to write something up or the price of some unmarked item. By a quarter to nine, the crowd had thinned considerably.