“Remember talking to them last night? The Freitas sisters with the hand dyes?” He took a fat Sharpie out of his pocket and circled several names. “Go see them. Here’s the Youngs, that couple from Canada who specialized in custom machine quilting. Their daughter works at Google, and they’re considering relocating. If they had any Google stock at all, they’ll have money to burn.”
He ran down about ten names of people we’d met in the bar last night. I was amazed at his total recall of these people and their lives. I was struggling to put faces with the names. I stashed the notebook in my back pocket.
“Enough,” I said, taking the brochure from him as he circled another name. At least a dozen had thick black lines around their names. “The show is getting crowded already. I won’t be able to talk to people if they’re waiting on customers.”
“Suit yourself. Good luck,” Freddy said, waving me off.
I turned the corner and an image of Claire brought me up short. For a moment, I thought I’d conjured it up. But no, her picture was printed on a white T-shirt floating ethereally in mid-air, putting her smiling mouth right at my eye level.
A chill ran through me as her image shimmied when a shopper passed by.
This was too creepy for words. Seeing Claire’s face like this felt like a violation. I would hate it if someone took my mother’s face and put her lopsided grin on a T-shirt. Who thought this was a good idea?
I peered into the booth. A large sign in the back said this was Nanny’s Notions. I’d just seen that name somewhere in the notebook, or maybe the brochure.
The tables were filled with items printed with Claire’s image. T-shirts, lapel pins, aprons, even a mouse pad. The picture had been bootlegged from the cover of her latest book. Someone must have been up all night making this stuff.
The vendor was a large woman, her butt dewlapped over the sides of a tall stool. She glared at me, slurping a cup of coffee.
“If you want a shirt, you’d better get it now. I expect to be sold out by noon,” she said.
The crassness of someone profiting in such a crude way from Claire’s death was appalling. Myra should be told. Claire must have had lawyers who could put an end to this. I grabbed my phone before I remembered I didn’t have Myra’s number.
I turned my attention back to the woman in front of me.
“Did you get the company’s permission to use her likeness?” I said, trying to sound like I knew all the ins and outs of copyright violation. The woman was not fooled. She waved off my objections with her coffee cup.
“Cutie, if I waited for permission in my life, I’d still be in a trailer park in Fresno.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “It’s my tribute to her. Claire meant a lot to me. She helped me get my business started.”
What would Myra’s reaction be to coming across this? Would she see it as a tribute or insult? I had to put Myra’s problems aside and get on to my own business before the show got gridlocked. I gave the vendor what I hoped was a withering glance and walked away.
I looked up and down the aisle. My mother had always talked about the people she met at these shows, but I hadn’t paid any attention. I hadn’t known then that one of those names might hold my future.
I felt a jolt of anger run through me that my mother had died and left me with such big shoes to fill. I was not up to the task, I could barely find my way around this place. She had been intimately familiar with the show and the people. There was so much I didn’t know.
I shook myself. She might have left me with a mess, but my mother had taught me the only way to get an unpleasant task done was to get started.
Checking Freddy’s list, I saw the Freitas sisters’ booth was several aisles over. Closer was another name on his list. I approached a grandmotherly-looking woman who was talking to a bulky man in a booth piled high with antique quilts. The seventy-something man was wearing overalls decorated with frayed-edge calico patches. He had yellowy-white muttonchops, reminding me of one of the cranky old Muppets that sat in the balcony. Why would Freddy send me here? I could only hope these two old people had younger partners somewhere.
As I waited for the woman to finish giving the overalled man his list of jobs for the day, my attention was snagged by an old quilt hanging across the back of the booth—a tree design formed by hundreds of equilateral triangles on a butterscotch-colored background. What kind of woman had spent her nights, bent over an oil lamp, piecing together those tiny pieces? Intellectually, I knew the answer—one who had worked all day in the fields, tended to her children, and still had the time, energy, and inclination to create something beautiful before bed. I felt like such a slacker. I resolved to go home tonight and, instead of watching another
True Hollywood Story
or
Forensic File
, install the crown molding in my dining room.
Just past the tree quilt a sign in the back of the booth read “Youngstown Antique Quilts.” I looked at Freddy’s list. I was in the wrong booth. I was looking for “Young’s Quilts.” Dammit, I was wasting time.
I was suddenly drawn into the man’s chest as he bear-hugged me. I gasped as the cold metal buckle from his overalls pressed into my cheek. He pushed me away, holding me at arm’s length, then yanked me in for another clench. The quick glimpse of his smiling face told me he meant no harm, but I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t get whiplash.
“Look at her, Noni, just like her mother.” The man had tears in his eyes.
Noni smiled and touched my arm, extricating me from her husband’s grasp with practiced ease. Her hand was as soft and light as a cream puff, and she smelled of lilacs.
“Hello, sweetheart. Don’t mind Chester, he’s harmless. We knew Audra, you see, and it’s such a joy to see you. Having you here is like she’s still with us.”
My eyes filled with tears. Noni produced a handkerchief from her apron. Lace-edged and embroidered, the hanky was too pretty to use. Chester embraced me again. I leaned away, dabbed at my eyes, and handed Noni the now wet cloth.
“I’m so glad you stopped by,” she said, patting my arm. She acted as though she’d been expecting me. “I’ve got something for you.”
She turned away from me, rummaging under the table until she came out with a large box, about the size and shape that boots come in. Chester was beaming at me, his cheeks squashing his eyes into little slits. I smiled back, wondering what would be in the box. Noni opened the lid to show me an old quilt, the fabrics worn but still colorful.
“I found this at an estate sale last fall,” she said, her hands smoothing the quilt. The back of her hands were freckled deeply, with bumps where her veins bulged. I felt sad looking at them. My mother’s hands would never get so fragile looking.
“As soon as I saw it, I knew it was just what your mother wanted.”
“My mother?”
“You know how she loved any quilt with Flying Geese,” Noni said.
Did she? I wasn’t even sure what a flying goose was. I hesitated. Should I touch it? I knew the rules about never touching quilts. Oils on the skin were toxic to old fabrics, but I felt like I wanted to bury my face in this quilt. Noni saw my hesitation and took the quilt out and handed it to me. I cradled the folded bundle.
I ran my hand over the crinkled quilt, tracing the path of the peaks. “Is that what this is called—Flying Geese?”
“That’s the name of the smallest unit there.” She pointed at one section, a rectangle with a colored triangle in the middle. “The block is called by another name. Could be ‘Flying Carpet Ride’.”
“I think it’s ‘Corn Rows,’ ” Chester put in.
“You may be right, dear,” she said.
The quilt was very old-fashioned, not my style, but the brown-and-pink color combination was appealing. I turned to Noni, returning her sweet smile. I had no words for what I was feeling. The quilt was dredging up emotions in me that I hadn’t had before. I was bereft, yet comforted. Alone, but not lonely. Feelings of home and belonging seemed to permeate the fibers.
“Your mom told me that when you were little you wanted a quilt like this,” Noni said.
“I did?” I had no recollection. And no one to ask. This was not something my father or brothers would remember.
“She said you were reading her copy of ‘Quilts in History’ and saw a picture of a quilt you loved.”
This rang some faint bells. “Oh yeah—I was planning my wedding to Ricky Schroder and insisted Mom make me a quilt just like the one in the book.”
I hadn’t thought about that quilt since that summer, but with Noni’s gentle nudges, the memories came flooding back.
“Mom told me she would piece a quilt for me, but I didn’t want that. I wanted an old one, like the picture in the book. After several days of serious pouting on my part, she’d promised I’d have one when I got married.”
My throat swelled shut as I realized my mother would never watch me get married, as I’d imagined so many years ago. The tears flowed again. Noni put her arm around me, handing me a new handkerchief, this one with pink roses embroidered on the corner. I laughed at her seemingly endless supply. She pressed it into my hand.
Noni patted my shoulder. “The quilt is yours, my dear. Take it and have a wonderful life. That’s what your mother wanted for you.”
A wonderful life sounded good. Would the quilt ensure that?
“Let me send you a check. An antique quilt like this must be worth a fortune.” A fortune I didn’t have, but I couldn’t see myself giving up this quilt.
Chester held up a meaty hand. “We wouldn’t hear of it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Noni concurred. “No, dear. We bought this quilt as a gift for your mother, to thank her for all the business she’s brought us through the years. We’d be honored if you would take it.”
What could I say to that? I didn’t trust myself to talk.
Chester bussed my cheek. “Let me put it back in the box for you.”
The box was surprisingly light, as if over time the batting in the quilt had been replaced with air.
Customers were demanding his attention. “We’ll see you soon,” he bellowed.
Noni drew me in for a hug. She looked fragile, but her arms held me tight.
“Thank you both so much,” I said. “Make sure you stop by the booth sometime this weekend.”
That was the first real conversation I’d had about my mother since she died. At the store, everyone tiptoed around me; talking ceased when I walked into the room. I felt myself relax a little. The knot in my stomach had started to loosen. A place in me, maybe it was the daughter place, was opening.
I was starting to sense that the quilt show was not a place trying to leech my mother away from me, but a place where I could add to my mother’s stories.
With another reading of the map, and several false starts, I found my way to the Freitas sisters’ booth. The tall, curly-haired one was restocking their pine shelves with neat bundles of hand-dyes. The array of colors was dazzling. The two sisters were dressed in flowing garments made from their fabrics, and they greeted me with the same toothy smiles.
After pleasantries, I said, “I’m getting serious about selling my mother’s shop.”
The tall one nudged the shorter. “Spooky, huh?” To me, she said, “We were just talking about you.”
I looked from one to the other questioningly.
“We’re thinking about making you an offer, Dewey. We have some questions for you.”
“But not now,” the shorter one with the bangs said. “We’re about to get hammered with customers. The booth was crazy busy yesterday.”
“Want to get together after the show closes?” I suggested. “About five thirty?”
“Sure, we’ll be in the bar. Meet us there again.”
The bar reminded me of the overheard conversation between Eve and Justine.
“Great. Hey, I’ve been looking for Justine this morning. Have you seen her? Eve wasn’t very helpful.”
They exchanged a look. These two had a secret and were ready to spill. “You left before the fireworks last night.”
“Fireworks? I heard there was karaoke,” I said.
“Not that. Justine came to the bar about midnight,” Cully said.
“Straight from the card club. Tail between her legs.”
This
was
news. “Did Eve flip out?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. She was ready to kill Justine.”
Eve had said Justine played to de-stress. “I thought she was cool with Justine gambling,” I said.
The tall one looked around before confiding in me. “Justine got on a losing streak and lost everything, including the bank deposit.”
I caught my breath. “Wait a minute. She was supposed to take money to the bank. She didn’t?”
“Nope, she went straight to the card club. And she had all the cash from the gate.”
“How much are we talking?” I asked.
“Think about it,” the tall sister said. “All of yesterday’s admittance fees. Most of the attendees pay cash to get in. Running credit cards takes too long. We had more than two thousand people here yesterday. At fifteen dollars a pop, do the math.”
I did the math quickly.
“Thirty thousand dollars? Gone?”