Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (38 page)

Former penitentiary inmate, Jane Marquis, had just put her
daughter
on a train… and prior to boarding, that daughter had flung her arms around her and hugged her tight and made her promise to come to Nebraska City next weekend.

Seamstress and upstanding member of First Presbyterian Church, Jane Prescott, was standing here at the Lincoln railroad station, and she wasn’t alone. Next to her… waiting, unmoving… Max.
Dr.
Max Zimmer. Who’d waited for years and, when he did move, had moved with her in mind. At least it seemed that way.

When she finally looked up at Max, he smiled. “I don’t know where you’ve been just now, but it seems to have been somewhere pleasant. You look… happy.”

She took a deep breath. Shook her head. “I was just thinking about what Mamie calls grace notes in life.” She nodded toward the horizon that had swallowed Rose’s train up. “There were times when I didn’t dare ask God for that. I talked to Him all the time about Rose, but I didn’t dare ask Him to bring her back to me. I thought I had to make that happen all by myself.” She blinked back tears. “I have so much to learn. And so much to be thankful for.” She looked into Max’s gray-green eyes. “Have I ever thanked
you
for being such a good friend?”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. For a moment, Jane thought he was going to take her in his arms. She wished he would. But then he winked at her, and once again, she was aware of the busyness around them—the noise and activity that, for just that moment when she stood looking up at Max, had all seemed to fade away.

He offered his arm. “You just did thank me. But I’ll believe it’s sincere if you join me at the Lindell for a late supper.”

It all started at quilting, the second Tuesday after Jane and Max dined at the Lindell… and the first Tuesday after Jane traveled to Nebraska City to spend Sunday with Rose and Flora. The teasing. The double entendre. The sense that she and Max were the leads in a play being watched by everyone who knew them.

First, Blanche Gordon said something about “a certain doctor” who seemed to have made a permanent move to a new pew on Sunday mornings. “He looked positively forlorn this past Sabbath in that empty pew.” She looked meaningfully at Jane.

Minnie, seated to Jane’s right at the quilt, nudged her and said, “You must understand, Jane, that new members of the church—and especially new members of the Ladies Aid—are required to report their whereabouts on Sunday mornings—unless, of course, they have an excused absence. In writing. Signed by God.” She paused. “And you are probably going to have to get used to the idea that the women at the Ladies Aid feel it their personal responsibility to monitor all courting and potential pairings in the congregation. I believe the duty is outlined in paragraph three of the organization’s constitution.” She leaned close and in a stage whisper said, “I am on very thin ice with this group. They may have to excommunicate me since I unabashedly refuse to be paired up, married off, or otherwise encumbered with anyone who would provide fodder for quilting conversation.”

Sarah Tower scolded, “If you aren’t careful, Minnie, I am going to have to tell that sister of yours to take you in hand.”

“Well, that will most certainly work.” Minnie slapped a palm to her chest in mock panic. “Everyone knows I’m terrified of Mamie.”

Sarah glowered at her. “Were you always this incorrigible?”

“Define
always
,” Minnie quipped.

“How many times did you have to sit in the corner at school with a certain pointed hat on your head?”

“Only once. It took me exactly ten minutes to get the rest of the class laughing so hard, poor Miss Ferguson decided I was incorrigible, assigned me to the back row, and ignored me for the rest of the school year.”

“That,” Sarah said, “explains a great deal.”

Minnie agreed. “But I learned a lot on that back row.”

“Did you, now?”

“I did. How to organize, for example. Four of us sat on that back row. We named ourselves The Incorrigibles and terrorized the other students for the rest of the year.”

Sarah shook her head. “I almost believe that of you, although I cannot quite imagine Mamie Dawson taking part in such a venture.”

“Who said anything about Mamie? She was teacher’s pet. Up on the front row.”

Much to Jane’s relief, thanks to Minnie’s clever interruption, the subject shifted to youthful escapades, but it wasn’t long before someone spoke of Eugénie Savoie’s disappointment in regards to certain plans regarding a certain visiting relative. Blanche, it turned out, had a daughter about the age of Claudine DuBarry, and Claudine had made no secret of her opinion of Lincoln, Nebraska. Provincial. Without merit except, of course, for her darling aunt and uncle. And with a distinct lack of “qualified prospects.”

Betty Lyman spoke up. “You wouldn’t believe the way that young woman scans the crowd on Sunday. It’s distracting for the whole choir. She’s like a she-hawk looking for prey. I don’t think there’s any possibility she’s heard a single word of Pastor Irwin’s sermons.”

“Now, now,” Louise demurred gently. “Let’s not forget that we were all young once.” She chuckled. “As a matter of fact, when I was Miss DuBarry’s age, I was something of a she-hawk on occasion.”

When no one said anything, Jane glanced up. The women at the quilting frame were staring, aghast, at their pastor’s wife.

Louise laughed aloud. “If you could see your faces!” She knotted her thread and popped it between the layers of the quilt, then reached for another needle and began to stitch. “Happily for
this
she-hawk, her prey proved easy to capture. That was nearly thirty years ago, and I’ve still got him held firmly in my clutches.” She glanced over at Sarah Tower. “Tell us again, Sarah. Who are we quilting this for?”

As quilting day drew to a close late that afternoon, Jane drew Sarah Tower aside and invited her to lunch at Dinah’s the next day. “Other than taking Tuesdays for quilting, we’ve been working long days at the shop. Minnie said I could take a bit more time at lunch on occasion, and I’ve a few questions about that quilt block drawing you showed me a couple of Sundays ago. I got the impression you don’t want it to be a group project.”

Sarah nodded. “You’re right. When I showed them that drawing, they just shook their heads. Called me crazy for wanting to try anything so complex.” She shrugged and lowered her voice. “And… well, Betty is a lovely woman and such an accomplished musician, but sometimes her quilting stitches—I want this to be my masterpiece.” She smiled a conspiratorial smile. “Lunch at Dinah’s tomorrow would be lovely.”

Jane was pedaling furiously, completing a row of stitches on the claret silk that would be Mamie’s wedding dress, when Minnie appeared in the doorway between the shop and the workroom.

“Goodness, girl, you can make that thing fly.”

Jane kept pedaling, although she slowed down. “Can you believe we used to do all of this by hand?” When she came to the end of the seam, she stopped pedaling and looked up. “It only took us forty-nine hours to finish Martin’s suit. If our fore mothers had had one of these”—she patted the machine head—“women would rule the world.”

Mamie waved a hand in the air. “Do not get me started on the topic of how we have been kept back by men’s refusal to apply engineering and industrialization to women’s work.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve put the C
LOSED FOR
L
UNCH
sign on the front door. You want to join me out back? I think it’s still warm enough to get away with al fresco dining, and I want to take advantage of it before the weather turns once and for all.”

“Thanks, but I’m meeting Sarah Tower over at Dinah’s today.”

Minnie arched an eyebrow. “If the two of you are planning a quilting mutiny, I want to be included.”

“Nothing nearly that exciting.” Jane laughed. “I’ve taken another look at that impossible quilt she wants to make, and I think I’ve managed to draft the pattern.” She paused. “Sarah seems to want to do it all on her own, though. She said something about the group calling her crazy and her wanting to surprise everyone with a masterpiece.” She grimaced. “So I guess that’ll be impossible now that I’ve just—“

“Not to worry, Mrs. Prescott,” Minnie said. “One thing a good dressmaker learns is to hear but never remember.” She swept the air with her hand. “Want to join me for lunch?”

Jane laughed. “Thanks, but I’ve made plans.”

Minnie grabbed the cretonne fabric bag she used to carry her lunch from home to the shop every day. “See you later. Same time, same place.” She hesitated in the doorway. “We need to decide on the buttons for Mamie’s dress when we get back from lunch. She refused to tell me what she wants, and if we have to order something, I need to let my notions man know. He’s due in tomorrow.” She smiled. “You will love it, by the way. It’s like Christmas when he starts pulling samples out of his case.”

Jane stood up, grimacing and stretching from side to side.

“I’m telling you, Jane, you have to make it a point to get up and stretch every so often or you are going to end up permanently bent over and in pain. And I do
not
need a certain someone blaming me for crippling the woman he loves.”

“I thought you said dressmakers hear but never remember.”

“We do. And I haven’t heard a thing. But I’d have to be blind not to see the expression on that man’s face every time he looks at you.”

“I don’t know what to say when people hint about Max and me.”

“You don’t have to say a thing. They can see the same things I see.” She winked but then grew serious. “Jane. I know you need time to be you. To find your way. To embrace… your new life. Anyone would. But don’t wait too long.
He’s
been waiting nearly five years, all told.” She scooted out the door without waiting for a reply.

As soon as she and Sarah Tower were seated at a table at Dinah’s, Jane reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper. “I’ve had a night or two where I haven’t been able to sleep,” she said as she unfolded the paper, laid it on the table between them, and pointed to the first of two drawings.

Sarah pulled it closer and, with the tip of her finger moving around the circular design, counted each section. She looked up. “Sixty?”

“Sixty-four,” Jane said. “It’s stunning, but that’s a lot of piecing. And I hate to say it, but I think you’d have to have at least nine blocks to keep it from looking like they were just floating.” She pointed to the other drawing on the paper. “I realize this sashing carries the entire project to an entirely new level of insanity, but my mother had a quilt she called her New York beauty. It had sashing like this. Sadly, it was lost in a fire when I was a girl.”

Sarah looked up from the paper. “A fire? I’m so sorry.”

“When I grew older I seemed to remember Mother being more sorrowful over the quilt than she was her own widowhood. My father died in that fire, but they’d never been happy. He was—difficult.”
He was like Owen.
The realization sent a chill up her spine. She’d repeated her own mother’s mistake. How… odd.

“Your mother,” Sarah said. “Is that who you visit in Nebraska City?” When Jane hesitated, she said quickly, “I’m sorry. That was… indelicate of me. I didn’t mean to pry.”