Read The Friendship Star Quilt Online
Authors: Patricia Kiyono,Stephanie Michels
The Friendship Star Quilt (2 page)
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Once everyone had what they needed for the evening, Anne settled down to work on her own project, a quilt for her bed. She already had the pattern and fabric picked. When finished, the piece would hang in the store as a display for three months. Afterwards, according to her agreement with Myra, Anne could purchase her samples for just the wholesale cost of the materials she'd used.
This quilt would be made with the lovely vintage Friendship Star pattern. The blocks required three complimentary shades of fabric, cut in different-sized squares and triangular half-squares. The blocks would then be banded with a fourth color for contrast. Using a mat, quilting ruler, and her rotary cutter, Anne had carefully prepared the pieces. She'd chosen a white calico with dainty purple flowers to use for the stars themselves. A solid dark purple square would be in the center of each star. Anne would highlight these with blocks of light lilac calico then mount them on a base of white muslin. Small squares of each colored fabric would form a diagonal frame between the star blocks, crisscrossing the white quilt top. The design would require a lot of hand-piecing, but when finished, it would be a very feminine version of the classic quilt. Anne pictured it on the white-washed four-poster bed in her apartment.
It didn't take long for her to cut the components she needed and stack them in a clear plastic storage tote to keep them clean. She left out only enough pieces to work on her first block. Before settling down to baste it together, she glanced around the group to see if any of the women needed her help. The meeting wasn't meant to be a class â in fact, Lila and some of the others had been quilting long before Anne had even been born â but the young clerk still felt responsible for them and their projects. The group members were some of the shop's best customers, and Myra had always stressed the importance of keeping them happy. So she helped out however she could.
“Anne? I'm ready to start the machine quilting. Would you mind helping me get started?” Sue Visser stood by the long-armed machine, holding her quilt top. The frame set up next to it would hold the top, batting, and backing steady as the machine quilted the layers together. However, putting the three components on the frame was a two-person job.
The long-armed quilter was one of the shop's big draws. Unlike a traditional sewing machine, which had a fixed needle arm under which the quilt was fed, this one held the quilt steady on a frame and the sewing arm moved around it. The quilt top, batting, and backing were carefully stacked then rolled taut on a six-foot long cylinder and fed through the frame onto another cylinder, much like a giant scroll. The operator could guide the moveable sewing arm around the section of quilt exposed between the two cylinders to create beautiful background stitching patterns. An attached computer could be programmed to create hundreds of different designs and the long arm could be moved to wherever the operator wanted to place the stitches. A number of companies made the long-arm quilters, but the machines were still much too expensive for most hobbyists to own. Having access to one at The Stitching Post was a real bonus. Many women brought their finished quilt tops to the shop, and Myra charged them an hourly fee to use the machine, which offset its maintenance cost. Since the members of the quilt group were all experienced sewers, Myra let them use the machine for a fraction of the normal fee.
Now, Anne helped Sue connect the layers of her quilt to the long cylinders then lift them onto the frame. Once the machine was threaded and Sue programmed the stitch she wanted, Anne watched for a bit to be certain it operated smoothly for the woman. Around them, the others worked on their own projects. Tee Donovan sewed blocks for a colorful quilt for her daughter's bed. Lila used a mat and rotary cutter to make the squares for her granddaughter's gift. Ellen Wheeler was busy with an embroidered block she was making for a shower gift. Mary Biros had a small wall hanging for her granddaughter's room, and Doris McDermid hand-stitched one of the exquisite baby quilts which were her specialty. As always, the ladies chatted as they worked, catching up on their families and commiserating with one another's problems. They listened to each other, offered advice when asked, or just acted as a sounding board for one another.
Anne sat among them, content to simply listen as she sewed. She never shared much about herself, but she enjoyed hearing their news. On nights like this, it was easy to pretend these were her friends, and that her life was filled with as much love as theirs were.
Brad gave his daughter another hug then buckled her into her booster seat. His heart still thudded furiously when he thought about the danger she could have been in if the clerk at the quilt shop hadn't taken her in and called him at work. How could he have been so irresponsible? He'd known what time the party was over, but he'd been way too engrossed trying to find chaperones for the high school band's trip to play in the Holiday Magic parade in Royal Oak. The time had slipped away before he'd realized it.
He frowned. What had happened to all those moms who'd offered to “help in any way they could”? Suddenly, they all had things to do, from doctor appointments to ailing parents. While he sympathized with them, it certainly left him with a mess.
Even the group of parents known as the Rivertown Band Boosters seemed more preoccupied with fund raising than offering him any sort of real assistance. While he appreciated the supplies their efforts provided for the kids, he needed more than money this time. He needed chaperones for trips, people to make or repair the flags for the color guard, even someone to help organize the music library.
It seemed to Brad he spent every waking moment putting out fires and tending to minutia. The last time Aunt Bonnie had visited, she'd told him he needed to let go, learn to delegate. He'd love to delegate more. But to whom? He shook his head.
How on earth do other single dads cope?
He sighed. Time to take off the band director hat. He had a precious little daughter who needed him to be a daddy. He glanced in the rear view mirror at the little girl, who was a miniature of her mother. She sat contentedly in the back seat, staring out the window. Jennie never caused him any trouble and seemed to accept him with all his flaws. She was his pride and joy, but somehow, he kept letting her down.
“How was the party, Princess?”
Jennie turned and met his gaze in the mirror. Her grin showed an endearing gap between her teeth, and he felt his spirits lift at the sight.
“It was fun, Daddy. We played games and stuff. And we had ice cream and cake.”
“Sounds good. Were all your friends there?”
“Uh huh. Sherry, and Callie and Bethanie⦔
Brad let the child chatter while he navigated the car toward their home in one of Grandville's older subdivisions. He and Sarah had talked about buying a newer, bigger home, but now he was glad they hadn't moved from their cozy ranch. Upkeep on a larger place would have been more expense and time than he could presently afford. He already felt stretched to the limit. Sarah's funeral expenses had exceeded the modest insurance policy they'd carried, so he'd pulled money from savings to pay off the last of those debts. Having sole responsibility for his daughter, while enjoyable, took a lot of time, too. He'd never realized all the little things his wife must have seen to each day. Sarah had constantly complained about never having any time for herself, and now he understood why. He'd made an effort to get home from work early most days so she could have evenings free to go out with friends, even though he'd often wished they could have spent those hours together as a family.
“Daddy?”
“What, Princess?”
“Where are we going?”
“We're going home to have supper. Why?”
“Because we already passed our street.”
Rats! Daydreaming again.
If his daughter hadn't been on the ball, there was no telling when he might have realized what he'd done. Probably in the next county. Looking for a place to turn around, he spotted a family smorgasbord-style restaurant where they sometimes ate. He signaled and turned into the lot.
“Princess, I changed my mind. If I start cooking when we get home, it's going to be late by the time we have dinner. Would it be okay with you if we eat here tonight?”
Jennie's eyes lit up. “Okay, Daddy. I like their chicken. And they have corn with butter on it. And mashed potatoes and applesauce⦔
The rest of Jennie's list faded away as Brad opened his door and got out. He went to the back seat to help her unbuckle her seatbelt, smiling to himself as she continued to name off her “favorites.”
“â¦And can I have chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce for dessert, Daddy?”
He nodded. “Anything you want.”
He'd be a good dad and make a home cooked dinner for his daughter some other night. For the moment, he just needed to get them both fed. One of these days he'd get caught up, then he'd think about proper nutrition and eating on a schedule. In the meantime, they'd let someone else do the cooking.
****
The lively conversation, sprinkled with laughter, continued as Anne sat to one side quietly working on her own project. Some of the women, like Sylvia and Ellen, had been friends for years, while others only knew each other through the group, but all the women had families and enjoyed sharing tidbits about them every week. Anne loved listening to their stories, especially the ones about their children and grandchildren.
Anne loved children. At one time, she'd wanted to become a teacher, but there had been no money for college. She'd been raised since childhood by her elderly grandparents in a rural part of Southeastern Michigan. They lived simply, unable to afford many extras. After her grandfather's death, she and her grandmother had stayed on at the farm, but Grams leased the land to a neighbor for just enough to make ends meet. Money got tighter after Grams was diagnosed with Alzheimer's while Anne was still in high school. Medicare paid for Grams' doctors and someone to stay with her during the day, but Anne had gotten a part-time job at the Quik Stop near the Interstate to help pay household bills. It became a full-time job after she graduated, and she'd met Jeffrey Harper there one sunny Saturday, when he'd pulled in for fuel on his way home from the university. They'd hit it off, started dating, and gotten engaged just before Grams' condition suddenly worsened. Due to the circumstances, Jeffrey's wealthy family had grudgingly conceded to a small wedding, but had insisted on throwing a huge reception for them later.
Jeffrey had promised Anne could go to college as soon as he finished his accounting degree. But almost before the ink had dried on their marriage license, he'd begun to change. Gone was the handsome, carefree frat boy who'd loved everything about her. Now, Jeffrey harped at her about everything. Her clothes were inappropriate. Her haircut was frumpy. Her make-up looked as if a child had applied it. She needed to wear the right clothes, couldn't leave the house until her hair and makeup were done perfectly. He controlled what she could or couldn't eat in order to keep her weight down and her complexion clear. Nothing about her was right. He even mocked the way she spoke, calling her “a stupid hillbilly” or worse. Jeffrey had an image in his mind of how the wife of a successful businessman should appear and behave, and he was determined to force her into the mold.
At first, his desire to improve her had made Anne feel somewhat like Eliza Doolittle in
My Fair Lady
. She'd been flattered by his determination and had tried hard to please him. She'd studied fashion magazines and observed the dress and behavior of his colleagues' wives. Every morning, she would curl her hair and carefully apply make-up, even when she had no plans to leave the house. She had followed the diet he'd set for her and made sure she always dressed stylishly. No jeans or sweats for the wife of Jeffrey Harper. However, nothing she did seemed to meet her husband's exacting standards. When he decided to run for an open seat on the town council, her life had turned into a nightmare.
“Anne, could you help me, please? I can't get these pieces to line up correctly.”
The question dragged Anne back from her painful memories. She found Sylvia standing in front of her, holding out several squares of fabric.
“I know the pieces are cut correctly. I double checked them. But every time I try to sew them together, they shift or something then the corners won't match up. What on earth am I doing wrong?”
Anne shook off the hurtful memories. “Let me take a peek,” she said, rising from her chair, and walking over to the table where the woman had been working. “Did you pin the blocks together before you started to sew?”
When Sylvia said she had, Anne picked up the piece she'd been sewing. Sylvia was an experienced quilter, but her sewing machine was new, a gift from her husband, and she wasn't quite used to it yet. Since Anne had helped pick out the machine, she felt responsible for making sure Sylvia was satisfied with its performance. A quick adjustment to the tension fixed the problem, and Sylvia was soon sewing happily. For the next hour, Anne helped any of the other ladies who had sewing problems or needed advice. The women were at various levels of expertise, and a few newer members needed extra help with their projects. Anne tried to give everyone personal attention but was grateful whenever Lila or one of the other seasoned quilters pitched in to assist.
“Did you hear about the prison break down in Jackson this afternoon? They think someone may have bribed a guard to look the other way.”
“Can you even imagine how much it would cost to arrange such a thing?” Doris asked.
Her question sparked a lively reaction among the others, but Anne didn't hear much more than the words “prison break” and “bribe.” She froze in the middle of showing Betty how to finger press a quilt seam. Her heart started a double-time beat, and her lungs felt like a giant fist was squeezing the air from them. When the room began to tilt dangerously, Anne quickly dropped into the nearest chair, leaned her head forward, and took several deep breaths. Raising her head, she saw the concerned expressions of the women around her.
“Anne, what happened?”
“Are you feeling sick? We could have cancelled our meeting tonight if you're ill.”
“She was a little flushed when I came in, but I thought it was because of the handsome young man she was talking to.”
“Here, I got you some water. Have a little sip.”
Anne took the cup Sue thrust into her hand. She took a small drink then did her best to reassure everyone. “I'm fine, honest. I must have forgotten to eat this afternoon. I'll just run over to Falcone's later and get a couple of Mario's breadsticks. They always fill me up.”
“You'll do no such thing,” Sylvia said. She grabbed her purse and fleece jacket. “I'll go for the breadsticks. You just stay put.” She'd dashed out to get the food, while the others helped Anne move to a more comfortable chair and continued to fuss over her.
“Really, I'm okay. I just forgot to eat, and I got a bit light-headed. I'll be just fine once I get something in my stomach.”
“Did you eat at all today?” Lila asked.
“Umm⦔ Anne wrinkled her brow as she tried to think. When had she eaten last? Maybe a piece of toast this morning⦠or had it been last night?
“That's what I thought,” the older woman declared in a motherly tone.
She and the other women continued to hover until Sylvia returned carrying a large white sack with the restaurant's name emblazoned in red ink on its side.
“When I told Mario why I needed the breadsticks, he refused to take any money,” Sylvia said as she set the bag on the table. “And he insisted on sending a dish of lasagna, too. I think you have an admirer there, Anne.”
Anne shook her head. “No, Mr. Falcone thinks of me like a daughter. He's always trying to feed me.”
Sylvia arched a brow and grinned. “I wouldn't be so sure,” she teased as she began taking items from the restaurant bag. Mario had sent a paper plate, silverware, a half dozen breadsticks, and a small salad. At the bottom of the bag was a square foil pan, still warm from the oven.
“Oh my, this smells heavenly. Mario Falcone makes the best lasagna around. Come over here to the table and eat, Anne. We'll finish up our projects then put things away before we leave.”
