Read The Friendship Star Quilt Online
Authors: Patricia Kiyono,Stephanie Michels
The Friendship Star Quilt (7 page)
“Does seeing the quilt shop lady make you happy?” Jennie asked on the drive to her school.
Brad glanced up at the rearview mirror and found her watching him from the back seat. Her blue eyes regarded him solemnly. “What do you mean, Princess?”
“You're humming to the radio,” she replied. “You don't do that unless something makes you happy.”
“Well, Miss Anne offered to sew the flags I need for the band,” Brad explained, marveling at his daughter's perceptiveness. “It's a very big job, and I've been worried I wouldn't be able to get them made in time for the parade next month. So, yes, sweetheart, I guess I am happy.”
“That's good. I don't like you to worry. I think it gives you those headaches you always get, Daddy,” she replied, suddenly sounding as wise as his Aunt Bonnie. “Our teacher says smiling makes a person feel better.”
“Your teacher is right,” Brad said. He turned into the grade school lot just as one of the busses arrived. He parked near the front entrance then got out of the car to open Jennie's door. “Tell you what, Princess. I'll try to remember to smile more, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed and gathered up her backpack. She gave him a quick hug when she slid from the car then pointed to the bus. “Look, Daddy. Callie and Bethanie just got off the bus, so you don't have to walk me inside, I can go with them.”
Brad nodded. “I'll pick you up right after school tonight so we can go grocery shopping. Have a good day, Princess.”
“See you tonight!” she called then ran to catch up with her two best friends.
Brad waited until the three little girls were safely inside the school building before getting back into his car. Driving to the high school, he caught himself humming again.
He'd been honest when he'd answered Jennie earlier. He was relieved to have the pretty little clerk at The Stitching Post offer to make the band flags for him. It would be nice to cross
something
off his seemingly endless
To Do
list. He still had way too many items left on it. Life would be so much simpler if he had an ordinary teaching job. But his role as the school's band director forced him to wear a lot of different hats: teacher, consultant, program developer, music director, choreographer⦠the list went on and on. He taught the kids music from the time they picked up their first instruments in elementary school until they graduated from high school.
An assistant would ease his busy schedule, but money was too tight in the school district's budget right now to add any more personnel. So, everything fell on Brad's shoulders. Most days, he ran between the high school, grade school, and middle school for music classes. Then it was back to the high school building for band practice after school. In addition to the teaching, Brad helped the kids decide on suitable instruments, making sure they selected the proper one for their age and size. He issued uniforms to his junior high and high school band members and ensured they were suitably altered and dry cleaned. He worked with the parents' group to coordinate fund-raising and arranged transportation to the various band competitions and performances. Some days, he felt like he was trying to run a marathon on a treadmill: putting in a lot of effort but not actually getting anywhere.
Still, Brad loved his job, and all his efforts had started to pay. The high school's marching band had earned the highest ratings in their class at both the local and state festivals. Rivertown's band had earned praise wherever they performed. And participation in the program had steadily grown, too. Today's band was a far cry from the dwindling handful of students enrolled when he first started his stint as the band director. He took pleasure in the growth, realizing it was largely due to his own efforts. From day one, he'd modernized the band program, introduced popular music into the routines, gotten the kids involved in choreographing half-time shows, and planned fun activities for the band members. Now, it was considered a “cool” thing to join the band, and be one of “Mr. Carmichael's kids.”
But “Mr. Carmichael” was tired.
Instead of being able to relax and spend time with Jennie when he got home in the evenings, he always had phone calls to make and bills to pay, meals to cook and housecleaning to be done. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day. And, when he did take time to watch a movie with his daughter or to read the paper after she'd gone to bed, he often discovered, later, he'd forgotten to do something important.
Like the laundry.
And the grocery shopping.
He frowned. He'd love to be able to spend a leisurely evening with nothing on his mind except being with his little girl, talking to her about her day, eating a nice dinner together, and enjoying her carefree chatter. How did other single parents manage to get everything done and still have time with their children? He felt like he was neglecting Jennie.
Did she feel neglected?
Jennie never complained. She barely even asked for help with her homework or the countless other things with which most other kids seemed to need assistance. A bit more solemn than most kids her age, she'd always been an easy child, always content. Now, he wondered how he could make sure she remained content. In the past, Sarah had been there to anticipate and take care of Jennie's needs, but Brad wasn't sure he even knew what his daughter might need or want. And the thought of her becoming a teenager scared the socks off him. How on earth would he help her through those traumatic years? One thing he did know, he had to find a way to spend more time with Jennie, talking and listening.
In short, he needed to be a better father.
Thanksgiving was just a few weeks away. Maybe he could plan something for them to do together then. He'd talk to her tonight about it, and they could make some plans together. He'd let her decide on the things she wanted to do. Shopping? He'd be there. Baking cookies? He could do that, too. Granted, he'd never baked a cookie in his life, but how hard could it be to read a recipe? Playing with dolls? A tea party? He was her man. Whatever she wanted, he'd do. She was the Princess.
The parade! He'd nearly forgotten it was the week before Thanksgiving. He had to be there with the band, but maybe he could parlay it into a little extra Dad-time with Jennie. Instead of driving home to Grandville afterwards, maybe he could spend the weekend with his parents or at Aunt Bonnie's. Jennie would enjoy visiting them. He'd call this evening and make arrangements.
He'd just need to put more pressure on the band parents to help out with the transportation. This was a big honor for the school, for their band to be one of those chosen to perform. Surely, the kids' parents would understand if he just presented it to them right. Especially the parents who had seniors in the marching band. This would be one of the few times left for those parents to see their kids march in parade. If he got enough of the parents to realize it, surely more of them would volunteer to chaperone the kids on the bus, and he could follow in his car. If he didn't have to spread himself so thin, he could carve out some private time with his own child.
He could do this. He'd start calling parents as soon as he got to his office. Other parents besides him were going to have to step up to the plate.
****
Anne went back to the cutting counter, smiling as she snipped the samples for Mario's curtains. She could hardly believe her luck. Not only did she have the curtains to make for Mario's restaurant, but now she had this job for the school, as well, thanks to Mr. Carmichael.
Brad.
Just saying his name made her smile. What a nice man he seemed to be, so concerned about the students in his music programs, and so good with his daughter. Anne wondered what his late wife had been like. Had Mrs. Carmichael been beautiful? Judging by her adorable daughter, the woman must have been. Had she and her husband been desperately in love like the couples in those romance novels back in her apartment? Had her death left a void within Brad, one he would mourn for the rest of his life?
Anne's stomach clenched. Aggravated with herself for indulging in foolish speculation, she returned her attention to the task in front of her. Brad Carmichael's feelings were none of her business. Her business was to run The Stitching Post until Myra returned from vacation. Besides, she wasn't Cinderella or one of those other fairy tale maidens, who waited around for some prince to arrive and rescue them. Anne didn't
want
or
need
a man in her life. And if she'd learned one thing married to Jeffrey, it was men were seldom what they seemed. No, there weren't any knights on white stallions in her future.
Men try to tell you what to do, too, and what to think,
and I'm not willing to ever allow someone to do it to me again. I like my life just as it is, and I have plenty to keep me busy.
Like preparing the samples for Mario. Anne picked up the pinking shears she'd abandoned when the Carmichaels had arrived and got back to the task. She cut small rectangular swatches from the various fabrics so the restaurateur could see the variety of patterns and colors available. However, when she got to the fabric with the little chefs on it, Anne carefully measured out and cut a fat quarter, a piece eighteen by twenty-two inches. The larger piece would let Mario see all the characters' poses and contortions. By the time Courtney, Myra's other employee, arrived a half-hour later, Anne had finished the swatches and had them bundled into one of the shop's logo bags to take to Falcone'
s
later in the day.
The morning turned out to be surprisingly busy. Anne suspected the cold weather had made people think about indoor projects like quilting and needlework. Whatever the reason, business kept the two clerks hopping. Around ten o'clock, the UPS driver delivered several large cartons of holiday-printed yardage. Anne was relieved it had arrived on one of the days when she had help in the store. This way, Anne could leave Courtney to wait on their customers while she unpacked the new boxes and verified the style numbers on the bolts to both the enclosed packing list and her printed copy of the order. Later, she would log them into the store's inventory.
The task wasn't as easy as it sounded. For example, the line on the packing list reading “XM TR GR SANT WHT” meant a bolt of white fabric printed with a whimsical Santa decorating a Christmas tree. Another one saying “MR EMB GLD NTY” referred to a bolt of maroon fabric with a silhouette of the Nativity embroidered on it in rich gold thread. As she shelved the bolts in the seasonal area, Anne's mind whirled with ideas for displaying the holiday goods once the rest of the orders arrived.
After lunch, Anne approached the cutting table where the part-time clerk gathered the bolts of fabric they'd cut for customers during the morning so she could restock them.
“Courtney,” Anne began, “do you think you could watch the shop by yourself for a half hour while I take a quick lunch break? I'll be here late tonight for the quilt group, so I want to run an errand while you're here.”
“No problem,” the young mother assured her. “I'll be fine. I know Tuesdays are a long day for you, Anne. I just wish I could stay and help you while Myra is gone. But I promised Ted when I took this job I'd always be home when school gets out. We were both latchkey kids growing up, and neither of us wanted our children raised the same way.”
“There's no need to apologize. You're here during the shop's busiest times, and that's what is most important,” Anne said as she retrieved the bag with Mario's samples. Hurrying to the front door, she called over her shoulder, “I promise I'll be back in less than an hour, so you'll be home on time.”
“Wait!” Courtney called. “You don't need to rush off quite so fast. At least take a minute and get your jacket from the office. It's gotten pretty cold outside.”
“Good idea,” Anne agreed. As she backtracked to Myra's office, she thought about her earlier visit from the Carmichaels.
I sure hope it doesn't snow before Thanksgiving and ruin Brad's parade.
****
The October day held a bite despite the beautiful blue sky and bright sunshine. Anne adjusted the collar of her fleece jacket to block the wind as she headed down the sidewalk toward Falcone's. Several cars passed by on Wilson Avenue, but foot traffic between the shops was almost nonexistent, slow even for a weekday afternoon. She hoped Mario would be at his restaurant. She hadn't thought to call ahead to check, and he might have left an employee to cover the place in the lull between the lunch and dinner hours.
Reaching the restaurant, she peeked in the front window as she went past it toward the entrance. She spotted Mario inside, busily wiping down the tables. He glanced up as she opened the door.
“Annie
, buon giorno
!” he welcomed, effusively. “You come to have the bite to eat with-a me this lovely afternoon?”
Mario had been born and raised in Grandville and spoke perfectly unaccented English. Except when he worked in his restaurant. Anne suspected he did it to give the place a more Neapolitan atmosphere, but it wasn't necessary. His delicious food already attracted standing room only dinner crowds most evenings. Still, the little show always amused her.
“Good afternoon, Mario. I didn't actually come here toâ”
A loud ding from the kitchen interrupted her explanation for the visit.
“A
momento
.” Mario held up a finger for her to wait then dashed into the other room. He quickly returned, wiping his hands on his apron. “So sorry, Annie. I had to get the breadsticks from oven so they no burn.”
“I don't mean to interrupt your work. I just stopped by to get the exact measurements for your curtains. And I brought some fabric samples to show you.”
“
Benisimo!”
he exclaimed, clapping his hands with delight. “I make some room for you to work.”
While he pushed aside a few tables to clear the space in front of the window, Anne pulled a retractable tape measure and a small pad and pen from her jacket pocket. She positioned a chair near the window then leaned on the back to remove her shoes.
“No, no, no,
”
the restaurateur said, stopping her from climbing onto the chair seat. “There is no need for you to climb on a chair. Mario will help you get the measurements. You tell me what you need. I'm-a good at taking the orders.”
Anne nodded and handed him the end of the tape. Directing him to hold it on the top edge of the window, she pulled the lower end down to the sill, holding it taut. She jotted the measurement on her pad then had him move to a spot midway down the side of the big window so they could get the width. With his help, the job went quickly, and they were soon able to move the tables and chairs back in their places.
“Now, we look-a at the samples you bring,” Mario said and motioned her to the same table where they'd eaten the night before.
She opened the bag with the fabric and took out the fabric swatches. Anne showed her friend the various gingham and calico patterns she'd found that morning at the store and explained she'd chosen them for their washability and sturdiness. He nodded politely, but she could see none of the samples particularly caught his fancy.
“I saved the best for last,” she announced and reached into the bag for the piece of yellow fabric. Smiling, she spread it across the table top.
“
Mamma Mia!
” Mario said, clapping his hands. “This one, she is perfect for in here. Such happy fellows!” He pointed at the shorter character then patted his own middle and laughed heartily. “I think this one is like Mario and likes to sample the pasta too much.”
Anne chuckled and shook her head. Mario might be a good dozen years her senior, but he was still an attractive man, tall and dark-haired, with muscular forearms and a trim midsection. “You know that's not true,” she chided. “You are built more like this other chef. Except you toss a pizza crust with far more panache.”
“Ah, now you flatter me,” he told her, waving aside the compliment.
“It isn't flattery. Everyone in town loves to stop and watch you toss the dough. It's amazing how you can make it so thin without breaking it. I thought of you as soon as I saw this fabric. I think it might make very cute curtains.”
“I agree,
cara
. They would be
perfetto
. You can make for me?”
“Well, I'll have to check these measurements when I get to the shop and see if there's enough left on the bolt. If not, I can order it from our supplier, but it might take a little longer to do.”
“That is no problem. I can wait for these happy fellows for however long it takes,” he assured her. “Now, Mario will get you some pasta before you go back to the shop. S'okay?”
“Mario, if you keep feeding me,
I'm
going to have a shape like this little guy,” she protested, tapping the chubby chef on the fabric sample.
He shook his head. “No, you are still too much-a too thin. Besides, is your night for the quilt ladies, so you must eat.”
“I planned to eat my leftover rigatoni from last night.”
“Leftovers? Bah! I get you nice plate of-a fresh fettuccine,” he declared then disappeared into the kitchen before she could protest further.
