Authors: Arlene Sachitano
"What if we put a flower pattern on the double-four patch blocks with mirror images in the matching squares, and then did a simpler version of the flower in the sashing?” she suggested. “That way, the blocks will stand out, but the sashing will still seem like it's framing each block."
She showed Jenny a stack of flower sample blocks, and Jenny chose two she liked. She agreed that Harriet would do a flower that incorporated elements from both samples.
Satisfied that they had a plan, Jenny left the quilt on the table and took her leave. Harriet went back to work on Avanell's.
It took her about two to three hours to do an average job after it had been loaded onto the frame of the long arm machine. She had allotted twice that amount of time for the show quilts—she didn't want to risk a misplaced stitch.
Aunt Beth had suggested she limit the time she ran the machine to about twenty hours a week because of all the bending and reaching the operator had to do. That might be reasonable during normal times, but for the next two weeks, Harriet expected to be working eight or more hours a day, especially if she were going to be stitching who-knew-what at the last minute for Sarah Ness. Besides, she could always get a massage for her aching back after the rush.
She grasped the controls of her machine, pressed the blue go-button and began stitching.
The first week of business flew by. Harriet finished Avanell's and Jenny's quilts and stitched projects for Connie Escorcia and DeAnn DeGault. She had just finished loading Robin McLeod's yellow-and-blue log cabin quilt onto the machine frame when her phone rang.
She crossed the room and picked up the receiver. “Hello."
"You're coming to Loose Threads this morning, aren't you?” Avanell asked her.
"I think so.” Harriet mentally ticked off the work on her schedule. She could probably afford to take a couple of hours off. “Yes, I'll come."
"I'll be coming from work, so how about if I drive to your place and leave my car and we can walk into town?"
Harriet decided a walk would be the perfect antidote to a week spent hunched over the long-arm machine. She agreed, and Avanell said she'd be there in a half-hour.
Foggy Point, Washington, sat on a rocky peninsula that protruded into the Strait of Juan de Fuca just east of Port Angeles. Harriet hadn't paid enough attention in geography class to know if the right-angle bend in the middle of the town's land mass disqualified it from the peninsula category or not. She thought it looked more like the head and claw of a Tyrannosaurus rex, with her own house sitting on a hill at the base of the claw. Rumor had it that the cove formed by the bend had been a favorite hiding spot for pirates back in early Victorian times, when Europeans first discovered Foggy Point's unique charms.
She heard Avanell coming up the drive. She gathered her purse and hand-stitching bag and Avanell's quilt and met the older woman at her car, putting the carefully wrapped quilt in the backseat.
"Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a little pale."
Wisps of grey hair trailed from Avanell's usually tidy bun. Lint clung to the lap area of her navy wool skirt. Dark circles smudged the area under her eyes.
"I'm fine,” Avanell replied. “Things have just been a little hectic at work. One of our key employees left this week, and it's just getting harder and harder to find quality replacements. And ... never mind, let's not drag this nice morning down talking about work problems,” she said, trying but failing to lighten her tone. “Tell me how the quilts are looking."
"Yours is ready to bind, of course,” Harriet said. “I'm done with all the show quilts that have been scheduled, and I still have a couple of days for Sarah Ness."
"Good for you,” Avanell said and really did smile.
They discussed all the show entries they had seen as they walked. Each woman made her own predictions about who the winners would be for each category. Some would be judged by a panel of local quilting arts luminaries while others would be in categories that were voted on by the show attendees. They were still arguing the merits of Avanell's own quilt when they arrived at Pins and Needles.
"I don't care what you say, Avanell,” Harriet said. “Your quilt is a shoo-in to win the overall prize."
"I agree with Harriet,” said Marjory. “I don't care if Lauren Sawyer got her patterns published or not, Avanell, you still make a better quilt than she ever will."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Avanell said. “From your mouth to the judge's ear, I hope."
"You're the first ones here,” Marjory said. “I put coffee on in the breakroom a couple of minutes ago, so it should be ready soon."
The Pacific Northwest is the birthplace of Starbucks and Seattle's Best, so people expect coffee to be exceptional even when it's served from a Mr. Coffee. Marjory's did not disappoint.
"I want to take one last look to see if I can find something better than what I have for the binding of my quilt,” Avanell said. “What I've got cut just doesn't feel right."
Binding is the small but important finishing step in quilt-making. A narrow strip of fabric is folded into an even narrower strip and then sewn onto the edge of the quilt, encasing the raw edge of the top, the batting and the back. Judges expect the binding to be uniform, to have perfectly mitered corners and to be filled completely with quilt—that is, to not have any empty places or bulges in the edge. The color choice needed to be the finishing accent of the piece, not obvious but missed if absent, much like a frame on a picture.
"I just unpacked a box of new batiks,” Marjory said. “I'm checking them in. You want to take a look?"
Avanell did, and followed her to a back room strewn with plastic-wrapped bolts of fabric. Batik originated in Indonesia and involves painting wax designs on fabric then dyeing the fabric, sometimes incorporating tie-dye techniques as well. The result usually has a background mottled with several coordinated colors and may or may not include the line-drawn images that are left when the wax is removed. Experienced quilters like the depth and movement batik fabric lends to their projects.
Harriet went into the larger of the two classrooms. Classes are an integral part of a successful craft store, and Marjory kept hers busy most afternoons and evenings with fabric-buying students and stitching groups with names like “Mumm Club” and “Peaceful Piecers."
"Hi, Jenny,” Harriet greeted her friend as she came in and sat down. “How's your binding coming?"
They discussed the pros and cons of single layer versus double layer bindings until Mavis Willis arrived, followed by Connie Escorcia. At seventy, Mavis was the oldest member of The Loose Threads. She had tightly curled hair that in its prime had been copper-colored but had faded to a rusty grey. Mavis was a handpiecer—after cutting the fabric pieces that would make up her block, she did all her stitching by hand.
Her current project was an intricate series of triangles that formed a kaleidoscope pattern in shades of straw and khaki and putty, with connecting squares in a walnut color that stopped just short of orange. She was making it for her oldest son's birthday. Having raised five sons who had produced fourteen grandchildren, she was always working on something for a birthday or confirmation or some other occasion.
Harriet could hear Connie before she arrived in the room. Her laughter was infectious.
"Honey, I'm home,” she called out as she entered the shop. “Where is everyone?"
"Back here,” Harriet answered.
"What are you two doing sitting around?” she said and popped her head into the classroom. “There's new fabric out there. Come on, let's check it out."
Jenny and Harriet looked at each other, shrugged and got up to look at fabric. Hurricane Connie was a force to be reckoned with.
"Help me find a binding,” Connie said. She held scraps from her quilt in her left hand and used her right one to drape cloth from the bolts over them.
Her offering would be in the art category. The upper right corner had irregularly shaped pieces stitched together in increasingly larger segments as they approached the center panel. The bottom left was a base of hand-dyed fabric with an abstract floral applique that flowed up toward the center and overlapped the pieced area. Connie's color palate was a warm one. This design had orange peel as the base color with pistachio, dusty mauve, peach and toffee shades as the accent. It would be a challenge to find a binding color that wouldn't distract the eye from the central pattern.
Sarah Ness arrived as they returned to the classroom; her cheap, designer knock-off perfume preceded her into the space. Mavis sneezed. Connie had decided to bind with a fabric that echoed the color in her hand-dye and gone to the cutting area with Marjory.
"Harriet,” Sarah said. “I've been trying to call you."
"I haven't gotten any messages,” Harriet said. “When did you call?"
"I've been calling all morning,” she said.
It would be pointless to state the obvious, so Harriet moved on to what she was pretty sure was coming.
"What did you want?"
"I need my quilt stitched,” she replied. “I have to have it bound and back to you by Thursday to take to the show, so I guess you'll have to do it this afternoon."
"Do you have it with you?” Harriet asked.
"I have the top in the car and I'm going to stitch the backing together while we're here."
"You're cutting it a little close, aren't you?” Mavis asked. “You know, Harriet might have someone else scheduled this afternoon."
"Well, do you?” Sarah demanded.
"This afternoon will be fine,” Harriet assured her. “As long as I have it in my hands when I walk out of here."
Mavis shook her head and turned away to press a seam.
"I've been busy,” Sarah said. “I've had meetings every night this week. And last weekend, I had a workshop in Seattle that started Friday afternoon and didn't end until noon Sunday. And I have to give a speech at the school board meeting next Monday night."
"I'm surprised she has time to grace us with her presence,” Avanell muttered.
"What?” Sarah said and turned toward her.
"I was just saying I don't see how you get all your work done and still have time to quilt,” Avanell said in a loud, slow voice.
Sarah's shoulders slumped a little in her crisp khaki blazer.
"It is hard,” she said, “but I promised Marjory I would enter a project using her fabrics so it would help draw attention to Pins and Needles. I need to get some thread,” she added and went out of the classroom and over to the notions hutch.
"I wonder if Marjory knows how dependent she is on Sarah's quilt,” Jenny said with a smile.
Mavis pressed her lips together and studiously watched Harriet line up the two triangles she was about to stitch.
The group sat down around one of the larger tables and settled into their stitching routine. Lauren came a few minutes later and made a point of sitting at a smaller table by the window so she could talk but, at the same time, keep the work she was binding hidden below the tabletop.
The women spent a few minutes discussing their absent members. Robin McLeod had to take her daughter to the orthodontist. DeAnn Gault had a painter at her house and didn't feel comfortable leaving him there by himself. When they were satisfied they had accounted for everyone, they moved on to what everyone was doing this week. Harriet was not anxious to share her activities. How would she put it?
I'm going to see my aunt's attorney and undo the havoc she's wrought in my life.
Or maybe she'd just report on the stuff she was stitching then disappear quietly into the night as soon as Aunt Beth returned and leave them all guessing. That would keep them yakking for weeks, she thought and smiled to herself.
They had not yet asked Avanell what was happening in her life when the six-foot-three answer walked through the door.
"Hi, Mom,” the young man said, and absently flicked a strand of his chin-length black hair over his ear. Harriet could see the resemblance to Avanell in his angular face, but his eyes were unlike any she had ever seen.
The color was a pale yellowish-blue that stopped just short of white. They were large, and angled slightly, giving them a feline quality. His dark tan spoke to time spent somewhere much farther south than Foggy Point.
He came around the table and kissed Avanell then held her at arms-length.
"You look really good."
"This hairy young man is my youngest son, Aiden,” Avanell said, and tucked another unruly lock of hair behind his other ear. A slight blush darkened his cheeks. “He's been doing a research project in Uganda for the last three years, where they apparently don't have barber shops."
"How very nice to meet you,” Lauren said. “We've heard so much about you."
"All good, I hope,” he said, reminding Harriet of her own reaction to the same pronouncement and making her wonder what
he
might have to hide. He straightened up and turned toward the table full of women.
Avanell's oldest son was a few years younger than Harriet and had been a pimple-faced teenager with a crush on her when she'd left for college. Her daughter was a few years younger than that, and Aiden was the proverbial afterthought. He must have been around when Harriet had lived with Aunt Beth, but she was pretty sure she would have remembered those eerie eyes if she'd seen them before. Then again, she had been pretty self-absorbed in those days. Her anger at her parents for once again dumping her with Aunt Beth while they partied their way across Europe under the guise of academic research pretty well eclipsed anything that was happening in Foggy Point.
"My, how you've grown,” Jenny said. “I can remember you eating Popsicles at my kitchen table with Mark. He's married and has a baby boy, but somehow it didn't occur to me that you'd be growing up, too.” She smiled. “I guess when your mom said you were coming back to town, I expected to see that gangly boy with eyes too big for his face. Funny how your mind works when you get old and senile."
"You're not old,” Aiden said. “And even though I've grown up, I really missed your Popsicles while I was in Africa. We had a small refrigerator run from a generator, but we had to stuff it full of animal medications."