The Double Wedding Ring (4 page)

“N
ell Fitzgerald. What are you doing sitting there?” Maggie Sweeney's gray hair was piled high on her head, her Laura Ashley–style dress peeked out from a heavy brown wool coat. She was my grandmother's age, and her match in personality and practicality. She was also one of my dearest friends.

“Where am I supposed to be sitting?” I asked. Greg took his coffee to go and walked out of the shop. He glanced my way, looking nervous. Maybe he'd hoped to accidently bump into me, too. “Why did you hit me?”

Maggie plopped down next to me on the couch. “It's a bag of fabric. You'll recover. Besides I called your name and you ignored me. Awful morning. How is Jesse holding up?”

I shrugged, repeating the same line to Maggie I'd given to Carrie. Just thinking about it made me feel helpless.

“Well, we'll all do what we can,” she said. “I'm bringing a lasagna over to his house this afternoon, as well as my banana bread.”

“I love your banana bread.”

“Then I'll bring you some, too.” She patted my hand. “Poor Jesse. So much loss for such a young man. This was a good friend?”

“I think so. He's never talked about him before, but they were partners on the police force when Jesse lived in the city.”

“Curious that he came up to see Jesse. This Roger Leighton didn't call, didn't e-mail. He came in person with no warning.”

“He must not have wanted to risk anyone else finding out that he was coming up here.”

Maggie nodded. “He was just waiting in his car outside Jesse's house, poor man, like a duck in an arcade booth.”

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. “I think I may be partially to blame,” I confessed. “I think Roger might have been waiting for me to leave.”

Maggie narrowed her eyes. “But you're assuming that Roger was coming to Jesse for help. It's also possible he was coming to harm him,” she said. “Your being there might have prevented Jesse from being killed.” I hadn't considered that. “Jesse is a strong man with good people who love him. You'll be there for him, and we'll all . . .” She hesitated until she found the right way to say it, “we'll all help in the way we like to help.”

“Can you check into him? Roger Leighton, I mean. Maybe there's a newspaper article or something that'll give us a clue.”

Maggie nodded. “I'll start looking this afternoon. And Carrie still has her friends from her days in the banking industry. Maybe there's something in his financials,” she said. “We'll all do what we can, but you can't neglect your duties as maid of honor.”

“Most of it is under control. I have to check on the order for the flowers and make sure that I have the decorations. There are lots of little details that need to be dealt with. I want the wedding to be perfect.”

“Well, it won't be. Nor should it be. It will be lovely though. God knows we've all worked our thimbles off trying to get this ready.”

We had. It was Eleanor's quilt group, but the rest of us—Natalie, Carrie, Maggie, Natalie's mother, Susanne, the local pharmacist, Bernie, and I—had formed our own sub–quilt group for the purpose of making Eleanor and her fiancé, Oliver, a wedding quilt. Oliver was a well-known painter, and he saw in my grandmother a fellow artist and soul mate. Their love story was unexpected, but it was inspiring and joyful.

Our secret sub–quilt group was making its wedding quilt of twelve-inch square blocks. Most of the blocks were appliquéd with roses, but each of us had taken two to decorate as we pleased. Mine had appliqués of Barney in one, and Oliver's easel in another, as symbols of things that each loved nearly as much as they loved each other. The blocks were assembled, but the quilt needed to be quilted, the binding sewn on, and a label made, signed, and attached. Each task had been assigned to a person, so I didn't worry that it would be done on time. Besides, not getting a quilt done on time was something of a tradition. There were women I knew still working on baby quilts for kids entering high school.

We were also making small pillows for each of the fifty guests, with appliquéd roses on them, and we'd decided to sew tablecloths for each of the five small tables that we would have to fit into Eleanor's living room for the reception. All of the work was going on behind Eleanor's back, but she'd have to be a fool to not know what we were up to. And my grandmother was no fool.

“If it can't be perfect,” I said, “it will be close.”

“I'm sure the ceremony will go off without a hitch,” Maggie agreed, “but we have to focus our energies on the bachelorette party.”

I laughed, my first of the day. It felt good. “I don't really think Grandma would want strippers and lingerie. And if she does, I don't want to know about it.”

“I wasn't talking about that sort of thing. I was talking about getting all the women together to celebrate our dear friend and this exciting new adventure she's embarking on. We may not see much of her once the wedding is behind us and they've left town.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oliver's bought that big house in South Carolina.”

I sat up. “When? Eleanor didn't say anything to me about it.”

“I suppose she's waiting to tell you, dear,” Maggie said. “It will be good for her to retire and enjoy Oliver for as long as they've left.”

“Retire?” That was another piece of news I hadn't heard. “But even if Eleanor would retire, why couldn't she do that here?”

“This has already been a long hard winter and we have a long way to go. If you think it's cold for you, wait until your bones creak. I imagine they're both looking for a little sunshine and mild weather. Oliver said the house is near the ocean, so can you imagine how lovely it must be? We'll all have to go visit, of course, but it won't be the same. Which is why we need a party to celebrate dear Eleanor.”

Maggie kept talking. Something about having people to her house for the bachelorette party, or maybe doing it at the shop would be better. A big dinner, lots of wine . . . I wasn't listening. My grandmother was telling people she planned to retire and move hundreds of miles away, and I was the last to know. A day that had started off badly was now getting worse.

W
hen I got back to Someday Quilts, I immediately went to Eleanor's office, but she was gone. Natalie had little Patch curled up on her lap and didn't seem to notice me at all. She was too busy stroking the kitten's fur while Patch slept contentedly.

“She's so precious I just want to eat her.”

“Why do people say that?” I asked. “People are always saying that to babies and puppies and anything cute. Are we cannibals at heart or something?”

“What put you in a bad mood?”

“Eleanor's retiring.” I told her everything Maggie had told me, and I could tell by the shocked look on her face that she hadn't known anything about it either.

“She's closing Someday?” Natalie looked on the verge of tears. She sunk back in her chair and sighed heavily. That woke Patch, who meowed at her, concerned that her new friend was unhappy.

I shrugged. “Why tell us if she is? We only work here.”

“Don't get overly excited by it, Nell. Maybe Maggie is jumping to conclusions.”

Aside from being a mother of eleven, grandmother of twenty-five, and great-grandmother of two, Maggie was a retired librarian and the researcher of our little amateur detective agency. Maggie didn't jump to conclusions, and Natalie knew it as well as I did.

“Well, maybe Eleanor's waiting to tell us,” Natalie tried again. “Maybe it will be a surprise. Maybe she's giving the shop to you!” She jumped up to hug me, grabbing poor Patch and squeezing her between us. I expected the kitten to yelp but instead we got a long, satisfied purr.

Was that Eleanor's plan—to give me Someday Quilts? And if it was, did I want it?

I would have liked a moment to consider the idea, but suddenly the shop got busy. A month before, we'd been featured in a national quilt magazine as one of the best shops in the country because of our eclectic mix of both modern and traditional fabrics and the wide range of classes we taught. Plus the article had a photo of us with Barney front and center, his goofy doggy grin making the quilt shop a must-stop destination. Lots of out-of-town quilters had begun making a special trip just to see the place, meet Barney, and feed their insatiable need for all things quilt.

For more than an hour, I stood behind the desk ringing up sales while Natalie was busy at the cutting table. At the first sign of customers Patch had retreated to the office. I envied her the peace and quiet. I wanted a moment to think everything through, to put a needle in my hand and quietly appliqué while my mind settled on an answer to what seemed to be dozens of new questions. But there was no letup of customers.

When I saw Jesse walk by the shop, I nearly left the customers to run out and see how he was, but instead I watched him. He didn't look in the window as he usually did. In fact, he didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. He was just walking in a sort of daydream. Jesse was always alert, always on duty, so seeing him like that was unsettling, even a little frightening. But then I'd never seen Jesse suffer a loss before.

I debated whether he'd want me to say hi—if it would be a welcome part of his day or just disturb his daydream. But my decision was made for me when a woman in a bright pink coat put a pile of about twenty different fabrics on the counter, along with several patterns, two rulers, and a rotary cutter.

“Did you find everything you needed?” It was my standard line, though with this woman buying up half the store, it was impossible to imagine she hadn't found
more
than what she needed.

“No, actually,” she said. “Where's the pattern for that?”

I turned to where she was pointing and saw one of my own quilts. The pattern was Amish inspired, with long bars of alternating grayish blue and taupe. Where I went my own way was in the colorful pink, orange, and purple flowers I'd appliquéd along the edges, set off with deep green leaves and twirling vines.

“There is no pattern for that,” I told her. “It's just something I made.”

“When is it coming out?”

“It's not,” I explained. “It's just . . . mine. To decorate the shop.”

She sighed and looked at her abundant pile. “Well, I guess this is all then. But when you do make a pattern for it, let me know. I'll sign up for your newsletter.”

I almost told her we didn't have a newsletter, but I didn't want to disappoint her again. Instead I took her e-mail address and started a list. Maybe we should have a newsletter. Something to talk to Eleanor about . . . one of many things to talk to her about.

Bernie Avallone came into the shop, waved at me, and headed for the wall where we kept mostly tone-on-tone fabrics. She went straight for the blues. The good thing about having one of the quilt group members shopping was, in a pinch she could also help out with the customers. Like everyone in the quilt group, Bernie was as familiar with the inventory as I was.

“What's the name of the woman who runs things?” the woman in the pink coat asked me.

“Eleanor Cassidy. She's not here right now.”

“Well then, tell her for me that if she hangs quilts in her shop the quilts should be available as patterns.”

“I will,” I said.

As she left, weighed down by her purchases, I wondered how many unfinished quilts that woman had at home, along with patterns, books, fabrics, kits, and magazines. More quilts in her imagination than she could make in a lifetime, and yet she was annoyed that somehow one quilt pattern had slipped through her fingers. I knew exactly how she felt.

“She's right you know,” Bernie said as she dropped a group of fabrics on the cutting table.

“She is,” Natalie agreed. “You should make a pattern of that quilt. And the others.”

“I don't know how.”

Bernie rolled her eyes. “You made a pattern to make those quilts in the first place, didn't you?”

“Yes, but I wasn't worried about being exact. I was just playing.”

“Well, now that you've played, let the rest of us in on the fun.”

“Especially now that it will be your shop,” Natalie added.

Bernie looked from Natalie to me. “Your shop? Are you planning a coup?”

“Natalie is just—” I said, unable to finish. Natalie had jumped in with the story I'd heard this morning. Bernie almost didn't believe it. Apparently no one knew what Maggie had told me. Maybe it wasn't true after all. That was a hopeful thought. Enough was changing. I wanted Someday to stay the same.

I walked to the cutting table and petted the fabrics Bernie had chosen. Non-quilters don't understand that a lot of the enjoyment we get from quilting is running our fingers over the soft cottons, feeling the cool, smooth fibers underneath our hands. It's calming, and I needed a little calm at the moment.

“These are great fabrics,” I told Bernie, ignoring her questions about Eleanor, “but they're mostly medium tones. Have you thought about adding some lights and darks to give it more depth?”

Bernie examined her fabrics. “Well, how did I fall into such a beginner's trap?” She laughed to herself. She went back to the blue fabrics and pulled another ten bolts. What she brought back to the table was a dizzying array of shades, from baby blues, to teals, to navy.

“Much better,” I said. “Quarter yards?”

“Better give me a half yard of each. What I don't use will go in my stash.”

“You have more fabric in your stash than we have at the shop.”

She smiled. “You never know when there will be a blight on the cotton crop, and we'll run out of fabric.”

“Don't even think it.” I laughed. “What would we do at quilt group if we didn't have quilts to show?”

“Aside from gossip and eat?”

“Exactly. The quilts provide cover for the real activities.”

Bernie sighed. “I won't be able to make the meeting Friday. I'm going to Boston Tuesday for a pharmaceutical convention and I thought I'd stay for the weekend and visit some sites.”

“I can't make it either,” Natalie said. “My in-laws are coming for dinner.”

It had been like this a lot lately. When I first joined, nothing short of a funeral kept the entire group from meeting every Friday, but things had gotten busier for everyone. It wasn't unusual to have only half in attendance. With Eleanor moving, and the shop's future in question, it could get to the point where we just disbanded.

As Natalie cut, Bernie examined a sketch I'd made of a quilt I was thinking of doing. It was a medallion quilt. It featured an appliqué of flowers in the center, surrounded by row after row of borders, some pieced, and some appliqués of animals and flowers.

“This is stunning, Nell.”

I blushed. “Thanks. I did it in art class when I was supposed to be doing a still life of a vase full of roses. I just kept thinking how much better I would like it in fabric. I was also thinking . . .” I grabbed my sketch pad and flipped a few pages forward, “that this sketch of the gazebo in the park would make a nice quilt. I could simplify it a little so it would be easier to appliqué.”

“This blue . . .” she held up one of the bolts of blue fabric, “would make an excellent choice for the sky.”

“I was thinking maybe several layers of different blues.” I grabbed the fabrics I had planned to use. I was getting excited now, as talking about a new quilt always made me.

“You should make it for Eleanor and Oliver. What an amazing wedding gift.”

That stopped me. “Do you think there's time? We already have the quilt we're making as a group. I was assuming I'd buy them something. I just hadn't figured out what it would be.”

“Buy something?” Bernie looked horrified. “But you paint and quilt. You have to make them something. It's so much more special.”

“There's nothing I could make them that would be nicer than what they could do themselves,” I said. “Oliver's paintings hang in museums and Eleanor . . .” I waved my hand around the shop, and the many beautiful quilts that decorated the place. “Eleanor's quilts are stunning.”

“Which is why they will both appreciate your considerable talents turned into a one-of-a-kind wedding gift,” she said. “Buy something?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I'm surprised at you. Of course, if you do make this for Eleanor, don't start it on a Friday. Friday quilts are ill-fated.”

“Why?” Natalie asked.

“If you start a quilt on a Friday you won't live to see it finished.”

“If that were true, quilters would be dropping like flies,” I pointed out.

“Fine, don't believe in quilt superstitions,” Bernie said. “Even though they've been around for generations and have served us all well.” She tried to look annoyed, but she smiled at herself. Bernie was still true to her sixties hippie youth, and she loved breaking with tradition more than anyone. But some traditions even Bernie believed in. “At least embroider a spider on it for good luck. I don't see smooth sailing for this wedding, so we need all the luck we can get.”

She wasn't just a pharmacist, Bernie was our group psychic despite being wrong as often as she was right. But it was better to take her seriously, just in case.

“Then a spider it is,” I said, as I drew a small spider in the corner of the gazebo sketch.

“And hearts,” she told me. “Lots of hearts. All the quilt traditions call for lots of hearts on a bridal quilt.”

“Is this Nell's quilt or yours?” Natalie asked.

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “It's Eleanor's, so it should be as lovely as she is.”

As Bernie spoke, I saw Greg out the window. He was standing at the corner, writing out a parking ticket to a car too close to the corner. I grabbed my coat without a second thought. “Bernie, take over for me at the register.”

“But I need to pay for my—”

“Ring up your own purchases.”

While Natalie cut for another customer, Bernie brought her fabric to the counter, and I ran out the door.