Threading the Needle Page 10

  Who could they belong to? I’d never known Edna to wear hats, and these were so tiny, too small and too feminine, ever to have sat atop that big head with its gunmetal gray curls sprayed into immobility.

  Hidden under dusty sheets I found three bureaus with rubbed finishes, missing pulls, and mirrors spotted black by age and fungus. One of the mirrors was cracked from edge to edge. Next I found two nightstands, some broken lamps, and a gateleg table piled with boxes of papers and photograph albums. I didn’t take time to look through those. Under paint-spattered tarpaulins, I discovered piles of boards, nails, and tools, cans of paint, rolls of wallpaper, and unopened boxes of shingles. There were carpets, too, rolled up and stacked like cigars in a box, dirty, frayed, and in varying states of disrepair. There were stacks of flowerpots, mostly cracked, a copper weather vane, corroded green, and two stone lions with distinctly Oriental faces.

  I found several oil paintings leaning against the back wall and flipped through them, hoping to come upon some undiscovered Matisse or Renoir that could change my fortunes. No such luck. But some were pretty, landscapes mostly, and once they were cleaned, the gilded frames would be lovely. There were several ornate metal bedsteads stacked up against the same wall, some with footboards, some without, and so covered in grime that it was impossible to tell if they were made from brass, iron, or something else.

  Next to that, stashed under a stiff gray oilcloth, I discovered a small oak cabinet with a black metal base. The finish was still smooth. I opened the lid and fiddled with an interior mechanism until I heard a click. An ink-black sewing machine decorated with flowers and swirls and lettering in gold rose from the recesses of the cabinet.

  There was a small bench sitting nearby. I pulled it up to the cabinet, sat down, and pumped the metal foot treadle while using my hand to turn the flywheel. At first, it seemed to be frozen, but after jiggling the wheel back and forth and carefully applying a slight pressure, the wheel started to turn and the needle moved up and down—slowly and stiffly, but a little oil and a good cleaning might do wonders. Interesting.

  The darkest corner of the attic was dominated by a large mound covered in white sheets. Pulling them back, I found a full-sized antique brass bed, complete with mattress and box spring. It was beautiful, decorated with medallions that, at first, I thought were porcelain but which a bit of rubbing showed to be mother-of-pearl.

  Good Lord! An antique brass and mother-of-pearl bed in perfect condition! What must that be worth? It was no Renoir, but still quite a discovery. And there was more.

  The mattress was heaped with half a dozen old quilts, including the blue and white pieced quilt that had graced my bed when I was little. Most weren’t in very good shape. Some were stained, and one so badly torn that the batting was exposed. It looked as if some sort of animal, a mouse maybe, had been nibbling at it. What a shame.

  The chances of repairing them to any kind of usable state seemed slim, but you never knew. Maybe I should drop by that quilt shop that now occupied the old Fielding Drug building. I’d met a chatty woman in the grocery store who told me about it. She worked there. What was her name? Margaret? Margie? Something like that. I knew where the shop was, tucked back in Cobbled Court. It couldn’t hurt to take the quilts by the shop and get an opinion.

  Carefully, not wanting to do any further damage in the unlikely event that any of them were salvageable, I refolded the quilts, then walked back to the center of the room, under the light, brushing the dust off my hands as I turned in a circle one last time, squinting to see if I’d missed anything.

  Where could it be?

  I remembered exactly where I’d put the dollhouse all those years ago, back when I still believed in ghosts. I remembered standing on the top step of the staircase with the door open, near but not actually in the attic, and sliding the dollhouse with its inanimate inhabitants across the floor just to the left of the door. That’s where it had been, but it wasn’t there anymore.

  Maybe Edna had given it away or thrown it away, along with all other traces of my existence. That’s what she said she would do, and I had no reason to doubt her. Except for the blue and white quilt, there wasn’t a single artifact of my childhood anywhere in the attic. Edna had always been thorough.

  It didn’t matter. I wasn’t interested in what was missing from the attic, only in what was present. A normal person cataloging the detritus of Edna’s attic might be seized by an urge to phone a garbage collector—and an exterminator—as quickly as possible. Not me. As I stood in the middle of that dim, forgotten cavern, among those broken, dirty, outmoded relics, the last earthly evidence of people long dead and buried, I saw possibilities. And hope. Not much, but some.

  There might be something to all this. Or not. Maybe finding that miniature sofa was a sign. Or maybe it wasn’t. Only time would tell. There were many questions to be answered before I let myself get too excited about all this.

  Signs or no signs, I still didn’t know the first thing about running an inn, or any other kind of business. I was totally ignorant about anything even remotely related to the subject. But thanks to the advice and tutelage of Millicent Fleeber many years previously, I knew just where to go and who to see in order to dispel my ignorance.

  I took a last look around the attic, mentally cataloging the contents before turning off the light, going down the stairs, and heading back downtown. Remembering that the library closed early on Fridays, I jogged the last quarter mile. When I presented myself at the reference desk, I was out of breath. The librarian asked if I wanted a glass of water.

  “No,” I gasped, holding my hand out flat to wave off her concern. “I just have a question. Can you tell me where the business books are shelved?”

  13

  Tessa

  October

  Cobbled Court Quilts stays open until seven on Thursdays. A bunch of bells tied to the doorknob signals the arrival of customers to the quilt shop, but the jingle was drowned out by the laughter of the women standing clustered near the checkout counter.

  Just as happy to go unnoticed, I quietly headed toward some bolts of autumnal fabric and began looking for the leaf print I’d seen on the raffle quilt. I didn’t see it anywhere.

  Evelyn spotted me from across the room. “Good evening, Tessa!”

  “Hi.” I smiled and gave a little wave. Besides Evelyn, I saw Margot, Evelyn’s mother, Virginia, who also taught classes and worked at the shop, and two women whose faces were unfamiliar.

  Margot ran over to give me a hug. “I’m so glad you found time to come in!”

  “I know,” I said apologetically. “I’ve been so busy. . . .”

  Margot waved her hand and made a “no explanation needed” face. “You’re here now and that’s what counts. And you’re joining us at the quilt circle this Friday?” I nodded and Margot clapped her hands as if this were the best news she’d ever heard.

  “Wonderful! Can I help pick out your fabric?”

  Again with the offer to help me choose fabric. Initially, I’d thought that was so odd, but now that I was actually inside the shop, I understood what she was talking about.

  Cobbled Court Quilts had three times the floor space of For the Love of Lavender, and every inch of it was packed tight with fabric. The walls were lined with what seemed like miles of triple-decked shelving, each loaded with fabric bolts. The center of the shop held rows of smaller display cases short enough so customers could see across the room, with still more bolts of cloth. The shorter units were piled with baskets of sewing notions, pattern books, and ribbon-tied bundles of fabric in coordinated colors.

  I had no idea where to begin. I knew exactly what fabrics I wanted; I’d taken a picture of Margot’s raffle quilt and printed it out on my computer. But as I looked around the shop, I couldn’t find any of the ones I needed.

  “Where can I find this?” I asked, pointing to the leaf print.

  Margot squinted and looked at the picture. “I don’t think we have that in stock anymore.”

>   “No? Well, what about all these? For the maple leaves?”

  Margot looked at the picture again and then turned to look at me with a creased brow, as if she didn’t quite understand my question.

  “Tessa, I made this quilt three years ago.”

  “So?”

  “So, for the most part, quilt fabric is like fine wine. The manufacturers create a certain number of bottles—or in this case, a certain number of bolts—and when they’re gone they’re gone. I doubt we have more than a handful of the fabrics I used in this quilt still in stock.”

  Now it was my turn to be confused. “But . . . I want to make this quilt.”

  Margot grinned and turned to the others, who were also grinning. Suddenly I felt very foolish and out of place, as though I’d just walked in on the meeting of a club I wasn’t a member of.

  One of the women I didn’t know, a short and stocky lady with salt-and-pepper hair and an olive complexion, said, “We’re not laughing at you, we’re laughing with you. Because we’ve all been there. Haven’t we, Connie?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the petite brunette who was standing next to her. “Many times.”

  The first woman held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “The picture. Come on. Let’s see it.”

  I walked to the counter and handed her the computer printout. She pulled a pair of red-rimmed reading glasses off her head and looked at the picture on the front. The others, Margot excepted, crowded around to have a look as well.

  “Nice! Hey, Connie, this is right up your alley,” she said, glancing at her friend before turning back to me. “Connie likes piecing big, bold blocks that incorporate complementary colors. Kind of a restrained scrappy look. What do you think, sis?”

  “Oh, this is pretty. I’d love to see it in spring colors, shades of green—celery, celadon, shamrock, and maybe jade—just to bring in a little touch of blue. That’d give you somewhere interesting to go with the border fabric. Know what I mean?”

  I had no clue what she was talking about—she could have been speaking Armenian, for all I knew—but I nodded anyway. She wasn’t fooled.

  “Never mind.” She smiled and put out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Connie, but I bet you already figured that out.”

  “I’m Tessa. Nice to meet you.”

  “And this one,” Connie said, tipping her head toward the woman with the salt-and-pepper hair, “is my sister, Bella.”

  “I know, I know.” Connie chuckled. “Other than the eyes, we look nothing alike.”

  “We’re half sisters,” Bella said as she gave me back my picture. “Connie got Dad’s hair and I got his shoulders. If I’d have been born a boy I could have played defense for the Jets. As it is, I teach middle school phys ed.”

  “And I teach high school chemistry,” Connie said. “We come from a long line of teachers.”

  “Tessa owns For the Love of Lavender, just down the street,” Evelyn put in.

  “Really?” Connie looked genuinely interested. “I’ve walked by there a million times but haven’t had a chance to stop in yet. It looks so cute from the outside.”

  “Thanks.”

  Connie had just said a mouthful. Probably ninety-five percent of the residents of New Bern could have said the same thing. What was I doing here? I should be back at my shop, figuring out how to bring in more customers. And yet . . . they seemed so nice. Margot had been right about me: I really needed some friends.

  Back in Massachusetts, my social life centered around work; same for Lee. When we moved, everyone at the office promised to stay in touch, but those promises were short-lived. I telephoned my old friends frequently at first, but as time passed I found we had less and less to say to each other. After a while, I gave up calling them. I told myself that it was normal, that long-distance friendships were bound to fade, but I had to wonder: Had we ever really been friends to begin with? Besides working in the same building, we’d never had much in common.

  I never imagined being lonely in New Bern. After all, I was coming home, wasn’t I? I supposed I’d just pick up my old relationships where I’d left off. It didn’t work out like that. Many of the people I knew in high school had moved to other towns or other states. And those who were still here were too busy to add more people to their lives. At first it didn’t bother me. I was so busy settling in, starting a new business that there wasn’t time to feel lonely. But now I was lonely. I wanted friends. I needed them.

  “This will be Tessa’s first quilt,” Margot said proudly, beaming like the mother of a child who’s just mastered the art of shoe-tying. This information brought forth a round of cooing and congratulations.

  Virginia, Evelyn’s mother, a tiny little thing with hair as white and fine as spun sugar and bright blue eyes that missed nothing, was holding a fluffy and overweight cat in her arms. Later, I would learn that this cat, though a tom, was named Petunia. Virginia walked to the bowfront display window, set Petunia down in a cushioned basket, and looked at me. “What colors were you planning to use in your quilt?”

  “These colors,” I said, holding up the picture. Why was it so hard to make everyone understand? “I don’t want to make a quilt, I want to make this quilt.”

  Virginia narrowed her eyes, which deepened the wrinkles at the corners and made her look even wiser than she already did. “But you can’t make that quilt. Anyway, why would you want to? Margot already did. If you’re just looking to reproduce somebody else’s idea, you might as well buy a paint-by-numbers kit. Quilting isn’t about replication. It’s about self-expression, making it work, and making your own rules.”

  The doorbell jingled. A voice came from the doorway. “And as we all know,” the voice declared, “rules are meant to be broken. That’s what I’ve always thought.”

  Virginia nodded and turned to greet the newcomer. “Hello, Abigail.”

  I’d heard of Abigail Burgess Wynne Spaulding, she of the many surnames—who in New Bern hasn’t? But I’d never met her. Rumor is that she owns half the town. Rumor also is that, after her recent marriage, she prefers to be called Abigail Spaulding.

  She was beautiful for her age (though it was hard to tell exactly what her age might be), elegantly but simply dressed in a pair of light wool slacks, sweater, and a tweed jacket that said old money. She was tall, though not as tall as I’d expected. Her wedding earlier in the summer—or rather her re-wedding—to Franklin Spaulding, her attorney of many years, had been the talk of the town.

  When Abigail’s niece, Liza, who’d been engaged to Evelyn’s son, Garrett, got cold feet and backed out of the wedding, Abigail and Franklin used the occasion to renew their own vows. It was, I’d heard, the wedding to end all weddings, with lobsters trucked in from Maine and music by a twenty-five-member orchestra. Afterward, they’d headed off to Bermuda for what was supposed to be a two-week honeymoon, but they’d liked it so much that they stayed on until fall.

  Since Abigail’s niece had called off the engagement to Evelyn’s son, I wondered if there might be any tension between the two women, but if there was, I certainly didn’t see it. They looked to be the best of friends.

  “Hello, all,” Abigail said cheerily. “Evelyn! Good news! Your wedding present has finally arrived. I’m having it delivered to your house tomorrow afternoon at two. Will you be home?”

  “Abigail, you didn’t have to give us a wedding present. . . .”

  “You’re certainly right!” she retorted in pretended offense. “If you’re not invited to the wedding, you don’t have to send a gift.”

  I’d heard about that too. Apparently Evelyn’s wedding to Charlie had been a very last-minute affair. Though they’d been dating for years, so, really, does that count as last minute? In any case, they’d finally decided to tie the knot and eloped to Ireland for the honeymoon.

  “Getting married without me. Tsk, tsk. How could you? However,” Abigail said magnanimously, “I have decided to forgive you.”

  “That’s big of you, Abbie.”

  “Isn�
��t it?” she said with a little smile before turning to face me. “Who are you?” Her expression was pleasant, but I was a little taken aback by her abrupt manner. I’d heard that Abigail Spaulding was a little odd. Guess I’d heard right.

  Margot came to my rescue. “This is Tessa Woodruff. She owns For the Love of Lavender.”

  “For the Love . . . Oh, yes. Yes, of course! You’re the one who’s joining us on Friday nights, aren’t you?” Abigail exclaimed in recognition as she reached out to shake my hand. “I’ve seen your shop. Very sweet. I keep meaning to go in. . . .”

  Story of my life.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Spaulding.”

  “Please, call me Abigail.”

  “Tessa is here to pick out fabric for a quilt,” Virginia said.

  “Well, I’m here for the same reason. Ted Belden has talked me into making a quilt for the library auction.” Abigail rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I agreed to it. It’d be so much easier, and probably more profitable for the library, if I just wrote a check. But Ted is insistent. I can’t think why. It’s not as if my quilting talents are particularly legendary.”

  Evelyn tipped her head to one side. “Maybe not, but you are.”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  “I mean it, Abbie. You know everybody in town. The chance to own an Abigail Original will generate a lot of interest, might start a bidding war.”

  “I seriously doubt that. But,” she said, heaving a martyred sigh, “I’ve already agreed to do it, so there it is. I just can’t make up my mind about a pattern. It can’t be anything too complicated. I don’t have time for that. The auction is the Saturday after Thanksgiving. What are you making, Tessa?”

  “This,” I said, showing her the picture.