Arlene Sachitano - Quilt As Desired

"Well, let's go find it."

It was after three when Harriet pulled into the parking lot of the Vitamin Factory. Yellow crime scene tape flapped in the late-afternoon breeze. A lone Foggy Point police car sat in the visitor's parking lot.

"You go home, curl up with a good book and a cup of tea,” Mavis said. “And try not to think about this."

Harriet waited until Mavis was in her own car and had started it before pulling out of the parking lot.

Fred was waiting in the kitchen when she came into the house and put her keys and purse on the counter.

"Anyone call while I was gone?” she asked him.

He walked to his dish and sat. She picked up the phone and dialed in the retrieval code then cradled the handset between her ear and shoulder so she could fill his food dish as she listened.

There were two messages that began, “This is not a solicitation.” Anything that began with that disclaimer was sure to be a sales call. Harriet double-clicked the three button to skip to the end then erased them, unheard.

The third message was Aunt Beth.

"Just wanted to let you know I made it to England and spent two glorious days with your cousin Heather, and now she is about to drive me to the ship to begin the cruise. I know things are going well for you. I'll call again when we are under way. Love you, baby."

Why did Aunt Beth have to be so far away? Harriet wanted to scream into the phone. Things weren't going well at all. She'd let someone break into the studio, and then found Aunt Beth's best friend dead.

She was still thinking about Aunt Beth and was halfway through a message from Marjory Swain before she realized it. She replayed the message. According to Marjory, a group of women met at Pins and Needles once a month to stitch quilts for charity. Fabric suppliers donated bolts of fabric for local women to make into baby quilts that were then distributed to several agencies that worked with teen mothers. Over time, the project had evolved into a quilting group for unwed mothers. Apparently, Aunt Beth did the machine stitching for the young women and, in fact, had a collection of their work that was supposed to have been delivered to Marjory for tonight's meeting.

"I know you've had a rough time, what with the break-in and Avanell and all,” she said, “but these girls are coming tonight to bind their baby blankets, and they are all so fragile. I hate to postpone it."

Harriet groaned. Last night everyone was concentrating on getting the show pieces ready for delivery. No attempt was made to sort out the rest.

"Come on, Fred,” she said. “We've got work to do."

A little over an hour later Harriet had found nine baby quilts. She called Marjory and agreed to bring the blankets to the store at seven. That gave her just enough time to eat. After the delicious Chinese lunch she'd had, she probably should march into the kitchen and make a big bowl of lettuce, but she didn't really feel like preparing food in there until she'd had a chance to scrub it from top to bottom, purging all signs of the break-in.

Aunt Beth had several large fabric tote bags that were perfect to carry the baby quilts in. Harriet bagged them and stashed them in the backseat of the Honda. She pulled on the fisherman knit sweater Aunt Beth had bought her and grabbed her purse and drove through a sputtering rain down the hill and onto Main Street. She parked in front of Pins and Needles.

The Sandwich Board didn't serve dinner, so she would have to explore downtown to find another option. When she'd lived with Aunt Beth as a child, she'd begged to eat at the Dairy Queen and McDonald's out on the highway. In those days, the ethnic food options in Foggy Point were limited to Chin's Chinese Food. She was glad to see things had changed. She passed a Thai restaurant and a sushi place but rejected them as being too similar to lunch. She was walking on tiptoe, leaning toward the street trying to see what was in the next block, when she hit a brick wall. Her purse fell to the sidewalk, spilling her cell phone and car keys in the process.

Warm hands grasped her by the shoulders.

"I'm sorry,” she said. “I was trying to look up the block and didn't see you."

She looked up into the pale eyes of Aiden Jalbert. Dark smudges now underscored them. She felt her face turned pink as she took in the dark purple bump on his forehead.

"Here.” He bent down and picked up her keys and handed them to her. “What were you looking for?” he asked, his voice flat.

"I was trying to find someplace to eat.” She looked at the sidewalk. “I'm sorry about your mom."

"Yeah,” he said. “I heard you were the one who found her. Thanks for telling me."

"That's not fair."

"I'm sorry,” he said. “You're right. I don't even know you."

"I wanted to tell you,” she said, feeling like a child telling tales. “Mavis said it wasn't my place."

"Right."

"I'm sorry."

Aiden sighed. “No, I'm sorry-really. Mavis is right. Finding my mom was bad enough for you. You didn't owe me anything."

Harriet didn't know what to say. When Steve died, she'd lashed out at everyone, and nothing anyone said helped.

"Look,” he said, “I was just on my way to Tico's Tacos. You want to eat there?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah.” He turned and stepped into the crosswalk. “It's right up there, around the corner.” He pointed at a small storefront that sported the flag of Mexico. She had to hustle to catch up to his long stride.

The restaurant had three booths and a similar number of tables surrounded with chairs. Aiden led her to the center booth. Harriet closed her eyes and breathed. Her senses were bathed in the scent of baked chilies and marinated beef. Her tensed muscles relaxed.

Aiden nudged her shoulder, breaking her reverie. “Where'd you go?” he asked.

She was spared having to answer when a cook in the back nodded at Aiden and appeared moments later with a stone bowl that overflowed with chunky guacamole.

"Grácias,” Aiden said.

"De nada,” the man replied.

"I take it they know you here?” Harriet said.

"I went to school with Jorge's son. We hung out here and did our homework and ate guacamole and chips."

"Does he still live around here?"

"No, Julio's an environmental lawyer in Seattle."

Jorge took their orders and refilled their basket of chips. They picked at them in silence until he came back with their dinners.

Harriet's enchiladas were perfect. The green tomatillo sauce was spicy but not hot, and the tortillas were handmade. Aiden's chile relleno was encrusted in a batter that was light and crisp. A clump of whole green beans had been batter-fried and shared a flat bowl that was lined with a cooked tomato sauce.

They ate in silence, a faded pink-and-green donkey piñata hanging from the ceiling, its crepe paper-fringed foot inches from Aiden's head. The music of Banda el Recodo played softly in the background. Harriet snuck a glance at Aiden. His face had aged in the three days she'd known him. New lines creased its tan surface. He absently pushed a stray lock of dark hair out of his face.

"Thank you for steering me to this place,” she said when she'd finished her meal. “I have to say, I'm a little surprised you aren't at your mom's. I would have thought the Loose Threads would be smothering you in hot dishes and sympathy."

"That would be the problem. That, and my family. My sister is there with her two kids. They're ten and twelve and spend most of their time fighting. Michelle actually tries to sort out what they're fighting about and ends up arguing with them both. Uncle Bertie is there greeting visitors like some kind of host with the most, and my brother Marcel is supposed to be arriving any time. I couldn't hack it."