Arlene Sachitano - Quilt As Desired

"I'm not sure this helps much. We still don't know who came and went this way, but at least we know how they did it."

"And we know it wasn't a spontaneous act. Someone planned it."

He looked at her. “You didn't really think it was a random act, did you?"

"No, I guess not. That one policeman had suggested it was drug users looking for something they could turn for a quick profit. But they probably would have taken the computer and television if that was the case. I wanted to believe him, because I don't want to think about someone coming back if they didn't get what they were looking for the first time."

"Have you had any ideas about what that might be?"

"Not a clue."

They stood together looking down the street, each lost in their own thoughts.

Aiden snapped the flashlight back on. “We should get back. As much as I don't want to, I've got to face the family."

Harriet wished she could tell him things would be okay but she knew better than anyone the damage lies could do.

Harriet spent the following day cleaning and organizing her studio. In the morning hours, she folded fabric and quilts and matched them up with their work orders. The afternoon went slower. Thread, pins, chalk pencils and other small notions had been scattered all over the room, as if the thief had thrown a temper tantrum and hurled the containers against the walls. The big spools of thread for the long-arm machine were hopelessly tangled. She cut out the tangles where she could, but in the end several spools had to be thrown out.

She'd spoken to Aunt Beth's insurance man, Bill Young, and he'd asked her to do an inventory of what was missing and damaged, so she dutifully wrote down each lost item.

For his part, Fred chased bobbins around the floor, rolling on his back and tangling his legs in the thread. The third time she had to stop and cut him loose, she picked him up and shut him on the other side of the kitchen door.

She was about to give up and join him when the phone rang.

"How is the clean-up coming?” Mavis asked.

"I've got the big stuff organized, but now it's going a lot slower. I'm down to picking up pins and untangling thread."

"Do you feel like a change of pace?"

"Yes, please, anything."

"Well, if you're up to it, Michelle asked if the Loose Threads could come over and deal with Avanell's stash."

An important part of the quilting process is the collection of a stash. Every serious quilter will make a practice of gathering pieces of fabric for undefined future use. Stash building can be a regular part of their weekly trip to the local quilt store, or can be done scavenger hunt-style by taking tours to various other communities in groups or alone. It's also a critical part of any vacation trip, usually to the dismay of husbands, children or other non-quilting companions. People vary in their approach. Some people collect in half-yard quantities, some in multiple-yard cuts, just to keep their options open. Harriet could only imagine how large a stash someone who had been quilting as long as Avanell would have.

"It's kind of soon, isn't it?"

"Honey, Avanell is dead. Michelle needs to take care of things while she's here. In Loose Threads, we joke about taking care of each other's stash if something happens, but it really isn't a joke. Avanell told her daughter if anything ever happened to her we were to take care of hers. Michelle called me an hour ago and asked if we could come tomorrow. If this is too much for you, just say so and I'll understand."

"No, I'll be there,” Harriet said, and tried to make her voice sound like she meant it. “What time should I be there?"

"I told her we'd be there at nine."

"Do I need to bring anything?"

"If you can find any of those cotton project bags your aunt has, you can bring them. When someone passes, we usually finish up any UFO's.” Harriet knew that this meant unfinished objects in quilter's parlance. “Usually, we know who they were for. If not, we just give them back to the family if they want them, or donate them if they don't."

"Are there really people who don't want their loved one's handwork?” Harriet asked.

"We've only lost two or three people who were still active in the group when they went, and in at least one case, the woman was ninety-three, and she had given her family so many quilts over the years they really had all the keepsakes they needed."

"Is there any word on the memorial service yet?"

"Yes. There will be a viewing on Monday night and then a service at the Unitarian Church Tuesday morning and then the interment following that. Are you going to attend?"

"She was one of my aunt's oldest friends. Since Aunt Beth can't be there, I feel like I should go to represent her."

"Honey, I think people would understand if it was too hard for you."

"No, Aunt Beth is right. I have to start living again, and attending a friend's funeral is an unfortunate part of life."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?"

The two women agreed on a plan and ended the call.

Harriet knew her aunt was trying to help her move forward with her life, but even Aunt Beth couldn't have envisioned how her plan was going to play out.

She was contemplating dinner when the phone rang again. She answered, and heard an unfamiliar man's voice.

"Harriet,” he said, “it's Harold."

"Harold, how nice to hear from you again,” she responded, and wondered if it was true.

"I couldn't help but notice how much you enjoyed the Chamber dinner the other night."

Was the man insane?

"Well, not the event,” he went on. “But you did seem to enjoy the food."

That much was true.

"I heard about a new restaurant that opened last week down on Smuggler's Cove. The owner used to be the head chef at the Hilton in Portland. I thought I'd give it a try tonight and, as you appear to be a connoisseur of fine food, wondered if you'd care to join me."

It wasn't the most romantic invitation she had ever received, but since she wasn't interested in romance that suited her.

"Shall I meet you there?"

"I'll be coming from the factory, so I could swing by at seven and pick you up, if that works."

"That will be fine. I'll be ready."

She hung up and went back into the kitchen.

"Come on, Fred,” she said, and the cat got up and followed her upstairs. “We have to put together an outfit for our dinner date."

The choices hadn't gotten any better in the last two days. She still had the basic black dress and Aunt Beth's scarves. Aunt Beth had a decidedly different shape than she did, making most of her wardrobe improbable; but Harriet was desperate enough to give it a try.

The floral jersey dresses Aunt Beth favored were a definite no even if they did fit. She passed them by and moved on to the skirts and blouses. She tried a skirt, but it was about three inches short and was too wide in any case.

The blouses showed more promise. She pulled out an off-white silk with a tie collar. She tried it on, twisting the two scarf-like ends of the collar into a bow. She looked at her image in the mirror. The blouse could be worn tunic-style over her sleeveless black shift. She found a soft leather belt on a closet door hook. She wrapped it around her waist and tied it instead of buckling. She twirled in front of the mirror. Her outfit made her look like an executive secretary. Or at least what she imagined an executive secretary would look like. It would be the perfect counterpoint to Harold's business togs.

She took a shower, towel-dried her hair and quickly blew it dry. She dressed and was waiting in her front room when Harold arrived.

"You look lovely,” he said when she opened the front door. She handed him the tan trench coat she'd found in the entryway closet. He held it while she slipped it on, overlapping the front and securing the extra width with the belt. If she was going to go out at night, she would have to go shopping, and not at Wal-Mart, either.