Arlene Sachitano - The Quilt Before The Storm

“On the other end of the spectrum are Joyce, Ronald and probably Duane. They’re organized, capable of taking care of themselves and their surroundings and probably permanently located in our community. The group I met at the church are similar except for the permanency. They describe themselves as nomadic. They have no ties to the community and highly prize their lack of possessions and ability to move on without notice.”

“Wow, you’ve already thought a lot about this.”

“I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I did read up on homelessness in America before I accepted the project.”

“Can you design something that will meet such diverse needs?”

“I know we started badly, but there’s no need to be insulting.”

Harriet blushed again.

“Hey, I’m kidding.” He reached across the table and took her hand. He was a touch person, and she was surprised to discover she didn’t mind.

“I’ll have to think about it some, but I’m sure I can come up with a solution that will work. In the meantime, I’m sure Joyce and company are going to appreciate the quilts and tarps your group made them.”

Harriet looked out the window at the rain, which was again sheeting down from dark clouds.

“If this coming storm is as bad as everyone’s predicting, our blankets and tarps aren’t going to help much.”

“I heard Pastor Hafer telling the people at the church they were setting up cots and would welcome all comers, so hopefully, they’ll take advantage.”

“I think I heard my aunt and her friend Mavis saying something about using the church bus to pick people up, too.”

Tom joined her in watching out the window.

“I better get going. I don’t like to drive after dark when there’s some likelihood of encountering slides on the road between here and Angel Harbor.”

“I don’t blame you. Thanks for coffee,” Harriet said. “I think,” she added with a smile.

“Maybe we can do it again. I’ll be back and forth on this project for a while.”

“I’d like that,” she said, and was pretty sure she meant it.

Harriet drove past the vet clinic on her way home, and when she saw Connie’s car alongside Lauren’s in the parking lot, she turned around and pulled in. The rain beat a steady rhythm on her car’s roof as she parked, pulled her jacket’s hood up and made the run for the door.

“You here to see Scooter?” the receptionist asked.

Harriet nodded and went through the door to the back recesses of the clinic. Aiden had set up a socialization area in an unused storeroom with rocking chairs, a CD player and a coffee and tea setup for the volunteers. Most of the canine victims had spent their entire life in cramped cages stacked one on top of the other.

“Hey,” Lauren said as Harriet entered the room. “How’d the date go?”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Aiden was here all day,” Connie said. “Wasn’t he?”

“As you both know,” Harriet said pointedly, “I had coffee with Tom Bainbridge. Just coffee. He wanted to compare our impressions of the homeless camp, if you must know. He has some interesting ideas for the new housing project he’s working on.”

“That Tom Bainbridge wants more than a coffee date with you. You mark my words,” Connie told her.

“What if he does?” Lauren said, apparently for the sake of argument.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harriet said. “With either of you. Before I went to coffee, I stopped by Pins and Needles and talked to Marjory. Things sound kind of crazy-her sister and brother-in-law are coming to visit even though Marjory told them not to.”

“In this weather?” Connie asked.

“Clearly they want something,” Lauren said. She adjusted the position of the small dog in her lap. “Ouch. This one’s got sharp little feet.”

“For once, I agree with Lauren,” Harriet said. “It sounds like her sister is trying to talk Marjory out of their mother’s estate.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Aiden.

Harriet hadn’t noticed him enter the room while she was talking. He reached over her shoulder and set Scooter in her lap. The little dog stood up and licked her face.

“I have to go,” Connie said. She looked at her watch. “My goodness, I’ve been here almost an hour.”

Aiden started to take the black dog she was holding.

“I can take her back,” she said. “Lauren, don’t you want to take yours back, too?”

“I’ve only been here…” Then, noticing Connie’s glare, she stood up. “Uh, yeah, I have to leave, too.”

When the two women were gone, Aiden sat down.

“I missed you this morning,” Harriet told him.

“I was busy,” he said without looking at her.

“How’d it go with your sister last night?”

“About how you’d expect.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” He was shredding the edge of the disposable puddle pad that had been in Connie’s lap when she was holding her charge. He still refused to look at Harriet.

“Are you free for dinner?” She leaned toward him, trying but failing to make eye contact.

“I have to meet with Michelle again. We’re going to go through some of my mom’s old papers. It will probably take all night,” he added before she could ask.

Harriet sat in silence, not sure what was going on.

“Look, I have to go back to work. I’ll come get Scooter in twenty minutes, if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” she mumbled and watched him go out the door.

“He’s acting like a jerk,” Lauren said, reentering the room a moment later.

“Were you outside listening?”

“Not on purpose,” she said, crossing the room and picking her scarf up from the floor where it had fallen beside the chair she had occupied earlier. “I didn’t want to barge in until you were finished, and there aren’t a lot of other places to wait.”

“Thanks for that,” Harriet said.

“I’m free.”

“What?”

“For dinner-I’m free. Want to go to Tico’s?”

“Why not?”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Lauren. Yes, I would like to go to dinner with you. What time?”

“I need to go check my computer. Can we meet there in two hours?”

“Sure. That’ll give me time to finish here and unload the new batch of flannel from Marjory.”

Fred was meowing at the studio door when Harriet came inside.

“What’s your problem?” she asked him. “I fed you both canned and dry food before I left.”

A gust of wind rattled the window behind her, and Fred made a plaintive yowl.

“I see. You’re not liking the storm.” She picked the cat up and cuddled him then carried him into the kitchen.

“Don’t expect this on a regular basis,” she said as she set him on the floor.

She took a can of people tuna out of her kitchen cupboard and scooped a spoonful onto his dish then put the rest in a plastic container in the refrigerator.

“There, that will help with your stress,” she said.

Fred only had eyes for his tuna.

She knew she should use the time she had left cutting fabric, but the pounding of the rain and wind was making her feel as restless as Fred. In the end, she went upstairs to the attic to look for the oil lamps she remembered being stored there.

Aunt Beth, who had given her the house when she passed along the quilt studio, had accumulated a variety of the lamps, both decorative and purely functional, over the years. Harriet chose two small models with hand-thrown pottery bases and put them in a bag. She and Lauren were eating early enough she could deliver the lamps to Aunt Beth afterward. Harriet had no intention of allowing her to stay in her cottage, located on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, if the storm did worsen, but she also was aware her aunt might have other ideas, so it was best to make sure she was prepared.