Clare O’Donohue - The Lover’s Knot

"Not bad," she said, lying.

"Let's do another one."

She chose a square for herself and handed me a pink square of fabric and a small blue teddy bear, and I set to work.

"You are now part of a long tradition," Eleanor said as we worked.

"Yes, I know. Quilting goes back to the beginning of this country, to Europe before that and possibly to ancient Egypt," I recited. I had heard this speech before.

"Well, yes," she said. "But I was thinking that you are joining the great quilting tradition of using fabric and thread to calm your nerves and get you through a difficult time."

I had to admit that touching the soft flannel fabric had the same effect as petting Barney. I found myself completely engrossed in each stitch, moving at a slow but steady pace around the pattern, almost as if I were meditating.

"My first quilt-" My grandmother leaned in. "God it was awful. It was the fifties, and quilting was a dying art. Everyone wanted modern, sleek stuff. We were all caught up in gadgets, cooking TV dinners," she laughed. "The idea of doing something as old-fashioned as cutting up a perfectly good piece of fabric just to sew it back together again seemed, well, crazy."

"So why did you do it?" I asked as I finished my second square and moved on to the third.

"At first I was being polite. Grace quilted, and she was so kind to me and your mom and Uncle Henry. When she asked me if I'd like to learn, I said yes. I thought I wouldn't like it." She patted the fabric in her hands, smoothing the square. "But I realized," she continued, "a quilt could be whatever I wanted. It could be straight and square. It could be colorful and wild. I was in complete control of the process." She looked toward me. "There are certainly rules. In everything there are always rules. But it was the first time I realized I could follow the rules or I could break them, and neither choice was wrong."

"Sounds pretty rebellious."

"Anything you do that is truly yours is rebellious." She watched my stitches for a moment. "Now we're starting our own tradition. I'm the elderly woman being taken care of…"

"And now you're teaching me," I said, and showed her my teddy bear block. "What do you think, in fifty years will I quilt as well as you?"

She fingered the uneven stitches that held the teddy bear to the pink fabric. "Maybe not in fifty years," she said, and smiled.

After an hour of sewing small animals onto blocks, my fingers were starting to hurt. I stretched and wondered about what was in the kitchen.

I was almost out of the bed when Eleanor looked up. "Whatever his reason for calling things off, it was because of him, not you. Once you know that, you won't need to look for reassurance in whatever man comes along."

"Is that what you think I was doing with Marc?"

"Yes."

"There was more to it than that," I said, a little defensive. "That's just what you saw."

She sighed.

"What does that sigh mean?" I was now turning red. My grandmother said nothing, but I knew. "Did all the woman in the quilt club sit around discussing my relationship with Marc?" She said nothing. "You must have all thought I was very stupid."

"Nancy's husband has a gambling problem that means she probably won't be able to afford to keep paying for her boys' education. Carrie's husband prefers to be at work than at home with her and the kids. One of Bernie's husbands had a heart attack and left her for the nurse." She took a breath. "And Natalie's husband wanted time off from the marriage, whatever that means, about a year and a half ago, and poor Natalie got herself involved in a rather painful affair."

"Well, you're certainly up on the local gossip."

"My point is, no one judges you or pities you or thinks you were foolish. We all have our problems, and we all love the men in our lives, even when they disappoint us."

"I'll talk to him," I said.

"Whatever you want." She smiled, and raised the volume on the television. "Let's see what nonsense the world has gotten itself into today."

I decided against a trip to the kitchen and settled back on the bed. Instead I listened to the newscaster tell a story about a rising terror alert in Washington, followed by a report on a killer tornado sweeping the Midwest.

I felt very safe in this bed, in this little town on the Hudson. I closed my eyes, finally feeling a little peace, until I realized I wasn't safe, not even here. The image of Marc's lifeless body filled my mind. Then I saw picture after picture of Ryan standing over Marc, angry and jealous, just hours before Marc was killed.

Even more disturbing was the realization that not only did I probably know the killer, my grandmother may have just invited him to stay.

When night came, I stayed downstairs and shared the bed with my grandmother and Barney. It felt comfortable and warm there, and I didn't want to risk another midnight visit from Ryan, not while I was feeling so unsure about everything. I got up early and walked Barney for longer than he wanted to be walked, then came back to the house and looked for something to do.

I stared at the contents of the refrigerator for several minutes, as if ingredients were going to jump up and make themselves into something delicious. I saw some strawberries and box of blueberries and was ready to have a simple, healthy breakfast of fruit salad when I got a better idea. After searching through my grandmother's recipe cards, I found one for blueberry muffins.

Following it exactly, I mixed the dry ingredients in a bowl that was too small and mixed the milk and eggs in a very large bowl. Then, after carefully checking the recipe to make absolutely sure I was doing it right, I mixed the two together, folded in the fresh blueberries, and had a taste. To my relief, it tasted like muffin batter. I had forgotten to preheat the oven, but by the time I found the muffin tin and poured the batter into the cups, I figured the oven was hot enough. Fifteen minutes later-much to my surprise-I took perfectly baked, moist muffins from the oven and set them down on the table with a pot of coffee. I hesitated, then tore one in half. Steam rose from the middle. It was a creamy beige, with small dots of a purplish blue throughout-just how a blueberry muffin should look. I pinched off a bit and put it in my mouth. A light cake surrounded a pop of blueberry flavor.

"My compliments to the chef," I said out loud to myself.

Ryan staggered sleepily into the kitchen and watched the domestic scene with clear surprise.

"I didn't know you could bake," he said.

"Apparently I can." I smiled, still impressed by my accomplishment. "Have one."

He cautiously took a bite, then greedily ate it all. "These are really good," he praised me with his mouth full of muffin.

I nodded and made a tray of coffee and muffins to take to my grandmother.

Eleanor was up and hobbling around when I walked into the living room.

"I brought you breakfast," I said, and put the tray down on the bed.

She eyed the tray, then picked up a muffin. "It's still warm."

"I followed your recipe."

She took a nibble. "I could not have done a better job myself," she said, paying me her highest compliment. After eating the rest of the muffin, she turned to business. "I've called Jesse's brother-in-law. He'll meet us at the shop at noon."

"Are the police letting us back in?"

"Briefly. But Jesse called me to say the place will be all ours tomorrow."

"So they've found as much as they will find?" I asked.

"I assume, dear. Put some milk in the coffee, will you?"

I did as she asked. "Did Jesse say if he found anything?"

"No." She stopped. "He asked me about a hole in the wall."

"Marc was knocking it down."

"Yes, but there was a deposit bag stuffed in the wall from my bank." She sipped her coffee. "It was empty, but he wanted to know if I knew anything about it."