Clare O’Donohue - The Lover’s Knot

Inside the shop my grandmother was laughing with the women sitting in a circle around her. For a half second I wondered if they were laughing at my broken engagement, but I knew that was only my bruised ego talking.

"Look who's here," my grandmother said as she waved me to come in. "How was your nap? It was a long one."

"Just what I needed."

I moved in a little but still stayed close to the door. Barney, on the other hand, bounded into the middle of the circle to greet each of his ladies in turn. I don't think any of them noticed me until they were done greeting him. When they did they each smiled enthusiastically.

"The granddaughter," the oldest one said. I remembered her from my childhood visits. Maggie Sweeney, one of Eleanor's dearest friends and a stern presence to a ten-year-old, and to me now. She looked the way old women used to look before they were running corporations and skydiving at eighty years old. She had gray hair pulled back in a bun and wore one of those Laura Ashley-style dresses, with a black floral print and a white lace collar. She had a warm face, though, and the greenest eyes I'd ever seen.

"She is," my grandmother said, and looked around the room with a warning. "And nobody give her a hard time."

The women nodded and smiled at me again.

"Sit down," said another, and someone took some fabric off a chair in the corner and moved the chair to the circle. The whole group inched closer to leave enough space for me to join them.

I sat and tried to meet their smiles with my own. It was all very uncomfortable.

"These are the girls," Eleanor said with a sweep of her hand. "Except Nancy. She couldn't come tonight."

"She's missed a lot of meetings lately," said one woman.

"Well, I suppose she spends enough time at the shop as it is."

"Enough about who isn't here. Let's talk about who is," Maggie said.

"Hi, Mrs. Sweeney," I said, "it's nice to see you again." Then I turned to the others. "I'm Nell."

"Everyone knows that, dear," said a blonde with deep blue eyes and heavy makeup, who looked to be in her fifties. "Eleanor filled us in on all the details."

I shot an angry look toward my grandmother, who smiled at me innocently. The rest of the women seemed to be studying me, waiting for me to launch into a story or burst into tears or otherwise entertain them. Instead I sat with an idiotic smile on my face and an embarrassed look in my eyes, trying to feel less strange in a room full of strangers.

"Leave her alone, Mom," came a voice from the back. Finally, someone on my side. I turned to see a woman about my age coming up from the basement. "I'm Natalie. Don't worry. They're just excited to have a new recruit," Natalie assured me. She was the picture of her mother, blond and blue-eyed, but Natalie wore no makeup at all, and she didn't need to. "They won't rest until every man, woman, and child knows how to quilt."

"Are you interested in quilting?" Maggie turned to me, suddenly excited.

"She's got talent but no discipline," my grandmother offered. "I've tried to teach her."

"I was twelve," I said in my own defense, then regretted it because I knew what was coming.

"Well, if she has talent, then there's hope," said another woman who had been quiet up until then.

"I don't have a lot of time," I said. A weak excuse, but something.

The heavily made-up blonde answered with a dismissive wave. "You're in," she laughed. "And once you're in, there's no getting out. Unless you die."

They all laughed. I laughed a little too, but it was a nervous laugh.

For the next dizzying hour I was introduced and reintroduced and then quizzed by each member of the club. It didn't surprise me that Maggie was the leader, even with Eleanor in the room. A former librarian, she had raised eleven children and now had twenty-five grandchildren. Every one of them had at least one quilt, hand sewn by Maggie, who didn't believe any machine, even a sewing machine, could do as good a job as a person.

Natalie was twenty-eight, only one year older than me, and the mother of a ten-month-old. She had a husband everyone in the group described as "tall, dark, and handsome," which made Natalie roll her eyes. Her mother, Susanne, was the one with the makeup counter on her face. She turned out to be the artist of the group. Her quilts had won ribbons at national shows, and one had even been featured in a magazine.

"I got married very young," she said to me. "Too young, I think. Didn't have a chance to figure out who I was, as they say."

"Have you figured it out yet?" came a voice from the other side of the group. Bernadette, known in the group as Bernie, was a hangover from of the sixties, now in her sixties. She was another familiar face among the crowd. I knew I had been introduced and reintroduced to her over the years, but the only thing I'd ever learned about her was that she owned the pharmacy in town and she had a warm, friendly face.

Susanne smiled toward Bernie. "Have I figured myself out yet?" she laughed. "I don't think I want to know anymore. I certainly don't want to know who my husband is."

The others laughed with her. "I was nineteen," said Maggie. "I found out pretty quickly it isn't always roses and I love yous."

"You got roses?" shouted Bernie. "I don't think any of my husbands got me roses."

"Why would you marry men who were so unromantic?" Natalie asked.

"The sex was good," Bernie retorted. All the woman roared with laughter.

"Bernie, we have a newcomer in the room," my grandmother admonished.

Bernie looked at me. "She won't be a newcomer for long." Bernie leaned in. "I have stories that could make even a girl living in New York blush." Then she looked toward Eleanor. "But I won't." She turned to the fifth member of the group. "Carrie here, she has a romantic story to tell, if that's what you're looking for."

Carrie was, it looked to me, in her late forties. She began to tell me about herself but was interrupted by Bernie and Natalie, who felt they could tell Carrie's life story much better. Apparently she had married right out of college, divorced three years later, and spent the next fifteen looking for Mr. Right, while amassing a small fortune as a New York stockbroker. When he didn't appear, she decided to have a child. She quit her job, moved to Archers Rest, and scaled her lifestyle back so she could work as a consultant and stay home with her baby. It was a good plan, but she soon found a better one. Months after she gave birth to her son, she married his pediatrician. Now they also had a daughter.

"It wasn't quite what I expected," she said to me. "But it worked out." All the women voiced their agreements. It was a not very subtle nod to my uncertain future, but it was much appreciated.

Every Friday, these woman cleared out a small amount of floor space amid an overflowing stock of fabric, patterns, rulers, and quilt-related books. Then they sat in a circle to gossip, eat sugar-laden treats and drink (only caffeinated) coffee. They passed around their latest quilting projects and complained about what they called UFOs, or "unfinished objects," as Maggie explained.

"It happens when you start something with a great deal of excitement and then run out of interest about halfway through," Maggie told me.

"Are we talking about marriage again?" Susanne laughed.

"Stop putting marriage down," her daughter Natalie protested. "Some of us are happily married."

Maggie let out an exaggerated sigh and continued. "The trick is not to get stubborn about it. If the project doesn't work, then you have to let it go."

"That must be frustrating," I said.

Bernie's eyes lit up and she leaned toward me. "It's freeing," she said, exaggerating the length of the words to, I'm guessing, make their importance clear. And they must have been important words, because the others all nodded in agreement. "With every quilt you make you have a picture in your mind of what it should be," Bernie continued. "Then you start. You pick fabrics, you cut the fabrics, you sew the pieces together. All along there are compromises, mistakes, inspirations. When it works, then you are truly holding your dreams in your hands. When it doesn't…" She shrugged.