Clare O’Donohue - The Lover’s Knot

"What are you doing?" My grandmother's voice snapped me to attention. "Are you caught in a trance over there?"

I turned quickly, knocking over a display of scissors and rotary cutters.

"You could definitely use more space," I said to justify my clumsiness. "If you knocked a wall down you could put up more shelves and get some of this stuff off the floor."

"Knock a wall down?" Nancy asked as she moved back in our direction.

"I was telling my grandmother that she should lease the diner space and expand the shop."

"What a nice idea. Eleanor, do you think you will?"

"For heaven's sake, Nancy, I have enough on my hands with this space, let alone taking on more expense and trouble." My grandmother walked away from us to help a woman pulling bolt after bolt of fabric off a shelf.

"I think she's worried that she's getting too old for so much work," Nancy said in a low whisper.

"Really?" was all I could say. To me, my grandmother had always been old and always ageless. When I was born she was almost fifty, and now she was in her midseventies. Even now she seemed to have more energy than I did. Or maybe it was just that she used her energy in more focused ways.

"I think it would be exciting to expand the shop." Nancy looked around. "Give it a little face-lift."

"If you want a face-lift…," Eleanor started as she finished up with her customer.

"Too late to do me any good," Nancy laughed. "I just think it would be fun."

It would be, I thought. I considered writing down some ideas, making myself useful.

"I know we have more six-inch rulers." My grandmother was done dreaming and had returned to the business at hand. "But I can't find any."

"Downstairs," said Nancy. "I'll get them."

As she said that, two more women came into the shop. And behind them Carrie entered with two small kids in tow.

"I'll get it," I volunteered. "You guys are getting busy."

"Will you know what they are?" my grandmother asked, concerned.

"Six-inch rulers are rulers that measure six inches, right? Or is that some clever quilting code to fool nonbelievers?"

My grandmother was not a fan of sarcasm. Well, that's not true. She wasn't a fan of my sarcasm. She was perfectly fond of her own.

"They're in a box by the back corner," said Nancy. "I think they're under a pile of other boxes. Just bring up three or four. We haven't room for more."

"Just be careful," Eleanor said.

"What's the worst that could happen? I'm in a quilt shop," I threw back at her as I headed toward the stairs.

At the very back of the shop stood a long, narrow staircase that led down to a small storage room and office. With space at a premium, even the stairs were piled with boxes. A small chain with an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign was supposed to keep out the customers, but the regulars always ignored it, as there was a bathroom downstairs.

The stairs were not only narrow but also steep. I slowly went down, with one hand on the wall for safety. This was not something I wanted my grandmother to see-my being careful-but these were not stairs for the faint of heart.

At the bottom, I stood amazed at the sea of boxes. Both Nancy and Eleanor were fans of keeping the latest new tools and fabric in stock, but with the shop already crowded, it meant that only one or two of each design made it upstairs and the rest waited in the basement. As something like six-inch rulers sold out, they had to make a trip downstairs for more. With the shop as busy as it was, that could mean as many as a dozen trips a day.

It took me several minutes to find the box of rulers in the back corner and several more to find the six-inch ones. I had the brief idea of bringing up a twelve-inch ruler as a joke, but decided it would amuse only me. Instead I grabbed what I had been sent for and started back upstairs. But before I'd reached the third step, I'd almost tripped over a bolt of fabric. I put the rulers down and cleared the steps, moving everything to the corner of the basement.

"Nell," I heard my grandmother call.

"Coming."

With that task done, I perched on a chair behind the register for the next hour and watched Eleanor wait on person after person. Everyone that came in gravitated toward her, and she seemed to have exactly what each person wanted. I liked my job most days, but I didn't excel at it like this. I didn't love it. One more way my life wasn't working. Could I be any more self-pitying? My name-sake would have been proud.

When I saw her stop to talk with Carrie, I made my way over. Carrie's children were having quite a time tossing books from the low shelves of the book rack, but neither of the women seemed to notice.

"It was something my granddaughter thought up," Eleanor was saying. "It seems like a lot of trouble."

"What's that?" I interrupted. If the word on the street was that I thought up something that was a lot of trouble, it was enough of an invitation to join the conversation.

"The diner," said Carrie. "Susanne mentioned to me that Eleanor might take it over."

"Just talk," Eleanor said. I got the feeling she was reassuring the woman. "It's just that we are getting crowded in here."

"Well, you could use the space," admitted Carrie. "But, of course, we could also use a good coffee shop in town." She turned to me. "The only place to get espresso in Archers Rest is at the pizza parlor. And it's instant."

"I think a coffee shop is a great idea, too," I responded, trying to be nice. No sense in stepping on anyone's dream.

"Well, it's a lot of work," Carrie said, seeming to back off the idea. Carrie's daughter was tugging at her leg, and Carrie was ignoring her. "My husband thinks it would be a waste of money since I don't really have the time."

"Nor do I," agreed Eleanor. And then my grandmother reached down without looking and caught a bolt of fabric that Carrie's son was about to pull down on his head.

Since I was doing little but stir up small-town controversy, I slowly headed toward the door. The shop was getting busy. People were coming in alone and in groups. Mostly women but some men. Some of them had fabric swatches or books to reference. Some seemed focused, heading right toward a section or a color. Others wandered around, pulling fabrics here and there, waiting to fall in love with something. Everyone seemed filled with anticipation and creativity, and rather than sit on the sidelines, I decided to leave.

"I'm heading to the house," I called back to my grandmother.

"Barney will want a walk," she called back.

Carrie's little boy beat me to the front door, with a frustrated Carrie, her daughter in her arms, following closely behind. I grabbed the little boy before he could make it into the street.

"I used to be a vice president." Carrie shook her head. "On Wall Street. I thought I could handle anything." She nodded toward her children, running in circles around her.

"They're lively. Kids are supposed to be lively," I said as her son jumped up into the backseat of Carrie's car, stepping over her daughter to do it.

"I guess," she sighed, and opened her car for the kids to climb in. I turned to leave. "It's a good idea, your idea to expand the shop," Carrie said almost shyly.

"She could use the space." I hesitated. "But I feel bad if you had plans for the diner yourself."

"No, not plans. I just was talking about it with someone… Marc… you know Marc."

"Yes. He's helping my grandmother."

"He's great, isn't he? Just so many ideas," she practically gushed. "He's really very talented… in so many areas."

"Like your kids." I pointed to the two children climbing over the backseat into the driver's seat.

"Oh, God," she said as she reached into the back of her car, doing her best to restore order.

I crossed the street and found myself in front of the town bakery. A familiar-looking man with glasses and a serious expression was holding the hand of a small girl. The child, maybe five years old, was happily struggling to fit a giant chocolate chip cookie into her small mouth. Several times he leaned down and patiently wiped the chocolate chip stains from her face.