Jodi Thomas - Mornings On Main

A story danced in his head as he walked through the dried buffalo grass of winter. The stiff stalks made a swishing sound, like a brush lightly moving over a drum. His imagination was all the escape he needed most days.

He was leaving his world, his reality, his home, if only for an hour. If only in his mind.

3

Jillian closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She loved the smells of the quilt shop. Lavender soap left on the women’s skin as they routinely washed their hands so no perspiration stained the quilt. Lemon wax on the eighty-year-old counter that had been left behind when a mercantile became the quilt shop. The smell of cotton, fresh and new, blended with the hint of dyes pressed into material. She even liked the scent of the oil on the hundred-year-old Singer Featherweight machines lining the back wall. Soldiers waiting to do their duty.

Eugenia served orange blossom tea and gingersnap cookies when the ladies took a break. Her hands were worn, with twisted bones covered over in paper-thin skin so fine not even fingerprints would show.

Jillian was surprised that they’d accepted her into their group without many questions. She’d never spent much time with women more than double her age and found it fascinating that they talked in stories, flowing from one to another. No hurry, no debates, no lectures. Just a gentle current that moved as easily as the sharp needles through the padded layers of material.

Paulina, with her funny tales of living in Dallas in the sixties.

The three Sanderson sisters, who finished each other’s sentences and laughed at their own jokes.

The classy lady, dressed in a silk pantsuit, who didn’t seem to mind a bit that everyone called her Toad.

Dixie didn’t say much; she worked with her head down. Neither did a pixie of a woman named Stella, but she laughed at everyone’s jokes as if she’d never heard them before.

Stories they’d all probably heard a hundred times circled around them like classical music, comforting and welcoming to their ears.

Eugenia Larady sat on Jillian’s left, showing her how to make the stitches. Jillian tried her best but didn’t miss the fact that Paulina, on her right, pulled each of her lines and redid them.

The afternoon passed with Eugenia and Jillian getting up each time a customer came in. The old woman Connor had lovingly called Gram treated each stranger as a special guest. Some only wanted to look, so she followed them about the shop offering them cotton gloves so they could examine the quilts. Some customers wanted to buy squares of fabric called fat quarters, or tools of the quilting trade.

The third time Eugenia stood in front of the cash register, Jillian noticed she seemed to have trouble remembering the order of making a sale.

“Let me, Gram,” Jillian suggested. “I’ll try not to mess up.”

Eugenia moved to the side. “All right, dear, but I’ll be watching you.”

Jillian had worked a dozen jobs that had this standard cash register, but she glanced over to Eugenia for approval with each step. She’d rarely been around anyone in their eighties, but she assumed memory slips might be common.

The woman smiled and nodded each time.

Jillian almost wished she had a grandmother. Her father had told her from the beginning that she had no living relatives except him. Not one. She’d known it so young she hadn’t thought to be sad. No sense missing someone you’ve never had around.

As the day ended, she took Gram’s arm. They walked back to the now-silent quilting corner. No constant stream of voices echoing off the walls. No ting of the cash register drawer after each sale of the day.

Jillian thanked her for teaching her so much, and Gram patted her hand as if pleased she could be of help.

The shop was empty now, but the place still seemed alive in the late-afternoon light. Shadows slow dancing beneath the multicolored sky of quilts above.

“You’re a fast learner. A great help.” Eugenia patted her hand again. “You’d best be going. It will be dark soon.”

Jillian didn’t want to leave her alone. “I thought I’d help clean up. After all, I ate most of your cookies.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t. Paulina always eats a dozen.” Eugenia covered her mouth as if she might hold back the words.

They both giggled as the front door chimed, and Connor walked in.

She found herself thinking more of this man now that she’d met his gram. A man who cared so dearly for his grandmother couldn’t be as clueless as he appeared. She laughed suddenly as she noticed a pencil sticking out of his shaggy head of hair. Or maybe it was a small tree branch. She didn’t plan to get close enough to see.

“Did you have a good day, Gram?” Connor passed Jillian as if he hadn’t noticed her.

“A grand one, as always. I taught your friend many things about the shop today.” Gram grinned. “Now, what did you say her name was again?”

“Jillian,” he said, smiling over Gram’s head at her. “She’s Jillian James.”

Gram nodded. “She’s a keeper.”

Connor looked away. “Good. I’m glad everything went well.”

Jillian saw a shyness in the mayor she hadn’t noticed before. He might be comfortable around the quilting circle ladies and Gram, but he was nervous around her.

Two short beeps sounded from the street.

Connor lifted Gram’s sweater from behind the counter. “Time to go, Gram.”

“But I don’t want to go home. I don’t like it there. Benjamin won’t be there. He’s gone and the boys went off to college and never came back. They grew up, I know. But Benjamin just doesn’t come home anymore.”

Jillian felt anger rise. She didn’t care if Connor was Eugenia’s grandson; he shouldn’t try to make her go home to an empty house.

Connor put his arm around Gram and walked her to the door. “You’re not going home. The girls have supper waiting for you. Don’t you remember? Tonight you’re having dinner with your friends at Autumn Acres. Then all of you are going to watch a movie.” He stuffed a bag of popcorn into her knitting bag. “I got you caramel corn tonight, but you have to share it.”

Gram smiled. “Oh, yes. I remember. It’s my turn to bring a snack. Tell Benjamin I might even sleep over.”

Jillian watched Connor walk his grandmother out to a little bus that had steps that lowered almost to the street. He helped her all the way to her seat, then stood on the curb waving as she waved back.

The side of the bus read Autumn Acres: Senior Living in Style.

When the bus was gone, he turned back to the quilt shop. His face was cold now, sad, tired. “I need to lock up.”

“I’ll get my bag.” They bumped shoulders as they neared the door. She tried not to notice and asked, “What’s Autumn Acres?”

“It’s a new living center being built for the aging. They’ve got the independent apartments finished and one wing of the added care where they check on residents, give them their meds, etcetera, but the final wing, the nursing care, isn’t finished.”

“Gram just visits?”

His gaze met hers. “No,” he said in almost a whisper. “She’s lived there for a while, but she thinks she’s just visiting.”

Connor vanished into the back room to turn off the last of the lights.

When she collected her things and stepped back outside, he was waiting. All the little stores on Main were closing, and the sun’s glow seemed to be pulling any warmth with it. Now the smell of coffee drifted from the bakery as low clouds hugged the horizon and the few people left on the street seemed to be in a hurry.

He fell into step with her as she turned toward the bed-and-breakfast. Her long strides seemed to match his in an easy gait. “How’d it go today?” he asked without looking at her.