A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) (8 page)

“Arrange for one,” he said.

“Arrange for what?”

“A miracle. As my sainted mother used to say, ‘You can accomplish more with a kind word and shillelagh than you can with just a kind word.’”

“A shillelagh? What’s that? I don’t understand.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “A shillelagh is a kind of stick, made of very hard wood, generally used for walking, but, when the occasion calls for it, it makes a fine club. So what my mother was saying, in her inimitable way, was that talk is cheap. If you want something to happen, it’s up to you to make it happen. Do whatever it takes. At least, that’s what I always thought she was saying. I’ve got my own version of her proverb that’s a little more to the point: When God closes a door, start running full speed, ram into it, and bash the damned thing down.”

My head still hurt. “Well, that’s all very poetic, but it isn’t exactly like I’ve been sitting behind my counter and just waiting for the customers to start pouring in. I’ve taken out ads in the paper. I had that big grand-opening event—raffle, sale, handed out flyers—”

Charlie snorted. “So you took out an ad and had a party. Big deal. Every new business does that. You’ve got to do more. Think out of the box, Evelyn.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “How?”

“Well, I don’t know. You’re the quilter, not me. You’ve got to figure out what it is that makes your shop unique, what your mission is. And then you’ve got to find a way to tell people about it. How can you do that?”

Tired and discouraged as I was, I couldn’t quite see where he was going. I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a pretty big inventory, and I offer a good selection of classes for all skill levels, but so do a lot of stores. I think it’s a lovely shop, but I don’t know if you could call it unique. And as far as my mission…Well, I don’t know that I have one exactly. I just want to run a good quilt shop and be able to make a living doing it.”

“No,” Charlie said firmly, almost impatiently. “That’s not all there is to it. Sure, you want to be able to support yourself, but there are about two hundred easier ways to do that than owning a quilt shop, and you know it. Think. When you first walked down that alley and peered into that dirty window, what was it you saw? What was in front of you was a run-down wreck of a storefront that no one had thought to rent in years, but that’s not what
you
saw. You had a vision, a dream of something special, something that gave you the courage to pull up stakes, empty your bank account, and put everything on the line.” His voice was urgent. “What was it?”

I closed my eyes, conjuring the image in my mind.

“I saw women sitting together, sewing, laughing. Friends and strangers walking between rows and rows of fabric bolts, fingering cloth, considering colors, helping each other choose the combination of fabrics that would make the quilt they saw in their mind’s eye more beautiful than they could have imagined. I saw ordinary women, women who’ve never so much as touched a paintbrush, picking up a number ten between needle instead and discovering the artist inside themselves. A place where they could take their love, or memories, or celebrations, or dreams, even their fears and disappointments, and turn them into something they could share with someone else.”

I thought back to all the quilts I’d made over the years, each one a mile marker on the road of my life. The blue and yellow crib quilt I’d made by hand when I was pregnant with Garrett. And the second one, a hopeful pink and white, that was only three quarters done when I’d miscarried a baby girl, Julia Margaret, and how my mother and Aunt Lydia cried with me as we quilted little hearts onto the center of each block, creating a memorial to my stillborn daughter. I remembered the brilliant card-tricks quilt I’d designed when I taught my first class, in vibrant batiks that sparkled against the black background like diamonds on dark velvet, and the faces of my students, all beginners, glowing with pride as they showed off their finished projects during our final class. I thought of the dozens of quilts I’d given and received through the years: quilts to applaud, to thank, to comfort, to commemorate. I thought of Mary Dell and the Drunkard’s Path quilt we’d made together after Rob left, when I didn’t know where to turn and every path led nowhere, and how her encouragement helped me move down a new path. I thought of all the women I’d sat shoulder to shoulder with as we’d cut, and sewn, and quilted. I knew them. I knew their stories. And they knew mine.

I opened my eyes and saw Charlie looking at me, waiting for me to speak.

“I saw a community,” I said.

He nodded. “All right. That’s it, then. Your mission. That’s what you must create—a community. Don’t ask me how, but now you have the picture clear in your mind. Now that you do, you’ll find a way. I know it.”

I
closed the cover of the magazine I’d been flipping through, a worn copy of
People
that was two years out of date, checked my watch, and sighed impatiently. Twenty minutes past my scheduled appointment time. I didn’t have time for this—not today.

Approaching the desk, I tapped on the glass partition that separated me from the receptionist, a young woman named Donna, who was also one of my customers. Donna came in because she’d wanted to make a baby quilt for her sister Cathy’s new baby, a little girl named Liesel Christine, who, after Cathy’s eight-year struggle with infertility, was a precious gift to the whole family. It was just another example of why I loved owning Cobbled Court Quilts. I got to hear all about the projects my customers were working on and learned a little about their lives in the process. You’d never get that kind of interaction working in a grocery store or a clothing boutique. Buying broccoli or a blouse is just a transaction, but buying fabric for a quilt involves much more than just an exchange of money for goods; it is a commitment of time, an act of love, the opening paragraph of a story.

“Yes, Evelyn?” Donna asked as she slid the glass panel open.

“I don’t want to be a pain, but I’ve been waiting nearly half an hour for my appointment,” I said, stretching the truth a little. “Maybe I should reschedule. I’ve got so much to do yet this afternoon.”

Donna nodded sympathetically. “I know. I’m sorry. Dr. Thayer had a delivery this morning, and it’s thrown off the whole day. He shouldn’t be much longer, but I know you’ve got your Quilt Pink event tomorrow. By the way, that was a great article in the paper, and a great picture of you, too! I bet you’ll have a big turnout.”

I nodded. “My phone has been ringing off the hook ever since the story ran. Some of the people coming are experienced quilters, but quite a few are novices. They’re coming because they see it as a good way to support a friend or relative with breast cancer.”

“One of my neighbors was diagnosed last year,” Donna nodded. “She’s had a rough time of it. I can’t come to the shop tomorrow, but could you make up a kit for me anyway? I can work on it at home. I asked her to let me know if I can do anything to help, but I’m sure everyone says that. This seems like a nice way to let her know that I’m rooting for her.”

“Sure. I’ll make up an extra kit, and you can come pick it up whenever you like. I’m sure your neighbor will appreciate the thought.”

“Thanks.” Donna glanced up at the clock and frowned. “Let me run back and ask Dr. Thayer if it would be all right to reschedule you for later in the week.”

She was back in a minute, shaking her head. “He’d really prefer to see you today, but promises he won’t be much longer. He’s just finishing up with another patient.”

Reluctantly, I reclaimed my seat. I pulled my to-do list out of my jacket pocket and read it again.

I had to run by the grocery store and pick up trays of fruit and cheese and some pretty paper plates and napkins. Then I needed to stop by the printer’s and run off twenty extra patterns. Maybe I should make that thirty, in case there were walk-ins? I scribbled that in the margin. And I’d need another fifty copies of the fall class brochure. After that, I had to run by the bank before it closed to make my deposit and get change for the cash drawer. And then, finally, after I’d finished all my other errands, I would go back to the shop and cut fabric for sixty-seven quilt block kits. Sixty-seven! I’d be lucky to be in bed before midnight. Who would ever have imagined it? Certainly not me and probably not Charlie, though the whole idea had begun with him, at least indirectly.

After our conversation at the Blue Bean, I’d begun racking my brain, trying to imagine what kind of promotion, or event, or class might make my vision a reality and transform Cobbled Court Quilts into a community for quilters. I’d toyed with several ideas, some more promising than others, but none seemed quite right. Then, on one of the rare occasions when I was actually caught up on my work, I’d sat down to enjoy a few moments with a cup of tea and read the latest copy of
American Patchwork and Quilting Magazine,
and there it was—an article about the upcoming Quilt Pink event.

The idea was simple. During one weekend in September, quilters from all over the country would go to their local quilt shops and piece a quilt block that would become part of a donated quilt. Each sponsoring quilt shop would decide on its own design, so no two quilts would be alike. In the spring, the quilts would be auctioned online and the proceeds donated to breast-cancer research.

Before I’d even finished reading the article, I knew this was the event I’d been looking for. One that would bring quilters together to do something good for others, just as they had been since the first group of quilters gathered around a wooden frame to exchange gossip and laughter, plying their needles to create something practical and beautiful to benefit someone else.

That’s how I’d decided on the name for our quilt—Basket of Blessings—a simple, classic design with pink baskets set on the diagonal on a background of assorted shades of brown, from light tan to chocolate. The design would be fairly simple, even for a beginner. The basket part was pieced, and only the handle would have to be appliquéd. And, for the more experienced quilters, I’d have an option to add a few appliquéd flowers in varying shades of pink. I smiled, thinking how pretty it would be to have a handful of blooming baskets sprinkled among the empty ones, all in different tones of pinks and browns, giving each quilter an opportunity to express her individuality while creating a block that would complement the whole quilt. When it was done, I would look at the different blocks, find a pleasing arrangement, and decide what kind of sashing and borders would show the blocks off to their best advantage.

I was so excited! I called Charlie right away to tell him about my idea.

“I’ll make up kits for each quilter beforehand with the proper size of fabric squares and patterns. I’ll put the different squares out on a big table, and they can choose whatever colors they want, so every block will be different. Then they can sit down, cut out the pattern, hand stitch the blocks right there, and, hopefully, by the end of the day we’ll have enough blocks to make a whole quilt. What do you think?”

“What are you going to serve?” he asked.

“Serve?” I was a little taken aback, annoyed that he was asking questions instead of simply applauding my wonderful idea. “I don’t know. Maybe some fruit and cheese?”

“And a cake,” he mused. “I’ll make one for you. Something big and chocolate. With all those women, it’ll have to be chocolate.” I started to say he didn’t have to do that, that I could order one from the bakery, but he interrupted before I could get a word in. “And some punch. I’ve got a big punchbowl I use for catering that you can borrow. The whole thing should feel like a party.”

Beneath Charlie’s gruff exterior there beat a heart of gold. He wasn’t questioning my idea; he was helping me expand it. And he was right on the money. We’d throw a party.

“Great idea! I’ll even come up with some kind of little favor for everyone who comes, maybe a bag with a little marking pencil and a ruler. And I can have a few door prizes too.”

“Good,” he agreed. “Now, what are you going to charge for each kit?”

“Well, it’s for a good cause. I was only planning on charging what I paid for the fabric and pattern copies. I’ll donate the refreshments and prizes. Since the women will be donating their time to make the blocks, I want to give something too.”

Charlie was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Evelyn, are you sure? You said your books aren’t looking good. This will be a lot of work. Seems a shame not to see a little profit for your efforts.”

I laughed. “I appreciate your optimism, Charlie, but I don’t know if anyone will even show up yet. Besides, a couple of dollars tacked onto each kit isn’t going to stave off bankruptcy. If I could see twenty women in my shop all working together on a quilt that might be even a tiny part of helping someone else, that’s profit enough for me. And think of it this way: if Cobbled Court doesn’t last out the year, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that while it was open, I was able to do a little good.”

“You’re a good woman, Evelyn. Do you know that?”

I was about to make a joke, tell him to save the blarney for his customers, when my front doorbell rang to signal the arrival of a customer.

“Hey, Charlie. I’ve got to run. See you at the Bean tomorrow?”

“Bright and early,” he confirmed. “You’ll recognize me. I’ll be the one that’s on time.”

“Very funny.” I smiled as I hung up the phone and greeted my customer. In fact, I smiled for the rest of the afternoon, excited about my plans for the event and grateful to have found a friend as good as Charlie in such a short time.

Before the day was over, I had even more reason to be grateful for that friendship. Near closing time, the shop bell rang again, this time to announce the arrival of a reporter from the
New Bern Herald
who wanted to do a story about me, the shop, and the Quilt Pink event.

“You do?” I asked. “Really?”

“Yeah. Somebody called the news desk and told him about your event. My editor thought it was a good human-interest story for the weekend section, so here I am.”

The reporter reached into his black shoulder bag, pulled out a camera that he hung around his neck by a strap, then took out a lined notepad and laid it on the checkout counter. He looked around the shop, squinting, and scratched his chin.

“Let’s try a couple of shots in here first. Over there, by those bolts of fabric with that big green quilt behind. Then we can go outside and get a couple of you standing in front of the shop while we’ve still got enough light. We can do the interview after.” He fiddled with the camera lens and then looked up expectantly.

“Ready?”

He took about a dozen photographs, but the shot that appeared on the front page of the Living section showed me standing in front of the red front door, under the black and gold Cobbled Court Quilts sign. Seeing the picture the following Sunday, I was reminded that it had been a long time since I’d darkened the door of a gym, but that picture did the trick.

When I went to church that day (sitting in the last pew as I always did so I could slip out quickly during the recessional hymn and jog across the Green in time to open the shop at noon), I was waylaid by four women who wanted to tell me their, or their sister’s, or friend’s breast-cancer story and ask how they could sign up for the Quilt Pink event.

I was touched by their willingness to open up to me and ignored the time. Opening up the shop fifteen minutes late, I saw a green light blinking on my answering machine. There were twelve messages from women wanting more information about Quilt Pink. And the calls just kept coming in. Not only that, my walk-in traffic doubled. And with every call and every new customer, there came a story—a memory, or loss, or victory they were compelled to share with someone else. The most passionate ones were the survivors, those who had beaten the disease and were determined to do everything they could to make sure other women didn’t have to go through what they had.

They were the reason I was sitting in Dr. Thayer’s waiting room, the ones who, once they’d told their stories, immediately asked when I’d had my last mammogram. I told them I was a few months late for my checkup, that I’d been too busy, that my new, cheaper insurance only covered mammograms every two years, that I hated going because every time I did, cysts showed up on the film, benign cysts that had been there since I was twenty-five, and set off all kinds of alarm bells and sent me back to the lab and doctor’s office for all kinds of extra tests (just as they had this time) that always turned out to be nothing, but they weren’t impressed. They shut their ears to my list of excuses and my promise to go in for a checkup as soon as the event was over and things calmed down. They scolded and hounded me until I made an appointment, not because I was convinced of the urgency of doing so, but because not to do so would have been to tear down the very thing I was trying to build. Busy as I was, helping these women validate their own experience by sharing their warnings and wisdom with others was surely worth the price of a few hours in the doctor’s office.

They came through my door by the dozens, looking for a place to share their lives, just as I’d imagined they would. It was my dream, and it was beginning to come true.

And it all started with one little call to the newspaper office
, I thought as I tossed the ancient copy of
People
onto the waiting-room coffee table.
Good old Charlie.

The sound of the glass reception window sliding open startled me from my reverie. “Evelyn?” Donna said. “Come on back. The doctor can see you now.”

I had not been worried when, after my mammogram, the technician said that there was a spot that looked a little unusual and the radiologist wanted to do an ultrasound in that area. I was not concerned when Dr. Thayer called and said he wanted to do a needle biopsy on my left breast. I had been through all that before, more than once.

Years before, when Garrett was still little, my doctor had felt something unusual in my breasts and ordered a baseline mammogram. Then, I was only twenty-five years old and terrified. I woke up in the middle of the night, crying, and Rob held me in his arms until morning, assuring me that everything was going to be all right, and it was. I had a number of harmless fibroids in my breasts. But year after year, every time we moved, or my doctor retired or a new physician came to work at the clinic, I was subjected to annoying rounds of post-mammogram testing. Of course, the other tests had been to extract and test fluids from the cysts; they weren’t tissue biopsies like this. But because my test results had always come back negative before, I was sure it would be the same this time. Busy as I was, it hadn’t crossed my mind to be worried.