A Wild Goose Chase Christmas: Quilts of Love Series (3 page)

Her eyes rested on the quilt beside her. Speaking of odd pairs … why in the world had Gran decided to give her this quilt? If it was a family heirloom, shouldn’t it go to Izzy’s mother?

“Not if she wanted it to stay in the family,” Izzy said to herself. If there was any monetary value in the quilt, her mother’s first thought would be to sell it, and Gran would have known that. But could it really hold anything more than sentimental value? Carefully, Izzy lifted the heavy layers of material from the box. As she did, a folded piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor.

Izzy smiled. A message from Gran. Of course she wouldn’t give Izzy a present with no card, no explanation at all. She picked up the paper, spread it out flat, and read.

My Sweet Izzy,

I’ve entrusted my dear friend Virgil with this family heirloom. The fact that you are reading this means I’ve gone to Glory, and Virgil has given it to you. I’d hoped to do it myself, but obviously the Lord had other plans. You may
be wondering why I chose to give you this gift. It is because I believe you are the one person who will truly appreciate it. The quilt holds the key to a treasure beyond price. It has a rich history, and by understanding it, you will have a richer, fuller future.

I pray the Lord will bless you and keep you until we are together again.

All my love,

Your Gran

Tears rolled unchecked down Izzy’s cheeks. She gasped as the first one dropped from her chin and landed on the quilt, leaving a dark spot on the off-white background. If this was as old as she thought it was, it had no doubt seen its share of tears, but Izzy didn’t want to add to them. She swiped the back of her wrist across her eyes and set the quilt to one side. Gran’s letter hadn’t told her much about the family heirloom, but it had reinforced two very important facts: first, her grandmother loved her. Second, there was no way on earth Max Logan was getting his hands on this quilt.

“If she thinks she can keep that quilt, she’s crazy.” Max shook his head and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the smells of wet leather and Old Spice only made him more agitated. He glanced over at his grandfather. “Why’d you do it, Gramps?”

The older man fiddled with the heater vent. “Do what?”

“Why did you take her the quilt? You know full well Mrs. Randolph promised it to me.”

“I know nothing of the sort. I know you and Isabella talked about it, how it was a historical piece as well as a family heirloom.”

“Which is why she promised it to me.”

“No. She didn’t promise you anything.”

“She gave me a letter.”

“A letter, not a contract. She considered donating it to your museum. But in the end, she wanted her granddaughter to have it.” Virgil shifted in his seat, angling himself toward Max. “If anyone should understand the importance of family and remembering those who came before us, it’s you.”

Max let out a sigh. “Of course I do. But that girl—”

“Woman. Izzy is a woman.”

With her hair pulled back into a silky blond ponytail, her makeup-free face, and wide, innocent blue eyes, she had looked young, but Gramps was right. She was all woman. Still, it was hard to take her seriously. “What kind of a name is Izzy, anyway?”

“I think it’s nice. Playful.” Virgil’s hands danced in front of him as if he conducted an orchestra. “I imagine more than one person called her grandmother by that name when she was young.”

“I’m sure you’re right. I stand corrected.” Max agreed, but only to get off this rabbit trail and bring the conversation back to a more important topic. “What’s eating at me is that Izzy doesn’t even know what she has. It’s an important piece of American history but she probably just sees it as an old bedspread.”

“You don’t know that.” Virgil’s hands dropped into his lap and he made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “You don’t know anything about her.”

They fell silent, but Max’s brain never shut off. Gramps was right. He knew nothing about Izzy. He didn’t even know her
last name. If the study of history had taught him anything, it was the importance of getting to know your enemy. Not that he considered Izzy an enemy. But they were two people who both wanted the same thing and only one could come out the winner. It would be smart to learn as much about her as he could.

“So, Gramps,” he said casually, “what did Mrs. Randolph tell you about Izzy?”

Max could hear the smile in his grandfather’s voice when he answered.

“Everything.”

3

I
zzy was having a hard time concentrating on cubism, especially since her mind kept going back to triangles.

“This is Pablo Picasso, arguably one of the best-known cubist artists. But does he look anything like this man?” She clicked a button on the projector’s wireless remote, changing the image on the screen at the front of the room. Several of the students laughed; a few made noises that loudly communicated their negative feelings toward the piece.

“No way that’s the same guy,” one of the boys said.

“It’s supposed to be.” Izzy walked up the aisle until she stood beside her desk and faced the class. “This is a portrait of Picasso done by Juan Gris, another popular cubist of the time. I want you to take a moment to study it.”

Arms crossed, she looked at the picture with her students, trying to imagine what a bunch of teenagers would think about such an unusual piece of art. But she kept zeroing in on the many triangles present in the painting. The background in particular was a series of triangles pointing in the same direction, giving it a feeling of movement.

Very much like her Wild Goose Chase quilt. The quilt that Max wanted. What was she going to do about Max? Did he really have a letter from Gran? And even if he did, was it binding? Would it give him any claim over the quilt?

The students started to whisper and fidget in their seats, signaling that the moment of silence had gone on long enough. She clapped her hands and looked back at the class. “What emotions do you feel when you look at this painting?”

“I feel nauseated.” The remark came from the back of the room. Grant, her class clown and constant pot stirrer. If he wasn’t so gifted, she wouldn’t put up with his antics.

“Grant feels sick. Duly noted, although that isn’t an emotion.” Grant slouched in his seat as laughter rippled through the room. She pointed at a girl in the front row with her hand up. “Danielle?”

The girl stared at the portrait, tilting her head until her cheek nearly touched her shoulder. “It makes me feel sad.”

“Why?”

“Because he looks like he had a stroke.”

“I can see that,” Izzy said, nodding. “The features on one side of the face are much weaker than on the other. Anyone else? Come on, just yell out the first thing that comes to your mind.”

That did it. The room became a cacophony of short, shouted answers.

“Angry.”

“Happy.”

“Confused.”

“Flying.”

That one caught her attention. Flying. Like wild geese.

She moved to the switch panel on the wall, turning the lights on, off, and on again until order returned to the room. “Obviously, this style evokes many different emotions, as all
good art should. Which is why each one of you is going to create a cubist-style self-portrait.”

From the groans that came her way, Izzy guessed this wouldn’t be her most popular assignment.

“Miss Fontaine?”

Josie’s voice was so soft and timid that Izzy almost didn’t hear her. She certainly hadn’t seen the girl’s hand barely raised above the height of her shoulder. But the fact that she spoke up at all was great progress. “Yes, Josie?”

“What medium should we use?”

“Any you want. Oils, charcoal, pastels, collage …”

“Macaroni,” Grant threw out.

Izzy met his eyes and held them. “If you can find a way to manipulate macaroni into a cubist work of art, go for it.” She stared at him a moment more in silence, then returned her attention to the class at large. “The idea is to stay true to the spirit of cubism.”

“Over the weekend, I want you to do a preliminary sketch. As you know, you’ll have a sub next week, but she’ll help you work on your ideas. I’ll be back after Thanksgiving and I expect you to knock my socks off.” The bell rang, signaling the end of not only the class but of the school day as well. “Enjoy your holiday!” She had to yell to be heard over the commotion of teenagers scrambling to their feet, talking, gathering backpacks, and turning on cell phones.

In less than a minute, they were gone. Izzy smiled to herself as she made a sweep of the room, picking up trash and straightening chairs. Once upon a time, she’d been full of energy, just like those kids. Except that when she ran out of the classroom, her first thought hadn’t been about what party to go to or where she’d hang out with her friends. It had been about the latest dance position she wanted to master or bit of choreography she struggled with. For years, she’d gone straight
from one school to another, trading classrooms with desks and whiteboards for those with mirrored walls and ballet bars.

Izzy shook her head. Where had that come from? She rarely thought about those days. Getting ready for Gran’s funeral must have stirred up the memories. Izzy had wanted so much to be like Gran, like the ballerina she’d seen in those old publicity pictures. And she almost was. She’d gotten so close.

With a sigh, she dumped into the garbage can the armful of litter she’d collected, then moved to the projector. Before she flipped the off switch, she took one last look at the Picasso portrait. Those prominent triangles really did remind her of flight. They transported her away from school and right back to her grandmother’s quilt. Which brought her right back to the man she was trying not to think about.

“Max.” Unthinking, she spoke his name on a puff of air.

“Who?”

Izzy spun around to see Barry Wilcox standing in the doorway. When had he come in? “Barry, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” He stepped toward her, cheeks slightly flushed. “Who’s Max? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“What? Oh, no, of course not.” Izzy knew full well that Barry had a crush on her. He was sweet, but after three years of teaching together she was no more romantically interested in him now than on the day they’d met. Playing up Max to be something he wasn’t could be her key to moving out of Barry’s sights. But it wouldn’t be very nice to lie to him. “Max is assisting me with my grandmother’s estate.”

He frowned and tugged on the bottom of his sweater vest. “I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother, Izzy. Is there anything I can do?”

Izzy smiled, just enough to let him know she appreciated his concern but not so much as to encourage more attention. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“OK.” He nodded and turned for the door. Then he stopped and looked back. “Can I walk you to your car?”

“You go ahead. I have a few things to do here first.”

Barry smiled and left. Izzy took her time gathering her books and folders. Then she pushed the projector cart back into the audiovisual cabinet and locked it. A motorized rumble came from the parking lot. She looked out the window in time to see Barry’s white VW Bug chugging by.

Snatching her bag off the desk, she gave the room one last look then rushed out the door and down the hall. If she hurried, she could get to the YMCA and fit in a good hour of water aerobics before it was time to meet her mother and brother at the church to go over the final details of Gran’s funeral.

Izzy steered her old Honda into a parking spot, braking to a sudden stop. Her chest jerked against the seat belt, which pushed her backward so that her head thudded against the headrest. Standing beneath a leafless tree in front of the door to the church office, Janice Fontaine uncrossed her arms long enough to lower her sunglasses and look over the frame rim at her daughter. She shook her head, lips tight and drawn together, then pushed the glasses back into position and recrossed her arms.

Izzy smiled through the windshield, but on the inside she scolded herself. She shouldn’t have taken the time to go to the Y. All the relaxation she’d felt after moving and stretching in the water was gone now, her muscles stiffening under Janice’s displeased stare. Izzy pulled back her now dry hair and secured it with the ponytail holder she’d kept around her wrist. Just once, it would be nice if Mom would cut her some slack. Especially at a time like this.