The Double Cross (9 page)

“What do you call this?” I heard Rita asking, as I opened the door.

“It’s a walking foot,” Eleanor told her. By the way she said it, I guessed it was not the first time. “You use it on your sewing machine when you machine quilt.”

“I thought you used the other one.”

“The darning foot is for free-motion quilting,” Eleanor said. “The walking foot is for straight-line quilting.”

Rita looked up at me and wrinkled her nose at the sight of Barney, who had trotted over to say hello. Poor thing. Since he liked everyone, it never occurred to him that someone might not like him.

“Can he wait outside?” Rita looked at me.

“He knows his way around a quilt shop,” Eleanor said. Though the words
better than you
were not spoken, no one missed her meaning.

Before Rita had a chance to take offense, though, Eleanor put the two quilting feet on a table and sighed.

“When you finish with your quilt top, you layer it, baste it, and quilt it,” Eleanor said. “If you’re just using straight-line quilting, you use the walking foot because it grips the top layer of the fabric and helps move the quilt evenly under the needle. But if you’re free-motion quilting, the kind where you want to move the quilt up, down, left, or right without any restrictions, you lower the feed dogs—the little teeth that move the bottom of the fabric—and you use a darning foot.” Eleanor paused, waiting to see if Rita understood, but apparently finding no lightbulb over Rita’s head she went on. “This really would be easier if we made a quilt together. Instead of being abstract ideas, they would be practical pieces of information. Quilters really expect an expert when they come into a store like this,” Eleanor said, the frustration evident in her voice. “Much of my day is spent offering advice or troubleshooting for folks. It helps that I’m familiar with the various feet available for machine quilting.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter because I have that.” Rita pointed to an object the size of a dining room table that was covered with layers of plastic.

“You have what?” I asked.

“She bought a long-arm machine and is going to let people use it,” Eleanor told me.

“It’s for quilting,” Rita said.

“Yes, I’ve seen them,” I said. “They have frames, sort of like the hand-quilting frames people think of when they think of quilting, but instead you use them with a specially designed machine that allows you to quilt an entire piece in no time.”

“And this one is all computerized,” Rita explained. “You can set it to a preprogrammed pattern and it will do all the quilting for you.”

“Cool.” I walked over to get a better look. “We should get one of these for Someday Quilts. We have the room.”

“We don’t know how to use it,” Eleanor pointed out.

“So we learn.”

“I saw it demonstrated by a woman in Lake George,” Rita said. “She’s an expert at the squiggly lines quilting.”

“Stippling,” Eleanor said, with a tired sigh that obviously came from hours of explaining her passion to a disinterested party.

“I’d love to learn this,” I said. “I’m terrible at machine quilting. I think it’s because you have to shove half the quilt under the machine and it only has, like, twelve inches of clearance. It’s hard to move a big quilt around. But with one of these babies . . .”

“They’re nearly the price of a car,” Eleanor said.

“But if you quilt for other people, or rent time on it, I’ll bet it pays for itself.”

I could see Rita smiling. Clearly she’d already had the same conversation with Eleanor and lost. Now she’d found an ally, a role I was uncomfortable playing. I backed off from the long-arm machine.

“It’s quite an investment for your shop,” I said, trying to add a neutral comment to counteract my enthusiasm. But it didn’t work.

“If you like that, you should see all the other gadgets she’s bought.” Eleanor pointed to a pile of boxes near the back of the shop.

“I went to a quilt show where they sell just to shops . . . ,” Rita started.

“Quilt market,” Eleanor and I said together.

“Yes, and they had amazing things that I knew quilters would love.”

“How do you know what quilters will love if you don’t quilt?” Eleanor was no longer even trying to hide her annoyance.

“I may not know anything about quilting, but I know how to shop,” Rita said, a slight snap in her voice. “And obviously the younger generation of quilter agrees with me.”

“I’m not an expert,” I pointed out.

“But you’re open to new things, and that’s what this shop will be all about. The latest and coolest things in quilting. I don’t want any old, stuffy shop.” She glanced toward Eleanor, who rolled her eyes at the snub. “I want something cutting-edge.”

“In the Adirondacks?” It came out of my mouth without thinking. I could see that it hurt Rita, but Eleanor was smiling ear to ear.

CHAPTER 11

The Adirondacks is a national forest and a popular destination for hiking and boating in the summer, skiing in the winter. With the southern tip only four hours north of New York City, and the top just to the south of Canada, it’s large enough to sustain enormous tourist trade while still leaving some towns untouched.

Winston was one of those untouched towns. Or maybe
forgotten
would be a better word. It wasn’t near the places likely to draw large numbers of visitors, like Lake Placid or Lake George. And it wasn’t near the major highways, where anyone on their way to somewhere else, like Montreal, would be likely to stop for a quick look around.

Though quilters are an adventurous bunch, going on organized cruises to Alaska or on tours of China, I doubted many would venture to the Patchwork Bed-and-Breakfast or its quilt shop. The whole thing seemed like a waste of time. Eleanor, who lived to pass on her love of quilting, clearly felt drained. Susanne was teaching a ragtag bunch of conscripted students. Bernie was reliving a painful chapter from her past. And while I was stuck up here, Jesse was in Archers Rest, dating redheads.

“Let it go,” I said out loud, once I’d walked outside and into the woods. “Focus on the beauty around you.”

I looked around. The trees were pretty. The sky was darkening, but the air was fresh and there was a lot to explore. Barney and I headed toward a hiking trail that led from the main road into a patch of forest. It was an isolated area, with sparse foliage and a few fallen and rotting trees. There was something haunting and, I had to admit, beautiful about the place—once you got away from the inn.

I sat on a rock and took out my small sketch pad. Susanne was right. Keeping a small drawing pad and pencil with you at all times led to the most interesting discoveries. I tried to remember Oliver’s advice about getting out of my own way and seeing beyond the ordinary. While Barney sniffed at a patch of earth nearby, I sketched a pile of branches that had fallen a few feet away. I was feeling peaceful for the first time since arriving at the retreat, and even when drops of rain began hitting my head, I didn’t want to leave.

“What are you doing there?”

I jumped up and spun around, startled by the sudden presence of another person, but I relaxed when I saw that it was only Pete walking toward me.

“Is class out already?” I asked.

“Lunch.” He patted Barney on the head. “I thought I’d head home for a bit rather than eat with that crowd.” He turned a little red. “I mean, Susanne is nice, and the class is actually quite enjoyable, but the other students . . .”

“You don’t have to explain. But I would have thought you knew the others from town.”

“I know Helen and Fred. Don’t know the twins. Don’t want to know the twins.” Pete picked up a branch, showed it to Barney, and then threw it down the road. Rather than chase it, Barney looked at me, then went back to sniffing the earth.

“Hey, guy,” Pete called to Barney. “Go chase the stick.”

“He gets a little confused sometimes,” I explained. “And he’s nearly deaf.”

“That’s all right. He’s loyal, looks like, and that’s all you need in a dog. Though around here he could step into a mess pretty easy. Lots of old vines, a few half-dead raccoons, even some old traps. You want to steer clear of that stuff, don’t you boy?” He patted Barney’s head and Barney wagged back. “Besides, a lot of folks up here aren’t keen on people or dogs tramping on their land. You need to be careful.”

“I don’t think George or Rita will care,” I pointed out.

“They own everything up till the woods start. The owner of this land is a grumpy old guy with an antisocial streak.” He smiled widely while he watched me guess.

“You?”

“Too obvious a description.” He laughed.

“Exactly the opposite. You’re the nicest guy in the class.” It took me a second to realize what I’d said. “Well, Frank isn’t exactly competition. But you’re not grumpy or antisocial.”

“Just old,” he teased.

I laughed. “I don’t want to get in trouble for trespassing.”

“I’m just giving you a hard time. People trample through here once in a while, but very few stop to sketch it.”

“It’s quite pretty here,” I said.

He nodded. “This has been my dream my whole life. I wanted a nice piece of land close to where I could hunt and fish. It took everything I had to get this place. I love it.”

“I can see why.”

“Just be careful. Don’t want to see your dog get himself in a mess.”

“I guess I should get him back before my grandmother misses him too much.”

“She’s a nice lady, your grandmother. You’re all nice women,” he said. “Especially that Bernadette. She seems like a nice, old-fashioned lady.” Then he turned and walked farther into the woods.

I stood watching him. Old-fashioned wasn’t exactly the description I would use for Bernie, but maybe something good would come of this trip after all. There was a little bounce in my step as Barney and I headed back toward the house, until a flash of light and a crash of thunder turned my nice stroll into an all-out run for safety.

Barney and I were soaking wet by the time we got back to the Patchwork, and I knew that Rita would flip out if there was a wet dog tramping through her premises, so I left him in the entryway and headed to the kitchen, in search of paper towels.

As I opened the kitchen door, I caught sight of a familiar figure. I took a step in to say hi, then realized that if I did I would be interrupting something, so I stepped back and listened. Walking away would have been the polite thing to do, but I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. My friend was making a big mistake, and I wanted to be nearby to stop it if I could.

On the other side of the door, Bernie and George were talking in muffled tones, broken up by long silences. I knew what those silences were. She had clearly reconnected with her high school love.

“Looking for something?” Rita was coming up behind me.

“Paper towels,” I said loudly. “Barney got wet. I figured I could get something to dry him before I took him upstairs.”

“I have some old towels in the basement,” Rita said. She turned into a dark hall and disappeared down some stairs.

I coughed and headed into the kitchen, hoping I’d given them enough warning. I had. Almost. Bernie and George were standing several feet apart, but they both had a flushed, embarrassed look that would have been unmistakable to Rita had she seen it.

“Is it still lunchtime?” I asked. “Can I get something? I just got back from doing some sketches in the woods.” I knew I was explaining way too much, but it gave me time to watch their faces for signs of guilt.

George’s voice was calm. “It’s a buffet. Sandwiches and soup,” he said. “I think everything you’ll need is out there.”

“I could use some company. Bernie, you want to sit with me?”

Bernie nodded and walked out of the kitchen ahead of me. I stayed behind and almost said something to George. I just didn’t know what to say. It was none of my business, but if you see someone walking into traffic, you call out to stop them. And from where I was standing, it looked like Bernie was walking straight in front of a truck.

“Not a word to anyone,” Bernie said, as we filled our bowls with cream of asparagus soup.

“Is there something to tell?”

“No.” She hesitated, and then, just as she was about to say something more, Susanne called out.

“There you are, Bernie,” Susanne said. “I thought you were going to spend the whole day in your room.”

“You’re in a good mood,” I said to Susanne as Bernie and I took seats at her table.

“I think they’re finally enjoying the class.” She smiled. “It proves my theory: Everyone has an artist in them. They just need a safe place to play.”

“There are no safe places,” Bernie muttered, giving me a sideways glance I pretended not to see.

“I ran into Pete,” I said. “He seemed to be enjoying the class.”

“He’s a carpenter by trade,” Susanne said. “He brings a builder’s perspective to his quilting. Very interesting stuff.” She leaned forward. “Bernie, maybe you don’t want to hear this, but he asked about you.”