Books : The Quilter's Apprentice : Excerpts

Chapter Two

The next morning Sarah sat at the breakfast table leafing through the newspaper and wishing that, like Matt, she needed to get ready for work. She heard him moving about upstairs, and from the noises coming through the wall she knew that some of the six undergraduates who rented the other half of the duplex were also preparing for the day. Each morning it seemed as if everyone but Sarah had a place to go, a place with people who needed them.

"So instead you'll sit here and whine. That'll help," she muttered. She sipped her coffee and turned the page, though she hadn't read a word on it. Someone next door turned on the stereo, loud enough for the bass line to throb annoyingly at the edges of her perception but not so loud that Sarah could justify pounding on the wall. She knew from experience that the low drone would go on hiatus at noon, then resume somewhere between six-thirty and seven in the evening and persist until midnight. Sometimes the pattern varied on weekends, but not by much.

The noise probably wouldn't have bothered her if she weren't already in such a foul mood. Unemployment had stopped feeling like a vacation more than a month earlier, ever since she realized that few of the Waterford Register's Help Wanted ads even remotely applied to her. And after eight weeks of unemployment, four unremarkable interviews, and more unanswered application letters than she could stomach, Sarah half feared she'd never work again.

Matt bounded down the stairs and into the room. He paused behind her chair to squeeze her shoulder before continuing on into the kitchen. "Anything?" he called over the sound of coffee pouring into his travel mug.

"I don't know. I haven't looked through the classifieds yet."

"You used to read that section first."

"I know. It's just that I found this really interesting article about -- " She glanced at the largest headline on the page. "The Dairy Princess. They just picked a new one."

Matt appeared in the doorway and grinned. "You expect me to believe you're so interested in the new Dairy Queen that you forgot to look at the classifieds?"

"Not Dairy Queen, Dairy Princess." She folded the newspaper, rested her elbows on the table, and rubbed her eyes. "Dairy Queen's an ice cream parlor. A Dairy Princess is...well, I guess I don't know what a Dairy Princess is."

"Maybe you should call Her Majesty and see if she's hiring any accountants to help her count cows."

"Gee, you're just bursting with humor today, aren't you?"

"Yep, that's me. Matt McClure, comedian." He reached over to stroke her shoulder. "Come on, Sarah. You know that if you keep looking, you'll definitely find a job you like. I'm not saying it'll be easy or quick, but it will happen."

"Maybe." Sarah wished she could be so sure.

Matt glanced at his watch. "Listen, I don't want to leave when you're feeling so bad -- "

"Don't be silly." Sarah stood up and pushed in her chair. "I'm fine. If you took off work every time I got a little down pretty soon you'd be as unemployed as I am."

She followed him to the door and kissed him good-bye, watching through the screen until he drove away. Then she ordered herself to return to the table and the prematurely discarded newspaper. After fifteen minutes of scrutinizing the pages, she felt some hope rekindling. Two new ads announced positions requiring a bachelor's degree in a business or sales field. She carried the newspaper and a fresh cup of coffee upstairs to the small second bedroom they used as an office. Maybe she should adopt Matt's philosophy. Maybe all it took was hard work and a bit of luck. If she stuck with it, she'd surely find a good job sometime before she reached retirement age.

Her Job Hunt disk sat next to the computer, where she had left it the last time she worked on her résumé. She made a few revisions, printed out a couple of copies, then showered and dressed. Within an hour she was waiting at the bus stop for a ride downtown.

Waterford, Pennsylvania, was a town of about 35,000 people, except when Waterford College was in session and the population rose by 15,000 young adults. The downtown bordered the campus, and, aside from a few city government offices, consisted mainly of bars, faddish restaurants, and shops catering to the students. The local residents knew they owed their livelihoods to the transient student population, and although they were grateful for the income, many resented the dependence. Sometimes the town's collective resentment erupted in a flurry of housing and noise ordinances, and the students would strike back with boycotts and sarcastic editorials in the school newspaper. Sarah wasn't sure which group she sided with. The students treated her like a suspicious member of the establishment, and the locals assumed she was a despicable student. She tried to compensate by being polite to everyone, even their rowdy neighbors and the occasional shopkeeper who eyed her as if she might make off with half of the inventory, but it didn't seem to help.

She got off at the stop closest to the post office, carrying her job application materials in her backpack. The day was humid and overcast. She scanned the gray clouds and quickened her pace. In the past few weeks she had learned the hard way that summer rainstorms in her new hometown were as brief and drenching as they were sudden. She would have to hurry if she wanted to stop at the market and catch the bus home without getting soaked.

The errand at the post office took only a few minutes, and after picking up some groceries, Sarah still had ten minutes until the next bus would arrive. She strolled down the street to the bus stop, window-shopping and listening for thunder.

When a patch of bright colors caught her eye, she stopped for a closer look. Her eyes widened in admiration as she studied the red-and-green quilt hanging in the shop window. Eight identical diamonds, each composed of sixteen smaller diamonds, formed a large, eight-pointed star. The arrangement of colors created the illusion that the star radiated outward from its center. Between the points of the star, tiny stitches created intricate wreaths in the background fabric. Something about the quilt seemed familiar, and then she remembered why; its pattern was similar to the quilt she had seen the day before in Mrs. Compson's sitting room.

Studying it, Sarah wished she knew how to make something so beautiful. She had always loved quilts, loved the feel of the fabric and the way a quilt could make color blossom over a bed or on a wall. She couldn't see a quilt without thinking of her grandmother and without feeling a painful blend of love and loss. When Sarah was a child, her family made the long drive to Grandma's small house in Michigan's Upper Peninsula only twice a year, once in summer and once at Christmas. The winter visits were best. They would bundle up on the sofa under two or three of Grandma's old quilts, munch cookies, sip hot chocolate, and watch through the window as snow blanketed the earth. Some of Grandma's creations still decorated Sarah's childhood home, but Sarah couldn't remember ever seeing her mother so much as touch a needle. If quiltmaking was a skill handed down from mother to daughter, her mother must have been the weak link in the chain. Grandma surely would have taught her if she had wanted to learn.

Sarah looked overhead for the sign bearing the shop's name, and laughed in surprise when she saw the words Grandma's Attic printed in gold letters on a red background. She checked her watch, gave the bus stop one last quick glance, and entered the shop.

Shelves stacked high with bolts of fabric, thread, notions, and other gadgets lined the walls and covered most of the floor. Celtic folk music played in the background. In the middle of the room, several women stood chatting and laughing around a large cutting table. One looked up from the conversation to smile at her, and Sarah smiled back. She made her way around the checkout counter to the front window and discovered that the quilt was even more beautiful up close. She tried to estimate how the quilt would fit their bed.

"I see our Lone Star charmed another new visitor inside," a pleasant voice broke in on her thoughts. Sarah turned and found the woman who had smiled at her standing at her elbow. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, with dark, close-cropped hair, ruddy skin, and a friendly expression.

"Is that what it's called, a Lone Star? It's beautiful."

The woman casually brushed pieces of thread from her sleeve as she joined Sarah in admiring the quilt. "Oh, yes, it's lovely, isn't it? Wish I could take the credit, but one of our local quilt artists made it. It's queen-sized, entirely hand-quilted."

"How much do you want for it?"

"Seven hundred and fifty dollars."

"Thanks anyway," Sarah said, not entirely able to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

The woman smiled in sympathy. "I know -- it's a lot, isn't it? Actually, though, if you took that price and calculated an hourly wage from it, you'd see that it's a bargain."

"I can believe that. It must've taken years to make."

"Most people stop by, hear the price, then head straight to some discount store for a cheap knockoff." The woman sighed and shook her head. "People who don't know quilts can't detect the obvious differences in quality of materials and workmanship. Mrs. Compson's lucky to get what she can for those she displays here."

"Mrs. Compson?"

"Yes, Sylvia Compson. She's been staying up at Elm Creek Manor since her sister died two months ago. Temperamental as hell -- I had to install an awning outside before she'd agree to display her quilts in the window. She's right, of course. I'd hate to have one of her pieces fade from the sunlight. She has two quilts in the American Quilter's Society's permanent collection in Paducah."

"That's good, right?"

"Good? I'd be glad just to have something accepted in the AQS annual show." The woman chuckled. "I thought every quilter around here knew about Sylvia Compson."

"I've met Mrs. Compson, but I'm not a quilter. I do love quilts, though."

"Is that so? You should learn how to quilt, then."

"Watch out, everyone, Bonnie's about to make another convert," one of the women called out from the cutting table.

"Run for it, honey," another warned, and they all burst out laughing.

Bonnie joined in. "Okay, I admit I have a vested interest. Satisfied?" She pretended to glower at the others before turning back to Sarah. "We do offer lessons, um... ?"

"Sarah. Are you the Grandma from the sign?"

"Oh, no," Bonnie said, laughing. "Not yet at least, thank God, although I do get asked that a lot. There's no Grandma. There's no attic, either. I just liked the name. Kind of homey, don't you think? As you already heard, my name's Bonnie, and these are some of my friends, the Tangled Web Quilters. We're sort of a renegade group separate from the local Waterford Quilting Guild. We take our quilting -- and ourselves -- very seriously." Her tone suggested that the remark was only half true. She handed Sarah a photocopied calendar. "Here's a schedule if you're interested in the lessons. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Sarah shook her head.

"Well, thanks for stopping by. Come back anytime. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to that crowd before Diane hides my rotary cutter again." She smiled and returned to the cutting table.

"Thanks," Sarah answered, folding up the paper and tucking it into her backpack. She left the store, ran half a block to the bus stop, and climbed on the bus just as heavy drops of rain began to pelt the sidewalk.