Quilter's Knot Read online

"Two hours and a ferry ride,” Harriet began unhooking the tension clips and loosening the roller from a yellow-and-white Sunbonnet Sue quilt on the long-arm machine. Aunt Beth had christened this particular machine “Mabel” when she'd purchased it as a replacement for “Gladys,” her previous machine. Mabel's guide handles and stitching head reminded Harriet of the horned milk cows her boarding school in France had kept.

  Aunt Beth had remodeled the parlor of her house to accommodate Gladys when she'd first started the long-arm quilting business more than ten years ago, and fortunately, she'd made the room large enough it had no trouble accepting Mabel's larger frame. The twelve-foot-long table could hold a king-sized quilt with no trouble, and its fifty-two-inch width gave Harriet lots of room to work any pattern her customers could imagine.

  She finished unpinning the current project from the frame, spread it on her large cutting table and ran her hand over the surface, looking for threads that needed clipping. She had checked for threads on the back as she'd unrolled it from the machine, but she always checked both sides a second time on the flat table before folding up a quilt and returning it to its bag, just to be sure.

  "Well, I'm going down to Pins and Needles,” Beth announced. “Margaret is sending Carla to the workshop, and I want to buy the girl a sewing bag."

  Margaret was the owner of Pins and Needles, Foggy Point's quilting store. She had hired Carla after she'd been laid off from her job at the Vitamin Factory, a business that had been owned and operated by Aiden's mother until her untimely death a few weeks prior. Harriet, too, had noticed the young single mother carried her sewing supplies in a grocery sack.

  "Here, let me make a donation,” she said, going back into the kitchen and rummaging in the coat closet, emerging with a black nylon duffel bag. “I got a new overnight bag when I went to Tacoma with Robin and DeAnn last week. Carla will need something to put her clothes in, too. This one...” She held up the bag. “...has a few more trips left in it."

  "That's very kind of you,” Beth said, “I did raise you well, didn't I?” Beth took the bag, picked up her purse and jacket and went out the door.

  "Well, Fred, all I can say is it's a good thing Aunt Beth can't read minds, ‘cause she wouldn't think I was so nice if she knew what I was thinking about Lauren. That woman's nuts if you ask me. And I still don't see why we have to go reward her for bad behavior."

  Fred meowed once and went to the connecting door.

  "It's not lunch time yet,” Harriet told her furry friend and went back to start on the next project on her to-be-stitched shelf.

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  Chapter Three

  Harriet got up early on Monday morning. She showered and washed her hair before she came downstairs.

  "Okay, Fred,” she said when she reached the kitchen, “Aunt Beth will come and check on you this afternoon. Your automatic feeder is full, but don't eat it all in one sitting. Your water bowl is fresh, and Auntie will refresh it every day.” Fred wove between her legs, wiping his face on her slippers. “And I'll leave my slippers by the door and you have my permission to have your way with them."

  "Who are you talking to?” Mavis asked as she came in. Her customary plaid flannel shirt had been replaced by a long, loose jacket in a rust-and-green batik fabric that accentuated the touches of auburn that still streaked her otherwise gray-white hair, worn with wide-legged black pants. “The studio was open, so I let myself in,” she added.

  "I was just reviewing Fred's instructions with him.” Harriet double-checked the stove burners and turned the overhead light off.

  "Robin's in the drive with the car running. Do you need help with your bags?"

  "No, I'm not bringing much. Should I be?"

  "Not the first time,” Mavis said and led the way to Robin's blue mini-van.

  In spite of her misgivings, Harriet enjoyed the trip to Angel Harbor. The drive through the cool dark forest always seemed magical. She found herself relaxing.

  The women got out of the car on the big green-and-white ferry that carried them to Whidby Island. Harriet scanned the shiny water for signs of fins. She'd seen the orcas that swam the waters of the sound when she was little, but was still waiting to see them as an adult. She wanted to see if they were still as awe-inspiring or if her own diminutive size had been a factor.

  "I don't know about you, but I've seen enough killers to last me a lifetime,” Robin McLeod said as she, DeAnn and Sarah joined Harriet at the rail and learned what she was looking for. The group was still mourning the murder of their long-time member, Avanell Jalbert.

  "Amen to that,” DeAnn agreed. “I think this week away will be very healing for all of us."

  "I've heard this week will be very hard,” Sarah Ness griped. “My friend Lillian took the workshop last year, and she said the teachers are very demanding."

  "Great,” said Harriet, “Something to look forward to."

  The various members of the Loose Threads never failed to give her a look at all sides of any situation that came up. No matter what happened, Robin would exude the calm she gained through her daily meditation and yoga sessions. Sarah, the group narcissist, could be counted on to explain why anything that went on was really being done to her, for her or because of her. Mavis and, by proxy, Aunt Beth would have words of wisdom for her, and as long as Connie was along, she knew she would be well-hugged. Lauren would keep her humble, with her harsh opinions on everything. She didn't know DeAnn very well but hoped to remedy that this week, as they would be roommates. She had to admit, there were advantages to having moved back to Foggy Point, even if the price was giving up her anonymity.

  "We better go back to the car,” Robin said. “The ferry's going to be docking soon."

  "Do you think Carla's going to survive riding with Sarah?” DeAnn asked her traveling companions once they were back in the car.

  "She'll definitely know more about the life and times of Sarah Ness then anyone ought to,” Mavis chuckled.

  * * * *

  The Angel Harbor Folk Art Center consisted of three large pavilions hidden in a stand of old growth forest five miles south of the community of Angel Harbor. The pavilions were large round buildings surrounded by a series of smaller outbuildings. Robin pulled her mini-van into the visitors parking area in front of Building B, the Fiber Arts Center.

  "Let's go get our room assignments and keys,” she said and got out of the car.

  Harriet followed the other Loose Threads as they picked up their class schedules, room keys and meal tickets and returned to the car. Robin drove them down a narrow lane through the cool dark forest, parking in front of a cedar-shingled building that looked more like a grounded Tree House than a cottage.

  "Wow,” she said as she got out of the car and had to tilt her head to see the top floors of the place she would call home for the next week.

  "They've really done a nice job of blending their buildings into the woods,” DeAnn explained. “Our dorm is actually called The Tree House.” She breathed deeply of the damp, fragrant forest. “I love spending time here. It's so peaceful I could stay forever."

  Inside, Harriet carried her overnight bag up a series of stairs that narrowed with each flight she ascended. She had checked the box on her registration that said she was able to climb stairs and realized now they were serious when they'd asked.

  The rooms were paneled in rough cedar plank and were furnished with two single beds, two desks, night stands and lamps and a row of pegs under the window that looked out into the woods and divided the room into two identical halves. Their bathroom was down the hall, but at least they didn't have to share it with anyone else. A vase of dried wild flowers sat on a small wooden stand near the door.

  "How does it look?” Mavis asked when Harriet came back down the stairs.

  "It looks cozy—I think the comforters are real goose down. You'd think they would have artistically handcrafted bed quilts."

  Mavis looked away.

  "What?” Harriet asked.

>   "What Mavis doesn't want to tell you is that the first floor rooms are filled with unique handcrafted items,” Robin said. “The decorator hasn't gone upstairs yet."

  "They probably don't tour prospective guests beyond the first floor,” DeAnn said as she came down the stairs. “If the dried weed decoration in our room is any indication, these folks aren't rolling in money. Either that, or they pour their money into their art."

  "What she's trying to say is, they're stingy with the heat and most meals are some kind of soup,” Lauren informed them. “And be careful when you sit on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Its springs are killer."

  Count on Lauren to hit the low points, Harriet thought.

  "Come on, ladies, we should go on down to the fiber arts pavilion—new student orientation will start in...” Mavis glanced at her watch. “...fifteen minutes, and if she has to lecture Carla and Harriet on punctuality it will be that much longer until we get our tea."

  The women gathered their purses and sweaters and left the Tree House.

  "Who is she, and does she lecture a lot?” Harriet whispered to DeAnn as they walked along the wooded path that led to their destination.

  "She is Selestina Bainbridge, the head of the fiber arts department and owner of the whole shebang,” DeAnn replied, and waved her arms to indicate the woods around them. “Legend has it she inherited it from her husband who died years ago in the arms of his lover at the no-tell motel out by the highway. Apparently, he was sent to meet his maker by the lover's unforgiving spouse."

  "So she doesn't have any issues, right?” Harriet said with a laugh.

  DeAnn just rolled her eyes skyward.

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  Chapter Four

  "Please come in and take a seat,” said a short, wiry woman with dull blonde hair that was just starting to go gray. The woman wore faded blue jeans and a camp-style shirt that appeared to have been made from mottled-blue hand-dyed sheeting. She paced nervously to the back of a pie-shaped room that was set up with a podium at the point of the pie and concentric rows of chairs radiating out from there; a cloth-covered table held several thermal carafes, a tray of cookies and neat rows of mugs, spoons and napkins at the wide end of the room.

  "First-time visitors, please sit in the front rows,” the woman barked as she walked back up to the front of the room. She adjusted the microphone that was attached to the podium and tapped on its surface. It responded with the amplified hollow sound microphones the world over make when bludgeoned.

  "They have done this before, right?” Harriet asked Mavis.

  "Don't you worry, honey,” the older woman replied. “Patience is a nervous thing. She's Selestina's right hand, but she acts like every class or program they do is the first and their very existence depends on its success."

  Harriet, Carla and the other first-timers took their places at the front of the room, while Mavis, DeAnn and Robin sat at the rear. Without introduction, a tall, thin woman who turned out to be Selestina appeared at the podium and started the orientation, beginning with her personal fiber art history, which included schooling then faculty positions at several prestigious folk art schools, and ended with her founding the current school.

  She then laid out a set of restrictions and regulations that would have made the Marine Corps proud. She ended with the announcement that all first-time students were to meet with her in this room in precisely thirty minutes for an inspection of their tools and supplies.

  They were dismissed, and Harriet found the other Loose Threads standing around Connie Escorcia at the food table.

  "Where did you come from?” she asked.

  "I got here just as you were coming down for orientation. I've already heard that old battleax try to scare the bejeezes out of her new students, I didn't need to hear it again. I'd complain to the management if it wasn't her.” Connie picked a chocolate chip cookie from a tray on the table and took a bite. Her Latin exuberance and soft heart had made her Foggy Point Grade School's favorite first grade teacher before her retirement. She believed a firm but gentle hand was the best way to tame young hooligans. “Did she have any announcements I need to know about?” she asked when she'd swallowed.

  "She told us the ceramics students would be having an exhibition tomorrow night in Building A. We're welcome to attend and encouraged to make a donation for the privilege,” DeAnn said.

  "You mean our tuition wasn't enough of a donation?” Harriet asked.

  "Shouldn't you and Carla be getting your bags?” Sarah prompted. “Selestina doesn't like to waste her time."

  Carla jumped up and headed for the door.

  "Wait up,” Harriet called, and followed the younger woman out.

  They made the trip back to the Tree House and returned with their supplies with moments to spare. They carried their bags up to a row of tables that had replaced the podium.

  "Listen up, ladies,” Patience Jacobsen said. “Take a place along the table. Place your stack of fabric on your left and then line up your thread to the right of the stack. Put your scissors and rotary cutter in front of you and lay your six-and-a-half-by-eighteen rulers and your six-and-a-half-inch square to the right."

  This was starting to sound a little weird. Carla had taken the place to Harriet's right. Harriet sneaked a glance in her direction. Her face was chalky white, and she nervously twisted a stringy lock of hair.

  "Don't worry,” Connie said. She put her hands on Carla's bony shoulders. “Selestina's bark is worse than her bite, and she isn't going to risk losing a paying customer. Just let her paw through your stuff, promise you'll change the blade in your cutter, even if it's new, and then we can go back to the Tree House and have a good cup of tea."

  Carla forced a crooked smile to her lips, and Connie retreated to the back of the room.

  To say the ensuing orientation was a blood bath would be an understatement. The first student, a pear-shaped woman whose bright-red lipstick was in stark contrast to her faded pink cotton house dress, had dared to bring old-fashioned polyester sewing thread, the kind that comes on a gold plastic spool and has been sold in every five-and-dime in America for decades. Harriet knew that sewing cotton fabric with polyester thread is an invitation for the quilt to fall apart before its time. Polyester is stronger than cotton and works like a saw against the softer fiber given the everyday motion of a functional quilt.

  It was also true that beginners needed to learn about high quality cotton thread, but Selestina apparently felt she needed to emphasize the point by sweeping the spools off the table and throwing them across the room in the general direction of the garbage can.

  The second student had pre-washed her fabrics. It was an acceptable technique and at times even a preferred method when quilting. Washing ensured that all the sizing chemicals—the compound that keeps fabric smooth and flat when it's rolled onto the bolt—are washed out and any dye not fully set is removed. If the fabric is going to shrink, it will happen with this first washing before it's been cut and stitched.

  However, high-quality cottons purchased from a reputable fabric store are unlikely to either shrink or bleed, so the debate about the value of pre-washing raged on.

  In the case of the second student, pre-washing had revealed that one of her three pieces of fabric was of much lower quality than the rest. Low-quality material shrinks to the point of distortion, and no amount of ironing will cause it to look smooth and square once the sizing is gone. Low-quality cotton will never result in a prize-winning project.

  All of which Selestina pointed out at length.

  "I understand why I shouldn't make a show quilt or even a quilt I'm giving as a present out of discount store fabric, but why can't I practice on it?” the skinny blond woman whined.

  "Inferior fabric will lead to inferior technique,” Selestina proclaimed.

  Patience quietly picked up the offending fabric and carried it to the back of the room. Harriet didn't see if it went into the garbage or not, but the woman cried out then covere
d her mouth with her hand.

  Now Selestina stood in front of Harriet. The teacher's gauzy black unconstructed jacket had small violet flowers embroidered along its cuffs and hem. She wore the jacket over a tailored black wool skirt and white blouse. She took a step closer.

  Bring it on, Harriet thought.

  Because of her parents’ constant travels, Harriet had been the perpetual new kid at schools around the world, and as a result had faced more than her share of bullies.

  Selestina looked at Harriet's fabric and tools then took a long look at her; she stared right back. Selestina fingered Harriet's rotary cutter and put it down. Harriet knew her fabric was top quality and her tools and supplies first rate. She also knew Selestina had recognized that Harriet wasn't going to be a student she could intimidate.

  Perhaps it was due to their confrontation, or maybe Selestina would have blown up at the next person no matter what else had happened. In any case, Carla was firmly in her sights.

  "Young woman, you cannot possibly believe that printed fabric is appropriate for beginning machine quilting."

  Carla's eyes got large.

  "And what is this?” Selestina continued, her voice rising. She picked up the well-used ruler Margaret, the owner of Pins and Needles, Foggy Point's quilt store and Carla's employer, had provided for her. “You can't even read half the numbers. You will replace it before your first class."

  She picked up two of Carla's thread spools. They were German, and the brand had to be one of the top quilting threads sold. Harriet was curious how Selestina would be able to find fault with them. She never found out. A hand reached out and grabbed the thread from Selestina.

  "That's enough,” DeAnn Gault said firmly. “Nothing in the catalog says her fabric has to be plain, and even so, any qualified teacher would know that both sides of the fabric can be used and would just have her turn her print over,” She flapped Carla's folded print fabric over, revealing its plain back.

  Carla looked at her shoes. “It's okay, DeAnn,” she mumbled.