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  DeAnn turned to her. “No, it's not okay. She doesn't get to talk to you that way. You paid good money to learn how to quilt, not to be belittled because you don't know how yet.” She turned back to Selestina. “I can't stop you from abusing your students, but I don't have to watch you do it. I'm leaving, and I will have a full refund or you will be hearing from my lawyer.” She whirled around to face the shocked group of quilters at the back of the room. “If you guys are smart, you'll leave, too, instead of subjecting yourselves to the abusive ramblings of this windbag."

  She headed for the back of the room. When she reached it, she hesitated. “By the way, she has a piece of coarse sandpaper in her left pocket that she slips under the fabric before she tests your cutter. That's why brand-new blades make ragged cuts."

  The room fell silent, the only motion the reflexive clutching of Selestina's hand in her left pocket. Patience walked along the table, quietly helping the students return their supplies to their bags. She motioned for them to leave then gestured to the ones at the back of the room that they should follow suit.

  ” “

  "Well, that was weird,” Sarah said when they were all outside and headed back to the Tree House. “Even for this place, and that's saying something."

  "I didn't mean to cause trouble,” Carla said, the distress plain on her face.

  "Now, honey, you didn't do anything wrong,” Connie reassured her.

  "Selestina's always like that, but I don't know what got into DeAnn,” Robin said. “She had the usual orientation dressing down last year, but nothing the rest of us haven't gotten."

  "Maybe she couldn't stand seeing someone...” Harriet paused. She had been going to say someone so helpless, but caught herself. “...so new to quilting,” she corrected with a glance at Carla, “attacked in such an unfair manner."

  "Seemed like something more than that,” Mavis said. “Is she having troubles at home?"

  This last was directed at Robin. DeAnn and Robin were friends, but Harriet knew that if she were DeAnn she'd find Robin's hard-bodied perfection a bit of a deterrent to spilling her problems.

  "I don't know. She hasn't said anything. I think things are fine."

  "Let's go make some tea and see how DeAnn's doing,” Connie suggested. “Maybe the walk back gave her time to cool down and reconsider. She'll realize she doesn't have to see Selestina if she doesn't want to, and the school does have good teachers."

  "What did I miss?” Lauren asked as she joined the group just as they reached the door. Her straight honey-colored hair was caught into a single long braid.

  "You've got to be kidding,” she said a few minutes later, when they were all seated in the Tree House common room, tea mugs in hand. A large riverstone fireplace defined the social area of the dormitory. Two worn leather sofas sat at right angles to the hearth toward the center of the room, with a large round oak coffee table in between and a high-backed twig rocking chair between the sofas and the fireplace.

  As the Loose Threads’ unofficial second in command, Mavis had recounted the orientation session.

  "She stormed out? Just like that?"

  "Just like that,” Sarah said. “And how about the sandpaper reveal? I never noticed her doing that. Did anyone else?"

  "Her sleight-of-hand must rival Houdini's,” Mavis said. “My boys tried to sneak everything from candy bars to car keys past my watchful eyes. I thought I could spot anything, but she's good.” Mavis had raised five sons, and although they had grown into fine young adults, people in Foggy Point still referred to the Willis boys’ antics as the standard for mischief-making.

  A sharp rap sounded on the Tree House door, followed by the sound of the door opening.

  "Is anyone here?” called Patience Jacobsen.

  "We're in the common room,” Sarah called as she stood up to greet the new arrival. Sarah had an annoying way of attaching herself to any authority figure she met. It was as if she believed her proximity to them would confer some kind of specialness on her. She couldn't take a class or participate in an activity without trying to make the leader her new best friend. It didn't seem to matter if the teacher deserved her worship or not.

  Patience came in from the entry hall and stood in the middle of the seating area.

  "Is DeAnn here?” she asked. “I've come to smooth her ruffled feathers."

  "If that's your attitude, you aren't going to get very far,” Lauren told her. “I think everyone here would agree that DeAnn defending Carla from Selestina's attack is a little more serious than ‘ruffled feathers.’”

  "I didn't mean to minimize DeAnn's distress,” Patience said. “I just wanted to see if I could help her understand that Selestina was not attacking the new students—"

  "Carla and that woman who had her thread thrown across the room would disagree with that,” Lauren snapped. “How would you feel if it was your fabric that went into the dumpster? Don't you think that would feel like an attack?” She stood up and got in the woman's face.

  "Sit down, Lauren,” Mavis ordered. “Let's just all take a deep breath.” Mavis had been around Robin too long—deep breathing was Robin's answer to everything.

  Connie went into the kitchenette, picked up the teakettle and returned. “Does anyone need a refill?"

  Robin held up her mug, and Connie crossed to fill it, causing Lauren and Patience to separate. Lauren stalked into the kitchenette.

  "What can I do to make this better?” Patience asked, the distress plain in her voice.

  "Take a flying leap,” Lauren said in a stage whisper.

  "I think we all just need some time to calm down,” Mavis said. “Some of us are a little more excitable than the rest."

  "If you want to do something, maybe you could convince your boss to eliminate the public humiliation session,” Harriet suggested. “I can tell you, it doesn't make me want to spend the rest of the week here."

  "Sit down.” Robin indicated a place on the sofa she was seated on. Patience crossed the room and sat. “I know Selestina has been running this school very successfully for a lot of years, and I know she has very high standards, but she didn't use to be mean. I came years ago, and now I've come for the last three short sessions, and I have to tell you, Patience, she's crossed the line. If she keeps up this approach, she's going to lose more than just our tuition."

  "You're not all leaving, are you?” Patience asked. She had pulled a wadded-up tissue from her jeans pocket and began rolling the edge between her thumb and forefinger, causing small white shreds to fall on the rug at her feet.

  "I don't know,” Robin replied honestly. “We were just talking about things when you got here."

  Harriet got up. “I'll go check on DeAnn,” she said.

  If they called for a vote right now there was no question, she would be the first one on the bus home. She didn't need to learn how to hand stitch bad enough to deal with this drama all week.

  She climbed the stairs and called out to DeAnn from the last landing. She wasn't sure what she was warning her for—it was unlikely the woman was sobbing on her bed. But you never knew about these things, and Harriet wasn't familiar enough with her roommate to know if she might be prone to throwing things when she was angry.

  She needn't have worried; when she stepped into the room, it was empty.

  "DeAnn?” she called again. She went back into the hallway and to the bathroom. The door was open, and the room was empty. “DeAnn?” There was still no answer.

  She went back into their shared room. This time she noticed what she hadn't seen before—a folded piece of pale-blue paper rested against the pillow of her twin bed.

  Harriet sat on the bed and quickly read the note. She looked around the room and confirmed what the note had explained. DeAnn was gone.

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  Chapter Five

  "She's gone,” Harriet said as she returned to the common room. She held up the note. “This was on my bed. It says she got a ride into Angel Harbor and will catch a ride home w
ith Aunt Beth."

  Beth was coming that evening to see the the long-session students’ fiber exhibition. In addition to actual technique classes, the folk art school taught students how to solicit and fulfill commissioned works, how to book gallery showings and how to hang an exhibition of their work. Lauren's class was doing the latter this week.

  "That was quick,” Lauren commented. “We weren't that far behind her. I wonder if she had this all planned."

  "Don't be ridiculous,” Robin told her.

  Lauren glared at her, but kept quiet.

  "Here's what I think we should do,” Mavis said. “We don't have any more meetings today and classes don't start until tomorrow, so we eat dinner, we go to Lauren's exhibit, get a good night's sleep and then see how we feel about it in the morning."

  "That will give us a chance to talk to Beth about it, too,” Robin added.

  As one of the founding members of the Loose Threads quilting group, Beth's opinion would carry weight even if she hadn't been present for the original incident.

  The rest of the group agreed.

  "We'll let you know what we decide in the morning,” Mavis told Patience.

  "That's fair enough.” Patience carried her teacup to the kitchenette and went to the door. “I hope you won't let one unfortunate experience color your opinion of our very fine school,” she said and left.

  "Anyone want to go for a walk?” Harriet asked when Patience was gone. “It's too early for dinner, and I don't think I can sit and stitch right now."

  "I'll go with you,” Robin said. Mavis and Connie declined.

  "I'm going to check on my display,” Lauren announced. “Selestina is inspecting our hanging in an hour and a half, and from what I've heard, I won't feel like joining you for dinner afterward, so I guess I'll just see you at the show."

  "I'll bring you something you can eat after,” Connie offered.

  "Thank you,” Lauren said as she went out the door.

  "There's a loop trail around the perimeter of the school,” Robin said. “It goes by a little duck pond down below the painting pavilion."

  Harriet put on her gray hooded sweatshirt, and Robin pulled on a hip-length yellow jacket whose bottom edge curved up at her hips. The jacket was the same obscure athletic brand as her black yoga pants and pale blue form-fitted top and was a fabric that was undoubtedly the latest in technical sportswear.

  In the months since she'd returned to Foggy Point, Harriet had learned that Robin was a popular yoga teacher; she'd also avoided having to take a class with her.

  * * * *

  The two women strolled through the woods in silence, each lost in her own thoughts. They had just come into the clearing that contained the painting pavilion when they spotted three men ahead of them. Two were dressed in jeans and denim shirts. The third was taller and thinner and wore tan wide-wale corduroy slacks and a dark-brown sweater vest over a pale-blue oxford shirt.

  "The boundary stake should be somewhere around the base of that taller pine tree.” He pointed to the center tree in a cluster of pines then, when he turned back to the path, discovered Harriet and Robin. “Hello,” he said. “I hope you're enjoying the grounds."

  When they didn't respond, the man stepped toward Harriet with his hand outstretched.

  "I'm Tom Bainbridge. My mother owns this place."

  Harriet shook his hand and found it warm and firm. “I'm no one of consequence,” she said.

  "I find that very hard to believe,” Tom protested with a smile. He leaned back and looked her up and down. Harriet blushed. “A quilter, I'd guess. Am I right?"

  "What gave it away? Am I covered in thread clippings?” She brushed at her pants.

  "No.” He laughed. “With quilters, it's all about what's missing. Potters’ hands tend to be chapped and red. The painters usually wear their art. Even when they clean up, there are telltale paint signs—you know, under their fingernails, specks in their hair."

  "We could have been photographers,” Robin pointed out.

  The man spread his hands in front of him. “Not possible,” he said. “No photographer could walk through those woods and into this beautiful meadow without clicking off at least a dozen pictures."

  "Okay, you got us.” Harriet conceded.

  "If only that were true,” he said, a bit wistfully.

  "Hey, don't look at me,” Robin said. “I'm married."

  He spread his hands wider. “A beautiful meadow, perfect weather and two beautiful women—a man can dream, can't he?"

  "Do you want us to identify each tax lot or do you just want the outer perimeter?” one of the denim-clad workers asked Tom Bainbridge, interrupting his flirtation.

  "I'm going to need the individual tax lots. I should be able to infer the outer boundaries from those, right?"

  The man nodded and turned back to his partner, who was stomping the ground around the pine tree.

  "I better go help find that stake before he tramples the whole meadow. If you're looking for the duck pond, keep on this path and it will come up on your left after you get past the pavilion.” He bowed slightly from his waist. “And, ladies, it's been my pleasure."

  "He's a charmer,” Harriet said when he was out of earshot.

  "Not quite as striking as a certain vet we know."

  "But a bit more age appropriate,” Harriet noted, and began walking again. “I wonder why he's surveying the property."

  "The real question is why is he breaking out the individual tax lots? That's the kind of thing you do when you're planning a residential development."

  "Have you heard any rumors to that effect?"

  "No, but then, I'm not sure that's the kind of thing they would broadcast. And maybe they're just trying to assess the value for future planning."

  "You mean like when the evil son gets the mother declared incompetent then sells her life's work out from under her?"

  Robin stopped and turned to look at her. “Let's have a little faith in our fellow man here. Maybe he wants to be sure her insurance is adequate or her tax assessment is accurate.” She set off again.

  "Well, he seemed a little slick, if you ask me."

  A brown mallard duck with six fuzzy ducklings waddled across the path ahead of the two quilters. Harriet pulled a crumbled cellophane packet of crackers from her sweatshirt pocket, the leftovers from last Wednesday's soup and salad lunch at the Sandwich Board, one of Foggy Point's lunchtime hot spots. She sprinkled the crackers over the water, pausing to watch the ducks splash into the pond after them.

  Then, they continued on the path in silence, entering the dark woods on the opposite side of the meadow and returning to the Tree House.

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  Chapter Six

  The Loose Threads reassembled in the common room and walked in pairs to a cedar-sided building tucked in the trees just beyond their dormitory.

  "In spite of what Lauren said, the food here is good,” Mavis advised as she climbed the steps onto the porch of the dining room.

  "Lauren may have overstated the situation, but they do serve economical meals,” Robin added and pulled the door open.

  The room they entered was a large rectangle filled with long plank tables and benches. Double doors on the opposite wall presumably led to the kitchen. The side walls were hung with primitive art. Harriet took a deep breath. Whatever was cooking smelled delicious.

  Clusters of people sat along the length of two tables; a third table stood empty.

  "There is a method to their madness,” Mavis said as she led them to the empty table. “There's no seating chart, but this one, as indicated by the quilted runner, is designated as the fiber arts table."

  Harriet looked at the other two tables and noticed the top of one was covered with butcher paper decorated with graffiti. The other was topped with black-and-white photos under glass.

  "Clever,” she said. “I'm not sure how I feel about the segregation, though."

  "Patience explained it to me the first time I came
here,” Mavis explained. “In order to not overwhelm the kitchen, they stagger the activities in each pavilion so only a third of the people arrive at any one time."

  "I never knew that,” Robin said.

  "Just part of the well-oiled machine that is the school,” Sarah said and sat down.

  A middle-aged woman with a long gray braid that fell to her waist came through the double doors carrying a tray laden with bowls of steaming soup.

  "You can help yourself to drinks on the sideboard,” the woman said as she began setting the bowls on the table. “The bread just came out of the oven. I'll have it out here in a few minutes,” she added over her shoulder as she walked back through the double doors.

  "Thanks,” Harriet said as she sat down with the glass of ice water she'd just poured at the large oak buffet. The soup was Italian, with chunks of sausage, bowtie pasta and zucchini in a tomato-basil broth. It was hardly the watery gruel she'd expected after Lauren's comments.

  When the quilters were finished eating, the woman with the braid brought a wrapped bundle.

  "Here's a little sandwich for Lauren,” she said and handed it to Connie. “She'll need her strength."

  A slender blond man in a khaki work uniform began clearing the table as Harriet and her friends headed for the door.

  "There's a new restroom behind the cookhouse,” he said in a soft voice without looking up. “Follow the porch around to the back."

  * * * *

  "This is convenient,” Mavis said as they waited for Sarah to come out of the bathroom. “Before, we had to go back to our rooms after meals."

  "Seems like they add something new every time we come here,” Connie noted.

  Robin pulled a round plastic brush from her purse and began brushing her hair. “Maybe if they weren't building all the time, they could afford to feed us something besides soup."

  "I liked the soup,” Harriet protested, and started down the path as Sarah emerged.

  The three classroom pavilions at the Angel Harbor Folk Art Center were of similar construction: large pie-shaped spaces around a central supply room hub, with two large rooms on one side that extended all the way to the exterior windows. The rest of the rooms were bordered by a wide hallway that curved around the building, providing ample wall space for hanging student's work.