The Lover’s Knot Read online

  Natalie was twenty-eight, only one year older than me, and the mother of a ten-month-old. She had a husband everyone in the group described as "tall, dark, and handsome," which made Natalie roll her eyes. Her mother, Susanne, was the one with the makeup counter on her face. She turned out to be the artist of the group. Her quilts had won ribbons at national shows, and one had even been featured in a magazine.

  "I got married very young," she said to me. "Too young, I think. Didn't have a chance to figure out who I was, as they say."

  "Have you figured it out yet?" came a voice from the other side of the group. Bernadette, known in the group as Bernie, was a hangover from of the sixties, now in her sixties. She was another familiar face among the crowd. I knew I had been introduced and reintroduced to her over the years, but the only thing I'd ever learned about her was that she owned the pharmacy in town and she had a warm, friendly face.

  Susanne smiled toward Bernie. "Have I figured myself out yet?" she laughed. "I don't think I want to know anymore. I certainly don't want to know who my husband is."

  The others laughed with her. "I was nineteen," said Maggie. "I found out pretty quickly it isn't always roses and I love yous."

  "You got roses?" shouted Bernie. "I don't think any of my husbands got me roses."

  "Why would you marry men who were so unromantic?" Natalie asked.

  "The sex was good," Bernie retorted. All the woman roared with laughter.

  "Bernie, we have a newcomer in the room," my grandmother admonished.

  Bernie looked at me. "She won't be a newcomer for long." Bernie leaned in. "I have stories that could make even a girl living in New York blush." Then she looked toward Eleanor. "But I won't." She turned to the fifth member of the group. "Carrie here, she has a romantic story to tell, if that's what you're looking for."

  Carrie was, it looked to me, in her late forties. She began to tell me about herself but was interrupted by Bernie and Natalie, who felt they could tell Carrie's life story much better. Apparently she had married right out of college, divorced three years later, and spent the next fifteen looking for Mr. Right, while amassing a small fortune as a New York stockbroker. When he didn't appear, she decided to have a child. She quit her job, moved to Archers Rest, and scaled her lifestyle back so she could work as a consultant and stay home with her baby. It was a good plan, but she soon found a better one. Months after she gave birth to her son, she married his pediatrician. Now they also had a daughter.

  "It wasn't quite what I expected," she said to me. "But it worked out." All the women voiced their agreements. It was a not very subtle nod to my uncertain future, but it was much appreciated.

  Every Friday, these woman cleared out a small amount of floor space amid an overflowing stock of fabric, patterns, rulers, and quilt-related books. Then they sat in a circle to gossip, eat sugar-laden treats and drink (only caffeinated) coffee. They passed around their latest quilting projects and complained about what they called UFOs, or "unfinished objects," as Maggie explained.

  "It happens when you start something with a great deal of excitement and then run out of interest about halfway through," Maggie told me.

  "Are we talking about marriage again?" Susanne laughed.

  "Stop putting marriage down," her daughter Natalie protested. "Some of us are happily married."

  Maggie let out an exaggerated sigh and continued. "The trick is not to get stubborn about it. If the project doesn't work, then you have to let it go."

  "That must be frustrating," I said.

  Bernie's eyes lit up and she leaned toward me. "It's freeing," she said, exaggerating the length of the words to, I'm guessing, make their importance clear. And they must have been important words, because the others all nodded in agreement. "With every quilt you make you have a picture in your mind of what it should be," Bernie continued. "Then you start. You pick fabrics, you cut the fabrics, you sew the pieces together. All along there are compromises, mistakes, inspirations. When it works, then you are truly holding your dreams in your hands. When it doesn't…" She shrugged.

  "You just throw it out?" I asked, looking to my grandmother for confirmation. Eleanor saved bags of two-inch pieces of fabric, "just in case." She kept a plastic bag with fabric and a needle to sew whenever she had time to kill. I couldn't believe my grandmother would endorse wasting hours of work for artistic reasons. But she was nodding along with the rest of them.

  "We trade sometimes," Carrie admitted. "Or sew them into charity blankets."

  "I have a lot, so I usually give mine to Nancy," Natalie admitted. "She finishes them off and sends them to her son's college friends, who I guess don't really care what the quilts look like as long as they're warm."

  Maggie patted Natalie's hand, as if to comfort her for having so many UFOs. It was an odd pair. Watching seventy-five-year-old Maggie laughing easily with Natalie, nearly fifty years her junior, made me a little envious. Aside from quilting, the two seemed to have little in common, but quilting was enough to bind them together. I wondered if my friendships were as tight.

  But envy was one thing; joining the group was an entirely different matter. Suddenly, all I wanted was to head back to the house and sleep. I yawned.

  "Oh, she's tired," Carrie pointed out.

  "You should get her home, Eleanor," suggested Bernie.

  "The poor thing, she needs her rest," agreed Susanne.

  "I am sleepy," I volunteered, and yawned again.

  My grandmother nodded and patted Barney's head. "Barney, take her home."

  Barney got up, went one more time around the circle to say his good-byes, and led me to the door.

  "We'll see you next Friday," the group said in unison.

  "Oh," I stammered, "I don't think so. I'm only here for the weekend."

  I opened the door and was almost free when I realized that all night I'd forgotten something. I turned back. "Thank you all for the quilt you made me. It's more beautiful than I could have imagined."

  They each looked at me as if they were about to cry. As I left the shop, I knew the subject of my breakup had started up again.

  CHAPTER 6

  Morning came too soon. I could hear my grandmother downstairs and I knew it was only a matter of time before she came up looking for me.

  Instead she sent her assistant. My door started to open slowly, and a blond furry snout sniffed in the opening. There was a grunt, more pushing, and then Barney was in the room, wagging his tail and sniffing at the bed for signs of life.

  There was no point in staying in bed with this hairy alarm clock drooling and whimpering. I got up and made my way toward the kitchen to find myself some coffee.

  "Are you up?" My grandmother stood at the door to the kitchen.

  "Nope." I smiled. "Still in bed."

  "Then you should get dressed."

  "I was going to eat first."

  "No food," she said, and she walked past me to the front of the house.

  No food? There was always food at her house. And not just food. Hot out of the oven blueberry crumble, melt in your mouth pot roast, garlic mashed potatoes. How could there not be food?

  I love my grandmother, but one of the reasons I came to visit was the food. In New York, I'd gotten used to grabbing a muffin for breakfast, a salad for lunch, a slice of pizza for dinner. I had a kitchen the size of most people's linen closets, so aside from making coffee, my cooking skills-such as they were-went unused. My grandmother, on the other hand, was a maestro in the kitchen. And though she also lived alone, she cooked every day. She cooked for herself, of course, but also for several senior citizens who, as she put it, "needed a little help to get going every day." She cooked for school bake sales, town picnics, and for the charity drives of all three churches in town. If someone needed help, my grandmother was there with a pie.

  Except, apparently, today.

  I went after her to at least get her to make me some scrambled eggs. I found my grandmother by the front door talking quietly with Nancy.

&nbs
p; "Well hello." Nancy smiled as I walked toward her. "I wondered whether our paths would cross this weekend."

  "Hi, Nancy." I hugged her lightly. "It's been a while."

  "Well, a city girl can't be expected to find many reasons to come up here," she said.

  "Thanks," my grandmother responded sarcastically.

  "Don't take offense, Eleanor. It's good she has her own life." She looked me up and down. "Are you staying for a while this time?"

  "No. I'm leaving tomorrow."

  "See, what did I tell you. A life of her own." Nancy picked up a bundle of small quilts, each about two feet square. The top one was an appliqued autumn tree with leaves in at least a dozen shades. The piece was simple but it had such depth.

  Nancy's work was a combination of sewing, threadwork, and beading. She made landscapes, scenes of people at play, animals, and abstracts. I'd seen Nancy's beautiful handiwork before, and it always amazed me. Before she could stop me, I grabbed the bundle and began looking at the others.

  "This is a work of art," I told her.

  "Nonsense," she said, taking the quilts back from me. "It's just something I do as an outlet."

  "You could sell those," I said.

  "I've been saying that for years," my grandmother agreed.

  Nancy just blushed. "I make them for my children," she answered, patting the quilts smooth.

  My grandmother changed the subject. "Nancy volunteered to open up the shop today, so we can spend some time together." Then she nodded toward me. I understood the gesture immediately. My mother used to do the same head nod when my uncle gave me a piece of candy.

  "Thanks, Nancy," I said obediently and looked toward Eleanor, who smiled.

  "No worries at all. Happy to do it. I'd do anything for your granny, you know. Just like most people in town."

  Nancy headed for the door, and so did we.

  "Did you take the deposit to the bank last night?" my grandmother asked as Nancy was leaving. "You know I hate leaving money in the shop overnight. Makes a great target for thieves."

  "Honestly, Eleanor," said Nancy with a laugh. "I'm the one who makes the deposits. And I did it last night like I do every night." She left quickly, not waiting for Eleanor's usual sharp reply.

  My grandmother just muttered to herself and handed me something. "It's chilly. Take this."

  It was a worn-out leather men's jacket, the sort of jacket that would sell in Manhattan for hundreds of dollars, and in Archers Rest would be donated to charity.

  "Where are we going?"

  "I thought you were hungry" was all she would say. It was a beautiful fall day. As we walked, I found that I was enjoying the sunshine, the falling leaves, and the quiet of small-town life. And then I thought, how romantic it was, and I was depressed again.

  Heartbreak requires concentration. If you forget for a moment that you've been dumped, you might enjoy a bit of sunshine and then, wham, you remember. Then you feel bad about being dumped all over again. I needed to stay depressed, but I couldn't think of anything in Archers Rest that was bad enough to keep me that way.

  CHAPTER 7

  Archers Rest, like a lot of towns on New York's Hudson River, was first established in the 1600s by Dutch settlers. The head of the group was man named James Archer, who died the first winter. He was buried in a small field on the edge of a town that in the nearly four hundred years since grew into a large a cemetery, with almost seven thousand graves. Since Archers Rest had only five thousand living residents, there were more dead than alive in the little town.

  I thought it was a delightfully morbid fact about the town, but my grandmother dismissed me. "It's big enough that you don't know everyone but small enough that even strangers have friends in common," she had told me once. And everyone had friends in the cemetery.

  Archers Rest runs along the river, so we followed the river's edge from my grandmother's house to Main Street. We turned down the street past the hardware store, a pharmacy, and the post office.

  As we got to the end of the street I saw Someday Quilts just ahead. Inside lights were on and Nancy was in the doorway changing the sign from CLOSED to OPEN.

  "Why doesn't Nancy come to your quilt club?" I asked.

  "She does when she can," Eleanor said tiredly, as though this were old territory for her. "Her husband isn't well and it's difficult for her." She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. "Sometimesshe likes to leave a little early on Friday. She closed the shop an hour early yesterday."

  "She just wanted to get home?" I asked.

  "Perhaps." Eleanor looked at me. "I believe you said you were hungry. So I expect you to eat plenty."

  My stomach was making quiet rumbling sounds that were about to get a whole lot louder. But in a typical bit of grandmother irony, we arrived at the one restaurant in town that made me nearly lose my appetite-the diner next to her shop.

  The place seemed old and tired. At the front were four small Formica tables with two chairs each, and every one was taken. Past them were booths on either side. The seats were reddish-brown leatherette, but small rips at the seams revealed hints of the bright red they must have been thirty years before. There was a sign on the wall that announced the special of the day, meatloaf. It looked as if that had been the special since the diner's opening. There was no decoration anywhere, unless you counted what was obviously a thin layer of dust covering everything. I didn't care, though. I just wanted food.

  "I can't believe this place still exists," I said. "Has the food improved?"

  "It's not about the food. It's about the people," my grandmother said as we walked in. "The owner was good to me when I opened the shop, and I like to support her."

  Natalie and Susanne were at a table near the back, with Natalie's ten-month-old son, Jeremy, in a high chair. They waved us over and handed us menus, which I immediately began studying.

  "It's a shame this place is closing," my grandmother said.

  "Carrie was talking about opening up a coffee shop. This would be a good space," Natalie offered.

  "Oh, she's just talking," Susanne disagreed, and then as if explaining to me, she continued. "Carrie sometimes misses being a high-powered businesswoman."

  "Who wouldn't?" interrupted Natalie. "It must be so exciting to live in New York City and have a cool job and go out to fancy restaurants all the time."

  "Yeah, it must be," I laughed. "Most of the time I eat a salad in my cubicle."

  "What are you talking about? Eleanor said you work at a news magazine. I don't read it, but it sounds glamorous. My husband and I are pretty simple high school graduates." She laughed. "A hairdresser and a mechanic. Nothing glamorous, like your life."

  "That's nonsense. There's nothing simple about either of you," her mother interrupted. "Anyway, where does glamour get you? Carrie gets ideas in her head all the time about opening a business. Last year it was an antique shop, this year it's a coffee shop."

  "Last year it was a child care business. The antique shop was the year before," Natalie corrected her.

  "Regardless," said Susanne, "she never follows through."

  It was like being at a tennis match, going back and forth between mother and daughter while my grandmother silently drank her coffee.

  "She doesn't go through with it," Susanne continued, looking just at me, "because as your own grandmother can tell you, owning your own business is a twenty-four-seven job."

  Then they switched topics, talking about a favorite quilt show they all watched. My food had arrived, so I kept busy wolfing down pancakes and bacon. Only baby Jeremy had less concern for etiquette.

  "How do you stay so thin?" marveled Natalie, watching me.

  "Depression eating." I laughed, but I put down my fork.

  "You're allowed," Susanne reassured me.

  Both Susanne and Natalie gave me that "poor thing" look that I had seen last night at the shop.

  "Yes. This weekend." My grandmother suddenly sounded stern. "After this weekend you have to get on with your life. He mad
e a big mistake, and gaining twenty pounds won't change that."

  She was right, of course, but rather than admit it, I changed the subject. "What will happen to this place if Carrie doesn't buy it?"

  "She won't," said Susanne, a little too sure. "Probably someone from New York will take it. Someone coming up in search of a nice quiet life."

  "Turn it into a hip little restaurant like they must have in your neighborhood," said a suddenly excited Natalie. "Put in WiFi and serve chai tea."

  "Are you speaking English?" Susanne looked at her completely perplexed.

  Natalie just rolled her eyes. "They'll make it like a city place, is what I'm saying."

  I looked around. It wasn't impressive. Even though it was a diner, it would still have to be stripped to the joists to turn it into the kind of trendy place the women thought it would become. I had a better idea.

  "Why don't you take it?" I asked my grandmother.

  "Me? What do I need with a diner?"

  "Expand the shop." I looked around again. Since it needed a major remodeling, it could be anything. "You could knock down the wall between your place and this and double your selling space."

  "Someday is packed to the rafters, El," agreed Susanne. "You could put in a classroom. You've always wanted a classroom."

  Eleanor looked around the diner. "Needs work," she said.

  We all nodded. It was impossible to ignore that it was a big job. "Well, maybe it is too much for you," I started to agree.

  She looked at me. Even Natalie and Susanne recognized that I had challenged my grandmother, and she would find it irresistible.

  "Could be done," Eleanor finally admitted. "Where's the bill? I need to go to work."

  Susanne, Natalie, and Jeremy had already said good-bye and left, and I walked to the door, but my grandmother hesitated. I could see that she was quietly examining the diner. I knew what I saw- torn leatherette booths and soda machines-but I could tell by the look in her eyes that in her mind the place was already filled floor to ceiling with fabric.