The Oysterville Sewing Circle

by Susan Wiggs

  As the light deepened, Caroline elbowed him. “Okay, we can start looking now. It always seems to go fast toward the end.”

  Everyone looked at the shrinking orb. The moment before it sank out of sight, there was a subtle glimmer of green. “There!” Caroline said. “I saw it. Did you see?”

  “I think so. Yeah, I saw the green.”

  “Cool. You’ll never go wrong in matters of the heart, then.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  She felt silly and happy, just hanging out with him. “Me neither.” They stood, gathering up towels and blankets, shaking out the sand and loading up the surfboards and boogie boards. Will was supposed to meet his grandfather in the beach parking lot. Caroline was getting a ride home with Georgia, who drove their dad’s truck like a pro—according to Georgia.

  “How’s California?” she asked, trying to picture him like the kids in 90210.

  “Pretty good. Not as nice as here, though.” He leaned his board next to the outdoor shower. With no hesitation at all, he peeled his shirt one-handed over his head and lifted his face to the spray.

  She tried not to stare at his bare chest, and the way his swim trunks hung at the very edges of his hip bones. “And your dad likes his shore duty?”

  He finished quickly and slung a towel around his neck. “Guess so. He’s got a girlfriend now. I think he’s going to marry her.”

  “Oh! So is that good news, or . . . ?”

  “It’s okay, I guess. Her name’s Shasta and she works on base. She’s pretty nice. A lot younger than Dad, which is kind of weird. I think she’s only, like, fifteen years older than me.”

  Caroline tried to imagine her dad with someone other than Mom. It was impossible. There was no way she could picture someone coming into their house and taking charge of things. “Does she have other kids?”

  “Nope. I overheard them talking about having another kid, which is why I think they’re going to get married.” He studied the color-drenched clouds blooming on the horizon. “Dad never talks about my mom. Sometimes it’s like she never even existed.”

  Caroline hated dishwashing detail so much she felt like crying. The tubs of gloppy used dishes flowed into her area in a never-ending stream of greasy gray tubs, waiting for her to hose everything down with hot water. Her supervisor, Mike, was a total lazybones who spent more time in the loading area with his cigarettes than he did in the kitchen. Georgia and Virginia were waiting tables and seeming to love every minute of it. Yet Caroline knew that even if she got a promotion to hostessing or waitressing, she’d still hate it. Her four-hour morning shift seemed endless.

  After just a couple of weeks, she sat down with her mother and said, “I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Sweetie, you’re just getting started.”

  “I want to help, Mom. You know I do. But dishwashing is killing my soul.”

  “Yikes. Sounds serious.”

  “Mom.”

  “All right. I’m sorry. I should know better than to argue with your feelings. What’s on your mind, Miss Caroline?”

  “I have a proposal to make. How about instead of the restaurant, I find a job doing something else?”

  “You can’t work anywhere but in a family business until you’re fourteen.”

  “I’m almost fourteen. And Mrs. Bloom said she needs help in the fabric shop and she’d pay me under the table until I’m old enough. I love it there, Mom. Please.”

  “Oh, Caroline.”

  She held her breath. When Mom said, Oh, Caroline, like that, it meant she was softening.

  “Can I just try? And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll come back to the restaurant. I promise.”

  “Your sisters love the restaurant. You’ll be waiting tables before you know it.”

  “I love the restaurant, too. Just not working there. Please. Mrs. Bloom said I can get a discount on fabric, too. And you know how much fabric I buy.”

  “I do know. You’ve made some wonderful things, Caroline.”

  “I’ll make even more wonderful things if you let me work at the shop.” She still remembered walking into Lindy’s for the first time. She’d been in third grade, and for some reason her mom had sent her there to get a card of buttons. Caroline had returned hours later, having spent her entire allowance on notions, thread, and fat quarters—precut pieces of cotton fabric. She had raced to her room with her treasures and immediately set to work fashioning an outfit for her American Girl doll. Even though her scissors were blunt and she sewed by hand rather than machine, the garment she’d made was a thing of beauty. Caroline was so proud of it that she’d taken it to Mrs. Bloom, who said unequivocally that it showed promise.

  After that, Caroline found any excuse to go to the shop, captivated by the array of fabrics and the long metal drawers with patterns lined up like maps to El Dorado. The hand-drawn illustrations on the envelopes haunted her dreams. All of her school notebooks were filled with drawings of clothes, everything from ball gowns to boleros.

  Mom hesitated. “I’ll give Lindy a call . . .”

  Caroline threw her arms around her mother. “You’re the best! You won’t be sorry.”

  “No,” said Mom, her face soft with understanding. “I won’t be.”

  Caroline jumped on her bike and raced into town to tell Will the news. Behind the glass-front freezers at the ice cream parlor, he looked both ridiculous and cute in a white shirt with a button-down collar, striped apron, and goofy peaked paper hat. “My mom said okay! I don’t have to wash dishes anymore. I can work at the fabric shop, right across the street.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Hey, would you like to—”

  “Hi, Will!” A cluster of girls burst into the shop, led by Rona Stevens.

  Like to what? Caroline ground her teeth in irritation. He was just about to ask her . . . what? If she’d like to go to the movies? Hike to the top of the Willapa Hills? Get pizza? What?

  She’d never know because the shop was now infested with cheerleaders. Rona and her friends were all about the short shorts and candy-colored lip gloss and giant hair bows that looked like an extra appendage. “We need ice cream. Screaming for it. Oh, hiya, Caroline.”

  “Hi, yourself.” For some reason, Caroline always felt inadequate around Rona. She was famous for having made out with a high school junior—a guy who called himself Hakon, for some reason—at a Tolo dance last year. Supposedly Hakon was her boyfriend, but that didn’t stop her from flirting with Will.

  “What’s the flavor du jour?” she asked, leaning toward the case until her boobs practically touched the glass.

  “Cranberry crunch,” Will said, seemingly oblivious to her boobs-first pose. “Want a taste?” He handed each of the cheerleaders a tiny plastic spoonful. He offered one to Caroline, but she shook her head.

  “No, thanks. I know what I want.”

  “The usual?”

  “Yep, you got it.”

  He dug out a scoop of sea salt caramel fudge and expertly seated it on a waffle cone. Caroline counted out her money and slid it across the counter. The other girls insisted on tasting all the flavors. Eventually, with an excess of giggling, they ordered their selections. Caroline was annoyed at how flirty they were being, but Will didn’t seem to mind. Rona made a show of adding a hefty tip to the jar on the counter.

  “We’re heading to the go-kart track,” she said to him. “Want to come after you’re done here?”

  He wiped the marble counter. “Can’t. I promised my granddad a round of cribbage tonight.”

  “What’s cribbage?” Rona cocked her head. “Sounds scary.”

  “It’s his favorite game.” Will grinned in friendly fashion. “Thanks, though. Maybe another time.”

  “Definitely another time.” She flicked a dismissive glance over Caroline. “See you later, kids.”

  After they left, Caroline perched on a stool and watched him finish wiping up. “What’s high school in California like?” she asked him.

  He looke
d up briefly. “I went to a DoD school in Guam, so a regular public high school seems really different.”

  “In a good way? Or were there bullies like the ones you had to fight in Guam?”

  “There are bullies everywhere, but none of them bothered me.”

  “Do you still study Krav Maga?”

  “Yeah, my dad and I do it together. His girlfriend, Shasta, said we should have something we do as father and son. I went out for football and track at my new school.” He studied her for a moment. “What’s up? You nervous about starting high school?”

  She nodded glumly. “I’m not really good at anything. I make straight B’s. I’m only medium-good at sports. I play second-chair clarinet—like that’s a thing. Plus school starts a half hour earlier and I am so not a morning person.” She licked the perimeter of her ice cream cone until she realized he was staring at her. “What?”

  “You’re better at surfing than anyone I know.”

  “You must not know many people.”

  “Come on. What’s your superpower? My mom used to say everybody’s got a superpower.”

  Caroline puffed up a little. “Okay, here’s something. I’m really good at sewing. I can sew like the wind.”

  “Sewing, like with a needle and thread?”

  “On a machine, too. My life’s goal is to get an industrial single-needle machine. Mrs. Bloom lets me use hers. That’s why I’m so excited about working at her shop. I get to use her machines.” She jumped down off the stool and modeled her shorts. “Check it out. I made these from my own pattern.”

  “Cool.” His gaze lingered on the shorts, and then his cheeks reddened.

  “Anyway,” Caroline said, feeling a blush of her own coming on, “how is this going to make high school any easier? Am I going to get through high school by sewing and surfing?”

  “Probably not, but at least you’ll be doing something you like.”

  Chapter 16

  Working at the fabric shop was heaven compared to dishwashing hell. Caroline loved everything about it, even the nitpicky paperwork and the customers who messed up displays without buying anything.

  “Here you go,” Mrs. Bloom said at the end of the week. “Your first paycheck.”

  “Thank you.” Caroline didn’t even look at the amount. She would be willing to work here for free, truth be told. Mrs. Bloom was one of her favorite people, always happy to show her sewing techniques, from ways to improve fit to using the industrial machine and the serger. She was always totally cheerful with her customers, but every once in a while, a shadow would come over her, like maybe she thought of something bad or sad.

  Just before closing time, Caroline saw her standing at the front counter, gazing out the window with a faraway look in her eyes. “Everything okay, Mrs. Bloom?”

  “Oh! You startled me, Caroline.”

  “Sorry. I . . . Can you help me with something in the back? I already clocked out. I was working on a raincoat for Wendell.”

  “Wendell?”

  “My dog. He’s getting old, and he hates going out in the rain.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Mrs. Bloom. “How can I help?”

  “I’m having trouble with the fit.” In the back room, Caroline showed her the project. For her dress form, she had a stuffed toy about the size of Wendell. “See, it’s awful, and it’s not going to stay on.”

  Mrs. Bloom studied the garment, and now the expression on her face was not faraway at all, but intensely curious. “Well,” she said, “I always encourage you to experiment with design and construction.”

  “I know, but I worked and worked, and what’s the point?” Caroline scowled at the coat, which buckled at all the wrong places. The fabric choice—a print with fire hydrants—now seemed cheesy.

  Mrs. Bloom pinned a couple of seams. “I bet you figured out a few things.”

  “Yeah, like don’t use a fabric with a one-way pattern.”

  “Then your effort wasn’t wasted. The best way to learn is to fail.” She locked the back door and they headed toward the front.

  Caroline nodded. “I’m well on my way, then.”

  “Don’t be afraid to fail. You just have to fail better every time,” said Mrs. Bloom with a grin as she turned on the security system. “I have a book of new fall patterns coming tomorrow. Maybe you’d like to do up a few for displays.”

  “Are you kidding? I would love that.” She looked around the shop, dim and quiet now. “I totally love making things,” she said. “My mom says it’s my passion.”

  “Moms are usually right about such things.”

  “Well, I have no idea why I like it so much. I just know that when I’m making something, I’m totally happy.”

  “That’s lovely, Caroline. I like that sentiment.”

  “My mom says the secret to the restaurant’s success is the family philosophy that fixing tasty food is a way to show love. So do you think it’s the same as making things to wear?”

  “A way to show love?” Mrs. Bloom’s eyes softened and crinkled at the edges. “Another lovely sentiment. And I think you’re absolutely right.”

  Caroline and Will almost never called each other on the phone. Some kids had mobile phones, the kind that fit in a pocket and flipped open, but Caroline didn’t. And even if she did, she doubted she’d be any more inclined to call him. So instead of calling to see if he was home, she went to see him at Water’s Edge.

  She jumped off her bike and ran toward him. He was over by the barn, wearing a tool belt and pounding away at something. He and his grandfather were forever doing projects or fixing things around the place. “Whatcha doing?” she asked him.

  “Skateboard ramp,” he said. “Check it out.” He jumped up, unbuckled the tool belt, and grabbed his board. “It’s not done yet, but . . .” He skated the board along the driveway and popped up onto the homemade ramp. Almost immediately, he caught an edge and went flying, landing flat on his back.

  Caroline bolted toward him and sank down to the ground. “Hey, are you okay?”

  He slowly picked himself up. A livid road rash slashed across one elbow and one knee. “Dang,” he said, inspecting the damage. “That hurts.”

  “We should go inside and clean it up.”

  He shook his head. “My grandmother would freak out because I’m not wearing a helmet and pads. I’ll clean up with the hose.” He wobbled a little, trying to stand up.

  She stuck out her hand and he steadied himself as he climbed to his feet. Just for a second, he lurched into her, practically hugging her. He smelled of asphalt and grass and sweat, and she let go quickly, feeling flustered. “Helmet and pads. Maybe your grandmother’s onto something.”

  He turned on the water at the spigot and hosed off the scrapes, wincing in pain. “Maybe,” he said. “The ramp is pretty rad, though. I like making stuff. My granddad says I should live here when I’m grown, on account of I’m his only grandchild and he wants to keep it in the family.”

  “Here?” She shaded her eyes and squinted at the big painted house. “Are you gonna do it?”

  “Maybe. It’d be cool, right?”

  She didn’t reply. She often dreamed of another life, far from the peninsula—Paris or Hong Kong or New York or Milan, someplace fashion designers worked. “I made something, too,” she said after he’d rinsed off. “It’s for you.” She pulled it out of her backpack. “For Luau Night.”

  The event seemed to get bigger every year. It was one of the Booster Club’s most popular summer fundraisers. Her parents chaired the event, a full-on night of Hawaiian music, tiki torches, hula dances, and traditional food. There was even a pig roast, which was gross, but people loved it. For the past twenty-four hours, guys had been tending the meat as it roasted in the ground. At the appointed hour, the feasting would begin at the beachfront park.

  He held the garment out in front of him. “You made this?”

  “Every stitch. And one for Duffy, too.” She handed him the matching tiny shirt. “Wendell has o
ne, too. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. The fabric’s called modern barkcloth.”

  He looked clueless. Most people, especially most boys, didn’t really care about fabric types.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Well, thanks.”

  “No problem. Anyway,” she said, “you don’t have to wear it. Totally up to you.”

  He wore the shirt. Caroline couldn’t believe he wore the shirt. He showed up at the luau with his grandparents, and he wore the shirt unbuttoned and floating open, over a Go Navy T-shirt and dark blue board shorts.

  Tiki torches lined the walkway to the food pavilion, and hula music filled the air. Will joined a few of the older kids who worked at Scoops, and eventually made his way to the long tables skirted with fake grass. All the Shelbys pitched in, serving up fruity drinks, appetizers that her brothers proudly told everyone were called pu pu platters, and platters of grilled fish and veggies.

  Most of the kids hadn’t bothered to dress Hawaiian, but nearly all the adult guys wore aloha shirts and the women wore muumuus and sported flowers in their hair. Caroline had gone full native, as her sisters put it, wearing a lei of orchids around her neck and a string of kukui nuts around one ankle, and even coloring her hair jet black with temporary color. Ever since she was little, she’d loved any occasion to dress up like something other than who she was.

  Other people noticed Will, too—namely, Rona Stevens. She wore a grass skirt and coconut bra and a crown of silk flowers. Even to Caroline, she looked amazing. She and her friends from the cheering squad were doing some approximation of hula dancing and were laughing at their efforts. Moving her hips from side to side in comical fashion, Rona sidled over to Will.

  “Hey, surfer boy,” she said. “You look cool in that shirt.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?” he asked her.

  “Of course not.” She planted herself in front of him, arms akimbo. “Do I look like I’m being sarcastic?”

  “Guess not. Caroline made it.” He spotted her and waved her over.

  “No way. That’s incredible.” Rona reached out and gently touched the collar, her hand lingering there. “Good job, Caroline.”