Bound and Deceased

by Rothery, Tess

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Did you try something with her that she didn’t want?”

  He still didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, Clay, just get out of here, will you? I’m not your fallback plan. You can’t just move in with me every time someone else kicks you out. Go back to Portland, be a man, and find a place to live.” Taylor got up, walked straight to the register counter, and pulled out some paperwork. The words on the page in front of her were just a blur, but she pretended to work. After about a minute, Clay slunk out the front door

  Just friends.

  Yup. He and Lila, the girl he had moved in with, were totally just friends. Because she had rejected his moves for the last time and kicked him out.

  Taylor thought back not to the day he had almost died, but to the day he had moved into her place, desperate because of a housing crisis. He’d made her laugh so hard while they moved his stuff in. He’d bought her dinner and wine. That night had been the first of what Taylor was sure was the rest of her life. He had been the one. Falling in love after years of friendship. Like in a movie.

  The shop was so quiet she could just make out the sound of her mom’s voice on the video across the store. “Life rarely turns out the way we plan, but quilts usually do. That’s what’s so nice about quilting. We can be in complete control so long as we’re careful.”

  Quilts could even be perfect. Infinite do-overs. Rip it out till it’s right. Taylor gazed at the walls that surrounded her with their sunny prints. Their bright, innocent, hopeful prints. Reprints of the colors and designs that had cheered a weary nation during the depression.

  Quilting did have the ability to sooth an anxious soul, comfort a broken heart, or bring a sense of order into chaos. All you had to do was take it slow and careful.

  There was no reason to be a sloppy quilter.

  Which brought to mind Reynette.

  A perfect distraction from the muddle Taylor found herself in.

  Why was Reynette’s reputation among her family that of a sloppy amateur when she’d been running a successful quilt side gig for twenty years—and had the records to prove it?

  This was a question far more interesting than why Taylor had been such a sucker to fall for Clay Seldon in the first place.

  Flour Sax had few customers that afternoon, so when Hannah returned from lunch, she and Taylor were able to chat for a while. As Guy had said, Hannah was a young woman of simple interests. Church, work, and a surprising passion for vintage clothes.

  “The thing is,” she was saying as Taylor locked up the front at the end of the day, “fast fashion has been around forever, so there is no shortage of vintage stuff to be found. You can make a killing as an online retailer if you know what a good example of the era is. It doesn’t have to be a name brand so long as it exemplifies the style. Though obviously a quality designer brings in more money.”

  “I’d heard your boss was using some of the vintage stuff for quilts.” Taylor tossed it out casually as though she wasn’t eager for the answer.

  “Reynette was kind of a genius. You’ve got to turn over your product pretty fast at a thrift store if you want to keep your customers coming back. They don’t want to see the same stuff hanging there week after week. She realized the value in repurposing the fabric pretty early on.”

  “Seems like you wouldn’t run into quality quilting cotton in clothing very often.”

  “Nope, that’s why she switched up her style, and that too was an act of genius, don’t you think?”

  A flutter of excitement burst in Taylor’s chest. Hannah was about to volunteer exactly the thing Taylor wanted to know.

  “She was a really good quilter. No pattern or style was too hard for her. But when she tried to make a traditional quilt out of the wrong fabrics, no one wanted them. It made her look ignorant. So she switched it up and made what she called ‘Sloppy Scrappies’ instead. People died for them once she started in on it.”

  “I sort of find that hard to believe.”

  “It wouldn’t have worked if they were honestly sloppy, of course.” Hannah poked around on her phone for a minute. “Here, look at her old Instagram. We used it for a while and then realized we didn’t need it. Our market was antique stores and flea markets.”

  Taylor scrolled through the feed that was a couple of years old. The quilts were definitely sloppy by her standards. Corners badly matched, surfaces not ironed. And yet, the artistry was impeccable.

  Reynette had left behind the intricate patterns and embraced the crazy quilting of their grandparents with their silks, satins, velvets and heavy-handed embroidery. But instead of being dark and oppressive like those Victorian inspired pieces often were, Reynette’s sloppy scrappies were magical rainbow creations. Where the formality of normal quilting had left her expressionless, this new thing she was doing seemed to have unchained her imagination. Unhinged it, even. The flow of color, the balance of color, was the stuff of genius. Everything was color and texture, and they told a story too. Not one of them was actually quilted. Instead they were tied with yarn—big clunky knots of yarn over every one of her blankets.

  It was absurd, but at the same time, Taylor would have paid a pretty penny to have one to hang in her shop.

  “You’re speechless,” Hannah spoke reverently.

  “I am. My brain is filled entirely with superlatives and protestations. These shouldn’t be beautiful. This shouldn’t have worked.” She was also remembering that terrible quilt Reynette had posted on her thrift shop website. If she was capable of this work, why had she not shared it there? Laziness probably. Too many things to update and that blog post had slipped through .

  “But it did. She could piece a top in three days, and have it tied and bound by the end of day five. Just in the evenings after she was done running her shop and online resale empire during the day.”

  “And all of this was just to keep the stock fresh in the store?”

  “It started that way, of course, but clearly she had a gift.” Hannah pocketed her phone.

  “What happened to them?”

  “She sold them almost as fast as she could make them. But there are one or two left at her house, packed up somewhere. I’d like to talk to Art and see if I could sort through her online merchandise at least.”

  “What’s happened to her store in the meantime?”

  “Her son-in-law Montana has been running it. I assume it’s work as usual.”

  “Your tone indicates running it into the ground.” Taylor ran an old-fashioned sweeper over her rosy indoor-outdoor carpet while they talked. There had been too few people and too little fabric cut to need to haul out the big guns.

  “He doesn’t have any vision. I don’t expect it will last long without her to guide him.”

  “What do you think of Art? Will he take the shop in hand or let it go?”

  “Art is a mystery to me. I only met him twice before they married.” Hannah glanced at her watch. “I’d better get going. I’m still getting settled at my new place.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Taylor wished she had thought to invite her out to dinner. She could have talked about the thrift shop and those magical quilts forever.

  Hannah had shared so much and yet she herself seemed a mystery. Could she really be as basic as she appeared? It would be good for her if she was. Taylor could use an uncomplicated hard worker at the shop. Roxy deserved help that would actually help.

  Taylor called Hudson on her short walk home. “Just checking in on you. How’s your hand?”

  “That kid has a hard nose.” Hudson was about four years younger than Taylor and a solid eight years younger than Clay. It was cute to hear him call Clay a kid. “Did he live through the day?”

  “I think I finally got the fact of the thing through his equally hard head.”

  “And what is the fact of the thing, Taylor? There are a few of us who’d like to know.”

  “The fact is this: I am not in love with him and I hope I never see him ag
ain.”

  “That’s a good start,” Hudson said. “A very good start.”

  “How’s dinner tomorrow night sound?” Taylor asked. “I owe you, of course, but I’d also like to eat with you because it’s been too long, and I miss you.”

  “Long time since breakfast.” He laughed.

  “Long time since a real date.”

  “Sure, I’m free tomorrow.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  They ended the call with some polite compliments.

  At her door, Taylor contemplated Hudson. He was a good guy. She was looking forward to seeing him. He sounded like he meant his compliments too. But how could a girl be sure he meant it when a guy said she was worth breaking a fist over? Either way, Taylor had a grin on her face when she paid Ellery and greeted Grandpa Ernie.

  The grin left her face when she got a text from Carly about the Comfort Quilt Shop Guild.

  She wanted to ignore the thing. What exactly constituted a quilt shop emergency anyway? However, she wasn’t much hungry despite skipping lunch, and Grandpa Ernie seemed to be in a good mood, so they headed out to the town hall for the meeting.

  Chapter Nine

  This meeting of the Quilt Shop Guild was similar to all the others, including the table of snacks. Someone had planned the emergency well in advance, it seemed.

  “My apologies.” Carly, the owner of Bible Creek Quilt and Gift, stood in the center of the rustic town hall building, in front of a refreshments table. “This meeting is rushed, but I didn’t want you to starve, and that was all I had at home.”

  It looked to be half a sheet cake with the remainder of an anniversary message, a bowl of pretzels, and a canister of cheese dip. “Please, fill your plates and then join us. This should be a quick meeting.”

  Taylor filled a plate for Grandpa Ernie and herself, and they sat at the empty table. They were soon joined by a couple of other quilt shop owners. June, the woman who owned Comfort Cozies teased him about the pretty young thing he takes out to lunch all the time now.

  He beamed, bragged, and ate his pretzels.

  “Shh.” Carly stood before them with her finger to her lips. “I’ve spoken to a few of you already, but I couldn’t call the meeting till I had final word from the college. They are obviously devastated at the loss of Reynette Woods, a true artist who had much to share, and are thrilled with the idea of a memorial event in her honor.”

  That seemed nice, but hardly an emergency.

  “They want us to do it on Sunday.”

  “Sunday!” Shara from Dutch Hex almost shouted. “We can’t be ready by Sunday. This is ridiculous.”

  “How hard can it be?” Taylor spun a thin crisp pretzel on her finger.

  Shara shot her an angry look. “You’ve got all your best quilts just ready?”

  “Why do we need our best quilts? What’s going on and why haven’t I been included?” Taylor dropped the pretzel and addressed Carly.

  “Please, Taylor, relax. No one knows what’s going on. Shara proposed a quilt sale for the Oregon Food Bank, since that’s the charity Reynette was passionate about. The college will be hosting the memorial and some of the artists there will also have work for sale. As the backbone of the quilt community in this town, however, it is up to us to plan the event. Speakers, food, all of it.” She turned from Taylor to the group at large. “I hope each of you will be willing to donate two quilts to auction.”

  Taylor whistled. “That is a lot in two days. I agree.”

  They hammered out some of the details, Carly, herself, humbly offering to speak, June from Comfort Cozies providing music, and Taylor and Shara seeking food donations from the town restaurants. It would be a mad dash, and Taylor wasn’t excited about it. She stood to go as soon as she had her assignment, but Shara put her hand up. “Can we address the elephant in the room?”

  “Who you calling an elephant?” Grandpa Ernie shouted with a laugh.

  “Taylor. That’s who.” Shara’s thin lip curled. “I know this meeting is technically about the memorial, but she crossed the line by ordering my proprietorial fabric.”

  “What are you talking about?” Taylor was too tired to argue, but not too tired to sound like she was arguing, apparently.

  “I’m talking about the Lancaster Linens, all organic vintage print line. That’s my line. We all know that. I’ve been carrying it exclusively for three years and yesterday one of my best customers popped by to say she liked your selection better.”

  There was a gasp from behind Taylor.

  “You mean the organic flour sack reprints I ordered to sell at Flour Sax Quilt Shop? I find it impossible to believe that you are the only shop allowed to carry fabric that rightfully belongs in my store.”

  “Taylor…” the soft voice of June interrupted. “We have a mutual understanding among us that complementarianism is better than competition. If we each hold to our aesthetic, then we lift each other up.”

  “How is a flour sack reprint line not in the aesthetic of an entirely vintage fabric store literally named Flour Sax?” Taylor’s face was hot. She wasn’t sure if she was about to start yelling or crying, or maybe both. And she wasn’t sure why she had let Shara set her off. Besides, of course, not having eaten anything but those pretzels all day and the drama Clay and Sissy had both brought into her life.

  “You are talking about Lancaster Linens, right?” Shara repeated.

  “Yes, they had a gorgeous new line of reprints, all organic, that are a lovely mark up for me.”

  “We all have lines that we carry exclusively,” Carly of Bible Creek said. “I would never carry your Storybook line and I hope you would never carry my Lines of Truth.”

  “Why on earth would I want Bible themed fabric in my store? Shara cannot own flour sack reprints just because they come from a line with the name Lancaster in it.”

  Carly of Bible Creek looked at her watch. “This issue deserves its own meeting. Let’s table it for now so we can focus on the memorial.”

  Shara was not pleased. “I’ll table it so long as she takes that fabric off her shelves tonight.”

  “Get a life.” Taylor walked slowly toward the door, dignified, and tall. Grandpa Ernie trailed behind her, slow, shaky, but with chin lifted high and mustache bristling.

  Carly sidled up next to Taylor. “We have all been so patient, Taylor. We know we do things different down here and you come from the corporate world, but please do take that fabric down. We’ll address this with equity at another meeting, I promise.”

  Grandpa Ernie scowled at Carly. “No one tells my daughter what to do with her fabric.”

  A tear burst out of Taylor’s eye against her will. It had been a good few days, but there it was again. He couldn’t quite remember who Taylor was.

  Carly clucked gently.

  Taylor helped Grandpa Ernie down the steps to the car and drove the few blocks home.

  She had spent a lot of money on that organic fabric, and she was going to sell every inch of it if it was the last thing she did. Shara and her copy-cat store Dutch Hex would not dictate what sold at Flour Sax.

  After Taylor got Grandpa Ernie settled into bed, she snuck back to her shop. She had five bolts of this Lancaster Linens organic feed sack reprints. She bit her tongue in annoyance when she looked at the name of the design line again. Feed sacks, of which flour sacks were just one style. But still, feed sack nostalgia was the point of their store.

  Amish nostalgia was the point of Shara’s.

  This fabric still belonged with Taylor.

  She selected a tiny overall daisy pattern, white flowers on deep-brown background, a polka dot and chicken pattern in yellow on dusty-green, a white background with blue, yellow, and brown daisy-like flowers, and a faded-blue background with brown and yellow paisley from her selection and set to work.

  Four hours later she had a four-foot by four-foot, nine-patch wall hanging, machine quilted on the bias. Taylor hung it in the window, with a hand-written sign—she was a pro a
t hand drawn ads—letting the town know they had original organic reprints inside. Then she locked up and went home.

  There were still a few hours left to sleep, and she could now that she had worked out her frustration and anger on a project. It was almost as good as shopping.

  * * *

  Roxy and Taylor began the next day by filming an impromptu history of feed and flour sack fabrics. It went so smoothly on the first try that Taylor let herself feel optimistic and hopeful about the day.

  Unfortunately, Shara texted at nine saying she was coming over to discuss the food donations for the memorial event. She came around the back door, but it was obvious she had already seen the new window display. Moments later Carly from Bible Creek Quilt and Gift joined them, looking grim.

  “Coffee?” Taylor gestured to the little coffee station she had set up with the Keurig and water cooler.

  “Taylor, I can understand how you feel.” Carly patted her shoulder. “But this is no time to escalate and antagonize.”

  “This shop has always wanted me out of business.” Shara hissed her esses at Taylor.

  Taylor and her mom had always wanted Dutch Hex to go out of business, but only because she had come in as a copy-cat, trying to steal the nostalgia-wholesome shoppers from Flour Sax. Shara could have opened any store she wanted, but even the name Dutch Hex, which referred to the painted quilt blocks on barns in Amish country, was similar to Flour Sax.

  “Shara, let’s try not to think catastrophically,” Carly soothed.

  “Who do you even think you are?” Shara responded. “You bought your shop. You didn’t build it from the ground up. And anyway, since when did a ‘Quilt and Gift Shop’ start carrying books?”

  Carly’s cheeks reddened. “Our customers have been asking.”

  “Amish books?” Shara’s face reddened, too, but out of anger.

  “Christian fiction. Lots of kinds.” Carly cleared her throat.

  “Amish.” Shara doubled down.

  “And quilt mysteries.” Carly took a long, slow breath.

  “I carry Amish books.” Shara leaned forward, like a cat ready to pounce.