The tour bus reached their hotel, which was already packed with some of the thirty-five thousand other quilters who would double Paducah’s population that weekend. Vinnie was sharing a room with another member of the tour, but she didn’t mind, knowing she was lucky to have a place at all. Every hotel room within fifty miles was booked up; those in the Executive Inn itself had been given out by lottery a year before. Megan and Donna had taken advantage of the city’s Bed and Breakfast program, in which local residents provided the visiting quilters with a room and a meal for about the same rate as a hotel. Vinnie wasn’t sure what Julia’s plans were, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Julia had used her star power to finagle a room in one of Paducah’s finest hotels.
On Thursday she rose early, eager to see as much of the show as possible before the crowds descended in full force. She rode the hotel’s shuttle to the convention center in downtown Paducah, on the shore where the Tennessee River fed into the Ohio, and was among the first hundred viewers to enter the show. She was not disappointed. The quilts were breathtaking, inspiring; she saw examples of every style from watercolor to Baltimore Album to others so innovative she wasn’t sure their styles had a particular name. There were quilts from every state and around the world, some made by professional quilters, others by amateurs, although Vinnie was puzzled by that distinction because she detected no difference in the quality of artistic expression or craftsmanship. She took snapshots of her favorites and wrinkled her nose at others, wondering what on earth that particular quilter had been thinking. But she figured one person’s art was another person’s drop cloth, and just because a quilt didn’t suit her tastes didn’t mean it wasn’t a good quilt. She, for example, thought she might keel over dead if she had to look at another Sunbonnet Sue quilt, but she had friends who thought little Sue was the most adorable creature on the face of the earth. Vinnie figured there was room enough in the quilting community for all manner of tastes and styles. She wasn’t as opinionated as some of the other viewers, who evaluated each quilt in loud, obnoxious voices, as if anyone listening gave a fig what they thought. Once, after an irritating old biddy had made a particularly thoughtless remark about a Mariner’s Compass quilt, Vinnie said, “I’m sorry you didn’t like it. I worked very hard on it and tried to do my best.” The old biddy’s jaw dropped in horror, and Vinnie turned her back and walked away with a satisfied smile. That would teach her to be a little more sensitive. Honestly. They were fellow quilters, after all; if they were going to offer criticism, it should be constructive, and it should never be unkind.
By lunchtime Vinnie was fatigued from being on her feet all morning, so she met up with a group of ladies from the tour and strolled downtown for lunch. Spring was much further along in Paducah than in Dayton, and the skies were clear and sunny above the blooming dogwood trees. The downtown streets were charming, as all the shops—from the hardware store to the women’s clothing boutique—displayed quilts in their front windows. Vinnie considered it a thoughtful, friendly gesture, the way the entire city welcomed the visiting quilters.
After lunch Vinnie toured the Museum of the American Quilter’s Society, then returned to the convention center to attend a lecture by one of her favorite quilters. She waited until later that afternoon, when most of the other visitors were at supper, before visiting the merchants’ mall, so she could shop without too much jostling from the crowd. She quickly snapped up several yards of fabric and a pattern for a quilted pullover, then added a box of notecards and a few books to her purchases. She might have gone on until all her money was spent and her charge card melted from so much use, except her tote bag was getting too heavy to carry. She decided, reluctantly, to call it a day, because she wanted to be in top form when she met the Cross-Country Quilters the next afternoon.
Vinnie tried to sleep in Friday morning to make the afternoon come sooner, but she was up at dawn, bursting with energy and impatient to see her friends. She distracted herself pleasantly enough by seeing the rest of the quilts and continuing her shopping, but it was a miracle she made it to lunch. An afternoon class kept her busy for a few hours, and then, at last, it was time.
She arrived at their designated meeting place in the lobby of the Executive Inn a half hour early, but there were so many other visitors milling about, she worried that she might not see her friends. She managed to find one of the last empty chairs in the place and gingerly climbed on top of it, the better to scan the crowds, but before long, a security guard asked her to get down. She did, but only because he asked nicely and seemed genuinely concerned for her safety.
Four o’clock arrived, and at last Vinnie spotted two familiar faces. “Megan,” she shouted, waving her arm in the air. “Donna! Over here!”
They worked their way toward her, and a moment later they were embracing. “It’s so good to see you,” Donna said, hugging her. “You look wonderful.”
“Well, naturally. You look lovely yourself.” She did, indeed; she had slimmed down some, and her skin had a healthy glow. “That California sunshine suits you.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that,” Donna said, laughing. “I’m already tempted to move in with Julia permanently.”
“And where is our Julia?” Vinnie asked, searching the crowd behind her friends. “Didn’t she come with you?”
“No, she had to cancel. She was afraid of what might happen if she left the studio for too long.”
“From what she writes about that Deneford character, that was probably a sensible decision.” Vinnie smiled at Megan. “Megan, honey, how are you?”
“Fine.” She hesitated. “I’ve been better.”
Vinnie sensed her apprehension. She knew she shouldn’t mention Adam, but she couldn’t help herself. “I suppose you’re upset about my grandson? I know you two had a falling out.”
“You weren’t even supposed to know about us.”
“Grandmothers have their ways. Now, surely you know how disappointed I am. Can’t you at least tell me what went wrong?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Megan studied her for a moment, then sighed. “It’s true we never actually agreed not to see other people, but I thought we were seeing each other exclusively.” Then her expression hardened. “I fail to understand how you can tell someone you love them and, at the same time, be involved with someone else. Keith did it, but I never expected Adam to.”
Shocked, Vinnie said, “You think Adam cheated on you?”
“I didn’t say he cheated on me. We never specifically said we wouldn’t see other people. Is that still cheating?”
“Yes,” Donna said.
“Megan, honey, I know my grandson. He’s not perfect, but he isn’t cruel. I know he wouldn’t betray you like this.”
Megan fixed her with a penetrating look. “Can you honestly tell me he isn’t seeing Natalie?”
Oh. Vinnie glanced at Donna, but Donna’s expression told her to expect no defense of Adam from her. “He is seeing her now,” she admitted, “but I’m sure he only took up with her afterward.”
Still Megan watched her, as if sifting her words to find the truth in them, or to find hope. Then she softened. “I wish I could be that certain, but I can’t deny what I saw. I can’t ignore evidence when it’s right before my eyes. I did that with Keith for too many years, and I won’t do it again.”
Vinnie knew there had been a terrible misunderstanding, but she could not see how to resolve it. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” She took Megan’s hand and gave her a sad smile. “But I hope that whatever happened between you and my grandson, you and I will always be friends.”
“Of course we will,” Megan said, without hesitation and so warmly that Vinnie felt her throat tightening with emotion.
“Okay, now,” Donna said. “Let’s not start weeping in the middle of the quilt show.”
Vinnie and Megan laughed, and before they could become sentimental again, Donna launched into a narrative of her adventures on the set of Prairie Vengeance. Her story was so lively and full of
fun Hollywood gossip that before they knew it, forty minutes had passed.
“I wonder what happened to Grace,” Megan said. “Did she know where and when to meet?”
“I sent her the same email I sent you,” Donna said, scanning the crowd.
Vinnie shrugged and said, “There are always delays at that airport. She might be late, but she’ll be here.”
Their conversation broke off as they watched the quilters passing their way to and from the main entrance to the quilt show. Suddenly Donna pointed and cried, “Look who’s here!”
Vinnie expected to see Grace, but instead discovered none other than Sylvia Compson. She was exiting the quilt show with a kind-looking man carrying a shopping bag in each hand. “Sylvia,” Vinnie cried out. “Yoo hoo! Come say hello!”
She had to shout a second time before Sylvia turned their way, but when her eyes met Vinnie’s, she smiled and waved. She and the man made their way across the busy lobby to the Cross-Country Quilters. “My goodness,” Sylvia said, giving Vinnie a warm hug. “Vinnie Burkholder. Of all the people to run into.”
“I should have known I’d see you here.” Vinnie laughed, then indicated her companions. “I don’t know if you remember these two from quilt camp. They were first-timers.”
Vinnie reintroduced Megan and Donna, and in turn, Sylvia introduced them to the man, a friend from Waterford named Andrew. Then she gave them a quizzical frown and said, “Why are you three standing around in the lobby? Are you bored with the quilt show already, or are you waiting for a bus?”
“We’re waiting for a friend of ours,” Donna said. “Grace Daniels. She was at camp with us.”
“Oh, yes, I know Grace,” Sylvia said. “I haven’t seen her yet today, but she should be around here someplace. She was at the banquet last night.”
The Cross-Country Quilters exchanged a look. “She was here last night?” Megan asked. “We thought she wasn’t coming in until today.”
Sylvia shook her head, puzzled. “No, she’s here. We sat together at supper.” Suddenly her expression brightened. “There she is now. Grace!”
Vinnie saw her then, too, and she added her voice to Sylvia’s. When Grace looked around to see who was shouting her name, Sylvia and the Cross-Country Quilters waved wildly. She spotted them through the crowd, and then, to Vinnie’s astonishment, she froze. An indecipherable expression came over her face, and a heartbeat later, she had spun around and disappeared into the crowd.
Vinnie was too astounded to do anything but stare. “What on earth?” she finally managed to say.
Her friends seemed equally dumbstruck. “That was Grace, wasn’t it?” Megan said. “I mean, there were a lot of people walking between us, and she was on the other side of the room—”
“No, that was Grace, all right,” Sylvia said.
“Maybe she didn’t recognize us,” Donna said.
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Vinnie declared. “She looked right at us.”
“And even if she didn’t remember you three, she would certainly remember me,” Sylvia said. “We’ve been friends for fifteen years.”
Vinnie didn’t know what to think. One glance at Megan and Donna told her they were equally at a loss.
“Well,” Vinnie eventually said, “I guess it’s just us three, then.”
Megan and Donna only nodded in reply.
They bid Sylvia and Andrew good-bye and went inside the conference center to enjoy the quilt show, as much as they could enjoy anything knowing that one of their friends hadn’t shown up lest she jeopardize her career and the other had fled the building rather than speak to them.
Shaking, Grace walked as rapidly as she could away from the convention center, which was slow indeed, encumbered as she was by the two metal crutches she now needed to walk more than a few steps. She had no idea where she was headed, but the urgency to get away compelled her forward. She had waited an hour. That should have been long enough. They should have given up on her and left the lobby, allowing her to sneak upstairs to her room undetected. Now what was she going to do?
She tired too easily to go far, so she went to the Museum of the American Quilter’s Society, which to her relief retained its air of contemplative serenity despite the excitement surrounding the quilt show. She found an unoccupied bench in front of one of the older exhibits and sat down, pretending to study the work in front of her, but in truth, resting and trying to sort out her thoughts. Had they seen her crutches? Then she had a more disturbing thought: Had they pursued her, but stopped when they saw her crutches? That was exactly what she had feared—and exactly what Justine insisted would never happen, not with true friends. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of the tools that help you to live your life,” Justine had admonished her, but Grace had been too exhausted by similar arguments to explain. She wasn’t ashamed of the crutches, nor was she ashamed of strangers’ seeing her use them. As an African-American woman in a white world, she was used to sidelong glances from ignorant people; it mattered little whether they came because she was black or because she looked disabled. What she could not bear was the uncomfortable reactions of friends and acquaintances. At first even her own family had pretended to ignore the wheelchair, and the crutches in their turn until they got used to them, but at least her family soon resumed treating her as they always had. She could not say the same for her colleagues at the museum. Some ignored the crutches and spoke to her loudly, with false cheer in their voices; others looked askance at the crutches and avoided talking to her at all; most humiliating were those who assumed her mind was as weakened as her body, and either no longer entrusted important tasks to her or explained the obvious in slow voices as if she were a child.
And then there was Gabriel, who phoned at least twice a week, offering to pick up her groceries or run her errands or stop by to see if anything around the loft needed to be fixed. For her part, Justine seemed to have forgotten that Grace was the mother and she the child; she checked in every day to see what Grace was doing, where she was going that day, what she was eating, and how often she rested.
How would the Cross-Country Quilters have reacted? Grace couldn’t say for certain, but judging by the reactions of her other friends, they would respond with nervousness, the sort of transparent phony encouragement one saw in cheerleaders for the losing team, or pity. Of the three, Grace despised pity the most.
She stayed in the museum for another hour, long enough for the Cross-Country Quilters to have given up waiting for her to return, enough for them to be well into their tour of the quilt show. Only then did she return to the Executive Inn, and she made sure her friends were nowhere in sight before she rode the elevator to her room.
She had planned to attend a dinner lecture that evening, but instead she ordered room service and read a book until it was time for bed. Saturday morning she had breakfast delivered, and then she hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and spent the entire day alone, watching a local cable station’s continuous broadcast of quilt show highlights and wishing she had never left home.
Sunday morning she ventured out of her room, hoping the Cross-Country Quilters had not changed their travel plans. According to their last emails, Vinnie’s tour bus had departed the previous evening, Megan intended to drive home right after breakfast, and Donna’s flight was due to take off at any moment. Since she didn’t have to be at the airport until the afternoon, she could enjoy a few hours of the last day of the quilt show without worrying about running into them.
The crowds had dramatically diminished compared to Friday and Saturday, and Grace found that she was now able to get around the convention center rather easily. She viewed half of the quilts before having a quiet brunch of muffins and grapefruit in the convention center restaurant. She then browsed through the merchants’ mall, which still displayed an impressive array of wares despite having had most of their stock depleted over the previous three days. Grace saw several items she would have liked to purchase, but she did not want to attempt maneuvering with
the crutches while toting a shopping bag. Next time she would plan for that, but then again, next year her condition might necessitate using the chair instead of the crutches, or she might not be able to come at all.
At the thought, she abruptly left the merchants’ mall with its reminders of her limitations and returned to the quilt show, where she tried to lose herself in the beauty of the quilts. She found her own, a quilt she had completed three years before, the last full-size project she had made and perhaps would ever make. With machine appliqué and silk ribbon embroidery she had created a portrait of Harriet Tubman encircled by folk-art motifs symbolizing events from her life. A second-place ribbon hung beside the quilt, and for a moment it brought her a small thrill of joy, which quickly faded when a voice in the back of her mind whispered that it could be the last award of her career.
“Well, my goodness,” came a voice from behind her. “Second place. I would have given it first, myself, but no one asked me.”
Grace recognized the voice, and didn’t turn around. “Hello, Sylvia.”
“Hello yourself.” Sylvia walked around her, studying the crutches, looking at Grace from beneath raised brows. “Is this some type of fashion statement, or do you actually need those contraptions?”
Grace’s grip tightened on the handles. “I need them.”
“I see.” Sylvia nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose this is why you took off so suddenly the other day?”
Grace could only manage a nod.
“I must say you can move along quite quickly on them. I don’t think I could have caught up with you at my sprinting pace. Granted, my sprinting pace isn’t what it used to be.”
Grace took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I need them?”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 89