“I’m going to see if Jenny’s done,” Harriet said. “This may be our only chance to see Colm Byrne.” She went to find their friend, returning minutes later with Jenny in tow.
“Is that little guy tuning the guitar Colm?” Carla whispered when the group had reached the auditorium.
They stretched their first quilt open and held the edges of the hanging sleeve so that Mavis and Connie could slip the rod that would suspend the quilt into it.
“I have to admit, he looks bigger on TV,” Mavis said. “Not that I’ve spent a lot of time watching him, mind you, but he’s been interviewed on all the local morning shows this week.”
“I must have missed that,” Jenny said, unfolding a cathedral window quilt made from small-scale floral prints in mauves and pinks. “Then again, I was never into that sort of music.”
“Not even in the sixties?” Harriet asked.
“Not even then,” Jenny said and cringed as someone struck a loud and discordant note on a guitar. “I wanted to grow up to be a concert pianist. I listened to classical music.”
“Wow,” Carla said.
“I listened to a lot of classical music when I was young, but only because it was part of my parent’s carefully orchestrated plan for my education,” Harriet said. “I also had to learn how to play piano and cello. I listened to grunge bands whenever no one was looking.”
“I thought my childhood was weird,” Lauren said, “but you definitely have me beat.”
“What was so weird about your childhood?” Harriet asked.
“We’re talking about you, Miss I Played Piano and Cello While I Was Still in Diapers.”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault I was an overachiever by proxy.”
“He’s staring at us,” Carla said in a hushed voice.
“No, he’s not,” Lauren said. “He’s practicing his come-hither look. It’s kind of creepy, if you ask me.”
“Can you gals help us here?” Aunt Beth asked.
“If you can tear yourself away,” Mavis added.
“Why do you have to have so many helpers?” Carla asked Jenny as they prepared a red-and-yellow patchwork crib quilt to be hung.
“The committee chose several quilts that represent the styles of the times to be displayed on those raised platforms. We all have to answer questions about the style of our quilt and quilting in general during the sixties. They finally found a polyester double-knit quilt that looked decent and wasn’t too heavy to hang without sagging. One of the Small Stitches quilt group had one that was four-inch squares in crayon colors that had been tied with yarn. The yarn ties were also crayon colors that coordinated with the squares.”
“That sounds kind of cool,” Harriet said.
“It wasn’t actually done in the sixties,” Mavis said knowingly. “Joyce’s mother had cut all the squares but never made it up. Joyce put it together and did the yarn tying.”
“Still sounds interesting,” Harriet said.
“Do you have any more wigs with the costume leftovers?” Jenny asked. “The Small Stitches are all wearing polyester outfits and doing their hair up in beehives. My two teammates want to coordinate, and they were hoping to find afro wigs like the one I have.”
“I do still have wigs, and if we comb the curls out, they’ll match. Tell them to drop by, and I can fix them up.”
“Thanks,” Jenny looked around to see if the other two were still in the auditorium, to no avail. “I’ll let them know.”
The music got louder as they continued hanging quilts.
“Can I borrow you ladies for a minute?” asked a skinny man with three lip-rings and a graying goatee that sported two small braids with a turquoise and silver bead at the end of each one, giving him a devilish look. He wore a black T-shirt with Colm Byrne written in large orange letters diagonally across the front and a schedule of tour dates on the back. His bare forearms were covered with blue butterflies, Indian gods and, on his left arm, the word peace with a stylized peace symbol inside the C. Harriet guessed he was a manager of some sort.
“We need a row of people so we can fine-tune the lighting angles. We’re used to playing much bigger venues, so we have to experiment a little and see if we’ve toned it down enough.”
“I think our star couldn’t stand it that we didn’t immediately drop our quilts and run to the stage as soon as he strummed his first chord,” Lauren whispered.
“We’ll finish hanging our last two quilts, and then we’d be happy to help you out,” Connie answered for the group, using her best first-grade-teacher voice.
The man turned and went back to the stage, proving that even a road-hardened tour manager wasn’t immune to its effect.
“I’m going to go find the restroom,” Jenny said when the last quilt was up and the group had started toward the stage.
“I’ve never been in the first row at a rock concert,” Harriet said and sat down in the middle of the row.
“I’ve never been to a rock concert at all,” Carla answered in a hushed voice.
“Not even at the county fair?” Lauren asked.
Carla’s face burned scarlet.
“We never had the money when I was little, and then I had Wendy.”
“We’re going to fix that,” Lauren said, not bothering to whisper. “And I don’t mean this aging has-been.” She gestured toward the stage, and Harriet reached out and pushed her hand down.
“Would you be quiet! He can hear you.”
“And I care why?” Lauren shot back. She turned back to Carla. “When someone really good comes to the Tacoma Dome I’m getting you tickets. If Terry isn’t in town, I’ll take you myself.”
Carla’s boyfriend Terry was in some sort of military intelligence group that meant he came and went at unpredictable times, doing things he couldn’t talk about.
Lauren settled back into her seat.
“Since when did you take over Carla’s social education?” Harriet asked her.
“Since you’re too busy with all your boyfriend drama to help her out. And I can’t see your aunt or Mavis taking her to a concert.”
“That’s the truth,” Mavis affirmed.
Further conversation was made impossible as Colm Byrne strode onto center stage and strummed the opening chords to one of his hit songs, dramatically raising his arm after each stroke. A black-and-orange dragon covered most of his arm; a stylized peace symbol was worked into the dragon’s shoulder. He pranced and danced and belted out song after song, one running into another, while the sound man adjusted speakers, and the lights bounced behind him and in front of him and twice hit the quilters straight in the face, blinding them momentarily.
Harriet wondered, and not for the first time, why Irish and British singers didn’t seem to have an accent when they sang, and yet were sometimes almost unintelligible, their accents were so thick, when they spoke. She decided that if she got the chance to talk to the manager again, she was going to ask.
The show went on for a full twenty minutes before the skinny man raised his arm, made a circle in the air and then drew his hand across his neck. The music stopped as quickly as it had begun.
“Everybody good?” he asked, looking first at the men gathered around the soundboard, located in an enclosure halfway up the center seating section, and then into the wings and to the back of the auditorium at the lighting managers.
“Okay, then, there’ll be a taco bar set up in the big truck at seven. Until then, try to get some rest—we’ve got a full schedule coming up.”
Byrne went off the left side of the stage, only to reappear in the far aisle at the seating level moments later.
“What did you ladies think?” he asked as he approached Harriet, Carla and Lauren, who were still in their seats. Mavis and Connie and Aunt Beth had gone the opposite direction to straighten the last quilt they’d hung before being drafted as audience. The words rolled off his tongue with a charming lilt.
“That was great,” Carla gushed, her face lighting up.
“We we
re just discussing the fact that Carla’s never been to a rock concert before,” Lauren said. “You’re her first.”
“I hope I didn’t disappoint,” he said with a slight bow.
“It was…amazing,” Carla stammered.
“I’m surprised someone of your…” Lauren searched for a word.
“Renown,” Harriet supplied.
“Yes, someone of your renown would come to such a small town event as our sixties festival,” Lauren finished.
“Normally, I wouldn’t,” Colm said with a practiced smile. “As you can see, we’re equipped for a much larger venue, but when an old friend calls, what can you do?” His Irish accent seemed to get stronger as he spoke. “Wait here a second.”
He jogged to the side door to the stage, opened it and spoke to someone on the other side. He returned with three lanyards, large yellow cards swinging from their ends.
“Here you go, ladies,” he said. “They’re good for any of the performances. Come back beforehand and meet the band before we go on.”
“Thank you so much,” Carla said, gushing enough for all three of them. Harriet said a polite thank-you, and Lauren managed a tight smile.
“I suppose this means we have to go now,” Lauren said when Colm was gone.
“What an ingrate,” Harriet shot back. “Lots of girls would toss their panties on stage for this privilege.”
Lauren hit her shoulder, but Harriet just laughed.
“Where have you been?” Lauren demanded of Jenny when they had rejoined the group. She had just come up from the back of the auditorium.
“I ran into the quilt history chairman, and she wanted to go over our information with us again. Now she formally wants each trio to dress alike. And she wanted to be sure we didn’t overlap on our stories. I tried to reassure her that I didn’t have the slightest inclination to talk about mustard-yellow polyester or peach-colored shell shapes, but I guess the trio with the Amish quilt wants to tell the entire history of hand-quilting and how their quilt fits in the whole picture.”
“Are they wearing Amish costumes?” Harriet asked.
“They are, and before you ask, no, none of them is Amish.”
“Isn’t that sacrilegious?” Lauren asked.
“Perhaps,” Jenny said. “But fortunately for the organizers, there aren’t a lot of Amish in northwest Washington to call them out on it.”
“I’ll be glad when this is all over,” Connie said with a sigh. “I’ve got to make baby quilts for the unwed mothers group. We’ve got three girls having their babies next month, and one is having twins. And this bunch didn’t take to quilting the way our Carla did.”
“I think we’re done here for the day,” Aunt Beth announced. “Everyone ready to split?”
Harriet looked at her aunt.
“I’m practicing the lingo of the times, honey,” she said and laughed.
Harriet shook her head. It was going to be a long week.
Chapter 9
“Are you sure you’re okay with me leaving?” Aunt Beth asked Harriet for what had to be the tenth time.
“I’m fine. My tables are all set up, which I know you know because you and Mavis helped me. I’ve got my box of quilting samples right here.” She pointed to a large plastic tub sitting by the studio door. “I have my business cards, order forms, a paper printout of my current calendar, and two thousand pens with Quilt As Desired and my phone number on them.
“I also have a baggie full of cheap tape measures with the same info, only to be given to people who seem serious about having me stitch their quilt. Am I forgetting anything?”
“Do you have some bottles of water? And a healthy snack?”
“You know I do. Now, go, help Jorge. He actually needs it.”
“You’re sure?” Beth asked, causing Harriet to roll her eyes and sigh loudly.
“I haven’t been twelve for a long time, and having a fight with Aiden didn’t change that.”
“I’m not sure why they decided to start this shindig at five o’clock on a Wednesday,” Beth grumbled as she put on her coat then wrapped her scarf around her neck.
“I think it was something about wanting to shake out any problems before the out-of-town crowd arrives on the weekend.”
“Couldn’t we have done that Thursday morning when it would have been light out?”
“I’m just guessing here, but I’ll bet someone thought that Twinkies, Bugles stuffed with cheese from a can, and cocktail weenies were a hard sell as breakfast fare.”
“I suppose, and I guess it would have been too hard to make a brunch out of Instant Breakfast.”
“Jorge told me he’s been working on a few modern twists on the old classics. Something about dipping Twinkie slices in chocolate. Ritz crackers, too.”
“Sadly, that isn’t a new idea. The crackers, anyway. Ten or fifteen years ago, everyone and their brother were dipping any salty snack they could get their hands on in chocolate—potato chips, pretzels, peanuts. You name it, I’ve had it delivered to my door by a well-meaning friend on a decorative holiday plate.”
“Was any of it good?” Harriet asked hopefully.
“That’s beside the point,” Beth said and glared at her niece. “Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.”
“Oh, live a little, Auntie.”
“I’m going to gain five pounds just working in Jorge’s booth.”
Harriet laughed. Her aunt counted calories like an anorexic both for herself and her niece, but somehow it didn’t seem to result in any noticeable reduction in her aunt Beth’s comfortably plump girth.
“See you there,” Beth called as she went out into the rain.
Harriet was surprised by the size of the crowd that showed up for the festival opening. The aisles of the vendor hall had a steady flow of people browsing from booth to booth.
“Harriet,” Lauren said in a bright voice, “this is Kathy Ramsey. She lives in Sequim and is interested in having you quilt her latest project.”
Lauren handed her a blank order form and a pen on a clipboard. Harriet took them and guided Kathy to a chair at the back of the booth. She pulled the box of quilting samples from under the table and began discussing possible patterns for the quilt top Kathy described.
“Thanks for helping me in the booth tonight,” Harriet said to Lauren when Kathy had placed her order and moved on to the next booth in their aisle.
“It’s purely selfish. Things were dull in this town till you moved in. I’m enjoying my front row seat to the train wreck that is your love life. I don’t want you to pull up stakes and move.”
“Thanks, I think,” Harriet said and shook her head.
“Isn’t that that stage manager guy?” Lauren asked and pointed to the other end of the aisle and the small man with the beaded braids in his beard.
“Looks like it. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a quilter, though.”
“If long-haul truck drivers can be quilters, why not roadies?”
“I’m still having a hard time picturing those hulking, tattooed, beer-bellied truckers quilting at the truck stop between loads. I know it’s true, but still I can’t quite get the right visual on that one.”
“Incoming,” Lauren announced and stepped into the aisle to snare her next target.
An hour passed before the crowd thinned again.
“Do you need a break?” Robin asked. She and DeAnn had been waiting in the aisle for the last customer to move on.
“We’re fine,” Harriet said.
“Yes, we need a break,” Lauren said at the same time.
“Go,” DeAnn said. “We can hold down the fort here. Most of the people are migrating to the food court, so you shouldn’t be busy. The food vendors are doing a sort of happy hour.”
“Each food booth has some offering for a dollar,” Robin said. “You should go while they still have everything.”
“Okay, then. If anyone comes by and is interested, just put their name and number on an order form, and I c
an call them back to schedule a time to talk about it.”
“We can handle it,” Robin assured her.
“Let’s go see if Jenny wants to come with us,” Harriet suggested. “We have to walk through the main exhibit hall to get to the food court, so it’s not out of our way.”
“Sure,” Lauren said. “Maybe we can invite the Amish group and the Vienna Boy’s Choir while we’re at it.”
“Would you stop it? We’re just going to get Jenny. She needs a break, too.”
“Connie and Mavis probably already took her.”
“Geez, listen to you. We have to walk right past her area. What’s the problem?”
“Besides having to be on our best behavior? Can you imagine her eating a chocolate-covered Twinkie? Or a cocktail weenie?”
Lauren did have a point. Jenny’s silver pageboy haircut was never out of place, her outfits always coordinated, and Harriet had never seen her take more than a taste of junk food—just enough to not offend the others by being too perfect.
“Okay, just promise me you’ll have a Twinkie with me, no matter what Jenny does or doesn’t eat.”
“I just have to dodge my aunt.”
“I’ll distract her, and you buy two of them from Jorge.”
“Agreed,” Harriet said and led the way to the door that connected the south vendor hall with the main exhibit hall.
“Is that Jenny?” Lauren whispered as they approached Jenny’s quilt. With her Afro wig, tie-dyed tunic and large round-lensed sunglasses, the person standing next to the quilt was unrecognizable.
“How’s it going?” Harriet asked when they stopped in front of her.
“I can tell I’m going to get real tired of saying the same words over and over again,” Jenny replied.
“You’re not going to make it if you’re crumbling after two hours,” Lauren said.
“I didn’t say I was crumbling. People so far have asked the same questions over and over, starting with ‘Is this really a quilt from the sixties?’ and usually going on to ‘Did you really make this quilt?’”
“Can’t they match your name tag with the sign?” Lauren asked, pointing to the quilt and the prominent sign pinned to its edge, stating it was made by Jenny Logan.
Make Quilts Not War Page 5