by Jane Peart
“It reminds me of one of the happiest days of my life,” Tutu smiled reminiscently. “I hung it there so I can see it every night before I go to sleep and it’s the first thing I see in the morning when I wake up.”
Jana knew that Tutu’s religion meant everything to her. She could remember waking up early sometimes during the nights she spent with Akela and hearing Tutu praying. The cottage had an open floor plan, and from where Jana slept on a mat in Akela’s bedroom, she could see Tutu standing at the window in the front of the house, looking out over the valley, holding her big, floppy Bible in both hands. Later, when both girls were awake, Tutu always led them in grace before breakfast and always ended it with, “Today, Lord, I ask that you bless our day and let us be a blessing to others.”
Jana had incorporated that thought into her own prayers.
“So, little one, have you heard enough about quilts for now?” Tutu asked, starting to fold up her work, signaling it was time for her to stop for the day.
“Yes. Mahalo, Tutu, you’ve helped me so much.” Jana rose, then kissed Tutu’s soft cheek and left.
On her way home Jana felt excited. She could not wait to get home, get out her drawing board, her sketch board and put the idea for a quilt design on paper.
Actually it was only after several sketches made, torn up, and begun again that finally Jana traced her design onto a sheet of fine watercolor paper and carefully outlined it.
Hawaiian quilts were always given a name as well as a secret title known only to the quilter. She wanted to choose an appropriate one for her design. That was a little longer in coming. As she selected the colors, she prayed to get just the right name, the one that was meaningful and true to what she wanted to express. The colors were easier, she used the yellow of the royal hibiscus, the violet blue of the jacaranda blossoms, and the pale pink of the anthuriums to represent what she found most beautiful about Hawaii—the flowers that grew here wild, as purely God’s creation on this special island.
Hour after hour as she painted in the design the Scripture verse that came to her was Matthew 6:28. “Consider the lilies of the field…even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these.”
She didn’t show it to anyone, didn’t want anyone to see it until it was finished, until she was satisfied that it was the best work she could do.
At length as the deadline for submission for scholarship consideration neared, she allowed her parents to see it.
“It’s lovely, darling,” her mother said. “Just beautiful.”
“Very fine, Jana. I’m proud of you, my dear,” her father nodded. “And what do you call it?”
She told them she was going to letter in the Scripture verse with an explanatory note that the flowers depicted were all indigenous to the island.
“Good. I think the judges will take note of that.” Her father seemed pleased.
The secret title she kept to herself, not sure anyone else would really understand. She called it The Gift. Because she felt being born in Hawaii was a gift, growing up here was a gift, her talent was a gift. And she wanted the design, whether it won a scholarship or not, to be her gift to God, her thank you for living as close to paradise as it was possible on this earth.
Jana recalled an afternoon when she had asked her mother about her quilts. She wondered if they had a “secret” like the Hawaiian ones did. Was it possible that her mother had more in common with the island ladies than she thought?
Her mother had opened her cedar chest and brought out a tissue-paper-wrapped bundle, placed it on the bed, and unwrapped it carefully, displaying a beautiful cover. “This is what we called a “crazy quilt,” she told Jana, “They were very popular twenty years ago, all the rage. It’s a different sort of a memory quilt as well. You take pieces of clothing you wore on some memorable occasion and cut it into squares, they don’t all need to be the same size, then piece them together and make a quilt. They’re more for display than use. I made this when we lived in California. This was after we left Washington, where your father was stationed with the Army. Here is part of the skirt of the ball gown I wore to my first White House levee. I was so excited at the thought of meeting President and Mrs. Lincoln. And this was a gown I wore to attend a Military Ball.” She pointed to triangles of peach satin embroidered with apricot suttachi.
Jana was intrigued, listening entranced as JoBeth talked and pointed out the different materials that had once been a dress or jacket or bodice, from which it had been cut and woven into this unique coverlet.
JoBeth started to refold the quilt, wrapping it carefully in tissue paper, then she pointed one slender finger to the patch of azure velvet. “See this, Jana, this piece of blue velvet? That was part of a dress I wore to the theater the night the president was murdered. I vowed I’d never wear it again. And I didn’t. But I did cut it up and sewed it into the memory quilt. See, I bound it with black satin, those were the ribbons on my mourning bonnet, the one I wore to the Capitol Building where Lincoln lay in state—” JoBeth’s eyes moistened and she shook her head. “It was such a sad time—still, I wanted to mark it as something very significant that happened in my life.” Her hand moved over to some squares of jade taffeta. “And this was my wedding dress, Jana—”
“You didn’t wear a white gown and veil, Mama?”
“No, darling, perhaps if we had married in my hometown…“ JoBeth looked pensive then she quickly brought out another quilt, spread it out so Jana could see it.
“This is my Friendship Quilt. I started it on our wagon train journey across the country and finished it when we got to California. You see, after the War, feelings still ran high between North and South, there was much bitterness and unforgiveness toward people still considered enemies on either side. Since your father had fought for the Union, we felt we could not return to the south to make our home, to build our life together. So we decided to come west. We joined a wagon train of thirty-five other families. It took us eight months and in those months I made many friends among the women. We all were boded by the excitement, the adventure of heading into an unknown place to start new lives. There were many hardships on the trail and so it was necessary and wonderful to have other women as friends, to support and help, to comfort you in case of sickness and yes, sometimes, in death.” JoBeth paused, her eyes expressing some of the sorrowful memories. “See, this is a patchwork quilt, four squares to a patch and the center one has a special design. Each woman created her own patch to exchange with the others, embroidered her name, the date, where she was from, and where her family were headed.” JoBeth held the quilt out so Jana could see.
“Millie Hartshorn, 1867, Bridgeville, Kentucky, Ho, for California.” Jana read out loud. “Ruth Alice Webster, 1868, Dayton, Ohio, California.” She looked at her mother. “How come they weren’t all going to California like you and Papa?”
“There was what you call a turnoff point, those wagons going to Oregon went one way, the California group another. That’s what makes this quilt so special. We knew when we exchanged our patches that we might most likely never see each other again. But all I have to do is look at one of these autographed patches and that face comes right into mind. I can almost hear a certain laughter, a voice, a cheery word, remember a funny incident, or a sad one, or a time of sharing—I can never forget any of these ladies.”
“Do you know where they are now? Do you ever hear from any of them?”
JoBeth shook her head. “No, none of us knew exactly where we’d be, or had an address where someone could write to us.” She sighed. “That’s the hard part, but, the good part is I’ll always remember the happy times, where we were all young and looking forward to the future. Before anything bad happened to any of them or before any of us got old.”
“I guess all quilts tell a story, don’t they, Mama?”
“Yes, dear, I suppose they do.” her mother replied
And her mother could weave as fascinating a yarn about her quilts as any of the Hawaiian quilters could, Jana decided with sat
isfaction.
“How did you and Papa happen to come to Hawaii?” Jana asked.
“We hadn’t planned that at all. But after our little baby died, your brother Ross, named after my daddy, I was sad and not well for a long time. Your father thought a milder climate and change would be good for me. For both of us.” She smiled at Jana. “And so it was. Not long after we went to Oahu we had you! So it was a happy move indeed.” She put both hands on Jana’s cheeks and kissed her. “See, ‘all’s well that ends well.’”
Chapter Twelve
One early April afternoon, Jana was in the stationer’s store shopping for art supplies. Busy examining a variety of brushes, she was startled to hear a familiar voice behind her.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Rutherford.”
She turned around, brush in hand, and saw Bayard Preston. Completely taken by surprise, she exclaimed, “What are you doing here?”
“Home for spring vacation,” he replied, regarding her with that look she had always found disconcerting.
“Did Edith come, too?” she asked hopefully.
Bayard shook his head. “No, she’ll not be coming until June. She’s spending her vacation in Newport, visiting one of her classmates. All sorts of parties and other exciting events were planned, and it proved too enticing to turn down for a mere trip home.” His smile was slightly cynical. “My sister’s become a social butterfly and also something of a belle. A few fellows you and I both know have been making weekend pilgrimages to Virginia to pay court to her.” He paused. “Does that surprise you?”
“Not really,” Jana said, but turned away so that her disappointment wouldn’t be seen. Actually, it didn’t surprise her. It was just what she’d been afraid would happen. Edith was growing away from Hawaii and her old friends. All in the space of less than a year. Jana continued to look through the display of brushes, saying casually, “That will be fun for her. But I’m sure your father will miss her.”
“Father is on a business trip in Honolulu. I just returned from seeing him off in Hilo,” Bayard said. “I’m to hold down the fort at the ranch for a few weeks.” He added, “I hope you won’t let me get too lonesome. How about going riding with me some morning?”
Jana took her time selecting two brushes before replying. She needed a moment to absorb the fact of the invitation. She remembered unpleasantly their last encounter. Turning around, she said coolly, “Mahalo, Bayard, but I’m very busy right now. I’m studying for final exams, and I’ve a painting project I’m working on that has to be finished by the first of the month.”
Bayard raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It can’t take all your time, surely? Besides, if you’re working that hard, you deserve an hour or two off.”
Jana moved to the next display and picked up a watercolor pad, opened it, and rubbed a page with her fingers to test its quality. Her experience with Bayard during the house party still rankled. She also resented the conversation she’d overheard between Bayard and the Colonel, the one that had persuaded Colonel Preston to send Edith away to school.
“I really don’t think so, Bayard.” Jana moved toward the cash register.
Bayard followed. “Come on, Jana, you know what they say about all work and no play,” Bayard coaxed. “A ride? Take a picnic down to the valley?”
She remained unconvinced. “I don’t think so.”
While the clerk rang up Jana’s purchases, Bayard stood beside her. After she had paid for them and received her change, he adroitly took the package.
“I’ll carry these for you,” he said ingratiatingly. “May I drive you home?”
“Mahalo, but no. I can walk.”
“I know you can walk, Miss Rutherford,” he teased. “I would be honored if you’d let me escort you home, either on foot or in my gig, which is just outside.”
For some reason, Jana felt she would be more in control of this chance meeting if they walked. “It’s only a short way,” she said. “I can manage that, thank you.” Jana put out her hand for her package.
Playfully he held it out of her reach. “No, you don’t. Why are you being so independent, Miss Rutherford? Can’t you tell I want to talk to you? Let me walk you home.”
It would have seemed silly to continue to refuse or make a fuss, since Bayard seemed so determined. So she simply shrugged and they fell into step, walking together down the street. At the corner, they turned onto the road that led to the Rutherfords’ house.
“What have you been doing with yourself since I last saw you?” Bayard asked.
“Studying mostly, painting,” she replied. “Nothing very exciting. Tell me more about Edith.”
“Oh, I don’t keep track of all her doings. But I can tell you, there’s not much studying going on at that fancy school. The most that the young ladies learn there is how to flirt, dance, and order from a French menu.”
But that’s exactly what you wanted for your sister, wasn’t it? Jana was tempted to say. Making good social contacts, mingling with people other than “just Hawaiians.”
“Evidently, Edith is at the top of her form, enjoying every minute. At least, that’s what I gather by the amount of traffic that departs our campus on weekends,” he laughed. “Quite a few keep the railroad tracks clacking between New Haven and Washington. I think Greg Amory is the most frequent traveler.”
Aha, Jana thought, so Edith is succeeding in achieving her goal.
“Enough about my sister,” Bayard said. “Tell me about yourself, Jana. What kind of plans are you making? What is this mysterious art project that you claim is taking up so much of your time that you can’t go horseback riding?”
With some reluctance, but since she had given it as her excuse for having little free time, Jana told Bayard about her plan to try for an art scholarship.
By this time they had reached the Rutherfords’ gate. Jana hesitated, wondering whether to ask Bayard to come in or not. While she debated, he glanced at their house. It was a gray and white Hawaiian-style bungalow built on stiltlike pillars, with a wraparound veranda. Surrounded by palms, lime trees, and banana trees, the yard was blooming with all sorts of flowering bushes.
“I’ve always loved Hawaiian cottages,” Bayard said softly. “Their simplicity, their design—how they exactly fit right into the landscape. They’re not an intrusion. I’ve often thought I’d like to be an architect…“ He gave a rueful smile. “However, of course, I’m destined to be a rancher.” He sighed. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, Jana? I’ve never been inside your house.”
Embarrassed, Jana stammered, “Yes, please, do come in. I’m sure my mother would be happy to see you.”
“Another time, maybe.” He started to hand her the package but then held it just out of her reach and asked, “Will you think about going riding with me?”
Flustered by her lack of hospitality and eager to make amends, she impulsively answered, “Yes. I haven’t ridden in quite a while. Since the Christmas before last, in fact, at the house party—” She broke off, wishing she hadn’t brought it up.
Bayard looked thoughtful. “Ah yes, that Christmas. The house party. New Year’s.” He gave her a rueful glance. “As I remember, I wasn’t in a very good mood for one reason or another. Did I somehow—” He halted, frowning. “We ended up rather badly, or am I mistaken?”
Jana put her hand on the gate latch, but Bayard put his hand out so she could not lift it and asked, “Did I do or say anything to offend you? If so, I’m sorry. Please accept my apology?”
“It was nothing. I have to go in now.”
“All right.” He gave her the package. “May I come by sometime?”
“Of course.” She pushed open the gate. “Mahalo, Bayard.”
“My pleasure.” He tipped his Panama hat. “My regards to your parents.”
When Jana came into the house, her mother was in the kitchen, slicing pumelos to make marmalade.
“Who was that with you, dear? I didn’t recognize him.”
“Bayard Preston, Mama.”
> “Edith’s brother?”
“I met him in town.”
“Oh, is Edith home, too?”
“No, she won’t be coming anytime soon. He says she quite loves it on the mainland.”
“You will, too, dear, when you go.”
Jana pursed her lips but did not answer. Instead, she left the kitchen and called back, “I think I’ll go down to the beach for a while. I want to do some sketching.”
In her room, Jana gathered up her paint box and a small tin cup for water, then unwrapped the package containing the new sketchbook and brushes, put them in her canvas bag. The encounter with Bayard had upset her somehow. It had stirred up something that still bothered her. She felt they had unfinished business between them. Seeing him again had brought it all back.
Down at the beach, she settled herself under a banyan tree and, backed by the dunes, propped her sketchbook against her knees, wiggling her bare toes in the warm sand. She always felt happier, calmer, near the ocean. Its vastness, its blue stretch to the horizon, seemed to make whatever was troubling her seem smaller, less important. She squeezed out some blue from the tube, dipped her brush into the water in her cup and stroked a horizontal line across the top of the page. She squinted out at the sea and saw that there were at least three shades of blue to be somehow captured and translated to her picture. How could she ever make it look as beautiful as she was seeing it, as it really was? She bent forward, moving her brush across the rough, textured sheet of paper.
Looking up again, she saw a surfer riding the crest of a wave, his bronzed body glistening in the sun. Immediately she was reminded of Kimo. How he must miss Hawaii, long for the sun-streaked skies, the curve of beach, the blue swells of the ocean. Did he miss her?
Did he have drifting dreams of the Big Island, its valleys, bamboo forests, the beach where they had walked so many times together? She thought of the sandcastles they had built as children, and her throat swelled and tightened. She closed her sketchbook, rested her chin on her knees, and watched as the surfer came ashore in a shower of foam, then turned and remounted his board and began paddling out past the swells again.