The Giving Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Since when is it appropriate to do what’s easy instead of what’s right?”

  “Since never.” Jocelyn sighed, but then she lifted her chin—in pride or perhaps defiance. “I have to say, though, I was very impressed by my team’s response. They were enormously disappointed, but instead of crying or whining about the unfairness of it all, they wrote that letter recommending changes—not to benefit themselves, because it was too late for that, but to help future teams, to improve the entire program.”

  “That was very mature of them,” said Karen. “Knowing you brought them up right has to be a better reward than any trophy.”

  “Of course it is, for me and the other parents,” said Jocelyn, “but that’s our reward. The kids were denied theirs. They deserved to go on to the national tournament, and that was taken from them.”

  “Something very important was taken from the team that won too.”

  Jocelyn nodded. “I believe that absolutely. Sooner or later, there will be consequences for the parents and students alike.”

  “Will you see them at next year’s tournament?”

  “If they sign up. We’ll definitely be there. Despite everything, my team never even considered disbanding. We’ve already chosen a challenge. The kids aren’t giving up and I didn’t let them down.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” said Karen. “Were you really worried that you might?”

  Jocelyn hesitated, emotions warring in her expression. “Noah left big shoes to fill.”

  “Who said you had to fill his shoes?” said Karen. “Wear your own shoes. They’re bound to fit better. Walk your own path your own way and you’ll be more likely to get to where you need to be.”

  Jocelyn considered that, and then she nodded thoughtfully, a slow smile dawning on her face.

  So engrossed were they in their conversation that the longarm sewing machine had occasionally sat idle. With only five minutes left in her session, Jocelyn raced to put the last stitches into the outermost border, but she and Karen were still hastily removing the quilted top from the rollers when Pauline arrived, carrying her two Giving Quilt tops.

  “I’m almost finished,” said Jocelyn. “Sorry I ran over time.”

  “That’s all right,” said Pauline.

  “Blame me,” said Karen. “I distracted her with conversation.”

  “Oh,” said Pauline a little forlornly, as if she wished she had been similarly distracted. Then she shrugged and took a seat in a folding chair against the side wall, holding her quilt tops on her lap. “Take your time. I signed up for the last session of the day so I can work as long as I want without getting in anyone else’s way. Not that you’re getting in my way. It doesn’t matter if I start a little late.”

  Jocelyn thanked her, and as soon as the quilted top was free, she rolled it up loosely and carried it off to the classroom to trim away the excess batting and backing with her rotary cutter. Karen began to follow her, but Pauline’s crestfallen expression brought her to an abrupt halt. “See you later?” said Karen tentatively from the doorway.

  “Okay,” said Pauline, forcing a smile. “Sure. Tomorrow at breakfast?”

  “Sure, see you then.” But Karen lingered, watching Pauline unfold the first of her two quilt tops, the one she had made in red and purple hues like Gretchen’s sample.

  Of all her new friends, Pauline was the one Karen felt she knew the least. They had not spent any time alone together and had never shared a solitary conversation, although of course they had chatted as part of the larger group. Karen’s impression was that Pauline was perfectly nice, and funny, and impressively knowledgeable about quilting, but she also possessed a competitive streak that seemed to embarrass her and that she fought mightily to conceal. It seemed to Karen that Pauline wanted to be the best, and yet she didn’t want to be the kind of person who wanted to be the best, or cared about who or what was the best. Karen, who thought a little healthy competition could bring out the best in people, suspected that Pauline saw her as her nearest rival, and considering Pauline’s status as a Cherokee Rose Quilter, Karen found the assessment rather flattering. Unfortunately, however, that same regard had kept Pauline at a distance, which Karen thought was a shame.

  She glanced out the doorway in time to see Jocelyn disappearing behind the partitions on the other side of the ballroom, and then she turned back to Pauline. “Do you need some—” Not help; Pauline would not need help and would not admit to needing it if she did. “Would you like some company?”

  Pauline straightened, hesitating. “Um, sure. That would be nice. I mean, if you don’t have anything else to do.”

  “I have some pieces to cut for a new quilt,” Karen replied, “but I can do that while we chat.”

  “That would be nice,” said Pauline, almost shyly.

  Karen helped Pauline layer her quilt top, batting, and backing upon the rollers before leaving for a moment to retrieve her supplies from the classroom. Pauline was quilting merrily away by the time Karen returned, deftly creating intricate free-motion swirls and scallops in variegated thread. Karen was so impressed with Pauline’s skill that she often paused in her work to watch. “You really know your way around a longarm,” she said, coming closer for a better look.

  Pauline beamed, but her hands never paused. “Thank you,” she said. “I took an excellent workshop at a Cherokee Rose Quilters retreat—before I was a Cherokee Rose Quilter myself—and I practice whenever I can. I’d love to have one of these babies in my sewing room, but A, it’s half again as large as the room and B, that’s about two years’ worth of college tuition and I think my husband’s head would explode.”

  Karen laughed. “I think my husband would have the same reaction. I’m lucky we have one at the quilt shop.”

  Unexpectedly, Pauline allowed the longarm to clatter to a halt. “That must be a dream job, working in a quilt shop.”

  Karen wasn’t quite willing to say that; her real dream job had eluded her and the quilt shop position sufficed as a second choice. “It’s a lot of fun and I enjoy it. Of course, no job is perfect. You can’t please every customer every day, and we’ve been hit hard by the downturn in the economy. But I absolutely adore my coworkers and it’s inspiring to be surrounded by fabric, patterns, books, and creative people all day.”

  “I can only imagine.” Pauline sighed wistfully. “I’m surrounded by ringing phones and tension and frantic calls from people in danger. Sometimes I think I’d like to chuck it all and just quilt all day.”

  “No one at the String Theory Quilt Shop gets to quilt all day,” said Karen, smiling. “Don’t I wish. It’s a retail shop like any other. We order products and take inventory and pay the bills and pray for customers to choose us over some chain superstore or the Internet. There’s a lot of stress in my line of work too—not like yours, not life-and-death stress—but it’s not lying on a beach in Hawaii either.”

  “Quilting on a beach in Hawaii,” mused Pauline. “Now that would be just about the perfect job.”

  “Nice work if you can get it,” Karen agreed, and they laughed together.

  Pauline started up the longarm again, and after she had quilted a few more blocks, Karen said hesitantly, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “As wonderful as Elm Creek Manor is, I can’t help wondering why you’re here instead of at your own quilt guild’s retreat.”

  Pauline grimaced, but she continued steering the longarm over the surface of her quilt top without missing a beat. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  Karen smiled, pulled up a stool, and sat down. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  “It’s also probably kind of boring.”

  “I doubt that very much, but if it is, I’ll let you know.”

  Pauline eyed her. “All right, but don’t blame me if you fall asleep
from sheer boredom, tumble off that stool, and break something.”

  With a heavy sigh, Pauline launched her tale, her expression varying from glum to hurt to embarrassed as it unfolded.

  “You memorized that whole horrible, spiteful note?” Karen asked after Pauline recited Brenda’s first e-mail.

  Pauline nodded miserably. “Word for word. I couldn’t help it. It’s a sickness. If she had written something as sweet as peach cobbler with ice cream on top, I probably wouldn’t remember a single line.”

  “I’m the same way,” Karen admitted. “It seems that the hateful things people say linger in my thoughts forever while their kindness and encouragement too often drift right through.”

  “I wish I wasn’t like that,” said Pauline.

  “Me too.”

  As Pauline continued her story, which culminated in her husband’s insistence that she attend Quiltsgiving rather than deny herself the fun of a quilting retreat all because of outside influences and less-than-ideal circumstances, Karen realized that she and Pauline had more in common than she had suspected. In Pauline’s place, she would have felt just as astonished and hurt by Brenda’s e-mails. She would have been just as disappointed by her friends’ inexplicable failure to hold Brenda to account. Karen might have made the same decision to leave the Cherokee Rose Quilters rather than risk a schism that would destroy the guild—but since she had not gone through what Pauline had, she could be empathetic without losing her objectivity.

  “Have you really left the guild for good?” she asked.

  Pauline shrugged. “I suppose so. They’ve started interviewing for my successor, so it’s not like I have any choice.”

  “Of course you do. Maybe not for much longer, but at least until they offer your spot to someone else.”

  Pauline regarded her quizzically. “Do you really think I should go back?”

  “I don’t think you should let one crabby, self-absorbed, irresponsible, immature woman force you out of a group that has meant so much to you. You’ve done so much good as a part of that guild.”

  “Who says I’m planning to stop doing good?” Pauline gestured to her Giving Quilt tops, one nearly quilted, the other folded upon a chair nearby. “I wouldn’t let Brenda or anyone else keep me from giving.”

  “And yet you’d let her stop you from enjoying the company of your friends?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Only in one significant way—the first involves giving to others, the second giving to yourself. Why would you deny yourself the kindness and generosity you so eagerly give to others?”

  “Well, because—” Pauline hesitated, and the longarm machine fell silent. “I guess I don’t know.”

  “Think about it,” Karen urged her. “Would it really be that difficult to return, even if it meant facing Brenda again?”

  Pauline studied her. “Not any more difficult than it must be to face the Elm Creek Quilters after they turned you down for a job.”

  “And yet here I am,” said Karen. “If I can do this, surely you can go to your next guild meeting, where you know your friends in the group will be thrilled to see you.”

  Pauline nodded, thinking it over, and Karen hid a smile. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to appeal to Pauline’s competitive nature, but if it set her upon a path to greater happiness, then Karen figured she would be forgiven.

  “You know something I can’t figure out?” said Pauline later as they removed her first quilt from the longarm machine and began layering the second.

  “What’s that?”

  Pauline shook her head in fond puzzlement. “How the Elm Creek Quilters could have let you get away.”

  Karen felt a pang of regret. “I don’t think they see it that way.”

  “If they knew you better,” said Pauline firmly, “they would.”

  * * *

  Karen wasn’t so sure. Gretchen and Maggie were talented quilters and exceptional teachers. Sylvia, Sarah, and the other original Elm Creek Quilters were surely well pleased with their choice. If they ever reflected upon Karen’s effort to join the faculty, it was probably only to wonder why she had bothered to try.

  Sometimes Karen wondered that herself.

  Two weeks after her disastrous interview, Karen had been in the kitchen fixing the boys a snack of soy nut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches when the phone rang. Sylvia kindly and regretfully delivered the bad news Karen had expected since leaving Elm Creek Manor.

  “I’m very sorry,” Sylvia said.

  “That’s all right.” Or it would have been, if Karen thrived on disappointment and rejection. “I expected as much when I couldn’t find a babysitter and the interview turned into a debate on the merits of prolonged breastfeeding.”

  “That wasn’t the reason at all,” said Sylvia. “We appreciate a rousing discussion as much as anyone. We simply found that some of our other candidates had more teaching experience. Perhaps if you teach at your local quilt shop, the next time we hire, you’ll be among the most qualified.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion,” said Karen, although she doubted there would be a next time. Yet even in the depths of her disappointment, she couldn’t help but find inspiration in Sylvia’s parting words.

  And so it happened that a week and a day after Sylvia’s phone call, Karen visited the String Theory Quilt Shop in Summit Pass, a quaint village halfway between State College and Waterford. Founded by a retired physics professor and her mathematician partner, the String Theory Quilt Shop boasted a marvelous inventory of fabric, thread, notions, books, patterns, and gadgets that, in Karen’s opinion, made it well worth the half-hour drive along Pennsylvania’s winding rural roads. Its unique setting, a hundred-and-fifty-year-old restored carriage house on a street of quirky shops, bed-and-breakfasts, and cafés similarly converted from historic buildings, enhanced its charm. Karen had taken a few workshops in the spacious, sunny classroom they had created in the old hayloft and had come to think of the owners, Elspeth and Margot, as cordial acquaintances, if not yet friends. The shop was usually bustling with customers, but even when Karen was the only quilter browsing the aisles, Elspeth, Margot, and their single teenage part-time employee seemed constantly busy.

  Karen chose a few yards of brightly colored fabrics to make matching quilts for the boys, and then, as Margot was ringing up her purchases, she impulsively asked if they were hiring. Taken aback, Margot first said that they weren’t, but then she seemed to reconsider. “Maybe we could use some help around here,” she said. “Colleen’s going off to college in the fall, but we figured we’d manage without her somehow.”

  “If you decide you’d rather not do without a third pair of hands, I’m interested,” said Karen, smiling. “Full time, part time, whatever you need.”

  Margot promised to consult Elspeth, so Karen left her phone number and hoped for the best. A few days later, Elspeth called to invite her to join them for lunch at a cozy teahouse down the street from the shop. It was a casual, friendly meeting that felt nothing like a job interview, so Karen was pleasantly surprised when, as they lingered over their vanilla rooibos, Margot asked if she could start the following week.

  Delighted, Karen immediately accepted.

  Back at home, Karen, Nate, and the boys celebrated her good news with a family pizza party—but almost as soon as Karen cleared the table, she set herself to the task of making all the practical arrangements necessary for her return to the workforce. Ethan would be starting full-day kindergarten in the fall, and they managed to place Lucas in a wonderful day care program offered by the College of Health and Human Development right on the Penn State campus.

  And then Karen was suddenly a working mother rather than a stay-at-home mom.

  In her first year with String Theory, she worked as a clerk and assistant, replenishing stock, cutting fabric, ringing up purchases, and m
aking sample projects for display. One of her favorite tasks was to help Margot, Elspeth, or visiting instructors as they led workshops in the hayloft classroom. She observed them carefully, noting what the students seemed to enjoy and what they didn’t, which teaching strategies seemed effective and which fell short. A week shy of her first anniversary with the shop, she asked Margot and Elspeth if she might teach a foundation paper-piecing class. It was a technique she knew particularly well—in fact, even at her ill-fated interview, the Elm Creek Quilters had praised her handiwork. The success of that class led to another, and within another year, Karen had become a regular instructor, adding other courses to her repertoire and garnering praise from her employers and students alike.

  In all that time, the shop weathered a stormy economic climate fairly well. The Fabric Warehouse, a crafting superstore in Waterford, was too far away to siphon off many of their customers, and although shopkeepers and restaurants all along their street noted that customers were spending less, considering their purchases more carefully, and buying online in ever-increasing numbers, String Theory’s loyal quilters kept them in the black.

  “We have an advantage over other brick-and-mortar shops,” said Margot one afternoon as she, Elspeth, and Karen crowded into the tiny office in the back of the store to discuss their quarterly revenue projections. “People might feel perfectly comfortable buying books or appliances over the Internet after viewing a low-res photo and reading a blurb, but when it comes to fabric, quilters want to see it in person, and touch it, and compare the colors to other fabrics. That’s something you can’t do online.”

  Elspeth and Karen agreed. “No computer algorithm can equal our experience and knowledge, either,” Karen added. “Even the most experienced quilters seek our opinion on matching colors or assembling blocks from time to time—and beginners rely on us even more. That kind of customer service can only happen in real life, in a real, not virtual, store.”

  “We need to make sure our customers are aware of that,” said Elspeth, the most cautious of the three. “I’ve seen far too many perfectly lovely shops and restaurants close because they assumed everyone knew how wonderful they were, what services they offered, and everything they contributed to the community. We can’t become complacent.”