by Robyn Neeley
People who ought to know said Noel was an artist of the finest degree, but they might revise their definition of artist if they ever saw Nickolai Glazov on ice.
She laughed a little under her breath. Maybe it was true that all celebrities knew each other, because it had taken Jack and Nickolai approximately thirty seconds to strike up a jovial conversation. Hmm. Interesting. As far as Noel knew, Emory hadn’t dated anyone since coming to Beauford two years ago, but Jack Beauford had an arm around her, and Emory was hanging on to him for dear life.
Noel loved Emory and wished her the best, but that still wasn’t as interesting as Nickolai Glazov. He looked more powerful in person, even without all that gear. And power was something Noel admired, probably because she’d never felt like she had much.
The woman who had come in with Nickolai was trying to get everyone’s attention and not having much luck. The best Noel could tell, Jack and Nickolai knew each other through Gabe, Jack’s pro football player brother, and Nickolai was asking after him. Emory didn’t look very interested in anything; in fact, she looked distracted.
Finally, Jackson Beauford said, “We’d better get going. Noel, we’ll be in touch.” And he and Emory left.
Noel turned her attention to Nickolai and the woman with him—who had to be a model or a dancer. Dressed in gold shorts, a black tank with a wide, jeweled, gold belt, and really high platform sandals, she was tall and very beautiful with skin the color of milk chocolate, and cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass. Even if Noel had the nerve to wear an outfit like that, it would wear her, not the other way around.
“What can I do for y’all today?” Noel asked, though she knew what the answer would be: just browsing.
But no.
Nickolai pushed his loose black curls back and let his smiling, electric blue eyes meet hers.
“Tewanda saw the article about the artisans of Beauford in Garden & Gun magazine and thinks she would like to have a quilt for her birthday gift.” His English was nearly perfect, though charmingly accented with Russian. She also thought she detected a little French inflection, probably from his days of playing for the Ottawa Senators.
Tewanda’s plethora of gold bracelets jangled when she placed her hand on a jutted-out hip. “The article said you made a baby quilt for Nicole Kidman. Is that true?”
Noel reluctantly nodded. She never divulged her client’s names, but it was true, and it had been in the article, along with a quote from the woman herself attesting to the quilt’s beauty and fine workmanship.
“I did. She was lovely to work with.” Noel smiled at Tewanda, who did not smile back. “Did you have anything in particular in mind, Tewanda? I do custom commissions, but I have a few quilts in stock.”
“Custom.” Tewanda caressed her chin, even as her tone caressed the word. There was something a little crazy in her deep-brown eyes that made Noel want to back up a step. “How long would something like that take?”
That, always that.
“It depends on a lot factors—size, complexity of pattern, whether you would want embroidery, appliqué, or a combination.” Noel picked up her commission calendar. “For something small, like a simple appliquéd lap quilt, I could deliver sometime from mid to late February.”
“February! I can’t wait until February,” Tewanda shrieked. “And I don’t want something small! I need a king-size.” She turned and gave Nickolai a lascivious look—something Noel could have done without.
“It does take some time.” Noel tried to sound sympathetic. “I don’t use a sewing machine at all—for piecing or for quilting. And my quilting stitches tend to be twelve per inch.”
“So the magazine article said.”
It had been a long time since Noel had needed to remind herself that she was in business and couldn’t afford to sell only to people she liked, especially considering what she was compelled to charge for her handcrafted babies.
“Then maybe you’d like to look at what I have on hand.” Noel stepped from behind the counter and moved toward the back wall where the five quilts she had in stock were suspended from wooden dowels.
Nickolai, who had seemed oblivious to their conversation, turned away from the thread display he’d been looking at and gave Noel a crooked grin.
“I like this store—all the colors.” He nodded to the overstuffed chintz furniture clustered around the empty fireplace. “Do you make a fire in the wintertime? Is that where you sit to make your quilts?”
“Sometimes, if the piece isn’t too large,” Noel said. “Sometimes other quilters join me and we work together.”
“I like your frock,” he said.
She looked down at her loose, calf-length linen dress. With its empire waist and deep side pockets, it made sense for work, and she liked the pretty primrose print, but it was never going to make the cover of Vogue—or Good Housekeeping, for that matter. She looked at Nickolai to discern if he was making fun of her. But he smiled wide and gave her a friendly little wink.
“Thank you,” she said.
Tewanda snorted.
“Tewanda, mon cher, do you need a tissue?” He wasn’t making fun of her, either, had no idea she was being scornful.
“No, my precious. I’m fine. Come and look at the quilts.” Tewanda rolled her eyes and met Noel’s gaze. “He picked up that French in Canada. His accent is terrible, and it’s a crapshoot if he gets the words right.”
As she moved down the display wall like she was on a moving sidewalk, Noel got the feeling Tewanda was looking at the prices rather than the quilts themselves. She paused in front of the most expensive of the lot—Starry Snowfall, the one that depicted midnight blue stars falling on a pristine white snowfall. In truth, it wasn’t Noel’s favorite. It had been a commissioned by a besotted groom-to-be, and Noel had been more than half finished when the bride called off the wedding. Though it was within her rights, Noel had not had the heart to make the brokenhearted young man take the quilt. But favorite or not, considering the time she’d put into the piece, five thousand dollars was a fair price.
Tewanda looked Starry Snowfall up and down and turned to Noel.
“Is this all you have?”
All? This woman had no clue how many hours it had taken to produce what was hanging on that wall.
“Yes. But Starry Snowfall is a king. And the snowflakes are very intricate.” Ah, the time she had put into those snowflakes, all for love gone wrong.
“Hmm.” Tewanda ran her fingers over the designs. Meanwhile, Nickolai was surveying the other quilts. “I like the blue and white.”
Just then Nickolai let out a delighted, musical laugh from where he stood in front of the last quilt in the display. “Tewanda! Come and see this one. It makes me smile!”
Lazy Morning made Noel smile, too. Of all the quilts she’d ever made, it was one of her favorites and, business or not, she didn’t want this woman to own it.
With a heavy heart, Noel followed Tewanda to stand beside Nickolai. “Look!” Nickolai’s long arms gestured like a windmill at full tilt. “The quilt is an unmade bed!”
“Yes,” Noel said. “It’s meant to look like a couple has just gotten up after spending the morning in bed. See how the covers are partially pulled up and the pillows are askew?”
Because it had not been as time consuming to make, Lazy Morning wasn’t as expensive as Starry Snowfall. It was comprised mostly of large appliquéd motifs—a messy newspaper, a tray with a half-eaten breakfast, an abandoned nightgown—with a touch of embroidery here and there—the lace edge of the pillow case, a cell phone, and a pair of glasses.
“See the kitty paw?” Nickolai pointed to the edge of the quilt. “It’s like he’s on the floor about to jump up.” He laughed and shook his head. “May I touch it?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” But Noel was pleased that he asked. Most people didn’t. “Quilts are meant to be used and enjoyed. It would be hard to do that without touching.”
Nickolai ran his hand over the pillow motif. Noel
had created shading with different fabrics to give the illusion of an indention left by a head.
“What is this?” He ran his finger over a bit of embroidery. Then the realization hit. “You left hair on the pillow! Long blond and short black!” He nodded with a little wicked glint in his eyes. “It makes me wonder where the couple went, no?”
Noel clapped her hands. “Yes!” Every once in a while, somebody got it. But who would have thought it would be this big, brawny hockey player?
“Mmm.” He nodded. “I think they went to the shower. Together. Is that right?”
Noel laughed. “I don’t know. They truth is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe their baby cried, and they went to comfort him. Or maybe his mother is ringing the bell, and he’s gone to answer the door while she hurries to dress.”
“I like the shower better,” Nickolai said.
“Then that’s your truth.” Noel and Nickolai locked eyes for a bare second before Tewanda stepped between them.
“If the two of you are finished waxing poetic, could we remember we’re shopping for my birthday present?”
Nickolai’s eyes slid to Tewanda. “Of course, ma belle. Do you like this one?”
Tewanda’s eyes assessed it and landed on the price tag. “You want me to like that one because it’s cheaper than the blue and white one.” She turned to Noel. “You won’t believe how cheap he is. Do you know who he is?” She didn’t wait for Noel to answer. “Nickolai-freaking-Glazov. The Nashville Sound signed him to a twelve-year, ninety-two million dollar contract. That’s not even counting what he gets paid for trotting out Gatorade, underwear, vodka, and Campbell’s Soup. He played in the Olympics!”
Nickolai’s whole demeanor changed, and he became not the happy man who appreciated a whimsical quilt, but the hard, cold, ice warrior Noel had seen rule his world with a hockey stick and pure, raw nerve.
“And he bought a used Jeep! That’s how cheap he is!” Tewanda railed on.
Noel felt her face go hot with embarrassment, and she took a step back.
“No, Tewanda,” Nickolai said evenly. “I am not cheap. I like value for my money. I promised you a quilt for your birthday, and if you want the blue one, that’s the one you must have. It’s of high quality, made with much skill and many hours of work, worth the price.”
Noel couldn’t imagine accepting a gift from someone who was looking at her like that, but Tewanda nodded.
“Then that’s the one I want.”
Eager to break the tension and sell the quilt before they changed their minds, Noel turned from them to retrieve her stepladder. “I’ll take it down and box it for you. It’ll take a few minutes. If you want to get some lunch or look in some of the other shops, I can have it ready when you come back.”
“Good idea.” Tewanda stalked to the door.
“Absolutely not.” Nickolai took the ladder from Noel. “I’ll help you.”
Noel knew better than to let a customer climb a ladder in her shop; if he fell, she’d be liable. But he wasn’t asking, and she couldn’t find her voice to argue with him. The best she could do was hold the ladder while he removed the clips that held Starry Snowfall to the dowel, and force herself to tear her eyes away from his bottom.
In an effort to distract herself from that magnificent view, Noel looked at Tewanda, who was staring out the front window with her arms folded across her chest and her jaw set. In spite of her beauty, the sour-faced look wasn’t so attractive.
“Here, Noel.” Nickolai handed the quilt down. When he helped her fold it, their fingers brushed, and she could have sworn a few of those stars leapt off the quilt and caught a ride through his fingers to the pit of her stomach.
Silly. Ridiculous. She really was star struck. She laughed a little to herself.
When she returned Nickolai’s Visa Black Card, she noticed his pre-Tewanda-chastisement smile had returned.
“Thank you, Noel. Now, we will get lunch and return for the quilt.”
“I’ll have it ready.”
“I don’t want lunch,” Tewanda said. “I want to look in the other shops.”
“Maybe both?” Nickolai opened the door and ushered her out.
As Noel wrapped Starry Snowfall in acid-free tissue paper and placed it, along with a pamphlet on how to care for the quilt, in a large, sturdy box, she idly pondered what had transpired between Nickolai and Tewanda—though she didn’t come up with any answers. Oh, well. Who was she to question the ways of the rich and beautiful?
Then the phone rang, bringing one of her own complicated relationships to the forefront.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Noel! I really need you to come home this weekend.”
Home was a Louisville, Kentucky showplace Victorian mansion with antiquated plumbing and questionable wiring, located three hours from where Noel actually lived in Beauford, Tennessee. Deborah Verden acted like Noel was away at college and would hurry home at every opportunity—not that Noel had gone to college. Funds had been limited, and Deborah had decided financing both a membership in Phi Mu at Belmont University and a debutante season for Noel’s older sister was a better investment than a state college for both of her daughters. Unfortunately, all it had gained Paige was a Vanderbilt Law student husband whose nearly broke family had also sent him to a private school and on the debutante circuit to find a mate with old money.
“I can’t come there this weekend, Mother. I told you I have to teach a class and judge a competition at a quilt festival in Vermont.”
There was a long pause.
“Can’t you stop here on the way?”
Holy mother of a gargoyle! Her mother wasn’t dumb, though Noel was sympathetic to people who thought so. She was more like a debutante who got lost on the way to her ball and ended up at a barn dance. That’s what happened to people with lofty expectations and more pride than money.
“Mother,” she said patiently, “I’m flying to Vermont. I don’t think I can get the pilot to stop off there.”
“I don’t know what good it is to own your own business if you can’t go home when you want to.”
You are the one who wants me to come. Did you miss that?
“What do you need from me, Mama?”
“What makes you think I need something? Maybe I just want to see you.”
“I’m sure you do. And I’d like to see you, too. But I can tell when you need something.”
“Well, one of Paige’s sisters is getting married—”
Noel couldn’t resist. “Last time I checked I was Paige’s only sister, and I can assure you there’s no matrimony on the horizon.”
“Her sorority sister—mine too, when you get right down to it, and your grandmother’s.”
Ah, yes. Phi Mus for three generations. How could she forget? After finding her craft, college had become unimportant to Noel, and she had never aspired to a ticket on the Phi Mu train. But it was still hurtful that she’d not been given the same opportunity as her older, prettier sister. “Of course,” Noel said sweetly. “I’m sorry. So there’s a wedding?”
“Yes, and Paige needs a bridesmaid dress. And you’ll never guess! Constance is going to be the flower girl!”
“Fabulous!” Noel said. “That should secure her place as a future Phi Mu!”
“Exactly! And, Noel, these days you cannot be too sure. So anyway, we need to get their dresses ordered so they can be altered in time.”
“I’m not sure what this has to do with me.”
“They have to be ordered on the Internet. And you know we’re hopeless at that.”
That was the truth. Noel could excuse her grandmother and, to a degree, her mother, but Paige was a different matter. She hadn’t finished college, but she’d gone to Belmont for two years before landing Webb. One could assume she’d had to be somewhat computer literate, but Paige insisted things had “changed so much” that she was incapable of even shopping online.
“Ask Webb for help.”
“Oh, Noel. We don’t want to bo
ther him. He’s working on a big case.”
No doubt. Noel had some sympathy for her brother-in-law. When, after a lavish wedding that had taken the last of Noel’s father’s life insurance, both families had learned that nobody had any extra blue-chip stocks lying around, Webb had moved right into what Noel secretly called the Debutante Den and worked like a fiend so that the Verden women could continue to pretend life was as they wished it were. And if he let Deborah Verden have ancient silk wallpaper restored while rusty water ran from the pipes, that was between him and his manhood.
“So if, just this once,” Deborah went on, “you could cancel your little quilt thing and come home, I would be forever grateful.”
“I’ll set aside some time to come there and alter the dresses once you get them, but I can’t come this weekend.” So that would be another weekend she’d have to be away from the shop in high tourist season. Ora Evans, who worked at Piece by Piece part time, was a competent quilter and more than capable of helping customers. But, though Noel still found it hard to believe, she was somewhat famous in her circle, and serious quilters tended to be disappointed when they made the trip to Beauford to find Noel absent from her shop. Oh, well. She’d just have to put on the website that she’d be gone. “Canceling on this festival is impossible.”
“What if I died? Would you cancel then?”
“Of course. But you aren’t dead. The need for dresses does not equate with death. Ask Webb to do it. It won’t take five minutes. He won’t mind.” That much was true. Webb loved Paige and worshipped Constance.
“Well … ” Deborah said.
“What?” Noel demanded. “What now?” Noel seldom lost patience but, like always, there was more to this.
“Don’t speak to me like that, Noel.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. Why can’t Paige ask Webb for help?”
“These dresses are … shall we say … pricey? And this might not be the best time to let Webb know that.”