The Quilting House

by Elizabeth Bromke

  “Okay,” Greta went on, her face marred by worry. “I got back in touch with Luke and there’s more bad news,” she confessed.

  “More bad news?” Liesel frowned and glanced back through the window. The snow hadn’t let up, and a fresh blast of wind whipped snow into the window long enough for her to see swirling white from here to the North Pole.

  “The wood—he said he didn’t tarp it.”

  “Didn’t tarp it?” Gretchen asked, fear creeping into her voice. “So, it’s wet?”

  “It’ll be wet, yes. I mean, it’s not a big deal. We have blankets. I’m just—well, it’s Tabby. Mainly I just want to make sure she doesn’t catch her death of cold.”

  Liesel, ever pragmatic, pursed her lips. “We’ll keep her bundled tight. She’ll be fine.”

  “No matter,” Greta added, a modicum of joy coloring her voice. “He’s sending help. Though he’s got to stay with his athletes, he called a friend to come over and deliver some essentials.”

  “In this weather?” Liesel pressed. “I thought it wasn’t safe to drive.”

  Greta shrugged. “Luke’s worried about the baby,” she added. “He’s sort of freaking out. I need more formula for Tabby. I don’t have extra here. It’s in the main house. And diapers, too.”

  “Well, where is the friend coming from? Is he far? Are we sure it’s safe?” Liesel felt more disgruntled now, knowing that there was help on the way but that she, herself, couldn’t just jump in her car and take off. Then again, it was only a car. She didn’t know how to put chains on. It was probably a miracle she’d made it to the Inn at the time she did. The roads wouldn’t be cleared in the near future and darkness was sweeping across the town.

  “I texted someone, too,” Gretchen chirped quietly.

  “What?” Greta asked. Her face twisted deeper into concern, and Liesel realized that this was the first crisis she’d dealt with as an innkeeper. A small crisis. At least, for now. But her first, and the first was always the hardest. Liesel knew about crises. She’d had her share—either directly or indirectly.

  “I freaked out. I mean, I didn’t know the wood wasn’t tarped, but I figured we couldn’t make it out to the stack. What if Tabby gets cold, like you said? What if we get cold? Or the guests? And what about the marshmallows?”

  “Do you even have marshmallows on hand?” Liesel asked, half-joking.

  But Gretchen nodded seriously. “I always have marshmallows on hand.”

  “Fair enough. So, who did you text? What are they bringing?” Greta asked.

  “He’s bringing wood,” Gretchen said. “As much as he can.”

  Liesel narrowed her gaze on Gretchen. “It’s that Linden boy, isn’t it? What’s his name?”

  “Theo,” Greta offered helpfully. “But, Gretchen, I thought you two broke up?”

  “We did,” Gretchen announced firmly. “But we’re still—friends.”

  Liesel studied the pretty young girl carefully. She’d never heard someone pronounce friends in that way. So fraught. So filled.

  Liesel, herself, had rarely befriended men. In her estimation, there was no such thing as opposite-sex “friends.”

  “You care about him,” Greta pointed out. “That’s clear.”

  “And he cares about you,” Liesel added.

  Gretchen’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her cheek. “Well, sure. I mean—we… we’re close. We’ll always be close.”

  Greta clicked her tongue. “I don’t know why you two broke up. No one in Hickory Grove does. You were… you two were meant to be together, if you ask me.”

  Liesel knew Greta meant this. Greta was a romantic. A lover and a kisser type. Unlike Liesel herself, who’d so rarely enjoyed the serious company of a man. What was Gretchen like?

  In some strange way, Liesel saw her own mother in Gretchen. She seemed… self-sufficient. Hardy. Capable and strong but soft, too. Liesel tried to swallow the memory down. But it wouldn’t go.

  Step 2: Cut the Patches

  Her mother shifted around fabric and tools and joined Liesel on the wooden bench. “Now for cutting. This is a critical step, Liesel.”

  “Isn’t the critical part stitching everything back together?” Liesel didn’t mean to be obstinate. But it was her nature, of late, to question everything her mother said. An aftereffect of adoption, some thought. The adopted child pushed back. Hard.

  Her mother shook her head. “After understanding the rules of quilting, you have to understand somethin’ else. You can’t patch fabric together if it’s already whole, sweetheart. And, well, if you don’t already have scraps, then you make them.”

  “That seems silly,” Liesel pushed again. “Wasteful, too. Why don’t we just work with scraps so we don’t waste any fabric?”

  Her mother seemed to consider this for a moment. “Sometimes, a yard of fabric sits around for a long while. It’s not a scrap, necessarily, right? A whole yard or two of fabric could make any number of things. It could be anything in the world, I’d reckon.”

  Liesel blinked.

  Her mother went on. “But then again, it’s just been sitting around, and now, Liesel, isn’t that a waste? Why not take that good fabric and make it somethin’ more useful?”

  This made sense, Liesel had to admit. She nodded. “Sure. So, you take the good fabric and break it down to make it something new. Why do we have to cut it into such little pieces, though?”

  “The little pieces become our patches. They’ll get reborn, you could say. As a pretty new block. You’ll see. Now, watch here. We only need to work with two of our fabrics. The red and the cream. We’ll cut squares. See, here, Liesel. This is the first patch. We’ll cut two. And this second, we’ll cut two again. The third, we cut four, and the fourth we cut one.”

  “It’s a lot of numbers to keep track of.” Liesel wasn’t one for numbers.

  Her mother laughed, that soft warm laugh. They each took a brief break to sip from their cocoa then got down to it: measuring, marking, and cutting. A slow and thoughtful process. Liesel still questioned if this really was the most critical step, but despite her wonderings, she trusted her mother.

  In time, they’d finished their cuts, enough to make that first block.

  “How many of these will we make?” Liesel asked.

  “You mean the blocks?” Her mother pressed her lips together and lifted one eyebrow. “Depends on the size of the blanket. Are we making it for a king size bed? A lot. A baby quilt? Not as many.”

  “Let’s just do a baby quilt,” Liesel answered, laughing nervously.

  Her mother smiled. “Do you know any babies who need a blanket?”

  “Babies always need blankets,” Liesel figured aloud.

  “That’s true.” Her mother stood and reached for her pin cushion.

  “Anyway,” Liesel went on, “someone else will have a baby eventually.”

  “Maybe even you,” her mother prodded, eyeing her. “One day.”

  This was a touchy subject between them. Once her mother had confessed that Liesel and her brother were adopted, pressure descended on the family. Pressure to pretend it didn’t matter. That they were still and truly a family. Pressure not to ask about their biological roots. Pressure to remain faithful.

  Liesel leveled her chin. “I won’t have children.”

  “Sure, you will,” her mother replied. “One day, you’ll find your match in this world, and then you’ll have your own precious baby to bounce.”

  “What if I can’t though?” Liesel frowned at the thin slices of fabric in tiny piles.

  Her mother felt this question in the gut, clearly. She rocked back on her heels then lowered down to the bench, where she took Liesel’s hand. “In life, women are meant to be mothers, Liesel.”

  “If that’s true, then how come God made it so you couldn’t have your own kids?” Liesel felt the threat of tears at the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, her nostrils flaring.

  Her mother laughed again, but it was still soft and warm. She squeezed
Liesel’s hand. “Women don’t have to carry babies to be mothers. We’re naturally mothers. All the time. In many ways. Just as I am your mother, and just as the woman who had you is also your mother.”

  “I can’t have two mothers,” Liesel argued, her tears dissolving to near-anger.

  Her mother’s face grew serious. “Liesel, listen to me. The woman who had you is your mother. She cared for you while you grew inside of her. You just don’t remember it. And then, for whatever reason in the world, she knew that it was right for you to have me. And for me to have you.”

  “Kind of like Bess,” Liesel answered, grappling for anything to pull her out of the pain brewing in her chest.

  Bess was their dog. A golden retriever who’d been spayed too young and had incontinence issues to the point of being an outside dog much of her life. She came in when she wanted, sure. But as if she knew she couldn’t manage well enough, she kept to the yard and garden, sometimes wandering up to the back shed or over to the Inn next door. A couple of years earlier, a mama cat had a litter of kittens in the woodshed and never returned. Bess took the kittens, one by one, to the house where Liesel fawned over them. She went to the market, purchased bottles and sweet milk and together, she and Bess brought up those kittens until they turned into good helpers at the property, thwarting off rodents and curling around the legs of visitors, languid and fat and happy.

  “Yes,” her mother answered. “Just like Bess. And you, too. Together, you took over for that mother cat, right? That’s what women do, Liesel,” she added, tucking a strand of Liesel’s golden hair behind her ear. “They mother.”

  Chapter 5—Gretchen

  Gretchen rocked Tabby in her arms until Greta returned to take the fussing baby. She liked being a mother’s help to her employer. She knew that mothers needed help. Her own mother had, after all, and she was happy to give it.

  More reluctant, however, was Gretchen when it came to accepting others’ help.

  In fact, she regretted accepting Theo’s help. Especially once Greta and Liesel raised their eyebrows at her. But he wouldn’t be around for half an hour. He had to load up and then the drive would take longer than the usual ten minutes, no doubt.

  In that time, she grabbed her stocking and returned to the parlor with Liesel.

  Greta swept Tabby to the kitchen to prepare the last of the formula for her, now that she was up and fussing again. Bedtime for the baby would come a bit later, but with fresh formula en route, Greta claimed she was safe to use what she had.

  “You sew?” Liesel asked Gretchen as she hunkered closer to the single lit candle in the parlor. Greta had lit the other candles and used one to light her way to the kitchen and set about her work in there.

  Gretchen flushed at Liesel’s question. “Hardly. I’m learning, but it’s slow. Between my two jobs and responsibilities at home, I only get a little time here and there.”

  “You did that stocking all by hand?” Liesel leaned closer to Gretchen, who found the courage to show the woman.

  “Oh, no. I have an old Singer. It was my great grandmother’s. At least, I think it was. I cut the pattern and ran it through. Now I’m just adding these stitches for show.”

  “Embellishment,” Liesel said, and a smile lifted her entire face. Gretchen wasn’t sure she’d seen Liesel smile all night.

  Encouraged, Gretchen nodded. “Right, yes. I crochet more often, though. I started crocheting years ago, when I was just a girl. I’ve always loved crafts.”

  “I do, too,” Liesel answered. “In fact, it’s my main hobby.”

  “You sew? And craft?”

  “Mostly I like to quilt. It got me through some hard times, you know.”

  Gretchen considered this. She didn’t know Liesel, but the polished look and pretty style certainly didn’t indicate she’d suffered much in life.

  Then, Gretchen wondered how people saw her. Did they see the hard times on her face? In her clothes? Her makeup? Or did they think she’d had it easy just as Gretchen figured Liesel had.

  Gretchen had never been like her mother—not a hairdresser type who was good at playing therapist, at pulling people’s demons out and washing them down the drain or snipping them away—only half an inch, though! Just a trim.

  But it felt a lot like Liesel wanted to be asked about it.

  “Hard times?” Gretchen said simply, emulating what she’d seen Greta do over and again. Just repeat what the other person said. It suggests you need clarity because you’re confused, not nosey.

  Liesel eased back into her chair. “Sure. All women have hard times. All people do.”

  “And you like to quilt?” Gretchen was careful to preserve the conversation without being rude or intrusive.

  “It’s what I do,” Liesel answered, smiling mischievously.

  Gretchen desperately wanted to answer in kind. That crafting or quilting was what she did, too.

  But she was still curious about the hard times. Especially on a woman who seemed, well, so perfect.

  “I’ve had hard times, too. Like you said,” she replied.

  “With your breakup?” Liesel asked.

  Gretchen blew air through her lips. “No. Much harder than that.”

  “You mean it wasn’t hard to end your relationship with Theo?” Liesel asked, her tone… knowing.

  Gretchen frowned. “Well, it wasn’t easy, I suppose. But I’ve had harder days than that. Anyway, like I said, we’re still friends. So…”

  “I see. It’s not technically over. That’s why it’s not hard?” Liesel’s smile remained, but there was a coolness in her gaze.

  Unafraid of a small challenge, Gretchen took the bait. “We are over. Yes. My hard times had more to do with my parents’ divorce. Scrimping by. That sort of thing. I had to help when my siblings were born, and that was hard, too.” She felt unreasonably defensive. It was becoming patently clear that Liesel didn’t know a thing about hard times. Gretchen bristled and lowered her head as she stabbed the needle back through the stocking.

  “That is hard,” Liesel answered, her voice softening. “I don’t know what it’s like, though. You’re right about that.”

  Gretchen glanced up, her needle and thread moving with her eyes. Then, she looked back at her stocking, swooping the thread around and working it back through, soothed by the motion. “Everyone goes through hard things. No one’s is harder than another’s.”

  “Hm,” Liesel replied, non-committal. “You’re a natural at that.” She indicated at Gretchen’s lap by a nod of her head. “You worked for the seamstress uptown, right?”

  “That’s right,” Gretchen replied. “I did the laundry and pressed garments. Nothing important.”

  “Washing and pressing are incredibly important. Especially in quilting. Have you ever learned?”

  “To quilt?” Gretchen glanced up then back down and shook her head. “No, but I’ve always wanted to. I’d like to be able to do it all. Crochet, knit, sew, quilt. Like I said, it’s my passion.”

  Liesel replied, “It used to be mine, too.”

  Gretchen’s curiosity piqued. “Used to be?” She laid down her project, giving Liesel her attention.

  “Yes. It was my savior, so to speak, when I was considering my vocation. No matter what avenue I tried, nothing stuck. I never met someone, so that eliminated becoming a homemaker or a stay-at-home-mother, from which I’ve probably never quite recovered.” She laughed lightly. “That was my dream as a girl. To have my own daughter one day and do all those mother-daughter things my own—my own mother did with me.” Her voice cracked and she cleared it. “Anyway, I tried my hand at various professions or vocations. That’s what we call our professions in the Church. The Catholic faith, I mean. We try to nail down our God-given gifts and then… well… do those things. The problem was, I never could nail down my God-given gifts. I just sort of assumed that my God-given gift was to be a wife and a mother.”

  “You could have adopted,” Gretchen pointed out inquisitively.

  Liese
l shook her head. “I actually tried. Turned out the state of Indiana frowns upon single mothers looking to adopt. They preferred married couples, and there were enough of those to go around. I didn’t have enough money to push the matter, so I put in for fosters. That didn’t pan out, either, and that’s when I gave the Sisterhood a go.”

  Gretchen frowned. “The Sisterhood?”

  Liesel smiled and glanced towards the kitchen as if it was a secret she was about to share. “I was once going to become a nun.”

  For whatever reason, this caught Gretchen entirely off guard, and she couldn’t hide her surprise. “A nun?” Gretchen may not have gotten serious with Theo… and it was true that she had no other prospects, but she couldn’t imagine a chaste life. Devoting herself to the Church like that seemed extreme.

  “Yes, I figured you’d think I was crazy.”

  “Not crazy,” Gretchen protested. “Just… I’ve never personally known a nun. I mean, I’ve known nuns, but I never knew someone who—”

  “Who wasn’t a nun all your life? You never knew someone who wasn’t a nun then become one. Or maybe vice versa,” Liesel offered.

  “Yeah. I suppose that’s it. It’s certainly uncommon, too.”

  “It used to be less so. When I was a young girl, the convent was a viable option. One to seriously consider, and not only if you couldn’t marry. Back when my mother was a child, it wasn’t rare for one of her friends to aspire to serve God in that way.”

  Gretchen returned to her stitching, trying hard to act casual in the face of what was becoming a borderline uncomfortable conversation. She wasn’t accustomed to talking about such personal topics, especially with a veritable stranger. A loud wash of blizzardy wind barreled against the house. Gray-white masked the window as the storm whipped against it loudly. Tabby fussed in the kitchen. Gretchen wondered who it was that Coach was sending. And when Theo would arrive.

  “What do you think changed?” she asked Liesel, knotting a line of thread and snipping it. “I mean, how come girls don’t consider the Church more often these days?” Gretchen knew the answer. And it had to do with the thing that scared her most about getting serious with Theo. Those particular expectations of young love. Or lust, as was more often the case. Call her old-fashioned or naïve, but Gretchen wasn’t one to play house, and that’s what she worried about with Theo and the long-distance thing. One thing could lead to another, temptation would take hold, and then…