Amalia paused to watch the striking bird with the scarlet chest and his mate take over the feeder, managing to scatter seeds down for the ground-feeding birds. Another pang of homesickness hit her. Must be the day for it. Tears did not come easy for her, but she could feel them burning at the back of her throat.
“Are you all right?” Ginny asked softly.
“Yeah, or I will be.” She looked around for her iced tea and nodded when Ginny raised it from the small table between the two recliners. Instead of sitting down, Amalia leaned on the wooden railing around the deck. A large basket of fern on one side of her and trailing arbutus on the other. Crossing her arms, she heaved a sigh. “Your hostas are growing well.”
“Once they came up. I was beginning to be concerned. Fred pulled the winter mulch off them after the frost left the ground, but we didn’t see any green until the hens started scratching in the beds.”
Feeling more under control again, Amalia settled into the bright floral cushions and picked up her glass. Spook flopped down between them with a sigh. The song of a purple finch came from one of the maple trees leafing out behind the house. She picked up her ball of yarn from the basket beside her and studied the lap robe to see where she was to knit or purl and set the needles to clicking.
“Do you ever just sit and enjoy?”
Amalia shrugged. “Probably not. I don’t miss out on the enjoyment by knitting. My hands do that all on their own. And then I don’t feel guilty for sitting down.”
“What are you going to bring to the meeting on Monday night?”
“Oh, a piece of cross-stitching. I put it away and just found it again. I thought of that rug I have on the coffee table, you know the hooked one? But it’s too big to haul around. Besides, the cross-stitching is a true UFO. I think I started it on the farm.”
“Oh, my goodness. I guess that does qualify.” Ginny sipped her iced tea, wiping the moisture from the glass on her pant leg.
“And you?” Amalia asked.
“You remember when I started the ribbon embroidery?”
“A couple of years ago, right?”
“I found that bell pull all neatly packaged in one of the zippered bags bedding comes in nowadays, at the bottom of the trunk. Hope to send it to Josie for her new apartment.”
Amalia looked up at the sound of the sliding glass door opening. Fred set the tray he carried on the end of Ginny’s lounger. “Fred, you ever hear of small dishes of ice cream?”
“Those are small,” Ginny answered with a head shake.
“How do you two keep slender with all this delicious food?”
“Hard work.” Fred passed out the bowls, then the cookie plate, and settled into a recliner he dragged over. “First time I tried this recipe. Used coffee and then drizzled the chocolate syrup over the top before I froze it again. The recipe called for smashed chocolate-covered espresso beans but I didn’t have any and didn’t want to make a trip to town, so used almonds instead.”
Amalia closed her eyes, the better to savor the flavor. “You could open an ice cream store. You’d have to beat the customers away.”
“Na-ah, I’d have to make big batches and that sounds too much like work. This is experimenting. That home ice cream freezer Sam got me for Christmas is the perfect toy. This way I can make the kids’ favorite flavors.” Fred raised his bowl. “More?”
“Fred, you trying to corrupt me or stuff me like a Thanksgiving turkey?”
“Nope, just don’t want you to go home hungry.”
“Fat chance.” She set her bowl and spoon on the tray. Glancing at her watch, she huffed. “Speaking of which, I need to get something in the oven for tonight.”
“How many are you still feeding?”
“Only Agatha. If I don’t bring something, she forgets to eat. This way I know she gets at least one good meal a day.”
Ginny frowned. “I thought she was on the Meals on Wheels list.”
“She was. Not sure what happened there, but you know, she can have some bad days. I just ignore them.”
“How much longer can she live there?”
Amalia set her dish aside. “Good question. If that son of hers would research assisted living like he said he would. You know, some people just can’t deal with a mother who is slipping like she is. I’m just filling in. I’m sure we’re going to need to call Social Services pretty soon.”
“But then she goes for a while more like her old self?”
“That’s it. And then she is so grateful. At least so far, he is paying her rent and making sure she has money when she needs it.”
“Like for groceries and stuff?”
Amalia nodded and glanced over at Fred, not having heard from him in a bit. As she suspected, he’d fallen into his post-dinner snooze.
“We’ll give him a few more minutes; he usually wakes up on his own. Let’s go out and put your plants in a flat and in the back of the truck. You tuck the eggs into your basket. How about half a loaf of bread too.”
“I do not turn down homemade bread.”
Out in the greenhouse, Ginny handed her several four-inch pots. “The pegs say which is which. Now, when you plant these tomatoes, bury them so deep that the dirt reaches the first leaves. Then new roots will grow all along the stem and the plants will be really robust. They’ve been hardened off, but I’d still plant them in the evening and shade them the next day or two.” She handed off a six-pack of marigolds, the cucumbers in round pots, one of each kind, and two others. “These are sweet basil and spearmint. I use the mint leaves in iced tea. The more you clip both of these, the better they grow. You have clay pots?”
“The big ones”—she held out her arms to show sizes—“and saucers for underneath. One fits in a round metal stand.”
“How about a coleus or two?”
“I’m running out of space.”
“Surely you can fit these in; the colors of the leaves are so rich. With your southeast exposure, you can do about anything.”
“I know, that’s why I chose that one.” A hummingbird buzzed by her to drink at the feeder. “They’re here. Good, I’ll get my feeder out.” She set her plastic flat in the pickup bed and looked up when she heard Fred call Spook.
“Hope you don’t mind if he comes along.”
“Not at all.”
“See, I told you.” Ginny set a larger pot in the back. “You need some pink too for the hummers.”
“Maybe I better get some of those holders that hook over the railing.” Amalia thought a second and nodded. “That’s what I’ll go do. You ever done one of those hanging baggy things that lets the tomatoes grow hanging upside down? I could put one of those hooks in the ceiling.”
Fred raised a finger. “We have some good hooks. Be right back.”
Amalia and Ginny grinned at each other. “Bring a couple of them,” Ginny called. “We’ll use every elevation and get a write-up in the gardening column in the paper.”
Fred slid back under the steering wheel. “You do have a stepstool, don’t you? I could go get mine.”
“No, I have one.”
“Good.”
Amalia waved out her window, Spook barked once as if to say see you later and Fred honked the horn.
By the time he left Amalia’s place for home, Amalia had pots, the plants, and a bag of Fred’s own potting soil he had thrown in to keep the pots from sliding toward the back or sides. Two strong hooks, one on each side, were embedded in the ceiling and he had promised to weld her a couple of sturdy pot holders for over the rail, not like the cheapo ones found at local stores.
“You ought to go into business, Fred of all trades, available to make your life easier.”
“Then I’d have to set up appointments and such, I’d need a secretary and a bookkeeper, and before you know it, I’d be back in business again. Don’t you know I’m retired and I want to stay that way? I should have them done by tomorrow. One good thing about a wooden deck rail, the pots are more easily attached. Just set ’em on top and nail �
��em down.”
“True. Thanks for the help and the amazing ice cream.”
He smiled and nodded. “What’s your favorite flavor?”
“Probably blueberry.”
“You’ll get some when the blueberries are ripe.”
“Or peach.” She waved him off. “What can I give you in exchange?”
“I’ll think about it.” Spook barked, he honked, and away they went.
Amalia stared after them. What would they ever do without Fred? Good thing he was healthy.
Chapter Seven
We’re going to need another table.” MJ looked to Maureen, owner of the Yarn Shop.
“At least one. Going to be pretty crowded. I’ll get two, and we’ll have to use folding chairs.”
The back room, which had looked vast when they were setting up, seemed more the size of a storage closet now. Maureen had used it as a gathering spot for knitting lessons, putting a cookie-and-coffee table in the middle of the room and a few clusters of easy chairs here and there, some with arms (for crochet) and some armless (for knitters). She had once talked of inviting in the mah-jongg players when they lost their gathering room at the senior center, but they moved to the basement of the branch library. She had spoken of getting a bridge club going, but it hadn’t happened. The room had never been filled up before. It was now.
Roxie duct-taped down the last of the extension cords that brought electricity to the power strips serving a sewing machine table. She stood up. “Quite an operation; bigger than I envisioned. Do you think we can squeeze one more table in if necessary?”
Maureen shook her head. “I already moved the coffee station out into the other room to make more room for worktables. And I see right now I’m going to have to get more folding chairs from somewhere.”
“From the Lutheran Church on Fifth,” MJ suggested. “They bought new stacking chairs and put their old ones in their basement. I bet they’d love to see them find a good home here.”
As several more people, carrying baskets or bags with their projects, filled the last two tables, the noise level had risen. Those who’d arrived earlier had their coffee or drink of choice and had already begun work on their projects. MJ went around the room, greeting people and handing out stick-on name tags. “Just your first name is fine,” she repeated—and repeated. “And make it big enough for others to read.” She smiled at Roxie, who was on her way to refill the coffeepot. “Who would have thought it?”
“I told you we were filling a need. There is hot coffee in those two carafes while I get this one going again.”
When arrivals trickled to a stop, MJ stood and clapped her hands. “Can I have your attention? Hello!” Someone else yelled, “Quiet!” and that worked. “Welcome, everyone, and I hope you will get to know some of the people around you. Obviously we had no idea we would have so many in attendance. We’ve outgrown our space before we’ve even begun.” Chuckles sprinkled the group. “So someone suggested we set up a daytime group too. Can I have a show of hands how many would prefer a daytime UFO meeting.” She counted and Roxie called out, “About half. That would be more manageable. Anyone have a suggestion as to where a daytime group could meet?”
“Would we have to come to one or the other or whichever works best for that time?”
MJ shrugged. “This is not a membership group, but a service really. We set the places to meet and you attend when you can.”
“How about attending both? I want to get these things done.”
“If that suits you. One thing I want to see happen is that we celebrate every project that is finished. We’ll take pictures and post them on that bulletin board.” She pointed to a three-by-four corkboard on the wall. “And while we are not signing a contract—”
“Good thing,” someone muttered, causing more laughter.
“Remember, the goal is finishing something, not starting something new.”
“Could starting new things be described as an addiction?”
“You mean like a fabri-holic or yarna-holic?”
“Something like that.”
MJ raised her voice again. “As soon as we have a daytime location finalized, we’ll let you all know. As for tonight, let’s go around the room and everyone say your name and what number one is for you. I’ll start. My name is MJ Bronson and I am working on a crewel embroidery picture.”
“When did you start it?” someone asked.
“I stand on the fifth amendment.” Then rethinking, she shook her head. “No, must be at least five years ago.” She motioned to the lady beside her.
The woman raised a large and beautiful crewel depiction of two big sailing ships being loaded at a wharf. “I started this when we lived in Baltimore near the naval shipyard. But then we moved here and I sort of just put it aside.”
Roxie cooed, “It’s going to be spectacular when it’s finished.”
Grinning, Jeff raised a half-finished boat oar high. “I’m getting excited about my little peapod again. I can add a keel and spritsail and sail it as well as row it.” He frowned. “Adding a keel isn’t considered a new project, is it?”
Roxie laughed. “Let your conscience be your guide.”
Fred was sanding the parts of a drawer for his chest. Roxie displayed the afghan she was working on. Even Maureen had a UFO, a lovely teal sweater she had started the year before.
When everyone had been introduced, MJ reminded them, “The doors will close at nine thirty so Maureen can go home and get ready to reopen with her knitting group in the morning at ten.” She sat down and started sorting through her bag for her thread card and a packet of needles, along with the lighted magnifier that fit over her head.
“Well, shoot, I can’t find my scissors,” said the woman across the table and two down.
MJ passed her scissors across the table and went back to searching the card for the right yarn. Good thing she had set this up correctly all those years ago, including enlarging the instructions.
“Here, you can keep them. I have an extra pair.” One of the other women handed hers over.
Conversations filled the air as people started getting to know each other.
“What are you working on?” Roxie asked the woman knitting next to her.
“A baby sweater and hat. The baby I started it for is now in first grade.”
Roxie burst out laughing. “Oh, good. I have a baby quilt to do and my niece is in junior high. I should teach her how to finish it.”
“Maybe you’ll have it done by the time she has a baby.”
“No, that’s the next project. I brought this table runner tonight so I could do the hand stitching on it. That way I can claim I finished something quickly to encourage myself.”
“Good idea.”
A sharp “Aaak!” broke the background hum of chatter. “I don’t have any more sewing machine needles. Well, rats.”
“Here.” Paula stood up and crossed to her. “These are universal, supposed to fit any machine. What size?”
“Twenty or twenty-one. I’m working on a quilt block.”
“There you go.” Paula handed her a needle.
Roxie poked MJ. “There’s an additional benefit of working together.”
“I guess this really is a service rather than a club. Or a ministry.” MJ finally had her needle threaded with the wool yarn and, locking the thread on the back, started the long and short fill-in stitches on the leaves. Her stitches looked clumsy at first but by the second leaf she’d settled back into the rhythm.
Some left about nine, always thanking Maureen for the meeting space, and the rest trickled out as they put their handwork away and stood, many of them rolling their shoulders and stretching.
MJ heard someone mutter, “I know better than to sit for that long, but the time flew by.”
Another answered her. “Next time I am bringing my own chair, one of the plastic high-backed outside ones. Lightweight and good for my back.”
“Good idea, think I’ll do the same.”
S
everal stopped to thank MJ and Roxie for getting the group started and others for realizing a daytime group would be good too. “I just don’t like driving in the dark anymore,” one of the older women commented. “Fine right now but when the nights get longer again? Daytime group for sure.”
Maureen bade MJ, Daryl, and Roxie good night as she locked the door behind them. The three stood on the sidewalk.
“I thought you and Loren came together,” MJ said to Roxie.
“No, she has an early morning meeting and she knew I’d stay until the door closed. She said to tell you thanks and good job. You walking in the morning?”
“Of course. Besides, I bet this is the topic of choice at Annie’s in the morning.”
Roxie asked, “Weren’t you surprised to see that man, hmm, what’s his name?”
Daryl answered her. “There were four men. You probably mean Hudson, the one who is knitting an afghan.”
“Yes, well, I know you and Fred, and Jeff.”
“Fred went over and helped him on the peapod oar.”
“Right. Did Hudson say how he got into knitting?”
Daryl nodded. “His mother had started an afghan before she died, and when he was laid up with a badly broken leg, his wife challenged him to finish it to honor his mother. Said he finds it very relaxing so he kept on. Says he has several started but they got put away when his wife was sick and he took over with the caretaking.”
MJ stared at her husband. Learning this much about someone else was not like him. Perhaps starting this group might be good on several levels. One of the older women had told her thank you because this got her out of the house for a change.
The three of them, with baskets and bags, walked up the street, past Annie’s, and toward home. Instead of turning in at the yellow house, they kept on walking.
“You don’t need to walk me home,” Roxie said.
“I know, but it feels good.” Daryl grinned at her. “MJ here is always after me to get out and walk more.”
“As you said, it feels good. Such a perfect evening. Listen: crickets.”
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