Chapter 3
Gabe
While the Quilted Flower looks roughly the same as the street view photo — a couple of quilts have changed, but that melon-looking one still hangs outside — the interior is nothing like the hobby shops and discount department store craft aisles my sisters used to drag me through in their quests for teenage individuality.
The floor is occupied by two large tables with gridded mats that ladies are cutting panels of fabric on. Both tables are flanked by shelves stacked with coordinated bundles of fabric tied together with ribbons, packs of thin strips rolled together, and mismatched fabrics tightly folded into triangles and kept in vintage cigar boxes. Toward the back of the room, there’s a doorframe but no door and a window frame with no window, giving the distinct impression of the reception desk at a doctor’s office. There’s a vintage cash register alongside a tablet payment system, and although the shop is open and doing business, no one’s actually running the register.
Between the doorway and the window is a tall display of threads, the same colors seeming to repeat over and over again in more brands than anyone would think thread needs. The rest of the walls are covered by floor-to-ceiling shelves the exact height of the cardboard holders the fabric is wrapped around, not an inch of space wasted. It ranges from solid fabrics to wild patterns: swirly skulls, stars and moons, those leafy things that are all over the douchey shirts Blaise wears when we’re boating, random household items.
I’m looking more closely at a teacup next to a pocket watch, checking the others in the set to see if my suspicions are correct and they’ve all got Alice in Wonderland images, when a voice as soft and high-pitched as the drunk mouse in the teapot says, “Um, excuse me? Can I help you?”
I turn to see a woman old enough to be my grams with short white hair and a pair of sharp-looking filigreed scissors hanging from her necklace. “Hey, I’m Gabe Shaunessy!” I say with a big smile. I bet it looks really weird that I took one step into the shop and froze. I look past the woman and notice there are two others with shopping bags in their hands looking ready to leave.
I’m blocking the exit. I didn’t mean to, but it’s what I do. This lady is probably Joss since she’s the one willing to say something to me.
“I was sent here by Emily Hess,” I continue as I let the ladies through. “She sent me up here to check on a donation you’re making to the Jugs — err, Juggernauts — fundraiser?” When the lady continues to stare blankly, I say, “You’re Jocelyn, right?”
“Jocelyn? I don’t know—oh, ha! Joss. No. That’s sweet of you. She’s out in the barn. Just cut through to the back and follow the path.”
I’m not sure what’s so sweet about thinking she’s Joss, but I follow the lady’s directions, discovering that behind that first wall is at least twice as much fabric in little rooms off the main hall. There’s a room of hand-dyed fabrics that look kind of like tie-dye, but the fanciest and least hippie tie-dye ever. What Merrick wears when we’re boating. There are sewing machines with price tags I have to look twice at. One of them is giant with this crazy rig attached to it that’s $10,000used. Hanging from the walls is thousands of supplies that I can’t identify.
I follow a path lined with wilting snapdragons and pansies to the barn. Inside is a large, open room filled with six pods of worktables, mostly cleared off. There are also four of those crazy expensive machines in here. The weird frames? Two of the machines have quilts wound onto them. One of the machines is even running on its own, sewing through the center of the quilt, and I can see the frame slowly moving to make a pattern.
Wild.
At one work station, two octogenarians are working at together to . . . I don’t know what they’re doing, to be honest, but they have a bedsheet-sized layer of stuffing, and they’re attempting to wrangle a big, unfinished piece of fabric over it.
A quilt? Is that fluff the inside of the quilt? Either way, they’re struggling, so I hustle over to them, startling them both when they notice me, but the squat, pink-haired grandma lets go of her side, giving me the opportunity to take hold of it.
The willowy, lavender-haired grandma says, “Oh are you helping us? What a sweet young man!”
“And a big ‘un!” says Pinky. Hopefully the other one is Joss. I’ve found that ladies who think I’m sweet give me cookies while the ones who go right for my size are more likely to give me more larger treats, like pies and cakes.
And that makes me feel fat.
I get it enough from my teammates, since I’m one of the biggest guys and do have a gut, but I need that gut.
I need my cookies.
I spend at least twenty minutes helping them with the quilt. Purple slides me a pile of pins while Pinky tells me this is for a granddaughter who’s marrying another gal next month, and isn’t that just the coolest thing. I don’t understand why they call what we’re doing basting when it’s not a turkey and there’s no turkey juice, but that’s okay. When they trim away some of the fluff, Pinky takes a handful of it and tosses it outside with the explanation that it’s for ‘Jerry,’ which sounds an awful lot like spilled alcohol on the ground for one’s homies. Finally, Purple says, “Where are my manners? I’m Rose.”
“And I’m Iris,” says Pinky.
Huh.
“Gabe,” I offer, stretching my hand out.
Rose takes it and giggles like a schoolgirl when I grip hers just right to show I’m a strong man but I won’t hurt her. “I know who you are, young man. My Carl has season tickets to the Jugs. He thinks you boys are making it to the playoffs this year.”
“I certainly hope so, ma’am.” And I can’t wait to tell the guys that old people are calling us the Jugs now, too. PR has been hating it, but it’s not our fault they gave the team a stupid name. “But I’m actually here to see Joss. Can you point me in her direction?”
“Ooh,” Iris murmurs, and they share a pointed look at my left ring finger.
Oh dear. This is not the first time a little old lady has attempted to match me with her recently widowed daughter who’s still plenty old enough to be my mother, but I put a big smile on my face and head through the door they pointed at.
It opens into a short, narrow hallway with a room a few feet ahead that seems to be oriented sideways. Fabric cubbies topped with framed pictures of orchids line the walls. When I step closer to see if I’m right about there not being glass in the frames, I realize they’re not pictures at all. They’re tiny quilts made from hundreds of slivers of fabric. I get now why there were so many shades of solid fabrics in the shop.
They’re for painting with fabric.
I glance the other way and find half a dozen lights pointed roughly in my direction. They share a wall with a spider web of cables, multiple mounted cameras, and a big screen TV currently occupied with a petite, dark-haired woman stitching a jacket on a mannequin. There’s a picture-in-picture at the top corner of the screen, and although the image is smaller, it’s perfectly lit to show every detail of the big blue eyes, button nose, and pink cheeks of the blonde woman on camera.
Oh, and she’s seated right in front of me but distracted by both the conversation and the small quilt in her lap. Visible on the screen is a simple V-neck tee with the logo of the Quilted Flower, but behind her workbench, I can see she’s paired it with a patchwork skirt with enough length and volume that she’s tucked it between her legs.
“So one of us has to be banged, one of us married, and one of us killed,” she’s saying, her voice soft and sweet and just a little bit Southern. Exotic for a guy originally from Minnesota. “So which one am I?”
“Marry, definitely,” I blurt out.
She lets out a squeaky yelp and spins around too quickly in her swivel chair, going an extra ninety degrees before I catch her and spin her back to face me.
Our eyes meet, and my breath is stolen. She is, quite literally, breathtaking. She’s startled by me, understandably so, but something in those gentle blue eyes makes me want to take her in my arms and keep her there forever.
To hold and to protect, is that the line? No, it’s to have and to hold, but I would hold and protect her whether I have her or not.
“Are you Joss?” I ask.
She nods silently.
“I’ve been looking for you all day.”