Anything for Her - By Janice Kay Johnson Page 0,37

of her life. This was his fault. And hers, for not listening to her mother. For not keeping to herself, the way she always had.

Allie checked the clock, and saw that she had to leave if she was to open the store on time. That was safe enough. Unless Nolan stopped by with lunch today, of course. But surely he wouldn’t, when he’d seen her yesterday and lost so much time on his work.

Not only seen her—made love to her. I don’t think that was sex, Allie.

She didn’t think it was, either. And she didn’t want to live without whatever it had been. Without Nolan. Because she saw suddenly that all her efforts to piece and layer and stitch together a past, a self, accomplished absolutely nothing if she didn’t have a future. If she never married, had children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. What was she staying safe for if not for that?

By halfway through the day, Allie had let go of most of the strain, although a headache lingered. She’d been indulging in melodrama, she concluded. What did it matter where she’d lived as a kid, or gone to middle school? So she’d had different names. There were cultures where people acquired different names for each phase of their life. She could think of it that way. Some of the names were secret, that’s all.

Chloe was the child, the dancer, Laura the muddled teenager, Allie the adult. They are all me; I am them. Telling forbidden truths wouldn’t make that any more so. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t talk about childhood experiences. The time she’d fallen from the monkey bars at school and broken her arm, Nanna’s snowflakes, Lady the family beagle and, yes, her lost dream of being a ballerina. All she would have to do was...edit. No, we never, never, never lived in Queens, and all I did was take dance lessons like many thousands of other girls my age, and did anybody care who Laura Nelson, tongue-tied, had been, except that it was Laura who had discovered quilting? And that went to show how silly she’d been, didn’t it, because that meant Laura and Allie were certainly integrated.

That calmed her, as she chatted with Libby Hutchins, an occasional customer. “Yes,” she said, “we’re displaying miniature quilts starting on the fifteenth. Do come see them. They’re all gorgeous, and some are really extraordinary. Marybeth Winters—do you know her?—made the most astonishing basket quilt with appliqué flowers. The blocks are only three inches square. You almost have to use a magnifying glass to appreciate the detail.”

Libby, who was starting a crib quilt for her first grandchild, promised to stop by.

Allie’s mini-quilt shows, one a quarter, were a big draw. Customers loved having their own quilts featured.

Sometimes she chose to show quilts all using the same pattern in multiple variations, perhaps tied into a class held at the same time. Last spring, the local historical society had been delighted to have a chance to show off quilts of the 1920s from their collection, and they were talking about a turn-of-the-century display next spring.

Once the bell tinkled as Libby departed, Allie climbed back on the ladder to finish hanging one of her own quilts to replace the Feathered Star quilt just sold. She had made this one right before the Lady of the Lake that was on the frame in back. This was one of her favorite patterns, Bear’s Paw, done in subtle shades of cream and rust and rose. At last she put away the ladder and stood back to admire the full effect. Oh, yes, very nice—and nicely coincidental that the fabrics for sale below it were the complementary browns shading into rusts and then peaches and pinks.

She was pleasantly surprised to realize her headache was gone. She was even able to laugh, a little, at last night’s dream. Rachel and Jessica, with the ugly voices of seagulls... Hah! Maybe I didn’t like them as much as I thought I did.

Smiling, she decided to measure out and cut the deep purple fabric she intended to use to bind the Lady of the Lake quilt, which was nearing completion. And then—oh!—she’d have the fun of creating something new. She’d had a sort of vision of what she could do with Wild Goose Chase, which wouldn’t really be a chase at all....

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE MEETING SET UP by the coach to talk to prospective basketball players and their parents turned out to be a casual affair, held in the school library. The