The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,76
having completely forgotten it was a surprise party.
“Sometimes I feel like the last sister standing,” she said softly.
I didn’t know what to say to that. Nobody did. Just as the mood was about to cross the line from quiet to too quiet, Caroline pushed her chair back and looked toward me.
“Hey, Celia, how about a tour?”
“OH, MY WORD!” Felicia’s eyes went wide. “I had no idea that Beebee had this much yarn. And it really was like this when you opened the door?”
“Yes, ma’am. Seems this was the one room Calpurnia thought was worth taking care of. It’s my oasis of sanity.”
“Celia,” Polly said, shaking her head and giving me a crooked smile, “why didn’t you say something before I made you buy that yarn?”
“You didn’t make me buy it. I wanted it. And the needles. Really.”
“Uh-huh. Sure you did. Have you used them?”
I winced. “Well . . . I had an issue with extra stitches. And dropped ones. Clearly, I haven’t inherited Beebee’s knitting gene.”
Polly put her hands on her hips. “You’re not seriously going to let all this beautiful yarn go to waste, are you? What about making something for the baby? A blanket? It’ll be fun. Come to think of it,” she said, looking around at the group, “anybody else want to learn to knit?”
“Not with my arthritis,” Felicia said. “But I wish I’d learned to quilt when I had the chance. My mother left so many quilt blocks when she passed. I always told myself that I’d finish them someday, but I’d never be able to hold a needle now.”
“You could quilt by machine,” Polly said. “I can teach you.”
“I don’t have a sewing machine.”
“Celia does,” Pris volunteered. “We found an old Singer Featherweight under the back stairs last week. It still runs. I was going to put it up on Craigslist . . .” Pris looked a question at me.
“I’d love for you to have it, Felicia.”
“Would you?” Felicia seemed genuinely pleased. “Well, that would be lovely. But Polly, don’t you think it’s a little late for me to learn to quilt?”
“Absolutely not,” Polly replied. “And if it involves yarn, fabric, thread, or any kind of fiber, I can teach it.”
Pris’s eyebrows popped up. “What about embroidery? I’d love to embroider some of my thrift shop finds.”
“Embroidery too,” Polly said.
Pris let out a little squeal. “Think about the blogs I could post—embroidered jeans, jackets, skirts. I’ll pick up tons of new followers!”
Polly turned to face Caroline. “What about you?”
The question seemed to alarm her. “I’m the least crafty person on the planet. Seriously.” She rolled up her sleeve. “See this scar? That’s what happens when I get near a hot glue gun.”
“No glue guns in my classes, I promise,” Polly said. “Come on, Caroline. There must be some craft you’d like to try.”
“I’ll come and hang out. But crafting just isn’t my thing.” Caroline sounded pretty definite and Polly didn’t push the issue.
“Okay, what about everybody else?” Polly asked, looking right at me. “Are you in?”
Was I?
Thinking that knitting something for Peaches might jinx the adoption was ridiculous, utterly illogical. But it lurked in the back of my mind just the same. I might not have inherited the crafty gene, but the family bent toward superstition had definitely been passed on. And it wasn’t like I had a whole lot of time on my hands.
But I liked having these women in my home. Their presence felt like a down payment on the life I longed to have, one filled with laughter and creativity and friends. I wanted and needed that. I think they did too.
Felicia, with a mind more supple than her arthritic hands, needed new challenges and friends to fill the gaps left by those who had gone away or gone before. Polly needed support during the uncertain launch of her shaky business venture and a way to share her gifts with others. Pris, still trying to figure out how to be a grown-up, needed the influence and acceptance of older women who cared about her. Caroline was in the market for new best friends, but what else did she need? There must be something, because even stronger than my superstitions and the sense that bringing these women together was Good and Right, was a sudden and powerful intuition that every person who passed through my door was absolutely supposed to be there. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did.
“Sure. I’m in,” I said. “Do Monday nights work for everybody?”