Ocean Waves Read online

  I couldn’t begin to understand how to dress like that, but she looked great—feminine and ethereal, and definitely artistic.

  The students filed in. I recognized Harriet from breakfast. She settled in next to me, dropping her huge purse on the table. It was pieced from a line of Moda fabric, all faded reds and blues, paisleys and flowers, held together with grommets the size of shower-

  curtain holes. I loved it.

  “I’m glad to see a familiar face,” I said, even though we’d just met.

  “I’m sorry I brought up your sister-in-law this morning. I didn’t know that was a sore spot,” Harriet said.

  “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known. She and I just didn’t get along. We had very different views on how to run the business.”

  “I know how that is. Family businesses can be hard. My husband and my brother-in-law nearly came to blows over a small trucking business they had.”

  I was quiet for a moment. “Kym’s the reason I’m in this class.”

  Harriet looked interested, so I continued. “I didn’t know how to quilt. I inherited QP from my mother, and had to learn. When Kym left,” I said. I took a breath and started again. “When I fired Kym, it left a gap in our staff. She was very popular with the traditional quilters. I’m trying to learn.”

  “This isn’t exactly traditional quilting,” Harriet noted, pointing toward the quilts on the walls. They had traditional elements but used fusible appliqué to tell a story.

  “It’s a compromise,” I said. “My leanings are toward art quilts, so I’m hoping this class will blend the two.”

  Harriet gave me a look that said good luck. I swallowed my trepidation and smiled at her. Lucy sat down on the other side of Harriet and greeted me.

  The teacher cleared her throat. All of the students looked her way.

  “My name is Cinnamon Ramstad, the class is Legendary Quilts, and I’m here to frighten you.”

  An uncomfortable giggle went through the room. There were eighteen other students in the class. The lady across from me brought her finger to her lips and bit her cuticle.

  “I’m terrified already,” I said. I meant only for Harriet to hear but I’d spoken too loudly. The teacher came to the edge of my table, rapping her knuckles on the top. I jumped. She wasn’t allaying my fears.

  Silver bangles slid down her arm with a musical clang. “Don’t be,” she said.

  I felt the need to explain. “I’m not a very accomplished quilter.”

  Cinnamon smiled and I felt less scared. She had a maternal air that helped me feel okay.

  “In this class, there are no quilt police. I’m not interested in your technique. I’m interested in your thoughts.”

  The class got quiet. Next to me, a woman took in a deep intake of air. I wasn’t the only one who had doubts.

  Cinnamon tossed her braid over her shoulder. She pulled herself up on her table, and let her legs cross. She folded her hands. She looked calm and serene, as if she was holding a yoga class.

  “We’re going exploring here. All I ask is that you keep your mind open and your heart clear,” she said.

  What had I gotten myself into? This seminar was nothing like I thought it was going to be. I felt my stomach do a flip. I wanted to call Buster, call Vangie, even Ina to talk this out, but with no cell phone, I was cut off.

  A figure outside the window startled me. It was a doe, reaching up to pull a leaf off an oak tree. She jumped slightly as I watched. The sight calmed me down. This wasn’t life or death after all. It was just quilting.

  Cinnamon jumped down, and did a turn, including everyone in the room in her gaze. “You might have come with some preconceived notions about what your legendary quilt will be. I want you to get rid of those right now. You need to discover what your theme will be. We will do an exercise that will help.”

  As she walked around the room, she laid a large piece of butcher paper on each desk. She told us to get out the markers she’d asked us to bring. When she was finished, she pushed a button on her Ipod speakers.

  To my surprise, rock ’n’ roll blasted through. I’d been expecting waterfalls or ocean-wave music. I bit back a laugh. Harriet, Lucy, and I exchanged grins.

  Cinnamon continued, “Every map has a legend. You are going to create the legend to your quilt map. Take a marker and write down a word.”

  The entire class fingered their markers. We exchanged furtive glances. One woman cracked her neck loudly. Another blew her nose. Not one marker hit the page.

  Cinnamon reached her hands up to the ceiling. “10, 9, 8 … One word, people. One.”

  Someone coughed nervously.

  “3, 2, 1. Go,” Cinnamon yelled.

  Markers squeaked and the smell of the ink filled my nose. We all scratched down a word

  “Pens up,” the teacher said. “Now I’m sure you think your word is banal. Totally lame.”

  She waited for our murmurs of agreement to die down.

  “You’re right,” she said. She smiled a crooked smile. “Most first thoughts are. Don’t worry; we’ll get to the good stuff.”

  She made us stand and take several deep cleansing breaths. Her braid touched the floor as she bent from the waist. When she thought we were fully oxygenated, she asked us to pick up our pens again.

  “Now, using balloons, make connections to your first thought. Random thoughts. Single words, phrases. Quickly, without stopping to think. I’m going to give you ten minutes to brainstorm. Don’t overthink this. In fact, if you can not think at all, that would be better.”

  I heard my brothers’ collective voice saying that shouldn’t be a problem.

  I looked at my page; blank except for one word.

  When I’d signed up for the class, I’d thought that I would do a quilt about my remodeling project, so I wrote down “House.” Now I connected Buster to the house, and proceeded to add words like wood, family, dog, yard. I had no idea where this was going, but so far it was pretty mundane.

  I got stuck after those five words. I looked around at the heads down. Everyone seemed to writing diligently.

  Most of the women taking the classes were older than I was. Not surprisingly, many quilters are. It takes time and money to be a dedicated quilter, especially to take a week away from family and or job, and spend fifteen hundred dollars on what might seem like an indulgence, a week of quilt classes with a famous teacher.

  People with small kids, like Jenn, who worked for me at QP, couldn’t take a week off to attend a quilting class, no matter how understanding the man they were married to. Jenn had real envy about my coming down here, and I felt a desire to make her and the rest of the people at the store proud of me. Ina, Vangie, and Jenn were all working extra shifts so I could be here. I forced my mind back to the task at hand.

  I wrote wainscoting, beadboard, pedestal sink. It was turning into a wish list for Home Depot. Not what Cinnamon was looking for.

  After a few more minutes than I needed of quiet time, Cinnamon asked for a volunteer to pin her response up on the easel she’d set up.

  Lucy raised her hand. Her first word had been Asilomar. She pointed to the bubbles that surrounded her initial input.

  “My great-grandfather worked here in the twenties and thirties,” she explained. “He left pictures to my mother. I’m using copies of them, as a jumping-off point. I have her diaries, and letters, too. I thought this was the right place to work on an Asilomar quilt.”

  “Has the brainstorm done anything to change your mind?” Cinnamon asked. “Did you discover anything new?”

  She looked at the board. “I’d thought it was going to be all sepia tones and lace, but now that I’m here, I’m thinking I’ll make it more naturalistic, with images of the ocean, sky, and trees.”

  Great,” Cinnamon said. “You’ve expanded your hor
izon. Literally.” She clapped her hands. “Time for lunch.”

  ___

  After lunch, we critiqued each other’s quilt maps. I enjoyed the process far more than I thought I would, hearing about the stories behind each quilt.

  When it was my turn to speak, we were interrupted by the sound of a chime. Cinnamon glanced at her watch.

  “Oh, I knew the day would just fly by. We’ve got to break for now. The room will be open this evening after orientation until midnight. I’ll be here later for questions.”

  Even though I was glad I didn’t have to talk about my quilt, I was surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment. I was actually sorry to see the class end.

  Cinnamon raised her voice to be heard above the scraping of chairs, and said, “Your homework assignment tonight is to answer this question: What are you running away from? Sometimes the thing you’re trying to leave behind is exactly what you need.”

  ___

  I had agreed to meet Tony for coffee, so I found my car and drove the short distance into Pacific Grove. I felt slightly dazed from the first day of class. I’d never spent that much time on one quilting task. My mind kept working on the story I wanted to tell, about the store and my family, but I was happy to be on my way to see my brother. It had been too long.

  Of course, my grabbing my car could be seen as a running away of sort. Was I beginning to think like Cinnamon? That was a funny thought.

  The shopping district was only about four blocks long, with a grassy strip up the middle. Pedestrian walkways bisected the road, so I had to drive slowly. A parked car, driven by a blue-haired woman, pulled out without warning. I slammed on my brakes, heart set to pounding. The woman drove off without realizing I’d nearly hit her.

  I parked in a spot in front of a small diner. A slightly chubby policeman in a wheelchair passed me, chalking my tires, enforcing the two-hour parking limit.

  Pacific Grove touted itself as America’s Hometown, and the nickname was well suited. The small town perched on a hill overlooking one of the most scenic stretches of the western coastline, its main street was lined with art galleries, antique stores, and funky restaurants. Buster and I’d been down here for the Good Old Days festival last year and had fallen in love with the place.

  There was no sign of Tony, even though I was a few minutes late. I ordered a vanilla latte and sat down at one of the tables. The Pacific Grove Hometown Bulletin, the local newspaper, was spread out on the table in front of me. The front page caught my eye.

  The headline read, “She sounds just like a damsel in distress.” I pulled the paper closer. The article was about the mountain lion that had been seen close to Asilomar’s grounds two nights earlier. Residents were warned not to travel alone at night and to call the game warden if they spotted her. I devoured the article, glad to know I wasn’t the only one who’d heard screams late last night.

  That led me to the police blotter. Whoever wrote it had an enjoyable sense of ironic humor that took the sting out of the car burglaries and neighbor noise complaints. I was so engrossed that I didn’t realize how quickly the time was going. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes had passed. And no sign of Tony.

  Where was he? I sipped the last of my latte. I couldn’t really linger, not with Mercedes on the warpath. I was bummed out. I’d really wanted to spend some time with my brother.

  I hadn’t seen him since the anniversary sale at the shop. That day had gone by in a flash—I’d barely said hello to him. The next morning, he was back in the mountains, searching for wayward hikers.

  This gig at Asilomar meant he’d be closer to home than he had been in years. I wanted to be sure he came into San Jose for Sunday suppers at Dad’s, Sharks’ games, and Wednesday basketball night. I wanted to make sure he was going to be part of the family again.

  But I couldn’t wait any longer. The five o’clock orientation and viewing of the sewing boxes was not to be missed. I’d just clicked my car open when a man approached me.

  “You’re a quilter?” he asked. His voice was deep, but friendly. He had a nice smile, the skin crinkling around his eyes as though he smiled a lot. He was middle-aged, somewhere younger than my dad, but older than me. His brown hair was gray at the temples and his eyebrows were tufting uncontrollably over his brown eyes. “Are you taking a class at Sewing-by-the-Sea?”

  “What gave me away?” I said, checking out my clothes. No pieced vests, no threads on my sweatshirt, no cute sayings like “Old quilters never die, they just go to pieces” on my T-shirt. Nothing that screamed, “I’m a quilter.”

  “I took a wild guess.” He pointed at the Quilter Paradiso logo splashed across my car door.

  “Oh, that.” Vangie had insisted on outfitting me with a magnetic sign with the store info on it. I wasn’t sure that advertising on my old Honda didn’t send a mixed message. Great business, but not so successful that I could buy a new car.

  “You’re on to me,” I said.

  “You’re awfully young to have a quilt shop,” he said, smiling.

  It was true. I was the youngest quilt shop owner in California. I felt flattered that he’d noticed.

  “Young and pretty.”

  I blushed. “Do you quilt?”

  I knew better than to assume a guy didn’t sew.

  “Me? That’s a good one,” he said, chortling. “No. My wife is the quilter in the family. Ursula.”

  I could see the ocean downhill over his head. His hair was being swept off his face by the same wind that ruffled the ocean waves. He sounded like a New Englander, perhaps an ancestor of one of the Methodists that had founded Pacific Grove a hundred years ago.

  “I’m Paul Wiggins, by the way. From Lowell, Mass,” he said.

  I’d guessed right. He held out his hand for me to shake. His palm was soft but his grip was hard. He held my hand for a second, and looked into my eyes. His eyebrows were charming.

  “Dewey Pellicano,” I said. “Is your wife at Sewing-by-the-Sea?”

  “She is,” he said, his eyes turned troubled. “I’ve been trying to reach her, without success.”

  Mercedes’ silly ass rules. This guy missed his wife. Sweet. “The seminar director doesn’t approve of outside distractions,” I said, shrugging. Why was I apologizing for her?

  “I know, I know.” His eyebrows knitted, and he crossed his arms across his chest. He looked away, his eyes going unfocused.

  “It’s her mother,” he said softly. “I got the news almost as soon as I dropped her off yesterday.”

  My throat clutched. “Her mother?” I had a soft spot for mothers, ever since mine had died so young a year and a half ago. “Did you leave a message at the Administration desk?” I asked.

  “I tried that,” he said. “But she hasn’t called me, so I can only assume she hasn’t gotten my messages.”

  “Well, I can let her know, if you’d like,” I said, wondering as soon as the words were out of my mouth how I would find this Ursula Wiggins among the three hundred quilters that were attending the symposium.

  “That would be grand,” he said. “I’m sure she’d be forever grateful.”

  “Do you know what class she’s taking? Which teacher?” I needed to narrow down my search options.

  He tapped his teeth, as though trying to recall the specifics. “Hayden Van Susskind? Susanna Pierson?” He named several well-known quilters.

  Now I’d done it. Committed myself to the proverbial needle in a haystack. A haystack guarded by Colonel Mercedes. I immediately wanted to take back my offer, but the look on his face was pitiful. His eyes slanted sadly and his hand trembled slightly. He stuffed the offending hand into his pocket.

  “Her mother is asking for her,” he said. “She’s taken a turn for the worst since we left Boston. She’s a native of Poland, and she’s reverted to speaking only Polish.
No one can understand her except Ursula.”

  My heart thumped. How lonely to be on your deathbed with no one around you to talk to. Who would she tell her final words? My eyes filled with tears. Buster had been with my mother when she died, comforting her. I treasured that thought.

  “I’ve purchased a red-eye ticket for both of us. We need to get to the San Jose airport tonight. I’d hate to go home without her,” he said morosely.

  “Tell you what, Paul,” I said, making up my mind. Mercedes’ rules were ridiculous. “I’ll give you a ride onto the grounds. We’ll find your wife together and you can tell her yourself. She can call her mother and you two can fly home.”

  We drove the two miles back to Asilomar in silence, passing the large cemetery. I caught a glimpse of the ocean as I took the wide turn at the foot of Lighthouse Blvd. The whitecaps were stirred up.

  I said, “My brother’s a ranger. He might be able to help us find your wife.”

  “That’s nice of you to offer,” he said. “But I’ll just wait until class is over and waylay her outside the dining hall.”

  I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was going on 4:30. “That’s nearly two hours from now,” I said, then it came to me, “Oh wait, she’ll be at the orientation meeting. Let’s go there.”

  My heart ached for his mother-in-law. It was such a sad situation. I felt a flare of anger at Mercedes. It was one thing if she wanted her students to have privacy, but she had no business screening her students’ calls and prohibiting visitors.

  I parked in the lot nearest the Sand-and-Sea classroom. I’d barely gotten my door open when Mercedes came out of the Pirates’ Den at a run. The building housed several sleeping rooms and a rustic living room that she was using as her headquarters.

  She must have seen me pull in and was coming to harass me for using my car. I needed to take off the QP signs stat.

  But she didn’t look at me. Her mouth was a thin line, and her eyes were narrowed at Paul dangerously. “What’s he doing here?”

  I stopped, my door open, and looked across at Paul. He was already out of the car, smiling at Mercedes.