Lie of the Needle(42)
Liz laughed. “Oh, I stick to the simple, easy designs. Drives Althea crazy, but I let it roll right off. When you have as many kids as I do, you can’t sweat the small stuff. Seems like I constantly have friends who are getting married or having babies. I have a huge family, too, so there’s always something going on with birthdays or anniversaries. I can make a nice, personalized gift for them this way.”
“Abigail Weller!”
We jumped as Althea’s voice thundered across the table. “You’re supposed to be doing marking cross-stitch. It should be reversible, so each stitch forms a cross on the front and a square of straight stitches on the back. All of you: Make sure the back of your work is as immaculate as the front.”
Liz took a quick look at the back of her hoop, grimaced, and then grinned at me. “This is my weekly ordeal, but I don’t dare quit,” she whispered. “I’d kill for a cup of coffee right now, too, but Althea won’t allow any food or drink in class. Our hands have to be spotless.”
“Sounds like Eleanor.” I said, with a chuckle. Eleanor made everyone take their shoes off at the door to her shop and don pristine white gloves before they came anywhere near the exquisite wedding gowns.
Althea cleared her throat, fixed me with an eagle eye, and Liz and I subsided into silence. She pointed at Grace. “Look at what Grace is doing, everyone.”
Grace flushed.
“She is quite right to decide on a color scheme and select all the threads she will require at the same time for the most harmonious combination of colors.” Althea emphasized every third word or so in her delivery in a voice that carried clear to the other end of the store. I wondered how many of her students zoned out after a while from this bombastic technique. Sort of like someone e-mailing in capital letters.
“Also remember to choose a nonshrink fabric and do not wash it. You can work more easily on fabric that still contains dressing. Remember, don’t make a knot at the end of the thread when you start. Leave about two inches loose. You can darn in later.”
A slight figure with spiky black hair slunk into the chair next to me. She wore a vintage motorcycle jacket, black jeans, and a T-shirt that looked like it had been dug out of the bottom of a laundry basket. I caught a whiff of the cigarette that must have been hastily stubbed out before she entered the shop.
“PJ! What the heck are you doing here?”
PJ Avery was a reporter for the Sheepville Times, and the last person in the world I would have ever thought to see.
She glared at me. “Is there some kind of law against reporters doing needlework?”
“No, of course not,” I stammered, wondering how on earth the twitchy PJ would sit still long enough for this kind of work. If I didn’t have the patience, how would she?
“Ms. Avery!” Althea’s voice boomed. “Not only are you late, but now you compound your sin by disrupting the class.”
“It’s my fault, Althea. I apologize,” I said before PJ could open her mouth.
The disheveled reporter reminded me of a bantam hen strutting around the barnyard in her abrupt no-nonsense way, but actually she was more fragile than any of us. She’d lost most of her family recently in various tragic ways, and I’d taken on a protective role in her life. It was a different dynamic than the walking-on-eggshells routine I did with my daughter, Sarah. PJ and I could give it to each other straight, but we were okay with it. And as much as she liked to act like she didn’t need anyone, she seemed to relish the time with me, Joe, and my friends. She’d certainly never declined a dinner invitation.
“Now class, today we are going to learn Scottish Cretan stitch.”
I saw a few worried glances pass back and forth between members of the group.