Martha tossed her mane of vibrant red hair. “Oh, and by the way, Ms. Reid, did you hear that your little barber friend had a date with Ronnie the psychic the other night?”
“What?” Eleanor paled.
“You heard me. Took her to the Bridgewater Inn and wined and dined her all night long. Bet she’s a happy medium now.”
Martha and I laughed uproariously, until Eleanor started banging the used beaters and bowls into the sink.
“What are you so upset about?” I asked. “You didn’t want him, anyway.”
Martha placed her hands on her hips. “Yes, if you’ve finally decided you like him, why not ask him out? Forgive me for saying this, but you’re too old to be subtle.”
Eleanor scowled. “I’ve got two words for you, and they’re not Happy Birthday.”
* * *
The next day, I drove over to Sheepville to catch the Thursday morning sampler class. On the passenger seat next to me, in one of my signature shopping bags, was the emery I planned to give to Althea, along with some vintage needle cases.
I’d already sold two of the samplers to a collector from Maryland for a great price. The profit would cover the store’s rent for the next couple of months. I was debating keeping my favorite for myself, the one with the house like Claire’s painting.
When I arrived, the class was about to start. I slipped the bag under Althea’s nose and mouthed the words “thank you.” PJ and Liz were already there, and I found a seat next to them.
Althea peered over the tops of her bifocals at me as she pulled the items out of the bag. She held up one of the needle cases. There was the merest breath of a smile on her face.
“Remember, class. You need to choose the right size needle to make a hole in the fabric just large enough for the yarn to pass through. If the hole is too small, it will spoil the thread. Too large and it will show on the finished work.” She mumbled something else to herself as she put the things back in the bag.
“I think she said ‘thanks,’” PJ whispered to me.
“Consider the natural properties of the stitches and use these to achieve the effects you want. Do not force cross-stitches into elaborate curves, for example, but rather exploit their intrinsic zigzag quality.”
“Then you won’t come undone,” I snickered. Althea fixed me with a stern gaze.
What was I doing? I should know enough about being a teacher not to be the difficult student sitting in the back with the bad kids.
“Today, class, we’re going to learn fancy herringbone,” Althea boomed. “At first sight, it might look complicated, but it’s quite easy.”
“Easy for her to say,” Liz muttered.
“Using a foundation of ordinary herringbone, space your stitches widely apart. Next, work Saint George cross stitches over the top and bottom crosses of the herringbone row. On the third journey, run a thread through the horizontal bars of the previous stitches without picking up any ground fabric.”
My head was spinning. She’d lost me at Saint George.
“Could you repeat that?” Liz asked, her hand in the air, but PJ was already hard at work.
I was amazed at the multitude of different stitches and how Althea could remember them all, let alone the variations on each name. It seemed like each stitch had three or four other monikers. It reminded me of Eleanor, who knew the Latin names for all the flowers in her garden, as well as the common garden varieties.
However, even though this was only my second class, I was actually starting to recognize some of the stitches. At least enough to know that Althea’s sampler featured some incredibly difficult ones, but there were a few of those on PJ’s, too.