Crochet tote in hand, Annie paused to stand next to Alice and study the canvas. “It is lovely.” She traced the vibrant poppies intermingled with delicate ivy. An intricate border design incorporated the brilliant orange of the flowers and the ivy’s verdant green. Annie swallowed the lump in her throat. Gram’s unique artistry touched her with singular beauty—a beauty that reflected her life and spirit. And to think she could claim such a heritage for her own.
Annie sighed. She was so richly blessed. The emotion washed over her with such force she felt nearly dizzy. The joy of it all lingered as she rode to town in Alice’s sporty Mustang. And soon they were surrounded by the women who had become their friends and confidantes.
The Tuesday morning Hook and Needle Club welcomed women of all ages. From Stella Brickson, who had grown up with Gram, to Kate Stevens’s teenage daughter, Vanessa, a bond had been forged among them. They not only shared their passion for needlework but the everyday pathos of living. When Kate went through a divorce after years of enduring Harry’s alcoholism, they had all lived through her tears and triumphs. When Peggy Carson’s little Emily had been injured, they had showered her with cards, balloons, and visits.
Stella Brickson was just settling herself at the table and caught Annie’s eye. “Well, Annie Dawson, good morning to you.” In her mid-eighties, she sat ramrod straight, her hair a smooth gray cap on her regal head. She no longer wore it high and coiled with tortoiseshell combs; such a style probably worked havoc with arthritic fingers and aching joints. Still, there was an air of elegance about Stella.
“And to you,” Annie answered with a smile. Stella could be formidable when challenged, but she was really a gentle soul. And because Annie had learned that elderly people often missed the tenderness of touch, she put an arm around the woman’s soft shoulder and lightly kissed her cheek.
She waved to Gwendolyn Palmer and Kate Stevens who pored over a pattern spread out on the table. Kate wore a pale green jacket embroidered with hummingbirds on each pocket—no doubt her own creation. Gwen, impeccable in dress as in reputation, wore slacks of pale turquoise and a Polo Club knit in petal pink. She and Kate were by far the most dress-conscious of the group, but they didn’t look down on the rest who preferred a more casual approach to fashion. Vanessa, in “air-conditioned” jeans gave new meaning to summertime grunge. With high school out for the summer, she could wear whatever struck her fancy—and almost anything did.
“I’m here, everyone!” Peggy Carson spilled into the room, whipping off the apron she wore as a waitress at The Cup & Saucer. Her quilting skills were improving rapidly, and everyone enjoyed her life-of-the-party spirit. Then, too, it was always entertaining to see what Peggy’s beautician sister had done to her hair. Today, pink streaks had been woven in and out of her dark tresses.
Good-natured gossip and chatter prevailed as the women pulled out their projects. A Stitch in Time had flourished over three decades under the capable management of Mary Beth Brock, whose prowess with a needle was legendary. She ran a tight ship, too, which included the tutoring of Stony Point’s needlewomen.
All eyes turned when Mary Beth suddenly pushed through the back-room door in navy blue slacks and a blouse accented with a burgundy smock. She pivoted on sturdy shoes and clasped the handles of a wicker basket big enough to obscure her portly frame.
“What on earth?” Stella Brickson intoned, dropping her knitting into her lap.
Vanessa leaped up to help, but Mary Beth had a firm hold on the basket, which Annie could see was covered with a cloth the size of a baby blanket.
A look of pride—or joy—or both beamed from Mary Beth’s face as she approached the table with the basket. She looked flushed and almost young. Certainly she’d lost a good ten of her sixty years. “I’ve a little surprise for you!” she warbled. And Mary Beth, who had never been known to “warble” in her life, set the basket down. Gingerly she pulled the blanket back.
A mewling mass of multicolored kittens tumbled about in the basket, all furry tails and awkward paws. They blinked filmy blue eyes and emitted plaintive little cries from wide-open pink mouths. Everyone gawked at Mary Beth’s surprise with little sighs of wonder.
“Vanessa and I found them last week—abandoned in the window well, the one right over there on the south side of the shop.” Mary Beth, who had never married, beamed like a new mother. “We’ve been taking care of them, feeding them from a bottle! Would you believe it?”
Kate crossed her arms over her green jacket and regarded Vanessa with a mix of concern and pride. Notoriously allergic to cats, she had obviously chosen to view the whole maternal scene from a safe distance. Ironically, and luckily for the kittens, her daughter, Vanessa, had recently started volunteering at the animal shelter.