beads. “Well, look at the pear shape. Maybe they don’t just symbolize water drops. Maybe they’re tears.”
Lucy reached out to finger the beads. “If they represent tears, she must’ve lived one really sad life. Many of her quilts seem to have those beads. Whoa . . . Look! Do you see this? The quilting stitches are so close to the roses, I almost missed them.”
I adjusted my glasses to get a closer look.
Lucy pointed to the visible, even quilting stitches. Unlike appliqué stitches, quilting stitches are meant to be seen. They’re the things holding the three layers of a quilt together. They’re usually sewn in a regular pattern yielding a secondary geometric design of intersecting straight lines, regular curves, or stippling. These stitches were different.
I could hardly believe my eyes. “There’s an outline of a woman who appears to be lying behind the roses. She’s almost hidden under the flowers. See? There’s just an outline, but her legs are slightly spread to either side and her arms outstretched. You can see her head peeking out from behind the top of the T and sort of hanging down on the side. Like a crucifixion, only the body is under the cross, not on top of it.”
Birdie’s eyes widened. “This is just like finding an image of the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“Better. I’m going to write this all down in my notepad.”
I looked at what I had so far. Rainmaking. Crucifixion. Tears. Lovers. I was convinced we were on to something but couldn’t quite figure out how to find the story. Clearly no paper notes lurked in any of Claire’s quilts. Siobhan said Claire kept a list of all her quilts. I needed more data to connect the dots. I needed to see Claire’s other quilts, and that meant going back to the house to look for the list.
“I’m starved.” Lucy put her hand on her stomach.
“I’ll fix us something to eat. What do you feel like?”
“How about grilled cheese sandwiches?”
C HAPTER 11
I took out my black cast iron skillet. I preferred cast iron over any other kind of cookware. A well-seasoned pan had a natural nonstick quality and cast iron distributed the heat evenly. My bubbie was the best cook I’d ever known, and she always used cast iron pans, one set for meat and one for dairy. The weight of those pans made the wooden shelves in the pantry sag over time. My uncle Isaac still lived in our old house, still cooked with those pans, and the shelves still sagged. I totally got why he didn’t fix them; doing so would be like erasing decades of family history.
I put slices of sharp cheddar cheese on pieces of challah and sprinkled each with a hint of powdered garlic. I slapped a second piece of bread on top of each one and buttered the outside of the sandwiches. When the pan was hot enough, I cooked the sandwiches a couple minutes on each side. The bread turned a golden brown and the yellow cheese dripped luxuriously down the crust of the bread. I garnished each plate with a handful of baby carrots and fresh apple quarters. You had to draw the calorie line somewhere.
Since the dining table was covered with quilts, we sat at the kitchen island. The island served as a divider between the cooking area and the living area and also served as an informal eating surface. We climbed on the high stools, and Lucy’s were the only feet resting on the floor. Birdie and I dangled like children at the grown-ups’ table. Birdie picked up her sandwich and turned it over. “Does anybody see an image in their grilled cheese?”
I munched on an apple quarter and studied my plate. “I think I see a picture of Elvis Presley.”
Lucy perked up and reached for my plate. “For real? His image could bring hundreds on eBay. Let me see.”
Birdie started to giggle.
“Dang it, Martha.” Lucy handed my plate back.
When we finished eating, we washed the grease off our hands and examined Claire’s quilts again.
Finally Lucy stepped away from the table and looked at me.
Lucy reached out to finger the beads. “If they represent tears, she must’ve lived one really sad life. Many of her quilts seem to have those beads. Whoa . . . Look! Do you see this? The quilting stitches are so close to the roses, I almost missed them.”
I adjusted my glasses to get a closer look.
Lucy pointed to the visible, even quilting stitches. Unlike appliqué stitches, quilting stitches are meant to be seen. They’re the things holding the three layers of a quilt together. They’re usually sewn in a regular pattern yielding a secondary geometric design of intersecting straight lines, regular curves, or stippling. These stitches were different.
I could hardly believe my eyes. “There’s an outline of a woman who appears to be lying behind the roses. She’s almost hidden under the flowers. See? There’s just an outline, but her legs are slightly spread to either side and her arms outstretched. You can see her head peeking out from behind the top of the T and sort of hanging down on the side. Like a crucifixion, only the body is under the cross, not on top of it.”
Birdie’s eyes widened. “This is just like finding an image of the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“Better. I’m going to write this all down in my notepad.”
I looked at what I had so far. Rainmaking. Crucifixion. Tears. Lovers. I was convinced we were on to something but couldn’t quite figure out how to find the story. Clearly no paper notes lurked in any of Claire’s quilts. Siobhan said Claire kept a list of all her quilts. I needed more data to connect the dots. I needed to see Claire’s other quilts, and that meant going back to the house to look for the list.
“I’m starved.” Lucy put her hand on her stomach.
“I’ll fix us something to eat. What do you feel like?”
“How about grilled cheese sandwiches?”
C HAPTER 11
I took out my black cast iron skillet. I preferred cast iron over any other kind of cookware. A well-seasoned pan had a natural nonstick quality and cast iron distributed the heat evenly. My bubbie was the best cook I’d ever known, and she always used cast iron pans, one set for meat and one for dairy. The weight of those pans made the wooden shelves in the pantry sag over time. My uncle Isaac still lived in our old house, still cooked with those pans, and the shelves still sagged. I totally got why he didn’t fix them; doing so would be like erasing decades of family history.
I put slices of sharp cheddar cheese on pieces of challah and sprinkled each with a hint of powdered garlic. I slapped a second piece of bread on top of each one and buttered the outside of the sandwiches. When the pan was hot enough, I cooked the sandwiches a couple minutes on each side. The bread turned a golden brown and the yellow cheese dripped luxuriously down the crust of the bread. I garnished each plate with a handful of baby carrots and fresh apple quarters. You had to draw the calorie line somewhere.
Since the dining table was covered with quilts, we sat at the kitchen island. The island served as a divider between the cooking area and the living area and also served as an informal eating surface. We climbed on the high stools, and Lucy’s were the only feet resting on the floor. Birdie and I dangled like children at the grown-ups’ table. Birdie picked up her sandwich and turned it over. “Does anybody see an image in their grilled cheese?”
I munched on an apple quarter and studied my plate. “I think I see a picture of Elvis Presley.”
Lucy perked up and reached for my plate. “For real? His image could bring hundreds on eBay. Let me see.”
Birdie started to giggle.
“Dang it, Martha.” Lucy handed my plate back.
When we finished eating, we washed the grease off our hands and examined Claire’s quilts again.
Finally Lucy stepped away from the table and looked at me.
Similar Books
