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Authors: Clare O'Donohue
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children.”
“Any romances after Joe?”
Maggie lowered her eyes for a moment. “Your grandmother’s past is hers to tell.”
“Which means yes.”
Maggie poured me another cup of coffee. “Did I show you the picture my kids gave me for Mother’s Day? They had a professional portrait done. All the kids and grandkids.” She got up from the table and left the room, coming back with a large framed photo. “I don’t think you’ve met all of my kids.”
“Only one or two of them.”
I took the photo and looked at the dozens of smiling faces. Maggie had eleven children, thirty grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. As Maggie pointed to each of her children, I couldn’t help noticing that the people Maggie identified looked nothing alike, with a mix of races and ethnicities that would make the UN proud.
“You never told me you adopted,” I said.
She shrugged. “My kids are my kids, no matter where they come from. Hank and I took in Emilio when his parents died,” she said, pointing to a man of about fifty in the center of the photo. “He was our first child. Then, I gave birth to three kids: Thomas, Sheila, and my youngest, Brian. In between, we took in the others as they needed us.”
“It looks like a nice family.”
She nodded. “They’re good people. That’s what matters. They’re close to each other, and they help each other, and they help others. Two of the kids are teachers, one is a nurse, Emilio is a lawyer, working for Legal Aid, and Brian . . .”
“He’s planning on running for Congress,” I said. “Eleanor told me.”
“He’ll do good things for people. He’ll contribute. That’s all I ask of my kids and grandkids. And myself. We all make mistakes, have regrets, but we can’t be judged by our mistakes. If you look closely at a quilt, it’s full of mistakes, but if you step back and look . . .”
“You only see the beauty of the entire quilt. Eleanor is fond of saying that.” I took a deep breath. “We sort of got off the subject, though, Maggie. I was asking about Eleanor’s life after Joe died.”
“I don’t know that there’s anything your grandmother hasn’t already told you.”
“Humor me.”
She sighed. “Your grandmother and I became friends because our children played together. When Grace taught Eleanor how to quilt, I sat in on some of the lessons and picked it up myself. So we had that in common as well. No one quilted in the sixties,” she said with a laugh, “and the fabric was awful. We didn’t have the beautiful cottons we have today. We used bedsheets for the backs. We made templates for our quilt patterns using the cardboard from empty cereal boxes. It’s amazing we stuck with it.”
“But you did.”
“We did. And a few months after Grace died in ’75, I think it was, Eleanor opened the quilt shop. Perfect timing, too. That was right before the bicentennial. All the colonial-era crafts were making a comeback: quilting, candle making, iron work. Ironic really, because quilting wasn’t that popular during the colonial years. It’s one of the myths about quilting . . .” She smiled. “I’m getting off track again. The point is that Eleanor just hit at the right time. And of course, Eleanor has a knack for people, for helping them find their own creative voice.”
“That shop has been her life,” I said.
“And it’s been a good life.”
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’ve answered several of your questions.”
“About Eleanor’s love life after Joe.”
“I actually did, Nell. You just didn’t like the answer. If you want to know about that, you can ask Eleanor.”
“But she won’t tell me.”
Maggie considered it for a moment, then sighed. “Then perhaps there isn’t anything you need to know.”
CHAPTER 13
A fter I left Maggie’s, I walked toward town trying to figure out what she had meant. She wasn’t saying there was nothing in Eleanor’s past, just that I didn’t need to know it. But at
“Any romances after Joe?”
Maggie lowered her eyes for a moment. “Your grandmother’s past is hers to tell.”
“Which means yes.”
Maggie poured me another cup of coffee. “Did I show you the picture my kids gave me for Mother’s Day? They had a professional portrait done. All the kids and grandkids.” She got up from the table and left the room, coming back with a large framed photo. “I don’t think you’ve met all of my kids.”
“Only one or two of them.”
I took the photo and looked at the dozens of smiling faces. Maggie had eleven children, thirty grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. As Maggie pointed to each of her children, I couldn’t help noticing that the people Maggie identified looked nothing alike, with a mix of races and ethnicities that would make the UN proud.
“You never told me you adopted,” I said.
She shrugged. “My kids are my kids, no matter where they come from. Hank and I took in Emilio when his parents died,” she said, pointing to a man of about fifty in the center of the photo. “He was our first child. Then, I gave birth to three kids: Thomas, Sheila, and my youngest, Brian. In between, we took in the others as they needed us.”
“It looks like a nice family.”
She nodded. “They’re good people. That’s what matters. They’re close to each other, and they help each other, and they help others. Two of the kids are teachers, one is a nurse, Emilio is a lawyer, working for Legal Aid, and Brian . . .”
“He’s planning on running for Congress,” I said. “Eleanor told me.”
“He’ll do good things for people. He’ll contribute. That’s all I ask of my kids and grandkids. And myself. We all make mistakes, have regrets, but we can’t be judged by our mistakes. If you look closely at a quilt, it’s full of mistakes, but if you step back and look . . .”
“You only see the beauty of the entire quilt. Eleanor is fond of saying that.” I took a deep breath. “We sort of got off the subject, though, Maggie. I was asking about Eleanor’s life after Joe died.”
“I don’t know that there’s anything your grandmother hasn’t already told you.”
“Humor me.”
She sighed. “Your grandmother and I became friends because our children played together. When Grace taught Eleanor how to quilt, I sat in on some of the lessons and picked it up myself. So we had that in common as well. No one quilted in the sixties,” she said with a laugh, “and the fabric was awful. We didn’t have the beautiful cottons we have today. We used bedsheets for the backs. We made templates for our quilt patterns using the cardboard from empty cereal boxes. It’s amazing we stuck with it.”
“But you did.”
“We did. And a few months after Grace died in ’75, I think it was, Eleanor opened the quilt shop. Perfect timing, too. That was right before the bicentennial. All the colonial-era crafts were making a comeback: quilting, candle making, iron work. Ironic really, because quilting wasn’t that popular during the colonial years. It’s one of the myths about quilting . . .” She smiled. “I’m getting off track again. The point is that Eleanor just hit at the right time. And of course, Eleanor has a knack for people, for helping them find their own creative voice.”
“That shop has been her life,” I said.
“And it’s been a good life.”
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’ve answered several of your questions.”
“About Eleanor’s love life after Joe.”
“I actually did, Nell. You just didn’t like the answer. If you want to know about that, you can ask Eleanor.”
“But she won’t tell me.”
Maggie considered it for a moment, then sighed. “Then perhaps there isn’t anything you need to know.”
CHAPTER 13
A fter I left Maggie’s, I walked toward town trying to figure out what she had meant. She wasn’t saying there was nothing in Eleanor’s past, just that I didn’t need to know it. But at
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