When I was nine years old and grumbling about some chore I’d been tasked with by my mamm, my grossmuder made a statement I never forgot: Appreciation has the power to transform the mundane into something beautiful. At the time, I was too young to understand the wisdom of those words. It wasn’t until decades later that I realized my grossmuder was as wise as she was astute and very much unappreciated by her nine-year-old granddaughter.
It’s late afternoon and I’m sitting at my beat-up desk in my cramped little office, trying to ignore the cold draft wafting down from the window that looks out over downtown Painters Mill. The once-vibrant fiddle leaf fig plant my team of officers gave me for my birthday last summer is as dried and brown as a cornstalk. The old steel file cabinet next to the door looks as if it’s been run through a car crusher and hastily refurbished. I won’t even get into the paint on the walls—or the lack thereof.
I love every imperfect inch of this place. Through the open door, I can hear my dispatchers cutting up with my officers. Glock and Skid debating a topic that shouldn’t be discussed in mixed company. Pickles grousing about a motorist that sped through the elementary school crosswalk this afternoon. Mona’s talking about how things will be done when she’s a cop—a possibility that might just become a reality one of these days. I don’t have to look to know there’s more than likely a good bit of flirting going on as well.
I listen, smiling, and a sense of belonging and pride swells in my chest. Not for the first time since finishing my assignment in Roaring Springs, I count my blessings.
I’m putting the finishing touches on my notes for our weekly meeting when my third shift dispatcher, Mona, sticks her head in my office. “Gang’s all here, Chief.”
“Thanks, Mona. I’ll be right there.”
“Oh, and you have a visitor.”
I look up from my notes to see Tomasetti standing slightly behind her in the hall, Mr. Professional dressed to the hilt in a slate gray suit and the paisley tie I bought him for Father’s Day last year. We’ve never made it official, but I suspect just about everyone here at the station knows we’re a couple. We don’t discuss it, and he doesn’t visit me here often. But that’s one of the things about small town life: keeping secrets, especially big ones, is nearly impossible.
Behind him, Mona grins like an idiot. Slipping into my chief of police persona, I make eye contact with her. She loses the smile, but gives me a thumbs up, then melts back into the hall.
“Sorry to interrupt right before your meeting,” he says as he enters my office.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Going to be a short one.” I glance out the window. “Looks like we’re in for some snow and I wanted to get everyone out of here early.”
“You’re such a hard ass.”
“I do my best.”
I turn my attention to the good-size cardboard box tucked beneath his arm. He sets it on my desk. “I had to drive into town so I thought I’d bring this by.”
“What is it?”
“Not sure.” He extracts a pocketknife from his slacks. “From Roaring Springs.”
I look at the return address and something warm quivers in my chest. “The Calico Country Store.”
He cuts the boxing tape seal and pries open the box. We peer inside. A pretty handmade card on top. Something wrapped in white paper.
Tomasetti plucks out the card and hands it to me. “Never liked the card part when I was a kid.”
I grin at him. “You were probably too anxious to get to the good stuff.”
We both know the good stuff is inside the card.
Dear Kate,
I hope this letter finds you well. Our sewing circle is meeting five days a week now. (So much gossip to cover, especially since we’re about to nominate a new bishop!) We’ve been working hard here at the shop and taking on new sewing projects, one of which is a crib quilt for Lena’s baby, which will be coming any day now. We finished the tulip basket quilt we were working on while you were here. We decided we should send it to you, since you couldn’t make a quilt to save your life. Ha! (I think Rebecca would have agreed!)
Wishing you all things good and God bless!
Laura, Ada, Naomi, and Lena
I read the card a second time, smiling, while Tomasetti pulls out the quilt.
“Nice of them to mention your quilting skills,” he mutters as he peels away the protective paper. “Looks like a king.” He raises his brows Groucho Marx style. “I guess they knew you’d be sharing it with someone?”
“Don’t ever underestimate the judicious nature of Amish women,” I tell him. “One look at you and they knew we’re sleeping together.”
“I have a whole new respect for them.”
I run my hands over the fabric, taking in the intricate stitching, the beautiful patchwork of colors, and I can’t help but think of the strong, capable hands that created it.
“It’s an heirloom.” I bring the quilt to my face and breath in deeply, not surprised when it smells of lavender and cinnamon and for an instant, I’m transported to that homey little shop on Main Street.
“It’s the only thing I miss about being Amish,” I whisper.
“The quilting?”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Being part of … something. The camaraderie. The friendship. Especially among the women. They don’t have easy lives.”
“It’s nice.” Wrapping his hands around my upper arms, he turns me to face him. “I’m assuming those are tears of happiness.”
I feel a quick wash of embarrassment. The heat of a blush. “Not a great way to start a meeting with my officers.”
“They might think you’re human if you’re not careful.”
I choke out a laugh. Pulling away from him, I set the card on the corner of my desk where I can see it. Together, we begin folding the quilt and tucking it back into the box.
“Going to look nice in our bedroom,” I say.
“You look nice in our bedroom.”
We look at each other and smile. “I’ll be home in a couple hours.”
“See you then, Chief.”