41
Lorna

WEST ASHEVILLE
JANUARY 1924

And still there wasn’t any word about a wedding. If the whole business turned out to be a figment of Mrs. Harshaw’s imagination, Lorna didn’t know what she’d do. Would the society matron still want the cloth? Would it do Biltmore Industries any good if it wasn’t a gift for a Vanderbilt? The notion that all of this might be for nothing was a crushing weight.

And yet what else was there to do but finish the commission? Lorna practically moved in with Vivian and Gentry to work on it. As she watched the pattern come to life beneath their fingers, Lorna almost wished she could work on it all day and all night. It was like uncovering treasure, and she was addicted to the slow progression of colors and patterns unfurling across the loom.

Initially, she’d been worried about Gentry helping, remembering the girl as prone to missing heddles when setting the warp and bungling designs when she got distracted. But this new Gentry was calm and steady. At first, Lorna thought it was simply that she was older, but the more her story spilled out, the more she realized Gentry had been transformed. She’d chosen to stay at the brothel playing music because she’d finally felt needed. Instead of being stuck with a cold and angry grandfather or shipped off to learn to weave, her natural gift of music had blessed people whose lives were impossibly hard. Gentry told about girls her own age who’d been neglected, mistreated, and forced into letting their bodies be used in the meanest of ways.

“I guess it made me grow up—seeing that,” Gentry said. “I thought I’d had a hard life, but at least I had a way to make a living without having to . . .” She sighed and shook her head. “The least I could do was stick it out with them. To be there with them when they cried and when they thought they couldn’t stand it another minute.”

Despite Gentry’s trials, it was hard not to be envious. She had been reunited with her mother. Her childhood sorrow had been redeemed. Lorna would never be able to fill the hole her parents had left in her life. There was no mistake about them being gone. No chance of a miraculous reunion.

So, as she worked the treadles and sent her shuttle flying, she allowed herself to daydream. It wasn’t something she’d done much of in the past. She supposed with all the losses she’d experienced, dreaming of what might be felt too risky. But the mother-daughter reunion unfolding before her eyes each day gave her unexpected hope. And Arthur gave her fodder for dreaming. What if they were to wed? They could have a family of their own. She could work in his shop. Or she might even acquire a tabletop loom to make smaller items like scarves and table runners that could be sold alongside Arthur’s pieces.

She imagined working at a loom in Arthur’s workshop. He’d lay down the piece of wood he was carving so he could lean over her shoulder. He’d sweep the hair from the nape of her neck and—

“Lorna!” She felt a hand on her shoulder and blinked her eyes. “Goodness, I called your name three times.” Vivian stood laughing at her elbow. “Woolgathering while working with wool. That’s a good one.”

Lorna flushed and stilled the loom. “Sorry. I was a bit lost in thought there.”

“It’s remarkable to me that you can be a million miles away and never miss a change in the pattern.” Vivian admired the rows Lorna had added to their fabric. “I may have a gift for design, but you have a gift for bringing designs to life.”

Lorna grimaced. “I suppose, but your gift is so much more impressive.”

Vivian frowned. “I don’t see that. You weave faster and more accurately than I ever have.” She laughed. “Than Gentry can ever hope to. It seems to me our gifts work together to get the job done, and that’s what matters. In a hive the drones are just as important as the queen. There wouldn’t be honey without all of them working together.”

Lorna stood and stretched. “Are you calling me a drone?”

“Perhaps I’m calling you a queen bee. Now, come eat before the food gets cold.”

They joined Gentry at the table for a simple lunch of vegetable soup and hot bread. Lorna ate with relish, finding the work, the mountain air, and the company all working to increase her appetite. A thought struck her. “Gentry, what happened that time you went to West Virginia to look for your mother? I haven’t heard that part of your story yet.”

Gentry slurped her soup and nodded. “I worked in a hotel there for a while. But I didn’t find Mama, and nobody seemed to know anything about her.”

Vivian frowned. “When was this?”

Gentry waved her spoon in the air. “I don’t remember. It was whenever I left Asheville.”

Lorna puckered her lips. “That would have been . . . October 1916. Yes, that’s when you gave me your mother’s drafts for train fare.” She shifted uncomfortably and darted a look from mother to daughter. “Can I tell you again how sorry I am about that?”

“It’s forgiven.” Vivian waved a hand. “Are you sure it was October of that year?”

“Quite sure. I was still reeling from the flood and losing my father.”

Gentry snapped her fingers. “That’s right. It wasn’t long after the big flood.”

Vivian shook her head. “But Sabine was still there in October. She didn’t leave until February of the following year.”

Gentry’s spoon clattered in her bowl. “No one knew anything about you. I asked everybody.”

“What hotel?” Vivian asked.

Gentry thought for a moment. “Let’s see . . . it had a funny name. The same as the town. It was hard to say until you’d heard it a few times.”

“The Hotel Ronceverte?”

Gentry smiled. “That’s it!”

Vivian paled. “Sabine sold butter to that hotel. We wrote to each other now and again, though not as often as I would’ve liked. She had a hard time forgiving me for marrying your father. It was only after we both became widows that we reconnected.”

“I asked everyone while I was there.” Gentry shrugged one shoulder. “I wasn’t there all that long. Maybe I missed her.”

“I suppose, yet it’s just hard to believe word wouldn’t have gotten to her that you were asking around. The people at the hotel wouldn’t have remembered me, but they would have talked about a girl asking questions.”

“There was one woman who said she knew the Cutshall family. She told me they were long gone, and then she bought me a ticket for Johnson City. That’s why I left.”

“What was her name?” Vivian asked.

Gentry furrowed her brow. “I don’t think she ever said.”

“What did she look like?”

“She had hair about the color of mine and was kind of pretty. I don’t remember much else. Oh! She wore the prettiest purple shawl with a silver pin like a little sword. I really liked the pin.”

Vivian pushed her bowl away and braced her hands on the edge of the table. “I can’t believe she would . . . that she would intentionally . . .” She couldn’t seem to get any more words out.

Lorna reached for her friend. “Vivian, what’s the matter?”

“That was Sabine. That pin—I know precisely the one. Not to mention the purple cloth. It had to be her. And she . . . she kept us apart. I knew she was angry, but . . .” Vivian stood abruptly. “I need to go for a walk. I’ll . . .” She turned and went out the door like a sleepwalker.

Gentry turned confused eyes on Lorna. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Lorna said, “but it sounds like that might have been your aunt Sabine at the hotel. And for some reason, she didn’t help you find your mother.”

“But that was—” Gentry counted on her fingers—“more than seven years ago. Do you mean she could have told me where Mama was that long ago?”

“I think so.”

“What a horrible thing to do! I wish I could tell her what I think of her.” Gentry scowled and thumped the table.

“She’s dead now,” Lorna said. “She died of cancer a few years ago.”

“Oh.” Gentry’s face clouded. “I don’t know how to feel about that.” She looked out the window, where they could see Vivian walking along the crest of the bald, head down, hands clasped behind her back. “I’ll try not to be glad that she can’t make Mama mad ever again.”

Lorna had an idea. On her next trip home, she gathered all the scraps of Sabine’s fabric that Virgie had given her. She took them to Vivian’s cabin and spilled them out on the table. “There’s a woman in Weaverville who befriended your sister. Sabine gave her a trunkful of fabric, and these are the leftover scraps.”

Vivian sifted through them mechanically. She smoothed each piece and stacked them together. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I hope this isn’t too painful,” Lorna said. Had this been a mistake?

“We wrote to each other now and again. And I thought when she came here, we might become true friends again. But it was obvious something was eating at her. The few times we visited she was so stiff, so uncomfortable.” Vivian flicked a look at Lorna. “Now I suppose it was guilt. She knew my daughter was in Johnson City and yet she never told me.” Tears began to streak her cheeks. “How could she?”

“I suppose she was angry and hurt,” Lorna said. “Pain can make us do inexplicable things. I suppose it would have been awfully hard to confess what she’d done. I certainly know the truth of that.”

“These are mine,” Vivian said, laying a hand on the smaller of the two stacks she’d made. “The rest must be Sabine’s.” She flipped through them and tugged out the sunrise fabric. “This one is particularly lovely. Sabine had a real gift.”

“Virgie made a skirt out of that and took it to show Sabine. She told me what your sister said when she saw it. I was so struck by it that I went home and wrote it down.” Lorna pulled out a small notebook. “She said the fabric reminded her that ‘weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.’”

Vivian pressed a hand to her lips. “Oh my. That’s what we used to say when we were angry with each other. Being angry was like the sun setting in our hearts, but then . . .” She choked on a sob. “But then love would win. It would always win—like the sun rising again in the morning.” She crumpled into a chair, pressing the fabric to her face.

Gentry came into the room and rushed to her mother’s side. “What is it, Mama?” She glared at Lorna. “What did you do?”

Vivian looped an arm around her daughter’s waist. “It’s alright, dear heart. Lorna has done the most wonderful thing. She’s brought me a scrap of forgiveness.” She held up the fabric. “And I expect we can fashion it into something that will keep us warm for a long time to come.”

Gentry shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean when you talk like that.”

Vivian laughed through her tears. “No, I expect not, but I plan to teach you. Your heart is wild and a little skittish yet. But we have time. Thanks to Lorna and Arthur, we now have time.”