A Perfect Match

The next morning, Nan and Wynn were up and eating breakfast while I dashed around getting ready. I’d overslept and was eager to rush to the Fabric Barn to finish my quilting window display. In the middle of the night, I’d had a vision of the window framed in poster board stitched with super-bulky yarn like the edge of a quilting square.

I was nearly out the door when Wynn said, “Hold up, Jubilee. I’d like to talk to you and Nan for a minute.” Nan and I exchanged a look. We settled around the kitchen table, and Wynn cleared his throat. “Your mother’s career is taking off, and she’s letting Brent’s people manage it now. Things have been changing for a while, and there’ve been some… developments. Anyway, I spoke to her, told her what I thought.” He took his eyes off his boots long enough to look at us. “I wondered if I could stay here a few more weeks while I figure out what’s next for me. If the two of you could stand me for a bit longer, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course, Wynn,” Nan said. “Besides, you’ve got to finish this kitchen. If we’re here for a while, I’d sure like to eat without looking at those dag-blasted pink cabinets.”

I nodded. Here for a while. Me and Nan and Wynn too. I looked up at our popcorn ceiling, closed my eyes, and took in a quivery breath. Could it be that everything would work out? Momma’s dream was coming true. Maybe mine would too.

If Momma thought what was missing from her life was me, then I was open to the idea of giving her a second chance. But I’d rather give out my second chances from the place that taught me how to give them—Hope Springs.

Now, all that was left was to persuade her that staying with Nan and Wynn was what was best for me, despite what she wanted. Admitting my feelings to Nan was a bit different from telling Momma. For one, deep down, I figured Nan would put what I wanted first or at least consider it important. But Momma? For most of my life, I’d believed she only put herself first. But recently, it seemed the truths I’d clung to the hardest were the ones I needed to let go of the most.

Wynn forced a smile and a slice of toast on me before I could leave for the Fabric Barn. I was up and on my way out when he added, “Abby phoned while you were getting ready to ask if you’d stop by on your way.”

“Okay.” I paused. “Wynn, I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted with Momma, but I’m glad you’re staying.”

“I’ve never been good at picking what was best for me. But maybe this time, what was best for me happened without my having much to do with it.” He gave me his first real smile of the morning. “Go on. Don’t want to make you late.”

On the ride to Abby’s, I stopped on the side of the road just to listen and take a deep breath. There might not be perfect places, but Hope Springs was close. I resisted the urge to throw my arms out and spin in a wide circle, Sound of Music style.

As I pulled into Abby’s driveway, she burst out the door, jumped down the steps of her porch, and ran to meet me. I could tell from her face she was in no mood for spinning.

“Arletta’s people called Mom’s office this morning. They’d like to show their support for Hope Springs and make what Mom called a ‘significant donation’ to the Downtown Revitalization Fund. But get this—on the condition that Arletta is given time to make a statement and introduce Brent Chisholm at the concert.” She stepped from the drive into her yard, plopped right down on the grass, and held up her hands. “Mom’s got to give them an answer soon. I don’t think she can afford to turn down that much money. And once Arletta’s up there, she could say anything.”

I helped her up and gave her a quick hug. Then I held her out from me and spun her around until we toppled over into the grass.

Abby laughed. “I think all those marshmallows are finally having an impact.”

“Maybe so.” I looked up at the new blue sky, bumped her sneaker with mine, and said, “Let her talk. Nothing Arletta Paisley can say could ruin anything.”

I hopped on my bike, waving to Abby before I took off toward the Fabric Barn. This place was my perfect match, and I’d had enough of running the other way when life got messy.

Holly sat at the desk deep-reading another romance novel, My General Returns. In front of the cutting table sat three five-gallon buckets full of scraps.

“Got some more remnants for you to sort,” she said without looking up, pointing to the buckets.

It was going to be a long day.

“Make piles of similar colors. Doesn’t have to be perfect.” She still didn’t lift her eyes from the page but gasped, pressed a hand to her chest, and said, “I’ll be right with you.” She turned a page and whispered, “Well, me, oh my.”

I made piles of light, dark, and bright fabrics and one pile I thought was too ugly for keeping. After a while, Holly came over.

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing to my throwaway pile.

“I thought those were too bleh.”

“Bleh?” she mumbled and pulled a sour face as she turned and headed to the back of the store. It took a couple of trips, but she ended up bringing out the sewing machine, most of the tools from her first class, a square template, and an iron.

“I’m about to teach you something, Miss Toss-out-perfectly-fine-fabric.” I watched as she used the rotary cutter to cut a pentagon shape, sewed different scraps together around the pentagon’s edges, and ironed after each seam. She made a point of using the ugly scraps until she had a large piece. Then she laid the square template on top and cut the whole thing into a perfect square.

She held the square out and looked it over approvingly. It was a jumble of mismatched florals, prints, and plaids. Nothing matched, yet somehow, it made a muddled kind of beautiful. All the ugly pieces blended in just fine, like a few bad memories tucked into an otherwise happy life.

She slid the template toward me. “Now, you give it a try.”

First, I pulled a striped green seersucker for my center pentagon, put a piece of strawberry-print cotton on the longest side, and kept going until I had my own perfectly mixed-up square. Holly ran her hand over it.

“After my husband passed, I made a whole quilt out of his clothes. Even made a square using a pair of his boxers. I washed them, of course.” Holly winked, but her face turned serious. “How about you make more of these squares, and I figure out a way to work them into the border of my quilt for the contest? Deadline’s tomorrow morning. If we want a shot at the prize money, we’ll have to use the General.” Holly patted the new sewing machine. “That’s what I decided to name him.” I laughed, and she handed me more scraps. My quilting display would have to wait.