That’s the way it was with me and the quilt shop.
Window-shopping at the end of an absolutely picture-perfect fall day in New Bern during my unplanned escape from Texas to New England, I happened upon an alley paved with old cobblestones that led into a spacious, square courtyard and found a dilapidated storefront that had been empty for about twenty years. The windows were cracked, the wood casings were eaten away by termites and rot, and the roof was leaky, but, for reasons beyond understanding, I was absolutely sure that my destiny lay in renting this ramshackle ruin and opening it as a quilt shop. So, throwing caution to the winds twice in one week, that’s what I did.
Everybody, and I mean everybody, said we wouldn’t last six months. They were almost right. In a turn of cosmic irony, on the very night before I was to host Cobbled Court’s first Quilt Pink event to benefit breast cancer research, my doctor informed me that I had breast cancer myself. I was sure it was all over, that the predictions of the naysayers would prove true: Cobbled Court Quilts would be forced to close its doors and the door to my dreams would close along with it.
It would have happened exactly that way but for the help of three strangers—Abigail, Margot, and Liza—who became my best friends, supporting me through my cancer treatment and basically running the shop while I was recovering. I owe them everything. Not to mention my son, Garrett, who left a high-paying computer programming job at a big company in Seattle to help me develop and grow our Web business. He works with Margot on marketing strategy. And then there’s Charlie, who loves me, encourages me, and who, if I get too tangled up in my lists to move forward, gives me a gentle nudge in the ribs or a swift kick in the pants, usually the latter. Charlie is an Irishman who doesn’t suffer fools gladly or at all. He has many fine qualities, but subtlety isn’t among them.
Abigail, Margot, Liza, Garrett, and Charlie. If not for them, Cobbled Court Quilts really wouldn’t have lasted six months.
I almost forgot Mary Dell! Mary Dell Templeton is an old friend from Texas. If she hadn’t flown all the way up from Texas to literally pull up the shades in the dark room where I’d been lying and feeling sorry for myself after my mastectomies, I’m not sure I’d ever have gotten up and gotten on with my life.
Mary Dell is as Texas as chicken-fried steak, Dr Pepper, and the Alamo all rolled into one. She’s also an amazing quilter. Once she decided to make a quilt with Texas Stadium on it. I watched while she cut out the pieces and then sewed them together without using a light box or even a pencil for outlining, and when she was done it was absolutely perfect; you practically expected to see cheerleaders lining up in the end zone, she’s that good. The only piece missing from her quilting talent is…well…taste.
Mary Dell has pretty much the worst taste of anyone I’ve ever met. The louder, busier, and more garish the color combination, the more Mary Dell likes it. Fortunately, Howard, her twenty-four-year-old son with Down syndrome, has a highly attuned appreciation for colors, patterns, and textures. Howard chooses all the fabrics for Mary Dell’s quilts. Together they make an unusual—and unbeatable—team. Like Mary Dell says, “If not for Howard, I’d be known all over the world for making the best-constructed, ugliest quilts in the state of Texas.”
Instead, Mary Dell’s quilting abilities and Texas-sized personality caught the attention of the people at the House and Home television network where, every Tuesday and Saturday, you can tune in to watch Quintessential Quilting with Mary Dell and Howard. Isn’t that something?
When Howard was born, Mary Dell’s husband was so upset that the baby was born with Down syndrome that he took off and never came back. In his despair, he left before understanding that, while the Templetons might not have been given the child they planned on, Howard was exactly the child they needed.
Margot would say it just goes to show you that God is in the business of just-in-time inventory, giving us what we need even when we don’t know what it is we’re running low on. I might not be as vocal about my faith as Margot is, but I can’t help but think she’s right.
I wouldn’t have asked for a divorce after twenty-four years of marriage and I wouldn’t have volunteered to lose both my breasts to cancer, either. Nothing about what I’ve been through was easy, but if I hadn’t been through it I would never have fulfilled my dream of owning a quilt shop, or found these friends who have become as dear to me as family, or realized how strong I really am.
It’s the same with Mary Dell. She’d never have asked for her one and only son to be born with Down syndrome, but if she didn’t have Howard, would she be everything she is today? I don’t see how. They fill each other’s gaps.
Together, with Howard’s gift for color and texture and Mary Dell’s gift for design and construction, mother and son create the most beautiful, intricate, stunning quilts imaginable. Quilts that look like symphonies sound. Quilts with the power of poetry, sea air, and homemade chicken soup. Quilts that wrap around you with the warmth of loving arms. Quilts that teach you about love, and living well. Quilts that can heal hurts people don’t even know they have and change their lives for the better.
But, then again, I’m convinced every quilt can do that. I’ve seen it happen before. And, soon, I would see it again.
3
Evelyn Dixon
Garrett lives in the one-bedroom apartment above the shop that I occupied before I moved into my rented cape, but I’m the one who opens the shop every morning. I arrive at eight-thirty, a good hour before the other employees.
Garrett is our night owl, working on the computer into the wee hours to process the Internet orders, manage the database, or update our website with our newest classes, fabric shipments, and specials. That’s one of the reasons our Web business is coming on so strong; our site has something new to look at almost daily, so people tend to visit frequently. It’s a big job and, according to Garrett, it’s best done at night when there aren’t so many people on the site. This means that Garrett’s workday tends to start around noon and end around midnight, but not today.
I walked across the cobblestone courtyard toward the shop, smiling at the sight of the new window display Liza arranged on her last weekend home, an eye-catching collection of gold, yellow, red, black, and green fabrics and a garden of cheerful sunflowers made from wire and papier-mâché to highlight the sunflower quilt class we were offering next month. The lights were already on inside the shop and the red front door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and the bells jingled merrily to announce my arrival. Someone had already started brewing coffee. I could smell it.
“Hello? Margot? Is that you?” I heard a sound of male laughter coming from the break room. Garrett came out holding a mug of coffee. Charlie trailed behind him, grinning and carrying a plate piled with what looked like fresh cinnamon rolls.
“’Morning, Mom.” Garrett yawned and ran a hand through his hair.
“’Morning, sweetheart. You’re up early.”
“Yeah, well, Charlie was banging on the door early. I tried to ignore him, but he just stood in the courtyard bellowing that I’d better open up because his rolls were getting stale.”
I gave Charlie a quick peck on the cheek, then grabbed one of the cinnamon rolls off the plate and took a bite. “They don’t taste stale.”
“That’s because Garrett finally listened to reason and came downstairs to open the door,” Charlie insisted in his teasing Irish brogue. “I’ve been up since dawn making these just for you. Another five minutes exposed to the cruel morning air and they’d have been ruined for sure. I’d have had to throw the whole batch away.”
