Connor walked left toward the natural park entrance near the bridge. He dodged traffic, three cars and a pickup, then headed down a trail to the creek. A stream meandered through Laurel Springs as wild as it had been when his people settled here. The tall grass, dry now, appeared bunched in thick clumps over the uneven land. Huge old cypress trees huddled by the water, hauntingly gray in their dusty winter coats. February. The one month he’d always thought of as void of color.
Connor could breathe here by the stream. He could think. He could relax.
The rambling acres running untamed through town were more swamp than park now, but next spring the city would have the money to clean it up. They’d fight back nature to make running trails and small meadows spotted with picnic tables.
But Connor craved the wildness of this spot in winter. The cold. The loneliness of it. As he strolled near the water, the sounds of the town almost disappeared, and he could believe for a few minutes that he was totally by himself. That he was free. No responsibilities. No worries.
Duty would pull him back soon. It always did. But for a while he could allow his mind to drift, to dream. There were days in his organized, packed routine that all Connor wanted to do was run away.
Only he never would.
Some people are meant to grow where they’re planted.
Jillian’s words echoed in his thoughts. I can’t promise you I’ll be here in three months, she’d said, as if it were a possibility for everyone. Didn’t she know that the people in this town of Laurel Springs were like the residents of the mythical Brigadoon: they lived here forever, and she was simply a visitor for a day?
A story danced in his head as he walked through the dried buffalo grass of winter. The stiff stalks made a swishing sound, like a brush lightly moving over a drum. His imagination was all the escape he needed most days.
He was leaving his world, his reality, his home, if only for an hour. If only in his mind.
Jillian closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She loved the smells of the quilt shop. Lavender soap left on the women’s skin as they routinely washed their hands so no perspiration stained the quilt. Lemon wax on the eighty-year-old counter that had been left behind when a mercantile became the quilt shop. The smell of cotton, fresh and new, blended with the hint of dyes pressed into material. She even liked the scent of the oil on the hundred-year-old Singer Featherweight machines lining the back wall. Soldiers waiting to do their duty.
Eugenia served orange blossom tea and gingersnap cookies when the ladies took a break. Her hands were worn, with twisted bones covered over in paper-thin skin so fine not even fingerprints would show.
Jillian was surprised that they’d accepted her into their group without many questions. She’d never spent much time with women more than double her age and found it fascinating that they talked in stories, flowing from one to another. No hurry, no debates, no lectures. Just a gentle current that moved as easily as the sharp needles through the padded layers of material.
Paulina, with her funny tales of living in Dallas in the sixties.
The three Sanderson sisters, who finished each other’s sentences and laughed at their own jokes.
The classy lady, dressed in a silk pantsuit, who didn’t seem to mind a bit that everyone called her Toad.
Dixie didn’t say much; she worked with her head down. Neither did a pixie of a woman named Stella, but she laughed at everyone’s jokes as if she’d never heard them before.
Stories they’d all probably heard a hundred times circled around them like classical music, comforting and welcoming to their ears.
Eugenia Larady sat on Jillian’s left, showing her how to make the stitches. Jillian tried her best but didn’t miss the fact that Paulina, on her right, pulled each of her lines and redid them.
The afternoon passed with Eugenia and Jillian getting up each time a customer came in. The old woman Connor had lovingly called Gram treated each stranger as a special guest. Some only wanted to look, so she followed them about the shop offering them cotton gloves so they could examine the quilts. Some customers wanted to buy squares of fabric called fat quarters, or tools of the quilting trade.
The third time Eugenia stood in front of the cash register, Jillian noticed she seemed to have trouble remembering the order of making a sale.
“Let me, Gram,” Jillian suggested. “I’ll try not to mess up.”
Eugenia moved to the side. “All right, dear, but I’ll be watching you.”
Jillian had worked a dozen jobs that had this standard cash register, but she glanced over to Eugenia for approval with each step. She’d rarely been around anyone in their eighties, but she assumed memory slips might be common.
The woman smiled and nodded each time.
Jillian almost wished she had a grandmother. Her father had told her from the beginning that she had no living relatives except him. Not one. She’d known it so young she hadn’t thought to be sad. No sense missing someone you’ve never had around.
As the day ended, she took Gram’s arm. They walked back to the now-silent quilting corner. No constant stream of voices echoing off the walls. No ting of the cash register drawer after each sale of the day.
Jillian thanked her for teaching her so much, and Gram patted her hand as if pleased she could be of help.
The shop was empty now, but the place still seemed alive in the late-afternoon light. Shadows slow dancing beneath the multicolored sky of quilts above.
“You’re a fast learner. A great help.” Eugenia patted her hand again. “You’d best be going. It will be dark soon.”
Jillian didn’t want to leave her alone. “I thought I’d help clean up. After all, I ate most of your cookies.”
“Oh, no, you didn’t. Paulina always eats a dozen.” Eugenia covered her mouth as if she might hold back the words.
They both giggled as the front door chimed, and Connor walked in.
She found herself thinking more of this man now that she’d met his gram. A man who cared so dearly for his grandmother couldn’t be as clueless as he appeared. She laughed suddenly as she noticed a pencil sticking out of his shaggy head of hair. Or maybe it was a small tree branch. She didn’t plan to get close enough to see.
“Did you have a good day, Gram?” Connor passed Jillian as if he hadn’t noticed her.
“A grand one, as always. I taught your friend many things about the shop today.” Gram grinned. “Now, what did you say her name was again?”
“Jillian,” he said, smiling over Gram’s head at her. “She’s Jillian James.”
Gram nodded. “She’s a keeper.”
Connor looked away. “Good. I’m glad everything went well.”
Jillian saw a shyness in the mayor she hadn’t noticed before. He might be
