if I want to see the movie instead of going shopping with you?” Dermot asked.
That caused a laugh from Taylor. “Uh-oh,” he murmured.
“I—I guess that would be all right,” Rachel said. “I just thought you’d want to—” She forced a smile. “Never mind. I can shop on my own. I do it all the time.”
Dermot grinned as he reached out and grabbed her hand. “I’m just teasing. Of course I’d love to go shopping with you, Aunt Rachel. It’s my favorite thing to do in the whole world.” Dermot rolled his eyes dramatically and Rachel threw a crumpled napkin at his face.
This caused the boys to dissolve into laughter, Dermot egging them on with silly faces. At heart, they were all just little boys, so easily amused. “Maybe I don’t want you to come now,” Rachel said.
“Aww,” they all groaned in unison.
“I’m not sure I like this. Three against one.” She stood up and grabbed the check. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We don’t want to be late for the movies.”
In the end, the two boys decided to see the latest sci-fi action hit while Dermot was happy to accompany Rachel. They headed for her favorite antiques store, a small shop just off Main Street with wide plate-glass windows and an old-fashioned center entrance.
Dermot held open the door and ushered her inside. Rachel walked right to the counter. Sylvia, the elderly woman who owned the store, was working behind the register. “Rachel. I didn’t expect you to come in so soon. I just called on Friday.”
“I was in town. And I wanted to see what you had.”
“Come in back and I’ll put it out over a table. It’s really quite beautiful. One of the nicest I’ve seen.”
Rachel had been buying antique quilts from Sylvia for almost a year, her only indulgence in a very strict budget. But her passion for collecting quilts had come from her mother. As a child, Rachel had accompanied her mother to auctions at least once a month in search of the hand-stitched creations.
Her first quilts had come from her grandmother, beautiful hand-pieced bedspreads made of faded calico fabrics. Then she’d inherited her mother’s eclectic collection. And now she was adding quilts of her own.
Sylvia pulled the quilt from a bag and threw it over an antique dining table. She patted Rachel’s shoulder. “I’ll give you some time to enjoy it.”
Rachel sighed. “Thank you, Sylvia.”
Dermot stood by her side. “It’s a quilt.”
“It’s a piece of American folk art,” she said, smoothing her hands over the fabric. “It tells a story. All of these fabrics came from old clothing the family had worn. I use pencils and ink and they used old aprons and shirts and dresses. And the pattern represents the maker. And each region of the country has favorite patterns. The women worked together on the quilting. See these tiny little hand stitches? And the designs they make? It’s beautiful.” She stepped back and pointed to the price tag. “Tell me how much it is. I’m afraid to look.”
Dermot glanced at the tag. “Four hundred,” he said.
“I never pay more than three hundred.” She shook her head. “I can’t afford this one.”
“But you want it.”
“I can’t have everything I want,” Rachel said. “I have the farm and now the boys. There are just better ways to spend my money.” Rachel shrugged. “Another one will come along.”
“But you love this one,” he said. “You should have this one.”
His determination startled her. It was just a quilt. She’d passed on many of them before because of price or condition or budget considerations. She’d learned not to grow attached. “Another will come along. And it will be better than this.”
With a soft curse, Dermot gathered the quilt up and tucked it under his arm. He carried it to the register and set it down, Rachel following hard on his heels. “What are you doing?”
“I’d like to buy this,” he said. Dermot pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and laid down four hundred-dollar bills.
Rachel recognized the money immediately. It was nearly all the money he’d made working on the farm. “What are you doing?”
“I’m buying you the quilt. You said you wanted it.”
“I didn’t want you to buy it for me,” she said. “If I wanted it, I’d buy it myself.” She put her hand over the quilt. “Sylvia, we’re just going to talk about this for a bit, if you don’t mind.”
“Sylvia, I’ve made up my mind,” Dermot countered. “I want the quilt. Please put it in a nice bag.
It’s a gift.”
“I don’t need a gift,” Rachel said, her frustration growing. “Just stop.”
He paid for the quilt and then tucked the bag under his arm and strode out of the shop. Rachel looked at Sylvia, baffled at what had transpired.
“Enjoy your quilt,” the shopkeeper said.
She found Dermot standing on the sidewalk, his shoulders tense, his expression cloudy. His mood had turned so suddenly and Rachel couldn’t figure out why. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful. I’m just used to buying quilts on my own.”
“No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad. I was just— I shouldn’t have snapped.”
Rachel stood beside him, staring out at the traffic on the street. “Why did you get mad?”
“You said that another quilt would come along. You wanted this one, but you were willing to let it go, knowing that another one would come along. Do you think you’d ever regret letting this one go?”
“Maybe. But it’s just a quilt. And usually a better one comes—” Suddenly, Rachel realized what he was angry about. She groaned inwardly. “So at first men were donkeys and then they were sofas. And now they’re quilts?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds really stupid,” Dermot said. “I guess I’m just a little… sensitive.” He laughed. “Shit, I can’t believe I just said that. I’m not sensitive.”
“You are not a quilt,” she said. “I’m not going to throw you aside for another man… or quilt.”
“I won’t be here. Another quilt will come along. Like that Danny guy at the fair. Has he called yet?”
Rachel winced. He had called. And emailed twice. She’d put him off, but had decided to accept a lunch invitation after Dermot left. “He’s not you.”
“But he’ll become me, once I’m gone. He’s called, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. But I don’t have any plans to go out with him. Maybe we’ll meet for lunch, but we’re not going on a date. We’re just friends.”
“That’s
