Mornings on Main

Every inch of the twenty-foot-high walls was covered in colorful quilts; a collage of fabric rainbows.

Deep shelves lined the wall behind the wide front coun­ter. Folded quilts were stacked five deep for a dozen rows.

“This may take longer than three months,” she whispered.

“I’ll help,” he offered. “But I should tell you, Gram is in charge here. This is her world, so whatever she wants goes. I don’t want the cataloging to cause her any stress.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do.” He looked at her closely, wondering how much to tell a stranger. “We’re working against a ticking clock and it’s in Gram’s head. The cataloging, the inven­tory, may not always be her priority. You may have to gently guide her back to the task.”

Her intelligent eyes looked straight at him, and he guessed she was one of those rare people who listened, really listened.

“I can put in overtime and will work Saturdays, but I can’t promise you I’ll stay in town more than three months. If you think I can complete the job by then, I’ll give it my best shot.”

“I understand,” he said, even though he didn’t. Why couldn’t she stay longer? Who moves to a town for three months? Someone just killing time, he reasoned.

A mix of conversation and laughter came from the back of the shop where the ceiling lowered to eight feet, allowing room for a storage room above and a meeting room below.

Connor took the lead. Unlike the stranger, he knew exactly what he was walking into. The twice-a-week quilting bee. An old frame hung from the beams, allowing just enough room for chairs to circle the quilt being hand-stitched together. It might be a lost art in most places, but here, the women seemed to love not only the project, but the company.

The moment the ladies saw him their voices rose in greet­ing. All eight of them seemed to be talking to him at once. As soon as he greeted each one, he introduced Jillian James to them. “I’ve hired Jillian to help catalog my grandmoth­er’s collection. Gram’s got a great treasure here in her shop.”

The ladies agreed with his plan, but two reminded him that it would be a long time before his gram retired.

His grandmother, Eugenia Ann Freeman Larady, slowly stood and offered her hand to Jillian. Where Connor had been told his eyes were Mississippi River brown, his gram’s had faded to the pale blue of shallow water. Every year she’d aged he’d grown more protective of her, but today he needed to take a step backward and see how she got along with a stranger brought in to work with her.

Gram winked at Jillian as if she already counted her as a friend. “Call me Gram if you like. All Connor’s friends do.”

“Gram,” Jillian said with a genuine smile.