out.” Miss Birdie gave a knowing nod. “He ain’t been around much lately, now has he? I figgered you and him must of fell out. Now look at this,” she continued, ignoring Elizabeth’s attempts to set her straight, “ain’t that the purtiest thing?”
Her fingers rested on a large embroidered sunflower— the most beautiful of any of the work on the quilt. The many petals twisted and fluttered as though caught in a breeze, their carefully shaded yellows and golds adding unusual depth to the stitchery. The dark brown center was a swirl of tiny French knots representing the ripening seeds. Just below the graceful heart-shaped green leaves on the flower’s sturdy stalk were tiny embroidered letters.
“Can you make that out, Lizzie Beth? What does it say?”
Elizabeth leaned closer. “Tildy…it looks like…Rector.”
“I might of knowed,” sniffed Birdie. “Couldn’t no one else ’broider like that.” She straightened, pressing the backs of both hands to her back. “Ay law, Tildy Rector. I ain’t thought of her in many a year. Course I didn’t really what you might say know her. Only seed her the oncet. But Britty Mae knowed her good. Her and her sister.” The old woman frowned. “Now what was that sister’s name? I cain’t remember nothin’, seems like.”
Birdie leaned back over the bed, scanning the quilt intently. “Her name had ought to be on here too. Now where—?”
“Is this it?” Elizabeth held up the lower left corner of the quilt. A blue daisy consisting of a lumpish French knot surrounded by six uneven loops for petals was stitched loosely above crooked block letters spelling out FANCHON TEAGUE.
Elizabeth studied the daisy, then looked back at the sunflower. Something seemed wrong, something…
“That’s her. I mind Britty Mae showin’ me them two flowers. She laughed about it— how them two girls was so different. She said that Fanchon could do ever thing in the world— sing and play the banjo and make all the young fellers to fall in love with her— but when it come to needlework, she might as well of had two left hands. Tildy was ahead of her there. Seems like Britty Mae said that didn’t nobody like Tildy much— said Tildy was as plain as an ol’ boot and had a way of allus sayin’ just the wrong thing. Tildy didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Britty Mae said, but most folk took against her. Fanchon was the one that ever one made much of, her so pretty and sweet-talkin’. But fer all that, it was Tildy that was Britty Mae’s friend.”
Miss Birdie’s gaze lingered on the sunflower. “Law, how it all comes back to me now. Tildy had told Britty Mae about the way that Fanchon done her— why, it was a pitiful thing— and Tildy the rightful daughter. I mind it like as it was yesterday, Britty Mae standin’ there in her and Lexter’s bedroom, holdin’ this very quilt and a-sayin’, ‘Fanchon may fool a lot of folks, like she fools Miss Caro and Miss Lily, but I’ll tell you what’s the truth— that huzzy is a street angel and a home devil.’ ”
* * *
It was late afternoon. The sun had dropped behind the mountain and Elizabeth was in her salad garden, tearing out the bitter old lettuce that was bolting in spite of the shade cloth. She packed the uprooted plants into an old feed sack and was on her way down to delight the chickens with a treat of fresh greens when she became aware that a single heifer was loitering on the flat spot under a big tulip poplar at the edge of the woods— the same heifer, if she wasn’t mistaken, that had been there early in the morning. She looked toward Pinnacle’s peak— yes, the rest of the herd had moved up the mountain for the lusher grass at the top.
“I wonder— there was one heifer that Ben said was bagging up— maybe I ought to go check to see if her calf’s starting to come.” She left the bag of lettuce and started for the gate into the pasture.
For the most part, the cows of Full Circle Farm gave birth
Her fingers rested on a large embroidered sunflower— the most beautiful of any of the work on the quilt. The many petals twisted and fluttered as though caught in a breeze, their carefully shaded yellows and golds adding unusual depth to the stitchery. The dark brown center was a swirl of tiny French knots representing the ripening seeds. Just below the graceful heart-shaped green leaves on the flower’s sturdy stalk were tiny embroidered letters.
“Can you make that out, Lizzie Beth? What does it say?”
Elizabeth leaned closer. “Tildy…it looks like…Rector.”
“I might of knowed,” sniffed Birdie. “Couldn’t no one else ’broider like that.” She straightened, pressing the backs of both hands to her back. “Ay law, Tildy Rector. I ain’t thought of her in many a year. Course I didn’t really what you might say know her. Only seed her the oncet. But Britty Mae knowed her good. Her and her sister.” The old woman frowned. “Now what was that sister’s name? I cain’t remember nothin’, seems like.”
Birdie leaned back over the bed, scanning the quilt intently. “Her name had ought to be on here too. Now where—?”
“Is this it?” Elizabeth held up the lower left corner of the quilt. A blue daisy consisting of a lumpish French knot surrounded by six uneven loops for petals was stitched loosely above crooked block letters spelling out FANCHON TEAGUE.
Elizabeth studied the daisy, then looked back at the sunflower. Something seemed wrong, something…
“That’s her. I mind Britty Mae showin’ me them two flowers. She laughed about it— how them two girls was so different. She said that Fanchon could do ever thing in the world— sing and play the banjo and make all the young fellers to fall in love with her— but when it come to needlework, she might as well of had two left hands. Tildy was ahead of her there. Seems like Britty Mae said that didn’t nobody like Tildy much— said Tildy was as plain as an ol’ boot and had a way of allus sayin’ just the wrong thing. Tildy didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Britty Mae said, but most folk took against her. Fanchon was the one that ever one made much of, her so pretty and sweet-talkin’. But fer all that, it was Tildy that was Britty Mae’s friend.”
Miss Birdie’s gaze lingered on the sunflower. “Law, how it all comes back to me now. Tildy had told Britty Mae about the way that Fanchon done her— why, it was a pitiful thing— and Tildy the rightful daughter. I mind it like as it was yesterday, Britty Mae standin’ there in her and Lexter’s bedroom, holdin’ this very quilt and a-sayin’, ‘Fanchon may fool a lot of folks, like she fools Miss Caro and Miss Lily, but I’ll tell you what’s the truth— that huzzy is a street angel and a home devil.’ ”
* * *
It was late afternoon. The sun had dropped behind the mountain and Elizabeth was in her salad garden, tearing out the bitter old lettuce that was bolting in spite of the shade cloth. She packed the uprooted plants into an old feed sack and was on her way down to delight the chickens with a treat of fresh greens when she became aware that a single heifer was loitering on the flat spot under a big tulip poplar at the edge of the woods— the same heifer, if she wasn’t mistaken, that had been there early in the morning. She looked toward Pinnacle’s peak— yes, the rest of the herd had moved up the mountain for the lusher grass at the top.
“I wonder— there was one heifer that Ben said was bagging up— maybe I ought to go check to see if her calf’s starting to come.” She left the bag of lettuce and started for the gate into the pasture.
For the most part, the cows of Full Circle Farm gave birth
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