Lone Star, honoring their Texas heritage, was to go to Wade’s wife, and I, as Jack’s wife, would receive the Wedding Ring quilt to pass down to future Harpers. As time went by and Jack and I never had children, Mom Harper stopped mentioning it. Now that I was no longer her daughter-in-law, I took it for granted Sandra would inherit them both. I told myself it didn’t matter, that it really had nothing to do with what I had with Jack. Not really.
After it was hung, I sat cross-legged in front of it and enjoyed the serenity of the whole pattern, wondering which of Wade and Sandra’s children would inherit it, picturing it going on down through the Harper family, further and further away from me.
Maybe we should have had those tests. We just kept putting it off, thinking—a baby will come in its own good time. Maybe it was fear—which of us would it be? We’d owned cows who’d taken a while to conceive. Wade always allowed them the standard two tries, then wanted to sell them, but Jack would take a shine to three or four every year and convince his brother to give them another chance. He’d sneak them treats of alfalfa cakes and croon to them in a low, gentle voice as he fed them, a voice I knew as well as my own sigh.
When it wasn’t the cows but me that needed his special attentions, Jack made the most wonderful hot chocolate—the kind made from scratch with real cocoa. He’d pour a thick white mugful, top it with whipped cream and bring it to me on a pink glass plate with roses etched on the bottom that once belonged to his grandmother. He’d drink his straight from the pan, feet propped up on the coffee table, a warm hand caressing the nape of my neck.
“Isn’t this the life?” he’d always say.
I left the plate at the ranch when I moved out.
The next morning, I arrived at the museum early but didn’t beat the yellow and white truck of the Coastal Goodtimes Party Rental people. I handed the placement chart I’d drawn to the two workers, a skinny Hispanic man not much bigger than me, and a sullen red-headed boy with a rooster comb Mohawk. With a small feeling of trepidation, I left them to the job of readying the studios for the pre-showing.
After calling Marla’s mother for the time and place of Marla’s funeral, I typed an announcement and tacked it to the co-op’s bulletin board. With that done, I puttered around, typing more quilt histories, writing a thank-you note to the local VFW for a hundred-dollar donation, picked off and inspected every brown leaf I could find on the fig tree in the corner of my office. Finally I had to face the inevitable.
Red is a power color, I tried to convince my reflection in the co-op’s bathroom mirror. I slid my palm over the front of the scarlet linen shirt I wore. I’d run out of clean flannel shirts and was forced to wear one of my own. I’d spent fifteen minutes that morning sitting in front of the dirty clothes hamper trying to decide just how tacky it would be to dig one out. The Aunt Garnet gene in me won. I rolled up the sleeves and made a face at myself. There wasn’t a color in the spectrum that was going to make me feel confident about telling the police about Rita.
On the drive to the police station, I mentally rehearsed my story, realizing after a few minutes the one good thing about the truth was, it didn’t take much rehearsal. As I neared the station, the square knot in my stomach blossomed into a full-fledged macrame wall hanging.
The municipal parking lot was packed. I was forced into circling three times before even a metered spot was free. San Celina had recently decided to pad the city coffers by installing meters on most of the downtown spaces. It was a favorite coffee break complaint among the old-time residents. Something else to blame on the influx of Southern Californians buying up all the land, bringing their big-city ways to the Central Coast. Plinking in every bit of change in my purse, I won seventy-five minutes.
After it was hung, I sat cross-legged in front of it and enjoyed the serenity of the whole pattern, wondering which of Wade and Sandra’s children would inherit it, picturing it going on down through the Harper family, further and further away from me.
Maybe we should have had those tests. We just kept putting it off, thinking—a baby will come in its own good time. Maybe it was fear—which of us would it be? We’d owned cows who’d taken a while to conceive. Wade always allowed them the standard two tries, then wanted to sell them, but Jack would take a shine to three or four every year and convince his brother to give them another chance. He’d sneak them treats of alfalfa cakes and croon to them in a low, gentle voice as he fed them, a voice I knew as well as my own sigh.
When it wasn’t the cows but me that needed his special attentions, Jack made the most wonderful hot chocolate—the kind made from scratch with real cocoa. He’d pour a thick white mugful, top it with whipped cream and bring it to me on a pink glass plate with roses etched on the bottom that once belonged to his grandmother. He’d drink his straight from the pan, feet propped up on the coffee table, a warm hand caressing the nape of my neck.
“Isn’t this the life?” he’d always say.
I left the plate at the ranch when I moved out.
The next morning, I arrived at the museum early but didn’t beat the yellow and white truck of the Coastal Goodtimes Party Rental people. I handed the placement chart I’d drawn to the two workers, a skinny Hispanic man not much bigger than me, and a sullen red-headed boy with a rooster comb Mohawk. With a small feeling of trepidation, I left them to the job of readying the studios for the pre-showing.
After calling Marla’s mother for the time and place of Marla’s funeral, I typed an announcement and tacked it to the co-op’s bulletin board. With that done, I puttered around, typing more quilt histories, writing a thank-you note to the local VFW for a hundred-dollar donation, picked off and inspected every brown leaf I could find on the fig tree in the corner of my office. Finally I had to face the inevitable.
Red is a power color, I tried to convince my reflection in the co-op’s bathroom mirror. I slid my palm over the front of the scarlet linen shirt I wore. I’d run out of clean flannel shirts and was forced to wear one of my own. I’d spent fifteen minutes that morning sitting in front of the dirty clothes hamper trying to decide just how tacky it would be to dig one out. The Aunt Garnet gene in me won. I rolled up the sleeves and made a face at myself. There wasn’t a color in the spectrum that was going to make me feel confident about telling the police about Rita.
On the drive to the police station, I mentally rehearsed my story, realizing after a few minutes the one good thing about the truth was, it didn’t take much rehearsal. As I neared the station, the square knot in my stomach blossomed into a full-fledged macrame wall hanging.
The municipal parking lot was packed. I was forced into circling three times before even a metered spot was free. San Celina had recently decided to pad the city coffers by installing meters on most of the downtown spaces. It was a favorite coffee break complaint among the old-time residents. Something else to blame on the influx of Southern Californians buying up all the land, bringing their big-city ways to the Central Coast. Plinking in every bit of change in my purse, I won seventy-five minutes.
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