and wonderful?
The high round tables were all occupied, but that wasn’t about to stop me. After Belle—there really was a Belle because she wore a name tag pinned to her green canvas apron—made me a low-fat latte, I sat down with a woman reading the Sunday paper.
“Mind if I join you?” I said.
She smiled and said, “ Course I don’t mind, honey. What’s your name?” I guessed she was in her sixties, with misapplied coral lipstick and too-white hair that she’d probably had colored and permed at the Finest Cut or Betty’s Salon, the only two hair places in town.
“I’m Jillian Hart. Kind of new around here,” I said.
“Oh, you’re that young widow. I am so sincerely sorry for your loss. I’ve been a widow for five years now.” She took my left hand and squeezed. Her fingers may have been cold, but hers was a warm touch in a more important way.
Why hadn’t I done this before—put myself out to make new friends? Is that what grief did, froze you up until you were ready to move on? Had Syrah’s disappearance released my emergency brake?
The woman said, “I hear you make cat quilts—which had me thinking you must be an old woman like myself. But here you are, looking like a freckled teenager.” She reached up and touched a loose strand of my hair. “Is this your natural color? Such a lovely shade, sort of like mulling spices.”
“It needs a little help from a bottle these days,” I said with a laugh. “That seems to happen once you pass the big four-oh.”
“Oh, don’t I know, honey. I must say, I have never seen you in this establishment before. I am so glad to meet you.”
“I didn’t get your name,” I said.
“I’m Belle Lowry, the owner.” She smiled widely and I couldn’t help but stare at her lips. Guess she didn’t use a mirror when she put on that color.
I glanced back at the counter. “But—”
“Oh, they all have the same name tag. Little trick of mine. Didn’t you feel pleased as punch when you thought the owner was taking care of your coffee needs?”
I laughed again. “I did.”
“ Course that only works with the tourists and the new customers like you. Everyone in town knows me and my tricks. I do like a joke. I say if you can’t laugh, don’t come around here.”
“I intend to come around here more often, that’s for sure. I’m on my way to the Cotton Company, but they don’t open until eleven on Sunday. Do you know Martha, the lady who works there?”
“We play bridge together, as a matter of fact. Are you picking out material for your cat quilts? Good idea, by the way—those quilts for cats.”
“I love fabric hunting, and Martha is so helpful.” I liked this lady and could only hope she knew something about my situation, but I felt so awkward bringing up my problems. This wasn’t as easy as I’d thought it would be.
Belle closed her newspaper. “I have never been inclined to sit in front of a sewing machine. I like to talk too much, and machines simply won’t talk back.” She laughed and I so wanted to mention the lipstick problem, but she went on, saying, “I must tell you, I was ready to purchase one of your cat quilts when Martha told me about what you do, but then poor Java disappeared. Broke my heart, too. So you see, we have something in common. I understand you’ve recently lost a cat, too.”
So she already knew. “Yes. His name is Syrah. Tell me about Java,” I said.
“Cute thing. How I do miss that cat.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Foolish Belle left the back door open. And you know what amazed me? That cat had never in her young life been outdoors before. Guess her feline nature took control. She had to explore. I was sure she’d come back, but she never did.”
“When was this?” I said.
“Few months ago. I’ve been thinking about adopting another kitten from the Sanctuary. Have you been there to see if your cat’s been turned in?”
“I was there yesterday.”
“Those are some mighty fine people, the Cuddahees. Shawn made me a dining room table and chairs that will last for centuries. Making a perfect piece of furniture or even a perfect cup of coffee is a lost art. You think Starbucks is good? You taste from that cup you’ve been clinging to for dear life, Miss Jillian. Then tell me what you think.”
I sipped and discovered she was right. “This is fabulous. No wonder I see everyone carting your cups around town.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said with a smile.
“I know you didn’t get your cat back, but maybe you could give me some hints to help me find mine. Tell me what steps you took.”
“First off, I went to that silly town council and asked them to change their ridiculous sign ordinance so I could put up flyers. Got nowhere fast. Those folks are so hard-headed you could turn them upside down and use them all for rock crushers.”
I laughed out loud and gosh, did it feel good.
Belle smiled, too, and said, “I’m guessing you haven’t let out a belly laugh in a very long time. I am privileged to give you the opportunity. Old Belle is good for something besides coffee.”
“Thank you, Belle. I’m so glad I chose this table.”
“I am, too,” she said.
“What else did you do to find your cat?” I asked.
“Talked a lot—real hard for me, don’t ya know? I have the opportunity to see most everyone in town on one day of the week or another,” she said. “And no one could keep me from putting up a flyer in my own establishment. I’d be glad to tack up a picture of your cat in here. Just fax it to me. Sandy up at the counter will give you one of my business cards. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
A few minutes later I left for the Cotton Company feeling as if I’d perhaps taken an important first step in joining the Mercy community. Time would tell. The fabric store was down the block, and I wrapped my peacoat tighter around me as I walked in that direction. The wind was up today, and the temperature must have been hovering close to forty.
Martha was cutting fabric for a customer when I walked in. Bolts arranged by color filled the store, and bright finished quilts hung on the walls of the high-ceilinged old building. She also sold folk art, candles, pottery and other things that a quilter might enjoy, and this month she was ready for Halloween and Thanksgiving with an orange and brown color scheme. There were also racks of patterns, old-fashioned wooden mailbox cubbyholes filled with folded fabric fat quarters and stands with every color of thread imaginable. Quilt stores and libraries rank as my top two places to spend time, and I could already feel the tension melting away from my neck muscles.
“Hey there, Jillian,” Martha said. “You find your cat yet?”
“No, I’m sad to say I haven’t,” I answered, heading for the prints for children’s quilts. I was no longer surprised to find that everyone knew about Syrah. Indeed, now I was counting on it.
“Which one was it?” She was intent on her work, a large rotary cutter slicing through several layers of the fabrics her customer had picked out.
“Syrah.” I saw a fabric with bunnies and frogs in pastel colors. The Halloween designs seemed a little intense for sick children, but I did snatch up a Laurel Burch cat print.
“Syrah is the one who only eats salmon,” Martha told her customer, an older woman resting heavily on a three-pronged cane.
“I know. David at the Piggly Wiggly told me,” the woman said. She didn’t even bother to look at me, even though she was talking about my cat. “Poor David. You know his story, don’t you?”
Martha started to speak, but the woman went on. “Heard tell his mama dropped him on his head when he was a baby, but neither me nor my friends can confirm or deny. See, every time someone asks her why his head is shaped so funny, she starts up cryin’. And we don’t want to be upset-tin’ her, so we just leave it be.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Martha asked.
