two identical halves. Their bathroom was down the hall, but at least they didn't have to share it with anyone else. A vase of dried wild flowers sat on a small wooden stand near the door.
'How does it look?” Mavis asked when Harriet came back down the stairs.
'It looks cozy-I think the comforters are real goose down. You'd think they would have artistically handcrafted bed quilts.'
Mavis looked away.
'What?” Harriet asked.
'What Mavis doesn't want to tell you is that the first floor rooms are filled with unique handcrafted items,” Robin said. “The decorator hasn't gone upstairs yet.'
'They probably don't tour prospective guests beyond the first floor,” DeAnn said as she came down the stairs. “If the dried weed decoration in our room is any indication, these folks aren't rolling in money. Either that, or they pour their money into their art.'
'What she's trying to say is, they're stingy with the heat and most meals are some kind of soup,” Lauren informed them. “And be careful when you sit on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Its springs are killer.'
Count on Lauren to hit the low points, Harriet thought.
'Come on, ladies, we should go on down to the fiber arts pavilion-new student orientation will start in…” Mavis glanced at her watch. “…fifteen minutes, and if she has to lecture Carla and Harriet on punctuality it will be that much longer until we get our tea.'
The women gathered their purses and sweaters and left the Tree House.
'Who is
'She is Selestina Bainbridge, the head of the fiber arts department and owner of the whole shebang,” DeAnn replied, and waved her arms to indicate the woods around them. “Legend has it she inherited it from her husband who died years ago in the arms of his lover at the no-tell motel out by the highway. Apparently, he was sent to meet his maker by the lover's unforgiving spouse.'
'So she doesn't have any issues, right?” Harriet said with a laugh.
DeAnn just rolled her eyes skyward.
Chapter Four
'Please come in and take a seat,” said a short, wiry woman with dull blonde hair that was just starting to go gray. The woman wore faded blue jeans and a camp-style shirt that appeared to have been made from mottled-blue hand-dyed sheeting. She paced nervously to the back of a pie-shaped room that was set up with a podium at the point of the pie and concentric rows of chairs radiating out from there; a cloth-covered table held several thermal carafes, a tray of cookies and neat rows of mugs, spoons and napkins at the wide end of the room.
'First-time visitors, please sit in the front rows,” the woman barked as she walked back up to the front of the room. She adjusted the microphone that was attached to the podium and tapped on its surface. It responded with the amplified hollow sound microphones the world over make when bludgeoned.
'They have done this before, right?” Harriet asked Mavis.
'Don't you worry, honey,” the older woman replied. “Patience is a nervous thing. She's Selestina's right hand, but she acts like every class or program they do is the first and their very existence depends on its success.'
Harriet, Carla and the other first-timers took their places at the front of the room, while Mavis, DeAnn and Robin sat at the rear. Without introduction, a tall, thin woman who turned out to be Selestina appeared at the podium and started the orientation, beginning with her personal fiber art history, which included schooling then faculty positions at several prestigious folk art schools, and ended with her founding the current school.
She then laid out a set of restrictions and regulations that would have made the Marine Corps proud. She ended with the announcement that all first-time students were to meet with her in this room in precisely thirty minutes for an inspection of their tools and supplies.
They were dismissed, and Harriet found the other Loose Threads standing around Connie Escorcia at the food table.
'Where did you come from?” she asked.
'I got here just as you were coming down for orientation. I've already heard that old battleax try to scare the bejeezes out of her new students, I didn't need to hear it again. I'd complain to the management if it wasn't her.” Connie picked a chocolate chip cookie from a tray on the table and took a bite. Her Latin exuberance and soft heart had made her Foggy Point Grade School's favorite first grade teacher before her retirement. She believed a firm but gentle hand was the best way to tame young hooligans. “Did she have any announcements I need to know about?” she asked when she'd swallowed.
'She told us the ceramics students would be having an exhibition tomorrow night in Building A. We're welcome to attend and encouraged to make a donation for the privilege,” DeAnn said.
'You mean our tuition wasn't enough of a donation?” Harriet asked.
'Shouldn't you and Carla be getting your bags?” Sarah prompted. “Selestina doesn't like to waste her time.'
Carla jumped up and headed for the door.
'Wait up,” Harriet called, and followed the younger woman out.
They made the trip back to the Tree House and returned with their supplies with moments to spare. They carried their bags up to a row of tables that had replaced the podium.
'Listen up, ladies,” Patience Jacobsen said. “Take a place along the table. Place your stack of fabric on your left and then line up your thread to the right of the stack. Put your scissors and rotary cutter in front of you and lay your six-and-a-half-by-eighteen rulers and your six-and-a-half-inch square to the right.'
This was starting to sound a little weird. Carla had taken the place to Harriet's right. Harriet sneaked a glance in her direction. Her face was chalky white, and she nervously twisted a stringy lock of hair.
'Don't worry,” Connie said. She put her hands on Carla's bony shoulders. “Selestina's bark is worse than her bite, and she isn't going to risk losing a paying customer. Just let her paw through your stuff, promise you'll change the blade in your cutter, even if it's new, and then we can go back to the Tree House and have a good cup of tea.'
Carla forced a crooked smile to her lips, and Connie retreated to the back of the room.
To say the ensuing orientation was a blood bath would be an understatement. The first student, a pear-shaped woman whose bright-red lipstick was in stark contrast to her faded pink cotton house dress, had dared to bring old- fashioned polyester sewing thread, the kind that comes on a gold plastic spool and has been sold in every five-and- dime in America for decades. Harriet knew that sewing cotton fabric with polyester thread is an invitation for the quilt to fall apart before its time. Polyester is stronger than cotton and works like a saw against the softer fiber given the everyday motion of a functional quilt.
It was also true that beginners needed to learn about high quality cotton thread, but Selestina apparently felt she needed to emphasize the point by sweeping the spools off the table and throwing them across the room in the general direction of the garbage can.
The second student had pre-washed her fabrics. It was an acceptable technique and at times even a preferred method when quilting. Washing ensured that all the sizing chemicals-the compound that keeps fabric smooth and flat when it's rolled onto the bolt-are washed out and any dye not fully set is removed. If the fabric is going to shrink, it will happen with this first washing before it's been cut and stitched.
However, high-quality cottons purchased from a reputable fabric store are unlikely to either shrink or bleed, so the debate about the value of pre-washing raged on.
In the case of the second student, pre-washing had revealed that one of her three pieces of fabric was of much lower quality than the rest. Low-quality material shrinks to the point of distortion, and no amount of ironing will cause it to look smooth and square once the sizing is gone. Low-quality cotton will never result in a prize-winning project.
All of which Selestina pointed out at length.
'I understand why I shouldn't make a show quilt or even a quilt I'm giving as a present out of discount store
