“Never saw it before,” I said. “But then, I’ve never gotten this far back in this storeroom.” I shivered. Ruby’s find was as good an excuse as any. “I’ve had enough closet-cleaning for a while. Let’s take a break and see what’s in it.” Then, as if to underline my words, the lightbulb—which hadn’t been very bright to begin with—gave a distinct pop and quit.
“Yes, let’s,” Ruby said with a laugh. “Obviously, we’re done in here.”
I followed her out into the loft and shut the storeroom door behind me, firmly. As far as I was concerned, whatever was in there could stay in there and hum to its heart’s content. I didn’t want to hear it.
Ruby put the chest on the nearest table. It was made of a reddish wood with a decorative grain—walnut, maybe. The hinged lid was fastened with a gold-colored hasp. The top was covered with a thick layer of dust, and I bent over to blow it off.
“Wait,” Ruby commanded. She picked up a half-torn camisole from one of the piles of old clothes and wiped off the top, revealing a large carving. “A flower,” she said. “Nice.”
“Looks like Queen Anne’s lace,” I said. Of course, the carving might represent a dill blossom, which looks somewhat similar—but when I lifted the lid, I knew I was right. The box was crammed full of pieces of lace. No surprise, I suppose, since Queen Anne’s lace (the plant) is supposed to be named for an English queen who made lace. The chest, which appeared to be very old, was probably made to store lace, which in times before ours had been quite valuable and was often stored in a locked box, to keep light-fingered ladies’ maids from helping themselves.
“Look, Ruby!” I exclaimed, taking out a filmy embroidered net veil of gossamer-like lace, made of thread so finely spun that it weighed almost nothing in my hands. Then a lace baby’s cap, several lengths of narrow cobwebby lace that might have edged a chemise, pieces of wider lace, lace doilies, lace fingerless mitts, several lace collars with matching cuffs. Some of the pieces were white, some cream-colored. The mitts were startlingly pink; one of the collar-and-cuff sets was black. All were intricately, beautifully worked. All clearly handcrafted, and undoubtedly antique.
“Wow, these are gorgeous,” Ruby said breathlessly, laying a length of narrow lace on the table and tracing the filigree pattern with her finger. “They’ve got to be handmade, don’t you think? You don’t see anything like this nowadays.” She picked up the black lace collar and held it for a moment, studying its intricate design. Then she dropped it quickly, pressing her lips together. “Sad,” she murmured. “So . . . sad.” Her voice sounded choked. “Terrible.”
“What’s terrible about it?” I picked up the collar, but couldn’t see anything wrong with it. “Looks fine to me.” I glanced back up at Ruby and was surprised to see her biting her lip as if against a sharp pain. “Ruby, what’s wrong?”
Ruby didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away so that I couldn’t see her face. And I didn’t get a chance to pursue the matter, because we were interrupted.
“Hey, you two,” a woman’s cheery voice said. “What’s going on?”
Startled, I whirled. “Oh, hi, Lori,” I said. “We thought today was your day off.”
Lori Lowry is about my height and slender. She was dressed in a red sleeveless blouse, jeans, and sneakers. She wore no makeup, and her tortoiseshell glasses were pulled down on her nose. Her brown hair was sleeked back into a ponytail that emphasized the diamond shape of her face and made her look ten years younger than her actual thirtysomething. A popular artist and teacher in the Pecan Springs weaving community, Lori has had an unimaginably hard time of it in the past few years. Her adoptive parents, to whom she was very close, were killed in the tornado that tore through Joplin, Missouri. She was just learning to live with that loss when her husband, Damien, a well-known art professor at CTSU, died when a truck plowed into his vintage VW Beetle at a railroad crossing.
Lori was devastated by the tragedies. Suddenly, her parents and her husband were gone and she was all alone in the world. She spiraled into a depression that frightened all of us. Things got even worse a few months later, when she was diagnosed with stage-three breast cancer and had to undergo both a mastectomy and chemo. Hit by this triple whammy, she had to stop teaching and give up the lease on the building where she had her weaving studio and classroom space. She’s officially cancer-free but still very fragile, and when we told her that the loft was available and that she was our first choice as a tenant, she was hesitant.
“I’m not sure I can make a commitment both to my weaving and my students,” she said. “What if I try to go back to a full schedule and then have to quit?”
But when she decided it was time to put her life in order and return to her art, her circle of friends—which includes Ruby and me—got behind her a hundred percent. I gave her a break on the rent to get her started. A dozen of us pitched in to move the equipment up the stairs and set it up for her. And we’ve all helped advertise her classes. As a result, she has a full house for every class she teaches.
“It is my day off,” Lori agreed. She dropped the bag she was carrying. “I spent the morning on the computer. My search for my birth mom, you know.”
“Having any luck?” I asked hopefully. Lori is beyond intense in her search, which has become a consuming passion—an obsession, really. Her friends have been behind her all the way. We see her search as a way to help her heal from her devastating losses. Of course, it
