Luke ties off the rope and climbs down the ladder. I come over and stand next to him.
“That’s the last one,” he says. “It looks good, Gracie. Really good. You should feel proud of yourself.”
I turn in a circle, looking at the twenty quilts hanging along the brick walls of the warehouse. The quilt I made for Jamie, with the stars and stories that always make me smile, hangs next to an extraordinary quilt, a portrait of a man’s face pieced entirely from neckties by a woman who was married to an executive. On the opposite wall, I see a quilt of red, white, and blue by the wife of a veteran, another made entirely from race T-shirts and embellished with medals and blue ribbons by the husband of a woman who ran marathons, and a crib-sized quilt with pastel pink angel blocks, embellished with rosebuds and ribbons, made by a young mother. So many quilts, all different, all beautiful, all made to celebrate the life and memory of someone deeply loved and never forgotten.
Looking at them, I can’t help but smile, but I don’t say anything. Portland truly is my home now, but the mark of my Midwestern upbringing will stay with me for life. Where I come from, you don’t brag about your accomplishments and you don’t say you feel proud of yourself—even when you do.
“I’m proud of us,” I say, rising up on my toes and kissing Luke on the cheek.
And I am. It’s a big day for both of us.
Three months ago, Luke and I bought this building, a three-story, twelve-thousand-square-foot warehouse in East Portland. Even though Luke and I got a good return on my condo and his bungalow, we had to take out a mortgage, a big one. When we went to sign the papers, my hands were shaking I was so nervous, a feeling that didn’t dissipate for about a month.
But now that the remodeling is finally done and we’re only an hour from opening our doors to one hundred friends, associates, and family members, I feel happy and completely at peace with our decision. We’re doing the right thing, for ourselves and a lot of other people as well.
The top floor of the building has two loft apartments. Luke and I live in one and rent out the other. That’s where most of the remodeling took place. Honestly, I thought it was fine as it was, not a palace but definitely habitable, but Luke . . . Well, let’s just say that we now have the most beautiful kitchen cabinets and built-in bookshelves on the east side. The bottom floor has a storage space, a big industrial-sized garage, and Luke’s workshop and showroom. He employs two other carpenters now and is looking to hire another one, or maybe take on an apprentice. Though he has more orders than he can fill and could definitely make more money if he had more help, Luke won’t compromise on the quality of his work. He’s starting to think training apprentices is the only way he’ll be able to maintain the standard of workmanship he insists on.
The second floor, where we are now, houses my workshop and offices. Twirl and Whirl Clothing Company, now Twirl and Whirl Workshop, has six employees, including me. Billie is in charge of the actual workshop floor, sewing dresses and supervising three additional seamstresses we were able to hire after we got into the space. Janet works in the office with me. I brought her on about a year ago to help with online marketing, order fulfillment, shipping, bookkeeping, and anything else that needs doing. Janet and I have pretty much the same job description. We have a really great team in place. They’re not just good workers, they’re good people who really believe in the mission.
Every person who works here gets a vote on where our donated dresses will go. So far, we’ve made one thousand dresses to encourage women in need or transition. By this time next year, if our projections are right, that number will be five thousand.
Some are sent to homeless shelters, others to shelters for victims of domestic violence, some to the Red Cross to be given to women who lost everything after a house fire or natural disaster, and some to an organization that helps women reentering the workforce by making sure they have something nice to wear to job interviews. Kim, one of our new employees, recently came up with a new idea. It meant a little extra design work on my part, but I’m really excited about it. Twirl and Whirl is now making children’s dresses. In September, we’ll donate seventy-five dresses so girls in foster care can have something new and nice to wear on the first day of school. It’s just a pilot project, but it feels like the start of something pretty wonderful.
I still have a sewing machine on the workshop floor, a much faster industrial machine than my old one, and manage to spend a few hours there each week, but not as much as I’d like. I’m not complaining. There are worse problems for a business to have than being so overwhelmed by demand that you have to bring on more people to make the product. Besides, it means I have time for some of the other things I care about.
Billie and I have gotten to be really good friends. After we finished our quilts, she told me about another woman at her grief support group and asked if we could help her make a quilt. Of course, I said yes. Things just kind of grew from there. Now, every Thursday from six to nine at night, we meet here on the workshop floor to help people make quilts and tell stories of the people they love and miss. Sometimes, Nan and Blixen drop by. I think it helps people. The way I can
