the back of the shop, next to the large space where she taught classes, but allowed her a sight line to the front door. Some days she never had a chance to sit down or even reach for the needle, and most days there were bursts of several busy hours. But she almost always had a quilt assembled on the frame, with which she could contentedly fill the slow periods. The quilts she created herself inspired her customers, and she got excellent prices when she sold the finished work.
“I’ll be right with you,” she called.
Her customers were all women. Occasionally a husband would trail his wife in and hover, some patiently, some not so much, while she made her selections. Usually at this point many of the women would respond to Allie with something like, “That’s okay, I need to browse for a while anyway.” This time, there was no answer. Surprised, Allie finally lifted her head.
A man was making his way gingerly toward her, between the rows of bolts of fabric. For a moment she did nothing but gape at him. He didn’t belong, even more so than most men. She couldn’t decide why. He was good-sized, but not huge—maybe six feet or a little under, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, though not massive. Maybe what she was reading was his discomfort with being here.
He had brown, unruly hair and a plain, bony but nice face. Blunt cheekbones, a nose distinguished by a bump that suggested a long-ago break and eyes so blue Allie blinked in surprise.
She could almost sense his relief when he escaped the narrow aisles between tightly packed bolts of cotton into the clearing at the back.
She anchored the needle in the fabric. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” He stopped at the edge of the polished wood frame and gazed at the half-finished quilt with interest. “Well, isn’t that a beauty,” he murmured after a minute.
“Thank you. It’s a simple pattern called Lady of the Lake.”
“It’s the colors.” He seemed to be enthralled. “And the sewing you’re doing.”
“Quilting,” she corrected him. “This is what makes the sandwich of fabrics a quilt and not a comforter.”
She was happy with this particular quilt herself. She’d used all shades of purple, from palest lavender to deep, rich plum, interspersed with a red startling enough to define the blocks.
The man lifted a big, blunt-fingered hand and said, “Would you mind if I touched it?”
“Not at all. Come around here.” Part of the quilt was outside the frame.
He fingered it, seeming to savor the texture. He still held the corner of the quilt when he lifted his eyes, suddenly, to her face. They were not only vividly blue, they were penetrating. Allie had the uneasy feeling he was seeing more in her than most people did.
“Beautiful,” he said again, his voice deep and even a little gravelly, as if he ought to clear his throat.
Feeling her cheeks heat, Allie wondered if he was still talking about the quilt.
Get a grip.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for someone willing to do what you’re doing right now. We have this part—” he touched the top “—but the thing never got finished. I guess I figured these days the sewing—the quilting,” he corrected himself, “was done on a machine.”
“Machine-quilting is more common than hand-quilting like I do,” she agreed. “And most often, what hand-done quilts you see were made in China or somewhere else with cheap labor, and usually the stitches are big and fairly sloppy.”
He nodded slowly.
“I’d have to see what you’ve got to tell you whether it’s worth getting hand-quilted. How old is it? Was it hand-pieced? What’s it look like?”
His expression was mildly befuddled. “Well, it’s different than this. It’s only two colors, for one thing. Dark blue and white.”
She nodded encouragement.
“Little squares and big squares and...” He seemed to struggle to find the right words and finally shrugged as if giving up. “They form a pattern.”
Allie laughed. “There are quilts with one big picture in the middle or a giant star, something like that. Otherwise, a pieced quilt by its very nature ends up with symmetrical blocks.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not new.” He considered her, looking a little wary. Allie had the feeling he wasn’t much of a talker and probably not given to confiding in many people, and especially not a total stranger. But after a minute his face relaxed, as if he’d made up his mind. “I’ve got a foster son—he’s fourteen—and supposedly his great-great-grandmother made this