"It happens when you start something with a great deal of excitement and then run out of interest about halfway through," Maggie told me.

"Are we talking about marriage again?" Susanne laughed.

"Stop putting marriage down," her daughter Natalie protested. "Some of us are happily married."

Maggie let out an exaggerated sigh and continued. "The trick is not to get stubborn about it. If the project doesn't work, then you have to let it go."

"That must be frustrating," I said.

Bernie's eyes lit up and she leaned toward me. "It's freeing," she said, exaggerating the length of the words to, I'm guessing, make their importance clear. And they must have been important words, because the others all nodded in agreement. "With every quilt you make you have a picture in your mind of what it should be," Bernie continued. "Then you start. You pick fabrics, you cut the fabrics, you sew the pieces together. All along there are compromises, mistakes, inspirations. When it works, then you are truly holding your dreams in your hands. When it doesn't…" She shrugged.

"You just throw it out?" I asked, looking to my grandmother for confirmation. Eleanor saved bags of two-inch pieces of fabric, "just in case." She kept a plastic bag with fabric and a needle to sew whenever she had time to kill. I couldn't believe my grandmother would endorse wasting hours of work for artistic reasons. But she was nodding along with the rest of them.

"We trade sometimes," Carrie admitted. "Or sew them into charity blankets."

"I have a lot, so I usually give mine to Nancy," Natalie admitted. "She finishes them off and sends them to her son's college friends, who I guess don't really care what the quilts look like as long as they're warm."

Maggie patted Natalie's hand, as if to comfort her for having so many UFOs. It was an odd pair. Watching seventy-five-year-old Maggie laughing easily with Natalie, nearly fifty years her junior, made me a little envious. Aside from quilting, the two seemed to have little in common, but quilting was enough to bind them together. I wondered if my friendships were as tight.

But envy was one thing; joining the group was an entirely different matter. Suddenly, all I wanted was to head back to the house and sleep. I yawned.

"Oh, she's tired," Carrie pointed out.

"You should get her home, Eleanor," suggested Bernie.

"The poor thing, she needs her rest," agreed Susanne.

"I am sleepy," I volunteered, and yawned again.

My grandmother nodded and patted Barney's head. "Barney, take her home."

Barney got up, went one more time around the circle to say his good-byes, and led me to the door.

"We'll see you next Friday," the group said in unison.

"Oh," I stammered, "I don't think so. I'm only here for the weekend."

I opened the door and was almost free when I realized that all night I'd forgotten something. I turned back. "Thank you all for the quilt you made me. It's more beautiful than I could have imagined."

They each looked at me as if they were about to cry. As I left the shop, I knew the subject of my breakup had started up again.

CHAPTER 6

Morning came too soon. I could hear my grandmother downstairs and I knew it was only a matter of time before she came up looking for me.

Instead she sent her assistant. My door started to open slowly, and a blond furry snout sniffed in the opening. There was a grunt, more pushing, and then Barney was in the room, wagging his tail and sniffing at the bed for signs of life.

There was no point in staying in bed with this hairy alarm clock drooling and whimpering. I got up and made my way toward the kitchen to find myself some coffee.

"Are you up?" My grandmother stood at the door to the kitchen.

"Nope." I smiled. "Still in bed."

"Then you should get dressed."

"I was going to eat first."

"No food," she said, and she walked past me to the front of the house.

No food? There was always food at her house. And not just food. Hot out of the oven blueberry crumble, melt in your mouth pot roast, garlic mashed potatoes. How could there not be food?

I love my grandmother, but one of the reasons I came to visit was the food. In New York, I'd gotten used to grabbing a muffin for breakfast, a salad for lunch, a slice of pizza for dinner. I had a kitchen the size of most people's linen closets, so aside from making coffee, my cooking skills-such as they were-went unused. My grandmother, on the other hand, was a maestro in the kitchen. And though she also lived alone, she cooked every day. She cooked for herself, of course, but also for several senior citizens who, as she put it, "needed a little help to get going every day." She cooked for school bake sales, town picnics, and for the charity drives of all three churches in town. If someone needed help, my grandmother was there with a pie.

Except, apparently, today.

I went after her to at least get her to make me some scrambled eggs. I found my grandmother by the front door talking quietly with Nancy.

"Well hello." Nancy smiled as I walked toward her. "I wondered whether our paths would cross this weekend."

"Hi, Nancy." I hugged her lightly. "It's been a while."

"Well, a city girl can't be expected to find many reasons to come up here," she said.

"Thanks," my grandmother responded sarcastically.

"Don't take offense, Eleanor. It's good she has her own life." She looked me up and down. "Are you staying for a while this time?"

"No. I'm leaving tomorrow."

"See, what did I tell you. A life of her own." Nancy picked up a bundle of small quilts, each about two feet square. The top one was an appliqued autumn tree with leaves in at least a dozen shades. The piece was simple but it had such depth.

Nancy's work was a combination of sewing, threadwork, and beading. She made landscapes, scenes of people at play, animals, and abstracts. I'd seen Nancy's beautiful handiwork before, and it always amazed me. Before she could stop me, I grabbed the bundle and began looking at the others.

"This is a work of art," I told her.

"Nonsense," she said, taking the quilts back from me. "It's just something I do as an outlet."

"You could sell those," I said.

"I've been saying that for years," my grandmother agreed.

Nancy just blushed. "I make them for my children," she answered, patting the quilts smooth.

My grandmother changed the subject. "Nancy volunteered to open up the shop today, so we can spend some time together." Then she nodded toward me. I understood the gesture immediately. My mother used to do the same head nod when my uncle gave me a piece of candy.

"Thanks, Nancy," I said obediently and looked toward Eleanor, who smiled.

"No worries at all. Happy to do it. I'd do anything for your granny, you know. Just like most people in town."

Nancy headed for the door, and so did we.

"Did you take the deposit to the bank last night?" my grandmother asked as Nancy was leaving. "You know I hate leaving money in the shop overnight. Makes a great target for thieves."

"Honestly, Eleanor," said Nancy with a laugh. "I'm the one who makes the deposits. And I did it last night like I do every night." She left quickly, not waiting for Eleanor's usual sharp reply.

My grandmother just muttered to herself and handed me something. "It's chilly. Take this."

It was a worn-out leather men's jacket, the sort of jacket that would sell in Manhattan for hundreds of dollars, and in Archers Rest would be donated to charity.

"Where are we going?"

"I thought you were hungry" was all she would say. It was a beautiful fall day. As we walked, I found that I was enjoying the sunshine, the falling leaves, and the quiet of small-town life. And then I thought, how romantic it was, and I was depressed again.