The Quilting House Read online

  The Quilting House

  A Hickory Grove Christmas

  Elizabeth Bromke

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to locations, events, or people (living or dead) is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Elizabeth Bromke

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Parker Book Design

  The reproduction or distribution of this book without permission is a theft. If you would like to share this book or any part thereof (reviews excepted), please contact us through our website: elizabethbromke.com

  THE QUILTING HOUSE

  Publishing in the Pines

  Contents

  Prologue

  Step 1: Before you Begin

  Chapter 1—Gretchen

  Chapter 2—Liesel

  Chapter 3—Gretchen

  Chapter 4—Liesel

  Step 2: Cut the Patches

  Chapter 5—Gretchen

  Chapter 6—Liesel

  Chapter 7—Gretchen

  Chapter 8—Liesel

  Step 3: Assemble the Units

  Chapter 9—Gretchen

  Chapter 10—Liesel

  Step 4: Assemble the Shoo-Fly Block

  Chapter 11—Gretchen

  Chapter 12—Liesel

  Step 5: Piece the Blocks into Your Quilt

  Chapter 13—Gretchen

  Chapter 14—Liesel

  Step 6: Bind the Layers

  Chapter 15—Gretchen

  Chapter 16—Liesel

  Step 7—Finish the Quilt

  Chapter 17—Gretchen

  Epilogue

  Also by Elizabeth Bromke

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Some years earlier

  Liesel Hart stood behind a stretch of folding tables, each with a thick red tablecloth draped over it.

  A honey-baked ham sat squarely in front of Liesel. Its rich glaze seeped into the slices she’d carved half an hour earlier, when the event had begun.

  On either side of the ham, spread platters and dishes galore. Mashed potatoes and stuffing puffed like clouds in their serving bowls, most still half full.

  A second share of cranberry sauce filled one of Liesel’s own personal antique dishes—an heirloom from her mother. Creamed brussels sprouts waited inside a cast iron pan.

  It was the Hickory Grove Community Christmas Dinner, and Liesel was overseeing everything from the recipes, to the decorations, down to the invitations. Although, there weren’t exactly invitations to Little Flock’s holiday supper. Both the Thanksgiving event and the Christmas event were open to the public with a particular emphasis on those who were in want of a place to spend their evening. A place with other people and with downhome food.

  This particular year, Liesel had even coordinated a charitable raffle. Community members were generous enough to donate various goods and services, and Liesel would dole out raffle tickets with each plateful of food she passed along the serving line.

  Among the batch of donations were gift certificates to The Beauty Shoppe, Maggie Engel’s place of work; tickets to the Dotson Museum in Louisville, courtesy of Fern Monroe, curator; a whole selection of pies by Malley of local Malley’s fame; a waterproof wristwatch from The Jewelers on Main; and other goodies, too.

  Usually, one private individual from town would donate a healthy sum to cover all the costs of the food, paper products, and decorations. The priest would normally funnel this donation through Fern Monroe, who helped with the church’s administrative duties from time to time, particularly when it came to financials and tithing. The Hickory Grove Charitable Committee would deem the individual the Secret Santa, an appropriate nickname, Liesel figured.

  Liesel, herself, had offered up one of her handmade quilts. It was a project she had spent the year on, hoping she’d have a special person to whom to give the piece. This one, her mother had helped her with. It was a complicated pattern, and Liesel wanted it to be just right.

  Ah, yes. Liesel’s annual project. Each year, on New Year’s Day, she made exactly one resolution. The thing of it was, however, that it wasn’t so much a resolution as it was a wish. A private deal between Liesel and herself. A superstition, even.

  Liesel would set about a big project. Maybe it was a crafting project—like a quilt. Or maybe it was a personal endeavor, like the year she committed to learning sign language. Her deal was this: if, by the time she was finished with her endeavor, she hadn’t met someone yet, then that meant that she was working on the wrong thing.

  If she had met someone by the time she’d accomplished her end goal for that year, then it meant she was headed in the right direction. And she had better see that endeavor through to the bitter end. This year, if she met someone by the time she’d finished her quilt, then she was meant to make quilts for the rest of her life. Just as her mother had before her. Afghans, quilts, and baby blankets. The house off of Main Street was chock full of them.

  The idea behind this deal, you see, was that Liesel was at least doing something productive while she waited for Mr. Perfect.

  Even now, being over the hill, a mustard seed of faith remained in her heart that she wasn’t too old. She wasn’t too anything to meet someone to love. Someone to love her, too.

  “Merry Christmas,” a gruff voice bellowed in front of Liesel as she studied the ham once again, willing it to carve itself.

  She glanced up, her eyebrows pricking together.

  The man standing before her was no charity case. He was a local. An employed, self-sufficient local. Lonesome maybe, but not in need of anything.

  Liesel hadn’t been confronted with this sort of thing quite yet. Mainly, she’d just served vagrants. Types who’d found themselves in Hickory Grove for a spell and needed a little boost, maybe. Never, however, had she served a perfectly capable, perfectly healthy, perfectly handsome man. It all felt a little biblical. Serving someone who didn’t require service.

  She flicked a glance left, then right, then left again. “Sorry?” she managed, her voice high pitched. Liesel cleared her throat and shook her head before forcing a smile. She didn’t know this guy’s circumstances. Having a job didn’t mean everything. “Merry Christmas,” Liesel added, her cheeks growing warm as she gestured to the ham. “I just need to shave off a fresh slice for you.” She indicated the second half of the ham which she’d sliced only halfway.

  His smiled broadened. “Here,” he said, reaching for the knife laid alongside the platter. “Allow me.”

  Slowly, in measured, careful motion, he sawed into the meat, stopping here and there to assess his work. When he was done, he slid a thick slice onto his plate then passed it to Liesel.

  She shook her head. “I’ll eat after. With my mother. She’s on her way.” Liesel would hate to seem snooty. Then, as if she couldn’t close her mouth once she’d opened it, she added, “She helped me with a project for the raffle, and so… she’ll be here before then.”

  He gave a short nod, smiled again, and then replied, “Not sure I’ll stick around for the raffle, but that’s nice.” She tore a ticket from her roll and passed it to him, but he protested. “Really, no sense in me getting a ticket.”

  Something in her motivated Liesel to push the ticket into his outstretched hand, her red-tipped fingers lingering a moment too long. “Take it, please,” she urged.

  He did, then thanked her and left.

  And that was that.

  Liesel didn’t see where he’d gone to eat, as the place had started filling up just as soon as he’d left.

  Later, though, once the raffle was underway and she was enjoying her own plate in private with
her mother, he reappeared. Liesel tried to look elsewhere, but her mother, being a, well, mother, stared at him a moment too long. Liesel was certain that her mother’s stare was the reason he then joined them at the far edge of one of the tables, where Fern would soon begin the raffle.

  “Dinner was delicious,” he said, lowering into the open seat beside her.

  Liesel forced her focus to her plate and replied mildly, “Thanks. I didn’t cook it all. Had lots of help. Hickory Grove really knows how to come together.” She tried to stave off the ice in her tone, withholding the implication that this guy was a hanger-on. A moocher. A well-employed, well-built, attractive moocher. The worst kind.

  But he nodded dismissively. “I’m excited for the raffle.” Then his voice dropped. “You convinced me to stick around.”

  “Oh?” Liesel was growing edgier by the moment.

  “Sure. Got my eye on a few things.”

  Liesel lifted an eyebrow and shoveled the last of her potatoes into her mouth, wiping it with a napkin then taking her empty plate and her mother’s to a nearby trash can.

  She tried to shrug off the nagging feeling she had that there was something missing about the evening. And once he’d joined her at the table, it roared to life like a sign of some sort. A sign her intuition couldn’t quite read. Or maybe a sign that her intuition was all off.

  Fern came over and helped her manage the raffle. First went the gift certificates—the most prized possessions, by and large. Then a camping set. The watch with a programmable GPS—the only thing a jeweler could think of to give that might actually be useful. Then, some other practical items. Finally, Liesel’s quilt came up. The last item to be raffled. At other types of events, all those who’d won something or who hadn’t put in for the raffle would have left by now. But at the Hickory Grove Community Christmas Dinner, every last attendee remained until the bitter end.

  Even him.

  Liesel held the quilt open. The pattern had been her mother’s idea: the eight-pointed star. Only one, nearly imperceptible error existed in the quilt, as was tradition (Liesel was a good quilter, and her mother was a great one, but it was only God who never erred). The red and white fabric, varieties of floral print, added an extra element of the yuletide season. Making this particular quilt had taken far longer than Liesel had expected. Yes, she knew it was a difficult pattern, but her goal was near perfection, and even near perfection took time. Even with the guidance of her mother, a master quilt-maker. When they at last finished it, Liesel said a private prayer, the quilt across her lap, reminding God of her deal. If she didn’t meet someone by that Christmas dinner, when she gave away the fruit of her labors, then she’d find her next project.

  Indeed, the attendees all reacted appropriately as Fern explained on Liesel’s behalf the pattern and that Liesel handmade the whole of it alongside her mother.

  Mamaw Hart, as the grandkids had taken to calling her, was a pistol of a woman, and a sweetheart to boot. And she was proud of Liesel. Of the quilt they’d made together and of Liesel. Adopted or not, Mamaw had been a good mother. A great one, even. Was she enough to stave off the tug in Liesel’s heart? The tug that she was missing something. Or, perhaps, someone. Maybe not, but then… Liesel didn’t blame her, surely. She didn’t blame anyone for the circumstances of her own birth and, later, adoption. She accepted it. She accepted and tried to find ways to fulfill herself in the aftermath of that early, unrememberable incident in her own life.

  Fern dug her hand into the raffle ticket jar—a glass fishbowl Liesel had decked in red and green ribbon.

  Liesel looked at the man sitting just near her. She still couldn’t pin him down. Why was he there?

  Just before Fern withdrew the winning ticket, he winked at Liesel. She felt herself flush deep red and quickly glanced away from him, unmoored by the lascivious gesture. Even so, her pulse raced, and her heart throbbed in her chest, and she was entirely incapable of quelling either sensation.

  Liesel tried to ignore him.

  But then, once Fern had read the numbers aloud twice, her smooth-as-butter Louisville drawl lifting like a carol across the room, the man shot up from his seat. He then joined Liesel and Fern at the head of their table, clapping along with the whistling, cheering crowd.

  Fern smiled to him, congratulated him, and passed the quilt his way.

  Then, in a moment of absolute indecency, the man leaned into Liesel. “I’ll cherish this,” he whispered, smiling genuinely as he took the quilt, then waved to Fern and the crowd.

  As he stood near her, she smelled Christmas on him. Nutmeg aftershave or cinnamon hair gel—who knew? But it was heavenly, and it was all Liesel could do to give a brief nod of her head, a smile, and then turn to Fern. “I’ve got to go.”

  Her face burned bright, but still, her hand made its way to the spot on her cheek where his lips nearly brushed her skin. A stranger’s lips. Someone familiar’s lips. It was all the same. Wasn’t it?

  By the time she composed herself in the kitchen and was ready to re-emerge and accost him—accuse him and chastise him and drink in his scent and his kindness all over again, Fern appeared in the door.

  “Shame, he had to go,” she murmured casually. “Great guy.”

  Liesel simply nodded. Then, she frowned. “I don’t mean to pass judgment,” she began in earnest, “but do you know why he came by? He doesn’t seem—”

  Fern blinked before a chuckle erupted from her lips. “He was Secret Santa this year.”

  Surprise filled Liesel’s chest, but still she couldn’t push away the brashness of the experience. The discomfort. The distinct impression that the quilt—tedious blocks of that precious, intricate eight-pointed star, designed to guide its owner to the light—wasn’t meant for him. It was probably meant for her all along.

  She should have kept it. Donated something else, like fifty bucks or a ticket to the zoo. And kept the quilt.

  Now certain she’d never see the piece again, Liesel realized this was it. Her deal had come to fruition. She hadn’t met anyone by now, and the quilt was done and gone—a piece of her and a piece of her mother to some middle-aged jock with a little extra cash and a random will to pitch in at Little Flock for once in his life.

  Liesel let out a sigh and smoothed her red sweater dress. She’d have to find a new project.

  This time, it wouldn’t be a quilt.

  Step 1: Before you Begin

  “Mama,” little Liesel whined, falling into her seat at the kitchen table like a rag doll. “I’m too cold to do anything.” This was the honest truth. Snow packed against the house, challenging the Hart family’s potbelly stove.

  Christmas was a month out, but their southern corner of Indiana had an early cold snap. A wee early cold snap. Piles of snow were perfect for younger children desperate for a good sledding, but Liesel was a bit older now. Colder, too.

  “Here, now, doing something will warm you up,” her mother chided. “Sit up straight, Liesel.”

  Liesel did as she was told, and her mother went on.

  “See, now, I’m starting a new pattern, and it’s the perfect time. You said you wanted to make a quilt. Pay attention, girl.”

  Liesel did want to make a quilt. And it was true that doing something would warm her up. She knew this well enough from her part-time job cleaning the parish hall. Snowed in as they were, though, there were only two options in the Hart home: scrub the toilets or listen to her mother’s quilting seminar. The latter was easily preferable. Liesel shifted her attitude accordingly.

  On the table, where they’d normally have supper and read the Bible, her mother had laid out tidy stacks of materials and tools—all familiar to Liesel since it seemed that Mama Hart was always quilting. But unfamiliar, too. Liesel had been interested since she was knee-high to a grasshopper but never interested enough to sit still and watch on as her mother instructed her.

  Now, though, she was old enough, and that had to count for somethin’.

  “Firstly,” her mother went on, “y
ou take stock of what you’ve got. No sense in wasting good fabric or supplies by running out to the crafting store and spending money you ain’t got.”

  “What crafting store?” Liesel asked. This piqued her curiosity. If there was a crafting store, she might like to go there and browse, probably.

  “Out in Louisville,” her mother answered patiently. “The Crafting House somethin’ or other.” She sighed. “Anyhow, you take your stock, see?” The woman pressed a small index finger, the nail bare and blunt and the knuckle crooked despite her relative youth. “The most important thing is the fabric. Now, if we were making a scrap quilt, maybe an antique crazy or the like, well, we’d have more options in fabric.”

  “What kind are we making?” Liesel interjected, leaning forward as she inspected a tower of folded material—half of it crimson red and patterned and the other half cream colored and plain.

  “Shoo-fly. It’s best to learn on a shoo-fly pattern,” her mother answered. “Bein’ as I have last year’s Christmas discount cotton, that’ll be just fine. And seein’ as we have a month, may as well push to make it in time.”

  “A month?” Liesel frowned. “You never finish a quilt in a month.”

  “This year I will, because I’ll have you. And anyway, we’ll keep it small.”

  “Who’s it for?” Liesel asked. Her mother made quilts for baby showers and weddings and this, that, and the other.

  “It’s for Little Flock. They can do with it what they please, but it’s always best to keep charity at the forefront of your mind when it comes to quiltin’.”