Chapter 45
Grace
“Grace? Is this good, or do you want it higher?”
I turn from the table, where I have been pouring bottles of ginger ale and pink lemonade into the punch bowl, and look up to see my husband standing on a ladder and holding a rope.
“Can you bring it up about a foot? I think it looks better when they’re hanging at different heights.” Luke pulls the rope, raising the bar and the quilt that’s hanging on it, then turns and looks at me again. “That’s perfect. Thanks, honey.”
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 tell is, though people are welcome to come for as long as they want, once they finish their quilts, they gradually stop coming. That’s why we decided to have this little quilt exhibition in conjunction with our building opening—so people who’ve moved on have a chance to keep in touch. I think it’s good that we need a reunion. Staying isn’t what we’re created for.
Besides the business and the quilting group, the other focus of my time is, of course, Luke. With two businesses growing by leaps and bounds, it’s very hard for us to make time for each other. We really have to work at it. That’s been the biggest challenge in our sixteen months of marriage. Part of the reason we decided to take the leap and buy the warehouse is because we thought being able to live where we work would make it easier to spend time together.
So far, it’s working out, but some of that is Luke’s doing. When we first moved in, he said, “I have an idea for a project. Let’s make love in every single room of this building.”
“All twelve hundred square feet?” I asked.
“All twelve hundred square feet. Including this stairwell,” he said, then sat on the bottom step and pulled me down on top of him.
It’s gotten to be our little joke—every time we make love, we talk about The Project. Sometimes, when we’re out to dinner with friends or visiting their house, Luke will say, “Well, we’d better get going. Grace and I have this project we’re working on.” It’s really kind of cute and also kind of sexy. It’s fun sneaking off like that, having people think we’re going off to work, but knowing that the second we get back to the house, we’re going to jump on each other.
It’s our inside joke, but to tell the truth, I think people are catching on. A few weeks ago, Monica said, “Boy, Luke sure has a lot of projects in the works,” then winked at me.
Well, what can I say? It’s a big building.
* * *
Billie, Janet, and Ed, one of Luke’s carpenters, came early to help us set up. The guests started arriving promptly at five. Nan, Malcolm, and their clan, including kids and grandkids, showed up first. Nan immediately pulled me aside to share the good news about Dani.
“Oh, Nan. That is wonderful,” I said, and gave her an enormous hug.
“It is,” she said. “But pray for her, will you? It won’t be easy.”
“I will,” I promised. “Every day.”
The kids were running all over the place, bouncing with energy. We didn’t mind; we’d put the sewing machines in the storage room, so there really wasn’t anything they could break. James, Nan’s oldest son, organized a game of sardines so that kept them busy. Once things settled down, I asked Chrissy if I could hold baby Ellie.
“She’s gorgeous,” I said, cooing over Ellie’s tiny fingernails and breathing in that sweet milk and baby shampoo smell.
“She is,” Chrissy agreed. “Really, I thought Bill and I were done with kids, but, you know.” She shrugged. “Sometimes life has other plans. She’s the best surprise we ever got.”
I’ll say. I could have held that little sweetheart all night. But when I heard a booming voice from the door yelling, “Grace! Ciao, Bella!” I handed the baby back to Chrissy and ran to give Monica a hug.
“Ciao! How was the honeymoon? Was Italy all you hoped for and more?”
“So much more,” Monica gushed. “Rome was great, but oh, Grace! Venice and Verona! Portofino! So romantic. And the food! Grace, the food was just phenomenal. You have never in your life had pasta this good. And the sauces! I don’t know what it is—either the tomatoes, or the olive oil, or the atmosphere—but you haven’t eaten marinara until you’ve eaten it in Italy. Wait until we show you the pictures. We only took about a thousand.”
“All of food,” Bob joked, putting his arm around Monica’s waist. “We really did have a great time. We’ve already decided to go back for our third anniversary and bring the kids.”
“Oh, and we came home to some very good news,” Monica said. “One of the coaches from U of O pulled Alex aside at his cross-country camp and invited him for a campus visit in the fall.”
“Really,” I said. “You think they might offer him a scholarship?”
“Well, first he has to get in,” Monica said practically. “But you never know. Oh, and Zoe wanted me to ask you—could you use an intern this summer? Unpaid, of course. She’s thinking about studying fashion—at least this week,” Monica laughed. “I thought working with you might help her figure out if she’s serious about it or not.”
“Sure,” I said. “Have her call me. I can always use an extra pair of hands.”
My mom and Aunt Rickie were next to arrive. I flew them out for the opening and booked them into a nice hotel downtown for the weekend, to be followed by a tour of the Oregon wine country and two more days at the beach. They hadn’t had a sisters’ getaway in years and seemed to be having a terrific time. Mom couldn’t wait to tell me about their visit to Blue Star Doughnuts.
“Gracie, they were so delicious, but they had the strangest flavors. Blueberry Bourbon Basil. Would you believe it? Bourbon! In a doughnut!”
“Personally,” Aunt Rickie said, “I’ve always preferred my bourbon in a highball glass. That’s why I’m in charge of tomorrow’s field trip. We’re going to the Multnomah Whiskey Library. It’s right near the doughnut place. Want to come?”
“Thanks, Aunt Rickie, but I’ve given up drinking. How about Luke and I take you and Mom for an early dinner. Tasty and Alder doesn’t take reservations, but it’s worth the wait. I’ve actually had dreams about their skillet corn cake and the radicchio with bacon lardons and egg is so good, I’ve been known to order one as an appetizer and then order it again for dessert.”
“You always did know the best places to eat,” she said. “Even after you lost all that weight. Why don’t you let me pay for dinner? You and Luke have already done too much—the airline tickets, the hotel.”
“No,” I said. “This trip is our treat. Thanks to you, we can afford it.”
“Oh, posh. All I did was co-sign for the loan. I knew you’d be good for it.” Aunt Rickie craned her neck, looking all around the workshop. “And I was right! You must be doing well to afford all this.”
“Most of this is mortgaged,” I laughed. “But we are doing well. But that first loan helped me sell enough dresses so the bank would loan us money to expand. We could never have done it without you. I think that’s probably worth a trip and a dinner, don’t you?”
It was a wonderful party. I felt so happy, for so many reasons.
Dianne Maestro, the woman who made the quilt from her husband George’s ties, came and brought her sister-in-law. They stood in front of George’s portrait and cried, but they were good tears. Becky Jones and her husband, Roger, came and brought their parents to see the crib quilt Becky made. It was sweet to see Becky and Roger standing together in front of the quilt holding hands.
After a few minutes, Luke came up behind me and whispered in my ear, “Should I get Becky a chair or something? She looks like she’s going to deliver that baby any minute.”
“She’s okay,” I said. “Still has a month to go.”
Luke wrapped his arms around my waist, then kissed me on the neck.
“You are one incredible woman, Grace. Do you know that? Look at all these people you’ve brought together. Look at all these lives you’ve impacted.”
“You mean the lives we’ve impacted. If you hadn’t stalked me in Starbucks, or built me a sewing table, or taught me to dance, it would still be just me and Maisie, living in the condo and hiding from life. Credit where credit is due, mister.”
“Okay, fine. I helped with some of it,” he said, squeezing me. “But the quilts are all you. I can’t even sew on a button.”
“Yes, I know,” I laughed. “But you have other skills.” I placed a hand on top of his and moved it low, over a small, new swell at my waistline. “I was thinking, I might want to make another quilt. One about that size.”
I pointed to Becky’s pink and white crib quilt, then waited for Luke to pull the pieces together. Honestly, it took a little longer than I thought it would. Finally, after about six seconds of silence, he let go of my waist and took hold of my shoulders, turning me toward him. His eyes were wide.
“Wait. What? Grace, really?”
I nodded and my face split into a goofy, joyous grin that mirrored his.
“Really?” he said again. “How?”
I laughed. “What do you mean how?”
“No . . . I meant . . . You know, when?”
“Well . . . I can’t be entirely sure—you’ve been pretty aggressive about The Project—but I’m pretty sure it was in the stairwell.”
“The stairwell? You mean the very first night?” Luke wrapped his arms around my waist, lifted me off the floor, and swung me in a circle. “What did I tell you when I first saw this building? Didn’t I tell you it was lucky?”
I looped my arms around Luke’s neck and laughed, laughed for joy, and life, and complete, perfect, incandescent happiness.
“You know what else is lucky?” I asked, then kissed him again. “Me.”