“Fair point,” said Olivia, waving a hand to show that all was forgiven.
“Are we ready to quilt now?” asked Lindsay.
“We are indeed.” Gretchen looked around the company, her gaze lingering on Julia, Ellen, and Edna. “Why don’t we begin with those of you who have quilted by hand before? Please take a seat, and Maggie will provide the needles and thread.”
Julia, Ellen, and Edna promptly seated themselves on one side of the frame, and, when none of the other students came forward, Sylvia, Gretchen, and Maggie sat opposite them. Maggie repeated the steps she had shown them in the classroom, with minor adjustments to account for the differences between working with a small lap hoop and a larger, freestanding frame. Julia and the other quilters threaded their own needles and began quilting the sections in front of them, following the drawn lines with their finest stitching. At first Julia tried to match the Elm Creek Quilters’ brisk pace, but she soon gave up and proceeded more slowly, focusing on making her stitches small and even.
The rest of the company watched closely, admiring their work. “What do you do when the strand of thread runs out?” asked Paige.
“What happens when you reach the end of the drawn line?” asked Marisa.
“Two excellent questions,” said Gretchen, glancing up from her work to smile encouragingly. “I promise to show you when we get there.”
Nigel peered over Maggie’s shoulder, studying her hands intensely. “Tell me, Maggie,” he asked. “Do you feel that the needle is an extension of you, or that you are an extension of the needle?”
She had to pause to think. “Um, the former, I guess?” She gaveher head a little shake and resumed quilting. “No one has ever asked me that before.”
“Is that so?” Nigel replied, his brow furrowing. “I can’t imagine a more essential question.”
Soon thereafter, the quilters relinquished their seats so another group could have a turn. Paige, Lindsay, Jason, and Nigel quickly took their places at the quilt frame; Marisa and Dylan joined them a bit more warily. Yet before long all six were quilting steadily along, gaining confidence, chuckling at their mistakes. After a few minutes, Gretchen asked them to secure their needles in the quilt and inspect their own stitches.
“Mine are pretty terrible,” Marisa admitted. “I’ll get the hang of it, I promise.”
“Mine are straight and even, but they’re huge,” said Paige.
Sylvia bent over for a closer look. “Oh, yes. My great-aunt would have called those ‘toenail catchers,’ but they’re quite good for a beginner. Now I’m going to ask all of you to peek beneath the frame and see how your stitches look from the back.”
As the six novice quilters obeyed, Edna nudged Julia and whispered, “We didn’t have to do that.”
“That’s because she thinks we’re the experts, in comparison,” Julia whispered back. “To be honest, I don’t think my stitches would pass a close inspection.”
“I’m sure mine would,” Edna remarked. Julia gave her a playful shove.
“They look the same to me,” Paige called, her voice muffled through the quilt’s layers. “Huge, but equally huge.”
“Good,” said Sylvia. “That’s the ideal—neat, even stitches the same length on the bottom as on the top.”
“My stitches are equally unequal,” said Marisa as she emerged from beneath the frame.
“They’re perfectly acceptable for your first try,” said Sylvia. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Perfect might be too ambitious for me,” said Dylan ruefully as he returned to his seat. “I’d settle for better.”
“You’ll get there,” Maggie assured him, “if you stick with it.”
The six got back to work, but soon they rose and let six others take their places. Surely and steadily, the quilt transformed beneath their needles as the quilting stitches added dimension to the pieced pattern. But as the afternoon passed, the students relinquished their places more readily, and a few complained about tired arms, aching necks, and sore left forefingers stinging from too many needle pricks.
“Quilters develop a callus there over time, and the needle pricks don’t hurt as much,” Gretchen said. “Until then, a bit of medical tape or a second thimble can prevent soreness.”
“My mom uses a metal thimble for her needle-wielding hand and a leather thimble for the one beneath the quilt,” said Lindsay.
Julia, seated at the frame, nearly dropped her needle. “Your mother.” Glancing at her watch, she gasped and rose. “Someone can take over for me. I have to make a phone call.”
“Is something wrong?” Gretchen inquired.
“No, not at all. I’m just late for my weekly check-in with the Cross-Country Quilters.”
“The who?” Julia heard Louis ask as she hurried away. She didn’t pause to answer, trusting that Lindsay or Ellen would explain.
