anything?”
The young woman’s impatience was obvious, as was her lack of interest in the quilts.
I could tell her anything—offer her a hundred dollars for the lot of them and she’d probably jump at it,
Elizabeth thought, sorely tempted by the beautiful heirlooms that Nola had preserved so lovingly.
But, as Nixon said, that would be wrong. Oh hell.
“Well, you need to understand I’m not an expert. But I do know a little about old quilts. This one’s a traditional Pomegranate pattern, probably from the 1880s, give or take twenty years. The condition is good…some fading in the green fabrics—what they call fugitive dyes and a little yellowing of the unbleached muslin. But—”
“If I took it to a flea market, what kind of price should I put on it? That’s all I need to know.”
Shocked at the suggestion, Elizabeth was quick to insist, “Oh, no, don’t take it to a flea market. You wouldn’t get near what it’s worth. A few years ago I saw a similar one priced over a thousand dollars in a fancy antique shop in Asheville. But I have no idea what a dealer would pay you—maybe half that. And fashions change—quilts may not be as collectible now as they were.”
Elizabeth bent down to study the red appliquéd circles and the faded green crescents that had been delicately stitched onto a creamy white background. With a careful finger she traced the tiny quilting stitches that crisscrossed the fabric.
“Such a lot of work. You know, your aunt—have I got that right?—called this one the Lyda quilt.”
My great-grandmother made that one,
Nola had said. “But you probably know that—it being your family too.”
The young woman, evidently aware of the unspoken challenge in Elizabeth’s words, fixed her with a cool gray stare. “Nola was my mother’s sister—but we haven’t been close in a long time. If she ever showed me these quilts, I’ve forgotten.”
The icy gaze, Nola Barrett’s eyes looking out of a different, younger face, was unsettling. Still, Elizabeth persisted. “Are you sure you want to part with family heirlooms like these? They’re undoubtedly worth something to a quilt collector but—”
The younger woman brushed Elizabeth’s words aside and unfolded a second quilt. “I’m not sentimental about family stuff anymore. Heirlooms or not, if they’re worth a buck or two, they’re going to be sold. Do you have any idea how much long-term care for that crazy old woman is likely to cost? If only she could have managed to find the old man’s will.”
Elizabeth stood in the quiet of her empty house. Behind the leafless trees at the far left of the eastern horizon, the full moon was rising with slow majesty, its great disc looming startlingly large and almost transparent against the rose and lavender of the evening sky.
She had opened her mouth to call Phillip to come look at the moon; then she remembered—Phillip, as was his custom on weeknights, was at his house in Weaverville.
Closer to AB Tech,
he had explained,
and in winter there’s less chance I’ll have trouble with snow on the roads.
This was undoubtedly true, but Elizabeth suspected that the chief reason Phillip maintained the little rented bungalow was because some months ago she had declined his proposal of marriage. Their growing closeness had suffered briefly from her refusal.
You know I love you, Phillip,
she had said.
Will a few words and a license make any difference to the way we feel about each other?
He had not pressed the issue but had withdrawn briefly, no longer routinely spending weekends and holidays with her. Gradually, however, and much to her relief, the part-time relationship had resumed.
Thank god, he didn’t just bow out altogether. I love him and want him in my life—I just don’t see why we need to be married. But I wish he were here to see this moonrise.
She stood staring out the window, watching the huge pale circle float above the treetops. As the sky darkened, the
The young woman’s impatience was obvious, as was her lack of interest in the quilts.
I could tell her anything—offer her a hundred dollars for the lot of them and she’d probably jump at it,
Elizabeth thought, sorely tempted by the beautiful heirlooms that Nola had preserved so lovingly.
But, as Nixon said, that would be wrong. Oh hell.
“Well, you need to understand I’m not an expert. But I do know a little about old quilts. This one’s a traditional Pomegranate pattern, probably from the 1880s, give or take twenty years. The condition is good…some fading in the green fabrics—what they call fugitive dyes and a little yellowing of the unbleached muslin. But—”
“If I took it to a flea market, what kind of price should I put on it? That’s all I need to know.”
Shocked at the suggestion, Elizabeth was quick to insist, “Oh, no, don’t take it to a flea market. You wouldn’t get near what it’s worth. A few years ago I saw a similar one priced over a thousand dollars in a fancy antique shop in Asheville. But I have no idea what a dealer would pay you—maybe half that. And fashions change—quilts may not be as collectible now as they were.”
Elizabeth bent down to study the red appliquéd circles and the faded green crescents that had been delicately stitched onto a creamy white background. With a careful finger she traced the tiny quilting stitches that crisscrossed the fabric.
“Such a lot of work. You know, your aunt—have I got that right?—called this one the Lyda quilt.”
My great-grandmother made that one,
Nola had said. “But you probably know that—it being your family too.”
The young woman, evidently aware of the unspoken challenge in Elizabeth’s words, fixed her with a cool gray stare. “Nola was my mother’s sister—but we haven’t been close in a long time. If she ever showed me these quilts, I’ve forgotten.”
The icy gaze, Nola Barrett’s eyes looking out of a different, younger face, was unsettling. Still, Elizabeth persisted. “Are you sure you want to part with family heirlooms like these? They’re undoubtedly worth something to a quilt collector but—”
The younger woman brushed Elizabeth’s words aside and unfolded a second quilt. “I’m not sentimental about family stuff anymore. Heirlooms or not, if they’re worth a buck or two, they’re going to be sold. Do you have any idea how much long-term care for that crazy old woman is likely to cost? If only she could have managed to find the old man’s will.”
Elizabeth stood in the quiet of her empty house. Behind the leafless trees at the far left of the eastern horizon, the full moon was rising with slow majesty, its great disc looming startlingly large and almost transparent against the rose and lavender of the evening sky.
She had opened her mouth to call Phillip to come look at the moon; then she remembered—Phillip, as was his custom on weeknights, was at his house in Weaverville.
Closer to AB Tech,
he had explained,
and in winter there’s less chance I’ll have trouble with snow on the roads.
This was undoubtedly true, but Elizabeth suspected that the chief reason Phillip maintained the little rented bungalow was because some months ago she had declined his proposal of marriage. Their growing closeness had suffered briefly from her refusal.
You know I love you, Phillip,
she had said.
Will a few words and a license make any difference to the way we feel about each other?
He had not pressed the issue but had withdrawn briefly, no longer routinely spending weekends and holidays with her. Gradually, however, and much to her relief, the part-time relationship had resumed.
Thank god, he didn’t just bow out altogether. I love him and want him in my life—I just don’t see why we need to be married. But I wish he were here to see this moonrise.
She stood staring out the window, watching the huge pale circle float above the treetops. As the sky darkened, the
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