Chad stood, biting his lower lip, outside of the door that had once been the guest room. However, its more common purpose had been his grandmother's sewing room. He felt guilty as hell about not clearing all that shit out of there before she went to bed last night. It was not just the mammoth table and fancy sewing machine against the window. The chest of drawers was full of fabric. There were dozens of boxes under the bed, in the closet, and around the room.
Fabric had been his grandmother's one vice. The woman could not go anywhere without checking out the sewing stores. And as much sewing and quilting as the old woman had done, on a working farm and ranch, there was never enough time for hobbies. Though, those last months, before cancer won, it had been about all she could do. She had sewn him, all his cousins, and their children beautiful quilts.
"To remember me by," she had said. As if he needed scraps of fabric, no matter how sewn together with love, to remind him of the woman, who had instilled values in him more than his mother. Chad still got choked up thinking about it, but sleeping under the red, white, and blue stars and stripes quilt that she had sewn him did just that. Then again, he always felt their presence here.
That was not what he was doing here this morning. He raised his hand to knock on the door - until he saw the time on his watch. Five a.m. might be standard rising time for him. He had always been an early riser, a morning person. But he was confident that women like her, and their daughter, were not used to such hours. True, he had warned her last night that the day started early around here. And one thing that he wanted to impart to that girl, young woman, his daughter was the value of hard work.
But yesterday had been traumatic for them both. Hell, for all of them. It was not every day you discovered that you had a teenage child. He was sure that the past few months must have been hard on them, too. What harm would it do to allow them to sleep in this morning? He would get the horses out into the pasture, do a few chores, then make her a cup of coffee and bring it up. Yeah, that sounded like a better plan. Then they could all discuss things like routines and chores over breakfast.
With the decision made, Chad turned and walked down the stairs. Into a kitchen that had not smelled this good since the doctors found the lump in his grandmother's breast. He stopped at the bottom of the steps and stared. She was humming something, though he could not tell what song it was, as she stirred something in a couple of the old cast iron skillets on the stove. Her butt sure looked fine in those Walmax jeans. He felt his body respond, even though he had been vigilant to take care of that before he got out of bed.
He focused his energies and wayward thoughts elsewhere. He inhaled deeply, trying to figure out what was for breakfast. It was not the sweetness of pancakes, and there was no distinct smoky flavor of bacon hanging in the air. He inhaled again as she turned with the old wooden spoon in one hand.
She wore one of those frilly apron things that his grandmother sewed. She had made a passel of those for everyone, too, before she died. Those things had defined the woman for him. Except for church, funerals, and when they went into town, he could not remember the woman ever being without her trademark. If he had had his way, they would have buried her in one. As with so much that came in the early days after losing his grandparents, he had not had his way.
But the woman, his woman, sure looked good in one. It seemed right somehow. To see her standing there in his grandmother's apron with the old woman's spoon in her hands. It reminded him of his visit to Washington, D.C. Well, specifically, to Arlington National Cemetery. The changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier had affected him as few things could. That was the only thing he could compare to this feeling — a changing of the guard at this old place. And something told him that his Grandmother Grace would have liked this woman.
Except maybe, of course, how they had met. And the fact that he had not been there for her or their child when she had needed him. But he had to let that one go. As he had told her last night, they could not change the past. And he was there for them now. When they needed him most.
***
Cassie, no, Rose, she had to start thinking of herself by that name now, felt incredibly embarrassed. She had tossed and turned all night, unable to do more than doze here and there. When she looked over at the old digital clock next to the bed and saw the bright orange number four-three-five, she had given up. He had said, Chad had told her, that the day started early around here.
So, she had gotten up, made the bed, admiring the intricate workmanship in the old quilt, wondering if she would ever be any good at that sewing stuff. Then she had grabbed some jeans, a t-shirt, and underwear from the neat pile which sat on the old cedar chest at the foot of the bed. She had snuck quietly into the bathroom, showered, and dressed.
There was no point in make-up, and to make things simpler, she had combed and braided her hair while it was still wet. She knew her hair would have waves when she undid it, but the braid would keep it out of her way while she made breakfast and did whatever chores Chad needed her help with.
She had tiptoed down the stairs, not wanting to wake the others with creaks and moans that were only natural in an old house like this. She had opened the fridge and began to plan their meals for the day.
But seeing him standing there, saying nothing, worried her. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have..." Rose stumbled over her words. In broad daylight, as she remembered Aunt Rose said, she felt far more insecure than she had the night before.
His words on the front porch had been the reason she could not sleep. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks even now. She dropped her head and stared at the old yellow and green linoleum. Its geometric patterns of squares and rectangles reminded her of the quilt.
She was a stranger here. And she knew that the other Grace, the woman whose kitchen she had invaded, would have been far from pleased with her. It was one thing to know that she had disappointed Aunt Rose. She had struggled with that for almost fifteen years. But the other woman's presence just seemed to hang over this place.
She reached behind her to untie the apron strings as she felt tears gathering in her eyes. What was she doing here? No matter what the man said, she had no right to be here. In the woman's kitchen. Wearing one of her aprons, that she was sure had been sewn with the same love and care that went into the quilt she had slept under last night.
But her fingers had ceased to function, transforming the neat bow into a mess of knots. What a prophetic image of her life. She could almost hear the words, "Two wrongs don't make a right." This time, she was not sure whether that voice was her beloved Aunt Rose or the ghost of the woman that lived here.
Just when she was about her turn and run, she felt his heat, followed by his hands reaching behind her, staying hers as they continued to tug and pull on those strings, only tightening the noose. "No, leave it."
