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quilts. The pattern was Amish inspired, with long bars of alternating grayish blue and taupe. Where I went my own way was in the colorful pink, orange, and purple flowers I’d appliquéd along the edges, set off with deep green leaves and twirling vines.
    â€œThere is no pattern for that,” I told her. “It’s just something I made.”
    â€œWhen is it coming out?”
    â€œIt’s not,” I explained. “It’s just . . . mine. To decorate the shop.”
    She sighed and looked at her abundant pile. “Well, I guess this is all then. But when you do make a pattern for it, let me know. I’ll sign up for your newsletter.”
    I almost told her we didn’t have a newsletter, but I didn’t want to disappoint her again. Instead I took her e-mail address and started a list. Maybe we should have a newsletter. Something to talk to Eleanor about . . . one of many things to talk to her about.
    Bernie Avallone came into the shop, waved at me, and headed for the wall where we kept mostly tone-on-tone fabrics. She went straight for the blues. The good thing about having one of the quilt group members shopping was, in a pinch she could also help out with the customers. Like everyone in the quilt group, Bernie was as familiar with the inventory as I was.
    â€œWhat’s the name of the woman who runs things?” the woman in the pink coat asked me.
    â€œEleanor Cassidy. She’s not here right now.”
    â€œWell then, tell her for me that if she hangs quilts in her shop the quilts should be available as patterns.”
    â€œI will,” I said.
    As she left, weighed down by her purchases, I wondered how many unfinished quilts that woman had at home, along with patterns, books, fabrics, kits, and magazines. More quilts in her imagination than she could make in a lifetime, and yet she was annoyed that somehow one quilt pattern had slipped through her fingers. I knew exactly how she felt.
    â€œShe’s right you know,” Bernie said as she dropped a group of fabrics on the cutting table.
    â€œShe is,” Natalie agreed. “You should make a pattern of that quilt. And the others.”
    â€œI don’t know how.”
    Bernie rolled her eyes. “You made a pattern to make those quilts in the first place, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes, but I wasn’t worried about being exact. I was just playing.”
    â€œWell, now that you’ve played, let the rest of us in on the fun.”
    â€œEspecially now that it will be your shop,” Natalie added.
    Bernie looked from Natalie to me. “Your shop? Are you planning a coup?”
    â€œNatalie is just—” I said, unable to finish. Natalie had jumped in with the story I’d heard this morning. Bernie almost didn’t believe it. Apparently no one knew what Maggie had told me. Maybe it wasn’t true after all. That was a hopeful thought. Enough was changing. I wanted Someday to stay the same.
    I walked to the cutting table and petted the fabrics Bernie had chosen. Non-quilters don’t understand that a lot of the enjoyment we get from quilting is running our fingers over the soft cottons, feeling the cool, smooth fibers underneath our hands. It’s calming, and I needed a little calm at the moment.
    â€œThese are great fabrics,” I told Bernie, ignoring her questions about Eleanor, “but they’re mostly medium tones. Have you thought about adding some lights and darks to give it more depth?”
    Bernie examined her fabrics. “Well, how did I fall into such a beginner’s trap?” She laughed to herself. She went back to the blue fabrics and pulled another ten bolts. What she brought back to the table was a dizzying array of shades, from baby blues, to teals, to navy.
    â€œMuch better,” I said. “Quarter yards?”
    â€œBetter give me a half yard of each. What I don’t use will go in my stash.”
    â€œYou have