1 Forget Me Knot by Mary Marks Read Free Book Online Page A

flooding the space with natural light. No wonder Claire chose this room as a studio. Fabric colors were truest in natural light. An old wooden sewing table sat under the windows next to an upholstered chaise longue, the perfect spot for sitting and quilting.
    White floor to ceiling shelves and cabinets lined two of the walls. The third wall was painted white and featured a white quartz counter spanning the entire length. The counter was empty except for two sewing machines, a CD player, and a green cutting mat with one-inch yellow grid lines. The drawers beneath contained every gadget and notion a quilter could possibly want.
    There were several things a serious quilter needed besides fabric, needles, and thread: a reliable sewing machine, a rotary cutter, a cutting mat, an acrylic ruler, sharp scissors, a good thimble, a steam iron, and a wooden hoop. Claire’s sewing room was a warehouse of quilting supplies.
    On the shelves were books about quilting and a large collection of audio books. I quickly scanned the titles and discovered Claire preferred mysteries, memoirs, and biographies. Like Claire, I also listened to stories while quilting. Were there other things we might’ve had in common? If she’d lived, would we have become friends?
    I didn’t like the idea of prying into the life of someone who was defenseless to stop me. With a mental apology to Claire for the intrusion, I started opening the cabinets. Piles and piles of neatly folded fabrics sorted by color sat on shelves. Clear plastic storage boxes held smaller pieces of fabric and were labeled according to color or theme. In this we couldn’t have been more opposite. I didn’t own a label maker, and fabric was strewn over every surface of my sewing room, resembling the Gulf Coast during hurricane season.
    I mentally drooled when I saw the plastic Rubbermaid container labeled Vintage Fabric. Collecting old fabric was a particular passion of mine. Vintage fabrics weren’t easy to find. They usually became available when somebody died and their heirs cleaned out the attic or sewing room. Then the fabric might occasionally find its way to a quilt store or antique shop, but you really had to look hard. I was dying to see what was hidden in Claire’s stash.
    Carefully lifting the layers of fabric, I discovered a piece of sky blue cotton printed with little cowboys dressed in tan and red. Suddenly I was back in the fifties in elementary school when my cousin Barry once spent Passover night with us. I was sure his pajamas had been made out of this same material.
    I carefully put the cowboys back, closed the container, and continued my search. I came to a locked cupboard and guessed this was where Claire stored her quilts. Something tickled my ankle. Oh God, I thought in a panic, a spider!
    The cat meowed. “That makes twice in one day you’ve scared me.” I bent down and scratched him under the chin. “Are the quilts in this cupboard? Did your mommy tell you where the key was?” The cat blinked twice and started to purr. I swore he smiled.
    I opened every drawer in the room and didn’t find a key to the cupboard, so I moved on to the master suite. Luxurious pink silk drapes hung like ball gowns in front of the tall windows. A matching silk duvet and lots of puffy pillows covered in silks, brocade, and lace adorned the queen-sized bed. Decorative bone china plates hung in a grouping on one wall and a real Mary Cassatt painting of a mother and child hung on another wall. This room was a luxurious feminine retreat.
    The key to the cabinet wasn’t in the bedroom, so I moved to the room-sized closet. Claire’s clothes hung precisely like soldiers in a military parade: blouses all together, size six slacks neatly pressed, a row of designer dresses in pink garment bags, and dozens of shoes in plastic containers that weren’t only labeled but identified with snapshots of the actual shoes glued onto the outside of the boxes.
    Really? What would compel someone to be