Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [36]
I held up my hands. “I surrender.”
She laughed uneasily. “Benni, you startled me.” She hopped down off the folding stool, her wide cheekbones flushed with tiny rosebuds.
“Sorry,” I said. “What are you doing?”
She glanced over her shoulder, then gave me a rueful smile. “You know quilters. We just can’t ever really finish anything.” She laughed. “Or maybe I should say fabric artists.”
I laughed at her emphasis. There’ d been a constant though good-natured rivalry between the traditional quilters, who preferred utilizing historic patterns and reworking them in creative ways, and the avant-garde quilters, who believed in free-form expression, tended to avoid traditional piecing, and insisted on being called fabric artists rather than quilters. This exhibit celebrated both groups, as storytelling quilts used both techniques. But even looking at the displayed quilts, you could guess each quilter’s preference. Evangeline, being a natural peacemaker, moved effortlessly between the two groups, her gentle sense of humor keeping the conflict light and playful.
“It’s marvelous,” I said, scanning her story quilt—Cajun Days and Nights. I’d just typed up her explanation about the creation of the quilt yesterday and, as I had with each quilt, studied it closely after transcribing her words from my tape recorder. She’d chosen to present her story in an easy, entertaining way that would draw the spectator into the quilt. It unfolded in rows like a comic strip—every other square was a traditional pieced pattern—Little Schoolhouse, Ocean Waves, Streak of Lightning, Crosses and Losses—contrasting with the intricate appliquéd story squares showing some aspect of Cajun life—a swing in a drooping cypress tree, an old bearded man in a small pi-rogue fishing in a swamp, a woman rocking her baby while her husband lies sleeping under a quilt, a flock of orange-legged cranes hiding among some marsh reeds, a ramshackle building with a sign advertising SMALL ACCORDIONS, BOUDIN, HOT LINKS, USED TIRES, RUBBER BOOTS—CHEEP. There were sixteen squares in all. The colors were as bright and eye-catching as a circus poster.
“I just had to add some beading to this woman’s dress,” she said. “I really need to learn to let go, I guess. I’ve got four commissioned quilts I simply have to get finished.”
“That’s what you get for being so talented,” I said.
She stepped down off the ladder. “I really want to finish them on time so people will keep commissioning me. The sooner I quit working at Eudora’s, the happier D-Daddy will be.” She worked part-time at Ash’s coffeehouse/restaurant, and her father wasn’t real pleased with it. He and Ash had tangled more than a few times since we’d started planning this festival. I’d never figured out just what the problem between them was. I’d heard rumors that when Evangeline first came to town, she and Ash had a short fling, but I didn’t put much stock in it. Rumors of Ash’s conquests had to far outweigh the true number of women he’d actually slept with. And Evangeline, gentle spirit notwithstanding, didn’t impress me as being anyone’s fool. She and D-Daddy were very close, though, and I assumed she just wanted to quit at Eudora’s to make him happy. He told me once they didn’t need her money, his Social Security and savings could support them, but I was sure Evangeline wasn’t the type of woman to live off anyone—even her father.
“So, what’s up with my lover?” she asked, her dark eyes twinkling with humor. It had become a running joke between us about her name and Gabe’s. I’d completely forgotten, until she mentioned it one day, about those ill-fated Acadian lovers of Longfellow’s narrative poem, Gabriel and Evangeline.
“He’s probably in another meeting chomping at