Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [12]
The San Celina Cotton Patch Quilters were working on a huge quilt in the dominant colors of purple, burgundy, white, gold, and green. Each square was an appliquéd scene of vines, grapes, and leaves representing a different variety of grape grown in San Celina County. The exotic, romantic-sounding names of the grapes were embroidered at the bottom of each square—zinfandel, cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay, pinot noir, grenache, viognier, merlot, syrah.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Who’s it for?”
“It’s a raffle quilt,” a silver-haired woman in a Hopi storyteller quilt vest said, looking up from her work. “The Harvest Wine Festival in Mission Plaza is this weekend, and the money goes toward the free clinics in Paso Robles and San Celina. The winner will be announced on Saturday at the Zin and Zydeco event.”
“Gabe and I have tickets,” I said. “He loves zydeco music. Not to mention wine.”
“You’d better buy some raffle tickets, then,” the woman said. “A dollar a piece or five for five dollars.”
“Gee, what a deal,” I said, pulling a five out of my faded Wranglers.
She took my money and handed me five numbered tickets. “We thought about making it five for six dollars to see if anyone fell for it, but Edna there is making us toe the line. Still thinks she’s a guard at the county jail.”
Edna, a titian-haired lady in her late sixties, raised matching red eyebrows. “You gotta watch these ladies. They’ll do anything to get good health care for needy kids.”
“What a lawless bunch,” I said, laughing.
At Liddie’s Cafe downtown I wiggled through a group of tourists perusing the specials written on the blackboard in the cramped 1950s’ lobby. Liddie’s ‟25-Hour” Cafe had been the locals’ favorite eating place since before my family even came to San Celina in the early sixties. Fancy restaurants and trendy cafes have come and gone, and still Liddie’s survived. With its taped red vinyl booths, Formica tables, faded pictures of 4-H lambs on the wall, and country classics on the jukebox, it was more than a tradition; it was almost a shrine to the way things were. Buck, the eighty-year-old owner, didn’t believe anyone worthwhile recorded songs after Tammy Wynette and George Jones in their prime, though he consented, when a few of us younger regulars complained, to allow Dwight Yoakam, Emmylou Harris, and Dale Watson a place on the roll.
And then there was Nadine.
Standing behind the counter, she eyed me over her pointy pink eyeglasses. Her matching pink uniform was crisp and clean and had one of those handkerchief name tags that no one ever sees waitresses wear anymore except on television. Or at Liddie’s.
“They’re in your usual booth,” she said, nodding toward the back. “You ask Emory how long he’s gonna put up with that girl a-teasin’ him, like a kitten with a broken-legged grasshopper.”
“No, thanks,” I said cheerfully. “I’ll leave that fine and nosy question to you.” Everyone, especially Nadine, was dying to find out when Emory and Elvia would tie the knot. Little did she know that another wedding was on the horizon before theirs. I relished having information before her.
“I’ll fine and nosy you,” she called after me. “What will you be wanting today, Miss Priss? They’ve already ordered.”
“The chili any good today?”
“It won’t give you ptomaine poisoning, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Extra cheese and onions, Miss Nadine. I surely thank you.” I turned and blew her a kiss.
She grumbled under her breath, then snapped at the tourists. “For cryin’ out