"Yeah, we been sitting all day,” Carla added.
Patience looked over the rims of her glasses. “Apparently not in the classroom."
Carla started to say something, but Harriet nudged her and the words died on her lips.
"At least, one of you didn't show up. Ray Louise said Harriet wasn't in class today. She asked me to check and make sure nothing was wrong."
"A friend of mine from Foggy Point is here in town, and he was injured yesterday, so I went to visit him this morning. You know, to make sure he was okay."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you were playing hooky. We just…” She stopped and thought a minute, then began again. “Selestina always wanted to make sure students got their money's worth when they were enrolled here, and between our lovely setting and the rigors of our curriculum, students have a tendency to start skipping class as the week wears on. Some of the teachers get overwhelmed with students coming to them at the end wanting notes and materials from the class sessions they missed, and unfortunately, some dealt with the issue by refusing to give notes out except in class."
"So, you're the truant officer,” Harriet said with a half smile.
Patience smiled back at her. “I suppose I am."
"I got the handouts for Harriet,” Carla said, and then looked at her feet. Harriet realized she hadn't seen her do that lately.
"I guess you won't need these, then,” Patience held up a sheaf of papers that was identical to the set Carla had placed on the counter a few minutes earlier.
"Oh, Patience, I'm sorry you went to all the trouble. Thank you,” Harriet said.
"It was no trouble. You were doing so well in class yesterday, I didn't want you to miss anything.” Patience turned and went back out.
"Seems like people around here are bending over backwards to make sure the students don't leave early because of Selestina,” Mavis said. “That woman's visited us at least once a day, hasn't she? Jan said she's been coming by their place, too."
"You can't blame her,” Harriet said. “She's still got a business to run. She needs to make sure we all come back."
"I suppose so.” Mavis looked at the clock. “You better scoot."
Carla and Harriet left the Tree House and went down the path toward the meadow.
"It's not too late to change your mind,” Harriet said as they entered the woods.
"I'm good,” Carla said. She tipped her head down. “This is a lot more exciting than diapers and laundry."
Harriet looked at her, and a wave of guilt washed over her as she thought of how much time she spent feeling sorry for herself, sitting with a full stomach on her comfortable couch in her warm parlor with soft music playing on her stereo. Carla was living in a car, raising a baby and probably going to bed hungry, by the looks of it. Yet, here she was at Harriet's side, willing to risk life and limb to help Lauren, who as near as Harriet could tell had never been anything but mean and judgmental toward her.
Chapter Twenty
The path from the Tree House joined the loop trail just beyond the dining cabin. The women followed the trail past the fiber arts building and then the ceramics building. The day was warmer than the previous one, and the damp layer of rotting needles and bark that made up the forest floor gave off a fine cloud of fir-scented steam.
A duck flew across the meadow as they entered the clearing, skidding to an open-winged stop as it reached the water. Carla jumped as it flapped its wings.
"Sorry,” she said. “I guess I'm a little jumpy."
Harriet had noticed Carla had the sort of startle reflex one associated with whipped puppies and battered women.
"The studio should be somewhere over there,” she said, and pointed across the pond. She raised her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, but she still couldn't see a building. “Can you see anything?"
Carla squinted and shaded her eyes. “I think I see it.” She pointed across the pond and to the left. “See, kind of behind that big spruce tree. It's really dark, but you can see the sun reflecting off the window."
Harriet looked, and could just make out the dark shape of the studio. “Come on,” she said and led the way around the water. A flock of mallards skittered away from them and back toward the safety of the pond's center.
"Boy, if Miz Bainbridge was wanting her privacy, she picked a good spot.” Carla said.
"I wonder if this was one of the original buildings on this property. Look at how thick the moss is on the roof."
Roof moss in the Pacific Northwest wasn't the pretty lace organism that adorned the graceful old oak trees in the south. The algae and moss that grew on northern roofs appeared in thick, yellowish-green lumps that thrived in the dark and damp weather. It shortened the life of roofs covered in asphalt shingles just as easily as it did wood shakes. In urban areas, you saw a variety of remedies used, from zinc or copper strips to oxygen bleach. In the country, you were more likely to see sagging roofs straining under the load of many years’ accumulation.
Selestina's studio was in the latter category. The roof sagged, and the cedar siding was bleached white where the sun reached it and coated in green and black algae where it didn't. The wooden door had three small glass windows at its top. The center pane had a long diagonal crack.
"Now,” Harriet said when they had made their way to the front of the building. “I wonder how we're going to get inside."
While she was musing out loud, Carla walked up the rotting wooden steps, grasped the rusty tin doorknob and turned.
"It's open,” she called back over her shoulder as she went through the doorway.
"Wait,” Harriet called out, but it was too late. Carla was inside, and the door had shut behind her.
Harriet took the steps in two leaps and pulled the door open. She promptly ran into Carla, who was standing just inside, rooted to the spot.
"Wow,” said Harriet as she looked around.
They were standing in an entryway facing an open door that led to a large room with a high ceiling. Harriet stepped past Carla to the center of the workspace. A large cutting table was to the left of the door; its surface was made of green self-healing cutting mat material; the mat compound separated when the blade cut into it then closed back up when the blade was past. Selestina could use her rotary cutter-a round, razor-sharp blade in an ergonomic plastic handle that had replaced scissors as the favored cutting tool among quilters-without fear of scarring the table surface. The table looked like it was large enough to lay a double bed-sized quilt on with room to spare.
At one end of the table and a few feet back was a shoulder-high horizontal oak rack that held quilting rulers of all sizes and several shapes. A quilter's ruler is marked in eighth-inch increments both horizontally and vertically. In addition, they often have forty-five-degree and sixty-degree angles marked on their surface. There are several sizes almost every quilter has-six inch by eighteen or twenty-four inch is common. Most people also have a six- or eight-inch square. Beyond that, ruler collections were dictated by the types of quilting the individual did. People who tended toward small, intricately pieced projects usually had smaller rulers; bigger pieced projects dictated larger rulers. Selestina appeared to have one of every size and type ever made.
The long wall behind the table had two large design walls mounted on it. Carla walked around the table and stood in front of the nearest one. A series of fabric squares in varying shades of brown and green were stuck to its surface at eye level.
"These look like the background of Lauren's quilt,” she said.
Harriet came around the opposite end of the table to stand beside her.
"Maybe.” She pulled one of the squares from the tacky surface.
Traditionally, design walls are a large piece of flannel attached to an empty wall somewhere near a quilter's sewing machine. The one hundred-percent cotton fabric that is used in quilt-making sticks to flannel once the cotton has been cut into pieces, enabling a person to lay out and evaluate segments of their quilt before they stitch the parts together. Selestina had a high-tech version of flannel. Hers had been treated with a sticky material that gripped the cotton more firmly, allowing for more precise layouts.