He followed her into the room where a quilt in the making was spread
out on the rug. A roll of white cotton batting leaned against the
couch. Rectangles of brown and faded gold were stitched to a neutral
backing--some were small, some large, some nearly square, others long
and thin. Short irregularly curved stems cut from cloth--mostly black,
a few reddish brown--were sewn randomly over the rectangles, crossing
over and under each other, separate, yet interlocking. He saw it
suddenly. "The field! Looking down."
"Bingo!" Suzanne said. "I make a different quilt every year for the
hospital benefit auction."
"Wow, I love it. What goes on the bottom?"
"I've got a piece of dark brown material."
Oliver's eyes moved around the quilt. The patterns were unpredictable,
but they had a sense of purpose, a natural order. "You could live in
there," he said.
"That's the idea. Want some tea?" Oliver nodded while his eyes lingered
on the quilt. He went into the kitchen and watched Suzanne make tea.
She was wearing faded white jeans and a long mustard colored sweatshirt
that clung to her curves. So compact and modest. Where did that superb
quilt come from?
"It's so good to see you," she said, putting his tea in front of him.