The Quilt Shop – Part 1: Fat Quarters

"It's a fat quarter," said Frankie.

"It's a very thin quarter," said Ruth.

"It's an eighteen-by-twenty-two piece of fabric. It's called a fat quarter."

"Why?"

"Because it is."

Ruth looked at the stack of folded cotton squares in front of her: stripes, florals, tiny prints of birds and boots. She was thirty-five, a graphic designer from Chicago, in a black wool coat and very good boots, standing in a small-town Iowa quilt shop with a sleeping cat, a woodstove and a view of a snow-covered Main Street. Her aunt had left her the shop in October. She had come for a weekend to sell it. That had been a month ago.

Frankie, thirty-one, the cutter, was short and sturdy, with a thick auburn braid, rosy cheeks and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up. She had worked at the shop since high school. She held a pair of enormous shears and an expression of fond patience.

"Are you going to sell it?" she asked.

"I haven't decided."

"You've been here a month."

"I'm indecisive."

"You've been cutting."

Ruth looked down. Without noticing, she had cut thirty-eight pieces and laid them in a bright pattern on the table. Squares of blue, orange and green, tilted at angles, shimmering like jewels. Frankie came round the table, looked at the design, and went very still.

"That's the pattern," she said.

"What pattern?"

"In the window. The one your aunt never finished."

Ruth followed her gaze to the half-made quilt hanging in the shop window, a lattice of bright cotton squares with a gap in the middle. Her own arrangement matched the gap.

"I didn't know," she said.

"I know. That's what's so strange."

They looked at each other across the cutting table. The woodstove ticked. Snow fell in the window. The cat stretched on the counter.

"Can I ask you something?" said Ruth.

"Yes."

"Would you teach me to piece it?"

"Green?" said Frankie, a thread, a square.

"Green," said Ruth, with a shy smile. "Very green. Show me."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Square.