“Okay, let’s see what you wrote. Anyone want to start?” Miss Lavender Pants’s attorney brother raised his hand first. His piece had something to do with a client who claimed to have found a dead roach in a bottle of the bright soda.
“My client took the settlement they offered before we went to court. I know I would have won if she had just agreed to let me go to trial. Like everything else, I just didn’t get my fair chance.”
There was a smattering of applause as he sat down. Now I got what Dinah had said. Edward had certainly tipped his hand that he felt like a victim.
Izabelle volunteered next. Edward had just read his piece-she presented hers.
“Orange soda,” she said, making eye contact with members of the group. “Personally, I don’t like it. I think it looks like paint and tastes like carbonated candy.” Izabelle must have had very good recall of what she wrote as she glanced only occasionally at her paper as she spoke. No wonder she volunteered. She had said something about wanting as much opportunity as possible to be in front of a group before she went out on the road with her mystery craft presentations.
“I was going to say I never drink it, but then I remembered there was one time. My sister and I went to Tina Geyser’s birthday party. It was in her backyard, and so hot I could feel the sweat drip down my sides. Some of the kids turned on the sprinklers and started running through the spray. Mrs. Geyser came out and yelled at them. I always thought she looked like the evil queen in Snow White. She said unless we all sat down at the picnic table, we would have to go home without having cake.”
Izabelle made sure she still had everyone’s attention. Nobody could accuse her of having writer’s block.
“Tina’s mother brought out plastic glasses of soda on a hammered aluminum tray. There were two glasses of orange soda, and the rest were lemon-lime. My sister got all upset when Mrs. Geyser started at the other end of the table and Billy Palmer took one of the glasses of orange soda.
“ ‘I have dibs on the other,’ she called out, but Mrs. Geyser said there would be no dibs, and she would have to wait her turn like everybody else. Each time somebody reached for a glass, my sister moaned because she thought they were going to take the orange. But nobody did. Mrs. Geyser got to me, and my sister started to relax. I pretended to reach for a glass of lemon-lime, but at the last second, I took the orange instead. I drank the whole glass while my sister cried. I guess she didn’t get it was a joke.”
And neither did the rest of us. There was a moment of dead air, and then a hesitant trickle of applause as Dinah stepped in and commented on Izabelle’s good use of storytelling. That was how Dinah won over all those unruly freshmen. She knew how to find the positive.
Dinah glanced at her watch and said there was time for one more person to read. Adele was out of her chair before Dinah finished the sentence. Adele’s piece detailed how she had played orange soda in a modern dance recital and described being dressed in yards and yards of orange gauze.
While Dinah gave them the next writing assignment, I left to get some soft drinks ready for the break. I hoped that after all the attention orange soda had just gotten, nobody asked for any, since all we had was cola and lemon-lime. I came back at the end of the allotted time and announced that the next workshop would begin in twenty minutes.
Bennett stopped on his way to the door. “Sorry, here’s where I draw the line about being a good sport. I’m probably doing you a favor. My attempt at crocheting would give you nightmares.” Commander excused himself as well, saying he had to make sure the fire pit was ready for the next activity. I thought Miss Lavender Pants’s brother and Mason might make some excuses, too, but they both surprised me by saying they’d be back. Izabelle pointed to a large plastic box under the table and asked if I would set up her supplies before she rushed out.
Sheila stopped at the front and offered to help me. Dinah pulled out the box and put it on the table. Adele joined us and assisted in laying out hooks and balls of yarn, along with some samples and several copies of A Subtle Touch of Crochet with notes attached saying they were for sale.
I put a pile of printed directions with the other things. Much as I would have liked to participate in the crochet workshop, I felt obligated to act as an observer. Just looking at the hooks on the table made my hands long to crochet. Later, when I was alone, I’d have some time. With everything set up, Dinah, Sheila, and I took seats in the back. Adele stayed in the front, patrolling the teacher zone. As usual she was a walking advertisement for her craft. Over her black turtleneck and black leggings, she wore a long vest made out of classic granny squares done in ruby red, creamy white, and black edging. I always said Adele and I had our differences, but I would never dispute her crochet ability. If only she hadn’t worn the hat, she would have looked fine. It was newsboy style, and even if it was masterfully crocheted, the way she had it pulled low on her forehead just looked silly.
Miss Lavender Pants, Edward, and his wife, along with the knitting couple, came back in and took their seats. When Mason arrived, I realized that was everybody-everybody but Izabelle.
“As soon as Izabelle returns, we’ll begin, people,” Adele said. She had put on her authority voice and was beginning to strut across the front. The door opened, and Izabelle came in, carrying a shopping bag. She’d added a few touches to her outfit, all crocheted. I saw her do a double take at Adele’s position. She made a face and stepped in front of her, putting some sample scarves and baby blankets on the table. “I just want you to get an idea of some of the possibilities.”
Izabelle turned back toward the group and took off her black wool jacket. As she stepped closer to the class, I saw Adele look up. Her gaze stopped on Izabelle’s neck, and her mouth opened into a troubled expression. “What’s that?” she said, pointing at Izabelle’s neck.
“This?” the crochet presenter said, touching the fuzzy white puffs. “It’s just something I made with this stitch I came up with. I’ll be demonstrating it in a later session. I call it Izabelle’s Cloud.”
“But that’s my work,” Adele said, stepping close to her. “I invented that stitch. You just figured out my stitch and then added on to the piece I started.”
Before Izabelle could respond, Adele looked frantically from me to Sheila to Dinah. “You saw it. Remember I called it the marshmallow stitch? And then my work disappeared.” Adele’s gaze stuck on me. “You said somebody in our group probably picked it up by mistake.”
Neither Sheila nor Dinah had much recollection; I, however, did remember Adele saying something about her work disappearing.
Izabelle looked at Adele with a condescending smile. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. I came up with this stitch eons ago.” She lifted her shoulder-length hair to show the choker that consisted of four white, fuzzy puffs with spaces in between. It appeared to tie at the back.
Adele was not to be dissuaded. “I know that’s my work. It disappeared the other day when you came by the Hookers meeting. I can prove it, too. I spilled a little pink pearl nail polish on the back of it.” She reached toward Izabelle. “Take it off and let me have a look.”
Izabelle was no longer smiling. She glared at Adele. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have to prove anything.” She picked up one of the hooks and shoved it toward Adele. “If this is your work, let’s see you do a sample of your marshmallow stitch.”