"No, I'll be there,” Harriet said, and tried to make her voice sound like she meant it. “What time should I be there?"
"I told her we'd be there at nine."
"Do I need to bring anything?"
"If you can find any of those cotton project bags your aunt has, you can bring them. When someone passes, we usually finish up any UFO's.” Harriet knew that this meant unfinished objects in quilter's parlance. “Usually, we know who they were for. If not, we just give them back to the family if they want them, or donate them if they don't."
"Are there really people who don't want their loved one's handwork?” Harriet asked.
"We've only lost two or three people who were still active in the group when they went, and in at least one case, the woman was ninety-three, and she had given her family so many quilts over the years they really had all the keepsakes they needed."
"Is there any word on the memorial service yet?"
"Yes. There will be a viewing on Monday night and then a service at the Unitarian Church Tuesday morning and then the interment following that. Are you going to attend?"
"She was one of my aunt's oldest friends. Since Aunt Beth can't be there, I feel like I should go to represent her."
"Honey, I think people would understand if it was too hard for you."
"No, Aunt Beth is right. I have to start living again, and attending a friend's funeral is an unfortunate part of life."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?"
The two women agreed on a plan and ended the call.
Harriet knew her aunt was trying to help her move forward with her life, but even Aunt Beth couldn't have envisioned how her plan was going to play out.
She was contemplating dinner when the phone rang again. She answered, and heard an unfamiliar man's voice.
"Harriet,” he said, “it's Harold."
"Harold, how nice to hear from you again,” she responded, and wondered if it was true.
"I couldn't help but notice how much you enjoyed the Chamber dinner the other night."
Was the man insane?
"Well, not the event,” he went on. “But you did seem to enjoy the food."
That much was true.
"I heard about a new restaurant that opened last week down on Smuggler's Cove. The owner used to be the head chef at the Hilton in Portland. I thought I'd give it a try tonight and, as you appear to be a connoisseur of fine food, wondered if you'd care to join me."
It wasn't the most romantic invitation she had ever received, but since she wasn't interested in romance that suited her.
"Shall I meet you there?"
"I'll be coming from the factory, so I could swing by at seven and pick you up, if that works."
"That will be fine. I'll be ready."
She hung up and went back into the kitchen.
"Come on, Fred,” she said, and the cat got up and followed her upstairs. “We have to put together an outfit for our dinner date."
The choices hadn't gotten any better in the last two days. She still had the basic black dress and Aunt Beth's scarves. Aunt Beth had a decidedly different shape than she did, making most of her wardrobe improbable; but Harriet was desperate enough to give it a try.
The floral jersey dresses Aunt Beth favored were a definite no even if they did fit. She passed them by and moved on to the skirts and blouses. She tried a skirt, but it was about three inches short and was too wide in any case.
The blouses showed more promise. She pulled out an off-white silk with a tie collar. She tried it on, twisting the two scarf-like ends of the collar into a bow. She looked at her image in the mirror. The blouse could be worn tunic-style over her sleeveless black shift. She found a soft leather belt on a closet door hook. She wrapped it around her waist and tied it instead of buckling. She twirled in front of the mirror. Her outfit made her look like an executive secretary. Or at least what she imagined an executive secretary would look like. It would be the perfect counterpoint to Harold's business togs.
She took a shower, towel-dried her hair and quickly blew it dry. She dressed and was waiting in her front room when Harold arrived.
"You look lovely,” he said when she opened the front door. She handed him the tan trench coat she'd found in the entryway closet. He held it while she slipped it on, overlapping the front and securing the extra width with the belt. If she was going to go out at night, she would have to go shopping, and not at Wal-Mart, either.
She quickly chased that thought from her mind. She wasn't going to be here long enough to need a dating wardrobe.
Harold was the perfect gentleman. He opened and closed doors, made polite small talk about the weather in Foggy Point and drove a consistent five miles under the speed limit. What he didn't talk about was Avanell, the Vitamin Factory or any other topic that might elicit an emotional reaction.
Harriet felt both relief and guilt that he didn't want to discuss Avanell. She'd spent every waking hour since she'd found her obsessing about what she could have done differently that might have changed the outcome. So far, she hadn't come up with anything but a headache.
When they arrived at the restaurant, he had reserved a table by the window. The owner of the restaurant, James, greeted them at the door, surrounded by the faint aroma of baked garlic.
"How nice to see you, Harold,” he said. “And who is this vision of loveliness?"
Harold introduced Harriet. He had neglected to mention that he and James had been fraternity brothers. James seemed pleased to see Harold with a date in a way that made her uncomfortable.
James seated them and immediately brought a plate of crostini with a pork liver pate.
"So, tell me about the quilting business,” Harold said when James had retreated into the kitchen. “The chamber dinner wasn't really conducive to conversation. You said you work at a studio in your home, but what does that entail?"
Harriet proceeded to tell him all about the long-arm quilting business-or at least as much as she knew about it with her month of experience. He asked intelligent questions and leaned attentively forward as he listened. She explained how her first week on her own in the business was made more difficult by the Tacoma quilt show.
Not wanting to appear self-centered, she asked what he did for fun.
"Calculations,” he replied.
"Uh, what sort of calculations?” She tried to think what she could possibly ask as a follow-up.
"Differential equations, usually, although I do branch out into combinatorial analysis sometimes for fun,” he replied.
I'm a dead woman, Harriet thought.
"That sounds interesting,” she said.
She was saved by James bringing a steaming poached salmon dish to their table. He followed this with roast squab; and then, after a palate-cleansing course of grapefruit sorbet, petit filet mignon with a blue cheese peppercorn sauce. The beef was served with garlic mashed potatoes and sauteed string beans. A salad of fresh wild greens was served after the beef.
Harriet had to assume either Harold or James was a tea-totaler. Italian sparkling water was served at the start of the meal, followed by an excellent French sparkling cider. The usual coffee and tea selections were offered, and they both chose tea.
The flow of food had made conversation not only impossible but also unnecessary. When James offered to bring a dessert tray for their perusal, Harriet spoke up.
"This dinner is the best I've had in years or maybe even in my lifetime, but if I eat another bite, I'll burst. I'd love to come by another time and maybe just have dessert and coffee."
James brightened, and she realized he was thinking she was suggesting another date with Harold.