The Quilting Bee Quickie

Gee's Bend quilts hang in the Smithsonian now.

Our little Alabama community, population three hundred, making art that museums fight over. My grandmother taught my mother, who taught me, and every Thursday the circle gathers at my house.

I'm Earline. Sixty-one. Been quilting since I could hold a needle.

Been alone since Harold passed four years ago.

The documentary crew arrives in September.

Two cameras, a sound guy, and him—Jordan Wells, art historian from Atlanta, here to "capture the legacy."

"Mrs. Washington." He extends his hand. "It's an honor."

He's maybe forty-five, with gray temples and eyes that see things. Not in a hungry way—in a curious way. Like he wants to understand.

"The quilts are in the community center," I say. "I'll show you."

He spends a week filming.

Interviews the elders, captures our process, handles each quilt like it's gold. The other ladies notice how much time he spends at my station.

"That man likes you," Sister Mae whispers.

"That man likes fabric."

"Mm-hmm. That's why he watches you and not the fabric."

Friday evening, the crew packs up.

Jordan finds me in the community center, working on a piece by lantern light.

"You're still here."

"Best light is twilight." I don't look up. "When can we expect the documentary?"

"Six months, maybe." He sits across from me. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask."

"Why do you quilt alone in the evenings?"

I set down my needle.

"Because quilting during the day is community. Quilting at night is..." I search for the word. "Prayer. Processing. Harold and I used to sit here together while I worked."

"You must miss him."

"Every day." I finally meet his eyes. "But grief isn't permission to stop living. He'd hate that."

"He sounds like a wise man."

"He was." I smile despite the ache. "He'd probably like you."

"Mrs. Washington—"

"Earline." No point in formality when we're alone in the dark.

"Earline." He leans forward. "I wasn't planning to say this, but I'm leaving tomorrow and I might never get another chance."

"Say what?"

"You're the most remarkable woman I've ever met. And I would very much like to kiss you."

I should say no.

I'm sixty-one years old. A widow. A grandmother. Men from Atlanta don't fall for quilters from Gee's Bend.

"I haven't kissed anyone since Harold."

"Then we can take it slow."

"I don't want slow."

He crosses the space between us.

Takes my face in his hands—careful, gentle, like I'm one of the quilts he's been filming—and kisses me.

It's not like kissing Harold. It's not supposed to be.

It's like starting a new pattern with unfamiliar fabric.

"Is there somewhere—"

"The back room." I take his hand. "It has a couch."

"Earline—"

"I'm sixty-one, not dead." I pull him along. "Now hush and let me lead."

The back room is small, cluttered with fabric bolts.

He doesn't notice. Too busy kissing my neck, my collarbone, his hands finding the buttons of my housedress.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"I haven't been sure of anything in four years." I finish the buttons myself. "But I'm sure of this."

He undresses me in the low light.

Takes his time, appreciating every reveal like he's examining art.

"God, you're beautiful."

"I'm old and heavy and—"

"You're beautiful." He kisses my belly, the stretch marks from children grown and gone. "Every line tells a story."

"You sound like an art historian."

"I am one." He looks up at me. "And you're the best thing I've seen all week."

He lays me on the couch.

Settles between my thighs, his mouth finding my center. I grab a quilt from the pile and grip it tight.

"Jordan—"

"Let me learn you. Like you learned these patterns."

He's patient. Thorough. Reads my body like it's a tradition worth studying.

When I come, it's the first time in four years, and I sob with relief.

"There we go," he murmurs against my thigh. "That's what I wanted."

"I need—"

"I know."

He slides inside me, and I feel alive.

Not replacing Harold—adding to the pattern. New colors in an ongoing design.

"So good," he groans. "Earline—"

"Don't hold back." I wrap my legs around him. "I won't break."

We make love on quilts worth thousands.

The irony isn't lost on me—but I don't care. His body moves with mine, finding rhythms that Harold and I never tried.

"Close," I gasp.

"Me too. Together?"

"Together."

Afterward, wrapped in priceless fabric, he holds me close.

"I have to leave tomorrow."

"I know."

"But I'll be back. For the documentary premiere. For you." He tilts my chin up. "If you want."

"I want."

"Then we'll figure it out."

The documentary airs six months later.

Jordan is in my living room when we watch it together—not visiting anymore, but staying. He converted the spare room into an office, writes about art while I quilt nearby.

"The Gee's Bend quilters are national treasures," the narrator says.

"One of them especially," Jordan murmurs.

"Hush."

He doesn't hush. Pulls me onto his lap instead.

"I'm supposed to be watching this—"

"You're supposed to be living." He kisses my neck. "The quilts will wait."

The quilting circle has opinions, of course.

But they're mostly positive. "Earline needed someone," Sister Mae says. "And he looks at her right."

"He looks at her like Harold did," another agrees.

That's the highest compliment they can give.

I start a new quilt pattern that spring.

"What's this one?" Jordan asks.

"Second chapters." I hold up the fabric—dark blues meeting warm oranges. "For things that bloom later."

"I like it."

"I like you."

"I love you."

I hadn't said it yet.

Neither had he.

But sitting in my quilting room, surrounded by generations of art and a man who sees their value—

"I love you too."

He smiles, and I add another piece to the pattern.

Some quilts take years to complete.

Some stories take decades to tell.

And some second chapters are worth the wait.