Lucky

By Chris Fitzgerald

The seamstress jerked upright, startled by the knock on the door. She peered through the window and, seeing nothing, pulled open the door cautiously. Two sturdy men stood there, a familiar-looking old battered trunk dangling between them.

“She’s gone,” the grizzled, older man said. “Your grandmother.”

“She asked us to bring you this...uh...after,” added the younger one. His brown eyes were soft with sympathy. He studied her face intently, then dropped his gaze to his feet. Stunned, she gestured them into the cottage. They set the trunk down with a thump, retreating quickly toward the door.

“Thank you,” she finally managed. “You came a long way.”

“No matter,” shrugged the older man, turning to leave.

As she cautiously lifted the trunk lid, the pungent odor of dirt and age and mildew assaulted the seamstress, melded with the familiar perfume of her grandmother’s favorite soap. She drew out her grandmother’s tattered and fragile old recipe book, a framed portrait of her parents that she had never seen before and, at the very bottom, a quilt. The odor was strong as she lifted the old quilt, and it made her eyes water, or that’s what she told herself. She spread it carefully over a chair to get a better look. It was threadbare in places, like new in others, lumpy, and incredibly dirty. The fabric was varied and colorful, the pattern was an old standard. It was charming.

The seamstress set to work picking out the seams cautiously. It would have to be washed, relined and reassembled....if that were even possible. When the last seam came free, a small object tumbled out of the batting. There in her lap lay a small four-leafed clover as brilliant green and as vibrant looking as the day it was picked. She studied it closely. It was real, but its condition made no sense. The quilt was quite old, but the clover looked as if it were picked yesterday. “Ah well,” she thought and set it gently aside on a shelf.

The seamstress stitched and dreamed her many memories of her mysterious grandmother. There were the unfamiliar symbols carved in the lintel over the door to her grandmother’s cottage. She had never dared ask about them. Had grandmother put them there? She recalled that from time to time, grandmother would disappear overnight. On returning, she crackled with an odd energy; it was like a force or a current swirling around her. They never spoke of these things and the seamstress knew not to ask. Her grandmother had obviously had secrets. Was the little clover part of all of this?

The seamstress labored through her daily tasks, leaving some small time each day to work on the quilt. She made a decent living at her trade, but being alone meant she had few hours to spare for her own projects. Her grandmother never gave up hope that she would wed, but bitter disappointments and hard times had made that unlikely. The fiercely independent young seamstress defended her choices. It had been a bone of contention between them, this single life. She smiled at the memory of her grandmother’s words. “Your life will not be charmed forever, my girl.”

Oddly, each morning when she got up, she found the small clover stubbornly perched back on top of the quilt like a loyal friend. She wondered how it ended up inside the quilt and what its purpose might be. Clearly, they were a pair. Her mind formed a picture of this very quilt spread out on her grandmother’s bed. Her heart ached for her loss. She sighed and put the little clover back on the shelf. It never stayed put there for long.

The seasons changed and slowly the seamstress was putting the quilt back together. When it came time for the last seam she impulsively slipped the four-leafed clover back inside one corner. It felt somehow complete. Nights that winter were spent with the quilt on her lap making tiny quilting stitches through a hoop. She hoped her grandmother would approve. The finished quilt was carefully refolded and put back in the trunk. Still heavy-hearted from her loss, the seamstress couldn’t bring herself to spread it on the bed.

Spring arrived, and the seamstress was so busy with new work that she forgot entirely about the trunk and its contents. One evening at sunset, there was a gentle knock at her door. She opened it slowly and beheld a sturdy, but handsome man whose brown eyes looked vaguely familiar.

“I was...ummm...I brought the trunk, “ he stammered. His face flushed bright red and he looked at his feet.

“Oh yes, “ she replied. “I remember.”

“Would you...could you walk out with me this evening?” he asked tentatively.

She hesitated, he was unfamiliar and the timing of his arrival seemed so odd. Some force was drawing her out the door to walk with this man. She gave a deep sigh, nodded and stepped towards the threshold. Taking just a brief glance behind her at the trunk, she pulled the door closed behind her.

🩷🩷🩷

Almost a year later, happy sounds and tantalizing smells came from the yard beyond the door. Preparations had been going on all night and most of the day. The tables were laid out in the yard, the food prepared, the friends assembled. The seamstress smoothed down her hair, studying her reflection in the mirror. A happy face gazed back at her.

“Ready?” he asked, with a smile like a shining sun. He reached gently for her hand, pulled open the door, and a cheer went up in the yard.

“Yes,” she replied with certainty.

She glanced back at the marriage bed where the quilt lay spread out and waiting for them. A shaft of light from the door blazed across the room and lit up one corner of the quilt which seemed to glow in the rosy light.

She smiled and stepped through the door.

🩷🩷🩷

Chris Fitzgerald is a retired public school teacher who lives in Houston, Texas. Her teaching career often finds its way into her stories. She enjoys reading Flash Fiction and short stories with a twist. When she isn’t writing, she likes to garden and walk where the quiet allows her to come up with new ideas. Her work has appeared in Litbreak Magazine.