so she could remove the wrapping. “Oh,” she said in wonder
and excitement. “I think it’s a crazy quilt.” She unfolded it
enough so that Sierra could take one end of it and then stood,
spreading the folds to reveal the full pattern.
It wasn’t a crazy quilt, but a picture quilt with squares made
of hundreds of different scraps of cloth, each with a different
2 4
T H E
C A L L
scene, each framed with an edging of brown, and all stitched together with vibrant scarlet thread. Each picture block was surrounded by a different stitch: blanket, crosses, herringbone,
doves, fern, olive branches, feather, open cretan, fly, zigzag
chain, wheatear and sheaf filling stitches, Portuguese border,
and star eyelets.
“It’s beautiful,” Sierra said, wishing she could have it.
“If I’d known it was here, I would have had it cleaned and
hung on the living room wall years ago,” her mother said.
Sierra looked at the squares one by one. Along the top row was
a homestead with a man, a woman, and three children. Two boys
and a girl stood in the open space between the cabin and barn.
The second square was bright with consuming flames. The third
showed a baby in a manger, a young girl watching over him
while darkness surrounded them both.
The telephone rang downstairs. A second later, the portable
phone rang from nearby. Sierra’s mother handed her the other
end of the quilt and went to pick up the phone from the top of a
box and answer it.
“Yes, she’s here, Alex.”
Sierra’s heart lurched. Hands trembling again, she folded the
quilt while listening to her mother’s side of the conversation.
“Yes, she told me. Yes, but that’s to be expected, Alex.” Her
mother’s tone held no condemnation or disappointment. She was
silent for a long moment, listening again. “I know that, Alex,” she
said very gently, her voice husky with emotion, “and I’ve always
been thankful. You don’t have to explain.” Another silence. “So
soon,” her mother said, resigned. “How are your parents taking
it? Oh. Well, I imagine it’s going to be a shock to them as well.”
She smiled faintly. “Of course, Alex. You know I will. Let me
know after you’ve spoken to them, and I’ll call.”
Marianna cupped her hand over the receiver. “Alex wants to
talk to you.”
2 5
T H E
S C A R L E T
T H R E A D
Sierra wanted to say she didn’t want to talk to him but knew
that would put her mother between them. She laid the folded
quilt back over the trunk and crossed the attic to take the phone
from her mother’s hand.
“I’ll make us some coffee,” her mother said with a gentle smile.
Sierra watched her go down the stairs, knowing her mother
was allowing her privacy to speak with Alex. She felt a tangle of
emotions, from relief to despair. Her mother hadn’t said one
word to discourage Alex from his decision. Why not?
“Yes?” she said into the receiver, her voice coming out thin
and choked. She wanted to scream at him and could barely draw
breath past the pain in her chest. Her throat was tight and dry.
“I was worried about you.”
“Were you?” Why should he worry about her just because he
was ripping her life apart? Resentment filled her and hot tears
welled again in her eyes.
“You’re not saying much.”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m happy?”
He sighed. “I suppose that would be expecting too much, especially considering this is the biggest opportunity of my career.”
She heard the tinge of disappointment and anger in his voice.
What right had he to be angry with her after making a
life-changing decision without so much as hinting it to her?
“I’m sure the children will be thrilled to hear they’re being
uprooted and torn away from their friends and family.”
“We’re their family.”
“What about Mom? What about your parents?”
“We’re not moving to New York, Sierra.”
“I guess you’re saving that for next year’s big
Nancy Isenberg, Andrew Burstein
Alex McCord, Simon van Kempen