Luckily, it was tethered to the quilt by the thread. No one would be skewered by my needle, at least not yet. “You’re having a bit of trouble, Angie,” Sarah said. “Maybe you’d do better with a bigger needle. Those small ones can be difficult to manage for beginners. You should have seen the needle my mother gave me to start with. It was the size of a fork.” “I doubt it was that big,” Anna snorted. “Like anything, this takes time and practice. Quilting teaches patience.” After my first few clumsy stitches, the motorized memory of my last visit to Aunt Eleanor when she taught me hand stitching came back to me. I heard the murmur of the ladies around me, but I was preoccupied with my work and the memories of my aunt’s hands moving swiftly across the fabric of a quilt. My own pace was considerably slower. “Were you scared, Angie?” Sarah asked. I blinked at her. “Scared?” She scooted forward in her seat. “When you found Joseph? Were you afraid? I’m sure I would be.
