Free The Goodbye Quilt by Susan Wiggs Page A

looks at me as if I’ve sprouted horns. “What do you mean, out? We already had dinner.”
    “I mean out. To one of these clubs.”
    “And do what?”
    I have to think for a minute. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to a club. “Get something to drink,” I explain. “I’m sure bartenders still remember how to make a Shirley Temple. We can people-watch and listen to music.”
    “What if I get carded?”
    “It’s legal for you to be in a bar in Ohio so long as you aren’t served.”
    “You checked?”
    “I always check.”
    She looks so dubious that I feel vaguely insulted. “What?”
    “It’s just weird going clubbing with your mom.”
    “We’re not going clubbing. We’re going to a club, just to get out a little bit. Nothing else seems to be open.”
    “That’s weird.”
    “Fine. Let’s stay here. You can watch Simpsons reruns and I’ll work on the quilt and reminisce about the past.”
    Fifteen minutes later, we’re headed out the door. Molly spent the entire preparation time in front of the mirror. I have to admit, she has a knack forprimping. Her eyes are now smoky around the edges, her hair glossy and her lips slick and pink. She gives me the once-over and frowns again.
    “I’ve seen that shirt before, Mom.”
    “I never realized you noticed this shirt before.” I smooth my hands down the polished cotton. Except it’s not so polished anymore. I think the polish wore off some time ago.
    “Isn’t it kind of…old?”
    “It still fits. It’s in perfectly good shape.”
    “But you’ve had it forever. Those jeans, too, and the shoes. And the purse. You carried that purse when you drove first-grade carpool.”
    “I take care of my belongings,” I explain. “It’s a virtue.”
    “Sure, but…Mom? You keep things too long.”
    She speaks kindly, yet I know what she’s saying. Although I’ve always been quick to get something new for Molly, I never paid much attention to my wardrobe. Other than the occasional school event, I don’t tend to need much in the way of clothes. I can sew like the wind, but I like doing costumes and crafts, not blouses and shifts. And I’ve never been much for shopping. I laugh at Molly as I grab a light jacket and my purse. “Trust me, the worldis not interested in my lack of style sense. Especially not when I’m with a girl who’s flaunting her midriff.”
    “I’m not flaunting.” She checks out her cropped shirt in the mirror.
    A year ago, she had begged us to let her get a tattoo and, of course, we refused. Once she turned eighteen, she didn’t need our permission but, to my immense relief, she didn’t run out to the tattoo parlor. Maybe she forgot it was the one thing that was going to make her life complete. I’m not about to remind her.
    We walk out together into the twilight, and the breeze holds just the faintest hint of the coming fall. There’s none of the coolness of autumn in it, but a nearly ineffable dry scent. The smell of something just past ripeness.
    The main street is lined with mid-twentieth-century buildings of blond brick or cut stone. The shops and banks are closed, window shades pulled like half-lidded eyes, but in the center of the block, the sound of music and laughter streams from three different clubs.
    One of them, called Grins, has a sandwich board out front boasting No Cover. Across the street isTierra del Fuego, featuring unspecified live music, and two doors down is a place called Home Base. Twinkling lights surround a picture of Beulah Davis, and we choose that club because she has the same last name as us and because I like her picture. She’s smiling, though there’s a wistful look in her eyes. Her hands, draped over an acoustic guitar, look strong, capable of bearing the weight of a large talent.
    We enter between sets. Canned music pulsates from hidden speakers. The place is crowded with people clustered around bar-height tables. The yeasty scent of beer hangs in the air. A group of guys is playing