Free Cathedral Windows by Clare O'Donohue Page A

much as we could. Not that Eleanor would have it any other way. My grandmother loved helping people even more than she loved quilting.
    I’d brought four-and-a-half inch squares from the shop in a variety of colors and patterns, something for everyone. Until now. While the first and second graders were thrilled with their options, this class was picky and restless. It didn’t help that their teacher, Charlie Lofton, had disappeared the moment I arrived.
    Neither kid was going to be happy if I gave the other the square, and cutting it in half would ruin the look of a nine-patch. I had no other choice.
    â€œThere are lots of other fabrics.” I took the blue square from Jacob and Emily, folded it, and put it in my purse. “Use those.”
    Two unhappy kids and another half hour until the class ended. It was time for something new.
    â€œDoes anyone know why we’re making quilts?” I asked.
    â€œBecause you’re making us,” Jacob quickly answered.
    I suppressed a smile. “Any other reason?”
    A little girl named Susie raised her hand. “To raise money for the Morristown Fire Department. To help them get new equipment.”
    Jacob jumped up. “Why are we raising money for them? Why don’t we have our own fire department?”
    â€œArchers Rest is too small,” I explained. “And luckily we rarely have any reason to need a fire department, so we share one with our next-door-neighbor Morristown. Sharing is very important.”
    At that, Jacob sat. He wasn’t interested in a conversation on sharing.
    * * *
    The rest of the class went smoothly. The kids focused on hand-sewing their squares and comparing their work with others. But as the clock ticked toward three, I became a little anxious. It was the last class of the day and I had no idea if Charlie usually gave them homework or walked them out to the bus or just let them leave on their own. It had been a long time since I’d been in third grade.
    Luckily, just as the bell rang, Charlie walked in, carrying a large battered-looking cardboard box. At thirty, Charlie was only three years my senior, but he had a baby face and spiky, needing-a-haircut, brown hair. He was quirky-handsome, nearly six foot six, and so thin he almost disappeared in a side view.
    As he put the box on the desk, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter fell out of his pocket. The lighter was old-fashioned looking, silver and large. It had an emblem of the U.S. Army on it, a souvenir of Charlie’s time in the service, I assumed. “How much did I miss?” he asked.
    â€œAll of it. But it went okay, I guess.” I pointed to the finished nine-patches that each student was piling on Charlie’s desk as he or she left.
    As Emily passed his desk, she held up her square to show Charlie, who seemed awed by her skills. Jacob, behind her, said, “Mine would have been better if I’d gotten to use the colors I wanted.” He threw his completed square on the pile.
    â€œI think you did a great job,” Charlie told him. “You certainly sew better than I can. Whenever a button fell off my uniform, I’d sew it back on and the next day it would fall off again. But it looks like your square is really sturdy.”
    â€œYou wore a uniform?” Jacob asked, forgetting completely about his quilt project.
    â€œCharlie’s a hero,” I said.
    â€œNot a hero, a soldier,” Charlie told Jacob.
    â€œSame thing.” I smiled, but Charlie blushed.
    â€œWow!” Jacob went running after Emily to tell her what he’d learned about their teacher.
    Once we were alone my eyes went to the box. “What have you got there?”
    It was an old box, beaten around the corners, with the flaps folded and refolded. But Charlie treated it gingerly. “It was in the attic at my mom’s house,” he explained. “I’ve been going through her stuff and there’s a lot of it. She kept