Free True Colors by Natalie Kinsey-Warnock Page B

buckets when they left.”
    Imagine. Tom Thumb had slept in our house!
    Mrs. Appleby told a story about her aunt Bertha having the hiccups for three days, which I couldn’t see had anything to do with anything they’d been talking about, and then they got into a discussion about babies, and how Mrs. Potter’s daughter had been in labor for seventy-two hours before having her baby, and when they got to talking about potty training, I up and decided I was going home. I mean, who wants to hear that? Especially before having refreshments!
    I’d already decided I wasn’t coming back, either. After three meetings, I still didn’t have a clue who could have made my quilt.
    I was wondering how I could sneak out (and snitch one or two of Mrs. Thompson’s chocolate chip cookies without anyone noticing) when Esther pulled some pieces of fabric from her ragbag and one fluttered to the floor. It was the blue print with daisies on it.

chapter 14

    I stared at Esther, trying to see myself in her face. Was she the one I’d been searching for my whole life? But before I could work up the courage to ask her, Esther stood up.
    “The baby was kind of colicky when I left, so I guess I’ll head home early to see how he is. See you next week,” she said, and before I could utter a sound, she left.
    I grabbed up the scrap of fabric and ran after her, my heart thumping against my rib cage like a trapped bird. I didn’t know what I would say to her and hoped I’d come up with something clever.
    When she reached the crossroads, Esther must have heard my footsteps, for she turned and gasped.
    “Gracious, Blue, you startled me,” she said.
    “Are you my mother?” I blurted out, not being clever at all.
    She looked dumbfounded, but then her face softened.
    “No, child, I’m not your mother. Whatever made you think I was?”
    I held up the blue print.
    “This fell out of your ragbag,” I said. “It’s the same as the quilt I was wrapped in when Hannah found me.”
    Esther studied the fabric in my hand.
    “Our group has been swapping quilt pieces for years,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t remember who brought that cloth. I’m sorry.”
    I felt tears stinging my eyes.
    Esther cradled my chin in her hand. She smelled of lavender.
    “I’m not your mother,” she said, tenderly, “but I wish I were. I’d love a daughter like you.”
    I turned and stumbled toward home. I was starting to realize that finding out about my mama was going to be a lot like making a quilt: one piece at a time.
    “Why’d you leave the meeting in such a hurry?” Hannah wanted to know.
    I was careful not to look her in the eyes; Hannah could spot a fib from fifty yards.
    “Esther dropped something out of her bag,” I said, and left it at that. It was the truth.
    Just not the
whole
truth.
    Over the next couple of days, my deliveries took longer than usual. At every door, I studied the face of the woman who answered it and thought, Could
she
be my mother? Ishowed each one of them the print fabric and asked if they recognized it. They all shook their heads.
    I had a dozen cookies to leave at Mrs. Wheaton’s. She loved Hannah’s molasses cookies and ordered a dozen every week. She was old enough to be my great-grandmother, so I was pretty sure she wasn’t my mother. Mrs. Wheaton hadn’t been at the quilting club meeting any of the nights I was there, either, so I was wondering whether to even show her the fabric when she noticed it sticking out of my pocket.
    “That looks like one of Peddler Jenny’s prints,” she said.
    I looked at her blankly.
    “Peddler Jenny,” Mrs. Wheaton repeated. “She came by every summer, selling needles, thread, fabrics, that sort of thing. Some of her cloth came from Boston. It was too expensive for our wallets, but the summer people who came to our group would buy it and bring it to share with us. We loved swapping our pretty feed sacks for those beautiful prints.”
    “What happened to Peddler Jenny?” I