The first book in the Someday Quilts Mystery series, 2008

Writing may be a solitary process, but this book would not have been written without the aid of quite a few people-a few are listed here. First of all, I'd like to thank Allison Dickens and Branda Maholtz, my wonderful editors, Nadia Kashper, and the team at Plume. My agent, Sharon Bowers, and everyone at the Miller Agency. My sister Mary for serving as head cheerleader, first editor, and unofficial publicity director. My friend and fellow writer Kara Thomas, who nudged and nagged me to sit down and write. Alex Anderson for her friendship, advice, and quilting knowledge. Laura Chambers and the producers and guests of Simply Quilts. Cindy O'Donohue, Allison Stedman, Kelly Haran, Alessandra Ascoli, Joi De Leon, Amanda Young, Aimee Avallone, Bryna Levin, Kevin Dorff, and V for friendship, support, and for not letting me slack off. Margaret Smith, for serving as official photographer. Peggy McIntyre, for a lifetime of friendship. And my family, Dennis, Petra, Mikie, Jim, Connor, Grace, Jack, and Steven.

"I'm fine," I said between sobs.

"I know you are, dear." My mother's worried voice on the other end of the phone made it clear she knew just the opposite. "Call Grandma. You can go up and stay with her for a few days."

"I will."

"And try to get a good night's sleep."

That was out of the question. I'd scheduled crying for the next few hours, followed by fits of anger, loneliness, despair and denial. An intense desire to call Ryan would likely keep me occupied from midnight to three. Then, if all went according to plan, I'd fall into an unsatisfying sleep and wake up with a splitting headache and a bed full of tissues.

I pushed the wedding invitations off the bed and watched them fan out over the floor. The envelopes bent and the response cards landed in dust. What did it matter? They were headed to the garbage anyway.

How had this happened? This morning I was happy. I had everything-almost everything. And the one thing that was missing had arrived in the afternoon.

Six months ago when I announced my engagement, my grandmother Eleanor Cassidy, the formidable matriarch on my mother's side of the family, called me with a question.

"What colors do you want?"

I immediately knew she was speaking of my wedding quilt. My grandmother owns a small quilt shop in upstate New York. She has made me a quilt for all special occasions, from my first day at school to my college graduation to my first apartment. Some are large enough for a bed, but most are wall hangings-intricate, modern, and usually in her preferred bold, bright colors.

So when she asked me to choose the colors, I knew exactly how she'd react.

"Neutrals," I replied. I had already decorated the bedroom in my mind and decided it would be a soothing, restful place full of neutral colors.

"Neutrals?" I could hear the annoyance in her voice.

I laughed. "Yeah, you know tans, beiges, whites, creams. Can you do it? If not…"

"I can do anything." And with that she hung up. My grandmother is not a woman to waste time.

When she called me and told me she was sending the quilt, I was so excited that I took a vacation day just to stay home and wait for it. Not an easy conversation to have with the boss, but I didn't care. The quilt was not only going to be beautiful, I was sure, but it was tangible proof that the wedding was approaching.

At about one o'clock, my doorbell rang.

"Good afternoon, Nell Fitzgerald. That's a huge box you're getting, " the deliveryman said.

"It's from my grandmother," I told him as if he had been dying to know. "It's my wedding quilt."

Before the deliveryman had even left, I ripped open the box. At first all I saw was one large piece of fabric with an embroidered label: "Machine sewn with love by Grandma. Hand quilted by the Friday Night Quilt Club."

I pulled it out and flipped it over to the front. It was the most beautiful quilt I had ever seen: a lover's knot pattern, little strips of fabric sewn together to form interlocking diamonds. The background strips were in fabrics of soft whites and ivory, the others in subtle shades of tan and beige. It was as if the quilt were already a hundred years old-its quiet, seemingly faded colors whispering a tale of a long and happy love.

I cleared my fading comforter off the bed and spread the quilt over it. I carefully straightened and smoothed it, running my fingers over the patches and the tiny handmade stitches. My grandmother often would say that when several people work on a quilt, you could see the differences in their stitches. If you looked hard enough, she told me, you could count how many people contributed to a quilt. But as I stared, I could only see perfect stitches, one just like the next. It seemed impossible to me that five different women, the members of my grandmother's Friday Night Quilt Club, each could have worked on it.

My bed, a futon really, was only a double, so the quilt draped onto the floor, but it was beautiful enough to make even my crappy furniture look dressed up. I lay on it and closed my eyes, feeling the soft fabric with my fingers. I knew that the only thing that would make this more perfect would be the moment when my fiance, Ryan, and I made love under this quilt for the first time.

But that was eight hours ago. Before Ryan stopped by, before he looked guilty and scared and unsure. Before he told me what he had been waiting to say for, apparently, weeks. Before the life I'd planned turned to dust.

The train left at 12:05 p.m. Even though I had gone to Grand Central, bought a ticket and boarded the train, I still had no idea what I was doing running away to Archers Rest, and to my grandmother. What was it going to solve?

I could have stayed home, pulled the covers over my head and pretended it was a nightmare. My face was red, with the remnants of yesterday's makeup still visible. My eyes were so puffy they could barely open. My long hair, which yesterday had been neatly pulled back, was now ratty. I hadn't showered, washed my face or brushed my teeth. I looked like the sort of woman that any man with the slightest amount of common sense would leave. And yet, even looking the way I did, I knew I had to get on the train and go to the prickly comfort of my straight-talking grandmother.

As the train moved north, I tried to hide by slouching down in my seat and staring out the window, but it didn't matter. I didn't see the streets of Harlem passing by outside my window. Instead there was a horrible movie playing in my head, over and over, and I couldn't make it stop.

Ryan and I met two years ago, on my first day at Garvey Publishing. We waited for the elevator together in the lobby of the building.I noticed him immediately. He was tall with neatly cut brown hair and deep brown eyes. He seemed sure of himself, without being cocky. When the elevator arrived, he waved me on first and we smiled politely to each other. He had a lovely smile, wide and sincere and welcoming. I was attracted to him the minute I saw him, but I played it cool. I stared at the elevator buttons and tried to think of something to say. But he talked first.