Invitation to Italian. Tracy Kelleher

grandmother has been complaining that her lower back hurts, and I thought it would provide some support when she’s sitting down.”

      Iris ran a boney index finger over the loopy stitches with beads attached that formed the anther tips of the flowers’ stamen stalks. “Yes, very clever. Indeed, you’re just the person to help me.” Iris marched back to her carryall that she’d left on the high worktable in the center of the shop.

      “I am?” Julie asked, looking warily at Caroline before turning to Iris.

      “Yes, indeed.” Iris pulled a giant canvas from her bag. “I’m making a Christmas stocking for my granddaughter Natalie—the start of a family tradition—and I am having trouble with Santa’s beard. According to the instructions, it’s supposed to be something called Turkey Work, but I am completely baffled. Clearly, the instructions were not written by an educated person.”

      There was much to be learned from a person like Iris, Julie realized. Here was someone who felt no compunction about blaming others for her own failings. She, on the other hand, assumed she was responsible for any and all failures.

      And she would have liked to tell her so, but she decided instead to be nice—as hard as that was. She had already messed things up yesterday, and Iris was too powerful a figure in Grantham to risk further alienation. “I don’t know if I can help very much, but let me try,” she said with the correct amount of humility. “Turkey Work is one of those stitches that I seem to have to reteach myself every time I do it, using the big black stitch guide that Caroline carries here in the shop.”

      Iris raised an eyebrow at Caroline, who immediately grabbed a copy from the store bookshelf.

      The doorbell jingled again and a group of women came in. They carried bulging bags and were laughing. Then two more women came in. Julie smiled as they all walked by and headed downstairs to the lower level where the classes met.

      “That’s my afghan knitting group,” Caroline announced. “If you and Mrs. Phox are all right up here, I’ll leave you?”

      “No problem.” Julie flipped open the book and found the right page. She placed it on the center island and looked at Iris.

      “Just a moment, please.” Iris reached into her leather purse and extracted a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses. The necessity of pleasing a granddaughter apparently won out over vanity. Then she passed over the canvas printed with a Victorian illustration of Father Christmas.

      “What I tell myself when I do Turkey Work is two forward front, one back behind.” Julie demonstrated as she spoke. “Then you just need to remember to alternate the loop with the flat stitch on the front.” She glanced at Iris. “Why don’t you try?”

      Iris peered closely and held up her hands. “Yes, I think I understand.” She asked Julie to repeat the mnemonic once more and pursed her mouth in concentration.

      After a few more minutes of practice while Julie offered encouragement, Iris stopped, resting her work on the table. She took off her reading glasses and placed them on the needlepoint. “You’re very good at this type of thing. A good teacher. No wonder your patients speak very highly of your communication skills in addition to your expertise.”

      “Thank you, that’s very generous,” Julie said. Was it possible that Iris was a nice woman after all?

      “Yes, it is.”

      Well, maybe not completely.

      “And it’s the same generosity that spurred me to convince Dr. Fonterra that you might be allowed to make amends for your…shall we say…physical outburst yesterday?”

      “I don’t know what to say.” Julie really didn’t.

      “A written note of apology addressed to my home address on fine stationery is always appropriate, much preferable to email. Dr. Fonterra strikes me as someone who only reads email though. Still…” Iris let the single syllable hang in the air.

      “Still?” Julie asked.

      Iris smiled serenely.

      Julie spotted trouble immediately.

      “Still, even the most finely penned apologies don’t totally address the problem.”

      “The problem? Oh, you mean my breaking the vase. I’m happy to reimburse the board, if that would help.”

      “Yes, there is that. Might I suggest, shall we say, a nice contribution to the new hospital fund?” Iris named a figure that easily equaled the monthly mortgage payment on Julie’s condo.

      Julie worked hard to keep her jaw from scraping the floor.

      Iris slipped the needle through the webbing in her canvas and folded the piece deliberately. “But I think we’re talking about more than money.”

      “We are?”

      “Dr. Fonterra pointed out to me—and very wisely, indeed—sometimes one’s strength is also one’s weakness.”

      “And did he mention what mine was?”

      “Your passion,” Iris answered.

      Julie felt a wholly uncalled-for flutter in her stomach. “He used that exact word?”

      “Actually, that was my word. His was perhaps better left unsaid.”

      The flutter turned to a knot.

      “Nonetheless, it was clear that the best way to establish a better working relationship and to demonstrate remorse for the destruction of a valuable gift, accidental as it might have been, would be to demonstrate your appreciation of his way of thinking.”

      Why did Julie get the feeling she was being painted into a corner by a master, a master whose clout at the hospital was second to none, who just happened to be the mother-in-law of a close friend and who could easily drop a negative word here and there about her father’s garage, thus causing his business to dry up faster than a day-old prune?

      “And what exactly did you have in mind?” Julie asked, trying to tamp down her anger.

      Iris paused dramatically, placing her hand to her throat. “Let me see. The issue becomes what type of activity would harness that passion of yours in a social context yet still foster your wonderful interactive skills.”

      Julie didn’t buy Iris’s putting on her thinking cap one whit. Then she saw the older woman dig into her sewing bag and pull out a pamphlet.

      “As I said, we need to focus that keen mind of yours onto something other than medicine, thereby allowing you to take pleasure in the world around you and mitigate outbursts due to a singular focus on work, which transforms it into a strain rather than a calling.” She said all of that in one magisterial breath before slapping the pamphlet on the white work surface.

      Julie furrowed her brow. “Grantham Adult Education School? I’m not sure how that is going to mitigate or curtail or…to do whatever it is I’m supposed to be addressing.”

      Iris sat up extra straight. “Never doubt the power of learning.” She flipped open the cover and read out loud from the introduction. “‘Above all, we at the Adult School believe that education does not end with a diploma. Hence, our motto—Education: the Wellspring of Life.’”

      “That’s very commendable,” Julie agreed. And totally predictable, she realized in one of those ah-ha moments. Twice before, Iris had manipulated her friends Katarina and Sarah into participating in her pet project.

      Iris gazed over the words. “Commendable, indeed. I know. I wrote them.” She flicked the pages to where a sheet of paper was inserted. “Do you speak Italian with your parents?” She turned her head.

      “Why, yes.”

      “I recommend the advanced Italian conversation class then.”

      Julie leaned forward and read the description. “And you really think this is the best way to say