Please Remember This by Kathleen Gilles Seidel

From the Publisher

Tess Lanier was raised by her grandparents and spent much of her life striving to be nothing like her mother (the manic-depressive writer Nina Lane). When she reluctantly returns to Victoria, Kansas for the annual Nina Lane Birthday Fete, she is forced to face the family history that she has avoided for so long. During this process, she meets Ned Ravenal. He is not the type that she typically falls for and yet...

Library Journal

Tess Lanier never knew her mother, cult fantasy author Nina Lane, since Nina committed suicide when Tess was just a baby. After spending her life trying to avoid any connection to Nina, Tess reluctantly attends an annual Nina Lane fan gathering in Kansas, and the experience proves to be the catalyst that pushes Tess to move to the small town where her mother last lived. With the help of the Ravenal family, particularly historian Ned, Tess adapts to her new life, and the more she discovers about her mother, the more she learns about herself. Seidel adds some unlikely elements, such as the excavation of a 19th-century steamboat, to beautifully crafted characters and an emotionally satisfying plot in this wise, wonderful book that belongs in most libraries. Seidel, a RITA Award-winning author, lives in Virginia. John Charles, Scottsdale P.L., AZ Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

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Chapter One

It was part rock festival, part Star Trek convention, and part plain old down-home country fair without the baby pigs and homemade jams.

Nina Lane had been a writer of speculative fantasy, creating in her three books a medievallike, magicfilled universe that had inspired cultish devotion since her death twenty-four years before. She had spent the last four years of her life living in a rented farmhouse outside Fleur-de-lis, a small river town in southeastern Kansas, and every year during the first weekend in May, more than six thousand of her fans gathered at the county fairgrounds there for the Nina Lane Annual Birthday Celebration.

If you were a Nina Lane fan, it was the place to be. Inside the livestock-judging hall, people took turns reading aloud from Nina Lane's books, and when local bands weren't playing on the outdoor stage, groups of fans acted out scenes based on her narratives. Part of being at the Celebration was knowing all there was to know about Nina Lane and, regardless of your gender, dressing like her as well. So vendors wheeled in rolling wardrobe racks full of crocheted vests and long black skirts patterned with large flowers. For a few dollars you could find someone to do your hair like Nina's, spraying it black, I scraping it into a bun, pinning a flower over your ear.

Even if you weren't a Nina Lane fan, the day was fun. There were pony rides for the kids, popcorn and cotton candy, chili dogs and beignets, the square little doughnuts from New Orleans. Many vendors displayed merchandise that had nothing to do with the author or her books. Potters brought theirearthtoned mugs and bowls; woodworkers brought pine birdhouses and little mirrors framed in walnut. Tess Lanier was particularly interested in the beaded jewelry. Some Native American Indians were displaying several pieces that she thought were marvelous. She was going to buy herself a pair of earrings.

Back at home — Tess was from California — she had twice set up a booth at a crafts fair to sell the vintage linen that she collected — place mats, napkins, table runners, and dresser scarves. In her own quiet way, she had enjoyed it thoroughly. She liked talking to the people who were knowledgeable collectors; she liked chatting with those who weren't. She liked the bright, fresh anticipation with which everyone set up a display in the morning; she even liked the shared weariness of knocking the displays down in the evening.

Because she was not a Nina Lane fan, Tess was often looking more closely today at a vendor's portable canopy or collapsing trellis than she was at the actual merchandise. She saw no one displaying linens. One of the larger tables was covered with a quilt. It wasn't for sale, it was merely the table covering, but she went over to look at it. It was a scrap quilt, made of hundreds of little hexagons in a myriad of fabrics. It seemed to be hand-pieced and machine-quilted.

"Are you interested in the quilt?"

Tess looked up. The woman behind the table was speaking to her. She was small, and her features were delicate. She was wearing gold-rimmed glasses and her skin was beautiful, clear and soft, even though her feathery-cut hair was graying. She was not dressed like Nina Lane.

Tess, at twenty-four, had a medieval, even otherworldly air to her appearance; she was narrowly built, her honey-colored hair spilled over her shoulders in a pre-Raphaelite swirl of waves and ringlets, and she wore light, flowing garments that she usually made herself of vintage fabrics

"Yes," Tess answered. "It's beautiful."

"Look closer, then. See the pieces that are the most worn." The woman came around the table. She moved some of her products so that she could pick up a corner of the quilt. "They were feed sacks."

The woman was standing very close to Tess. "Oh?"

"Yes. During the Depression, the sacks that livestock feed came in were often the only uncut fabric a family had, and they sewed with it, making clothes, quilts, everything."

Tess knew this. Her grandmother had grown up here in Kansas; she had told Tess about wearing dresses made out of feed sacks.

"So the companies printed patterns on the sacks," the woman continued. "Some of the patterns were rather pretty, but the fabric wasn't a good quality. It didn't last. Here, do touch it. You really can feel the difference."

It was clear that she wanted Tess to touch the quilt, that it was important to her to have Tess touch the quilt. She was now standing even closer.

Physically, Tess had been an enchanting child golden and delicate. Her grandparents had taught her to be wary of people who wanted to stand too close. "No, no, thank you," she answered. "I can see."

"Then perhaps you're interested in the soaps or the lotions." The woman gestured toward the line of herbal products displayed on the table. "I grow all the herbs myself. The roses are wild. Here, you must smell this one. I think you'll like it." The woman picked up a knife and, from a bread-loaf-sized cake of homemade soap, sliced off a small wedge and thrust it at Tess. A sharp scent of lavender stung her nostrils. She had to force herself not to pull back.

"I knew you would like it," the woman exclaimed, stressing the "you" as if she had privileged knowledge about Tess and her tastes. "It has such a healing aura. Do sign the guest book. I'd love to send you my catalog."

Tess shook her head. "I never buy anything by mail. It would be a waste of your money."

"I don't mind. I treasure connections of all types."

The connection of a mailing list? What was to treasure about that? Tess shrugged and leaned forward to write her name and address — her work address — in the guest book...