“And by ‘other people,’” said Nate, “you mean me.”
She set the knife in the sink and tightened the lid on the strawberry jam jar. “Yes, Nate. I mean you.”
“I get it,” he said. “I get it.”
She doubted he did. If he did get it, if he really understood how she felt—but how could she expect him to understand when she herself could barely sort out her conflicted feelings? She loved her children dearly. They were more precious to her than any job could ever be. But one moment she felt utterly fulfilled by motherhood, and the next as if she were trapped, spent, finished. Old and ugly, tired and used up. She missed feeling special. She missed that sense of anticipation that everything lay ahead of her, anything was possible, that she could do anything, be anything, be admired and cherished and beloved. She missed feeling wanted for herself, for the woman she was and not merely the housekeeping chores she performed. At the same time, she knew that taking care of her children was her duty and her calling and whatever she did or failed to do in the boys’ early years would affect them so profoundly that nothing else she ever did would leave such a mark on the world. She was angry that no one appreciated the importance of the task appointed to her and ashamed that she wished she could escape its drudgery. She felt both taken for granted and selfish. She was ashamed that she could not simply enjoy her beautiful sons, children any parent would be grateful to have, and that what seemed to come so naturally to other women was a continuous uphill struggle for her. She felt like a failure, hopelessly inadequate to a task that was far too important to entrust to anyone else.
If she could have joined the circle of quilters at Elm Creek Manor—that would have made her special again. She knew how foolish it was to feel that way, but she could not help it. If Nate only knew how fortunate they both were that she had sought fulfillment from a new job rather than another man. But it didn’t matter now.
“I’m sure you honestly believe you do understand,” she told Nate, and called the boys for lunch.
Nate said nothing. He left the kitchen frowning, but not in anger. He frowned as he did when wrestling with an especially difficult piece of computer code.
Later, while the boys napped, Nate found her in the basement where she worked on the last block for her Pickle Dish quilt. “I made a spreadsheet,” he announced.
“That’s great, honey,” she said, not really listening. It was hardly a revelation. He made spreadsheets all day long.
“No, I mean I made one for us.” He turned her chair and placed a thin stack of papers in her hands. She glanced at them, curious. “It’s a schedule. A new, revised family schedule.”
“Can something be both new and revised?” she asked dubiously, paging through the sheets. She paused at the sight of a block of time labeled in blue. “What’s this?”
“That’s ‘Mom Time.’”
She could read; she just didn’t know what it meant. “That’s when I do my mom work? Because there’s no way I can fit everything into two and a half hours after supper.”
“No, that’s when you’re not allowed to do any mom work. See? I’ll come home at five-thirty every night. No exceptions. We’ll have supper, and then from six until eight-thirty, you do whatever you like. Read a book, talk on the phone with your mom, take a long bath—” “Speaking of baths, if I’m reading or talking, who—”
“I’ll give the boys their baths. I’ll get them their snacks, play with them, brush their teeth, read stories, all the things you usually do so you can have time for yourself.” He shrugged. “Maybe you could even use that time to teach a class at the quilt shop so you can get the experience the Elm Creek Quilters are looking for.”
“But you’ve always needed the evenings to work. Won’t you go through laptop withdrawal?”
“If I can’t get my work done during the day, I can finish after the boys go to bed.”
She shook her head, skeptical. “Taking care of the boys doesn’t mean parking them in front of the TV, you know.”
“I know that. Karen, I want to help, but you have to let me.”
He had a point; she knew it. Now that he had finally offered to share more of the parenting load, she couldn’t refuse because he would not do everything as well as she did. She’d had years of practice. He would need time to catch up, to learn how to care for the boys his own way, because her way was not the only right way.
Perhaps she would look into teaching a class at her favorite quilt shop.
Perhaps someday she would have a second chance to join the circle of quilters at Elm Creek Quilts.
Maggie called Russell twice more before reaching a ring instead of a busy signal. When he answered, she breathlessly said, “Was that Elm Creek Quilts on the line?”
“Maggie?”
“Yes, it’s me. Hi! How was your trip? You had a busy signal.
Were you speaking with Sarah McClure?”
“How did you know?”
“Because they called me, too, right before you. I knew they’d offer you the job. I knew it! You couldn’t possibly have done as badly in the interview as you said.”
“You mean they offered you the other teaching position?”
“Yes! Won’t it be fun to work together?”
Russell let out a heavy sigh.
“What’s the matter?” asked Maggie. “Didn’t Sarah call to offer you the other job?”
“Yes. She did.”
“Then what’s wrong?” Suddenly Maggie had a horrible thought.
He did not want to work with her. Or see her again. She had completely misinterpreted his signals. It wouldn’t be the first time. “If you’re worried that I might—you know, expect to see you all the time, I wouldn’t. I just thought—”
“Maggie, that’s not it. I turned down the job.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to move so far away from you.”
His words warmed her heart—for a moment. “You didn’t think I’d get the job?”
“I thought you would, but you said you didn’t stand a chance.”
“And you believed me?”
“Yes! Yes, I did. I have a terrible problem with that. When people tell me something, I tend to believe them.”
Maggie burst into helpless laughter. It would have been flattering if he had assumed she would be offered the job, but it was even more revealing that he had turned down his offer in order to be closer to her. “What do we do now?”
She held her breath, fearful that he would suggest she reject her offer, too. She couldn’t. She couldn’t afford to even if she wanted to.
“I’ll call Sarah back,” said Russell. “Maybe it’s not too late. I’ll tell her I changed my mind.”
“Call me right back and let me know what she says.”
“I will. I promise. I have to hang up now.”
“I know.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
“Okay.”
“You hang up first. I can’t hang up on you.”
“Russell, you’re being silly.” But she was tickled. “Okay. I’ll hang up first.”
And she did.
Cursing himself, Russell raced to his office, dug his notes on Elm Creek Manor from his files, and punched in the phone number. Another young woman answered, and he asked for Sarah. He paced impatiently around the room as far as the phone cord would allow while he waited for her to pick up the extension.
Finally she answered. “Russell? Sorry for the wait. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve reconsidered and I’d be happy to accept your offer,” blurted Russell. “I can start whenever you like.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sarah. “I’ve already given the job to someone else.”
In less than thirty minutes? “Then I’m too late?”
“I’m afraid so. The other applicant has already accepted the job.” Sarah sounded sincerely regretful. “I know it’s not the same, but we would still like to have you as a visiting instructor.”
“Y
es,” said Russell quickly. “Anytime. For as long as you like.”
“We won’t have our schedule ready until late winter. I’m not sure what we’ll have available. It might not be more than two or three weeks throughout the whole camp season.”
“I’ll take any openings you have. All of them.”
“Sure,” said Sarah. He knew she was wondering what had inspired his new enthusiasm. “We’d be glad to have you.”
He hoped so. He intended to become Elm Creek Quilt Camp’s most frequent visiting instructor.
On Saturday afternoon, the Elm Creek Quilters bade their campers good-bye and settled back to enjoy their one evening off before the next group of quilters began to arrive on Sunday. They completed their last chores of the week together, relieved to have reached the end of their search for new teachers, full of anticipation for what the newcomers would bring, and saddened by the approaching departure of two dear friends. They would not have many more days like this one, when all of the original Elm Creek Quilters were together, celebrating the end of another successful week.
When the work was finished, they lingered on the veranda rather than returning to their own homes and families right away. They chuckled about the week’s mishaps, made plans for the next session of camp, and mulled over Russell McIntyre’s inexplicable change of heart.
“I hope we made the right choice,” said Diane.
“Time will tell,” said Sylvia. With a sigh, she rose stiffly from her chair and rubbed her hands together. She noted ruefully that they seemed to have become permanently waterlogged. “In the meantime, I have a sink full of dirty dishes awaiting me.”
“I’ll help,” said Summer, rising. “I’ll be glad when Anna can start.”
Sarah gasped.
All eyes turned to her.
“You did call her, didn’t you?” asked Gwen.
Sarah shook her head. “I was so thrown by Russell’s refusal that I forgot.”
“Never mind,” said Sylvia. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Anna. She never should have answered the phone. “But I can’t.”
“Please,” begged Gordon. “Just give me another chance.”
“What good would it do?” asked Anna. Why didn’t he see it? They were unsuited for each other. They did not make each other happy. If she took him back, nothing would change. Forcing themselves back into couplehood would not resolve their differences. She would always worry that he considered her inferior; he would always nag her about her weight and her lack of interest in Derrida. She would always wonder if he preferred Theresa; he would forever hope in vain that she would take an office job in a building without a kitchen, a lunchroom, or even so much as a vending machine.
“It won’t work,” she told him firmly. “We don’t work.”
“I can change. Tell me how and I will.”
She didn’t want him to change for her any more than she wanted to change herself for him. “Good-bye, Gordon.”
“Wait,” he cried as she began to hang up. “‘Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of—’”
“Stop right there,” said Anna. “I can’t stand all that silly unrequited courtly love stuff. It’s so annoying. You’re not Sir Philip Sidney and I’m not Stella. Don’t dream about me, don’t plagiarize poems for me, and, whatever else you do, don’t call me.”
She hung up the phone with a crash. Almost immediately, it rang again. Irritated, Anna snatched up the receiver. “I mean it. If you don’t stop calling, I’m going to block your number.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sylvia?” gasped Anna. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“I certainly hope so. I can’t imagine what I might have done to warrant that greeting.”
“I really do apologize.” Anna groped for an explanation.
“Boyfriend trouble.”
“Of course. It usually is. Well, whatever the young man has done, I believe I have some news that might cheer you up.”
“Really?”
“When you visited the manor, you may have noticed the state of our kitchen.”
How did they know? “I did sort of sneak a peek in passing.”
“Our chef recently retired, and his replacement quit after only a week. We’ve been at loose ends ever since trying to take care of all the cooking in addition to teaching and managing the camp. In your interview you mentioned that you hope someday to own your own restaurant. The position I can offer you is not quite the same, but you would be in charge of all of our food service—planning the menus, preparing meals, purchasing supplies, and so forth.”
Anna sat down so suddenly that she landed hard on the arm of her chair. “I would be in charge? I would be the head chef?”
“Why, yes. In fact, you would be our only chef.”
Anna’s thoughts whirled. Working for Elm Creek Quilt Camp would be very much like running her own restaurant. No more cafeteria lines, no more indifferent student employees to prod along, no more lunch lady jokes. She would be the head chef of—of a hotel. A resort. And she already knew she would like her coworkers.
“We offer room and board in addition to your salary, if you wish,” said Sylvia, adding dryly, “and we could arrange for caller ID on your phone extension.”
“I’d love to be your chef,” said Anna. “On two conditions. First, I’ll need to hire a few assistants.”
“Our previous chef had assistants. I would not expect you to do without. What is your second condition?”
“We remodel your kitchen,” said Anna. “At the very least, you’ll need a six-burner stove and a double oven. Your pantry is fine, but you need more counter space and a much larger refrigerator. I don’t know how you’ve managed, considering all the people you feed.”
“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought for someone who took only a quick peek into the kitchen in passing,” remarked Sylvia.
“It might have been more than a peek. You really do need to expand. How often do you use that little room off the kitchen?”
“My sitting room?” asked Sylvia. “Well, not as much as I used to, I suppose.”
“If we knocked out that wall …”
“Oh, my. I had no idea you had such extensive changes in mind.” Sylvia considered. “However, I must admit you’re right. We are long overdue for an upgrade. Our last chef was miserable with the state of the kitchen, but he was less determined than you to ask for what he needed.”
Anna smiled and did not mention that this was a rather recent upgrade of her own.
Cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, she dug in her tote bag for her pad of graph paper and a pencil. She flipped past the floor plan of Chuck’s Diner and began a new sketch, planning the kitchen of her dreams with her new boss.
Anna couldn’t wait to show that circle of quilters—her circle of quilters—all she could do.
Simon & Schuster
proudly presents
The
Quilter’s
Homecoming
Jennifer Chiaverini
Turn the page for a preview of
The Quilter’s Homecoming …
1924
As her father’s car rumbled across the bridge over Elm Creek and emerged from the forest of bare-limbed trees onto a broad, snow-covered lawn of the Bergstrom estate, Elizabeth Bergstrom was seized by the sudden and unshakable certainty that she should not have come to this place. She should have stayed in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, to help her brother run the hotel, even though business invariably slowed during the holiday week. Or she should have offered to help care for her sister’s newborn twins. Even celebrating Christmas alone would have been preferable to returning to Elm Creek Manor. Her lifelong feelings of warmth and comfort toward the family home had suddenly given way to dread and foreboding. She would have to pass the week next door to Henry, knowing that he was near, and waiting in vain for him to come to her.
As Elm Creek Manor came into view, Elizabe
th watched her father straighten in the driver’s seat, his leather-gloved fingers flexing around the steering wheel of the new Model T Ford, an unaccustomed look of ease and contentment on his face. He never drank at Elm Creek Manor, nor in the days leading up to their visits, which made Elizabeth wonder why he could not abstain in Harisburg as well. Apparently he craved his brothers’ approval more than that of his wife and children, not that anyone but Elizabeth ever complained about his drinking.
“We’re almost home,” Elizabeth’s father said. Her mother responded with an almost inaudible sniff. It irked her that after all these years, her husband still referred to Elm Creek Manor as home, rather than their stylish apartment in the hotel her father had turned over to their management upon their marriage. Second only to her father’s flagship hotel, the Riverview Arms was smartly situated on the most fashionable street in Harrisburg, just blocks from the capitol building. It was a good living, much more reliable and lucrative than raising horses for Bergstrom Thoroughbreds. On his better days, George remembered that, but his insistence upon calling Elm Creek Manor home smacked of ingratitude.
But in this matter, if nothing else, Elizabeth understood her father. Of course Elm Creek Manor was home. The first Bergstroms in America had established the farm in 1857 and ever since, their family had run the farm and raised their prizewinning horses there, building on to the original farmhouse as the number of their descendants grew. They had lived, loved, argued, and celebrated within those gray stone walls for generations. But it was her father’s fate to fall in love with a girl who loved the comforts of the city too much to abandon them for life on a horse farm. He could not have Millie and Elm Creek Manor both, so he accepted his future father-in-law’s offer to sell his stake in Bergstrom Thoroughbreds and invest the profits in the Riverview Arms. Still, though he had sold his inheritance to his siblings, Elizabeth’s father would always consider Elm Creek Manor the home of his heart.
Elm Creek Quilts [09] Circle of Quilters Page 31