Sarah’s first quilt was finished, and it was beautiful.
Judy began to applaud and cheer, and the rest joined in.
“You just finished your first quilt, Sarah,” Bonnie said. “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Sarah quipped, and the others laughed. Sarah realized she felt a little sad, too. She almost wished she hadn’t finished the quilt, because now she wouldn’t be able to work on it anymore.
“What are you going to do for an encore?” Diane asked.
“I don’t know,” Sarah said, then Mrs. Compson caught her eye. She was standing with an arm around Mrs. Emberly, smiling proudly at her student. Then again, maybe the perfect project already awaited her. Somewhere inside Elm Creek Manor there was a memorial quilt that needed to be completed.
It was almost four o’clock when the Tangled Web Quilters finished gathering their things and loading their cars. They left thanking Mrs. Compson for the wonderful party and hoping they could do it again sometime. Mrs. Compson and Sarah stood on the back steps and waved to their departing guests as they drove away.
Then they returned inside and started cleaning up the mess.
As Sarah finished washing the dishes, Mrs. Compson entered the kitchen carrying the last bundle of linens. “I’ll drop this off in the laundry room, but then let’s go sit outside on the veranda for a while. I’ll worry about the rest of this tomorrow.”
Sarah drained the sink, dried her hands, and followed her outside. Mrs. Compson eased herself into one of the Adirondack chairs with a sigh. Sarah sat beside her on the floor and leaned back against the chair. Not speaking, they enjoyed the peaceful stillness of the sun-splashed front lawn and the distant forest, broken only by the soothing waterfall sound of the fountain and the music of songbirds.
Then Sarah decided that she wasn’t likely to find a better time to speak. She turned and looked up at Mrs. Compson.
“About that better offer I’m supposed to think up,” she said. “I can put on one of my interview suits and give you a formal proposal with visual aids and the works, or I can just tell you what I have in mind right now, as is. Which method would you prefer?”
Twenty-Nine
This will do,” Mrs. Compson said, folding her hands in her lap. Sarah rose and took the seat beside her. “You’re an art teacher, correct?”
“If thirty years in the Allegheny County School District count for anything, yes.”
“And you enjoyed giving that lecture for Gwen’s class, the party this weekend, and teaching me how to quilt, right?”
Mrs. Compson nodded. “Especially your lessons.”
“So I can conclude that you find fulfillment in many ways, three of the most significant being quilting, teaching, and being with people you care about, am I right?”
“You demonstrate wisdom beyond your humble years.”
“Thank you. I try. I also noticed that you paid particular attention to the Tangled Web Quilters’ conversation about the quilt camp they recently attended.”
“Certainly. It sounded as if they had a marvelous time, and what an opportunity to interact with other quilters and perfect one’s craft. Sensible critiques of one’s work are a crucial part of any artist’s development. Perhaps next year you and I could—” She inclined her head to one side, eyes narrowing. “Hmm. Are you about to propose what I think you’re about to propose?”
Quickly, before Mrs. Compson could voice any doubts, Sarah launched into a description of her plan to turn Elm Creek Manor into a year-round quilters’ retreat where artists and amateurs alike could share their knowledge and their love for quilting.
Nationally known quilters could be brought in to teach special programs and seminars, while Mrs. Compson and other members of the permanent staff would provide most of the instruction. Sarah would handle all of the accounting and marketing matters just as she had done at her previous job. She presented the financial details and legal requirements she had investigated, showing, she hoped, that they had the resources and the abilities to make the project work. Getting the project under way would be neither easy nor quick, but before long Elm Creek Manor could become a haven for the quilter who longed for a place in which to create—if only for a week, a month, or a summer at a time. Mrs. Compson would be involved in the activities she loved most, and best of all, Elm Creek Manor would be alive again.
When she finished her proposal, Sarah studied Mrs. Compson’s face for some sign of her inclinations, but Mrs. Compson merely gazed off at the distant trees.
Finally she spoke. “It sounds like a lovely dream, Sarah, but you’ve never even been to quilt camp. How do you even know you’d care for it?”
How could anyone not care for it? “Okay, that’s true enough, but I’ve done a lot of research and I plan to do more. You and I could attend a few sessions together and talk to their directors and their participants. We should also talk to the quilters who don’t attend and find out what’s been missing. I’m willing to invest all the time and energy it takes. That’s how much I believe in this.”
Mrs. Compson still looked doubtful. “That’s all well and good, but I fear you may be confusing running a quilters’ retreat with attending one. I thought you hated accounting and all things business. I wouldn’t want you to start a new business for my sake, only to find yourself unhappy in your work.”
“I don’t hate accounting, and I wouldn’t be unhappy.” That was the least of Sarah’s worries. “What I disliked about my old job was the sense that I was just going through the motions, plugging in the numbers and spitting out sums, and none of it mattered. I wanted my work to have some—some relevance. I wanted it to mean something.” She struggled to explain how she felt, how she had been feeling for so long. “This would matter. We would be creating something special. I would have a purpose here.”
Mrs. Compson nodded, and to Sarah her expression seemed less skeptical, if only by the smallest degree. “What about teachers for these classes? I couldn’t teach them all myself, and although you’re a fine quilter, you’re not quite ready for that yet.”
“I’ve already spoken to the Tangled Web Quilters. Mrs. Emberly would be able to teach appliqué, Diane could teach introductory piecing classes, Bonnie could teach some of her Celtic knotwork and clothing classes here in addition to those at her shop, and you could handle the advanced piecing and quilting sections. If it turns out we need more help, we can always hire someone by advertising in quilt magazines, or better yet, we could find someone local through the Waterford Quilting Guild.”
“Hmph.” Mrs. Compson drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “I spot one fundamental flaw in your plan.”
Sarah’s heart sank. “What’s that?” She had been sure she had covered everything. “If you don’t want to risk your own capital, I’m sure we can find investors.”
“That’s not it. I’m certainly not about to use someone else’s money for something I can well afford on my own.” She sighed. “It’s another matter altogether. I don’t think you considered how difficult it would be for me to take care of so many overnight guests by myself. I can’t be running up and down stairs at everyone’s beck and call all the time.”
“I guess I see your point.”
“There’s only one solution, of course. You’ll have to move in, and you can be at everyone’s beck and call instead.”
“Move in here? To Elm Creek Manor?”
“I can see if the playhouse is still standing, if you’d prefer it. Naturally, I’d expect you to bring Matthew along. Yes, I see no other way around this problem except having you move in, and I’m afraid that’s one condition I must insist upon, so if you don’t want to live here—”
Sarah laughed and held up her hands. “You don’t have to talk me into it. I’d be thrilled to live here.”
“Very well, then. But you should check with Matthew before packing your things.”
“I have a condition of my own.”
Mrs. Compson raised her eyebrows. “So, this is to be a ne
gotiation, is it?”
“You could call it that. My condition is that you have to have a phone line installed so our clients can contact us.” Sarah rubbed her wrinkled, waterlogged hands together. “And a dishwasher.”
“That’s two conditions. But very well. Agreed. And now I have another requirement.” She gave Sarah a searching look. “You may not like it.”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t know what kind of conflict stands between you and your mother, but you must promise me you’ll talk to her and do your best to resolve it. Don’t be a stubborn fool like me and let grudges smolder and relationships die.”
“I don’t think you know how difficult that will be.”
“I don’t pretend to know, but I can guess. I don’t expect miracles. All I ask is that you learn from my mistakes and try.”
Sarah took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “All right. If that’s one of your conditions, I’ll try. I can’t promise you that anything will come of it, but I’ll try, Mrs. Compson.”
“That’s good enough for me. And if we’re going to be partners, I must insist that you call me Sylvia. We’ll have no more of this Mrs. Compson this and Mrs. Compson that. You needn’t be so formal.”
For a moment Sarah thought Mrs. Compson was teasing her. “But you told me to call you Mrs. Compson. Remember?”
“I said no such thing.”
“Yes, you did, the first day we met.”
“Did I?” Mrs. Compson frowned, thinking. “Hmph. Well, perhaps I did, but that was a long time ago, and a great deal has happened since then.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Sarah smiled. “Okay. Sylvia it is.”
“Good.” Mrs. Compson sighed and shook her head. “An artists’ colony. Sounds like something right out of my college days.” She sat lost in thought for what seemed to Sarah to be the longest silence she had ever had to endure.
Say yes. Just say yes. Sarah clenched her hands together in her lap. Please please please please—
“I suppose all that’s left is for us to select a name for our fledgling company.”
Sarah felt as if she would burst. “Does that mean yes?”
Mrs. Compson turned to Sarah and held out her hand. Her eyes were shining. “That means yes.”
Sarah let out a whoop of delight and shook Mrs. Compson’s hand. Mrs. Compson burst into laughter and hugged her.
As they sat on the veranda brainstorming, Sarah’s heart sang with excitement. Mrs. Compson seemed even more delighted, if that were possible. Sarah suspected that, like her, Mrs. Compson could already envision the beautiful quilts and the strengthened spirits of their creators bringing the manor to life once more.
The first question was easily settled—the name for their quilters’ haven.
Elm Creek Quilts.
Acknowledgments
MY HEARTFELT THANKS GO OUT TO
My agent, Maria Massie.
The people at Simon & Schuster who worked on this project, especially my gifted editor, Denise Roy; her assistant, Brenda Copeland; and publicists Elizabeth Hayes and Rebecca Davis.
My online quilting friends, especially the members of R.C.T.Q., QuiltNet, and QuiltersBee.
Carol Coski and Terry Grant, who shared their experiencesof a quilt shop owner’s life.
The members of the Internet Writing Workshop, especially Christine Johnson, Candace Byers, Dave Swinford, Jody Ewing, and everyone in the Lounge.
Geraldine, Nic, and Heather Neidenbach; Virginia and Edward Riechman; Leonard and Marlene Chiaverini; and my extended family in Cincinnati and elsewhere.
Most of all, I wish to thank my beloved husband, Marty, whose love and faith sustain me.
For Martin Chiaverini, Geraldine Neidenbach, Nic Neidenbach, and Heather Neidenbach, with all my love
One
In a few months, spring would turn the land surrounding Elm Creek Manor into a green patchwork quilt of dark forested hills and lighter farmers’ fields and grassy lawns. After last night’s snowstorm, however, the view from the kitchen window resembled a white whole-cloth quilt, stitched with the winding gravel road to Waterford, the bare, brown tree limbs, and a thin trace of blue where the creek cut through the woods. The barn stood out in the distance, a cheerful splash of red against the snow.
So much about Elm Creek Manor had changed, but not the view from the window over the sink. If not for the stiffness in her hands and the way the winter chill had seeped into her bones, Sylvia could convince herself that the past fifty years had never happened. She could imagine herself a young woman again, as if any moment she would hear her younger brother whistling as he came downstairs for breakfast. She would look up and see her elder sister entering the kitchen, tying on an apron. Sylvia would gaze through the window and see a lone figure trudging through the snow from the barn, returning to his home and his bride after completing the morning chores. She would leave her work and hurry to the back door to meet him, her footsteps quick and light, her heart full. Her husband was there and alive again, as was her brother, as was her sister, and together they would laugh at the grief of their long separation.
Sylvia squeezed her eyes shut and listened.
She heard a clock ticking in the west sitting room off the kitchen and then, distantly, the sound of someone descending the grand staircase in the front foyer. For a moment her breath caught in her throat, and she almost believed she had accomplished the impossible. She had willed herself back in time, and now, armed with the wisdom of hindsight and regret, she could set everything to rights. All the years that had been stolen from them were restored, and they would live them out together. Not a single moment would be wasted.
“Sylvia?” someone called out from down the hall.
It was a woman’s voice, one she had come to know well over the past two years. Sylvia opened her eyes, and the ghosts receded to the past, to memory. In another moment Sarah appeared in the kitchen doorway, smiling.
“The Elm Creek Quilters are here,” Sarah said. “I saw their cars coming up the back drive.”
Sylvia rinsed the last coffee cup and placed it in the dishwasher. “It’s about time. They’d be very disappointed if they missed the show.” She caught the smile Sarah tried to hide. Sarah often teased Sylvia for her insistence on punctuality, but Sylvia had no intention of changing her opinion. She knew, even if Sarah and the six other Elm Creek Quilters didn’t, the value of a minute.
Sarah gave Sylvia a look of affectionate amusement. “The show won’t start for twenty minutes, at least,” she said as they went to the back door to greet their friends. They had called themselves the Tangled Web Quilters when Sylvia and Sarah had joined the bee nearly two years before, but together they adopted the new name to symbolize the creation of a new group and to celebrate the beginning of their business, Elm Creek Quilts.
Gwen and Summer entered first, laughing together like no mother and daughter Sylvia had ever known. Bonnie followed close behind, carrying a large cardboard box. “I cleared out a storage room at the shop last night,” Bonnie told them. “I’ve got scraps, leftover ribbon, and some thread that’s been discontinued. I thought we could use it when classes start up again in March.”
Sarah thanked her, took the box, and placed it on the floor out of the way. Bonnie owned Grandma’s Attic, Waterford’s only quilt shop. Elm Creek Quilts ordered material and notions through her, and in return Bonnie gave them any leftovers or irregulars that couldn’t be sold. Sylvia admired Bonnie’s generosity, which had not lessened even after the new chain fabric store on the outskirts of town opened and began steadily siphoning away her income.
Diane entered just in time to overhear Bonnie’s words. “You should let us root through that box first,” she said, holding the door open for Agnes. “I can always use a bit of extra fabric, especially if it’s free.”
“Did you hear that?” Gwen asked Bonnie, as Judy entered, holding the hand of her three-year-old daughter, Emily. “Better turn on the security cameras next time you let Di
ane help in the shop.”
Diane looked puzzled. “You have security cameras? I never noticed any.” When the others began to chuckle, she grew indignant. “Not that I had any reason to look.”
Gwen’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds to me like you have a guilty conscience.”
The hallway rang with laughter, and Sylvia’s heart soared as she looked around the circle of women. She had welcomed them into her home, first as friends and later as business colleagues. In her heart, though, she would always consider them family. Not that they could replace the family she had lost more than fifty years before—no one could do that—but they were a great comfort, nonetheless.
The new arrivals were breathless with excitement and red-cheeked from the cold. They put their coats away in the hall closet and soon were settling into the formal parlor. Sarah took a seat on the sofa beside Sylvia’s chair. “Didn’t I promise you someday you’d be glad we got cable?” she said as she turned on the television.
“Indeed you did,” Sylvia said. “But I’ll reserve judgment until after the show.”
“Sarah’s going to drag you kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century if it’s the last thing she does,” Gwen said.
“She most certainly will not,” Sylvia retorted. “I have more dignity than that. I’ll move along calmly and quietly, thank you.”
Emily squirmed on Judy’s lap. “I want to sit by Sarah.”
“Sarah wants to see this show,” Judy told her. “Maybe later she can play.”
“That’s okay. Emily can sit here if she likes.” Sarah slid over and patted the seat beside her. “I haven’t seen her in two days. We have lots to talk about.”
Emily jumped down from her mother’s lap and ran across the room to Sarah, who laughed and helped her climb onto the sofa.
“When are you going to have one of your own?” Diane asked.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “You sound like my mother.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 26