A woman older than she met them at the door. “Miss Merchaud?” she said pleasantly, without a trace of the awe or admiration Julia usually evoked from people outside the industry. “I’m Sylvia Compson. Welcome to Elm Creek Manor.”
“Thank you.” Julia followed her inside to a large foyer with gleaming marble floors and a ceiling three stories high. The furnishings spoke of wealth but of good taste and comfort rather than excess. Perhaps Maury hadn’t been so misguided after all.
“You must be tired after such a long trip.” Sylvia led her to the center of the room, where three women wearing name tags sat behind a long table. “Let’s take care of your registration and show you to your room.” She eyed Ares with some skepticism and nodded to the driver. “Matthew will help you with your bags.”
She signaled to a young man with curly blond hair, who smiled as he approached and reached to take the bags from the driver.
Ares put out an arm to stop him. “It’s under control, thanks.” In an undertone, he added to Sylvia, “We don’t need the entire staff knowing where Miss Merchaud will be staying. Security. You understand.” He shrugged at Matthew. “No hard feelings, buddy.”
“Sure,” the other man replied, and Julia had the distinct impression he was trying hard not to laugh.
“Matthew is our caretaker. I assure you, he’s quite harmless,” Sylvia said.
Julia removed her sunglasses and pretended not to notice the hush that had fallen over the other guests, who were no doubt stunned to see “Grandma Wilson” playing the prima donna. “Give him the bags,” she murmured to the driver. He looked from her to Ares, uncertain. “I said, give him the bags.” At last the driver complied, and she smiled an apology to Matthew. To her relief, the registration process went quickly, and soon she, Ares, and Matthew with her bags were following Sylvia upstairs.
“Your suite is in the west wing,” Sylvia told them as they reached the second floor landing. “You’ll have your own bath. I trust you’ll be quite comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Julia said, watching as other women went from room to room introducing themselves and welcoming each other, as excited and happy as children at summer camp. A few greeted Julia as she passed; she smiled guardedly in response, wondering if they recognized her without her limousine and stage makeup.
Sylvia ushered them into the room and pointed out the closet, the bath, and her private phone. It was a large suite with a four-poster bed covered with a blue-and-red quilt pieced of homespun plaids. “It’s lovely,” Julia said. “Thank you, Sylvia.”
“You’re quite welcome. Now, if there’s nothing else you need, I’ll return to our other guests.”
Ares held up a hand. “Before you go, let’s establish some ground rules.”
The older woman’s eyebrows rose.
“Miss Merchaud’s status may cause some excitement,” Ares went on. “Ordinarily Miss Merchaud goes out of her way to please her fans, but this week is different. We can’t allow her to be disturbed. For that reason, she’ll take her meals in her room rather than the common dining area, and she will not participate in any of the camp activities other than classroom instruction.”
Sylvia folded her hands. “All of our activities are voluntary, Mr. Ares.”
“Just Ares. Also, is there any way Miss Merchaud could have private instruction rather than attending classes?”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Then at the very least, she’ll need a table to herself at the front of the classroom.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“Ares,” Julia interrupted, “I don’t think—”
“You’ll also inform your staff and other guests that they are not to address Miss Merchaud or trouble her in any way.”
Sylvia’s mouth twitched. “Do I understand you correctly? You wish me to announce that no one may speak with her?”
“Unless she speaks to them first, yes.”
“That’s absurd, and I won’t do it,” Sylvia declared. Behind her, the young blond man coughed as if he were strangling back a laugh. “Miss Merchaud is a camper like everyone else here.” She turned her piercing gaze on Julia. “And I’m tired of talking about you as if you weren’t in the room. If you wish to ignore people who speak to you, that’s your decision, but I won’t offend my other guests by clamping muzzles on them.”
“I never wanted that,” Julia said, distressed. “This wasn’t my idea.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, because otherwise you’ll have a dreadful time this week. What an idea—to come to quilt camp and refuse to make any new friends.” She shook her head in disapproval and frowned at Ares. “You see, I have a few ground rules of my own. If they don’t suit you, I’d be happy to return your agency’s check.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ares said stiffly. “I’m sure Miss Merchaud will be able to adapt to the circumstances.”
“Good.” Sylvia returned her attention to Julia, her voice noticeably warmer. “If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable”—her eyes flicked to Ares as if getting rid of him would be a step in the right direction—“please inform someone on the staff.” With that, she and Matthew left the room, closing the door behind them.
“What a crazy old bat,” Ares muttered.
“I found her quite pleasant,” Julia said. “And I do wish you had consulted me before deciding I should isolate myself in my room all week. Maybe I would have enjoyed—”
“You’re not here to enjoy yourself. You’re here to work.”
“Observing quilters would help me prepare for my role.”
“You can observe them during your classes. The less you interact with these quilters, the less likely you’ll reveal the truth. The press releases for the film will promote you as an expert quilter. Do you want these old biddies running to the media with the real story?”
Julia laughed. “I doubt even the tabloids would be interested. As secrets go, it’s not very sexy.”
“You can’t afford the risk. Maury didn’t want to tell you, but Bernier agreed to give you this part only because he thinks you already know how to quilt. If he discovers you lied, you’re out of a job, and I don’t think I need to tell you how difficult it will be to find you another role this good.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” she said crisply. How could he be so hurtful, so undiplomatic? “I suppose you’re right. When I’m not practicing my quilting, I ought to be learning my lines.”
“Don’t bother. Bernier wants a major rewrite. Wait until you have a final script.”
“Ellen will be involved in the revisions, of course?”
“Who?”
“Ellen Henderson, the writer and director.”
Ares looked confused. “Stephen Deneford is directing. I heard it from Bernier himself two days ago.”
“I see.” Julia wondered how Ellen had been informed of the decision. “But she’s still the writer.”
“I guess she might be consulted. You know how Deneford and Bernier are.”
Julia shrugged as if she did, although she had met Bernier only once and knew Deneford merely by reputation—and surely no more than half of those stories could be true.
None too soon, Ares left her to settle into her room. The room felt oddly still when she was alone, the silence broken only by the little noises she made unfastening her suitcases and opening and closing bureau drawers. From the hallway came the sounds of the other women talking and laughing, and the sound of quick footsteps going from room to room. Julia wondered why all the other guests seemed to know each other already, when quilt camp had only just begun.
She sat on the bed and listened.
Donna had been at quilt camp for less than an hour but had already unpacked her suitcase and had met one of her next-door neighbors and the woman across the hall from her suite on the second floor of the south wing. She had just returned to her room for a patchwork jacket she had promised to show a quilter from West Virginia when sh
e heard a voice through her open doorway. “I’m here,” an elderly woman called. “The fun can begin!”
“Vinnie!” several other women cried out, and a clamor of voices echoed down the hallway.
Donna peered outside to see what all the commotion was about. A thin woman in her early eighties was trying to make her way down the hallway, but was stopped every few feet by one welcoming camper after another. She wore a bright red skirt, white tennis shoes and top, and had a red baseball cap perched on a fluffy cloud of white hair. Donna liked her on sight, and was pleased when the young man carrying her suitcase eventually led her into the unoccupied room next door. Several other campers followed them inside.
Donna’s other next-door neighbor joined her in the hall. “Vinnie’s here,” she said, delighted. “That means we’ll have a party.”
“Do you two know each other?”
“I met her here last summer. She was one of the first twelve guests of Elm Creek Quilt Camp, and she’s come back each year since, always during the week of her birthday. The staff throws a big surprise party for her—only it’s not such a surprise anymore, though Vinnie always pretends it is. She’s a riot. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
She took Donna’s arm and pulled her down the hallway. Donna was enjoying herself so much that she could almost forget that at that very moment her husband was in Minneapolis with Lindsay, Brandon, and Brandon’s parents. And where on earth was Megan? It was almost time for supper, and she hadn’t checked in yet.
Megan pulled off the highway and followed the signs for food and lodging. She had been driving for hours, the past two with a growing suspicion that she had missed the correct exit. Contemporary Quilting magazine had awarded her a generous travel allowance, but instead of using it for an airline ticket and cab fare, she had put the money aside for Robby’s back-to-school clothes. Now she regretted her frugality. She had anticipated having several more hours of daylight to drive by, but she hadn’t considered the rolling Appalachian terrain. The sun had descended nearly to the tops of the mountains behind her; if she had missed the proper turnoff with the sun shining, how could she expect to find it in twilight? Twice she had stopped to ask directions—but while one person had heard of Waterford but didn’t know how to get there, the other had insisted there was no such town in Pennsylvania.
Frustrated, her stomach growling, she pulled into the parking lot of a diner, ruefully remembering the camp brochure’s photos of the elegant banquet hall at Elm Creek Manor. She would grab a bite to eat, study the map and get her bearings, and be back on the road in a half hour—and with any luck, she would choose the right direction.
She seated herself in a booth so she would have plenty of room to spread out her map. After the waitress took her order, she traced her route with a pencil, referring to the printed directions Elm Creek Quilts had provided. When the waitress delivered her turkey melt with fries, Megan moved the papers out of the way and thanked her. On impulse, she asked, “Do you know how to get to Waterford?”
The waitress shook her head. “Never heard of it.”
Megan’s heart sank. “Thanks anyway.” Her gaze fell on a plate in the waitress’s other hand. She inhaled the fragrance of baked apples and cinnamon and decided she’d order a slice of apple pie when she finished her supper. She deserved some dessert, as consolation for the loss of her first day of quilt camp. Besides, with her luck, she might be wandering Pennsylvania’s back roads until dawn. She would need the energy.
As she watched the waitress walk away, her gaze fell on the man sitting in the booth across the aisle—or rather, on his shirt. It was the exact shade of blue she needed for her latest project, a charm quilt composed of hundreds of equilateral triangles. Instead of using pieced or appliquéd blocks, Megan preferred to make one-patch quilts, in which all the pieces were the same shape. Varying the color, pattern, and value of the pieces could create dramatic visual effects, but indifference to fabric placement could easily result in a drab, uninspired quilt. And since a charm quilt by definition required that no fabric be used more than once, she often spent weeks searching for the right material to finish a project. The gray-blue she now looked upon had eluded her for a month, even though her internet friends had sent her swatches of the various hues in their collections.
“Did I spill something on myself?”
Megan looked up, startled, into the puzzled but smiling face of the man wearing the shirt. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I was just admiring your shirt.”
“Thanks.”
Megan wished she had stared more discreetly, but he had spoken to her first, and she just had to have that blue. “Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift from … a friend.”
Something in his voice told Megan his friend was a woman. “It’s very nice,” she said lamely. She hoped he didn’t think she was trying to pick him up. “I … see, I’m a quilter, and I’m always looking for the right fabric.”
“Say no more,” he said, with a knowing grin. “My grandmother is a quilter.”
Great, Megan thought. As if she hadn’t met enough people who considered quilting the exclusive domain of little old ladies and people with too much time on their hands. She was tired of explaining her passion to those who didn’t know any better and decided not to bother trying to explain it to some stranger in a diner whom she’d never see again.
Megan returned her attention to the map as she ate, trying to figure out where she had gone wrong. According to her father’s estimate, she should have reached the turnoff two hours ago. Should she backtrack or keep going east? She had seen a gas station across the street from the diner; maybe someone there would be able to direct her, although the responses she had received so far made that seem unlikely.
By the time she finished her sandwich, she had decided to give the gas station a chance—after dessert. She signaled the waitress, who approached with a slice of apple pie on a plate. “You read my mind,” Megan said.
“What’s that?” the waitress said, delivering the plate to the man in the booth across the aisle.
“Oh, I thought that was for me. I was just about to order a slice. Could I have it à la mode, please?”
“I’m afraid you’re too late, honey. That was the last piece.”
“Are you sure?”
The waitress looked tired. “You can check for yourself if you don’t believe me.” She jerked her head in the direction of the front counter, where an empty pie tin sat in the bakery case. “Would you like something else? Chocolate cake? Peach cobbler?”
“No, thanks. I was really looking forward to that apple pie.”
“Here,” the man said. “You can have it. I haven’t touched it yet.”
“Oh, no,” Megan said. “Thanks anyway.”
“No, really.” The man got up and brought the plate to her table. “Take it.”
“I’m not going to take your dessert.”
“You’re not taking it; I’m giving it to you.” He set the plate on her table, smiling. “Go ahead. Enjoy.”
“I don’t want it.” Annoyed, Megan pushed the plate toward him. “What planet are you from, that you offer perfect strangers in restaurants your dessert?”
“Cincinnati.”
“No kidding,” she said, without thinking. “Me, too.”
“Really.” He sat down across from her. “I live near Winton Woods. How about you?”
“Actually …” Involuntarily, she shrank back against the seat as his knees bumped hers. “I moved away when I was very young.”
“To Pennsylvania?”
“Well …” She wasn’t about to tell some strange man where she lived. She looked to the waitress for help, but the woman merely folded her arms and listened. “Look,” she said to the man, in a voice she hoped was firm but not unkind, in case he was a nutcase or something. “I appreciate your generosity, but you ordered the pie first, so it’s yours. I can’t accept it.”
He shrugged. “So we’ll split it.” He turned
to the waitress. “Could you bring us another plate and fork, please, and a dish of ice cream on the side?” He looked questioningly at Megan. “Vanilla?” When Megan managed a nod, he turned back to the waitress. “Vanilla.”
The waitress returned quickly with his order, and he deftly sliced the piece of pie and placed half on the new plate. “Here you go,” he said with a friendly grin.
“Thanks,” she said, resigned. “Do you want some of my ice cream?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “When it comes to apple pie, I’m a purist. No ice cream, no cheese, no caramel—nothing to mar the pure simplicity of the apple and the pastry.” With that, he took a large bite of pie, savoring the mouthful.
Megan watched him, her misgivings changing to amusement. “I had no idea it was possible to have such strong opinions about apple pie.”
“You should hear my discourse on tiramisu.”
Megan smiled and took a bite of the dessert—and found it just as delicious as its fragrance had promised. “It’s wonderful. Thanks for sharing it. I’ll pay half, of course—”
“Don’t be silly. It’s my treat.”
“At least let me pay for the ice cream, since you’re not having any.” She gave him a practiced no-nonsense look that had proven most effective with Robby. “I insist.”
“Fair enough.” He glanced down at her map. “Are you planning a trip, or did you lose your way?”
“Lost my way. I don’t suppose you know how to get to Waterford?”
“Sure. I just came from there.”
She was so astonished she almost dropped her fork. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that. I thought I missed the turnoff, and I’d have to turn around and go home.”
“You didn’t miss it. Head east for another hour and you’ll see the sign. Here.” He turned her map around and picked up her pencil. “The sign doesn’t say Waterford, but it’s the same exit as Two Rivers.” He circled a spot on her map. “Go south for a few miles and you’ll start to see signs for Waterford College. You should be there by seven.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 62