An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler

by Jennier Chiaverini

  “Thanks,” she said, greatly relieved.

  “Anytime.” He signaled to the waitress, then shrugged apologetically. “Sorry to eat and run, but it’s a long drive back to Cincinnati, and tomorrow’s a school day.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She felt oddly disappointed as he rose and took the check from the waitress. “Well, thanks again for the dessert and the directions.”

  “My pleasure.” He left his check and a few bills on his table across the aisle. “Drive safely.”

  “You too.”

  Megan watched him leave the diner, then peered out the front window and watched him climb into a well-kept but older model compact car. Only as he drove off did she realize that she didn’t even know his name. Not that it mattered. “Tomorrow’s a school day,” he had said, which meant he was probably a dad with children—a married dad with children. Then a thought struck her. It was the middle of August. Unless his children’s school had a very strange schedule, they should still be on summer vacation, as Robby was—which meant that this nice-seeming guy was either lying to her or had a very bizarre sense of humor.

  The evidence pointed to a friendly but rather odd man. Too bad, she thought and put him out of her mind.

  After the welcome banquet, Sylvia invited Grace to a cozy sitting room off the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat. “I’m so delighted you accepted my invitation at last,” Sylvia said after giving her a warm hug. “How many years has it been?”

  “Five, I think,” Grace said, easing herself down onto a sofa and taking the cup Sylvia offered her.

  “That’s right. Lancaster, wasn’t it? The Quilter’s Heritage Celebration?” Sylvia took a seat beside her, and her eyes had a faraway look. “And to think Elm Creek Quilts didn’t even exist then.”

  “It’s amazing what you’ve accomplished in such a short time.”

  Sylvia sipped her tea and nodded as if she agreed, as if, like Grace, she was amazed at the long journey that had taken her away from her beloved home and back again. When she and Grace first met, Sylvia had been estranged from her family for decades and had never expected to return to Elm Creek Manor.

  Fifteen years before, Grace had been giving a lecture at the University of Pittsburgh on Civil War–era textiles and how they had inspired her own work. She created what she called story quilts, appliqué quilts that illustrated historical and sometimes autobiographical tales. Unlike the intricate, painstaking appliqué of the Baltimore Album style, her work more closely followed the folk-art appliqué tradition, with abstract figures representing people, places, moods, or ideas. That evening she displayed several antique quilts from her collection, including one pieced by a runaway slave who had settled in Canada. After describing the symbolism of the motifs the unknown quilter had used, Grace showed a quilt of her own, one she had sewn in tribute to the long-ago quiltmaker as Grace imagined her hazardous journey north to freedom.

  At a reception following the lecture, Sylvia introduced herself and told her about the Civil War–era quilts she remembered from her childhood home, which had been a station on the Underground Railroad. Intrigued, Grace asked her if it would be possible for her to inspect the collection and possibly include photos of them in the book she was writing.

  “That’s unlikely,” Sylvia said crisply. “For all I know, the quilts might not be there anymore.”

  Taken aback by her sudden change in temper, Grace apologized, wondering what she said to offend. Sylvia shook her head and said, “No, I should apologize to you. You had no way of knowing what a sensitive subject this is for me.” She went on to explain that she and her sister had had a falling out years ago, and that Sylvia had not returned to her family estate since shortly after the war.

  “Vietnam or the Gulf?” Grace asked, wondering how long this estrangement had gone on, and if the sisters might reconcile soon.

  “The Second World War.”

  With that, Grace’s hopes that she might be able to view those tantalizing quilts in the near future evaporated. In the years that followed, whenever she ran into Sylvia at a quilting function, she inquired about her relationship with her sister as delicately as she could, and eventually her concern for the quilts transformed into sympathy for her aging friend, who seemed to be growing more brittle-tempered with each year the old resentments simmered. Grace and her sisters were so close that hardly a week passed when they didn’t communicate at least by phone, and she found it hard to imagine anything they could do that would compel Grace to sever all ties with them. No wonder Sylvia seemed so alone, despite her friends and accomplishments; she had cast off all her ties to her own history, and in doing so, she had lost herself. When Grace learned that Sylvia’s sister had passed away, she feared that Sylvia would never recover from the loss and from the knowledge that now reconciliation would never come, but Sylvia had surprised her. From the debris of her grief, Sylvia had built a new future for herself and had come home at last to reclaim her family’s history.

  “I didn’t build Elm Creek Quilts alone, of course,” Sylvia was saying. “I have some very dedicated helpers. The truth is, I’m all but retired from the business now. Two young women, Sarah McClure and Summer Sullivan, direct our operations these days.”

  “You haven’t retired from quilting, I hope.”

  “No, no, I could never do that. Even with the business, I still offer my opinion when asked—and often when I’m not asked—and I sign off on all our major financial and development decisions. Lately I’ve been seeing a bit of the country, traveling with a friend. I’ve spent more weeks away from Elm Creek Manor than here this summer.”

  “I’m glad you happened to be in town the week I came.”

  “Now, Grace,” Sylvia admonished. “Do you really think I’d make myself scarce when you’ve come all this way? I couldn’t leave without finding out what’s troubling you.”

  Grace almost spilled her tea. “What do you mean?” Carefully she placed her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “I’m fine. I just thought I would enjoy a week of quilt camp.”

  “Grace, dear.” Sylvia fixed her with that knowing gaze Grace remembered well. “We both know there’s nothing our teachers could show you that you haven’t seen already. You should be a teacher here, not a camper.”

  “I just needed a change of scene.”

  “Perhaps you do. I must say I’ve never seen you so tense. You haven’t smiled once since you walked through those doors.” Sylvia placed a hand on her friend’s, and in a gentle voice, added, “But I know there’s more. What’s wrong, Grace?”

  Grace took a deep breath and tried to smile. “My muse has fled.”

  Sylvia’s eyebrows rose. “I see. And you thought you might find her here?”

  “I thought in new surroundings, with other quilters around to motivate me, I might be able to reawaken my creativity.” Grace shook her head, hopeless, and cradled her teacup in her hands. “I don’t know. I’m probably grasping at straws, but I haven’t started a new project in eighteen months. Eighteen months! You know how prolific I used to be.”

  A frown of worry creased Sylvia’s forehead. “Can you think of any reason you might be blocked? Did something happen eighteen months ago? Have you been under an unusual amount of stress?”

  Grace’s heart pounded. Was she that transparent? “No, of course not. Just the usual stress.” Sylvia looked dubious, so Grace blurted out the first plausible worry that came to mind. “Except for my daughter. She’s seeing a much older man fairly seriously, and she didn’t even tell me about him.”

  “But you’ve worried about Justine before, and your art hasn’t suffered.”

  “I suppose that can’t be it, then,” Grace said, as if she didn’t know precisely what the source of her anxiety was. But she couldn’t tell Sylvia, not yet, not until she had no choice. “Maybe there isn’t a cause. Maybe I’ve just run out of ideas and inspiration. But there must be some way to replenish myself even if I don’t understand why I ran dry.”

  “If it’s replenish
ment you need, I’ll see that you get it,” Sylvia said. “Perhaps I was wrong about our staff not having anything to teach you. Why don’t you sit in on some of our advanced classes? We have some delightful workshops in color theory, photo transfer, computer pattern design—all sorts of exciting techniques to explore.”

  “Photo transfer?”

  “Yes, techniques for transferring images from a photograph onto fabric. You’ve always been fascinated with quilts as historical artifacts and documenting quiltmakers’ lives. Perhaps photo transfer could help you discover a new way to explore that area of your craft. And it’s not just the information that might stir your creativity,” Sylvia added. “The interaction with other quilters is what I find most invigorating about a class, whether I’m the student or the teacher. You never know what new ideas might come to mind when you brainstorm with other quilters.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Grace felt a flicker of hope, and suddenly she realized that for the first time in months, she wasn’t dreading the thought of approaching a stack of uncut fabric. “Sign me up.”

  Sylvia laughed. “Consider it done. But Grace, don’t forget that the most important thing you can do this week is to relax and enjoy yourself. Think of your quilting as play, not work. Take the pressure off yourself and remember the joy quilting brings you. You have all the time in the world. Be patient and have fun.”

  Sylvia spoke encouragingly, but the words felt dull and empty to Grace. She didn’t have all the time in the world. Despite the difference in their ages, she might have less time than Sylvia. Any project she began now might remain incomplete, like so many of the anonymous, abandoned relics from generations past she documented at the museum.

  “Grace!”

  Grace started and realized that she couldn’t feel the teacup in her hand. Too late, she tried to hold the cup upright, but the warm liquid sloshed onto her lap. She gasped and instinctively tried to leap to her feet, but her ankle twisted under her clumsily, and she fell back onto the sofa.

  “Goodness, dear,” Sylvia exclaimed, handing her another napkin. She hurried into the kitchen and returned with a damp towel. “Did you burn yourself?”

  “No … no, I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine. She was shaken badly, and her hand was still numb. She grasped the towel and tried to blot the tea stains from her slacks.

  “Are you sure?” Sylvia’s gaze was piercing.

  “Quite sure.” Grace laughed shakily. “Annoyed at myself for staining my favorite slacks, but otherwise unharmed.”

  “Hmph.” Sylvia studied her a moment as if waiting for more, but when Grace said nothing, she sighed. “Well, you run upstairs and change, and I’ll have one of my helpers wash those for you.” She glanced at her watch and then out the window, where twilight was descending. “If you hurry, you won’t miss our welcome ceremony.”

  “Welcome ceremony?”

  “You’ll see. You’ll enjoy this. In fact, it might be just what you need to call that wayward muse back where she belongs.” Sylvia rose, but she paused, looking down at Grace with a fond but troubled smile. “And if later you decide you want to talk, I’m always willing to listen.”

  Wordlessly Grace nodded and rose, wondering if anyone could keep a secret from Sylvia for long.

  The sun was just beginning to set when a staff member named Sarah McClure knocked on Donna’s door and invited her to the welcome ceremony. Donna joined several other campers in the hallway and followed Sarah downstairs. “What’s the welcome ceremony like?” Donna asked Vinnie. “There wasn’t anything about it in the brochure.”

  But Vinnie refused to tell her. “I won’t spoil the surprise,” she said. “You first-timers will have to find out the hard way, like the rest of us.”

  A young woman beside Donna asked, “Is it an initiation? It won’t hurt, will it?”

  She looked so alarmed that the others laughed, but secretly Donna had been wondering the same thing.

  Just as they were crossing the foyer, one of the front doors swung open and a slender woman entered, carrying a suitcase. She had light brown, shoulder-length hair and looked to be in her early to mid-thirties. Her gaze traveled from the empty registration table in the center of the room to the group of quilters obviously interrupted in the middle of an activity. With dismay, she asked, “Is it too late to register for camp?”

  Although Donna had never seen her photo or heard her voice, she knew at once who the latecomer was. “Megan?”

  “Donna?”

  Megan barely had time to set down her suitcase before Donna had raced across the room and embraced her. “Megan! It’s so wonderful to meet you in person! I was afraid you had changed your mind.”

  “No, I just misplaced it temporarily.” She laughed, but she sounded exhausted.

  Sarah joined them and welcomed Megan to Elm Creek Manor. She led Megan to the registration table, and within a few moments, Megan had signed in and received her room assignment. “I’m sorry you missed the welcome banquet,” Sarah said, “but I could fix you something to eat in the kitchen.”

  “That’s all right. I stopped at a diner on the way.” Megan looked at Donna and added in an undertone, “Wait until I tell you about that.”

  To Donna’s delight, Megan’s dry tone sounded exactly the way Donna had always imagined it, and suddenly she was certain that joining Megan at camp had been a good idea.

  Donna waited with the others as Sarah took Megan to her room to drop off her suitcase. When the pair rejoined them, Sarah led the group through the west wing and outside, onto a gray stone patio surrounded by evergreens and lilac bushes. The other guests had gathered inside a circle of forty chairs, where they sipped glasses of lemonade or iced tea and munched cookies. Donna spotted Sylvia Compson standing somewhat apart from the group, chatting with another woman who looked familiar, although Donna didn’t remember meeting her earlier that day.

  Megan clutched her arm. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman over there with Sylvia Compson. Is she Grace Daniels?”

  Megan’s prompting stirred Donna’s memory. “She could be.”

  “I’m sure it’s her.” Megan glowed with excitement. “I didn’t know there would be famous quilters here.”

  “That’s not the least of it. Rumor has it Julia Merchaud is here, too.”

  “Julia Merchaud, from television?”

  “The one and only. I didn’t see her myself, but other people on our floor swear they saw her go into the room at the end of the west wing.”

  “That’s right across from my room,” Megan gasped, then hesitated and scanned the faces of the other guests. “But why isn’t she here for the welcome ceremony?”

  “I don’t know. I hope it’s not because she’s so high and mighty she can’t associate with us commoners.”

  Megan laughed. “Maybe she thinks we’ll pester her for autographs instead of letting her enjoy camp.” Then she frowned. “Okay, I’ll admit it; that’s exactly what I was going to do. Maybe she’s right to stay away.”

  “If we see her, we’ll treat her like any other quilter,” Donna resolved. “Unless she wants us to treat her like a big star. Then we’ll just leave her alone.”

  Megan agreed, and, eyeing the table near the door, suggested they get themselves some refreshments before it was too late. Just as they picked up their cups and plates of cookies, Sylvia clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “Let’s have everyone take a seat so we can begin,” Sylvia said. “It’s getting late and I don’t want any of you nodding off during the ceremony.”

  The campers laughed, some nervously because they didn’t know what was coming next, others because they were far too excited to sleep. Their voices fell silent as Sylvia lit a candle and placed it in a spherical crystal holder. She moved to the center of the circle and looked around at the faces of her guests. “One of our traditions is to conclude the first evening of quilt camp with a ceremony we call Candlelight. Originally we intende
d this as a way for you to introduce yourselves to us and to each other; we’re going to be living and working together closely this week, so the sooner we get to know each other, the better. But our ceremony helps you to know yourselves better, too. It helps you focus on your goals and wishes and helps prepare you for the challenges of the future.”

  Donna felt a thrill of expectation. Sylvia made it sound as if they were embarking on a journey together, when all Donna had planned for was a simple week of quilting with a friend.

  Sylvia continued by explaining the ceremony. The campers would pass the candle around the circle, and as each woman took her turn to hold the candle, she would explain why she had come to Elm Creek Quilt Camp and what she hoped to gain that week. There was a pause after Sylvia asked for the first volunteer. Donna froze, heart thumping, and relaxed only when a woman two seats to her left raised her hand. Since the candle would be passed clockwise, Donna would have some time to prepare her remarks. She certainly couldn’t tell the truth, that she was at camp because she was too cowardly to face her daughter’s engagement.

  The first woman held the candle for a long moment in silence. Around them, unseen, crickets chirped in the gradually deepening darkness. “I’m Angela Clark, from Erie. I’m a new quilter. I’ve only made little things, pot holders and baby quilts. I came to camp to improve my skills because …” She took a deep breath. “My oldest son died in a car accident two years ago.” A murmur of sorrow and dismay went up from the circle. “His best friend was driving. He was drinking—they were both drinking. He smashed the car into a tree. My son was killed instantly. His friend had a few broken bones, but otherwise he was fine.” Someone murmured a scathing rebuke of the young driver. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t hate him. He made a terrible, terrible mistake, and my son paid for it. They both paid for it. My son died that night, but his best friend has been dying ever since, a little each day.” She looked around the circle. “He’s grieving, but he won’t allow himself to heal. He can’t forgive himself, and he can’t believe that my husband and I and my other children have already forgiven him. He was Jeremy’s best friend. Jeremy loved him as much as he loved his own brothers. I can’t bear for him to be in such pain.” She hesitated and lowered her eyes. “A lot of people want me to hate him, but I can’t do it. I can never excuse what he did, but I want him to get on with his life. I’ve read about memorial quilts—the kind made from pieces of someone’s clothing. I saved a lot of my son’s T-shirts from school and other activities, and thought I would piece them into a quilt for my son’s friend, to help him remember the good times he and Jeremy shared, and to help him find some closure. I don’t know if it will work, but I’m going to try.” With that, she passed the candle on to the next woman in the circle.