An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler

by Jennier Chiaverini

  “I don’t know what to do with you,” her father said as they walked home. His voice was flat and hopeless. “Frankie doesn’t give me this kind of trouble. I wish … ”

  He never finished the thought, and Vinnie found herself wondering what exactly he wished.

  She was only a little surprised when Aunt Lynn returned the next week. Her father gave Vinnie a quick hug, so hard it almost hurt, then took Frankie to the park to play catch.

  When they were alone, Aunt Lynn smiled at Vinnie, but her voice was tentative when she said, “Your father and I thought maybe you could come to live with me.”

  Vinnie’s heart sank. She liked Aunt Lynn, but this was her home. “For how long?”

  Aunt Lynn shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “What if I don’t want to?” she asked in a small voice.

  Aunt Lynn watched her without speaking for a moment, and Vinnie could see the sympathy in her eyes. “Come on. Let’s pack your things.”

  They packed all her clothes and books, and her favorite toys. Vinnie was too numb to cry. She worked slowly, hoping her father would return before she left, but all too soon the last box was filled, and she realized her father would stay out even past Frankie’s bedtime to avoid her.

  A black car waited at the curb, its back door and trunk open. Aunt Lynn loaded the boxes into the car, motioned for Vinnie to climb into the back seat, then sat beside her and shut the door.

  A blond woman in the driver’s seat turned around and grinned. “Hiya, Vinnie,” she said. “Welcome aboard the Lynn and Lena Express. Hang on to your hat.”

  Vinnie was too heartsick to reply. She shut her eyes and let Aunt Lynn pull her close as they drove away from the only home she had ever known. She never once looked back.

  In the decades that had passed since then, she never forgot how easily a girl could be sent away and ignored as if she had never existed. As she grew older, she realized that age was no protection: Wives could become inconvenient and be put aside as easily as daughters.

  Now, with her eighty-second birthday only a day away, she had met a kindhearted woman who deserved better, just as Vinnie herself had deserved better so long ago. Vinnie recognized the grief she saw in Megan’s eyes, and the spark of resolve that had not yet been quenched. She remembered what that felt like, and how only the love of two compassionate women had helped her grow from a lonely little girl into a strong, resilient woman. It was long past time she helped another as she had been helped.

  If Vinnie had her way—and she usually did—she would see her new friend happy again before another birthday passed.

  Megan saved seats for Donna and Grace in Color Theory, and was pleased when Grace came to sit beside them without waiting to be invited. At the beginning of class, Gwen assigned an exercise, working with paints to explore tints and hues. Each student selected a tube of her favorite color, squeezed a sample onto an artist’s palette, and colored the first section of a chart. Next Gwen told them to mix in white paint, one drop at a time, and to fill the chart with the resulting color variations.

  Donna tried to convince Megan to use purple, but Megan snatched the blue tube before Donna could hide it. Grace chose red, so Donna took yellow. “Someone at this table has to be daring,” she said.

  “What’s so daring about yellow?” Megan teased.

  “For a quilter, yellow is daring,” Grace said. “Some quilters refuse to use it at all, and some use so much that it completely overpowers the other colors in the quilt. It’s challenging to strike the right balance.”

  “Besides, it’s next to impossible to find the perfect shade of yellow in a fabric store,” Donna said. “You want a butter yellow and you have to settle for canary or daffodil.”

  “Recently I’ve resorted to dyeing my own to get the colors I need.” Grace frowned at the tip of her paintbrush. “Although to be honest, ‘recently’ is a relative term. I haven’t dyed anything in more than a year or started anything else, for that matter.”

  “I have the opposite problem,” Donna said. “I have so many projects in the works that I won’t possibly live long enough to finish them all.”

  “You should do what my mother does,” Megan said. “She keeps each of her works in progress in a separate box labeled with the name of one of her friends. If, God forbid, she should pass away unexpectedly, each friend will receive the box with her name on it and think my mother was working on a quilt especially for her. She uses the names of women she doesn’t get along with, too. She says it’s a great way to make sure she has plenty of guilt-ridden, sobbing mourners at her funeral.”

  Grace laughed, but Donna shuddered. “That’s morbid.”

  Megan smiled to herself. Donna only thought so because she didn’t understand her mother’s sense of humor. Megan wished she had inherited more of it and less of her father’s somber pragmatism. Maybe then she’d be able to laugh off her failures instead of brooding over them. Maybe then she wouldn’t worry about Robby’s tendency to embellish the truth beyond recognition and how she could never hope to fully compensate for his father’s absence.

  “Is your quilter’s block because of your daughter?” Donna asked Grace.

  Grace hesitated. “Yes … well, that’s part of it.” She added a drop of white paint to her palette and fell silent as she blended the new shade. “I don’t know what bothers me most: that she’s seeing an older man or that she hasn’t told me about him.”

  Megan thought of her own futile attempts at dating after the divorce. “Maybe she doesn’t want to mention him until she knows whether she’s serious about him.”

  “That’s exactly the problem. She must be serious about him, because she already introduced him to her son. She’s adamant about not letting him meet casual boyfriends.” Grace sighed. “I think I’ve answered my own question. What bothers me most is that she didn’t tell me. For all I know, he might be a perfectly wonderful man.”

  “He probably is,” Megan said to reassure her, but Donna shook her head.

  “I keep telling myself the same thing about Brandon—my daughter’s fiancé,” Donna said. “I feel like I’m trying to convince myself that everything is going to be okay, because deep down, I don’t really believe it. Does that make any sense?”

  Grace nodded emphatically. Megan watched the two women, linked by their similar worries, and thought with some trepidation about her own child. What, if anything, could Megan do to help Robby avoid repeating his parents’ dismal mistakes?

  Her pragmatism asserted itself. There was no point in worrying about Robby’s future relationships now. She’d have time enough to worry when she allowed Robby to begin dating—which she’d be ready to do in about twenty years.

  Just then, she heard footsteps behind her and felt a light touch on her shoulder. She looked up to find Sylvia Compson.

  “Megan Donohue?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your mother’s on the phone. You may take the call in the parlor, if you’d like some privacy.”

  “My mom?” Megan pushed back her chair and rose. “Is something wrong?”

  “She didn’t say so, dear. I’m sure she would have if it were an emergency.”

  Megan quickly gathered her things and followed Sylvia out of the classroom, finding no comfort in the older woman’s sympathetic assurances. Robby. She pictured broken limbs, car accidents, malevolent strangers. By the time they reached the formal parlor in the west wing, Megan’s heart was pounding, and she snatched up the phone without remembering to thank her hostess, who quickly departed. “Hello?” she said breathlessly into the phone.

  “Honey?”

  “Mom? What’s wrong? Is Robby okay?”

  “He’s fine,” her mother assured her, then lowered her voice. “I’m so sorry to call you like this, but Robby’s upset. He’s been crying all morning, and I don’t think he’ll calm down unless he talks to you.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing happened, honey, it’s just that …” She hesitated. �
�He’s afraid you aren’t coming back. I hate to tell you this, but he thinks you’ve left him like his father did.”

  “Could you put him on the phone, please?” Megan said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  “Of course.”

  In another moment, her son’s wavering voice said, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Robby, it’s Mom.”

  “Mom?” he said. “Where are you? Are you coming home?”

  Yes, she almost cried out, Right this minute. I’m on my way. Instead she took a deep breath and said, “I’ll be home on Saturday, like I told you before I left, remember?”

  “Y-yes.” He sniffled, and she could picture him wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Are you sure you’re coming back?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” She forced humor into her voice. “Did you think I’d get lost or something?”

  “Well, you do get kind of lost sometimes, Mom.”

  She’d walked right into that one. “Not this time. I have a map and everything. Besides, I have to come home. I left all my stuff there.”

  He mulled that over. “That’s true,” he admitted.

  She kept him on the phone until he was cheerful again, telling her all the fun plans he and his grandpa were making for the week. She listened and responded with just the right amount of enthusiasm, but inside she was aching and seething, wishing that Keith was there so she could shake him, so she could rage at him, so she could somehow make him see what his silence was doing to their precious child.

  Julia sat on her bed looking over her notes from the Beginning Piecing class. The class had covered several of the terms on her list that morning, and the teacher had assured her they would get to the others later that week. For the first time since her plane had touched down in central Pennsylvania, Julia began to feel some hope that this trip wouldn’t be a wasted effort, after all.

  To her surprise, she had actually enjoyed the lesson. The teacher, a strikingly pretty blond woman in her early forties named Diane, had a dry sense of humor that took some getting used to, but her explanations were clear and simple. The other five students had made templates for a Friendship Star block the previous day, but Diane had helped Julia while the other students cut out their fabric pieces, and before long, Julia had caught up to them. With Diane’s class and Donna’s private tutorials, Julia might just be able to convince Deneford she had been quilting for decades.

  Suddenly a knock sounded on her door. “Megan! Are you decent?” a voice sang out as the door swung open. The white-haired woman stuck her head in the room, and when she spotted Julia, her eyebrows arched in surprise. “My goodness,” she said. “You’re decent, but you’re not Megan.”

  “No.” Startled, Julia rose and smoothed her skirt self-consciously. “I’m afraid you have the wrong room.”

  “Are you sure?” The woman, whom Julia now recognized as the same quilter from yesterday’s disastrous Quick Piecing class, peered around in puzzlement as if she might spy the woman she was looking for hiding in a corner. “I was sure she said first room on the left in the west wing.”

  “I’m sorry.” Julia’s surprise was turning to impatience, but, remembering her image, she put on a pleasant expression. “There’s no one named Megan staying in this room.”

  “Oh.” The woman frowned, thinking. “Well, I already knocked across the hall, so maybe she went down to lunch already. Are you coming?”

  “Well, actually—”

  “You’re not planning to skip lunch, are you? Someone as thin as you?”

  “I’m expecting someone to bring me a tray.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then you can’t stay up in your room all alone,” the woman protested, and before Julia knew it, she had entered the room and taken Julia’s arm. “You’ll miss all the fun.” Julia was too startled to do anything as the woman began to steer her toward the door and into the hallway. “I’m Vinnie, by the way.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  “Tuesday is pasta buffet,” Vinnie said. “You pick what shape of pasta you like, what ingredients, and what sauce, and the cook mixes each order in a separate omelet pan. Everyone can have her lunch exactly the way she likes it.”

  They had reached the stairs, and Julia saw no way to escape without knocking the older woman on her backside. “That sounds delicious,” she said instead, her stomach knotting at the thought of a crowd of quilters just waiting for her to slop marinara sauce down the front of her blouse. They passed Sarah on her way upstairs with a covered tray. “I’ll be lunching with the other campers today, thank you,” Julia said with all the dignity she could muster. In the banquet hall, she resigned herself to being the lunchtime entertainment for the day. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would remember to lock her door.

  The meal itself wasn’t as tacky as she expected it to be; the cook prepared her penne with sundried tomatoes, fresh basil, and an excellent olive oil she was astonished to see this far from the West Coast. Vinnie ordered a plate of spaghetti and meatballs in a red sauce, then motioned for Julia to follow her to a nearby table where two other women were already seated. One of the women was Donna, who started at their approach.

  “These are two of my newest quilting friends, Donna and Grace,” Vinnie said, and the two women greeted Julia with silent nods. “Donna and Grace, this is …” She looked up at Julia. “My goodness, dear, I didn’t even get your name.”

  “Julia.” Was it possible the old biddy didn’t recognize her?

  “Julia.” Vinnie nodded in satisfaction and sat down. “Well, pull up a chair, Julia, before your noodles get cold.”

  “We can’t have that, can we?” Julia said as pleasantly as she could manage, seating herself between Vinnie and Donna.

  Just then, another woman joined them. A slender brunette, she was the youngest of the four, but unlike the others, she looked unhappy. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, taking a seat between Grace and Vinnie. Then she bounded to her feet again. “Oh. I forgot my food.”

  “What’s wrong with Megan?” Vinnie asked as the harried young woman headed for the pasta bar.

  “She received a phone call in the middle of Color Theory class,” Grace said. “I hope it wasn’t bad news.”

  When Megan returned, her eyes met Julia’s, and she nearly dropped her plate. “Oh my goodness, I didn’t even see you there.”

  Vinnie reached for Megan’s hand in a grandmotherly gesture that completely escaped the younger woman’s notice. “Megan, this is Julia.”

  “Yes, I know. Julia Merchaud.” She fumbled for her chair and sat down, still staring at Julia.

  “You’ve met?”

  “Well, no, but everyone knows Julia Merchaud.”

  Vinnie turned to her. “Is that so?”

  Before Julia could reply, Donna said, “You’re kidding, right? You’ve never heard of Julia Merchaud?”

  “No.” Vinnie looked from Donna to Julia and back. “Well, why should I have heard of her? She’s probably never heard of me. Are you another famous quilter, like Grace?”

  “She’s famous, but she’s not a quilter,” Megan said.

  “She most certainly is too a quilter,” Donna said hastily, stealing a quick glance at Julia. “You’re sure you’ve never heard of her? Julia Merchaud, Grandma Wilson from Family Tree? On television?”

  Vinnie gave Julia a guilty smile. “I’m sorry, dear. I suppose I’m not watching the right channels. What day is your show on? I’ll be sure to watch for you.”

  “It’s been canceled,” Julia managed. Eight years in the same role, one that earned her four Emmys and a Golden Globe, and someone from her core demographic didn’t even recognize her.

  “It was a great show, though,” Megan ventured.

  “It was my favorite,” Donna said. “I wrote a letter to the network and complained when it was canceled, but no one ever wrote back.”

  Julia’s annoyance ebbed, no match for Donna’s admiration. “That’s
typical of the networks,” she said, stabbing a piece of pasta with her fork. “They pay more attention to advertisers than viewers.”

  “That’s a shame,” Vinnie said. “Well, dear, if Donna and Megan here are any indication, you have loyal fans who won’t rest until they see you on another show soon.”

  “Do you have any other projects pending?” Grace inquired.

  “I do have one that’s rather important. That’s why I came to quilt camp—to brush up on my skills. My agent insisted, unfortunately. I’d planned on a week at my favorite spa.” Julia sighed. She could be receiving a massage at that very moment. Instead her fingertips were sore with needle pricks, and she kept finding stray bits of thread all over her clothes. “I’ll be playing a quilter in a feature film that begins shooting in a few months.”

  “How wonderful,” Vinnie exclaimed. “A movie about quilters. It’ll be a hit; I’m sure of it.”

  Warming to her subject, Julia divulged some details about the plot, and about how Ellen, whom she generously described as a “promising new voice in filmmaking,” had based the story on her great-grandmother’s diaries. As the four women hung on her every word, Julia forgot that she had not desired their company in the first place.

  “That sounds so exciting,” Donna said wistfully. “All I’ve ever done with my life is keep house and raise kids.”

  “That’s all?” Grace said. “That’s everything. There’s no more important job in the world than raising your children. No job is more difficult, either.”

  “Or more rewarding,” Vinnie said. “I raised four children and don’t regret for a moment any of the sacrifices I made for them. I don’t know how mothers these days can bear to leave their children in day care while they go off to work.”

  Megan gave her a wan look. “It isn’t easy.”

  “Your situation is different,” Vinnie said. “It’s not your fault that husband of yours left. I’m sure you’d stay home if you could.”