Round Robin

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Sarah, I’m tired,” he said, climbing into bed. “Can you just pull the plug, please?”

  “Pull the plug? You mean, tell her to go home?”

  “No, I mean stop playing this broken record.” He lay down and drew the covers over himself. “Your mother says the wrong things, she embarrasses you, she doesn’t understand you—I get the idea. We all get the idea.”

  Sarah stared at him. “Since when do we not talk to each other about our problems?”

  “If you want to talk, we can talk. You’re just ranting and raving.” He rolled over on his side, ending the discussion.

  Sarah watched him, speechless, before she finally finished undressing and got into bed. She lay down on her side with her back to him. She waited, but he didn’t mold his body around hers as he usually did. She felt cold and alone, and it was an increasingly familiar feeling. She missed their old closeness and wondered what had become of it.

  Sometimes she felt like she couldn’t talk to Matt about anything anymore. She would have turned to Sylvia, but the older woman already had enough misgivings about bringing mother and daughter together; Sarah couldn’t bear to add to them. She would have confided in the Elm Creek Quilters, but they had already accepted Carol as one of their own. Two years ago the Elm Creek Quilters had welcomed Sarah without judgment, without conditions, with no other wish than to offer her their friendship. In spite of everything, Sarah couldn’t bring herself to insist that they deny that gift to another newcomer, even when that newcomer had her so crazy she often thought she’d rather fling herself into Elm Creek than spend another minute in her presence.

  As the spring days grew longer and warmer, Sarah put her energy into counting the days until her mother’s departure. If Diane could tolerate the skateboard ramp fiasco, Sarah could surely endure the rest of her mother’s visit.

  On a Thursday afternoon, Sarah left the office and went downstairs to the ballroom, where Diane was assisting Bonnie with her workshop. Sarah watched as Diane moved briskly and confidently from table to table, assisting the campers. If Diane was worried about the upcoming exemption hearing, she hid it well. There was a new determination in her eyes, an awareness and confidence Sarah hadn’t seen there before.

  When the class was over and the students had gone off to enjoy their free time, Diane took a folded bundle out of her bag. “I finished adding my border,” she said. “Do you want it next, Bonnie?”

  Bonnie agreed, took the quilt, and held it up. Sarah took one look at it and began to laugh.

  “What?” Diane asked. “What’s the problem now?”

  “All you did was add four triangles and set it on point,” Sarah exclaimed.

  “So? No one said we couldn’t set it on point.”

  “Setting it on point isn’t the problem.”

  Bonnie shook her head. “No piecing, no appliqué—I consider that cheating.”

  “At least I got it done on time,” Diane said, then she paused. “Almost on time. I’m only a little late.”

  They all laughed, but Sarah felt a wave of sympathy for Diane, who had been much too distracted lately to enjoy working on the quilt. Diane’s piecing had improved so much over the past two years, and she had probably been eager to show off her new skills. Once again Mary Beth had forced Diane to modify her goals.

  A similar thought must have crossed Bonnie’s mind, for she folded up the quilt top and packed it carefully in her tote bag. “Your border’s just fine,” she said. “In fact, I think it was an excellent choice. An unbroken space for hand quilting will set off the center block perfectly.”

  Diane was so pleased by the compliment that she couldn’t speak.

  Suddenly, Sarah heard an odd rumbling coming from outside. “Do you hear that?” she asked her friends.

  They all listened.

  “Thunder?” Bonnie guessed.

  “I don’t think so,” Sarah said. They went to a window on the west-facing wall, where they could hear the sound more plainly as they looked out on the back of the manor. Elm trees obscured most of the view, but in the distance Sarah could see a cloud of dust rising along the back road, near the barn and moving closer.

  “What is it, a cattle drive?” Diane asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Sarah left the ballroom and headed for the west wing, Bonnie and Diane close behind. Sylvia met them at the kitchen doorway as they passed.

  “What on earth is that noise?” she asked them. Without waiting for an answer, she tossed her dish towel onto the kitchen table and followed her friends to the back door.

  Sarah opened it and led the three women outside, where they shaded their eyes with their hands and looked down the back road. A motor home was crossing the narrow bridge over Elm Creek.

  Sylvia sucked in a breath. “Watch the trees, watch the trees,” she called out as the vehicle scraped through the stately elms lining the back road. Sarah was glad Matt hadn’t seen it.

  The motor home slowed as it entered the clearing behind the manor and circled the small parking lot, carefully making its way past the campers’ cars. When it reached the far end of the lot, it maneuvered into a block of open spaces and halted.

  A moment later, the door opened and a man got out. Sarah guessed from his gray hair and the slight stiffness to his movements that he was in his early seventies, a few years younger than Sylvia. He wore tan slacks and a striped golf shirt—the uniform of the leisure set—but the hard knots of muscle in his forearms suggested years of demanding physical labor.

  “Someone’s husband?” Bonnie murmured.

  “Maybe.” Sarah watched the man approach. They had a few campers around his age. Alarm pricked her. What emergency would require a man to come pick up his wife from quilt camp without phoning first?

  Sylvia brushed past Sarah as she descended the steps to welcome their unexpected guest. “Hello,” she greeted him from a few yards away. “Welcome to Elm Creek Manor. May I help you?”

  A grin broke over the man’s face, and Sarah found herself smiling, too. He looked almost bashful, and his brown eyes were warm and kind. “Hello, Sylvia,” he said.

  He knew her. Sarah, Bonnie, and Diane exchanged surprised glances, and Sarah could tell by their expressions that they didn’t recognize the man, either. She wished she could see Sylvia’s face, but the older woman’s back was to her.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  Then Sylvia’s hand flew to her throat. “Good gracious me, it couldn’t be.”

  The man’s grin deepened, and he nodded.

  “Andrew Cooper, as I live and breathe,” Sylvia exclaimed. It happened too suddenly for Sarah to detect who stepped forward first, but in an instant the distance between Sylvia and the man had been closed and they were embracing. Then Sylvia placed her hands on his shoulders and stepped back to see him better. “How are you? Better yet, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “I saw your program on television,” he explained. His voice had a rough edge to it, the sound of a man who spoke only when he had something important to say. “I was traveling east to visit my daughter, and I figured I’d pull off the turnpike and see the old hometown.”

  “I’m glad you did, but you could have told me you were coming,” Sylvia scolded him. “You certainly know how to give a body a shock.”

  “Sorry.” He smiled, and suddenly Sarah realized he’d been looking forward to that scolding for miles. As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up at her.

  Sylvia followed his line of sight and started as if she had forgotten her friends were there. “Oh, dear. Andrew, you surprised the manners right out of me. These are my friends and colleagues—Bonnie Markham, Diane Sonnenberg, and Sarah McClure. Ladies, this is Andrew Cooper, a dear old friend of the family. He and my brother Richard were once as thick as thieves.”

  Andrew. With a jolt, Sarah realized who the man was, who he had been—the child who had hidden from his abusive father in Richard’s little red playhouse so many years before; the young
man who had shared Richard’s excitement and naive bravery as they went off to war; the veteran of so much horror who had told Sylvia how her brother-in-law’s cowardice had led to the deaths of Richard and her beloved husband, James. That figure from the past was greeting her and taking her hand in his callused, work-hardened one. She was as stunned as if Hans and Anneke Bergstrom themselves had suddenly appeared and waved at her as they strolled arm-in-arm across the lawn.

  “We have so much catching up to do,” Sylvia was saying to Andrew. “But surely you didn’t travel all this way alone. I’ll be terribly disappointed if you didn’t bring your wife with you.”

  Andrew’s smile wavered. “My wife passed on three years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “How would you have?” He shrugged apologetically. “I’ve never been very good about writing letters. The last time I wrote was to invite you to the wedding.”

  “I wish I had come,” Sylvia said. There was an ache in her voice Sarah hadn’t heard in a long time. “I wish I had known her.”

  “You would have liked her.”

  “I’m certain I would have.” Sylvia took Andrew by the arm. “Come inside and tell me all about her.” She led him into the manor.

  That evening, after the campers had turned in for the night, Sarah, Matt, and Carol joined Sylvia and Andrew in the parlor to hear more of Andrew’s story. The day Andrew broke the tragic news to Sylvia had been his last in Waterford, and from there he had gone to Detroit for a job on the line in a factory that was being returned to auto production since tanks were no longer in such demand. Within a few years he had worked his way up to shift supervisor, and soon after he became foreman he married a young widow whose husband had died in Normandy, a beautiful young schoolteacher with dark hair, a ready laugh, and a quick temper that was appeased as quickly as it flared up. They had a daughter and a son, the most perfect grandchildren in the world, and almost fifty years together. She had died of an extended illness, but Andrew so couched this part of his story in euphemism that Sarah wasn’t exactly sure what had taken her life. After his retirement, Andrew had bought the motor home and spent most of his time traveling between his son’s home, on the West Coast, and his daughter’s home, in the East. His many years of hard work had earned him the freedom to come and go as he pleased, and he’d made the most of it—and he planned to keep doing so as long as he and the motor home held up.

  “I’m glad you finally decided to take the road home to Waterford,” Sylvia said.

  He smiled at her. “So am I.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Sarah would have sworn Sylvia’s cheeks colored before she looked away.

  Then Andrew turned to Matt. “Is Elm Creek still good for trout?”

  “One of the best streams in the state,” Matt said. “They stock it every year.”

  “In the old days they didn’t need to,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “Domestic fish. Bet they train them to swim right up to your hook and take the bait. Where’s the challenge in that?”

  Matt grinned. “Think of it this way. They stock upstream, and that’s where most people fish. The trout that make it down here have to be pretty smart to run that gauntlet. It might be harder to catch them than you think.”

  “Good. It’s more fun that way.”

  “We can go out tomorrow morning if you like.”

  “I would,” Andrew said, pleased. “We’ll have trout for you and all your campers for lunch, Sylvia.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll go ahead with my original menu, just in case.”

  Andrew smiled and turned to Sarah. “How about you? Do you fish?”

  “Not much,” Sarah admitted, making a face at the thought of putting a worm on a hook.

  “I’ll teach you so you’ll like it,” Andrew promised. “I taught a young woman to fish once. She caught her first fish with her bare hands. Well, actually, it was with her foot, and she didn’t mean to catch it, but it wasn’t bad for a first try.”

  “What on earth?” Sylvia asked.

  He shrugged and waved the question off. “It’s a long story. You don’t want to hear it.”

  “Yes, we do,” Sarah said. “You’re just keeping us in suspense so we’ll beg you to tell us.”

  The twinkle in his eye told Sarah she had guessed correctly. “My wife and I used to have a cabin up north near Charlevoix,” he began. “We used to talk about retiring there, but when Katy fell ill, we went less and less, until I finally decided to sell it. No sense in owning a cabin you never use. But when my son was in college, we still had the place, and the whole family used to go up there all the time and go fishing.

  “His third year in school over in Ann Arbor, my son met a real sweet girl and he wanted to bring her home to meet us. We had already planned a trip to the cabin, so we told them to come on up and join us. Cathy was a pretty little thing, but she was a city girl. Sweet and smart, but not much for the outdoors.” He indicated Sylvia with a jerk of his head. “Not like this one, here. Never saw an animal she couldn’t tame.”

  “Nonsense,” Sylvia said, but she looked pleased.

  “So one afternoon, me and Bob—that’s my son—and Cathy were out in the rowboat. Cathy didn’t want to fish, though. She said she just wanted to watch. Pretty soon she started to get bored, or hot, or something, because she took off her shoes and socks so she could dangle her feet over the side of the boat to cool off.”

  Matt grinned. “I think I can see where this is heading.”

  “Well, she couldn’t, and we did try to warn her. ‘Better not,’ my son said. ‘There’s muskie in this lake.’”

  “‘What’s a muskie?’ she asked. I told her it was a big, mean, ugly fish with sharp teeth, a sour temper, and curiosity to spare. ‘You put your foot over the side, and a muskie might think it’s lunch,’ I warned her, but she didn’t listen. She thought we were just making it up to tease her.” He looked abashed. “She had good reason. We’d been teasing her a lot already.”

  “So what happened?” Sarah asked.

  “She put her feet over the side, and for the first half hour or so she was fine. ‘See, I knew you were making it up,’ she said, and then she let out a shriek that would curl your hair. She yanked her feet back into the boat—and she brought a fourteen-inch muskie with her.”

  Carol gasped. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was. That ugly thing had its teeth clamped around the heel of her foot, and it wouldn’t let go no matter how hard she waved her leg around. Bob wrestled with it and managed to get it off, but it wasn’t easy, what with Cathy clutching him and sobbing and carrying on.”

  “I would have been sobbing, too, if it had been me,” Sylvia declared.

  Andrew smiled at her. “No, not you, Sylvia. I’ve seen you break horses. You wouldn’t be scared by a little fish.”

  “I never broke horses,” Sylvia said, smiling back. “I gentled them. There’s a difference.”

  “Fourteen inches doesn’t sound so little to me,” Sarah said. “Was Cathy all right?”

  “She was fine. She needed a few stitches, and she hobbled around for a while with a bandage around her foot, but she was okay. She was a good sport about it afterward, too.”

  “What happened to the fish?” Matt asked.

  The others laughed, but Andrew seemed to consider it a logical question. “I told Cathy and Bob that I threw it back. It was too small. Wouldn’t have been legal to keep it. But I didn’t really. I kept it, then went to the DNR, turned myself in, told them the story, paid a fee, and took the fella home.” He grinned. “I had it mounted and gave it to Cathy and Bob two years later as a wedding present.”

  His listeners burst out laughing.

  “Now, that’s a fish story,” Sylvia said. “You two aren’t allowed to get into any trouble like that tomorrow, understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Matt said meekly, but Andrew only grinned at her.

  “I’ll never look at filet of sole the
same way,” Carol said, laughing. “You just scared me away from fishing forever.”

  Andrew chuckled. “If you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us.”

  “No thanks.” Carol shuddered.

  Andrew turned to Sylvia. “You run a quilt camp. Why don’t you run a trout camp, too?”

  Sylvia’s eyebrows arched. “A trout camp?”

  “Sure. Maybe once in a while you could have a weekend for couples. The ladies could quilt during the day while the men go fishing. At night you could play records in the ballroom and have a dance.”

  Sarah and Sylvia looked at each other.

  “That’s a lovely idea,” Sylvia said.

  Sarah agreed, wondering why they hadn’t thought of it first. They could have fishing for the men, or golf—there were so many possibilities they hadn’t even considered.

  “Andrew, between your story and your suggestion, you’ve earned your keep,” Sylvia said. “Sarah, would you mind fixing up a room for our newest guest?”

  Sarah nodded and rose, but Andrew shook his head. “I brought my bed with me.”

  “You can’t mean it,” Sylvia said. “Surely you don’t want to stay in the parking lot when you can have a nice, comfortable room indoors?”

  “The motor home’s comfortable enough for me,” he said, and in his mild way proceeded to deflect all of Sylvia’s arguments to the contrary. To Sarah’s amazement, Sylvia eventually gave up. She almost never backed down from a position once she had made up her mind.

  The next morning, Sylvia phoned Agnes and told her to come to Elm Creek Manor earlier than usual, because Sylvia wanted to show her something before her appliqué workshop. Agnes arrived while Sarah, Sylvia, and Carol were preparing lunch and Andrew was entertaining them with stories of his travels. When Andrew identified himself, Agnes shrieked, burst into tears, and threw her arms around him, and for a moment Sarah could see the girl she had been, the impulsive, emotional young woman Sylvia had nicknamed “the Puzzle.” If Sylvia had been surprised to see Andrew, Agnes looked positively astounded. Agnes, Andrew, and Richard had been great friends those few years in Philadelphia before the men went off to war. Sarah could only imagine how Agnes felt at seeing this figure from the past sitting so casually at the kitchen table.