Round Robin

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Oh.”

  A moment passed in silence as they walked on.

  “Bonnie—” Craig hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you about this trip.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Craig, I already know.”

  Silence.

  “Oh.” His voice was leaden. “I guess I knew that.”

  She glanced at him, and saw to her amazement that his face was contorted, as if he were fighting back tears. His pace slowed until he came to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Bonnie—” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry—”

  Her first instinct was to comfort him, to tell him everything would be all right, that they could slip back into their comfortable, routine married life as if he had not set out to betray her. She had won, and in her victory she could afford to be generous. But the words stuck in her throat. She had won him back, but watching him fight off tears, she couldn’t imagine ever trusting him again.

  “I don’t think I can go through this again,” she heard herself say.

  “You won’t have to. I promise.”

  She tried, but she couldn’t believe him. She would never know when the next Terri would come along, and she couldn’t bear to spend every waking moment suspecting him, watching him, waiting for the ground beneath her feet to shift and crumble again. She deserved better than a lifetime of suspicion and mistrust. She deserved better.

  “Bonnie?” Craig pleaded. “Please say you forgive me.”

  “Of course I do,” she said, thinking, I don’t know if I can.

  They walked on.

  When they arrived home on Sunday, Bonnie unpacked her suitcase with barely a word for her husband. Then she went to her sewing room, where she took out the round robin quilt.

  She chose green and blue for the colors of Elm Creek Manor. She chose blue for truth and green for new beginnings. She followed Diane’s lead and chose a darker shade of cream for her background; Diane had given her such good advice lately that it seemed reasonable to accept her guidance this time, too.

  She pieced a border of pinwheel blocks—pinwheels for her windblown life, which with faith and perseverance she tried to stitch into order. The pattern was a four patch, a square divided into four smaller squares, which were in turn divided into two equal triangles, one light, one dark, like the darkness of the past week and the light hope of the future. She wanted to believe in hope.

  One side of each triangle was for Craig, one for Terri, and one for herself, but as the border took shape, the triangles melted into the pinwheel pattern, and all she could see was the motion spinning ever forward, but to what destination, she did not know.

  Chapter Seven

  Sylvia traced around the template, careful to keep the points of the diamond clear and distinct as she drew on the wrong side of the dark blue paisley fabric. She would hand-piece this quilt, she decided, to insure the accuracy of the piecing and the sharpness of the points. She had made other Broken Star quilts before, but this one was special. When it was complete, it would hang in the front foyer to welcome their guests to Elm Creek Manor.

  A twinge of pain shot through her hand, so sharp that she dropped the scissors. She massaged her right hand with her left, waiting for the ache to subside. More and more frequently these days, aches and pains interrupted her work. Sarah told her she ought to see a doctor, but Sylvia put it off. She loathed doctors. They never kept their appointments promptly, and she had much better things to do than sit in an uncomfortable waiting room chair paging through outdated magazines. When the doctors finally condescended to see her, they would immediately trot her over to the scale and urge her to put on some weight. A few minutes later, they would draw some blood and order her to watch her cholesterol. How on earth was she supposed to watch her cholesterol and put on weight at the same time? Honestly. She was seventy-seven years old and didn’t need some child a fraction of her age telling her how to feed herself.

  After all, nothing was wrong with her. Even her little scare a few months ago had turned out to be nothing. Fortunately, Sylvia had kept it to herself or Sarah would have rushed her to the emergency room. The headache had come out of nowhere, and it was more severe than any Sylvia had ever felt. When she stood up to get an aspirin, she couldn’t keep her balance. When she tried to call for help, the words came out in the wrong order, startling her into silence. She was on the verge of asking Sarah to call the doctor, but when the sensations faded after only a few minutes, she decided there was no sense in complaining. Later she heard Gwen describing a migraine, and she realized that was what she had experienced. It was a relief, but annoying, too, to learn she had suddenly developed migraines at her age.

  When the pain in her hand had faded, Sylvia began to arrange the pieces she had already cut, dozens of diamonds in blue, green, and purple jewel tones. Claudia preferred—had preferred—pastels, but Sylvia liked the intensity of the darker hues. If Claudia were to walk in on her now, she would surely work herself into a good pout. “Can’t you choose something more cheerful for once?” she would say.

  “You’re the cheerful one, little Miss Sunshine. You make the happy quilts if you want them so badly.”

  Claudia would scowl at the nickname, but it wouldn’t prevent her from carrying on. “And what’s this—another Lone Star?”

  “No.”

  “It looks like a Lone Star to me.”

  “It’s not.” Sylvia would pause and hide a smile. “It’s a Broken Star.”

  “Well, close enough,” Claudia would retort, exasperated.

  Claudia was right; Sylvia did make many Lone Stars and Lone Star variations. And why not? It was her favorite pattern, after all, and there were so many ways to arrange the colors and values to create the appearance of depth and movement. And perhaps just a tiny part of her found a smug satisfaction in choosing a pattern that Claudia struggled with. Even with the far simpler LeMoyne Star block, Claudia would chop off the tips of her diamonds, line up seams improperly, and distort the fabric so that the star bulged in the center. Meanwhile, Sylvia would hum pleasantly as she worked and would pretend not to notice Claudia’s jealousy as one Lone Star diamond after another fell into place swiftly and precisely, as if it were no effort at all.

  Only Sylvia knew the truth: although she made it look easy, it was difficult to piece those blocks so perfectly. If she were alone, she might have relaxed and allowed herself a slight misalignment, the tiniest bulge. But not with Claudia hovering around, watching and waiting for her to make a mistake.

  She caught herself. Claudia wasn’t watching anymore. She knew that.

  Suddenly she felt overcome by shame. Of course her sister had been jealous of her all those years. Sylvia had done everything within her power to encourage that jealousy. She knew she was the better quilter and made certain everyone else knew it, too. She had been an arrogant show-off since the day she first picked up a needle. She could have helped Claudia become a better quilter; she could have been modest about her own successes; she could have admitted that Claudia’s quilts were as warm and comfortable as her own. She could have ignored the minuscule errors that no one else saw until she pointed them out.

  But at the time, Claudia had always seemed the one at fault. How could Sylvia have been so wrong and not have sensed it?

  Sylvia closed her eyes for a moment and forced the thoughts away. Her right hand shook as she reached for the scissors again. The pain returned like an electric shock from her knuckles to the elbow. She gasped and tried to drop the scissors, but her hand had frozen up, tightening with the pain. She used her left hand to open the clenched fingers, and the scissors fell to the table.

  “Are you all right?”

  She looked up to find Andrew in the doorway of the sitting room. He looked concerned as he approached, and she wondered how long he had been standing there.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just some aches and pains.”

  “Are you sure?”


  She followed his line of sight and saw that he was studying her hands. Without realizing it, she had resumed the massaging motions. She forced herself to stop and let her hands fall to her sides. “It’s nothing.”

  Andrew nodded, but he reached for her right hand anyway. “Let me see if I can help.”

  “No, really, you don’t—” But he had already taken her hand in both of his, gently working it with his thumbs. His hands felt sure around hers, gentle but toughened from work. She approved. Soft hands didn’t belong on a man.

  She watched him, but his eyes were intent on her hand. Suddenly he looked up and smiled. “How’s that? Feel better?”

  To her surprise, she did. “Why, yes, I do.” There was no pain at all. “How did you do that?”

  “I just showed those pains who’s boss.” He smiled and held her gaze, and as he did, she felt the strangest sensation, a stirring—and then she realized he had finished rubbing her hand but was still holding it clasped in his own.

  She pulled her hand away. “Thank you.”

  “Any time.”

  He smiled at her again, so easy and comfortable, and the faint sensation—whatever it was—returned. What on earth was wrong with her? Perhaps Sarah was right and a trip to the doctor was in order.

  She checked her watch, hoping the gesture wasn’t too artificial. “I’d better find Sarah. It’s about time to leave for Diane’s Zoning Commission hearing. Carol agreed to look after our guests while we’re gone.” Her voice was brisk, and so was her stride as she turned away from Andrew and went into the kitchen.

  He followed. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “No, thank you. You’ve been such a big help already. You’ve earned yourself a rest.”

  “You sound like my kids,” he said. “They’re always trying to push me into a rocking chair. There’ll be plenty of time to rest when I’m old.”

  Sylvia couldn’t help smiling. Sarah and Matt used to give her that kind of talk, until she insisted they stop. “You’re a man after my own heart, Andrew.”

  He caught her eye and grinned, but made no reply. She looked away, embarrassed. Somehow her words had come out differently than she had intended, almost flirtatious.

  It was because she had grown so accustomed to Andrew’s presence, that was all. In the few weeks since his arrival, he had found a niche for himself at Elm Creek Manor. He fit in so naturally—assisting Matthew with his caretaking duties and generally helping out around the manor—that it was hard to believe he had been away so long and that more than fifty years had passed since she had last seen him.

  Carol, too, was making a place for herself, though not as smoothly as Andrew had done, nor as quickly. After that first week, Sylvia had invited Carol to stay as a personal guest, refusing her offers of payment as adamantly as Andrew declined a room in the manor in favor of his motor home. In return, Carol insisted on earning her keep. She took over lunch and supper preparations, and before long added straightening up the attic to her duties. The room stretched the entire length of the south wing of the manor and was filled with trunks, boxes, and furniture. Sylvia had long put off sorting through the attic, since even with Sarah’s help it would have been a daunting task, but Carol enjoyed the challenge. Every few days she brought down a new treasure—a lamp, a vintage gown, a rocking chair—and after she or Andrew cleaned and repaired it, Carol found the perfect spot for it somewhere in the manor.

  When Sylvia pointed out to Sarah that her mother was sparing them a great deal of work, Sarah said, “As long as she stays out of the way, she can keep busy however she likes.” Sylvia decided to interpret her reply optimistically, though it was far from a resounding shout of gratitude.

  She found Sarah and Carol seated on the veranda with their backs to the doorway. Sylvia was so pleased to see them talking instead of arguing or ignoring each other that she hung back, unwilling to interrupt.

  “Your uncles took most of Grandma’s quilts,” Carol was saying. “But they left a few for me. I have one on my bed now, one with stars in all different colors. I wish I’d thought to bring a picture. If I send you one, could you tell me what the pattern is?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said, her eyes on the quilt block in her hands. “If I don’t know what it is, Sylvia will.”

  “Thank you.”

  They fell silent for so long that Sylvia was about to approach them, when Sarah suddenly spoke again. “Maybe it’s the same pattern Grandma used for my quilt.”

  “Grandma made you a quilt?”

  “Yes, don’t you remember? A pink-and-white Sawtooth Star quilt. She gave it to me for my eighth birthday.”

  “Did she? I don’t recall seeing it on your bed.”

  “Maybe that’s because you took it away from me as soon as I unwrapped it.” Sarah’s voice was cool. “You kept it in a box in your closet.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t remember.” When Sarah merely shrugged, Carol added, “Why would I have done a thing like that?”

  “You said it was too nice for everyday and that I would ruin it.”

  Carol shook her head, bewildered. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “You did. I remember it perfectly.”

  Sylvia froze as Carol suddenly turned toward Sarah. She tentatively reached out a hand to her daughter, only to withdraw it when Sarah kept her attention on her sewing.

  “Well,” Carol said quietly. “I don’t remember this, but if you say it happened, I believe you. I’m sorry.” She clasped her hands on the arm of her chair and studied them. “I wasn’t a perfect mother, but I did the best I could. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

  Sarah put down her quilt block. “No, Dad wanted me to be happy. You wanted me to be perfect.”

  Carol recoiled as if the words had scalded her. “I wanted you to be the best you could, to do better with your life than I had with mine. I still want that.”

  “I’ve done fine, Mom. And so have you. You have your career, a child, friends, you had a great marriage to a wonderful man—”

  “Sarah,” her mother broke in, “there’s so much you don’t know. You and I are so much alike, and I’m afraid—”

  “We are nothing alike,” Sarah interrupted. “You and I couldn’t be more different. You think we’re the same, but we aren’t. We aren’t.”

  Sylvia wished she had spoken up as soon as she had stepped onto the veranda, but as the conversation deteriorated, she had felt frozen in place, transfixed by the awful scene. Now she forced herself into action. “There you two are,” she said brightly, startling them as she strode forward. “It’s getting late. We have to get ready to meet the others downtown.” She heard the tremor in her voice and wondered if the two women detected it, if they could sense how sick she felt, disappointed and remorseful through to her very core. She’d had such good intentions for their reunion, but each day her hopes seemed more futile.

  Sarah stood up. “I won’t be long.” Without another word or glance for Carol, she went inside.

  Sylvia watched her go, her heart sinking. When she turned back to Carol, she found her still staring in the direction her daughter had taken. “Thank you for looking after the campers while we’re gone, Carol.”

  “She’s always running away from me,” Carol said, her voice distant. “I fear for her. She’s more like me than she’ll ever admit, and I’m afraid Matt will turn out to be just like her father.”

  “But isn’t that a good thing? Sarah has nothing but praise for your late husband.”

  Carol looked embarrassed, as if Sylvia had caught her thinking aloud. “No. You don’t understand. She never knew my husband, not really, not the man I knew.”

  Too astonished to speak, Sylvia could only stare at her, until Carol rose and went inside the manor. When Carol was gone, Sylvia sank into one of the chairs.

  She felt very old as she sat there waiting for Sarah, each regret weighing heavily on her heart. Nothing about Carol’s visit had turned out the way Sylvia had planned. Usually it was such
a joy to welcome new friends to Elm Creek Manor, to hear the foyer ringing with laughter and feel the guests’ delight as they looked forward to a week of quilting together. As she had many times before, Sylvia wondered what Claudia would think about the manor’s transformation. Remembering the hollow, echoing halls she had found on returning to the manor after her long absence, Sylvia knew that the change was for the better.

  Sarah had brought all this about, proving that she was capable of great things. Now, if only the young woman would work a few more changes in her own heart.

  Before long Sarah came downstairs dressed in a light blue suit, but Sylvia couldn’t bring herself to mention the disagreement with Carol. Sarah drove them downtown to the municipal building, where they met Diane and the other Elm Creek Quilters in the hallway outside the council hearing room. Sylvia almost didn’t recognize Diane’s two sons, freshly scrubbed and dressed in sport coats and neatly pressed slacks. As the boys talked with their father, the Elm Creek Quilters tried to ease Diane’s nervousness by chatting about anything other than the hearing. Soon the conversation turned to the upcoming end of the school year, which all but Diane eagerly welcomed. “You try looking after two teenage boys for three solid months,” she said when they teased her for complaining.

  “I did, plus a daughter,” Bonnie said.

  “That’s different. You didn’t have my two.” Diane shot Gwen a look. “And don’t you say a word. Everyone knows Summer is the world’s most perfect child.”

  “Not really,” Summer said hastily, looking embarrassed.

  “Diane’s right, for once.” Gwen put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “And believe me, I know how lucky I am.” Her voice trembled.

  “Oh, no, Mom, not again.”

  “I can’t help it.” Gwen dug in her pocket for a tissue. She wiped her eyes, laughing at herself. “My baby’s growing up and going away. You can’t expect me to take this calmly.”

  “Your baby’s twenty-two,” Summer pointed out. “I’m an adult, and I’m perfectly capable of looking out for myself.”