The Wedding Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  After Hank left, Sarah breathed a sigh of relief, but she still worried that her father-in-law might pressure Matt during his weekly phone calls, which were ostensibly about the twins but eventually drifted—or were steered—to McClure Construction. Remembering every unhappy moment of their winter apart, Sarah couldn’t believe that Hank would go down in defeat so easily. Weeks passed, and whenever Matt hung up the phone after a chat with his father, Sarah expected him to announce that Hank had made a reasonable request for his only son to help him out on a particularly important project. By midsummer, unable to stand the suspense any longer, she asked Matt outright whether Hank still hoped he would resume working for the construction company.

  “I’m sure he still hopes I will,” replied Matt, “but I told him I couldn’t. You need me, the twins need me, and it’s our busy season here too.”

  “So he did ask you?”

  “He did.”

  “And you told him no?”

  “Of course.”

  “And he’s okay with that? He’s not trying to wear you down?”

  “He drops a few hints now and then, but he knows where I stand. Our agreement last winter was that I’d help him out until the twins arrived. You didn’t think he’d forget the plan, did you?”

  Not forget but disregard, Sarah thought, though she didn’t say so aloud. So the request had come after all and Matt had refused—but it seemed too easy, too good to be true, after the ongoing conflict of the previous winter. Still, rather than have Matt repeat verbatim every word of every recent conversation with his father until she was satisfied that Hank truly understood that Matt wasn’t going to leave his family and Elm Creek Quilts for Hank and McClure Construction, she decided not to pursue it. For once Matt had done exactly what she needed him to do, and she was going to express her thanks by letting the matter drop.

  The rest of the camp season went along as it did every summer, with happy reunions of far-flung friends, extraordinary lectures by master quilters and gifted instructors that inspired her anew, occasional mishaps she and her colleagues sorted out behind the scenes, heartfelt confessions at the Candlelight welcome ceremonies on the cornerstone patio, and new quilts, so many new, breathtaking, beautiful—or amusing, intriguing, whimsical, perplexing, exquisite, or simple—wonderful quilts. With a twin on each hip, Sarah bade the campers good-bye at the close of each week, enormously gratified that she had been able to participate in their creative journeys. Each summer reminded her that everyone had an artist within; some possessed greater natural ability, others more powerful desire to develop their gifts, but all people were blessed with creative abilities they could use to make the world a better, more beautiful place. Nurturing those gifts, no matter how long they had been dormant or unrecognized, was the true mission of Elm Creek Quilts.

  All too soon, Labor Day weekend arrived. Caroline and James were seven months old, babbling, pulling themselves up, and delighting one and all with their sweet innocence and joy. Bonnie departed for Maui, where she would spend the winter working for Aloha Quilt Camp at the Hale Kapa Kuiki Inn in Lahaina. Maggie and her boyfriend, Russell, left to travel around the South and Southwest teaching at quilt guilds. Gwen had already begun the fall semester at Waterford College, where she had been turned down, yet again, for department chair, an annual slight she shrugged off as a blessing in disguise, for more administrative duties would have obliged her to spend less time on her research. Sylvia and Andrew headed out to Southern California for the Nelson family reunion in the Arboles Valley, after which they planned to spend a week in Santa Susana with Andrew’s son, daughter-in-law, and their two daughters. Matt was busy with the orchards, and although Sarah’s days were full of diapers and sippy cups and board books and first words and first steps and never enough rest, she was as content as she was exhausted, and possibly happier than she had ever been.

  In mid-September, Sylvia returned home from California, road weary but joyful, full of stories about her long-lost cousin Elizabeth, her husband, Henry, their children, their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren. She had also brought a precious gift from Melissa, one of Elizabeth’s heirloom quilts—not the lost Double Wedding Ring or the Chimneys and Cornerstones Sarah had heard of before, but a scrap Postage Stamp quilt with a leafy vine border pieced from fabrics Elizabeth had saved from feed sacks or collected as souvenirs on her rare travels away from Triumph Ranch. Admiring the precious heirloom anew as she showed it to Sarah, Sylvia remarked, “Melissa didn’t mind giving it to me because she knows she won’t be parted from it long. It will be hers again someday.”

  “Not for a very long time,” said Sarah firmly. She didn’t like it when Sylvia alluded, however vaguely, to her mortality.

  Sylvia eyed her over the rims of her glasses. “Whether it’s sooner or later, and I do hope it will be later, I would like Melissa to have this quilt back when I pass on, and I trust that you’ll see to it, dear.”

  Sarah promised to take care of it when the time came, and, eager to move on to a more pleasant subject, she urged Sylvia to resume her tale of the Nelson family reunion. Regrettably, Sylvia and Melissa had not finished the Double Wedding Ring replicas in time to unveil them at the gathering; Melissa had not completed the appliqué centers, so Sylvia’s piecing had stalled. They had set a new goal for Christmas, when they could display the quilts for a smaller but no less enthusiastic gathering of Nelson descendants.

  “You mean you won’t be spending the holidays at Elm Creek Manor?” asked Sarah, dismayed.

  “I’m afraid not.” Sylvia frowned slightly as she spoke, which told Sarah she had misgivings about her decision. “It will be strange to celebrate far from home, but if we go to California, Andrew will get to see his children over the holidays too. When we told his daughter about our plans, she said that her family would travel from Connecticut to join us at his son’s house.”

  “But this will be the twins’ first Christmas.”

  “Well, yes, and I do hate to miss that, but I’m sure you understand.”

  Sarah felt her breath catch in her throat, but she managed to keep her voice steady when she replied, “Of course I understand. I hope you have a wonderful time. Let me know if you’d like my help finishing up the Double Wedding Rings.”

  “Hmph.” Sylvia waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t believe we’ll make that deadline either. But never mind. Quilting has always been as much about the process as the final product for me. Working on these quilts with Melissa has been a true pleasure. It’s made me feel closer to Elizabeth and to all my long-lost loved ones than anything has since—well, since returning to Elm Creek Manor. It’s hard to describe, but I feel a connection now, the ties of kin. It’s a great comfort to me, so I’d be perfectly content if the work on these quilts continues for the rest of my life.”

  Her heart full of sympathy and understanding, Sarah embraced Sylvia and was shocked to feel how thin and frail her friend felt in her arms. Sylvia was growing older, but because the force of her personality was so strong, Sarah had been able to ignore the signs. But time took its toll even on the most vibrant of souls, and none of them could escape the slow but inexorable ravages of the passing years.

  Tears of pain and loss sprang into Sarah’s eyes, but she blinked them away before Sylvia noticed. She gave her friend one last, warm embrace and forced a smile as she released her. “You know what would be a wonderful Christmas gift for Melissa?”

  “I see you don’t believe we’ll finish the quilts either,” said Sylvia dryly. “That was our intention, you know, to exchange them as our Christmas gifts.”

  “I know better than to bet against you in any quilting challenge,” said Sarah. “This could be an extra gift—or a backup, just in case you don’t finish the quilts. I think you and I should go through all the old Bergstrom photo albums, scan in pictures of Elizabeth and her parents and grandparents and the manor and everything, and make copies for Melissa and her brother. We could even carefully—very carefully—remove those portr
aits in the library and parlor from their frames and scan them too. We could arrange the copies in beautiful leather photo albums with ‘Bergstrom’ and the family emblem of the rearing stallion embossed on the cover or the spine.”

  “What a perfectly wonderful idea,” Sylvia exclaimed. “I’m sure the Nelsons don’t have any of those photos, because I know Elizabeth didn’t take any copies with her. One didn’t have copies of photos in those days; you made one picture and you took very good care of it. Or didn’t, in which case the image was lost forever.”

  “Another good reason to scan in the photos you’ve saved,” said Sarah. “A digital archive will give us a backup in case the originals are damaged.”

  “God forbid,” declared Sylvia. “Sarah, my dear, I don’t think I tell you enough how much I admire your ingenuity.”

  “You tell me more than often enough, but I’m hardly the first person to think of this sort of project. There are entire businesses designed to do exactly this.”

  “Well, you’re the first person around here to think of it, so as far as I’m concerned that counts for a great deal indeed.” Sylvia smiled, dispelling the illusion—if it had been an illusion—of fragility Sarah had glimpsed only moments before. “When can we get started?”

  “As soon as you like,” said Sarah, “after the twins have gone to bed.”

  Eager to begin, Sylvia started on her own without Sarah, paging through old albums and scrapbooks and choosing those she thought Elizabeth’s descendants would most appreciate. She included the only known photograph of Anneke Bergstrom—petite, dark-haired, and beautiful in her early thirties—and the precious few of Hans Bergstrom, one a formal studio portrait of a young man recently arrived in America, several others of Hans in his forties posed with one or more of his prized horses, and another when he looked to be in his sixties, taken with several unidentified men in suits and hats in front of a white-columned building—presumably somewhere in Waterford. Others showed family gatherings, Sylvia as a pouting child on Elizabeth’s lap, a wedding portrait of Elizabeth and Henry looking very much in love—and as Sarah scanned in each one, made copies, and helped Sylvia arrange them in albums, she realized what a treasure she beheld, and she understood a little better the pain Sylvia had endured believing for so long that she was the last of that proud family.

  The Double Wedding Ring quilts were, as predicted, not finished in time for Christmas, but the albums were completed, lovingly wrapped, and delivered. When Sylvia phoned from California to wish Sarah and the others a Merry Christmas, she happily reported that the albums had caused quite a sensation, evoking tears and laughter and teasing threats of theft while the recipients slept. “I may have promised to make a few more,” Sylvia said.

  Enjoying Sylvia’s delight, Sarah was able to forget, for a moment, how much she wished Sylvia had spent Christmas at Elm Creek Manor. “How many more?”

  “Perhaps”—Sylvia hesitated—“perhaps as many as a dozen. Oh, I probably shouldn’t have offered so much.”

  Sarah laughed and promised to help her, and shortly after Sylvia’s return to the manor, they began. As they worked on the albums and planned for the next session of quilt camp, Sylvia spoke often—sometimes happily, sometimes wistfully—of Elizabeth, her family long departed, and her new family so many miles away. Sarah listened and offered comfort as she could, and determinedly quashed any sparks of jealousy that surfaced.

  She knew that Sylvia loved her, and she knew that Sylvia had love in abundance. Her affection for Melissa did not mean she had any less to spare for Sarah. Sarah hoped that she could learn to love as faithfully and unselfishly as Sylvia did.

  She smiled to think that in many ways, she remained Sylvia’s apprentice.

  Chapter Three

  Everyone lingered in the kitchen long after only crumbs remained of Anna’s delicious apple tart, but eventually Sarah bade everyone good night, reminding them that they had a busy day ahead of them and warning the young people not to stay up too late. She gave Caroline one last hug, murmured, “Welcome home,” into her golden curls, and went upstairs. Matt followed close behind, and soon, as a cool early-autumn breeze stirred the curtains in the darkness, they lay side by side beneath the twelve-block sampler in a Garden Maze setting she had given him as an anniversary gift, her first quilt, the one she had learned to make with Sylvia’s wise guidance.

  Just as she was about to drift off to sleep, Matt broke the silence. “Do you remember the days leading up to our wedding?”

  Sarah shifted on to her side. “How could I forget?” A time that should have been sweet with happiness and anticipation had been soured by stress, worry, and the constant strain of dealing with her mother’s tears and warnings. Although Sarah was grateful that Carol had eventually come to love and appreciate Matt, she wished her mother had foregone the lamentations on their wedding day and had instead offered reassuring, practical advice about how to weather the storms every marriage eventually encountered.

  Quietly, Matt asked, “If we could do it all over again—”

  “I would in a heartbeat,” Sarah said, not even needing him to finish the question. Her heart knew the answer.

  “I’m glad. I would too.” He pulled her closer and kissed her on the forehead. Resting her head on his shoulder, she soon fell asleep.

  In the morning when she woke, Matt was gone, up with the sunrise and out in the orchard. She imagined him strolling through the rows of trees, a cup of coffee in one hand and a faded baseball cap on his head, looking up into the heavy boughs and estimating the harvest. His own cultivars were prospering, especially the one he had named after her, Sarah’s Gold, which was especially popular at the farmers’ market held on the Waterford town square every Saturday from April through October. Sylvia had once declared that Gerda Bergstrom’s apple strudel had never tasted better than when prepared with Matt’s apples. That was on the Christmas before Gerda’s death, at age ninety-three, when the twins were ten years old.

  How Sylvia would have enjoyed Caroline’s wedding day! She had doted on the twins, cherishing them as the grandchildren she had never had. She had delighted in watching them grow from infants into bright, happy children. She had celebrated every early milestone as proudly as Sarah and Matt had, and had enjoyed the small, simple moments of ordinary days that Sarah, in her new-mother fatigue, might have overlooked if Sylvia had not pointed out how marvelous they were. Sylvia would have been particularly delighted to observe how James had grown into his role with Elm Creek Quilts, for she had been neither surprised nor disappointed that James, rather than his sister, had inherited his mother’s love of quilting.

  From the time the twins were born, visiting quilt campers often remarked to Sarah how fortunate she was to have a daughter. Someday, they told her, Sarah could teach Caroline how to quilt, and they would spend many wonderful hours together sewing, shopping for fabric, and visiting quilt shows. And Sarah had agreed that she was very fortunate indeed. Warm, pastel-hued visions of Caroline blossoming into a talented quilter under her mother’s wise and gentle tutelage filled her head, and she dreamed of a distant future, when, after graduating with highest honors from an Ivy League university, Caroline would return home to run Elm Creek Quilt Camp by her mother’s side. James would thrive in some other field, Sarah was sure, but her visions of his future were far less specific.

  Caroline, expected from birth to become a quilter, had been taught and prompted and praised by the Elm Creek Quilters and a nearly continuous stream of visiting quilt campers since she was old enough to hold a needle, but after obediently learning the running stitch and completing a few small pillows and pot holders, one day she boldly and unexpectedly announced that she would much rather help her daddy in the garden. When Caroline was in middle school, Sarah had to cajole her into joining their quilting bees each quilter’s holiday and National Quilting Day, a misguided practice she abandoned when Gretchen delicately pointed out that Sarah couldn’t force Caroline to enjoy quilting, and perhaps Caroline’s tim
e would be better spent exploring her own interests.

  Caroline’s interests changed from week to week; she would throw herself headlong into a new subject, absorb it with a keen focus Sarah would have thought impossible for a child so young, and then move on to something else that piqued her insatiable curiosity. To Sarah’s dismay, Caroline’s sewing basket and half-sewn blocks gathered dust in her bedroom until James dug them out from under her bed, where he had crawled one rainy autumn afternoon during a game of hide-and-seek. Methodically he finished his sister’s abandoned projects, but Sarah didn’t realize what an achievement that was until Anna remarked about it. No one had ever taught James to sew, at least not directly; he had absorbed the knowledge over the years spent in the company of quilters in almost the same way he had learned language. Russell, who had married Maggie by then and had become a permanent member of the faculty, became James’s favorite teacher, and when James was in the sixth grade, Russell privately told Sarah that the boy had true artistic talent. Sarah, who had assumed that James’s interest was a passing phase, took her first real look at her son’s finished quilts and realized that Russell spoke the truth.

  After that, partly out of shame for being so caught up in her disappointment that Caroline didn’t care for quilting that she had neglected James’s keen interest and genuine gifts, she allowed him to attend any Elm Creek Quilt Camp classes he desired, as long as the teacher didn’t object and he didn’t disrupt the class. James, who tended to play the class clown at school and put in the bare minimum of effort required to pass his academic subjects, transformed into a serious student when the subject was art. Sarah marveled at the change in him and was eternally grateful to the art teacher who had helped James find his way. In eighth grade, when James griped to his art teacher that he didn’t see the point of any of his other classes, especially math, she promptly responded that artists had to know math so they could determine how much to charge their customers. They had to know math so they could manage their finances, budget for supplies, and manage their galleries, not to mention the complex geometric calculations that quilters in particular had to understand. They had to read and write well, so they could describe their work to others and apply for grants. They had to know history, to better comprehend art and artists in context. For every academic subject James insisted he would never use outside of school, his teacher countered with a practical application. Thus persuaded, if a bit jolted by the rude awakening, James redoubled his efforts in all his classes, and although he never breezed through a semester accumulating A’s and the adoration of his teachers as Caroline did, he became a reliable B+ student. When he graduated high school with honors, Sarah gave that clever, inspiring art teacher a stunning Mariner’s Compass quilt along with a sincere, heartfelt letter she could only hope expressed the depth of her gratitude.