The Wedding Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “I’ll write the letters to the city council,” said Maggie, flexing her fingers as if she couldn’t wait to put hands to keyboard. “And another for Krolich.”

  “And I’ll take them all to the post office,” said Agnes. “Oh, I wish I could be there to see that wicked man’s face when he reads Maggie’s letter and sees how we’ve thwarted his plans!”

  Sarah wouldn’t mind a glimpse of that herself. As her friends offered suggestions for what to include in the letters and worked out how Maggie would get them to Agnes, Sarah hurried upstairs and made a dozen photocopies of each page of the article, saving one copy for Sylvia. She was certain that the Bergstrom women and their friends had participated in the making of the Loyal Union Sampler—in fact, she wouldn’t be surprised to discover that they themselves were the Union Quilters. If they were, the official records of their incorporation and the construction of Union Hall might be somewhere in the attic of Elm Creek Manor, stored with other relics of bygone days.

  Sarah left the extra copy of the article on the table of Sylvia’s favorite booth so she would see it when she came down to breakfast, which, during the off-season, was almost always at least an hour before Sarah dragged herself out of bed. The next morning, Sylvia was as delighted by the news as Agnes had been, if less ebullient in expressing it, and she agreed with Maggie’s plan to spread the word about Union Hall’s newly discovered history. As for whether her great-grandmother and great-great-aunt had counted themselves among the Union Quilters, Sylvia couldn’t be certain. She couldn’t recall her parents or grandparents mentioning Union Hall except in passing as a place where they had attended concerts, lectures, or wedding receptions many years ago, and although Gerda had written her memoir in 1895, it focused on the years between 1856 and 1859, with few details of her life before or after. About the tumultuous Civil War years, Gerda had said only, “So much I could write of that dark, unforgiving time, but I cannot divert from this history to recount it now, not when I am so near the end. Perhaps I will chronicle those events someday, if I can bring myself to do it, if I live long enough.” If Gerda had ever completed a second volume of memoirs, Sylvia had not yet found it.

  In the absence of documented proof, Sylvia and Sarah pondered what they knew about Gerda, Anneke, Dorothea, and Constance from Gerda’s memoir and concluded that the women surely would have been involved in making the Loyal Union Sampler and building of Union Hall. Even Gerda, who had loathed sewing, would have been compelled by her staunch abolitionist beliefs to support the Union cause. “Now that Union Hall is safe,” mused Sylvia, “perhaps Agnes and her librarian friend will have time to help me do the research and find the proof.”

  Remembering Diane’s warnings, Sarah cautioned Sylvia that Union Hall was not yet safe—and soon Diane proved to be dismayingly prescient. Two days later, Agnes phoned, outraged and distressed over confirmation from a friend on the staff of the Waterford Register that the city council had called an emergency session late the previous night so that Krolich could address the new evidence submitted by Maggie Flynn on behalf of the Waterford Historical Society. In a circular argument that defied all logic, the city council decided that while the history of Union Hall as reported in the Harper’s Monthly article offered an interesting bit of local trivia, it was not historically significant or it would have been common knowledge. It certainly did not sufficiently prove that the building merited special consideration. None of the Union Quilters had been mentioned by name, for example, so it was impossible to connect the building to any important historical figures. And while Union Hall apparently had served as the site of fund-raisers for local Union regiments, so had other locations, like the town square and a handful of churches and civic buildings, some of which had been razed decades before without public outcry. Union Hall was not, therefore, unique, and the city council could find no legal reason not to exercise their right of eminent domain.

  Sarah’s heart plummeted, but she took a deep breath and asked, “So it’s over?”

  “Of course it’s not over,” exclaimed Agnes. “It’s not over until Union Hall is torn down, God forbid, and that won’t happen, not if I have to handcuff myself to the front doors. Gwen promised to join me.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t,” said Sarah. “It’s not that I don’t relish the excitement, but someone needs to stay free to pay your bail.”

  Agnes laughed. “Of course. Now, dear, you mustn’t lose hope. Leslie and Patricia are moving ahead with the process of having Union Hall added to the National Register of Historic Places. They’ve already contacted the State Historic Preservation Office, and they’re confident that Union Hall will meet the National Register Criteria for Evaluation and be declared eligible for consideration.”

  Sarah was glad to hear it, but she had read about the process on the National Park Service Web site and she knew it could take months for the review board to make a final decision. “We have to convince the city council to wait,” she said. “Or, failing that, we have to stall them somehow, force them into a delay. Once they condemn Union Hall, it’s over. Krolich will have bulldozers on the front lawn within minutes.”

  “We’ll figure out something,” said Agnes. “Now, I’m off to the Rare Books Room to finish reading Abel Wright’s first book, and if all goes well I’ll begin the second. If the Harper’s Monthly article isn’t sufficient evidence for that council of nincompoops, we’ll just have to keep looking until we find something that is.”

  Sarah wished her luck.

  She was just finishing up her lunch and contemplating whether to phone Jeremy when Agnes called back, as furious as Sarah had ever heard her. “Abel Wright’s books are gone,” she cried. “There’s just an empty gap on the shelves where they used to be!”

  Her suspicions soaring, Sarah nonetheless asked, “Is it possible someone else checked them out?”

  “No, no! You’re not allowed to check out books from the Rare Books Room. Remember? They’re too valuable. You have to read them right here.”

  “Maybe they were misshelved.”

  “I returned them to their proper place when I was done with them yesterday, but even if another patron did take them down after that, my librarian friend and I and two student volunteers have spent the past two hours shelf-reading, and there’s no sign of them. Hold on.” Agnes covered the mouthpiece and Sarah overheard a brief, muffled exchange. “My friend just found the security tags in the trash, still attached to pages torn from the books.”

  “Someone stole them.” Sarah’s thought whirled. “But why? And why now?”

  “The timing’s no coincidence, that’s for sure. They’ve sat on those shelves undisturbed for years except when Jeremy was researching his dissertation, and now, when we need them most, they vanish. The evidence we need is in one of those books, and Mr. Krolich knows it.” Agnes’s voice shook with anger. “I’m going down to his office right now to give him a piece of my mind.”

  “Agnes, wait. Don’t provoke him—” But Agnes had hung up.

  Quickly Sarah raced downstairs, threw on her coat, and snatched up her purse and keys. She paused by the orchard only long enough to shout an explanation to Matt, then drove downtown and parked across the street from campus a block east of the offices of University Realty, hoping to intercept Agnes on her way from the library. Moments later, she spotted her white-haired friend making her way down the sidewalk to the corner, her purse slung over her shoulder, her mouth pinched in fury as she waited for the light to change. Sarah scrambled from the car and ran to meet her on the other side of the crosswalk. “Agnes—”

  Agnes didn’t even slow down. “You can come along if you like, but don’t try to stop me.”

  Sarah knew it was futile to try to dissuade Agnes from confronting a bully, so she nodded and fell in step beside her.

  “That despicable man,” Agnes muttered as they passed the shops and restaurants along Main Street. “It irks me to call on him in his new offices, but I won’t let him spoil my happy memories of this pl
ace.”

  They paused beneath the steel-gray-and-blue sign that hung above the entrance to University Realty. Once, from that same post, the red-and-gold sign for Grandma’s Attic had welcomed quilters to Bonnie’s quilt shop, and beautiful quilts, books, and bundles of fabric had brightened the front window display where foam board advertisements of properties for sale and rent now stood. When Krolich had bought the building years before, he had not only conspired with Bonnie’s ex-husband to force her to sell their condo, but he had also raised the rent on her first-floor shop and those of the other commercial tenants seventy-five percent. At the time Bonnie had wondered why Krolich would impose such an outrageous rate hike, which was all but guaranteed to drive away his tenants. It was Agnes who had uncovered the plot. While investigating Craig’s hidden assets, she had phoned University Realty in the guise of a prospective tenant and had learned from an unsuspecting receptionist that Krolich intended to move their own offices from the converted Victorian house they had outgrown into Bonnie’s building, which was more spacious and closer to campus.

  Even now, years later, with Bonnie happily remarried and running Aloha Quilt Camp in paradise, the thought of Krolich wheeling and dealing from the office where Bonnie had once ordered fabrics and notions for quilters throughout the Elm Creek Valley filled Sarah with anger and disgust, but she forced her feelings aside, held open the door for Agnes, and followed her inside.

  The large center island Bonnie had used as a cutting table was gone, as were the rainbow-hued aisles of bolts of fabric, replaced by cubicles where a half-dozen men and women in business attire talked on phones, shuffled paperwork, or typed on keyboards, their eyes glued to their computer screens. The wall shelves, once filled with books, notions, and sewing machines, had been removed; framed posters of dramatic nature and sports photos with inspirational captions in bold typefaces now hung in their place. Through the glass window at the back of the main room, Sarah glimpsed sleek, dark, modern office furniture, each piece likely worth twice as much as the secondhand stainless steel and Formica furniture with which Bonnie had furnished the office. Sarah felt a sharp, sudden pang of nostalgia for Grandma’s Attic and hoped Bonnie would never see the changes Krolich had imposed upon the shop.

  Agnes went straight to the receptionist’s desk and gave the young brunette her sweetest granny smile. “Hello, dear. I’m here to pick up some books from Mr. Krolich. Is he in?”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s at lunch.”

  “Oh, my, and I walked all this way, so many blocks.” Agnes looked stricken. “I don’t suppose he left the books with you? They’re old books, even older than I am.”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t.” The young woman bit her lower lip and checked her desk just to be sure. “Would you like to make an appointment and come back another time?”

  “Oh, that won’t do at all. I need those books right away.” Suddenly Agnes brightened. “He probably left them for me in his office. Mind if I take a quick peek?”

  The receptionist hesitated as if she sincerely wished she could help them, but she said, “I don’t think I should.”

  Sarah put an arm around Agnes’s shoulders as if Agnes were so frail she needed support simply to stay on her feet. “She walked all this way, so many blocks,” Sarah reminded the young woman. “Did I mention she’s eighty-three?”

  “Yes,” Agnes promptly interjected. “We don’t know how much time I have left.”

  Sarah thought that was pushing things too far and shot Agnes a warning look, but after a moment, the receptionist shrugged and stood. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Sit down, Brianna,” a man said behind them. The receptionist promptly clamped her mouth shut and sat down hard, and Sarah and Agnes turned to find a man in a black wool coat entering the agency. Someone had removed the bell Bonnie had hung on the door, Sarah realized, or it would have tinkled merrily to warn them of his arrival. Gregory Krolich looked thinner than Sarah remembered, his hair grayer at the temples and sparser, combed back into stiff furrows and shiny with product. When he smiled, his teeth seemed too bright against his tanned skin, a curious anachronism given the autumn chill.

  He regarded Sarah curiously. “I know you. We met, many years ago, at the Bergstrom estate.”

  “Yes,” said Sarah evenly. “We also ran into each other once here, when it was still Bonnie Markham’s quilt shop.”

  He nodded as if suddenly all was understood. “I don’t suppose you’re bringing me the good news that Mrs. Bergstrom has finally decided to sell? Or perhaps she’s finally died, and you’re interested in disposing of the property?”

  Sarah bristled. “Sylvia’s fine, thanks very much.”

  “You’ll never get your hands on Elm Creek Manor,” snapped Agnes, “and you won’t tear down Union Hall either!”

  “That place is an eyesore,” Krolich said. “It’s a hazard and a blight, and it lowers the property values of every other building on the block.”

  “That place is a historic treasure, and you know it, or you wouldn’t have stolen Abel Wright’s books!”

  His brow furrowed and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His gaze met Sarah’s. “Is your friend really . . . quite all right in the head?”

  “Don’t mock me, young man,” said Agnes. “You have no idea who I am, but I know you. I know your type. You’re a bully and a thief and you’re used to trampling over everyone else to get your own way. Well, you may have taken Grandma’s Attic from us, but you didn’t get Elm Creek Manor, and you won’t get Union Hall. I know you stole those books, or had someone steal them for you, but they aren’t the only copies in existence. One way or another we’re going to find the evidence we need to convince the city council not to make any back-room deals with you.”

  Krolich offered Agnes a faint smile, but the corners of his mouth quirked with annoyance. “You’re feisty, and that’s charming, but you apparently mistake me for one of the little old ladies in your quilting bee. This is business, and in business, profit trumps sentiment. If you have any proof that I’ve committed this theft, any witnesses who can place me at the scene of the crime, I suggest you call the chief of police. Oh, and when you do, remind him that I have two extra tickets for the next Penn State home game, if he and his wife would like to join me and my wife on another road trip to Happy Valley.”

  Agnes glowered at him, balled her hands into fists, took one step forward, and might have done something she would regret later if Sarah had not placed a hand on her shoulder to restrain her. “Once Union Hall is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the city council won’t let you touch it, no matter what bribes you offer,” said Sarah.

  “You may be right,” said Krolich, with an oily smile. “In which case you’d better hurry if you hope to stop me.”

  Sarah knew that prolonging the exchange of threats would only waste valuable time. “Come on, Agnes,” she said, glaring at Krolich. “I’ll drive you home.”

  On the sidewalk outside the office, Agnes fumed, “I despise that man. He’s behind the theft of Abel Wright’s books, I know it.”

  “Of course he is,” said Sarah as they walked to her car. “Which means he believes they have information that would help us. Do you think the Waterford Public Library has copies?”

  “I know for a fact they don’t, but Pattee Library at Penn State might.”

  “I know that library fairly well.” Sarah had spent many hours studying there and perusing the stacks as an undergraduate.

  Sarah helped Agnes into the front passenger seat, and as they drove away, Agnes said, “If they do have the books, they won’t be in circulation. I doubt that I could get them through interlibrary loan, and I can’t drive there to read them.”

  “I could,” said Sarah. “I could read all day, spend the night in a hotel, and come back the next morning for more, as many days as it takes, until I find the evidence we need or I finish the books.”

  “Would you, Sarah? Tha
t would be wonderful.”

  “As long as Matt’s okay with single-parenting for a few days.” Though it was hardly single-parenting, considering that Sylvia, Maggie, and Gretchen, as well as their spouses, would be around to assist. “But maybe we don’t need to make the trip. Jeremy must know Abel’s books thoroughly. I’ll ask him if he knows what Krolich doesn’t want us to see.” Jeremy had not yet responded to her last e-mail. Ordinarily she wouldn’t bother him again so soon, but the theft of the books added urgency to her request.

  Dropping off Agnes at home along the way, Sarah drove back to Elm Creek Manor, where Matt was in the kitchen fixing the twins an after-school snack. The children listened wide-eyed as Sarah told Matt about the theft of the books and Agnes’s impromptu visit to University Realty. James was impressed that Agnes had stood up to a bully, while Caroline was horrified that someone had damaged and stolen rare books. “Why hasn’t anyone called nine-one-one?” she demanded. “Why isn’t that big jerk in jail?”

  Sarah explained that the library had immediately reported the theft, but they had no proof that Krolich or someone working for him was to blame. “Don’t they have security cameras?” Caroline persisted. “Are you telling me there are security cameras, like, everywhere else in Waterford, but not in the Rare Books Room?”

  “I’m sure the library has security cameras. For all I know, the police are reviewing surveillance footage as we speak.” Sarah doubted very much, though, that Krolich would have strolled into the library and committed the theft himself when he could pay an unscrupulous student fifty bucks to do it for him. He didn’t even need the books; he only needed to keep them away from Agnes and the historical society long enough to push his measure through the city council.

  After settling the twins down with their homework, Sarah went upstairs to the library to check her e-mail, and when she found no reply from Jeremy, she called his cell phone. He didn’t answer, so she left a voice mail explaining the latest developments, then called the Del Maso–Bernstein home and left a message on the family answering machine too. If no one responded by the next day, she would check online to see if Pattee Library did indeed have copies of Abel Wright’s books, and if so, she would plan a road trip to University Park.