The Wedding Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Most of the garments were in perfect order, but a few needed alterations. Rather than wait at the shop, Leo’s brother, the best man, arranged to pick up the remaining jackets and trousers early the next morning. The men changed back into their comfortable jeans and sweatshirts, and soon the entire party was on the way back to Elm Creek Manor.

  As soon as the Elm Creek Quilts shuttle cleared the leafy wood and rounded the barn, Sarah glimpsed a very expensive, chauffeur-driven vehicle in the parking lot behind the manor.

  “Who could that be?” Leo’s mother wondered aloud.

  “Fifty bucks says it’s my mom’s friend Diane,” said James. “Her son is Michael Sonnenberg.”

  “The Michael Sonnenberg?” asked a skeptical groomsman.

  “The Michael Sonnenberg,” confirmed Matt, with a grin for Sarah, for they both remembered the days when the good citizens of Waterford had referred to Diane’s eldest son disapprovingly as “That Michael Sonnenberg.”

  “Is Michael Sonnenberg coming to the wedding?” asked Leo’s brother, awestruck.

  “Sorry, no,” said Sarah. “He couldn’t make it. You can meet his parents, though.”

  Leo’s brother nodded politely, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  Sure enough, as the shuttle crossed the bridge over Elm Creek, Sarah watched the chauffeur open the passenger door and Diane and her husband, Tim, emerge. At the same moment, the back door of the manor swung open and out came the Elm Creek Quilters to welcome them. Sarah watched as the newcomers stood at the foot of the stairs basking in the warm greetings, and as soon as Matt parked the shuttle, she hurried to join the throng. Diane seemed impossibly youthful, slim and impeccably dressed in a tailored mauve skirt and jacket, her blond curls perfectly styled. “Welcome home,” Sarah said, hugging her. “You look wonderful. I swear you seem younger every time I see you. Has Michael built a time machine too?”

  Diane laughed, pleased. “No, not yet.” She lowered her voice. “I might as well tell you, since I’m sure you’ve already guessed: I had some more work done.”

  “Again?” exclaimed Gwen. “What’s left of you that hasn’t already been lifted, plumped, filled, or lasered?”

  “Looking this good at my age requires vigilant maintenance,” said Diane. “Which you would know if you weren’t still working the aged-hippie look.”

  Gwen shrugged, planting both hands on her cane. “It suits me.”

  “It doesn’t suit me,” declared Diane. “Thank goodness Michael is so generous. It’s either that or he’s nursing a guilty conscience. I’m sure he’s well aware that his childhood escapades caused most of my wrinkles and gray hair. It’s only fair that he foot the bill for the repairs.”

  Everyone laughed, more from the sheer delight of being together again than from Diane’s quip, which they knew was only partially truthful. Diane had not had as much work done as she implied, but Michael certainly had been generous with his wealth. As an unhappy, alienated youth in Waterford, he had given his parents much cause for worry, but they had never given up on him. Somehow—Diane credited prayer and an assertive determination to remain involved in his life—he had left juvenile delinquency behind, graduated from high school, and achieved unexpected success as a computer science major at Waterford College. From there he went on to graduate school at MIT, where he confounded his professors by concentrating on gaming platforms, a focus they considered a waste of his talent. After earning his Ph.D., he turned down several lucrative job offers to work on an invention that he swore would revolutionize the gaming world. Though his parents wished he had chosen gainful employment and had saved his pet projects for the weekends, they took out a second mortgage on their beloved home on the Waterford College Arboretum to help him launch his business, which at the time was little more than a single patched-together prototype and a wildly fantastic plan. It turned out to be the best investment they had ever made.

  Eventually even a nongamer like Sarah knew all about Michael’s invention, the Vertex, a gaming device about the size and shape of a smartphone that was unlike any handheld game that had preceded it. The graphics, according to James, were “epic,” and for the cost of an annual subscription, the user could connect to a huge library of games and applications via the Internet, and one player’s device could connect to others wirelessly through a mesh network infrastructure. For a more immersive playing experience within the home, the Vertex could be plugged into a base console that allowed the games to be played on a large, high-definition screen, limited only by the quality of the player’s media equipment. Using the base station, friends could play together using one Vertex, or they could bring their own devices and plug them into the same console for even greater flexibility and interaction.

  As Michael’s company had taken off, his marketing department had encouraged Vertex gatherings by offering gamers bonuses and prizes in both the virtual and actual worlds, which had sparked positive reviews and word-of-mouth and propelled sales beyond the company’s manufacturing capabilities—and the short-term shortage only increased demand. The devices also linked each player to an online social network where they could show off their accomplishments, challenge one another to duels or multiplayer tournaments, and socialize. Over time, Vertex bricks-and-mortar stores—a cross between shops, showcases, and cafés—opened in larger markets, offering gamers places to meet, play, and see the latest games and hardware. In more recent years, the company had moved beyond games to other social and business applications, and had begun hosting an annual convention, VertexCon, where they launched new products to great fanfare. Celebrities eager for publicity found excuses to plug their new projects at the convention, and Sarah was no longer surprised to see reports in the news media of Michael’s romantic involvement with one gorgeous starlet or another.

  Rumors abounded about a new, extremely classified product Michael was collaborating on with one of the nation’s leading theoretical physicists, a friend from his MIT days. After swearing Sarah to secrecy, Diane had tried to explain the project to her, but Diane’s own understanding of physics and computer engineering was so limited that all Sarah learned from her was that the project was called Event Horizon, it drew upon the physicist’s research into black holes, it had something to do with holograms, it would revolutionize virtual reality, and it could quite possibly transform the telecommunications industry. Sarah, who sometimes had trouble thinking of Michael as a successful, multimillionaire inventor and businessman rather than the scowling teenager who had been arrested for illegal skateboarding in downtown Waterford, was amazed anew with each successively more impressive accomplishment. Even Diane, who had believed in her son’s potential when everyone, from his teachers to the police, had dismissed him as incorrigible, seemed unable to believe what he had achieved. “When I think of how many times throughout his childhood I told him to put down those video games and go do something productive, I want to kick myself,” Diane once famously said in an interview, never imagining it would become one of the most oft-quoted statements about her son.

  Michael ran his empire from a campus in Boulder, Colorado, a reasonable distance from his parents’ home in Denver, where they had moved upon Tim’s retirement from the Waterford College Chemistry Department, after one blisteringly hot summer in Paradise Valley had convinced Diane that Arizona was not for her. Their younger son, Todd, was an assistant district attorney for the City of Philadelphia, but thanks to Michael’s fortune, they were able to travel to see him, his wife, and their three daughters often. And naturally, whenever the Sonnenbergs returned to Elm Creek Manor, they traveled in style.

  No sooner had Diane and Tim settled into their suite than another, less expensive, and more familiar vehicle pulled into the parking lot. Emily flew outside to welcome her parents and escorted them into the kitchen, where their friends gave them a warm welcome. “I always feel like I’ve come home when I walk through that door,” said Judy, hugging each of her friends in turn.

  “We always have room for one
more teacher if you want to come back,” teased Sarah.

  “Don’t tempt her,” said Judy’s husband, Steve, as he put one arm around Judy’s shoulders and the other around his daughter’s. “Whenever she’s mired in grading a particularly dismal batch of exams, she threatens to resign and beg you for her old job back.”

  “You wouldn’t have to beg,” Sarah told Judy, hoping her friend’s dream job had not become unduly stressful. If it had, Judy certainly hid it well, for she seemed as vibrant and youthful as she had been as an Elm Creek Quilter. Slim and petite, with only the barest trace of fine lines on her golden skin, she wore her glossy black hair simply, tucked behind one ear and cut straight across beneath her shoulder blades. In the early years of Elm Creek Quilt Camp, Judy had taught hand-piecing and hand-quilting classes, and through the years her preference for the relaxing, more contemplative pace of handwork had endured. As she had explained to Sarah soon after they first met, “I work with computers and lab equipment all day. The last thing I need is another machine in my life.”

  Emily was eight years old when Judy was offered a coveted position as a professor with the Computer Engineering Department at the University of Pennsylvania, and Steve, a journalist, found a job on the staff of The Philadelphia Inquirer. The family moved to Philadelphia, and for many years, the Elm Creek Quilters watched Emily grow up through photographs and yearly visits.

  When Emily was in fourth grade, Judy taught her to piece, appliqué, and quilt by hand, and proudly e-mailed photos of her creations to her friends at Elm Creek Manor. After Emily mastered those skills, she begged Judy to teach her to use the sewing machine, and when she was in middle school, an indulgent neighbor gave her serger lessons on wintry Saturday afternoons. Emily, whose tastes ran to the eclectic, soon began creating abstract, impressionist quilts and sewing her own clothes. In high school she was the queen of the drama club, not only because of her brilliant comedic timing and pure soprano voice, but also because of her gift for costuming. But art remained her first love, and after spending her first two years after high school in an independent study program in France and Italy, she enrolled in the California College of the Arts in San Francisco. There she earned her bachelor of fine arts degree with highest honors, and after spending a year in Oakland working for a nonprofit organization that promoted art education in inner city public schools, she enrolled in the prestigious School of the Art Institute of Chicago, where she earned her master of fine arts in fiber and material studies. Her work, an intriguing amalgam of quilting, weaving, and sculpture, received critical praise in student shows, and thanks to Russell’s connections in the art world, some of her pieces were displayed in prestigious galleries in Seattle, Atlanta, and Louisville. She won a few awards, enjoyed a few brief but glowing magazine reviews, and even sold a few pieces. But all too soon she learned what her parents had privately worried about ever since she first expressed her dream of becoming an artist: It was a desperately difficult way to make a living.

  Perhaps to atone for those many tearful conversations years earlier in which Judy had urged her smart and diligent daughter to major in science or engineering and enjoy art as a relaxing hobby, Judy resolved to help Emily pursue the artist’s life without fear of starving to death in a cobwebby garret. Emily’s first medium had been quilting, she had teaching experience, and everyone at Elm Creek Manor adored her, so Judy did not feel as if she were imposing upon their friendship when she asked Sarah to consider Emily for the faculty of Elm Creek Quilt Camp the next time they had an available position. For Sarah this was welcome news. In recent years they had relied upon visiting instructors to fill vacancies, which allowed them to vary their course offerings from year to year and introduce their regular campers to different celebrities from the quilting world each summer. Although this system offered some advantages, the smooth operation of quilt camp over the long term depended upon a consistent core faculty, and their numbers had been dwindling. Sarah gladly offered Emily a permanent position on the faculty, as well as room and board at Elm Creek Manor.

  Emily gratefully accepted, honored and delighted to be invited to join the renowned group of quilters she had admired since childhood, the women who had inspired her to become an artist. She spent her summers teaching Elm Creek Quilt campers contemporary art quilting, color theory, embellishment, clothing design, and a host of other classes as quirky and intriguing as she was. When autumn came, she retreated to the private studio Sarah had invited her to create in the expansive room on the third floor that had once been the Bergstrom children’s nursery. As the winter winds blew and snow dashed upon the windowpanes, Emily lost herself in the eternal springtime of creation. She had friends about her when she craved companionship, solitude when she needed to be alone. The quilt campers’ positive energy nurtured her creativity, she often said, and she couldn’t imagine anything about her profoundly blessed life she would change.

  Judy, who visited as often as she could and worried that Emily spent far too much time alone, had confided to her friends that she would change only one small matter—she wished Emily had a husband, or at least a boyfriend. Gwen found this enormously funny and pointed out that she had been single most of her life and was much happier for it. “Perhaps,” Judy had replied in an e-mail exchange that included all of the original Elm Creek Quilters, “but you had Summer.”

  “So it’s grandchildren you want,” teased Anna.

  “Maybe she’ll meet someone later in life,” offered Maggie, who had met Russell in her late thirties and married him at forty-four.

  “Emily doesn’t seem lonely,” Sarah reassured Judy. “She’s bright and happy and cheerful. She’s made friends in town—artists, musicians, writers, and the occasional mathematician. I promise you, she isn’t a hermit.”

  At the time, Judy seemed relieved to hear it, but as the years went by and Emily remained contentedly single, her worries returned. Although she feigned nonchalance, she was delighted when Emily mentioned that she planned to bring a date to Caroline’s wedding. Emily had met Miles, a biology professor at Waterford College, after he purchased one of her tapestries from a small gallery downtown that specialized in the work of regional artists. Miles had volunteered to select a gift from the Biology Department for a visiting professor whose appointment was ending, and he had requested Emily’s contact information so he could consult her about how to properly pack the tapestry for the professor’s flight home to Switzerland. After exchanging a few e-mails, Miles invited Emily to dinner, ostensibly to thank her for her help. Later he confessed that he had seen her photo at the gallery—after he bought the tapestry, he emphasized—and he couldn’t forget her beautiful dark eyes and the faint amusement in her smile.

  Emily and Miles had gone out several times since then, and he had joined the Elm Creek Quilters and their campers for supper at Elm Creek Manor occasionally throughout the summer, but Judy and Steve had not yet met him. Sarah suppressed a smile as she watched Judy and Emily together, suspecting that Judy would like nothing more than to take her daughter aside and interrogate her about her new friend.

  After lingering in the kitchen for nearly an hour to catch up on everyone’s news, Judy and Steve followed Emily upstairs to their usual suite. Afterward, Judy and Emily met the other Elm Creek Quilters in the library so that Judy and Diane could restore their Winding Ways panels to their proper places on the wall beside the fireplace.

  “It’s nearly complete,” remarked Emily, admiring the segmented quilt.

  “Yes, nearly,” said Judy, putting an arm around her daughter’s shoulders as all eyes went to the empty space in the lower right corner where Bonnie’s panel belonged. Sarah tried to remember how many years had passed since it had last hung in its proper place—ten years? Twelve? It seemed impossible that Bonnie had been away from the manor so long. It was easier to remember the last time all nine panels had hung on the wall together and the quilt had been whole. On the day of Agnes’s funeral eleven years before, all of the Elm Creek Quilters, past a
nd present, had returned to the manor to honor their beloved friend, the most sincere and indefatigably optimistic member of their circle. Before that, the last time the quilt had been displayed in its entirety was on the day of Sylvia’s memorial service. Gazing at the incomplete Winding Ways quilt, Sarah found it impossible not to wonder what occasion would next reunite the remaining Elm Creek Quilters—and whether that occasion would be full of grief. At least Caroline’s wedding had brought most of them together for a celebration of life and love.

  Someone sighed, and Sarah knew that she was not the only one whose thoughts had taken a melancholy turn. It was her responsibility as hostess to make sure their reunion didn’t become maudlin. Looking around the circle of friends, she said, “We have an hour before dinner, so I’ll offer you your choice of activities: You can put your feet up and relax, you can help me collect signatures for Leo and Caroline’s wedding quilt, or you can help Anna and Gina in the kitchen. What do you say?”

  “Forgive me, but I’ve had enough going door-to-door to last me a lifetime,” said Gwen. “I’d rather chop vegetables or stir soup or whatever the master chefs will trust me to do.”

  “I thought you loved campaigning,” said Diane. “Pressing the flesh, talking about yourself, being the center of attention—that’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

  “I enjoyed getting out to meet the people and discuss the issues,” Gwen clarified. “I didn’t like the perpetual marketing of myself or the endless fund-raising.”

  “Mom loved the work of legislating,” said Summer, putting an arm around her mother’s shoulder and smiling at her with proud fondness. “She relished taking on the corporate villains and improving the lives of ordinary citizens. She enjoyed making a difference.”

  Diane folded her arms and shook her head mournfully. “If only you had put all that determination to work for the right political party.”