The Wedding Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Your gown is something new,” Sarah mused as they paused outside Caroline’s room, “and the antique silver belt is something old. Finding something blue is usually the biggest challenge.”

  “I have that covered,” said Caroline. “Dad’s going to weave a beautiful dark blue ribbon into my bouquet.”

  It didn’t sound like Caroline needed Sarah’s help after all, since all that remained was something borrowed. “You could borrow some earrings from one of your friends.”

  “No, I want to wear the pearl earrings Leo gave me last Christmas.” Caroline fixed her with a tentative, hopeful smile. “According to tradition, it’s important for a bride to borrow something from a happily married person, so that she can carry some of that person’s marital bliss into her own marriage. I’d like to borrow something from you.”

  Sarah hesitated. “Why me?”

  Caroline laughed, surprised by the question. “Why not? You’re my mom, and you’re happily married. Right?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

  “Of course I am,” replied Sarah quickly. “Well, let me think.” And then, suddenly, she knew the perfect piece to lend to her daughter.

  She took Caroline’s hand and led her farther down the hall to the room Sarah and Matt shared. An old jewelry box the size and shape of a small cabinet sat upon the bureau, and as Caroline seated herself upon the bed and absently traced the outline of the Hands All Around block in the sampler quilt, Sarah withdrew a shallow, rectangular case from a lower drawer. Sitting down beside her daughter, she lifted the lid, smiling as Caroline gasped at the sight of the beautiful pearl necklace.

  “These belonged to Sylvia,” said Sarah, gently removing the pearls from the case and unfastening the clasp. Her eyes widening, Caroline drew her blond curls out of the way as Sarah fastened the pearls around her neck. “She wore them on the day she married her first husband, James, the man your brother is named after. Sylvia’s mother wore them on her wedding day too. They belonged to her own grandmother, who might have worn them as a bride herself, for all I know.” Sarah smiled. “Perhaps then, so long ago, they were her ‘something new.’”

  Caroline rose and went to the mirror above the bureau, her mouth slightly open in astonishment as she admired them in the reflection. “They’re so beautiful. Why don’t you ever wear them?”

  Sarah laughed. “Caroline, honey, those pearls are very precious. That’s not a necklace I can throw on for a day at quilt camp.”

  “Then you should definitely add some special occasions to your social calendar so you’ll have an excuse to wear them.” Caroline turned, beaming, and flung her arms around Sarah. “Thank you so much, Mom. They’re perfect. They’ll even complement my earrings.”

  “And they qualify as something borrowed. Someday they’ll be yours, of course—”

  “Oh, Mom, don’t talk like that.”

  “Don’t talk like what?”

  “Don’t bring up your—you know, your mortality, not the day before my wedding.”

  “I’m not bringing it up. I’m only letting you know that someday—” The sight of Caroline’s unhappy frown cut her short. “Very well. Please borrow my pearl necklace and consider the tradition satisfied. I want them back in perfect condition for all the balls I’ll attend throughout the upcoming social season.”

  “Absolutely,” said Caroline, her good humor immediately restored. Reluctantly, she lifted her hair again so that Sarah could remove the necklace, and after returning it to the velvet-lined case, she thanked Sarah again and carried it off to her room, hugging it to her heart.

  Sarah watched her go, smiling fondly, thinking of how happy Sylvia would have been to see Caroline wearing the pearls, a beloved and rare heirloom from her mother’s side of the family. Sylvia had left nearly all of her family heirlooms to Sarah along with the estate, and like Caroline, Sarah had hated to hear Sylvia talk about her eventual passing and had changed the subject whenever it arose. She knew Sylvia intended her to be her heir, but Sarah avoided any discussion of the details.

  One day shortly after her ninetieth birthday, Sylvia had enough of Sarah’s nonsense, as she called it, and summoned her onetime apprentice for a frank and difficult discussion of her affairs. Sarah had no choice but to listen to Sylvia’s instructions, nodding and blinking away tears as Sylvia told her the location of her private papers, the contact information for her lawyer, and the documents pertaining to her burial, which, ever efficient, she had arranged in advance.

  “There,” Sylvia declared when she had finished. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

  “Yes, it was,” retorted Sarah, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with the cuff of her blouse. “You know I hate to think of this kind of stuff.”

  Sylvia gazed heavenward. “Refusing to discuss ‘this kind of stuff’ won’t prevent it from happening. But now the unpleasant task is done, and you’re free to think of something else.”

  Sarah nodded and gulped air.

  “Sarah, dear.” Sylvia clasped her hand. “Please don’t be unhappy. This day comes to us all. Remember what I told you when I wrote my will so many years ago, after I suffered the stroke?”

  Sarah nodded, for she had never forgotten her beloved friend and mentor’s words. “I need to know that the estate will be cared for when I’m no longer here to see to it myself,” Sylvia had told Sarah, with all their friends standing witness. “I need someone who understands that the true value of Elm Creek Manor doesn’t reside in its price per acre. You are that person.”

  The memory of Sylvia’s plainspoken praise warmed Sarah’s heart, and in a sudden upswell of love for her friend, she realized that her sorrow was nothing next to the deep and profound gratitude she felt for Sylvia, who had shared her life, her home, and her history generously for as long as Sarah had known her, asking nothing in return.

  Well, that was not entirely true.

  “Why are you smiling?” asked Sylvia. “Not that I wish to discourage you.”

  “I was thinking of the day we met.”

  “Oh, not that,” said Sylvia, exasperated. “Why would you want to remember that day? I was thoroughly unpleasant to you.”

  “Yes, you were.” Sarah still remembered the heat and humidity of the day, oppressive in downtown Waterford, where she had concluded another dismal job interview, less so in the cool shade of the elms surrounding the manor. “You had hired the landscape architecture company Matt was working for, and they had sent him out to take photos of the grounds. You were cranky—”

  “Because Matt was late.”

  “As a matter of fact, we were five minutes early, which was pretty good considering how difficult it is to find Elm Creek Manor when you’ve never been here. You called me ‘Uh, Sarah’—”

  “That was how you introduced yourself. ‘I’m—uh, Sarah. I’m Matt’s wife.’ Honestly, I don’t know why you would want to make this particular trip down memory lane.”

  “You offered me a glass of lemonade, and when I accepted, you told me to get it myself because you weren’t going to wait on me.” She had to laugh as Sylvia waved her hands as if to ward off embarrassment. “Then you whisked Matt away to take the photos and left me behind in the kitchen.”

  “And you decided to go exploring.”

  Sarah nodded, remembering how she had wandered into a sunny, pleasant sitting room, larger and wider than the kitchen, with overstuffed furniture arranged by the windows and before the fireplace, and cheerful watercolor landscapes on the walls. A small sewing machine had sat on a nearby table, a chair pulled aside as if someone had left it only moments before. On the largest sofa Sarah had discovered a beautiful quilt, which she had unfolded for a better look. Small diamonds of all shades of blue, purple, and green had been joined into eight-pointed stars on a soft ivory background. Tiny stitches had formed smaller diamonds within each colorful piece, and the lighter fabric was covered with a flowing, feathery pattern, all made from unbelievably small, even stitches. A narrow, leafy vine of deep emerald green meandered
around the edges, framing the delicate stars in foliage. She would have admired the quilt longer, had Sylvia not suddenly reappeared and scolded her.

  “I thought you might spill lemonade on my quilt,” Sylvia made an excuse.

  “I wouldn’t have.”

  “Well, I didn’t know you then. For all I knew, you might have been a very reckless and irresponsible young woman.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly the impression I made in my best business suit and sensible heels.”

  Sylvia laughed and removed her glasses to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, I’m utterly ashamed of myself. I can’t think of a single word to say in my own defense. I was a dreadful hostess, I freely confess. And yet you came to work for me anyway.”

  “Matt wanted me to, and I needed a job.” But they both knew those were not the only, nor the most compelling, reasons Sarah had accepted Sylvia’s offer to work as her assistant, helping her prepare for a sale that, thankfully, never happened. “I fell in love with that beautiful quilt, and I knew you could teach me to make one of my own.”

  “And so I did.” Sylvia’s gaze was far away. “I wonder whatever became of that quilt.”

  “It’s on the bed in one of the third-floor suites,” Sarah said. “Do you want it?”

  “No, dear. That’s exactly where it should be, offering warmth and comfort to our guests.” Sylvia gave Sarah’s hand a brisk pat and smiled, and with that affectionate gesture all the lingering unhappiness between them broke and fell away.

  In the time that followed, their friendship endured and thrived. Sarah cared for Sylvia in her sunset years, and she was among the few at Sylvia’s bedside when she passed away at the age of ninety-three, peacefully, her hand in Andrew’s. Hundreds of friends, colleagues, and former students came to Elm Creek Manor for her memorial service, but only those closest to her attended her burial in the small family plot in the old cemetery on Church Street. Melissa, her brother, and their spouses flew out from California to pay their respects, and Sarah was touched to see how genuinely saddened they were by her passing. Sylvia had been their sole link to their Bergstrom ancestors, and although they had known her only briefly, they would be forever grateful that she had mended the broken chain.

  Andrew took the loss of his beloved wife harder than anyone, and although Sarah and her friends did what they could to comfort him, he was bereft and lonely. Without Sylvia, Elm Creek Manor no longer felt like home to him. If he had not sold his RV, he might have driven away, traveling coast to coast as he had after his first wife’s death, until the solitude of the road eased his grief. Instead he accepted his son and daughter-in-law’s long-standing invitation to join them in California. They found him a condo in a retirement community near their residence in Santa Susana, and a month after Sylvia’s death, he packed his belongings and moved away. It was a tearful parting, and Sarah promised Andrew that they would keep a room for him if he ever decided to return, but she suspected he would not. She hoped that in time, the sunny skies of Southern California and the cheerful company of his granddaughters would temper the sharpness of his grief.

  Andrew departed a few days before Sylvia’s will was released. Sarah had expected a dramatic scene in the lawyer’s office in which all the relevant parties gathered to hear a formal reading of the will, but apparently that happened only in the movies. Thus she learned by certified mail that, except for a few quilts and other possessions Sylvia wanted set aside for the Elm Creek Quilters and other cherished friends, Sylvia had bequeathed almost her entire estate—the grounds, the manor, and almost all of her possessions—to Sarah. Sylvia returned the Postage Stamp quilt Elizabeth had made to Melissa, and had also left her a few Bergstrom family heirlooms and her twenty percent share in Elm Creek Quilts.

  Only Sarah owned so large a share; the other Elm Creek Quilters with a stake in the company each owned ten percent. What Melissa would do in her role as part owner from so far away, Sarah could only guess, but it was likely that she would do little more than vote on crucial development matters, accept her portion of the profits, and perhaps enjoy a free week of quilt camp every so often. She might even wish to sell her share to other members of the permanent faculty, as Judy and Bonnie had done. Whatever Melissa decided, Sarah would help her.

  Thus Matt’s fears were proven groundless and Sarah’s faith in Sylvia justified.

  The lawyer’s letter also stipulated an important task Sylvia had wanted Sarah to complete. In the bottom drawer on the right-hand side of her father’s oak desk, Sylvia had left a list of cherished friends and special gifts she wished each of them to have in remembrance of her. Upstairs in the library, Sarah found a thick, padded envelope hidden beneath a box of empty file folders. As often as she had worked at that desk, she had never noticed it before, and it occurred to her that the drawer was an excellent hiding place she could use herself if she ever had anything important to keep out of sight.

  The list, and Sylvia’s expressions of affection and gratitude to the friends who had blessed her life with their companionship, support, laughter, honesty, and love, brought fresh tears to Sarah’s eyes. To several of her favorite students and quilt campers, Sylvia had left sewing tools, pattern books, and quilts in progress, with the request that they finish the quilts, if they were so inclined, and think of her whenever they used them. To the other Elm Creek Quilters she had left quilts that each had especially admired, along with instructions to divide her fabric stash in an equitable fashion. “Perhaps you should let Gwen, with her proven skills for negotiation, determine the method,” she had written, “and Diane, no complaints out of you, dear.” There were other gifts, simple and surprising and humorous and touching, and one in particular that Sarah knew would be gratefully received: Sylvia had left Matt the red banked barn Hans Bergstrom had built and several acres of land surrounding it adjacent to the orchards. Matt used the barn more than anyone, Sylvia had noted, and he had earned it.

  The last two items on the list were the most surprising and the most unexpected. “Within a window seat up in the nursery,” Sylvia had written, “you will find two wrapped boxes. The larger one is for Caroline, the smaller, for James. I was not blessed with grandchildren, Sarah, dear, but your twins are as precious to me as if they were my own, and I am grateful you allowed me to be such an important part of their childhood. My only regret is that I will not be here to witness all of the important milestones in their lives. I hope that these small gifts will help them to remember me on a particularly significant day. Please give these gifts to the twins on their wedding days with my love.” A word was crossed out, and then Sylvia continued. “However, it is highly unlikely that they will marry on the same day, and I don’t want it to seem as if I’m favoring one twin over the other. Therefore, you may give both gifts on the wedding day of the twin who marries first.” Another crossed-out word followed. “It occurs to me that perhaps neither of them will choose to marry, and I don’t wish to imply that they should or must. Gwen would certainly chastise me for that. If Caroline and James decide to remain single, please give them these gifts on their thirtieth birthday. There, that should do nicely.”

  Sarah smiled through her tears, the words so true to Sylvia’s intonation that she could almost imagine she heard her friend’s voice. She left the letter on the oak desk and headed upstairs to the nursery, a name James, Caroline, and Gina had dismissed as babyish, preferring the more dignified “playroom.” More recently they had begun calling it the game room, and Sarah wistfully suspected that soon they would abandon play altogether. She wondered what they would do with the nursery then. It would be a shame if the spacious, well-lit room went to waste, but its remote spot on the third floor of the manor made it inconvenient for quilt camp activities.

  On her way down the hall to the stairs, Sarah ran into Gretchen. Sarah told her about Sylvia’s letter, and that Sylvia had wanted Gretchen to have her old Featherweight sewing machine in hopes that she would create an artistic masterpiece with it. Tears sprang int
o Gretchen’s eyes. “She’s so generous to think of me. She knew how much I admired her Featherweight.”

  “She remembered all of those dearest to her, even the twins.” When Sarah explained that Sylvia had left gifts for Caroline and James in the playroom, Gretchen’s curiosity was immediately piqued and she offered to help Sarah find them.

  Upstairs, board games, books, and LEGOS were scattered on tables and floors, and someone had left the television on, still hooked up to the video-game system and merrily chirping electronic music. With an exasperated sigh, Sarah shut it off, wondering how long it had been playing to an empty room.

  Each of the seats along the windows overlooking the front lawn lifted up to reveal a storage space beneath. Forgotten toddler toys and board books and dust bunnies filled most of them, but one had been scrupulously cleaned and cleared of everything except a plastic shopping bag from a downtown Waterford department store that had closed in the 1960s. Inside, Sarah and Gretchen discovered two boxes, one large and one small, each carefully wrapped and tied with ribbons. The tag on the larger box read “Caroline” in Sylvia’s spindly handwriting, the other, “James.”

  “This feels like a book,” mused Gretchen, turning James’s gift over in her hands.

  Sarah gave Caroline’s gift a gentle shake, and the contents shifted an inch or two from one side of the box to the other. “I haven’t a clue what this is.” Carefully she pushed down on the top of the box. “It’s soft. It could be a quilt.”

  Gretchen smiled. “It’s almost certainly a quilt. Consider the source.”