The Wedding Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “I wonder . . .” Sarah inspected the paper and ribbons. “We could unwrap them very carefully, see what’s inside, and wrap them up again—”

  “Sarah,” exclaimed Gretchen, scandalized. “The twins should receive their gifts exactly as they are, lovingly wrapped by Sylvia herself.”

  “But the twins are only ten,” Sarah protested weakly, for she knew Gretchen was right. “They might not marry young or at all, and their thirtieth birthdays are twenty years away. Curiosity might kill me before then.”

  “It won’t,” said Gretchen firmly. “The years will pass more swiftly than you can imagine. You’ll just have to be patient and tell yourself that one day you’ll know what Sylvia left your children.”

  Gretchen fell silent, and her gaze dropped to James’s gift, which she still held in her wrinkled, blue-veined hands. Sarah knew that Gretchen was thinking that she herself might never learn what Sylvia’s lasts gift were. Sarah’s throat tightened. She could not think of another loss, not so soon.

  They returned the gifts to the bag and the bag to its hiding place in the window seat. Then they softly closed the door to the nursery—playroom, game room, who knew what incarnation it would take next. The years would unfold, and time would tell.

  Sarah returned to the library and Sylvia’s list. In the days that followed, she distributed Sylvia’s gifts to those friends who resided in the manor, and called or wrote letters to those who did not. One by one the other gifts were claimed by grateful, tearful friends, students, and colleagues, and when each recipient came to the manor, they shared heartfelt, joyful memories of the master quilter they all loved and admired—and so Sarah, too, received another, wonderful gift from her departed friend, the gift of stories.

  Sylvia’s gifts for the twins had remained undisturbed for fifteen years, and in the interim the playroom had become Emily’s studio. Gretchen was no longer with them and would not discover what the gifts were, a likelihood she and Sarah had both silently considered when they found the wrapped and ribbon-tied parcels in the window seat on that long-ago day.

  Just as Gretchen had foretold, the years had passed swiftly, far too swiftly. The twins were grown, the time had come, and soon Sarah would know what her friend and mentor had left behind as a last, loving gift for her children.

  Chapter Seven

  For Sarah, Friday morning passed in a blur of activity—decorating the ballroom for the reception, setting up chairs in the north gardens, folding programs, and delegating whatever tasks she could to any willing volunteer. To her relief, Carol took charge of welcoming guests, showing them to their rooms with cordial efficiency and making everyone feel at home. Lunch was a quick but tasty affair, a sandwich, soup, and salad buffet that Gina and Anna arranged on the front verandah. Then Sarah was glad to pause, catch her breath, and have a bite to eat. She sat on one of the old Adirondack chairs, munching a tuna salad and arugula wrap and sipping a mug of warm apple cider as she watched younger guests play soccer, croquet, and tag on the broad green lawn.

  Balancing a mug of cider, a bowl of clam chowder, and a plate with a roast beef and provolone sub, a side of chips, and a pickle, Matt pushed a chair closer to hers with his foot and carefully sat down. “Save room for dessert,” said Sarah. “Anna made pumpkin tartlets.”

  “I saw them,” Matt replied, glancing back at the buffet table in anticipation. “That’s why I took only a six-inch sub instead of a foot-long. Don’t worry, I’ll still fit into my tux tomorrow.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Sarah assured him, amused. “I’m sure you’ve been working up an appetite putting the gardens in order. How do they look?”

  “Exactly as Caroline wanted them, but they’ll never be as beautiful as the bride.” Matt gazed out at the front yard, where Caroline was playing freeze tag with Leo’s younger cousin, coltishly lovely in a comfortable pair of jeans and a forest green Dartmouth sweatshirt. Her golden hair shone in the autumn sun, and her laughter rang out, clear and happy. Sarah and Matt exchanged a smile, proud and wistful.

  “They grew up so much faster than I expected,” said Matt. “Remember when they were babies and everyone always told us to enjoy every minute, even while we were up to our elbows in diapers and a good night’s sleep was nothing but a fond memory?”

  “They were right.”

  “They were right,” affirmed Matt. “I can’t believe it’s been twenty-five years.”

  “The days were long, but the years were short.” Sarah leaned back and smiled ruefully. “I miss those little babies. I miss my toddlers and my fifth graders and every stage in between and every one that followed.”

  “Remember how we always used to say, ‘This is the perfect age. They’re absolutely perfect just as they are.’ And then a year later, we’d say, ‘No, we were wrong; this is the perfect age. They’re even more wonderful now.’”

  “I remember,” said Sarah. Then she laughed. “We’ll probably say the same thing about our grandchildren.”

  “Probably.”

  They finished their lunches in the companionable silence of longtime spouses who could speak volumes with a single glance or the smallest gesture, watching the games on the lawn and wishing that time wouldn’t pass so swiftly.

  A month before the wedding, Sarah, the consummate organizer, had planned her schedule for the wedding week down to the last minute, allowing extra time for unforeseeable disasters both small and significant. Only then would she be certain to finish everything in time so that she could relax and enjoy the wedding day, with all the hard work behind her. An hour before the rehearsal, and only fifteen minutes behind her master schedule, Sarah crossed off the last item from her list of wedding preparation duties with great satisfaction and relief. There were other tasks, of course, that had to wait until the day of the ceremony, but Caroline and James had encouraged her to delegate those to her friends, the best man, and the bridesmaids. Caroline had also made her promise that she would not spend Saturday morning going from one helper to the next, making sure everything would be done properly and on time. “This isn’t quilt camp,” Caroline had reminded her after supper on the day of her arrival. “You don’t have to manage everything. You’re the mother of the bride, not the wedding planner.”

  “We don’t have a wedding planner, and mother of the bride or not, I’m the hostess, not a guest,” Sarah had pointed out. “I can’t sit down, put my feet up, and swill a cocktail until I’m sure everything is perfect.”

  “It’s not going to be perfect,” Caroline had told her firmly. “It’s going to be lovely and I’ll be very happy, and I say that knowing that it’s not going to be perfect. Things are going to go wrong—”

  “Not with the rehearsal dinner or the wedding supper,” Gina broke in cheerfully. “And definitely not with the cake.”

  “Okay, the food will probably be perfect,” amended Caroline, amused. “But things are going to go wrong, and that’s okay. I refuse to be upset if the napkins are the wrong color or if we run out of wedding favors, and you should too.”

  Sarah agreed to try, finding it an odd sort of role reversal that the bride was delivering that speech to her mother instead of the other way around.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, the wedding party and the bride’s and the groom’s immediate families gathered in the north gardens for the rehearsal. Despite the early hour, the crisp sunshine of the day was waning as gray clouds pillowed in the western sky. The wind had picked up, scattering fallen leaves over the carefully swept stones.

  “We all knew we were taking a chance on an outdoor wedding in September, in Pennsylvania,” said Carol, shivering in her thin sweater as Sarah led her to her seat in the front row. “Still, I suppose it’s better than if they had eloped.”

  The minister began with a brief, cordial welcome, glancing frequently at the skies. “We’ll finish before the rain falls,” he promised. The minister walked them through the ceremony, explaining the different elements with gracious good humor, and even the six-year-old ring
bearer and four-year-old flower girl, Leo’s nephew and niece, listened carefully so that they wouldn’t miss a word. Thunder rumbled low in the distance as the minister asked them to take their places for a quick run-through, and everyone quickly obeyed. A few ladies clutched their hats as a gust of wind swept through the garden, making the evergreens sway and sending autumn leaves swirling.

  “I should have waited until tomorrow morning to set out the chairs,” Matt said in an undertone as he passed Sarah on his way to line up for the procession with Caroline. Sarah silently agreed. Setting up the chairs early had been the twenty-second item on her to-do list—which, like Caroline’s choice of an outdoor wedding, depended upon fair weather. She prayed that the storm would blow over—but if it didn’t, the following morning she would muster up a team of teenagers, arm them with towels, and send them out to dry off the chairs so their guests wouldn’t be forced to sit in puddles of rainwater.

  She didn’t want to think about all the other plans that would have to change if the storm lasted throughout the next day.

  Thunder rumbled again, closer. The minister climbed the stairs to the gazebo, turned to face them, and began. As James escorted Sarah to her seat in the front row on the left, she glimpsed the mother of the flower girl and ring bearer peer anxiously at the sky, clutch her husband’s arm, and whisper urgently to him. Then Leo and his brother passed Sarah’s chair on their way to join the minister in the gazebo. Sarah thought she heard the best man warn Leo that maybe the storm was a bad omen, and she watched in satisfaction as Leo paid him back with an elbow to the side.

  Then the groomsmen escorted the bridesmaids down the aisle in pairs. James winked at Sarah as he passed, Gina on his arm, and he smiled when they parted at the steps of the gazebo and took their places on opposite sides of the aisle. “Ordinarily you’ll process in at a more stately, moderate pace”—the minister paused for another, more insistent thunderclap—”but given the circumstances, we should move things along.” He gestured for the ring bearer and flower girl to speed up, and after a moment of uncertainty, during which Sarah guessed they were weighing the minister’s words against their mother’s earlier exhortation that under no circumstances should they run, they beamed and scampered down the aisle.

  Just as the minister motioned for everyone to rise, Sarah felt a cold, heavy drop of water splash on the back of her hand. It was just a bit of dew blown down from the treetops, she told herself, that was all. Her confidence faltered as Matt escorted Caroline down the aisle at a pace rivaling the young children’s. Another gust of wind blew the minister’s notes from his grasp, and then came the unmistakable tap of a raindrop on stone, followed by another, and as an exclamation of dismay went up from the bridal party, the taps quickened and became a staccato patter that drowned out the minister’s suggestion that they seek shelter. Snatching up purses and wraps and cameras, everyone raced for the gazebo, crowding toward the center to escape the windblown rain. As soon as she had Carol safely under cover, Sarah worked her way through the crowd to Caroline’s side, but words of comfort and reassurance faded on her lips when she found her daughter shaking water from her curls and laughing, not at all distressed. “I know you have a backup plan, Mom,” she said. “You always have a backup plan.”

  “My backup plan was to move the rehearsal to the front foyer,” said Sarah, eyeing the driving sheets of rain in consternation. In minutes the golden sunshine of midday had sunk into the cold steel-gray of dusk. “We can’t ask people to run a quarter of a mile in this cloudburst.”

  “We’ll wait it out,” said Leo, putting his arm around Caroline and pulling her close. She smiled and shivered in the sudden chill, rubbing her bare arms for warmth. Quickly Leo pulled off his sweater and held it up, gesturing for Caroline to raise her arms so he could slip it over her head. She smiled and thanked him, and they both laughed to see how the sleeves completely hid her hands, and the bottom ribbing fell almost to her knees. She looked like a little girl playing dress-up, even as she briskly and efficiently made cuffs of the sleeves so she could hold Leo’s hand. They were among the few who didn’t mind the close quarters, but Sarah wished she had more breathing room and fewer elbows and knees bumping into hers. She was damp, cold, and uncomfortable, and her toes hurt from being trod upon in the mad dash to squeeze beneath the gazebo roof.

  Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Sarah alternately wished that someone within the manor would remember the rehearsal and come to their rescue with the dozens of umbrellas stored in the back hall closet for the quilt campers’ use, and hoped that her friends would use common sense and stay inside out of the storm. After twenty minutes, the thunder quieted, the lightning flashed no more, and the downpour lessened to become a steady drizzle. Someone suggested dubiously that they make a run for it, but no one seemed eager to leave the shelter of the gazebo.

  “Here comes a rescue team,” called one of the groomsmen, and everyone turned to look where he pointed. Sarah glimpsed two tall figures in blaze-orange rain ponchos making their way into the garden, a bundle of umbrellas under each arm. As they approached the gazebo, she recognized Jeremy and Russell, and she joined in the chorus of thanks as they distributed the umbrellas. In pairs and trios, they hurried off to the manor, parents carrying children, grandsons offering their arms to grandparents while granddaughters held the umbrellas high enough to shelter them all.

  Anna and Maggie met them in the foyer with soft, thick towels, and after removing their wet shoes and drying off as best they could, everyone but the bride, the groom, and their parents dispersed to change into dry clothes for dinner. “I suppose that’s it for rehearsal,” the minister remarked. “You seem like a smart bunch, though. I’m sure the walk-through will suffice.”

  The others chimed in their agreement, so Sarah refrained from suggesting that they practice one last time in the foyer when the bridal party returned downstairs for dinner. It didn’t have to be perfect, she reminded herself, just as Caroline had said. As long as Caroline and Leo ended up happily married at the end of the day, it didn’t matter if they processed in at the wrong pace or if shyness overcame the flower girl and she ran to her parents instead of accompanying her brother to the gazebo.

  Matt offered the minister a change of clothes, too, but he declined, reminding them that he had been beneath the shelter of the gazebo roof when the rain began to fall and only his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers had gotten wet in the walk from the garden to the manor. Sarah showed him to the parlor and asked him to make himself at home until dinner, and then she, too, hurried upstairs to change.

  Soon afterward, the bridal party, their families, and the minister gathered in the banquet hall for a delicious Italian banquet. Even though the dinner took place in Elm Creek Manor, in keeping with tradition, Leo’s parents were the official hosts. Leo’s mother had been delighted to discover that Anna was also of Italian heritage, and for the past several weeks they had corresponded almost daily as they collaborated and planned the menu. The antipasti course included bruschetta, slices of bread topped with diced tomato, olive oil, garlic, and herbs; fried squares of polenta; and a savory assortment of cheeses and cured meats. For the primo piatto, or first course, the guests enjoyed a delicious Italian wedding soup and small portions of ravioli con burro e salvia, ravioli with butter and sage, one of Leo’s favorite dishes. Sarah was already quite full by that time, but she couldn’t resist sampling a few bites of the grilled herb chicken with sautéed eggplant and green beans Anna and Gina served for the secondo piatto. For dessert, Gina offered the guests their choice of tiramisu or raspberry gelati. A few of the young men requested both, and since she and her mother had made more than enough for all, Gina was happy to comply.

  As the guests enjoyed their desserts with coffee or tea or cocoa for the children, Leo’s father rose and toasted the bride and groom, reminiscing fondly of the day Leo had told them that he had met the love of his life. Next Matt stood and raised his glass, choking up as he spoke of his beloved daughter and the
time he first realized she had fallen in love. Leo’s toast to the bride followed, and Sarah’s eyes filled with tears as he spoke movingly of all that he cherished about Caroline, and all he intended to do to nurture their marriage for the rest of his life. He sat down to a crash of applause, and Caroline needed a few moments to compose herself before she rose and offered her own toast to her husband-to-be and both sets of parents. Beneath the table, Matt’s hand closed around Sarah’s as Caroline spoke. Their daughter smiled through her tears and said that she knew she had not always been the easiest child to raise—a confession that evoked a soft chorus of disbelieving murmurs—and that she was grateful for her parents’ unconditional love, unwavering faith, and strong example of loving commitment they had set for her throughout her life. “I’ve found the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and for that I feel truly blessed,” she said. “I hope that our marriage will be as resilient, as strong, and as full of enduring love as those our parents enjoyed.”

  Matt smiled proudly, his gaze fixed on his daughter as he released Sarah’s hand to join in the applause. Sarah felt her smile faltering as she, too, applauded, and she hoped anyone who might have witnessed her sudden distress would attribute it to the overwhelming emotions of the day. She felt a sharp pang of worry as she watched Caroline take her seat and accept Leo’s kiss with a loving smile. She knew that some children idealized their parents’ marriages, but that was not in Caroline’s nature. Sarah and Matt’s marriage was far from perfect, and although they had shielded the twins from their disagreements and difficulties, especially when they were very young, Sarah had never lied or pretended all was well when it was not. Had they protected the children too much? Caroline could not possibly realize how hard her parents had worked, and how they had sometimes struggled, or she would not wish for a marriage like theirs.

  Sarah knew Matt would agree that, thanks in part to the crises they had overcome together, their marriage was healthy, their expectations realistic, and their commitment strong. But that didn’t mean Sarah wanted her daughter to hold up her parents’ marriage as any sort of ideal, especially on the eve of her wedding. Sarah wished Caroline had not ended her toast with hopes that her marriage would resemble her parents’. Caroline should insist upon something much better from the very first, and not require the surmounting of obstacles to set her and Leo on the right path.