“Sarah and Matt chose it,” Sylvia said.
“Naturally. They are the newlyweds.” Agnes’s merriment turned to surprise as she spotted the Christmas Quilt on the sofa behind Sylvia. “My goodness. You’ve brought out the Christmas Quilt. You’re putting it together at last.”
“Yes, well—Sarah is,” said Sylvia.
Agnes hurried over and picked up a section of the quilt where Sarah had joined Feathered Stars and holly plumes together. “It’s just as lovely as I remembered. You’re mother’s ap pliqué was my inspiration, you know. I never forgot her beautiful handiwork. When Joe asked me to marry him, I was determined to learn to appliqué so I could make us a beautiful heirloom wedding quilt.”
“I never knew that,” said Sylvia.
“You should see it,” said Stacey, smiling at her mother. “It’s exquisite. All those beautiful rosebuds.”
“I wouldn’t say exquisite,” said Agnes, but they could all tell she was pleased. “Not with so many mistakes. I was just a beginner, in over my head.”
“We all have to start somewhere,” said Sarah.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Agnes gave the holly plumes a fond caress and returned them gently to the sofa. “I’m so pleased to see someone working on this quilt after so many years.”
“I’m surprised Claudia didn’t throw it out after I left,” said Sylvia. “She already associated it with so many unpleasant memories even before I took it up, and I’m sure my departure didn’t help. I suppose she was all too willing to pack it away where she would never have to lay eyes on it again.”
Agnes peered at her curiously, her pink lenses giving her a rosy, girlish air. “Why, no, that’s not the case at all. Claudia worked on it every Christmas that I lived here. She brought it out on St. Nicholas Day and put it away with the rest of the Christmas things on the Feast of the Three Kings. For the few years that I lived here, Claudia fully intended to finish that quilt. Even when times grew difficult between her and Harold, she had her heart set on it.”
“But—” Sylvia glanced at the sofa and swiftly counted five Variable Star blocks. “I know she finished those Variable Stars long before I left home.”
“I didn’t say she made more Variable Stars,” said Agnes. “You really didn’t notice? How many Log Cabin blocks did you make, Sylvia? Fifteen or twenty?”
“That sounds about right,” said Sylvia.
“There are far more than that here,” said Sarah. “I counted at least fifty.”
“That can’t be.” Sylvia counted for herself, examining the quality of the needlework as she did. Each of fifty-two blocks was as finely sewn and precise as any block Sylvia had ever made. She could not distinguish between her work and her sister’s. “But why would she make more of the pattern I selected rather than her own?”
“Maybe she understood why you chose as you did,” said Sarah. “Apparently she trusted your judgment more than you thought. Maybe this was her way of telling you so.”
Perhaps it was true. Could it be that all those Christmases Sylvia had spent alone, longing for home, Claudia had been missing her, too?
For Sylvia it was all too overwhelming. She sat down on her favorite chair by the window and stared at the quilt, still in pieces, but coming together thanks to Sarah’s loving attention.
“I was afraid, since the Christmas decorations had been stored away so long,” she said softly, “that Claudia stopped celebrating Christmas after I left.”
“You forgot about the aluminum tree,” said Sarah. “Remember? Maybe she couldn’t have a traditional Bergstrom holiday on her own, but she did celebrate Christmas.”
“And of course there was also the—Oh, my goodness. You’re not the only forgetful one.” Agnes beckoned her daughter forward. “Stacey, would you give Sylvia her present, please?”
Stacey placed the white cardboard bakery box on Sylvia’s lap. “You should open it now,” she said, smiling. “Don’t wait for Christmas morning.”
Sylvia lifted the lid, and on any other day she would have been astonished to find an exact replica of the famous Bergstrom strudel, but not that day.
“Where on earth did you buy this?” she exclaimed. “I thought the German bakery on College Avenue closed years ago.”
“She didn’t buy it,” said Stacey proudly. “She made it. And what a production it was!”
“Claudia taught you,” said Sylvia in wonder. “She did keep the old traditions.”
“Not this one, I’m afraid,” said Agnes. “We made strudel the Christmas after you left, but it was such a bleak and empty season without you, without Richard and James, that we couldn’t even bear to eat it. We made two and gave them both away. As far as I know, that was the last time anyone made strudel in the Bergstrom kitchen.”
“And you remembered the recipe yourself after all those years.” When Agnes shook her head, Sylvia said, “Then Claudia wrote it down for you.”
“No, in fact, many years after I married, I came by and asked Claudia for it, but she said it had never been written down, and that she had forgotten it. Then, years later, she sent me a Christmas card with the recipe enclosed. She remembered how I had asked for it, and so she got it from a distant relation out west. A second cousin, I believe.”
Sylvia could scarcely breathe. “Do you remember her name? When was it she wrote to Claudia?”
Agnes shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”
Sylvia’s heart sank. It was, she knew, too much to hope for.
“But I have the letter at home.”
In the twenty minutes it took Stacey to return to her mother’s home for the letter, Sylvia’s thoughts raced with possibilities. The only relative she knew of who had gone to live “out west” was Elizabeth, and although Sylvia had always called her cousin, as the daughter of Sylvia’s great-uncle George, it would have been more accurate to call her a second cousin.
“Oh, what could be keeping Stacey?” exclaimed Sylvia, pacing in the sitting room.
“It’s ten minutes there and ten minutes back,” said Agnes soothingly. “She’ll be here soon.”
“But what if she can’t find it?”
Agnes assured her this was unlikely. “Just bring the whole box,” she had instructed her daughter, referring to a small cedar chest in which she kept some of Richard’s belongings. She had described its location, inside a larger steamer trunk in the back of Agnes’s bedroom closet. It ought to be easy to find.
After what seemed to Sylvia an interminable wait, Stacey returned, the small wooden box in her hands. “I would have been back sooner,” she said breathlessly as she gave the box to her mother and pulled off her coat and gloves, “but I had trouble staying on the road in your woods.”
“We must do something about that road,” said Sylvia. “Well, Agnes? Is it there?”
“It was there this morning when I used the recipe,” she said, with a hint of amusement. “Would you please sit down? You’re rattling the Christmas ornaments with all of that pacing.”
Sylvia dropped into her favorite chair and clasped her hands anxiously while Agnes took a seat in the nearest armchair. Sylvia held her breath as Agnes lifted the lid and removed a folded sheet of yellowed, unlined paper. With a fond smile, she passed it to Sylvia.
Sylvia slipped on her glasses, unfolded the page, and read:
December 6, 1964
Dear Claudia,
How wonderful it was to hear from you after so many years! Your letter was truly the best Christmas gift I am likely to receive. I apologize for not writing to you for so long. I suppose I fell out of habit. (Isn’t that a dreadful thing to say about keeping in touch with one’s family? That it should be a habit, like getting your daily exercise and remembering to take your vitamins.)
All excuses aside, I promise to send you a longer letter soon, full of news of me and the family. For now, I assure you that we’re doing all right out here in sunny Southern California. It’s more crowded than it used to be, but the weather is fine and
we like it. I’ll add you to my Christmas letter list, so check your mailbox in a week or two for more news than you probably can stand about us.
While we’re on the subject, would it have hurt you to send some news about yourself and the rest of the family at Elm Creek Manor? How are you? How’s Harold? How is my dear little Sylvia and baby brother Richard? I suppose they aren’t so little anymore. Please tell Sylvia to write to me and tell her I’m sorry her old cousin hasn’t written in so long. It would serve me right if she’s forgotten me entirely.
Well, on to the purpose of this letter. I still make the famous Bergstrom strudel every Christmas, winning praise from all who are privileged enough to taste it. I still bake it in the old way, measuring by touch and sight and taste rather than cups and teaspoons. But since you are my sweet little cousin (and perhaps because I have a guilty conscience for neglecting you so long), I made strudel this morning, first measuring my ingredients the old way, and then scooping each one into measuring cups so I could give you the standard measurements you asked for. You’ll find the recipe on the back of this page. If my measurements are off a pinch of this or that, please accept my apologies. It probably won’t matter. Once you start making the strudel again, I’m sure it will all come back to you.
An early Merry Christmas to you and the family. Please send me a letter packed full of news next time. I know you are capable of it! And make it soon, please. I miss you throughout the year, but especially at Christmas.
With Much Love from Your Cousin,
Elizabeth
Sylvia turned over the letter and found a recipe printed in Elizabeth’s neat hand on the back, just as she had promised.
She read the date again. Elizabeth was still in Southern California in 1964, and—Sylvia checked the letter to be sure—she had a family. Elizabeth would be ninety-three if she were still alive, but even if she were not, perhaps her descendants were, regardless of what that private detective had concluded.
“Do you have a return address?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion.
“I’m sorry.” Agnes shook her head, sympathetic. “Claudia sent me only that page. I don’t know what became of the envelope.”
“I understand.” Still, it was something to go on, and perhaps that Christmas letter Elizabeth had promised Claudia was somewhere in the manor. Sylvia had not gone through all of Claudia’s papers; there were so many. She had every reason to hope an address could be found among them.
“Why don’t you show her the rest, Mom?” prompted Stacey. “The letters and things?”
Agnes went pink. “Oh, not the letters. Not even after all this time. Forgive me, Sylvia, but Richard was a romantic and I couldn’t bear for anyone to see them. I don’t even know if Joe suspected I had kept this box of things hidden away from him. He wasn’t the jealous sort, but even so…”
“I won’t pry into your romance with my baby brother,” said Sylvia, amused. She tried to peer into the box, but the lid blocked her view. “If you have anything in that box of a less private nature, I would be grateful if you would share it with me.”
“Certainly.” Agnes looked much relieved. “Some of these things you’ve seen before, but it was so long ago…”
She handed over a stack of photographs: Richard and Andrew at school, Richard and Agnes on the front steps of Independence Hall, the three friends laughing on a sunny day along the Delaware River with the Philadelphia skyline behind them. There were other snapshots of Richard alone, including a formal portrait in uniform and other snapshots taken during the war. Sylvia lingered over a photograph of Richard and James in fatigues, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning.
“You should keep that one,” said Agnes.
Sylvia thanked her softly.
“I suppose you should keep this, too,” Agnes remarked, taking from the box a ruby-and-gold glass star, with eight serrated points resembling the Feathered Star blocks Great-Aunt Lucinda had made so long ago. Only a small chip in one of the golden tips and a hairline seam where a ruby star point had been broken off and reattached with glue distinguished it from the one in Sylvia’s memory.
Sylvia stared, shocked into silence. “Where on earth did you findthat? ” she finally managed.
“It was Richard’s.” Agnes turned the star over in her hands, shook her head in bemusement, and handed it to Sylvia. “I’m not quite sure what the story behind it is. It was December, right before the semester holiday, when I first saw it. We were all out together one day when Andrew suddenly pulled this from his overcoat pocket, repaired exactly as you see it here, gave it to Richard, and said, ‘Merry Christmas. I guess you’ll win the prize this year.’ Richard laughed like it was the funniest joke he had ever heard and said, ‘I knew it was you! I knew it all along. I’m never playing poker with you again.’ And then they both had a good laugh, and Richard said, ‘I can’t wait to see their faces when they wake up Christmas morning and find this on the tree.’ But he must have forgotten about it in all the commotion because he didn’t put it on the tree after all.”
“What commotion?” asked Sarah.
Agnes threw Sylvia an embarrassed glance. “Well, in a manner of speaking, I invited myself along when Richard went home from school for the holidays. I met him at the train station with my suitcase and asked if I could join him. He said yes without a moment’s hesitation, although I’m sure he knew my parents didn’t know of my plans.”
“I suspected as much,” declared Sylvia. “I knew there must have been a very good reason Richard had not warned me you were coming.”
“Warned?” echoed Stacey.
“Told,” Sylvia hastily amended.
“The star was among Richard’s belongings from school,” Agnes explained. “He packed up so quickly after enlisting that I never took the time to sort through his trunk. After he died—well, it was simply too painful. I opened the trunk to put this box and his uniform and a few other things inside, but I couldn’t bear to sort through everything. When I left to marry Joe, I took the trunk with me. A few years later I wanted to see these old photos again, and that’s when I stumbled across the star.”
“But why didn’t you tell us you had found it?” asked Sylvia.
Agnes shrugged. “I didn’t know it was missing.”
“It isn’t missing anymore,” said Sarah. “Sylvia, why don’t you do the honors?”
Holding the star tenderly, Sylvia rose, went to the Christmas tree, and reached up to the highest bough, where she carefully fixed the ruby-and-gold glass star to the cut tree trunk. It caught the sunlight streaming in through the west windows and sent reflections of red and gold dancing on the walls and ceiling and floor just as it had on the long ago Christmas when Elizabeth had hidden the star beneath her pillow and her father had lifted her up in his strong arms to adorn the tree Uncle William and Aunt Nellie had chosen. From a distance the repair and the chip were hardly noticeable.
She would not go so far as to call any one of the unusual incidents of that day a Christmas miracle. The standard for miracle, she thought, stood a bit higher. But taken as a whole—that business with the tree, hearing from Elizabeth, even in an old letter—well, she would be a fool to ignore the signs. She didn’t need a burning bush or Jacob Marley rattling chains in the halls to know when she ought to pay attention.
Very well, Claudia, she thought, smiling.I can take a hint.
Sylvia was forgiven. She knew that now. Despite their differences, despite Sylvia’s mistakes, her sister loved her, and always had. But the realization was bittersweet because Claudia was not there to enjoy the wonder of that Christmas Eve, the Christmas that joy and hope returned to Elm Creek Manor.
But she could still make a difference in the life of a friend.
Sylvia turned to Sarah. “I’ve tried reasoning with you. I’ve hinted and suggested and resorted to subterfuge, but nothing has worked. But you must do it, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
Sarah stared at her. “No for an answer to what?”
“Visiting your mother for Christmas.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “We’ve been over this. I thought you understood—”
“I understand, all right. I understand that you and your mother need to make peace before you end up like me—realizing too late where I went wrong and reconciling with memories instead of living, breathing people.” She tapped Sarah on the chest, and the young woman was too startled to step back out of the way. “You, young lady, are not going to make that mistake. I’m going to see to it.”
Warily, Sarah asked, “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“I’m throwing you out.”
“What?”
“Just for the holiday. You’re welcome back any time after Christmas.”
Sarah shook her head. This is crazy.
“It’s been a crazy sort of day. I suppose it’s infectious.” Sylvia held up her hands to forestall an argument. “Now, I’ve made up my mind, so don’t argue. I realize I can’t force you to visit your mother. I suppose you could sleep outside in the truck or take a hotel room somewhere, but I can only hope you won’t be that stubborn.”
“Sylvia …” Sarah studied her, shaking her head in bewilderment. “Why is this so important to you?”
Sylvia grasped her gently by the shoulders. “Because you are important to me. I don’t want you to look back on your life someday and wonder if you did everything you could to make the best possible use of your time on this earth. We all are responsible for bringing the peace of Christmas into the world, Sarah. Starting with our own families.”
“I can’t make peace with my mother if she doesn’t meet me halfway,” Sarah retorted, but then she hesitated. “If it means that much to you, I’ll try. I’ll go see her. But I can’t promise that she’ll welcome us with open arms.”
“As long as you greet her with an open mind, that’s all I ask.”
“What about you?” asked Sarah. “You can’t spend Christmas here alone.”
Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt Page 19