Diane tore her gaze from the quilt and spotted the purple “Viewer’s Choice” ribbon affixed to the tall post supporting the quilt stand. Above it was the placard announcing the title of the quilt, “Springtime in Waterford,” and the quiltmaker’s name.
Diane’s heart flip-flopped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What? What’s the matter?” asked Agnes.
Diane couldn’t speak. It couldn’t be true. It was inconceivable that her mean-spirited troll of a next-door neighbor could have created such a delightful quilt. “Someone mixed up the names,” she managed to say.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Agnes. “They take good care to make sure mistakes like that don’t happen. Even if they had, someone would have noticed well before now and corrected the sign.”
Diane stared at Mary Beth Callahan’s name for a moment in utter disbelief before stalking off down the next aisle. “She only won that ribbon because she’s popular,” she muttered, even though she knew it wasn’t true. “Notice how the quilt didn’t win any technical awards?”
Agnes would have none of it, and in a voice barely above a whisper, she insisted that Diane sweeten her sour temperament or they were going home. Diane was tempted to remind Agnes that she wasn’t her babysitter anymore, but she hated to see the older woman so distressed, so she promised to cheer up and keep her editorial comments to herself.
A few days later, Diane was in her backyard moving the sprinklers when Mary Beth stepped out onto her deck to refill her bird feeders. “Hello,” Diane called after a moment. Her neighbor eyed her warily before offering a nod in reply.
Diane stepped clear of the hose and drew closer to the row of forsythia bushes that marked the boundary between their yards. “I saw your quilt at the show in the college library,” she said. “It was beautiful. Congratulations on winning a ribbon.”
“Thanks,” said Mary Beth warily, as if waiting for the punch line of a nasty joke.
“It must have taken you a long time to make.”
“Naturally you assume I’d have to struggle to make a prizewinning quilt.”
“That’s not what I meant. It just looked like a difficult pattern.”
Mary Beth set down the bag of birdseed and tied off the opening. “It’s not that hard if you know what you’re doing.”
“What’s that block called, anyway?” asked Diane. “I never saw my mom or her friends make anything like it. I wish I could.”
“You?” Mary Beth burst out laughing. “Oh, Diane. I knew you were up to something, but I still didn’t see that zinger coming. Go ahead, get all your quilting jokes out of your system. I can take it. Oh wait, let me guess the first one. ‘Where’s your rocking chair, Grandma?’ That was it, right?” Mary Beth shook her head and slung the burlap bag over her shoulder.
“I don’t have any quilting jokes,” said Diane, irritated. “I mean it. I’d love to be able to make something as beautiful as that quilt.”
Mary Beth studied her, eyebrows lifted in skepticism. “Jeez Louise, Diane. I thought you said your mother was a quilter.”
“She was.”
“Then you ought to know you aren’t cut out to be a quilter, no pun intended.”
Diane tried to tamp down her rising ire. “And why is that?”
“It takes patience to be a quilter. Patience and perseverance. Attention to detail—and let’s face it, you’re practically allergic to details. But it’s more than just that. Those things can be learned with practice and willpower. You also need—” Mary Beth gazed speculatively somewhere past Diane’s shoulder before fixing her with a patronizing, sorrowful smile. “You need the soul of an artist.”
“And you think I don’t have one,” said Diane. “That soul-of-an-artist thing.”
“Exactly.” Mary Beth made her way around the side of her house to the garage, the heavy bag on her shoulder giving her the appearance of an overdressed thief making off with stolen goods.
Diane stood watching her go, fuming, until a gust of wind dashed her with cold spray from the sprinkler. Storming back into the house, she kicked off her wet shoes in the foyer and padded to the phone. She dialed Agnes’s number, and before her old friend could begin the usual exchange of pleasantries, Diane begged her to teach her to quilt.
She’d show Mary Beth who had the soul of an artist. She’d learn to sew circles around that wretched woman, and one day she’d wave a handful of Best of Show ribbons beneath her nose and watch gleefully as Mary Beth melted into a puddle of envy. Diane used to teach middle school, for crying out loud. If she didn’t know patience and perseverance, she never would have made it through student teaching.
That was her plan, but it didn’t quite work out that way.
Agnes was so delighted that Diane had finally “caught the quilt-pox” that she didn’t ask why Diane suddenly, urgently needed to learn to quilt. Agnes probably assumed that Diane had been inspired by the glorious display at the quilt show, and it wouldn’t have been completely dishonest to claim that was so. Diane didn’t dare reveal her true purpose. Agnes strongly disapproved of the ongoing battle of wills between the two neighbors, and she might have ended the lessons rather than contribute to the tension.
But Diane soon discovered that anger could only sustain her so long. Under Agnes’s gentle but unyielding tutelage, Diane’s hunger to prove herself better than Mary Beth disappeared, to be replaced by a genuine love for the traditional art form. The infinite diversity of possible combinations of color, pattern, and arrangement appealed to her desire for variety, and Agnes charmed her with folk tales of block patterns and their curious names. Once Diane had gained a passing facility with piecing and quilting by hand, Agnes offered to show her how to transfer those skills to the sewing machine so that she could assemble her blocks and tops more quickly. Recalling Mary Beth’s accusations that she lacked patience, Diane flatly refused. “True quilts are made entirely by hand,” she declared, threading a needle.
“Why on earth would you say that?” asked Agnes, genuinely baffled. “Women have been making quilts by machine for as long as there have been sewing machines.”
“True quilters don’t cut corners. They enjoy every stage of the process and don’t want to rush through it.”
Agnes shook her head, exasperated. “You’ve become very opinionated where quilting is concerned. You’re almost as bad as—”
“Who?” demanded Diane, fearful that she would name Mary Beth.
“Someone who tried to teach me to quilt, many years ago. Never mind. You don’t know her.”
Only years later, after Sylvia returned to Elm Creek Manor and reconciled with her formerly estranged sister-in-law, did Diane learn enough about their shared history to conclude that Diane had reminded Agnes of Sylvia. Diane found the comparison rather flattering. Sylvia was a strong-willed Master Quilter with exacting standards, someone Diane would do well to emulate. Why had Agnes phrased the comparison as criticism?
At the end of class, Diane and her students gathered their things and returned to the manor for lunch, greeting Gretchen’s husband, Joe, as they passed the barn. He was sanding an old chair Matt had brought down from the attic. Back in Ambridge, Joe had run his own small business, restoring old furniture and designing custom pieces. Diane thought the Hartleys’ move to Elm Creek Manor had signaled Joe’s retirement, but apparently Sylvia’s attic held enough worn but reparable antiques to keep him busy for years to come. With any luck, his search for bureaus and bedsteads would uncover more of the Bergstrom family’s heirloom quilts, or perhaps a journal or two.
Inside the banquet hall, mingling with friends and students as she made her way from the buffet to her usual table, Diane gathered scraps of news and bits of gossip she had missed by spending the morning outside. Gwen was nowhere to be found, and after asking around a bit Diane remembered that it was the last week of August, classes had resumed at Waterford College, and Gretchen had cut back her camp schedule to two evening programs and a Friday afternoon seminar on c
olor theory. Sarah’s morning sickness had subsided and she looked much better for it, but she was upset about her mother’s reaction to the news about the twins and brooding over some disagreement from years before, something about a cherished quilt lost in childhood. Judy had called the office that morning to announce that their Internet connection was working at last and that she was planning to buy a webcam so they could have video chats. In Chicago, Summer had found two great apartments and faced the difficult task of choosing between them. Anna had offered to cater a housewarming party at Bonnie’s new apartment, but when asked to suggest a date, Bonnie offered only vague replies. Agnes was querying everyone about cell phones and service plans, because, she said, she was sick of wondering what important phone calls she might be missing while away from home.
“That’s why you have an answering machine,” Diane pointed out. “Yes, but then I have to hurry home to check it,” Agnes said, impatience creeping into her voice. “What if it’s urgent?”
Diane couldn’t imagine what urgent calls Agnes might receive. Elm Creek Quilt Camp was only days away from wrapping up for the season, so there wouldn’t be any work emergencies demanding her immediate attention. News from her daughters and grandchildren, though important, probably couldn’t be classified as urgent. Still, to humor her friend, Diane answered her questions and offered to help her choose an affordable plan if Agnes decided to go through with it.
“Do you need a ride home?” Diane asked Agnes as they cleared away their lunch dishes. Diane usually went home after her last class to have supper with her family and returned to Elm Creek Manor later for the evening program. Agnes often preferred to remain behind to dine with the campers and rode home with Gwen after the evening’s events concluded.
“I think I’ll stay,” Agnes said. “Are you coming back for the talent show?”
Diane hated to miss it, but Todd had few evenings home left, and they had a million things to do before his departure for Princeton. “I have too much to do at home,” she said. “I’m not even sure if I’ll make it to the Farewell Breakfast on Saturday.”
“But it’s the last one of the season,” Agnes protested. “You shouldn’t miss saying good-bye to your students—and to Summer. Saturday’s her last day. We might not see her again for months.”
Diane shook her head. “Judy’s farewell party was hard enough. I don’t know if I can say any more good-byes.”
“Oh, Diane.” Agnes gave her a fond embrace. “For you, every silver lining has a cloud, doesn’t it? None of these good-byes are forever. Come to the Farewell Breakfast. If it makes you feel better, instead of ‘good-bye,’ say ‘until we meet again.’ You’ll see Judy again, and Summer, and of course you’ll see Todd often. All of us will follow different paths for a time, but we’ll reunite somewhere down the road, probably sooner than you realize.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m certain I am.” Agnes held Diane at arm’s length, smiling. “In the meantime, to make the separation easier, don’t dwell on tearful good-byes. Think about the fortuitous meetings and all the joyful times that followed. That is what really matters, not how you said good-bye.”
“As long as you say good-bye somehow,” said Diane, disguising wistfulness with a quip. “You’ve convinced me. I won’t miss the Farewell Breakfast. I wouldn’t want to repeat Gwen’s mistake.”
Agnes glanced worriedly across the banquet hall, where Gwen and Summer sat engrossed in conversation at an empty table. They seemed oblivious to the time, to the room emptying around them. “I know Gwen regrets how she and Judy parted,” Agnes said, “but I hope she knows that one mistake can’t tarnish their friendship. One forgotten good-bye doesn’t make the day they met any less memorable.”
“Well, that would be impossible, wouldn’t it?” retorted Diane, and Agnes laughingly agreed. None of the Elm Creek Quilters would ever forget the day Gwen and Judy met.
It was a Saturday, Diane recalled as she drove home later, alone. It was a cool, sunny day like so many others, crisp with the first hints of autumn, only a few splashes of yellow and red lighting up the forested mountains sheltering the Elm Creek Valley. Agnes had volunteered to coordinate the Waterford Quilting Guild’s annual charity raffle quilt, and Diane had agreed to help her select fabrics. They strolled downtown to the quilt shop on Main Street, enjoying the sunshine and the respite from the summer humidity, window shopping, and discussing Agnes’s plans for the quilt.
The quilt shop was only minutes away, on a busy block right across the street from the Waterford College campus. The red-and-gold GRANDMA’SATTICsign hung above the door next to a large front window with an enticing display of quilts, fabric, books, and notions. A bell on the door tinkled merrily overhead as they entered, and the owner, Bonnie Markham, called out a greeting from the cutting table in the center of the room. Music played softly over hidden speakers—hammered dulcimer, guitar, violin, and flute—and somewhere Diane smelled coffee brewing. She recognized the stout auburn-haired woman setting bolts of wild geometric prints on the table for Bonnie to cut; her name was Ginny or Gwen or something, and she was a professor at the college. Diane sometimes overheard her at guild meetings offering interesting historical anecdotes about some aspect of the quilting arts or making fairly astute observations about the work of their invited speakers, but she invariably spoiled her remarks with some liberal claptrap that set Diane’s teeth on edge. If not for that, Diane might have spoken to her, maybe even asked her for some advice about color selection because she certainly had a distinctive style. The woman’s daughter, a very pretty teenager who often accompanied her mother to guild events, waited for her turn at the cutting table, two bolts of vivid Amish fabric in her arms, one deep black and one bright blue. Her name was a warm-weather month—June or April or May, or something. If it were something weird like October or January, Diane would have remembered. She seemed bright and friendly, confident and fun, the kind of girl Diane sought out for babysitting. It was unfortunate that she would very likely grow up to be a hippie like her mom.
Diane followed Agnes as she wandered through the aisles, comparing different bolts of fabric to a floral swatch she had brought from home. When Agnes found a fabric she liked, she pulled the bolt from the shelf and gave it to Diane to carry. Twice—once in the pastel solids aisle and once in children’s novelty prints—they passed the only other customer in the shop, an extremely pregnant woman of Asian heritage carrying a patchwork crib-size quilt top draped over her left arm. She was so slender everywhere but around the middle that Diane marveled how she managed to stay upright. Every so often she winced and rubbed her tummy, but whether the baby had given her an especially hard kick or if she could not find the perfect backing fabric for her top, Diane could not say. Either reason would have justified that pained expression, especially since the woman seemed to be running out of time if she meant to finish that quilt before her baby arrived.
Soon Diane’s arms were loaded with bolts of bright, cheerful, warm colors with a few darks thrown in for contrast. The mother and daughter had moved on to the cash register, where they paged through magazines and chatted while waiting for Bonnie to finish cutting fabric for the expectant mother. “I couldn’t decide,” the woman confessed after asking Bonnie to cut two yards each from the three different bolts of primary color prints. “It would be so much easier if I knew what my baby will like. Balloons or safari animals? Trucks or dolls? I want her to snuggle up with this quilt for many years to come, so it can’t be anything she’ll tire of quickly.”
“Babies love bright colors,” said Agnes, as she and Diane lined up behind her with their bolts. The expectant mother turned around, eager to hear more. “Any of these fabrics you have here will do nicely.”
“Go with the animals,” Diane advised. “All kids love animals.”
“Do you think so—Ouch,” the woman interrupted herself with a gasp, and after a long moment in which the others watched her with alarm, she took a deep breath and smiled, embar
rassed. “I know one thing this kid doesn’t like: the cranberry scones at the Daily Grind. She’s been active all morning.”
“You must have a future soccer star in there if her kicks hurt that much,” said Bonnie, unrolling the second bolt.
The woman shook her head and placed a hand on her lower back, setting her purse and quilt top on the cutting table. “It’s not the kicks; it’s those Braxton-Hicks contractions. They’ve never been this bad, and they’ve been getting worse all day.”
Diane and Agnes exchanged a worried look. “Do you mean worse in intensity or worse in frequency?” Diane asked.
“Both—” She drew in another sharp breath and steadied herself against the cutting table. When she could finally speak, she gazed down at her abdomen and panted. “All right. I get the message. No more cranberry scones.”
“That was five minutes apart,” said Bonnie, answering Diane’s unspoken question. “Four minutes, tops.”
Agnes took the expectant mother gently by the arm. “Why don’t you sit down, dear? May we call someone for you?”
The woman shook her head, her obsidian black hair slipping gracefully over her shoulder. “Really, I’m fine,” she said, just as her water broke. Diane jumped out of the way, too late to save her shoes.
Bonnie snatched up the phone. “I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“That’s not necessary,” the woman said through clenched teeth. “I’m fine.”
“You’re in labor,” said Diane, incredulous, pointing to the pool of evidence slowly spreading on the floor.
“Is everything all right?” said the hippie mom, joining them at the cutting table.
“Everything’s fine,” said Agnes soothingly, leading the panting pregnant quilter to a chair. “This young lady is about to have a baby.”
“Here?” asked the hippie’s daughter, eyes widening. “Now?”
“Looks that way.” Diane dumped Agnes’s fabric bolts on the cutting table and hurried over to help Agnes ease the pregnant woman into the seat. Diane recognized the look of apprehensive disbelief in her eyes and did not envy her, even knowing the joy that would follow the pain. She said a silent prayer for a safe delivery—and the world’s fastest ambulance driver.
Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt Page 27