Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Oh.” It wasn’t worth an argument. “Is Brent excited about the first week of college?”

  “Not really.” Mary Beth fixed her with a baleful look. “You know very well that he graduated in the top one percent of his class. He’s convinced that his classes won’t challenge him.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be the case, especially once he gets all those freshman requirements out of the way.”

  “He won’t have many of those, thanks to his AP credits. No one can take those away from him.” Mary Beth tucked the bundle of paper under one arm and sighed. “I told him to seek out other ways to enrich his curriculum—research projects, independent study. After graduation, he’ll be up against kids with degrees from Ivy League schools. He’s going to have to work ten times harder just to compete.”

  “You know, Penn State is an excellent university,” said Diane. “Tim does a lot of joint projects with professors in their chemistry department, and he’s had nothing but praise for their facilities and faculty and the students he’s met. In fact, I think he’s a little jealous. And everyone knows Happy Valley is a great place to be a student. I know Penn State wasn’t Brent’s first choice—”

  “It was his last choice.” Fatigue took the edge off Mary Beth’s retort. “It was his safety school. He’s had his heart set on Yale since the ninth grade. I’m sure your son told you that Yale revoked Brent’s acceptance because of his legal troubles.”

  As far as Diane knew, Brent and Todd barely spoke anymore, and only then when forced to work together at Elm Creek Manor. “Todd didn’t give me any details.”

  “Well, now you know, so let the gloating commence.”

  Diane didn’t have the heart for even the least offensive one-liner. “Brent’s going to be fine,” she said. “He’ll get a great education. None of this will hold him back, not in the long run.”

  Mary Beth looked away, and even in the twilight Diane could see her chin trembling as she fought back tears. “I hope you’re right.” Suddenly she fixed Diane with a look of smoldering, helpless anger. “I want to blame you for this, but I can’t. I know I can’t. For weeks after it happened, at the shop—” She inhaled sharply, still incapable of admitting aloud what her son had done. “I kept thinking that if only you hadn’t humiliated me at the quilt guild meeting, Brent wouldn’t have lashed out. But then I have to trace the events back to an earlier source: If only I hadn’t forced you to take down that skateboard ramp, you wouldn’t have humiliated me at the quilt guild meeting. Then further back: the wind chimes. And before that, the guild elections. No matter how far back I search for the place where I can lay the blame at your feet, there’s always some earlier cause, something I did to you to provoke it.” She raised her hands in helpless frustration, scattering newspapers and mail. “It comes back to those stupid forsythia bushes. You brought over lemon squares, and I uprooted your plants. That’s the source. That was the first conflict. You know what keeps me up at night?”

  Diane shook her head, speechless.

  “Knowing that if not for what I did in those few minutes all those years ago, Brent might be settling into a residential college at Yale right now, instead of a dorm at Penn State. My bitterness for you poisoned my child. What he did in that quilt shop he learned from me.”

  “You’re judging yourself too harshly,” said Diane, unsettled by the venomous self-loathing in Mary Beth’s voice. “You talk as if Brent has no future. He has to finish his community service and he’ll attend Penn State instead of Yale. Granted, that’s not what he wanted and it’s not what you wanted for him, but it’s not the end of the road, either. He still has the whole world open to him. He could take any path, go anywhere.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Mary Beth snapped. “Your son’s going to Princeton.”

  “My son didn’t wantonly destroy a woman’s livelihood,” Diane retorted.

  “Right.” Mary Beth lowered her head. “It’s hard to break the habit of blaming you.”

  Diane decided to accept that as an apology. “Brent’s going to be all right. It might be hard to see that from where we stand, but he’ll be all right.”

  “I didn’t know he had that in him.” Mary Beth’s eyes glistened with tears. “I didn’t know he could be so cruel, so destructive. But now—” She took a deep, shaky breath. “But now we know, and maybe it’s not too late to root out what I planted there, every time I was vindictive to you.”

  “I can’t let you take all the blame,” said Diane, thinking, as she had only a few hours before, that if not for the fight that had led to Brent’s undoing, she wouldn’t be an Elm Creek Quilter. “I chose to retaliate each time. That was my decision, and it was wrong. I could have ignored you. I could have responded like an adult. I didn’t. Maybe you started the conflict, but I let it escalate, and I never tried to make peace.”

  “It would have been pointless. I wouldn’t have agreed to make peace.”

  “You don’t know that. You might have.”

  Mary Beth shook her head. “I’ve hated you for so long I don’t know how to relate to you any other way but with anger.”

  Somehow, although she knew how Mary Beth felt, hearing it stated so bluntly still hurt. “We don’t have to be friends. All we have to do is stop being so stupid.”

  Mary Beth stared at her, and suddenly started to laugh. “At least ten bitingly sarcastic remarks come to mind, and yet, I can’t bring myself to say them.”

  “I’ll use my imagination,” said Diane drily.

  Mary Beth managed a smile, and for a moment Diane glimpsed the woman she might have known if she had not been so quick to anger, so slow to forgive. “Just for the record, I honestly did think those forsythia bushes were on my property.”

  Diane sighed. “Considering the way those evergreens are aligned, I can see why you might have assumed that.”

  They stood in the driveway watching each other, each waiting for the other to make the next move. Suddenly Diane realized that Mary Beth had shaped the woman she was as much as the Elm Creek Quilters had. She had allowed her worst enemy to define her for far too long.

  She was tired of having an enemy.

  “I honestly did love your quilt,” Diane said.

  Mary Beth’s brow furrowed. “Which one?”

  “The one that earned the Viewer’s Choice ribbon at the Waterford Summer Quilt Festival a few years ago. I know it had ‘Spring’ in the title.”

  “Oh, right. ‘Springtime in Waterford.’”

  “That’s the one. That’s the quilt that inspired me to become a quilter.”

  Mary Beth looked skeptical. “Is that so?”

  “Really.” Diane hesitated. “I asked you the name of the block, but you never told me.”

  “Providence.” Mary Beth bent down to pick up another newspaper. “It’s called Providence.”

  “Let me help you with that,” said Diane, crossing the grassy strip between her driveway and Mary Beth’s, bending over to pick up an envelope that had blown her way.

  What fabrics to choose for Diane, Sylvia mused, a woman who defied easy and narrow categorization? She loved shortcuts and quick fixes but made all her quilts by hand. She was an impatient student but a generous teacher. She was unfailingly loyal to friends with whom she disagreed on every conceivable political issue, and she had made a sworn enemy of a woman with whom she had much in common.

  She was, perhaps, the most difficult Elm Creek Quilter to like, and Sylvia was certain no one cherished her friends more.

  That was why when Sylvia made Diane’s portion of the Winding Ways quilt, she chose fabrics she had used when making the other Elm Creek Quilters’ blocks: silken reds with golden cranes and tortoises, whimsical children’s prints in deep roses and clear blues, homespun barn reds and forest greens, tie-dyed cottons in a rainbow of hues, rich Amish solids, and a few purples, Sylvia’s own favorite color. Thus all the Elm Creek Quilters came together in Diane’s nine patchwork blocks, just as Diane held her friends fast and close to
her heart.

  Sylvia put the last stitch into her quilt, tied the knot, and snipped the thread.

  Sylvia

  The last week of camp always caught Sylvia by surprise, leaving her breathless with the suddenness of its approach. A few days more and Elm Creek Manor would become quiet and still, the industrious buzz of sewing machines and the ringing laughter of friends only a memory. Sylvia held off melancholy by reminding herself how busy she and Sarah would be the following week, cleaning the manor from top to bottom, preparing it for its winter slumbers. And although Judy had left and Summer was soon to depart, there were new friends to celebrate; Gretchen and Joe were settling into the manor nicely and they would provide welcome companionship in the months ahead. In January, their other new teacher, Maggie, would move into the manor, and their preparations for the next camp season would begin in earnest. In February, the manor’s youngest residents would arrive on the scene in what was sure to be a whirlwind of happiness, excitement, and every blessing that new babies promised.

  Sylvia would keep a light in the window and a fire on the hearth for her journeying friends, for she knew in her heart that one day the winding ways they followed would lead them back to Elm Creek Manor. She would be waiting to welcome them home.

  On Thursday afternoon, Sylvia was walking past the open door of the library when she glanced inside and spotted Sarah seated at the antique oak desk, staring into an open box sitting atop a mound of crumpled brown paper wrapping.

  Sarah sat so wide-eyed and still that Sylvia grew worried. “What is it, dear?” she asked, entering the library. “Not bad news in the mail, I hope.”

  “No,” said Sarah distantly, barely moving. “Not at all.”

  Sylvia hastened to her side and peered into the box. Within a cloud of white tissue paper lay folded a lovely pink-and-white Sawtooth Star quilt. Beneath it, Sylvia glimpsed the edge of a second quilt, a Sawtooth Star pieced from blue-and-white prints.

  Something about the quilts prodded Sylvia’s memory. “Why do these quilts seem so familiar?”

  Sarah withdrew both quilts from the box and draped them over the desk. “My grandmother made this quilt for my eighth birthday,” she said, running her hand over the pink-and-white stars. “This one—I think this is the quilt my mother began when she came to quilt camp a few years ago.”

  Thinking back, Sylvia remembered Carol holding up a blue-and-white Sawtooth Star block at the Farewell Breakfast show-and-tell. Eliciting laughter from the campers and scowls from Sarah, she declared that she would like it to be the first block of a baby quilt, if only Sarah would cooperate by providing the baby. “It is the same pattern,” Sylvia said carefully, uncertain of Sarah’s mood. “I assume this pink quilt is the one you told me about during our quilting lessons, the one your mother kept hidden away and only let you use when your grandmother visited?”

  Sarah nodded, her gaze shifting back and forth between the two quilts. “My mother used the same number of blocks as my grandmother, the same layout, everything. Well, not everything. The level of skill is obviously very different, but even so—” Sarah drew in a deep breath, her hand absently coming to rest on her abdomen. “My mom clearly took my grandmother’s quilt as her model.”

  “There’s a note,” said Sylvia, indicating a white envelope tucked into the tissue paper.

  Sarah opened it and withdrew a small card with Noah’s ark on the front, smiling animals gathered two-by-two. She opened it, read silently first, and then spoke aloud. “Dear Sarah. Congratulations to you and Matt on this blessed news! I’m so happy for you both. I’m sure you remember the pink-and-white quilt your grandmother made. I can’t remember why I insisted upon keeping it for special occasions, but at least it’s still as good as new. The quilt I made is new, but not as good, but I’m hoping the babies won’t mind. Please don’t make my mistake and hide the quilts away like precious artifacts destined for a museum. These quilts—even my imperfect imitation of your grandmother’s—were made with love and should be loved. I hope that your children will be as miraculous and wonderful to you as you were to me. I’d like to come visit soon and kiss your tummy. Please don’t tell me you’re too busy, because I know camp is almost over for the season. Don’t be surprised if I show up unannounced anyway! I’ve done it before and I know you have plenty of guest rooms. Love, Mom.”

  Sylvia watched as Sarah studied the note in silence, then closed the card and returned it to the envelope. “When I called her to tell her I was pregnant—” Sarah paused to clear her throat. “When I gave her the news, she said that she hoped my children would be just like me. I thought she meant difficult, ungrateful, never quite good enough.” Gently, Sarah stroked the quilts, first the pink and then the blue. “All these years, I’ve felt like a burden. Apparently I was also a blessing.”

  Sylvia’s throat tightened, her heart aching for her young friend who should not have had to wait so long to learn how deeply she was cherished. Carol should have done so much more through the years to show Sarah how much she was loved, but Carol had her own hidden griefs and secret heartbreaks, and perhaps she had done the best she could.

  Looking into her young friend’s face, interpreting her tears, Sylvia knew that the quilts conveyed messages only mother and daughter fully understood, words that should have been spoken years before.

  It was enough that they were spoken now.

  Later that evening, as a quartet of musicians from the Waterford College music department took their seats on the ballroom dais to an enthusiastic round of applause, Sylvia saw the door open and one last latecomer dart into the room—Gwen, returning to Elm Creek Manor for the evening program later than promised. When her eyes met Sylvia’s, Gwen offered an apologetic shrug and a sheepish grin, and Sylvia waved a hand and shook her head to show that it didn’t matter. Gwen had promised to run the evening program, and indeed she had done the more difficult work of scheduling the musicians’ appearance. All Sylvia had done was welcome them—which she would have done anyway—and read the introduction Summer patched together from information posted on the quartet’s website.

  After the last note faded away and the musicians bowed to the cheers of their grateful audience, Gwen made her way to Sylvia’s side. “I’m so sorry I was late.”

  “No apologies are necessary. I didn’t mind filling in. I’m sure you would have done the same for me.”

  “Except that you’re so reliable, I’ll never need to.” Gwen smiled and waved to campers who greeted her in passing as they filed from the ballroom. “I meant to be here. I lost track of time.”

  “Research is going well, I take it?”

  “Yes.” Gwen brightened. “Actually, it’s going very well.”

  “So your department chair has come around, then?”

  “Oh, no. He still hates that I write about quilts and quilters, and he still thinks I’m wasting my time and talent on subjects of little or no consequence.” Gwen grinned. “Thank the goddess, I have tenure. Bill can fume, but he can’t fire me.”

  Sylvia shook her head, torn between admiration for her friend and bemusement. “And yet you press on.”

  Gwen’s amusement vanished. “What choice do I have? If I don’t ask these questions about women’s history, if I don’t tell these women’s stories, who will? I refuse to be intimidated into researching topics that will make me more popular with my colleagues or bring the department more money. I have to study what intrigues me and hope that, in time, everyone else will come around.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “I’ll still know that I followed the right path.” Gwen waved as Summer called out a greeting from across the ballroom. “I’m having a blast. My daughter’s proud of me. Who cares what anyone else thinks?”

  Summer wasn’t the only one, Sylvia thought, smiling to herself as she watched Gwen hurry off to embrace her daughter.

  On Friday morning, Sylvia rose early to meet Matt in the apple orchard before breakfast to discuss the upcoming harvest of the early fall
varieties. They strolled through the neat rows of trees, the fragrance of apples sweet and heavy in the warm summer air, and Matt updated her on his experiments with organic farming and his plans for expansion the next season. Sylvia congratulated him on a job well done and told him to proceed as he wished. Matt had nurtured the orchard from near ruin to abundance, and Sylvia had no intention of interfering in what was obviously working well.

  As Sylvia returned to the manor for breakfast, she overheard an impassioned discussion in an adjacent row of trees. “Idid think about what you said.” It was Summer, her voice strained with barely contained exasperation. “If you were able to visit more often, I wouldn’t need roommates. I’m sorry, but I can’t choose an apartment based upon your needs during your rare visits.”

  “They don’t have to be rare visits.” Jeremy’s voice, low and earnest. “I can come more often.”

  “No, you can’t, Jeremy, not enough to justify the isolation.”

  At that moment, Sylvia came upon the row of trees where the young couple argued. She tried to steal quietly past, but her arm rustled a low branch and they both looked her way. Sylvia greeted them pleasantly, pretending she had not overheard their disagreement.

  “I have to go,” said Jeremy, managing a halfhearted smile for Sylvia in passing. His back to her, Summer lifted her hands and let them fall, shaking her head in frustration. Clearly, from her point of view, the discussion was far from over.

  “Is everything all right?” Sylvia asked when Jeremy was out of earshot.

  “How much did you hear?”

  “Enough to gather that you’ve chosen an apartment, and that Jeremy isn’t terribly pleased with your choice.”

  “It’s not up to him. He doesn’t have to live there.” Summer clasped a hand to her brow and smoothed her long auburn hair away from her face. “I can’t choose an apartment based upon what’s best for us as a couple when we’re going to be together so rarely. I have to choose what’s best for me, and what’s best for me is to have roommates. How can I go from living among friends at Elm Creek Manor to living alone? I’d feel like a monk in a cell.”