“No, I did,” the girl replied, balancing on a single crutch as she shrugged off her backpack. Expecting it to weigh half what it actually did, Sylvia took it from her, muffled a grunt, and set it on the marble floor with a solid thud. “I used my left foot. I’m not supposed to drive, so, um, don’t tell anyone. Especially my mom. If she calls. I don’t think she will, but, you know. She might. She’s a mom.”
“I understand perfectly, dear,” said Sylvia, unable to disguise the faint alarm that crept into her voice at the thought of the girl driving along Pennsylvania’s steep and winding country roads while inhibited by the cast.
“A nice old man offered to valet-park for me,” the girl continued. “Should I tip him when he comes back?”
“Certainly not,” said Sylvia, helping her out of her coat. “The service is complimentary.”
Agnes hurried outside and returned pulling a black, red, and white plaid suitcase, a near-perfect match for the backpack. Matt followed closely behind, breathless. “Sorry,” he said, panting, his cheeks and nose red from cold and exertion. “I was running around with the twins and I couldn’t get here fast enough to help.”
“Who’s watching the twins now?” asked Agnes, offering the girl a quick, welcoming smile before hurrying back to resume her station at the registration table.
“Joe.” Matt stooped to pick up the girl’s backpack, suitcase, and coat and carried them to the foot of the grand oak staircase. “Andrew’s parking the car.”
“Are you sure I don’t need to tip that nice old man?” Biting the inside of her lower lip, the girl made her way up the four marble steps by planting the crutches on a stair, hopping upon it with her good leg, and repeating the process, all with remarkable agility.
“That nice old man is my husband, and I assure you, you absolutely should not tip him.” Sylvia followed the girl up the stairs, her arms outstretched to break her fall should she tumble, which, thankfully, she did not. “That would only embarrass him.”
“You must be Michaela Phillips,” said Agnes as they joined her at the table. Then she glanced at the remaining keys and shot Sylvia a look of utter dismay. Sylvia realized at once what the problem was: Agnes had given away the last first-floor suite to the daughter of the elderly woman who had arrived earlier that afternoon.
Sylvia’s gaze automatically went to the grand oak staircase, and Michaela followed her line of sight. “No elevator?” she guessed.
“I’m sorry, dear, no, and we don’t have any first-floor rooms left,” said Sylvia. “Perhaps we could ask someone to switch with you.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Michaela assured her. “Everyone’s probably already unpacked and stuff. I’ll be fine. Leave the first-floor rooms for people who really need them.”
It seemed to Sylvia that Michaela was certainly one of those people, but the young woman insisted that as long as some-one carried her bags for her, she could make it upstairs. “The staircase in my dorm is even steeper than that, and I’ve managed that when the elevator takes too long,” she said cheerfully. “Stupid cast. I can’t wait to get rid of it.”
“I admire her pluck,” said Agnes in an undertone as Michaela hobbled off with Matt trailing after carrying her luggage and coat.
Sylvia nodded. She did too, but she still wished Michaela had let them find a first-floor guest to trade rooms with her. She wasn’t quite sure how the young woman was going to make it back downstairs again.
* * *
With all their guests successfully checked in, Sylvia and Agnes quickly gathered up the empty folders, collected the leftover maps and schedules, and cleared away the refreshment table. Matt, Joe, Andrew, and the twins came back inside as they were finishing up, bringing a cold gust of wind and a scattering of dried leaves in their wake. Matt took one glance at the clock and immediately steered the children upstairs to change clothes and wash up for supper, ignoring James’s complaints about the shirt Sarah had chosen for him to wear, which, among other cruel torments, boasted a collar and buttons. Joe and Andrew folded up the registration tables and carried them to the storage room while Sylvia and Agnes trailed behind carrying the chairs. In the meantime, campers had emerged from their rooms and were knocking on doors to meet up with friends, while others milled about the foyer and parlor, admiring the photographs, quilts, and Bergstrom family heirlooms displayed there. The delicious aromas drifting down the hall from the kitchen had intensified, and as Sylvia hurried upstairs to freshen up and change for the banquet, she observed many a camper stealing longing glances in that direction, and at the banquet hall doors, which were still closed. Sylvia smiled, wishing she had time to assure them that it wouldn’t be long now and the meal was sure to taste as delicious as it smelled. Chef Anna had left Elm Creek Manor, and they missed her terribly, but she had written down her most beloved recipes and had taught Sarah, Gwen, and Gretchen many useful tricks and techniques. The dishes might lack Anna’s unique flair, but even so, Sylvia was certain that no one would leave the table disappointed.
She was putting on her favorite pearl earrings when Andrew entered their suite. “The ballroom’s all set,” he reported, snatching up a comb from the dresser and running it through his thinning white hair. “Chairs in place, quilts hanging just the way you wanted ’em.”
“Thank you, dear,” Sylvia said, adding a touch of lipstick. “And now I’m all dolled up and ready to go.” She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “With hardly a moment to spare.”
“You look lovely, as always,” Andrew said affectionately, kissing her on the cheek and offering her his arm. He escorted her downstairs to the banquet hall off the front foyer, where they found that nearly all of their guests had already seated themselves. The room had been transformed from its more casual lunchtime atmosphere by white tablecloths; centerpieces of colorful autumn leaves, mums, gourds, shiny ripe apples, and flickering tapers, and Sylvia’s fine heirloom china, nearly translucent, with the Bergstrom rearing-stallion emblem in the center.
Voices were hushed yet full of anticipation. By tradition, the Elm Creek Quilters and resident husbands did not sit together at a remote head table but dispersed among their guests so that everyone would feel equally honored. Moments after Sylvia and Andrew seated themselves at one of the five round tables arranged in the center of the room, three young men and two young women bearing large, heavily laden trays emerged from the servants’ door neatly attired in black slacks, white shirts, black ties, and white aprons. They looked so dignified and self-assured that Sylvia suspected the campers would never guess that they were students from Waterford College, part-time employees hired only for the week rather than career waiters.
To a murmur of appreciation, the young people set steaming bowls of sweet and savory carrot-ginger soup before the campers and their hosts, and from the first delicious taste Sylvia knew that Anna would have been proud of her apprentice chefs. The Caesar salad that followed was perfectly tasty, if neither as fancy as Anna’s creations nor as embellished with obscure ingredients, and the main course—herbed roasted chicken, Parmesan and mushroom risotto, roasted autumn vegetables, and miniature leek, potato, and feta galettes—was simply divine. To her regret, Sylvia was obliged to set down her fork after two bites of Maggie’s chocolate trifle—not because it wasn’t delicious, but because she honestly couldn’t eat another bite.
“I would weigh a thousand pounds if I ate like this every day,” remarked one of her dinner companions, sighing as she licked the last rich chocolate morsel from her spoon.
“I would too, so it’s just as well that we don’t eat like this every day,” said Sylvia, amused. “Not even during the summer, when camp is in session every week.”
As they finished their desserts, the servers circled the room offering refills of coffee and tea. From a nearby table, Sarah caught Sylvia’s eye and raised her eyebrows in a question. Sylvia nodded, squeezed Andrew’s hand, and
stood—and a sudden hush settled upon the banquet hall. The time had come. Evening had fallen; the floor-to-ceiling windows on the western wall framed a violet and rose sky in the distance beyond Elm Creek. Sylvia went to the door, where she paused, turned to smile at her guests, and in a clear voice that carried the length of the banquet hall, invited everyone to follow her for the second of their two first-night traditions.
Everyone, even those who were making their first visit to Elm Creek Manor, promptly rose. It was time for every Elm Creek Quilter’s favorite part of quilt camp, regardless of the season, when the week still lay before them promising friendship and fun, and their eventual parting could be forgotten for a while.
Sylvia escorted the campers and faculty across the foyer to the ballroom, a relic of an earlier age when the manor’s residents would regularly entertain hundreds of guests with lavish evenings of feasting, music, and dancing. During the summer, movable partitions divided the ballroom into multiple classrooms, but during Quiltsgiving, a single nook was set up in a discreet corner, awaiting Gretchen’s Giving Quilt class the following day. A patterned carpet encircled a broad parquet dance floor, still smooth and glossy thanks to generations of careful tending, shining in the light of three chandeliers hanging high above from a ceiling framed with crown molding and decorated with a twining vine motif crafted from plaster. Rectangular windows topped by semicircular curves, narrow in proportion to their height, lined the south, east, and west walls. Along the far wall was an enormous stone fireplace, more than five feet tall and ten feet wide, and at the opposite end of the room was a raised dais, its furnishings concealed by a velvet theater curtain.
Sylvia led the way to a small set of stairs tucked away on one side of the dais and drew back the curtain to allow her companions to pass ahead of her. For a moment she worried about the perky young woman who had arrived on crutches, but the dark-haired quilter from Georgia quickly came forward to assist her up the steps. Sylvia followed the last quilter behind the curtain, which had concealed a dozen tall quilt stands arranged in a circle, an assortment of brightly colored quits hanging from them and facing the center.
Sylvia allowed the campers to walk about and admire the display for a while, but when their voices rose above a murmur, she raised her hands for their attention, slowly lowered her arms to evoke silence, and then, when all were still, she beckoned her guests to seat themselves in the circle of chairs arranged in the middle of the display. Murmuring, questioning, the campers took their places as Sarah stole away to dim the lights, and occasionally a nervous laugh broke the stillness. The quilters’ voices fell silent again as Sylvia lit a candle, placed it in a crystal votive holder, and took her place at the center of the circle. As the dancing flame in her hands cast light and shadow on her features, she felt a tremor of excitement and nervousness run through those gathered around her, a sensation both familiar and new.
In the center of the circle, Sylvia turned slowly, gazing into the faces of her guests. “One of our traditions is to conclude the first evening of quilt camp with a ceremony we call Candlelight,” she told them, as she had told hundreds of quilters before. “It began as a way for our guests to introduce themselves to us and to one other. Since we’re going to be living and working together closely this week, we should feel as if we are among friends. But our ceremony has a secondary purpose. At its best, it helps you to know yourselves better too. It encourages you to focus on your goals and wishes, and helps prepare you for the challenges of the future and the unexpected paths you might set forth upon.”
Sylvia allowed the expectant silence to swell before she explained the ceremony. The campers would pass the candle around the circle, and as each woman took her turn to hold the flickering light—
“I know,” one eager camper broke in nervously. “You want us to explain why we came to Elm Creek Quilt Camp and what we hope to gain this week.”
A few other campers stared at her, some startled, some annoyed by the interruption. Sylvia smiled indulgently. “I see you’ve visited us before.” A ripple of laughter went up from the circle when the woman nodded vigorously. “You’re right; that is the question we ask during our summer sessions, but for Quiltsgiving, we’re more united in purpose than we are at any other time of the year, and so that question isn’t particularly illuminating, is it?” She looked around the circle and found most of the quilters nodding and watching her expectantly. “It sheds less light on the workings of our hearts and imaginations than—well, than this candle.” Sylvia studied the flickering light for a moment, allowing the curiosity to build. “We’ve gathered here to make quilts for Project Linus, to make quilts for children in need, to offer them a sense of love and comfort. We have come here to give. The question I would like each of you to answer—and to consider carefully before you answer—is why. Why do you give?”
This time the silence was absolute. Some campers held Sylvia’s gaze as she looked around the circle at each of them in turn. Others quickly looked away, at the floor, at their hands clasped in their laps. Others turned uncertainly to the left or the right as if hoping to find an answer in a friend’s eyes. Sylvia gave them time for contemplation before asking for a volunteer to speak first.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their own soft breaths, some shifting in chairs, the muffled clearing of a throat, the furnace kicking in as the night grew colder, the ever-present but usually unnoticed creaks and groans of the historic manor settling. Then, hesitantly, the dark-haired woman from Georgia raised her hand. With an encouraging smile, Sylvia passed her the candleholder and nodded for her to begin.
“My name’s Pauline,” the woman began, her accent soft and charming. “I’m from Sunset Ridge, Georgia, and I’m a 911 call center operator. I have a son and a daughter, both in middle school.” Her listeners murmured a mixture of congratulations and sympathy, and Pauline nodded, seeming grateful for the pause in which to find the words for her response. “This is a difficult question, and I’m not sure if my answer is really what you’re looking for . . .”
When her voice trailed off, Sylvia prompted, “The only answer I’m looking for is the truth of your own heart. It’s really very simple.”
“Easy for you to say,” someone murmured anxiously, and the laughter she evoked seemed to dissolve the nervous tension somewhat.
Pauline took a deep breath. “I give because I’m needed,” she said, her gaze fixed on the candle. “It breaks my heart to think of children sad or lonely or in pain, and if a quilt will offer them comfort—and maybe give their parents a little hope and encouragement too—then you’d better believe I want to make them a quilt.” She offered Sylvia a quick, tentative smile and passed the candle on to the woman on her right.
“Oh, dear,” she said, accepting the candle with a start. “I thought we were going clockwise. Okay. Let me think.” She paused, biting the inside of her lower lip. “I’m Kathy. I’m from Harrisburg and I’m recently retired and enjoying every minute of it.” Another long pause, and then she sighed and shook her head. “Oh, it’ll take me too long to think up an impressive lie, so I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. It makes me feel good to help. My children are all grown up and on their own now, and sure, they still need me and probably always will—”
“You can count on it,” murmured one of the oldest women in the group.
Kathy smiled. “Even so, they don’t need my help in quite the same way as they did when they were younger. But these children do, and it makes me feel warm and happy in my heart to know that I’m able to do some good for them, to put a little love out into the world. Heaven knows the world could use it. I guess I’m just horribly selfish, giving to feel good about myself.” She spoke with such comical despair that everyone laughed as she passed the candle on to the next camper.
The next camper, gray-haired and sitting tall in her seat with her ankles crossed, knew her answer well and spoke without hesitation. “I’m Mir
iam, and I’m a wife, mother, and grandmother, and I was a stay-at-home mother long before the term was invented.” She allowed a small smile as she peered around the circle over the rims of her glasses. “I give because it’s an important tenet of my Christian faith. We’re called to give, not from our surplus but to give all that we can. We’re called to give to anyone who needs us, to comfort the least among us, because we are all brothers and sisters in the eyes of our Lord.” Several other campers nodded their affirmation. “I’ve been given a talent and an interest in sewing, and I’m very happy and honored to use these gifts to help others, to keep them warm or to brighten their days. It’s a privilege, and I’m thankful that the Elm Creek Quilters have provided us such a wonderful opportunity to give.”
She passed on the candle to a woman with a long, dark French braid that reminded Sylvia, wistfully, of Anna’s. “I can’t believe I have to follow that,” she exclaimed with mock shame in a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Okay. I’m gonna lay it on the line. I always make quilts for charity, and I just figured I might as well get a free week of quilt camp out of it!”
Everyone burst into laughter—except Miriam, who looked mildly scandalized. Gretchen spoke up. “I think everyone feels that way to some extent. The gifts of our hands are no less heartfelt or sincere or necessary if we enjoy ourselves while making them.”
“For those of you who disagree and are convinced that giving has to hurt,” Diane added, “we can find a hard pallet in the most cobwebby corner of the attic for you.”
As the campers laughed, the candle moved along the circle to Michaela. “I’m Michaela, and I’m here for two reasons. I’m a student at St. Andrew’s College but I’m really from Pheasant Branch—” She pointed, vaguely, over her shoulder as if to indicate a hamlet somewhere to the south, although Sylvia knew Pheasant Branch lay to the northwest. “I have to fulfill a community service requirement for graduation, and I thought this would be kinda cool. Also, most other community service jobs need you to be able to walk around a lot, and obviously that’s not an option for me right now. But that’s why I came here this week, not why I give. I guess I give because no matter how bad you think you have it”—she indicated her cast-bound leg with a gesture of humorous resignation—“there’s always someone else who’s worse off, you know? And at Quiltsgiving we get to help kids, sick in hospitals or burned out of their apartments or whatever. Who wouldn’t want to help a kid? If they need a quilt”—she shrugged, and her blond curls bounced—“then I should make them a quilt. I mean, in my case, it’s not like it would take time away from my marathon training.”
The Giving Quilt Page 4