“I'm sure your friends at Elm Creek Manor find that as comforting as we do,” said Cathy.
By the time supper was ready, Andrew's temper had cooled, but a tension hummed in the air around the picnic table as they ate. Cathy engaged Sylvia in polite conversation about Elm Creek Quilt Camp while the men ate with silent deliberation on opposite ends of the table, looking anywhere but at each other. The girls' eyes darted from one adult's face to the next, anxious. Sylvia felt sorry for them, so when the meal was finished, she began collecting the dishes and asked for their help. She ushered them inside to the kitchen, thinking to give Andrew an opportunity to talk to Bob alone. Within minutes, however, Andrew joined them in the kitchen, shaking his head, his eyes glinting with anger. His granddaughters pretended not to notice.
Together they tidied the kitchen and went into the living room to play cards. Bob and Cathy came in soon after, their expressions somber. Cathy made coffee and served dessert, and the family spent the rest of the evening playing games and chatting politely and cautiously on inoffensive topics. This seemed to relieve the girls but irritated Sylvia, who knew all too well what little good came of ignoring conflicts.
Later, Sylvia and Andrew bid their hosts good night and went to the guest room where Sylvia customarily slept. Andrew barely waited to close the door before dropping his facade of affability. “I thought they might have a problem, but not because of some ridiculous concerns about your health.” He sat down hard on the bed, a muscle working in his jaw. “I won't have it. I won't be patronized like that.”
“They love you. They worry.”
“They can show their concern some other way. We are not too old to get married. After all, John Glenn went into outer space at seventy-seven.”
“And after that, marriage would seem easy,” said Sylvia lightly. “Not that Bob would agree. I thought you said he would be the easy one.”
“My prediction stands.”
“Well, I can't say you didn't give me fair warning, but spare us the wrath of Amy. You do realize there's always the phone, or we could write.”
“I'm tempted, but then I'd have to explain why I told her brother in person but not her. No, when you have two kids, you have to keep things equal.” Andrew sighed and rose, pulling Sylvia gently to her feet. “You do know it's not you, right? They like you.”
“I realize that,” said Sylvia. “They just don't think I'm qualified for the position of stepmother.”
“None of this changes how I feel about marrying you. I still know I'm the luckiest man in the world.”
Sylvia gazed heavenward. “Oh, please, Andrew. Not the luckiest. Perhaps if you had caught me in my prime—”
He put a finger to her lips, then kissed her. “As far as I'm concerned, you are in your prime.”
After he left for the fold-out sofa in the computer room, Sylvia felt a sudden pang of homesickness, tempered only by the sight of the familiar Glorified Nine-Patch quilt on the bed. She had made it for Bob and Cathy after they had admired a similar quilt featured on an Elm Creek Quilts brochure. Cathy must have known how it would comfort her—and honor her quilt-making skill, since by tradition a family reserved for guests their best and most beautiful quilt.
Still, when she drew the quilt over herself in the darkened room, she wondered if she might not have preferred the sort of comfortably worn quilt one would give to a member of the family. And as she mulled over Andrew's parting words, she wondered what his son and daughter-in-law had said to make him feel he had to reassure Sylvia of his love.
She wondered which one of them most needed reassurance.
Even this far inland, night mists off the ocean flowed into the valleys, so dense that Sylvia could barely make out the fence from the patio door. When Kayla took her outside to pick an orange, Sylvia shivered in her thin cardigan and was glad to pluck a dew-covered fruit from the tree and hurry back inside. Later, at the breakfast table, she peeled the orange and reflected upon the canyon, which on a morning like this would be invisible until a passerby was nearly upon it. She thought of the first Europeans who had come to California, the Spanish missionaries and the farmers and ranchers who had followed, and wondered if any had come to a dangerous end mere yards from where she now sat, believing the landscape ahead of them to be as gentle and bountiful as that which they had already traversed, never suspecting the truth until they stumbled into it.
“Angela,” asked Sylvia as they cleared away the breakfast dishes. “Can you drive?”
“Not yet,” said Angela. “I can't get my learner's permit until next year.”
“Then if I drive, could you direct me to the Thousand Oaks library?”
“Can I come, too?” asked Kayla.
“Of course, dear.” She smiled brightly at Cathy. “Now all we need is a car. Would you mind lending me yours? I'm not as handy with the motor home as Andrew.”
The truth was she had only driven it once, and that was in the parking lot behind Elm Creek Manor.
“Of course,” Cathy stammered out, just as Andrew said, “I can drive you.”
“There's no need. The girls and I will play detective. You stay here and catch up with Bob and Cathy.” Quickly she sent Angela for the car keys and Kayla for her purse and the envelope of pictures Summer had sent, then herded the girls out the door before the others could stop them.
“That was close,” said Angela as she climbed into the front seat beside Sylvia.
Sylvia nodded and put on her glasses. “For a minute there, I thought they might figure out what I was up to.”
“Are we leaving them alone so they can fight?” asked Kayla.
“So they can talk,” corrected Sylvia, starting the car. “Just talk.”
The morning mists had burned off and traffic was light, so Sylvia felt quite comfortable behind the wheel, especially with two bright girls navigating for her. Twenty minutes later they arrived at the Thousand Oaks City Library. Sylvia had expected another Spanish-style stucco building, but the library was quite modern in design, with an exterior of white stone and dark tinted glass, and unusual jutting angles that reminded her of the Sydney Opera House. When she commented on the architecture, Angela said, “People either love it or hate it. I like it, but Mom says it looks like a stack of books that fell over.”
Inside, the building was open and spacious, with a fountain trickling near the sloping front entrance. The girls led Sylvia down into the center of the library to the reference desk, where Sylvia asked for the librarian who had e-mailed Summer. They waited while she was paged, but Sylvia could not keep still knowing her mother's quilt might be hanging somewhere in that building. She went off to search for it, instructing the girls to stay together and to find her as soon as the librarian returned.
Within minutes Angela and Kayla came after her, bringing the smiling librarian with them. Sylvia apologized for not waiting. “It's been decades since I've seen my mother's quilt,” she explained with a laugh. “One would think I could control my impatience for five minutes more.”
The librarian's face fell. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I thought I explained in my e-mail, but perhaps I wasn't clear. We don't have the quilt in the library.”
“You don't?”
“I'm afraid not. We only have the pattern.”
“The pattern?” But the whole cloth quilt was her mother's original design. There should not be a pattern. She forced herself to smile through her disappointment. “I'm afraid there must be some mistake. Thank you very much for your time, but I believe we're talking about two different quilts.”
“I don't think so,” said the librarian. “I'm a quilter myself, and the drawing in the pattern is strikingly similar to the one on your Web site.”
“Similar, but not identical?” asked Angela.
The librarian smiled. “Similar enough that I think it's worth a look.”
“Yeah, let's at least look at it,” urged Kayla, tugging at Sylvia's hand. “What kind of detectives would go home without studying the clue?”
Sylvia frowned at the screen, then drew back with a gasp. “My goodness. It's very like my mother's quilt.”
“Here.” Angela retrieved one of the drawings from the envelope. “Let's compare them.”
Sylvia held the illustration up to the computer screen. The two images were fundamentally the same, with a few minor inconsistencies that could easily be explained by Summer's interpretation of Sylvia's description or gaps in Sylvia's memory. “This quilt is enough like my mother's that one must surely be the source for the other,” said Sylvia.
“This magazine was published in October 1912,” said the librarian. “When did your mother complete her quilt?”
“Around that same time, but I couldn't tell you whether it was before or after.” Sylvia sighed, removed her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. “Of all her quilts, why did she have to leave the date off this one?”
“There may be other clues,” said the librarian, and pointed to the screen. “Have you ever heard of the woman given credit for this design?”
Sylvia slipped on her glasses again and read the name. “The name is familiar, but I can't place it. Was she a well-known designer for her era?”
The librarian didn't know, but she offered to make a list of resources Sylvia could investigate. She also printed out a copy of the pages from the Ladies' Home Journal for Sylvia to take with her, but despite the stack of papers, Sylvia felt as if she were leaving empty-handed.
“I'm sorry you didn't find your quilt,” said Kayla as they drove home.
“Me, too,” said Angela.
“Me, too,” said Sylvia with a sigh.
“You still found some interesting stuff, though,” remarked Angela. “Don't you think this magazine pattern's an important clue?”
“I do, but I'm not so sure I like what this particular clue suggests.” She did not remember if her mother or another member of the family had told her that that quilt was her mother's original design, but someone had, and she did not like to think that someone, especially her mother, had lied about its origin. Still, this would not be the first time she had discovered errors in the stories handed down through the family.
“Do you think they're done fighting yet?” asked Kayla from the backseat.
“Talking,” said Angela before Sylvia could respond. “Don't worry. They're just talking.”
But when they returned home to a stony silence, Sylvia knew something had gone terribly wrong. The adults maintained a courteous front before the children, but as soon as Andrew and Sylvia were alone, he said, “We're cutting the trip short. We're leaving Sunday.”
“You can't mean that,” protested Sylvia. “We drove too far to go home so soon. What will the girls think?”
“Let Bob explain it to them.”
“Don't make the children suffer for your stubbornness. Whatever happened today, let's resolve it before it worsens.”
Andrew shook his head, grim. “It's not something I'm willing to resolve in any way that would satisfy them.”
Sylvia studied him, heartsick. She could not bear to think she was the cause of any ill will between Andrew and his son. “What would satisfy them?” she asked, and when Andrew did not respond, she knew.
Chapter Four
1907
Mother refused to leave her bedroom, so instead of retreating to her study to enjoy Miss Langley's letter, Eleanor spent the morning with Abigail and the dressmaker. Abigail looked nearly as pale as the white satin of her wedding gown as the dressmaker adjusted the bodice and the drape of the train.
“You will be the most stunning bride New York has ever seen,” said Eleanor, but Abigail's face took on an even more sickly cast. Oblivious, Harriet clucked approvingly and reached up to place the headpiece. Abigail shrank away, her eyes locked on her reflection in the mirror.
“We need to check the length of the veil,” said Harriet, trying again. “Be a good girl and let me—”
“I don't want it.”
“Don't be silly. Of course you do.”
Eleanor took the headpiece. “Later, Harriet.”
“Your mother said to make sure everything is perfect,” said Harriet peevishly. “What would she think if she walked in and saw that we didn't check the veil?”
“I don't think we have to worry about that, do you?” Briskly Eleanor gathered up the length of tulle and satin. “She fought with Father only this morning, and she usually needs at least a day to recover.”
Harriet gave her a tight-lipped scowl, but the dressmaker said, “I could come back tomorrow.”
“That might be best,” replied Eleanor in an undertone. The expression on Abigail's face worried her. For someone who had spent every moment of the past four years planning for her wedding day, Abigail seemed a rather reluctant bride. Perhaps she had no idea what she would do with herself once she was finally married.
Harriet and the dressmaker left, and, like an obedient child, Abigail allowed Eleanor to help her change clothes. “You and Edwin were mentioned in the society pages again this morning,” said Eleanor cheerfully, troubled by her sister's strange silence. “They're calling this the wedding of the year. Mrs. Newcombe is absolutely furious, since her daughter—”
“Do you still want to become a nanny?”
Eleanor's fingers froze on Abigail's buttons. “What?”
“When we were children you used to talk of becoming a nanny someday. Do you still wish to?”
Eleanor resumed unfastening Abigail's gown. “That was a little girl's wish. I don't think of it anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone must remain home to take care of Mother, and it can't be you since in four days you're going to have a husband to look after, and children, too, before long.”
“It's not fair to you.”
“Perhaps not, but it's my own fault for confounding our parents by forgetting to die. They have no idea what else to do with me.”
“You might have wanted to have a husband and family of your own, but they never gave you that choice.” Suddenly Abigail took her hand. “You would like that, wouldn't you? Nothing would be so bad as long as you had that, don't you think?”
Eleanor forced a laugh. “If you're trying to make me jealous, you can save your breath. I'm perfectly content with my books, my horse, and my study. And when Mother finally passes from this earth, I'll live with you and be your children's nanny so you can be a proper society lady and spend all your time dancing at balls with your handsome husband.”
“But you would want more than that, even then. This house would seem so big and lonesome with just you and Father.”
Eleanor felt a pang. Surely Abigail was not too distracted to realize that Father would have sold their home just as he had the summer house if not for Mother, the necessity to maintain appearances, and his refusal to acknowledge his insurmountable debts. Eleanor could only imagine how he was financing Abigail's wedding. He had called her a “scolding shrew” when she asked him outright, saying only that the long-awaited partnership with the Corvilles would restore their good fortune.
“Father will be fine,” said Eleanor. “And I will be fine.”
“Father will not be alone, even if you were to leave,” said Abigail in a voice so devoid of emotion Eleanor felt a chill. “He will not be without Mother. Nothing afflicts Mother but a terrible temper. She will outlive us all.”
“None of us will die any time soon, not even me,” said Eleanor firmly. “Unless you slipped poison into the soup, in which case I shall have to warn our guests.”
At last Abigail showed a flicker of a smile. “Am I being morose?”
“If not for the gown and the enormous cake Mother ordered, one might think you were planning a wake, not a wedding.”
“That won't do.�
�� Abigail took a deep breath and looked determinedly into the mirror again. “Father has enough to bear without my jeopardizing my engagement.”
“Father? What about you?”
Abigail did not answer.
When Abigail said she wished to rest before their guests arrived, Eleanor went upstairs to her study, pausing first to rap on her mother's door. “Will you join us for supper tonight?” she called. “We will have guests.”
There was a long silence, and then, “Horse people.”
Eleanor suppressed a sigh. “Yes, Mr. Bergstrom and his son will be there, as well as your future son-in-law and his parents. Won't you please come down?” She paused. “The Corvilles might think it strange if you don't.”
A lengthier silence, and then, “If I am not too ill.”
“Thank you, Mother. Abigail will be grateful.” She hesitated. “Do you need anything?”
“If I do, I will summon Harriet.”
“Very well.” Eleanor pressed her fingertips to the door, gripped by a sudden ache of regret. Abigail was right; illness was Mother's euphemism for anger. Her bitterness at Father had worsened through the years, increasing at the same pace as their debts and expenses. Lately Mother had feigned illness so often that Eleanor feared her imagined symptoms would become real. By then, no one would believe her.
When Mother said nothing more, Eleanor continued upstairs to her study. Everyone else still called it the nursery, though the dolls and toys had disappeared long ago, and Father's oak desk and second-best leather chair from the summer house had replaced those she had studied at as a child. A basket of fabric scraps sat between the treadle sewing machine and the wooden quilt frame Eleanor had purchased with money saved from birthdays and Christmases. The noise of the two deliverymen porting them up the stairs had roused Mother from her bed, and she had stood silently watching from the doorway of her room. She had learned the futility of complaining about her daughter's quilting.
The Quilter's Legacy Page 9