The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Sylvia?”

  Sylvia started at the sound of Sarah's voice. “Oh, hello, dear.”

  “Welcome home.” Sarah hugged her warmly. “I heard the end of Amy's rant. I was stuck on the phone when you pulled into the driveway or I wouldn't have let her tear into you the minute you got out of the motor home. I'm sorry.”

  “It's not your fault. I suppose I should have been prepared for something like this after the way Bob and Cathy took the news.”

  “How can you prepare for something so bizarre?”

  “I suppose I could have been more delicate. Telling Amy she would just have to live with it was too blunt.”

  “You were more polite than she was.” Sarah reached into the cupboard for Sylvia's favorite mug and set it on the counter. “To hear her tell it, you and Andrew are a hundred and ten years old and hooked up to life support.”

  “I hate to imagine what kind of nonsense she's filling his head with at this moment,” said Sylvia. “For someone who's so concerned with his health, she doesn't seem to mind sending his blood pressure through the roof. I do hate to see him at odds with his children.”

  “You haven't done anything wrong,” said Sarah firmly. “His kids just need an attitude adjustment. Be resolute, and they'll cave in long before June.”

  “June? What's in June?”

  “Your wedding.”

  “Oh. I see. So you've set our wedding date, then?”

  “Not me. Diane. She had to coordinate it around the Elm Creek Quilters' vacations. She and Gwen almost came to blows before they settled on June nineteenth.”

  Sylvia looked heavenward. “Well, thank goodness I'm finding this out now. It would have been quite embarrassing not to know until the invitations are sent out. I assume I will be invited?”

  “Sure. Bring Andrew, if you like.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Sylvia dried her hands and returned the dish towel to its hook. She glanced out the window and saw Andrew checking under the hood of the motor home while Amy made an impassioned argument by his side. She wondered, briefly, if Andrew regretted asking her to marry him, but just as quickly pushed the thought aside.

  Rather than dwell on Andrew's children any longer, Sylvia showed Sarah the Crazy Quilt and told her the story of its journey from Elm Creek Manor to the Indiana home of Mona Niehaus. Sarah admired the quilt, then led Sylvia upstairs to the library, where the responses to Summer's Internet inquiry awaited.

  Twelve more e-mail messages and four letters had arrived since Sylvia had last spoken to Summer. While Sarah booted up the computer, Sylvia opened the first envelope and skimmed enough of the letter inside to learn that the writer had purchased a whole cloth quilt at an estate sale. The writer had enclosed two snapshots, one of the quilt draped over a chair, and the other a closeup of the central motif.

  Sylvia was so surprised she had to sit down, and the nearest place was the arm of Sarah's chair. “This is it,” she exclaimed, holding out the letter to Sarah. “I know the stitches don't show up very clearly in this first picture, but the detail shot proves it, and so does that scalloped edge. No one but my mother used that particular design.”

  Sarah hesitated. “Before you get too excited …”

  “What?”

  Sarah rose and beckoned Sylvia to take her seat at the computer.

  Sylvia complied, curious, as Sarah leaned over and clicked the mouse to open the e-mail file. The first message appeared on the screen, and Sylvia gasped. Following a few paragraphs of text there was a picture of another whole cloth quilt, identical to the one in the photo Sylvia held except for a slightly darker hue of fabric and a different pattern of wear and tear.

  Sylvia sank back into her chair. “I see.”

  “I'm afraid that's not all.”

  One by one, Sarah opened seven more e-mail messages, each with another photo of a whole cloth quilt attached. Sylvia saw quilts draped over bassinets and held up by proud owners, quilts in pristine condition and quilts with water stains and tears, quilts that had aged from white to every shade of ecru and cream—but each was quilted in the same pattern of feathered plumes, entwining ribbons, and crosshatched hearts, and each boasted the same scalloped border.

  “I don't need to look at any more,” said Sylvia as Sarah tried to hand her a small stack of letters. She tossed the unopened envelope she still held on the desk. “I don't even want to open this one.”

  “Mind if I do?” asked Sarah. Sylvia waved at the envelope dismissively, so Sarah picked it up. “This one is about the Ocean Waves quilt. They sent a picture.”

  Her hopes renewed, Sylvia took the photo, only to slap it down on the desk after a glance. “For goodness' sakes. I have this same fabric in my own stash. It's from the late nineties, no earlier, and my description specifically said my mother made her quilt during World War I. Is it too much to ask for people to read carefully?”

  “Maybe they hoped you wouldn't be too particular,” said Sarah, her eyes on the letter. “She'll sell this one to you for six hundred dollars, or custom make you one in the size and fabric of your choice.”

  “I wouldn't give her six cents for it. That's not the quilt I'm looking for, and if she read Summer's Internet post, she knows it. She's just trying to make a sale.”

  Sarah reminded her of the other messages that did not include pictures; they might yet prove to be worthwhile leads. Thanks to Mary Beth Callahan, they also now had the name of the auction house that had purchased the Elms and Lilacs quilt, which just the day before Sarah had discovered was still in business in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. Mary Beth's tip about the now-defunct consignment shop in downtown Waterford was also worth investigating, Sarah said, as were the rest of the e-mail messages.

  “So we're down but not out,” said Sylvia, and she agreed to see the remaining responses. Two people had written to say they spotted the Crazy Quilt in their states; those claims, Sylvia could safely disregard without further investigation. One e-mail message located the New York Beauty quilt at the San Jose Quilt Museum, while another writer's apologetic note explained that she knew she had seen that exact quilt at a museum, but she could not remember which one.

  Those leads seemed more promising, especially when coupled with the mistaken sighting of the New York Beauty at the Rocky Mountain Quilt Museum. Perhaps this most recent writer was not the only one to have forgotten which museum possessed the quilt.

  Fortunately, one of Sylvia's closest friends was a master quilter living in San Francisco. Sylvia knew Grace Daniels would be happy to investigate this lead for her, and since Grace was also a museum curator, Sylvia could rely on her expert evaluation of whatever she found.

  Since the computer was already turned on, Sylvia used the Elm Creek Quilts account to send Grace an e-mail explaining the quest and asking for her help. “I hope Grace receives this,” she said as she sent her note off into cyberspace, already feeling misgivings that she was trusting a matter of such importance to something as ephemeral as electrons rather than the comforting solidity of paper and ink. “If you don't hear back in a few days, I'll call.”

  “She'll receive it,” Sarah assured her. “In the meantime, let's check out a lead closer to home.”

  They went downstairs and met Andrew and Amy in the west hallway. Sarah could not possibly have missed the anger sparking between father and daughter, but she summoned up some cheerfulness and told them about their errand into downtown Waterford.

  “You're welcome to come with us if you like,” she said. “We can get a bite to eat at the coffee shop while we talk to the owner.”

  Amy began, “I don't think—”

  “Sure,” declared Andrew. “Let's all go. I have an errand of my own downtown.”

  Amy's mouth tightened, but she went upstairs for her purse and returned wearing lipstick, her hair brushed neatly back into her barrette. She offered to drive her rental, but Sarah declined, explaining that they would have more room in the company car.

  The company car was actually a white minivan
emblazoned on both sides with the Elm Creek Quilts logo. During the spring and summer it was so often in use shuttling campers back and forth from the airport or on shopping trips into Waterford that its reserved parking place was rarely occupied except overnight.

  Amy kept her attention on the passing scenery as Sarah drove through the woods and into Waterford proper. They turned down a service alley and parked behind a row of stores lining the main street that separated the downtown from the campus of Waterford College; Elm Creek Quilter Bonnie Markham had three spaces reserved for Grandma's Attic employees, but since these days only she and Summer, and occasionally Diane, worked at the quilt shop, she let her friends borrow the leftover space.

  They stopped by the quilt shop to say hello to Bonnie before continuing around the corner and up the hill to the square, a green with benches and a bandstand bordered by shops, restaurants, and city government buildings. The Daily Grind, a coffee shop next to the small public library, was a favorite with students and professors; lone figures hunched over coffee cups at tables strewn with papers and books, crumpled napkins, and plates of half-eaten muffins and biscotti.

  They joined the queue. When Sarah reached the front of the line, she placed their order, gave her name, and asked to speak to the owner. “He's expecting us,” she said. The clerk nodded, disappeared into the back, and returned with the message that Norman would meet them at their table.

  Like the rest of his staff, Norman wore a green apron over his jeans and flannel shirt, and his thick black hair and beard gave him a wild look tempered by a good-humored smile. He pulled up a chair beside Sylvia as Sarah made introductions. At nearly six and a half feet tall, he towered over them even sitting down, but what captured Sylvia's attention most was the thick ledger he carried under one arm.

  “I called my dad in Florida,” said Norman to Sylvia, opening the ledger. “He remembers you and your sister, and he's positive Claudia sold some items through the store in the postwar years, but he doesn't remember the specific transactions.”

  “I expected as much,” said Sylvia. “It was a very long time ago, and he had so many sales.”

  Norman grinned. “Not too many, unfortunately, or the shop wouldn't have closed. Then again, if it hadn't, he wouldn't have started his second business, and I'd much rather run a coffeehouse than a consignment store.” He carefully turned to a page near the back of the ledger. “My father kept good records, and there's a lot of information here once you decipher his shorthand. See, here's your sister's account.”

  Sylvia slipped on her glasses and read her sister's name, printed in small, neat handwriting on the title line. The same handwriting filled nearly three quarters of the page, which was divided into five columns. Norman ran his finger down the first and stopped at one of the last entries. “These are the dates items were left with the shop, and these apparently random combinations of letters and numbers are my father's descriptions. See this QLT? That's his code for quilt, and believe me, that was one of the easier ones to figure out.”

  “What about the rest of it?” asked Andrew. “What's the BLUW/L stand for?”

  “BLU indicates that the item was blue. The W means white. The information after the slash usually refers to the item's size or its era.”

  “A large blue-and-white quilt,” said Sylvia. “That could be the Ocean Waves. Did your father keep more detailed records so we could confirm this? Did he take any photographs of the items in his inventory?”

  Norman shook his head. “Only if the clients requested an appraisal, and they typically only did so for valuables or antiques because of the additional expense. If your sister had asked for one, there would have been a note.”

  Sylvia pursed her lips and nodded. Claudia would have done so if she had thought an appraisal would raise the price, but if she had understood the quilts' true worth, she never could have sold them. Sylvia gestured to the check mark in the third column beside the code for the blue-and-white quilt. “I assume the check mark indicates the item was sold?”

  “It does,” said Norman. “A dash instead of a check means the client reclaimed the item before it sold. In the fifth column, the two numbers separated by a slash are the price of the item and my father's commission, and the fifth column is the date the item left the store.”

  Sylvia had already guessed as much, and she studied the entry with a pang of regret. Fifty dollars. Claudia had parted with their mother's Ocean Waves quilt for fifty dollars, and nowhere on that page did Sylvia see any indication of who had purchased it.

  “Why are there blank spaces for some of the items where the checks or dashes should be?” asked Amy. “What happened to the things that didn't sell and weren't reclaimed?”

  Sylvia and Andrew exchanged a look, surprised to see her taking an interest.

  “If the third column is empty, the item was still in the shop when my father retired,” said Norman. “He tried to contact his clients so they would pick up their goods, but not everyone responded. He donated what little inventory remained to charity.” He pointed to the last entry on the page. “Which brings me to this.”

  Sylvia, Andrew, Sarah, and even Amy leaned closer to get a better look at Claudia's last transaction with the consignment shop. On November 22, 1959, she had placed another quilt with Norman's father, one identified as QLT W/S.

  Sylvia sucked in a breath and sat back in her chair. A small, white quilt. The whole cloth quilt. And the third column was blank.

  “Do you have any idea what charity your father donated his inventory to?” she asked.

  “He gave to several—Goodwill, St. Vincent de Paul, a few other local groups that aren't even around anymore, but he didn't keep a record of how the items were distributed, just one receipt from each organization with an amount for his tax deductions.”

  “May I?” Sarah asked, reaching for the ledger. Norman slid it across the table. She paged through it and eventually shook her head. “Did your father keep a separate record for his accounts receivable? This book tells us how much he paid out and to whom, but not what his customers paid the shop.”

  Norman winced. “One of my father's failures in the business was that he was always more interested in the contents of the store's shelves than its cash register. He was so disinterested in actually selling anything that I think he would have been happier running a museum.” He rose. “I can show you the rest of his records, such as they are. I don't think he'd mind.”

  He led them behind the counter and through the kitchen into a small, cluttered office. Floor to ceiling bookshelves stuffed with books, magazines, and coffee mugs lined one entire wall, while the others were plastered with movie posters. Someone had taken a pen to them, Sylvia noted, contributing mustaches, eye patches, and blackened teeth as well as dialogue balloons with rather more colorful language than filmmakers typically included in their advertising. A dusty computer sat on a small desk, but there was no chair, and the desk calendar was set to April of the previous year. She and Sarah spotted the filing cabinet bursting with papers and exchanged looks of dismay; looking for records in this place would be nearly as bad as searching the attic of Elm Creek Manor. But Norman merely said, “Excuse the mess,” took a key from the desk drawer, and led them back down the hall.

  He unlocked the door to a narrow storage room and shoved it open as far as it would go, which was barely enough room for him to reach inside and flip on the light. Sylvia peered past him, noted the several large filing boxes that had impeded the door's progress, and wished they were searching the office instead.

  Norman glanced down at her and chuckled. “Not all of this stuff is my dad's.” With effort, he shoved the door open wider and squeezed his torso through the narrow opening. “Most of this is for the coffee shop.”

  “I hope you don't ever get audited,” said Sarah, taking in the scene. “You'd need a team of accountants to sort out this mess.”

  “What?” Norman seemed genuinely bewildered as he looked from her to the room and back. “Oh. Yeah, I gue
ss it's a little untidy, but I know where everything is.”

  Andrew looked dubious. “All I see are piles of paper.”

  “But each pile has a purpose.” Grinning, Norman hauled four filing cartons into the hallway and lined them up along the wall. “You'll wish my dad was that organized before you're through.”

  He removed the first carton's lid, and Sylvia heard Sarah stifle a groan as they took in what appeared to be nothing more than a box of the street sweepings after a ticker-tape parade.

  “Accounts receivable, I presume?” asked Sylvia, accepting Andrew's assistance as she knelt beside the carton.

  “Accounts receivable and miscellaneous,” affirmed Norman.

  “With the emphasis on miscellaneous.” Then he apologized and explained that they would have to search on their own, for he had to return to work. He encouraged them to look as long as they liked and offered the use of his photocopier to duplicate any documents that would aid them in their search.

  “I hope no one has any plans for the afternoon,” said Sarah after Norman left.

  Andrew hesitated. “I still need to run that errand.”

  “Well, there are four of us and four boxes.” Amy seated herself on the floor beside another carton and removed the lid. “We shouldn't need more than a few hours.”

  Behind her back, Sylvia and Andrew exchanged speculative glances, then Andrew shrugged and made his way to the last carton. He patted his daughter on the shoulder as he passed.

  Sylvia sifted through the first few layers of paper in her carton, uncertain what she ought to be looking for and doubtful she would recognize it when she found it. Sarah advised them to look for anything with Claudia's name on it, of course, but also canceled checks or store receipts for purchases made on the date the Ocean Waves quilt was sold. If Norman's father had not written the item code on the receipt, they could still identify the quilt by comparing the total on the receipt to the price listed in the ledger.