Their work was painstakingly slow, and working on the floor added to their discomfort, but within the first half-hour Andrew made a fortunate discovery: an envelope containing receipts for donations to five local charities, dated the same year Norman told them the shop had closed. “We'll phone them as soon as we get home,” said Sarah, placing the envelope on a nearby shelf for safekeeping. “I admit it's not likely they still have the whole cloth quilt, but they might know where it ended up.”
“Not unless their records are much better than Norman's father's,” said Amy as she thumbed through a stack of canceled checks bound by a stack of rubber bands. Wisps of hair had come loose from her barrette, and she absently tucked them behind her ears as she set the checks aside.
Despite the exasperation of the unnecessary labor Norman's father had inflicted upon them, as she sorted through the contents of her carton, Sylvia began to sympathize with him. She had only rarely visited his store as a young woman and its closing had passed her by unnoticed, but the ledger and those haphazard files revealed a man happy in his work, one who had cultivated a close relationship with his customers. He had often scrawled notes on claim tickets, reminders to set an item aside for a customer who would particularly appreciate it or to inquire about the health of an ailing relative. One note brought tears to Sylvia's eyes. “Tell her no more quilts,” he had jotted in black pencil on the back of the claim ticket stub for the Ocean Waves quilt. “Hate to sell them. Should keep.”
Someone, at least, had recognized that the true measure of the quilts' worth was not in what price they could fetch but in the story they told of the woman who had so lovingly crafted them. But did the ambiguous message mean that Norman's father would like to keep the quilts for himself, that Claudia ought to keep the quilts because she hated to sell them, or that he hated to sell them because he believed Claudia ought to keep them in the family? Sylvia knew her sister's selfishness well, and yet part of her longed to believe that Claudia had sold off their mother's legacy only because she had no other choice. If Sylvia could never reclaim those precious heirlooms, their loss would be easier to accept if she knew Claudia had not parted with them easily.
Their search gleaned one other tantalizing clue, and Amy was the one who discovered it: a canceled check whose date and total matched the ledger entry for the Ocean Waves quilt.
A thrill ran through Sylvia as she examined the check, crumpled from its long storage, the ink of the signature fading, but with the printed name and address of the account holder still legible. Even Sarah's warning that they ought to examine the ledger in the unlikely event that a second item had sold that same day for the exact same amount did not weaken her confidence that this was the check that had purchased her mother's quilt.
“It's more than fifty years old,” said Amy. “That woman may no longer live at that address.”
“I'm certain she doesn't,” said Sylvia. “I know this woman, or rather, knew her. She was my mother's age.”
“Were they friends?” asked Sarah.
“Whatever else Gloria Schaeffer may have been, she was no friend to our family. You may recall, Sarah, that I told you how Claudia and I were kicked out of the Waterford Quilting Guild during World War II because of silly rumors that we Bergstroms were German sympathizers. It was utter nonsense, of course, but Gloria thought our presence disrupted the harmony of our meetings, and since she was guild president …” Sylvia shrugged. “I figured if they didn't want me, I wanted no part of them, but Claudia took our dismissal hard. What I don't understand, though, is what Gloria Schaeffer would want with a Bergstrom quilt.”
“Maybe she didn't know it was your mother's,” suggested Andrew.
“Unlikely. My mother and Gloria were both founding members of the guild. They would have seen a good deal of each other's work, both complete and in progress.”
“Maybe she wanted to help Claudia financially,” said Sarah. “Out of guilt for what she did.”
Sylvia admitted it was possible, but perhaps she still harbored some resentment for that long-ago offense, for she could not believe Gloria would wish to assist any Bergstrom. More likely, Gloria had taken a perverse glee in the downturn in the family's fortunes and could not resist parting them from one of their treasured heirlooms.
“Gloria had two sons,” said Sylvia, setting the canceled check aside with the charity receipts and the Ocean Waves claim ticket stub. “Assuming Gloria is no longer among the living, one of them may have inherited the quilt.” They would be in the phone book, if they still lived in Waterford.
Several hours and cups of coffee later, they finished wading through the detritus of the consignment shop without finding any more clues to the whereabouts of the missing quilts. Still, with Gloria Schaeffer's last known address in hand, Sylvia felt somewhat optimistic, despite her growing concerns about the whole cloth quilt, of which they still knew very little.
Sarah photocopied the relevant documents while the others returned the cartons to the storage room. Then they found Norman out front and thanked him. As they left the coffee shop, Andrew glanced at his watch. “It's four-thirty. If we hurry, we can take care of that errand before the office closes.”
“Goodness, Andrew, I completely forgot.” Sylvia turned up the collar of her coat and tucked her arm through his. “If I had known we would spend so much time at the Daily Grind I would have suggested we take care of your errand first. Where to, then? The bank? The hardware store?”
“The county clerk's office,” he replied, “and it's not my errand. It's our errand. Don't tell me you forgot.”
“I'm afraid I did,” said Sylvia, smiling at his eagerness.
“How could you forget? What were we talking about ever since the Ohio border? What did we say we'd take care of as soon as we got home?”
With dismay, Sylvia remembered. “Oh, let's worry about that another day, shall we?” Her arm in Andrew's, she began strolling down the sidewalk toward Grandma's Attic and the van. “After all that work, I have absolutely no interest in waiting in a long line.”
Andrew stopped short. “There won't be a line at this hour. Besides, we're right here.”
“Sylvia's right,” said Sarah. Sylvia doubted she had caught on, but she could usually sense Sylvia's moods and must have realized there was a problem. “Anyway, it's my turn to make supper, so I need to get home.”
“This won't take long,” said Andrew. “All we have to do is fill out a form and show our IDs. It's not that hard to get a marriage license.”
Amy looked at her father, expressionless.
“Andrew, please,” said Sylvia quietly. “Let's go home.”
“The county clerk's office is right across the street. We're here, so we might as well stop by. If there's a long line, we'll come back another time.”
“You had to do this now,” said Amy. “You couldn't wait until I went home.”
“You mean sneak around, as if I'm doing something shameful?
I'm proud that Sylvia's marrying me, and I'm not going to hide that from anyone.”
“Andrew, please,” murmured Sylvia.
“I'm not asking you to hide.”
“What, then? Should I pretend that we're not getting married rather than offend you?”
Amy threw up her hands. “Listen, Dad, you do what you have to do. Just don't pretend you're not baiting me, and don't expect me to stand around and watch while you do it.”
She stalked off. Andrew glowered, and Sylvia started to follow her, but Sarah caught her by the arm. “I'll stay with her,” she said quietly. “We'll meet you at the van.”
Sylvia agreed and watched as Sarah hurried down the sidewalk after Amy. Amy paused when Sarah approached, and they exchanged a few words before continuing on together. Neither one looked back.
“Are you coming?” asked Andrew after the pair rounded the corner and vanished from sight.
Sylvia nodded.
Andrew was right in one respect: The county clerk's office was not busy at that hour, and
they waited only a few minutes before their number was called. They filled out the proper form, paid the forty dollar fee, showed their driver's licenses, and accepted the clerk's congratulations when he told them they could pick up their license in three days. Soon they were back outside on the sidewalk in the fading daylight. Sylvia returned Andrew's kiss when he told her how happy he was, but she shivered in the cold and tucked her hands into her pockets instead of taking his arm.
They walked in silence toward Grandma's Attic. “Well, that's one more task to cross off our list,” said Andrew.
“True enough.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “But?”
“But we could have put it off until later.”
“Don't tell me you're siding with Amy.”
“The very fact that you would make this an issue of choosing sides tells me you know you're in the wrong.”
“What?” He placed a hand on her arm to bring her to a halt. “You're the one insisting we have to go on about our own lives without worrying about their concerns.”
“Yes, but that's altogether different from flaunting our decision in your daughter's face. We could have come downtown any day, and you know it. Why did it have to be today, especially after Amy was so helpful sorting through those dreadful files? She was trying to give us a chance, and I think if we had given her more time, we might have won her over. But now …” She shook her head and resumed walking. “Now we're worse off than before.”
After a moment, Andrew caught up to her. “I wasn't trying to goad her. Honest.”
Sylvia could manage only a shrug. She wasn't sure she believed him.
Sarah and Amy were not waiting in the van when Sylvia and Andrew arrived, but they appeared fifteen minutes later carrying shopping bags from Grandma's Attic. Sylvia was thankful that Sarah had attempted to distract Amy until tempers cooled, but there was no mistaking Amy's lingering anger. She barely looked at her father or at Sylvia as she climbed into the van, and she made only monosyllabic replies to Sylvia's attempts at conversation. As they pulled up behind Elm Creek Manor, Sylvia heard Amy quietly offer to help Sarah prepare supper. Sylvia quickly volunteered herself and Andrew, but Amy frowned, and Sarah told her that they were entitled to a rest after their long trip. “You have some phone calls to make, too,” she pointed out.
Andrew wanted to unpack, so Sylvia went alone to the library, welcoming the relief of solitude after the tension that had marred their homecoming. She seated herself at the desk that had been her father's and flipped open the phone book to the business pages. She found numbers for Goodwill and St. Vincent de Paul easily, but Lutheran Outreach and St. Michael's Society were not listed. There was a St. Michael's Catholic Church, so Sylvia hoped for the best and dialed.
The young woman who answered the phone had never heard of St. Michael's Society, but she offered to ask around and call Sylvia back. Sylvia thanked her and hung up, and then, although she was reluctant to tie up the line, she called Goodwill. As she had feared, they told her it was highly improbable that they would still have her mother's quilt after so many years. “But you never know,” said the woman on the other end of the line, and offered to search for it. This time Sylvia said she would hold, and about ten minutes later, the woman returned to report that the only quilts currently in their possession were pieced or appliquéd, and since they did not maintain detailed records of individual purchases, there was no way to know who had bought the quilt, or when. She promised to call Sylvia if any whole cloth quilts were donated to their collection site in the future. Sylvia appreciated her helpfulness and her sympathy, but as she recited her phone number, she doubted the woman would ever have reason to call it.
Her luck was no better at St. Vincent de Paul, except to rule out one possible destination for the quilt. The man who took her call noted that back when Norman's father would have made his donations, their branch had handled only large durable items like furniture and appliances, and customarily had advised donors to take items such as clothes and bedding to other charities, such as Goodwill and Lutheran Outreach. Sylvia said that she had spoken to Goodwill but could not locate the Lutheran Outreach; the man told her that they had closed down in the early seventies, and that as far as he knew, no one affiliated with the organization remained in Waterford.
Disappointed, Sylvia thanked him for his time and hung up; she was crossing St. Vincent de Paul off her list when the phone rang. The young woman from St. Michael's Catholic Church had called back to report that the parish priest knew of St. Michael's Society, a community service and social justice organization founded in the early 1960s by a group of Waterford College students. For nearly fifteen years, they had served impoverished families, especially single mothers of young children, throughout the Elm Creek Valley, and eventually had become an official organization of the college and was still in existence under a different name. “One of the founders is the emeritus director of Campus Ministry,” said the young woman, and since he was also one of their most active parishioners, she didn't think he would mind if she gave Sylvia his name and number.
To Sylvia's delight, he was home when she called, but while he seemed to be a thoroughly charming man and his tales about St. Michael's Society were intriguing, he had no information on the whereabouts of the whole cloth quilt. “All donations were either passed along to needy families or sold to raise money to purchase necessities,” he explained.
Sylvia's heart sank, but she persisted, inquiring whether the campus organization might have some record of the donations from the consignment shop. No such records existed, she was told, and he regretted that he could not help her.
Sylvia assured him he had been very helpful, and hung up the phone with a sigh. She fingered the list of crossed-off names and phone numbers for a moment before tossing it on top of the responses to Summer's Internet posts. She studied the pile before beginning to leaf through it, and as she worked her way through the letters, each promising her the whole cloth quilt, frustration and disappointment stole over her. Last of all, she examined the printouts she had obtained at the Thousand Oaks Library, and as she did, she forced herself to accept two unavoidable conclusions she had been trying her best to ignore ever since the discovery of the pattern.
The Mrs. Abigail Drury identified in the magazine as the designer must have created the whole cloth quilt pattern. What Sylvia had always thought of as her mother's original design was nothing more than a reproduction of someone else's work. That surely explained why Mother had neglected to embroider her name and the date on this quilt alone, out of all those she had completed over the years.
Worse yet, since the pattern for the quilt had been published in such a popular magazine, hundreds if not thousands of quilters must have stitched quilts indistinguishable from her mother's. Even if Sylvia purchased every one of these she could track down, she would never be able to determine which one, if any, had belonged to her mother.
No matter how long she searched, the lovely whole cloth quilt would remain forever lost to her.
Later, at supper, she did not share her realization with her friends, because she could not bear to hear them agree with her conclusion. As the meal ended, Sylvia rose from her chair with relief, longing for a good night's sleep. She noticed, too late, that Amy alone had remained in her chair. “If you don't mind,” she said quietly, fingering her water glass, “I have something to say.”
Sylvia shot Andrew a warning look, but he knew enough to keep quiet until Amy had a chance to speak.
“I'm leaving in the morning.”
“Why?” asked Andrew. “Honey, I'm sorry about this afternoon. I didn't intend to taunt you.”
“It's not just that.” Amy caught Sylvia's gaze and held it. “With all due respect, what you're doing is wrong. You're asking too much of my father, and I simply can't support your decision to marry. Under those circumstances, I no longer feel comfortable accepting your hospitality.”
“Please stay,” urged Sylvia. “In the morning we'll hav
e a good talk and sort this thing out.”
“What's to sort out?” Amy shook her head and rose. “I don't approve of your marriage. I can't. Please don't ask me or my family to witness it.”
“Amy, please—” Andrew reached out for her, but she waved him off and hurried from the room. He turned to Sylvia, stricken. She took his hand in both of hers, dumbfounded and heartsick, and utterly at a loss for what to do.
Chapter Eight
1918
With Claudia squirming on her lap, Eleanor tore another long strip from the faded sheet and rolled it into a tight, neat bundle. Claudia crowed and grabbed at it, knocking it from Eleanor's hand. It bounced across the floor, unrolling in a long, narrow streamer that ended at Lucinda's feet.
“I swear she unrolls one bandage for every two you finish,” said Maude. “Why don't you just set her on the floor, for heaven's sake?”
Eleanor spread Claudia's Four-Patch quilt on the rug and gently placed Claudia on it. No one argued with Maude anymore, and not even Lucinda retorted when her tongue grew too sharp. Louis's death had left Maude bitter and angry, as if he had not died in a muddy trench in France but had abandoned her. She seemed to believe he could return to her if he wanted to.
Eleanor could almost understand it; even now she found it difficult to imagine handsome, mischievous Louis choking on mustard gas. But she could imagine it, so she had come to believe it. Her heart went out to Maude, who could not, and to poor Lily, who could imagine her own husband's death too vividly. Richard had been the first of the brothers to enlist and the first to die, barely three days after his arrival at the French port of Bordeaux. He had gone off to war so proudly, so eager for adventure. Lily had not wanted him to become a soldier, but she could not deny him the chance to distinguish himself when he wanted it so badly. Soon, as patriotic fervor swept over the nation, his elder brothers found their own reasons to battle the Hun. First the Waterford Chamber Orchestra announced they would no longer perform any works by Bach or Beethoven. Then Waterford College suspended the teaching of the German language. Then Eleanor was turned away by the cobbler who muttered that he would not work his craft for any friend of the Kaiser.
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