The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “I know exactly the piece you mean.” Charlene beckoned for Sylvia to follow her deeper into the shop. “It wasn't in the best condition when I took it on, but it was fabulous material, and it cleaned up nicely in the washing machine.”

  Sylvia winced. “I hope you used the gentle cycle. It is an antique.”

  “No, I just threw it in with the rest of my laundry,” said Charlene airily. “I had to treat it as I know my customers would to see if it would hold up. No one hand washes anymore, no matter how many times I tell them this is wearable art and not something they picked up at the Gap.”

  “But you do have the quilt, right?” asked Andrew.

  Charlene beamed. “I do, and wait until you see what I've done with it.” She stopped at a clothing rack, pushed aside a few hangers, and gestured proudly to a quilted jacket. “You're in luck. This is the last one.”

  Sylvia took in appliquéd flowers and leaves, exquisite quilting—“Good heavens.”

  “Thank you. It's absolutely one of my favorites. I already sold one size small, two larges, and an extra-large.” She removed the jacket from the hanger and held it up to Sylvia. “I was tempted to keep this one for myself, but it's a medium, and as you can see, I'm not. It should fit you, though.”

  Sylvia closed her arms around what remained of her mother's quilt and tried to think of something to say. All she could manage was, “Why?”

  Charlene's laughed tinkled. “I get that question all the time. I take my inspiration from many sources, but I admit this one is a little more pragmatic. I had a friend who fought with her sisters over a quilt their late mother had made. Since they all wanted it and no one was willing to let the others have it, they took a pair of scissors and cut it into four pieces. My friend doesn't sew, so she asked me to repair the edges of hers so the filling wouldn't fall out. But since her little quarter of a quilt wasn't big enough for a bed anymore, I made her a vest instead.”

  Sylvia wanted to bury her face in the jacket and weep. “She let you do that?”

  “Are you kidding? She was thrilled. Two of her sisters had me do the same thing to their pieces.” Charlene peered at her inquisitively. “Do you want to try it on?”

  Sylvia shook her head, but Charlene pretended not to notice and within moments had Sylvia out of her winter coat and into the jacket. She led Sylvia to a full-length mirror, where she gushed about how much the jacket suited her. Sylvia ran her hands over the jacket. It fit her well, and her mother's handiwork had retained much of its beauty despite its transformation. But the jacket was less than what the quilt had been, and Sylvia could not speak for the ache in her heart.

  Charlene's chatter had ceased, and she regarded Sylvia with perplexed worry that deepened as the awkward silence dragged on. Finally, Sylvia took a deep breath. “Did you save the rest of it?”

  “You mean the scraps from my sewing?” Charlene shrugged. “I saved all of the filling and some of the fabric, but it's long gone now, used up in other projects.”

  “And the other jackets—do you know where they might be?”

  Charlene chuckled, flattered but bemused. “Why, are you planning to outfit a basketball team?”

  “Please, do you know how I might find them?”

  She shook her head. “My records aren't that detailed. I could ask my assistants if they remember, but we get mostly tourist traffic in here. The jackets most likely weren't purchased by anyone from Sewickley.”

  Sylvia's hopes of reassembling the quilt faded.

  “What do you want for it?” asked Andrew.

  Sylvia fumbled for the price tag dangling from her sleeve. “Four hundred.” She shrugged off the jacket and handed it to Charlene. “Quite a return on your investment.”

  “It might seem expensive, but it is a one-of-a-kind work of art.”

  Andrew regarded her, stern. “By my count you made four others.”

  “Not in size medium, and the appliqués are arranged differently on each jacket,” countered Charlene, but she looked sheepish. “Okay, I'll tell you what. Since you came such a long way, I'll give you ten percent off.”

  “I'll take it,” said Andrew.

  “No, Andrew,” said Sylvia, thinking of his pension. “Let me get it.”

  But he insisted, and within minutes she was on her way back to the minivan, one arm tucked in Andrew's, the other clutching the handles of a shopping bag with the quilted jacket inside. A light snow had begun to fall. Andrew steadied her so she would not slip on the pavement, and she burrowed her chin into her coat when a sudden gust of wind drove icy crystals into her face.

  Once they were in the car, Andrew asked, “Do you want to head home or find a place to stay overnight?”

  Sylvia had lost all interest in Christmas shopping. “Would you mind if we went home, or is that too much driving for one day?”

  He assured her he was up to the trip if she was, and as he pulled out of the parking lot, she spread the jacket on her lap and sighed, running her hand over lavender lilac petals and faded green elm leaves, tracing a quilted feathered wreath with a fingertip. Considering the fate of the whole cloth quilt and the Ocean Waves, she was fortunate to find any part of the Elms and Lilacs. “I suppose a mutilated remnant of my mother's quilt is better than nothing at all.”

  “Hey,” protested Andrew. “Is that any way to talk about a man's Christmas present?”

  “I'm sorry, dear.” Sylvia hugged the quilt to her chest and managed a smile. “I am glad to have it, and it was good of you to get it for me.”

  “That's more like it.” He glanced at her for a moment before returning his gaze to the road. “What's that writing on the inside?”

  “This? It's just the size tag.”

  “Not that. On the left front, where the chest pocket would be.”

  Sylvia opened the jacket and gasped at the sight of a faded bit of embroidery. “It's my mother's initials, and two numbers, a nine and a two. That must be part of the date. I know my mother completed this quilt in 1927.” She hugged the quilt, then leaned over and kissed Andrew. “Charlene was right; I am lucky. I would have purchased any one she had in the shop, but only this one had the embroidery.”

  “That's lucky.”

  “It is, indeed. And you know what else? I think it's a very good sign. I believe I will find the New York Beauty quilt before long.”

  She settled back into her seat, content for the first time in days.

  “Maybe it's a sign for something else, too,” said Andrew.

  “Oh?” She raised her eyebrows at him. “Such as?”

  “Maybe we should get married here.”

  “Instead of Waterford?” She frowned. “Then all our friends would have to travel—”

  “No, they won't. I mean here and now.”

  Sylvia stared at him. “Now? As in right now?”

  “As soon as we can find a minister or a judge or a justice of the peace. Come on, Sylvia, what do you say? We already have our marriage license. This way we could avoid all the conflict with the kids. They'll have to stop complaining and start getting used to the idea if we just go ahead and do it.”

  “That would put an end to my friends' plans for an extravagant wedding,” mused Sylvia.

  “We can still have a party. That way our friends can't say we cheated them out of their celebration.”

  Sylvia laughed. “I don't know if that will be good enough, but I suppose they'll forgive us eventually. She paused, considering. “Very well. Let's do it.”

  Andrew turned the car around.

  They drove to the county clerk's office, where they learned a justice of the peace could marry them, but not until the following day. They made an appointment for ten o'clock the next morning and set about finding a place to stay for the night. Sylvia remembered a charming bed-and-breakfast on Main Street, and since it happened to have a rare vacancy, Sylvia and Andrew checked in and concluded this was another happy omen.

  They unpacked their overnight bags and, disregarding the chill in the air,
ventured back toward the shops. Sylvia didn't want a fancy wedding gown, but she certainly wouldn't marry in the casual travel clothes she had brought for the ride home, and she could only laugh at Andrew's suggestion that she wear the Elms and Lilacs jacket. To her delight, she found a lovely plum suit on sale, suitable for a wedding and yet something she could wear again, at Christmas. She insisted Andrew pick out something nice for himself as well and steered him toward a charcoal gray suit in which he looked quite distinguished. “This is your Christmas present,” she retorted when he protested about the price, and bought him a pair of shoes to go with it.

  Afterward, they hurried through the falling snow to a jewelry store, where they selected their wedding bands. They told the bemused jeweler that they needed the rings right away and would wait while he engraved them.

  They celebrated their wedding eve supper at the finest restaurant in downtown Sewickley, and strolled hand in hand back to their bed-and-breakfast, full of anticipation for the morning. They kissed good night and teased each other about oversleeping and missing their important date, but each knew the other would not miss it for the world.

  Sylvia hummed to herself as she hung up her new suit and got ready for bed, but just before she turned out the light, her glance fell upon the telephone, and she wondered if she ought to call Sarah, at least, and ask her and Matt to witness the ceremony. She could hardly invite them and ignore Andrew's children, however, so she turned out the light and went to sleep.

  The next morning she woke before the alarm and lay in bed, listening to the wind blow ice against the windowpane. The dim light made the day seem younger than it was, but she heard Andrew stirring on the other side of the wall, and she knew she could not linger on such an important day.

  Andrew had risen early, and he met her at breakfast with a small bouquet of flowers. It was lovely, and his face beamed with happiness as he kissed her and pulled her out of her chair. Their host and hostess were thrilled to discover they had a bride and groom at the table, and soon all the other guests were offering them congratulations and toasts of coffee and orange juice.

  Andrew enjoyed every moment, but Sylvia found she had no appetite. When Andrew asked her if she felt ill, she assured him she was fine, just a little nervous from all the excitement. Andrew closed his hand around hers and held it while he ate, and by the time he finished, she felt much better. She even managed to swallow a few bites of her scrambled egg and drink most of her tea.

  The sun had come out, chasing away the unseasonable cold, and nearly all the snow from the previous day had melted. They found a parking place right in front of the city clerk's office. “Another good sign,” said Andrew, as he helped her from the car.

  She clutched her bouquet and took his arm. “Do you have the wedding license?”

  He touched his coat pocket. “Right here.”

  “And the rings?”

  He stopped, frowned, and patted all his pockets in turn until he smiled and withdrew the two small velvet boxes from his front suit pocket. “They're here, too.”

  “Good. I have the strangest feeling we're forgetting something.” Sylvia felt breathless. “Should I hold your ring?”

  He smiled. “As long as you promise to give it back.”

  He gave her the ring box and offered her his arm again. She took it, smiled up at him, and allowed him to escort her inside.

  Her heart pounded as they walked down the corridor toward the city clerk's office. People they passed spied her bouquet and grinned. Sylvia flushed and smiled back at them, then held her head higher and strode purposefully forward. She loved Andrew. She wanted to marry him. And yet …

  She stopped short in the corridor, bring him to a halt. “Andrew—”

  He looked down at her, his dear face full of concern. “What's wrong?”

  “We can't do this. We shouldn't marry here, far from home, with strangers as witnesses.” His face fell, but she knew in her heart what she said was true. “We should marry surrounded by people we love, or not at all.”

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment. He released her hands, turned away, and stood, head bowed, his back to her.

  Hesitantly, she reached out and touched him softly on the shoulder. “Andrew?”

  “You're right.” He inhaled deeply, then turned to face her. She had never seen him more full of regret or resolve. “You're right. Let's go home.”

  Chapter Ten

  1927

  The weight and thickness of the envelope told Eleanor that it contained more than a simple news clipping. Her mother's mailings had grown less frequent since Father's death; six months had passed since the last. If the return address of the Manhattan brownstone had not been written in her mother's own hand, Eleanor would have assumed the elderly cousin with whom she lived had sent notice of her mother's death.

  Inside the envelope was a sheet of ivory writing paper edged with a quarter-inch black border. Her mother's note took up barely half the page.

  May 8, 1927

  Dear Eleanor,

  Cousin Claire has died and her late husband's property now belongs to his brother's children. They intend to live here themselves and would not keep me among them even if I wished to stay, which I do not. I do not expect you to take me in. If you felt for me the respect and concern a daughter owes her mother, you never would have left us. However, I have no one else, so I must turn to you and hope that time has softened your selfish heart. I am to be evicted at month's end, and unless I do not hear from you, I will have no choice but to take up residence in an asylum for destitute women. If you wish to spare me from that disgrace, respond promptly to

  Your Mother,

  Gertrude Drayton-Smith Lockwood

  Eleanor kept the letter in a bureau drawer for a day before showing it to Fred and Lucinda. She would have consulted Elizabeth first, as the eldest and nominal leader of the family, but since her husband's death five years before, Elizabeth did little but rock in her chair and quilt and murmur bleak predictions about the future. Claudia laughed at her behind her back, but seven-year-old Sylvia would turn her dark eyes from her grandmother and lead Richard away by the hand as if the mournful words could not hurt him if he did not hear. The solemn girl seemed to believe it was her responsibility to protect her younger brother from all dangers, real and imaginary.

  Her darling boy was little more than a year old but already as headstrong and spirited as his father. If she could have given Fred another son, she would have named him after the other brother he had lost in the war, but she knew her heart could not withstand another pregnancy. When she first thought she might be pregnant again, Dr. Granger had scolded her when she went to him, glowing with joy, to confirm her secret hope. After she nearly died in childbirth, he had exhorted her—and Fred, too—not to risk another. But Eleanor did not need the doctor's warnings or her husband's white-faced pleading to convince her. She had not recovered from Richard's birth the way she had with the girls. She had lost something she could not define, and she knew another baby would kill her. She had been blessed with three beautiful, beloved children, and she so wanted to see them grow up that she would cling to life with her fingernails for one more day with them.

  Fred read the letter, snorted, and handed it to his aunt. Lucinda scanned the lines and barked out a laugh. “Dear Eleanor,” she paraphrased, holding out the page to Eleanor. “I am so sorry that for almost forty years I was a hateful old hag to you instead of a loving mother. Now that I am impoverished in my dotage, won't you please take care of me?”

  “I know better than to expect an apology,” said Eleanor, returning the letter to its envelope. “She thinks I owe her one.”

  “We'll send her money,” said Fred. “A monthly allowance so she can maintain her own household in New York. We don't have to bring her here.”

  “I don't think she will accept charity.”

  “Isn't inviting her to live with us charity?” asked Fred. “I can't forget how she mistreated you. I won't allow her to hurt you i
n your own home.”

  Eleanor touched his cheek. “I have you. I have the children. She has lost the power to injure me.”

  She smiled at him, and he placed his hand over hers and regarded her fondly, but there was a tightness around his eyes that none of her reassurances could ease. She had tried to hide her increasing weakness, but he knew her heart labored to sustain her life. He would fight against anything that would sap her remaining strength, even if it meant abandoning his mother-in-law to her own fate.

  Nevertheless, she was Eleanor's mother, and Eleanor did have a duty toward her. If her mother-in-law agreed, Eleanor would invite her mother to Elm Creek Manor.

  Elizabeth gave her permission, but not without misgivings. “I admire your willingness to forgive,” she said, shaking her head, “but if she says one cruel word against you or my son, I will slap her.”

  Lucinda laughed, but Fred grimaced and Eleanor wondered if she had made a mistake. She could not bear it if her mother's presence brought more grief to a family that had seen too much mourning.

  Before writing back to her mother, she told the children. Claudia clapped her hands, delighted that she would be able to meet Grandmother Lockwood at last. Eleanor forced a smile and stroked her eldest daughter's glossy curls. She had told Claudia stories of her childhood in New York, of pretty dresses, glamorous balls, beautiful horses, and the summer house. She had allowed Claudia to believe the fairy tale, reserving the truth for when she was older. Even after so many years, the thought of telling those stories pained her. Now, perhaps, she would not need to. Once Claudia met Grandmother Lockwood, she could decide for herself.

  Sylvia, apparently, already had. “Why is she coming now, after so many years?”

  “Someone else owns her home now, and she has to move,” said Eleanor, knowing better than to dissemble with Sylvia, who would reproach her with dark, silent looks when she discovered the truth. “Naturally she would turn to family at such a time.”