The Quilter's Apprentice

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  The woman put on a pair of glasses that hung around her neck on a fine silver chain. “Yes?” she asked, frowning as if she wasn’t sure she liked what she saw.

  “How do you do, ma’am. I’m Matt McClure from Exterior Architects. I have an appointment to photograph the grounds for the restoration you requested.”

  “Hmph.” The suspicious gaze shifted to Sarah. “And who are you?”

  “Oh, I’m—uh, Sarah. I’m Matt’s wife. I’m just here with Matt.” She gave the woman a quick smile and extended her hand.

  The woman paused a moment, then shook her hand. “Well, you probably know that I’m Sylvia Compson. You may call me Mrs. Compson.” She looked Matt up and down and frowned. “I expected you earlier.” She turned and walked into the foyer. “Well, come on, Matt and ‘Uh, Sarah.’ Come on inside. Shut the door behind you.”

  Sarah and Matt exchanged a quick look, then followed Mrs. Compson inside. She entered a doorway on the left and led them into a spacious kitchen. The left wall was lined with cupboards and appliances, and there was a window over the sink. A microwave oven rested incongruously on a counter next to a rickety old stove directly across from them. There was an open doorway on the other side of the stove, and a closed door on the adjacent wall. A long wooden table took up the center of the room. Mrs. Compson eased herself onto a low bench next to the table and regarded them for a moment. “Would you like a glass of lemonade, or perhaps some iced tea?” she finally asked, directing the question to Matt.

  “No thank you, ma’am. I just need you to show me the grounds so I can take a few pictures, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Her eyes still on Matt, Mrs. Compson jerked her head in Sarah’s direction. “What about her? Maybe she wants something.”

  “A glass of lemonade would be wonderful,” Sarah said. “Thank you. I’ve been standing outside downtown and—”

  “There are glasses in the cupboard and a pitcher of lemonade in the icebox. Don’t expect me to wait on you.”

  Sarah blinked. “Thanks. I’ll just help myself.” She gave the woman a tight smile and walked around the table toward the cupboard.

  “And now I suppose we’ll all have to wait around while you sip your beverage, even though you’ve come here later than your appointment and you’ve already kept me from my work long enough.”

  Sarah stiffened. “If it’s that much trouble—”

  “Mrs. Compson,” Matt broke in, shooting Sarah a helpless look over the old woman’s shoulder. “Tony made the appointment for two. We’re five minutes early.”

  “Hmph. Ten minutes early is ‘on time’ and fifteen minutes is ‘early,’ if one cares about one’s first impression. Now, is she going to get on with that drink or will she stand there gaping at me until she puts down roots?”

  “Mrs. Compson—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Matt,” Sarah interrupted, hoping she was meeting Mrs. Compson’s stern gaze with one equally strong. “I’ll wait for you here.” A beautiful estate to explore, and to keep Matt’s client happy Sarah would see no more of it than this one room. Still, she’d rather have a glass of lemonade than another moment of Mrs. Compson’s company.

  Mrs. Compson nodded, satisfied. “Come on,” she said to Matt, rising stiffly from the bench. “I’ll show you the front grounds.” She left the kitchen without a backward glance.

  Astonished, Sarah caught Matt’s sleeve as he turned to go. “What did I do?” she asked, whispering so that the old woman wouldn’t overhear.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know what her problem is.” He glanced at the doorway and shook his head in exasperation. “Look, why don’t I take you home? I can come back for the pictures another time.”

  “No, that’s okay. That would just make things worse. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “I won’t get in trouble.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind waiting here. Really.”

  “Well, if you’re sure . . .” Matt still looked doubtful, but he nodded. “Okay. But I’ll be as quick as I can so we can get out of here.” He gave her a quick kiss and a reassuring smile before hurrying out of the kitchen after Mrs. Compson.

  Sarah watched him go, then sighed and opened the cupboard doors in search of the glasses. She wondered why the woman had even offered the drink in the first place, if it were so much trouble. She found a glass, and as she shut the cupboard, she glanced out the window and spotted the truck. She considered waiting there until Matt finished, but then the old woman might think she’d scared her off, and Sarah wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

  The refrigerator stood next to the closed door. After pouring herself some lemonade and returning the pitcher, Sarah sat down on the bench and rested her elbows on the table. She sipped the cool, sweet liquid and looked around the room. Matt might not finish for an hour, maybe more. Her gaze rested on the closed door next to the refrigerator.

  Curious, Sarah rose and shifted the glass to her left hand. She wiped the condensation off her right hand and tested the doorknob. Finding it unlocked, she opened the door and peered inside to find a tiny room. It was a pantry, apparently, judging by the shelves filled with canned fruits and vegetables and cloth sacks whose contents she could not determine. She closed the door and, after a quick glance in the direction the old woman had taken, stepped through the open doorway to the left.

  She found herself in a sunny, pleasant sitting room, larger and wider than the kitchen, with overstuffed furniture arranged by the windows and the fireplace. Cheerful watercolors hung on the walls, and a small sewing machine sat on a nearby table. A chair stood nearby as if someone had been sitting there recently. Two pillows and a small stack of neatly folded sheets rested on the largest sofa, right next to—

  Sarah caught her breath and walked over for a better look. She unfolded the blanket with one hand and draped it over the sofa. Not a blanket, a quilt, she corrected herself, stroking the fabric. Small diamonds of all shades of blue, purple, and green formed eight-pointed stars on a soft ivory background. Tiny stitches formed smaller diamonds within each colorful piece, and the lighter fabric was covered with a flowing, feathery pattern, all made from unbelievably small, even stitches. A narrow vine of deep emerald-green meandered around the edges. “How lovely,” Sarah whispered, lifting an edge up to the light to better examine it.

  “If you spill lemonade on that quilt I promise you you’ll wish you hadn’t,” a voice snapped behind her. With a gasp Sarah dropped the quilt and spun around. Mrs. Compson stood scowling in the doorway, her hands on her hips.

  “Mrs. Compson—I thought you were with Matt—”

  “I don’t remember inviting you in here,” the older woman interrupted. Sarah jumped aside as Mrs. Compson strode to the fallen quilt and slowly bent to pick it up. She straightened with an effort, folded the quilt carefully, and returned it to the sofa. “You may wait for your husband outside,” she said over her shoulder. “That is, if you can be trusted to find your way to the back door without wandering about?”

  Wordlessly, Sarah nodded. She left her glass in the kitchen sink and hurried across the hall. Idiot, she berated herself as she pushed open the back door. Flying down the back steps, she walked as quickly as her heels would allow to the pickup. She climbed into the passenger seat, rested her elbow on the open window, and chewed on her thumbnail. Was Mrs. Compson angry enough to cancel the contract? If Matt lost his new job because Sarah had offended one of his company’s clients, she’d never forgive herself.

  Thirty minutes later Matt appeared from around the south wing. Sarah watched as he walked over to the back door and knocked. The door swung open almost immediately, but from the truck Sarah could not see inside the house. She fidgeted in her seat as Matt and the unseen old woman conversed. Finally, Matt nodded and raised his hand in farewell. The door closed, and Matt walked down the steps, back to the truck.

  Sarah tried to read his expression as he climbed into the cab. “I thought you were going
to wait inside, honey. What are you doing out here?” he asked with a cheerful grin, then continued without waiting for an answer. “You should’ve seen the grounds.”

  “I wanted to,” Sarah mumbled.

  If Matt heard, he was too caught up in his enthusiasm to think of a response. Instead, as they drove back to town he described the sweeping front lawn, the gardens gone wild, the orchard, and the creek that ran through the estate grounds. Ordinarily, Sarah would have been intrigued, but now she was too worried about what he would say when she told him she had been snooping about in his client’s home.

  She waited until after dinner, when the anxiety finally became too much. “Matt,” she ventured as she stacked plates in the dishwasher. “What were you and Mrs. Compson talking about right before we left?”

  Matt rinsed their knives and forks and turned off the tap. “Nothing important,” he said, placing the utensils in the silverware basket. “She wanted to know what I thought of the north gardens, and she said she’d see me tomorrow.”

  “So she didn’t cancel the contract?”

  “No. Why would she do that?”

  Sarah hesitated. “Well, actually, I was kind of poking around her house and she caught me.”

  He looked wary. “Poking around?”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I went into her sitting room and touched a quilt. She got all mad about it.” Sarah couldn’t look at him. “I was afraid she’d switch to another landscaper.”

  Matt chuckled and turned on the dishwasher. “You worry too much. She didn’t cancel the contract.” He held out his arms for her.

  She slipped into his embrace and sighed with relief. “I guess I should’ve stayed in the kitchen, but I was bored. I wanted to see something of the house, since I didn’t get to see the grounds.”

  “I’ll be there all summer. I’ll show you around some other time.”

  “As long as Mrs. Compson doesn’t find out.” Sarah was in no hurry to see her again. “Tell me, Matt, how come this rude old lady gets a beautiful mansion and the lovely quilt and the gardens while a nice couple like us only gets half of a run-down duplex? It’s not fair.”

  Matt pulled away and studied her expression. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not. Would you really want to be like her, living all alone in that big place with no family or even a dog to keep you company?”

  “Of course not. Obviously the place hasn’t made her happy. I’d rather be with you in a tiny little shack than alone in the biggest mansion in the world. You know that.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He held her tightly.

  Sarah hugged him—and wanted to kick herself. How much longer would it be before she learned to consider her words before blurting them out? The same habit hurt her in job interviews, and if she didn’t overcome it soon, that hypothetical little shack might be their next address.

  Two

  The next morning Sarah sat at the breakfast table leafing through the newspaper and wishing that, like Matt, she needed to get ready for work. She heard him moving about upstairs, and from the noises coming through the wall she knew that some of the six undergraduates who rented the other half of the duplex were also preparing for the day. Each morning it seemed as if everyone but Sarah had a place to go, a place with people who needed them.

  “So instead you’ll sit here and whine. That’ll help,” she muttered. She sipped her coffee and turned the page, though she hadn’t read a word on it. Someone next door turned on the stereo, loud enough for the bass line to throb annoyingly at the edges of her perception but not so loud that Sarah could justify pounding on the wall. She knew from experience that the low drone would go on hiatus at noon, then resume somewhere between six-thirty and seven in the evening and persist until midnight. Sometimes the pattern varied on weekends, but not by much.

  The noise probably wouldn’t have bothered her if she weren’t already in such a foul mood. Unemployment had stopped feeling like a vacation more than a month earlier, ever since she realized that few of the Waterford Register’s Help Wanted ads even remotely applied to her. And after eight weeks of unemployment, four unremarkable interviews, and more unanswered application letters than she could stomach, Sarah half feared she’d never work again.

  Matt bounded down the stairs and into the room. He paused behind her chair to squeeze her shoulder before continuing on into the kitchen. “Anything?” he called over the sound of coffee pouring into his travel mug.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t looked through the classifieds yet.”

  “You used to read that section first.”

  “I know. It’s just that I found this really interesting article about—” She glanced at the largest headline on the page. “The Dairy Princess. They just picked a new one.”

  Matt appeared in the doorway and grinned. “You expect me to believe you’re so interested in the new Dairy Queen that you forgot to look at the classifieds?”

  “Not Dairy Queen, Dairy Princess.” She folded the newspaper, rested her elbows on the table, and rubbed her eyes. “Dairy Queen’s an ice cream parlor. A Dairy Princess is . . . well, I guess I don’t know what a Dairy Princess is.”

  “Maybe you should call Her Majesty and see if she’s hiring any accountants to help her count cows.”

  “Gee, you’re just bursting with humor today, aren’t you?”

  “Yep, that’s me. Matt McClure, comedian.” He reached over to stroke her shoulder. “Come on, Sarah. You know that if you keep looking, you’ll definitely find a job you like. I’m not saying it’ll be easy or quick, but it will happen.”

  “Maybe.” Sarah wished she could be so sure.

  Matt glanced at his watch. “Listen, I don’t want to leave when you’re feeling so bad—”

  “Don’t be silly.” Sarah stood up and pushed in her chair. “I’m fine. If you took off work every time I got a little down pretty soon you’d be as unemployed as I am.”

  She followed him to the door and kissed him good-bye, watching through the screen until he drove away. Then she ordered herself to return to the table and the prematurely discarded newspaper. After fifteen minutes of scrutinizing the pages, she felt some hope rekindling. Two new ads announced positions requiring a bachelor’s degree in a business or sales field. She carried the newspaper and a fresh cup of coffee upstairs to the small second bedroom they used as an office. Maybe she should adopt Matt’s philosophy. Maybe all it took was hard work and a bit of luck. If she stuck with it, she’d surely find a good job sometime before she reached retirement age.

  Her Job Hunt disk sat next to the computer, where she had left it the last time she worked on her résumé. She made a few revisions, printed out a couple of copies, then showered and dressed. Within an hour she was waiting at the bus stop for a ride downtown.

  Waterford, Pennsylvania, was a town of about 35,000 people, except when Waterford College was in session and the population rose by 15,000 young adults. The downtown bordered the campus, and, aside from a few city government offices, consisted mainly of bars, faddish restaurants, and shops catering to the students. The local residents knew they owed their livelihoods to the transient student population, and although they were grateful for the income, many resented the dependence. Sometimes the town’s collective resentment erupted in a flurry of housing and noise ordinances, and the students would strike back with boycotts and sarcastic editorials in the school newspaper. Sarah wasn’t sure which group she sided with. The students treated her like a suspicious member of the establishment, and the locals assumed she was a despicable student. She tried to compensate by being polite to everyone, even their rowdy neighbors and the occasional shopkeeper who eyed her as if she might make off with half of the inventory, but it didn’t seem to help.

  She got off at the stop closest to the post office, carrying her job application materials in her backpack. The day was humid and overcast. She scanned the gray clouds and quickened her pace. In the past few weeks she had learned the hard way that summer rainstorms in he
r new hometown were as brief and drenching as they were sudden. She would have to hurry if she wanted to stop at the market and catch the bus home without getting soaked.

  The errand at the post office took only a few minutes, and after picking up some groceries, Sarah still had ten minutes until the next bus would arrive. She strolled down the street to the bus stop, window-shopping and listening for thunder.

  When a patch of bright colors caught her eye, she stopped for a closer look. Her eyes widened in admiration as she studied the red-and-green quilt hanging in the shop window. Eight identical diamonds, each composed of sixteen smaller diamonds, formed a large, eight-pointed star. The arrangement of colors created the illusion that the star radiated outward from its center. Between the points of the star, tiny stitches created intricate wreaths in the background fabric. Something about the quilt seemed familiar, and then she remembered why; its pattern was similar to the quilt she had seen the day before in Mrs. Compson’s sitting room.

  Studying it, Sarah wished she knew how to make something so beautiful. She had always loved quilts, loved the feel of the fabric and the way a quilt could make color blossom over a bed or on a wall. She couldn’t see a quilt without thinking of her grandmother and without feeling a painful blend of love and loss. When Sarah was a child, her family made the long drive to Grandma’s small house in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula only twice a year, once in summer and once at Christmas. The winter visits were best. They would bundle up on the sofa under two or three of Grandma’s old quilts, munch cookies, sip hot chocolate, and watch through the window as snow blanketed the earth. Some of Grandma’s creations still decorated Sarah’s childhood home, but Sarah couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother so much as touch a needle. If quiltmaking was a skill handed down from mother to daughter, her mother must have been the weak link in the chain. Grandma surely would have taught her if she had wanted to learn.