The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels)

by Chiaverini, Jennifer

  Sylvia tiptoed across the room, bent over to kiss her mother’s thin cheek, and picked up the book so her mother wouldn’t roll on top of it while she slept. The envelope with the New York postmark Mama had been using as a bookmark lay on the nightstand, but the flap had been opened since Sylvia had last seen it.

  She glanced at her sleeping mother, then back to the doorway where she expected her father to appear any moment, then set the book facedown on the bed and quickly slipped a single, thick page from the envelope. When she unfolded it, a newspaper clipping fluttered to the floor. Sylvia quickly scooped it up; a quick glance revealed a society page story about a Christmas ball in New York that the elegantly dressed couple in the photograph had apparently hosted. Sylvia didn’t recognize the faces in the photograph or any of the names, so she turned her attention to the letter.

  The message, written in firm, dark strokes on ivory writing paper edged in black, began abruptly: “Mrs. Edwin Corville enjoys every luxury, while you waste yourself on a horse farmer in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. Your wishes for a Happy New Year ring hollow, as does the news of your condition. How a strong-willed young woman like yourself can submit to the demands of a husband who clearly has no regard for the risks to your health never ceases to astonish me.”

  Sylvia swallowed hard and returned the letter and the clipping to the envelope, tucked them into the book, and set it on the nightstand. Mama would think Father had moved them; she would never know Sylvia had read Grandmother Lockwood’s cruel words. A sudden thought struck Sylvia: Did Father know what Mama’s mother thought of him? Mama had said her parents had wanted her to marry another man, and it seemed Grandmother Lockwood had never forgiven her.

  Sylvia bit her lips together, turned off the lamp, and hurried from the room. She climbed into bed, sick at heart. This couldn’t be the first ugly letter Grandmother Lockwood had sent, or Mama would have shown some sign of shock or remorse. All the other letters, all of Mama’s stories, must have been edited for a little girl’s ears. Was Mama a liar? It was unthinkable. Was she ashamed?

  Sylvia drifted off to a troubled sleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING she woke late, the letter a vague and unpleasant memory fading like a dream. She hurried downstairs just in time to stop Grandma before she set the kitchen table for breakfast. “It’s a holiday. Why don’t we eat in the dining room?” she asked. “I’ll set the table.”

  Grandma blinked with surprise at her breathless suggestion, in part, perhaps, because Sylvia rarely agreed to a chore without arguing that Claudia ought to help, too. “I suppose that’s fine,” she said, waving Sylvia off to the task. “Use the good dishes.”

  Sylvia did, but not before racing up two flights to the nursery and stuffing her pockets with the ribbon-tied scrolls she had prepared the night before. Sylvia tucked one beside each plate and finished setting the table just as Great-Aunt Lydia came in carrying a platter of hot sausages. “What’s this?” she asked, smiling at the sight of the scrolls. “It seems we’re having a rather formal breakfast this morning, complete with place cards.”

  “It’s a New Year’s surprise,” said Sylvia, fairly bouncing with excitement. She hurried off to the kitchen to help carry plates to the table. Claudia had taken a tray up to their mother, but she came down right away, disappointed, and reported that Mama was sleeping. Claudia had covered the dishes and left the tray on the nightstand.

  Sylvia’s thoughts flew to the book, and the letter tucked inside. She studied Claudia’s face, but her expression betrayed no shock or alarm, only disappointment that she had not been able to eat New Year’s Day breakfast with their mother. Claudia had not read the letter, Sylvia decided, and that was no surprise, for Claudia would never dream of sneaking glances at her mother’s private letters. Sylvia wished she had been as good a daughter the night before.

  Claudia took her seat as Grandma and Great-Aunt Lucinda began to pass around serving dishes piled high with scrambled eggs, juicy sausages, potatoes fried with onions and peppers, and Pfannkuchen left over from the night before. “What’s this thing?” Claudia asked, picking up the scroll Sylvia had tucked beneath the edge of her plate.

  “It’s Sylvia’s New Year’s Day surprise,” said Great-Aunt Lydia.

  Great-Aunt Lucinda fingered her scroll warily. “I’m almost afraid to open it.”

  “Go ahead.” Sylvia took a Pfannkuchen from the platter and set it on her plate, licking the sugar from her fingertips. “It’s not scary.”

  “Napkin, Sylvia,” her father said, untying his own scroll.

  No one spoke as they read the words Sylvia had written for each of them. Sylvia ate her breakfast and looked around the table, watching their faces expectantly. With a start, she remembered that she had forgotten to make a scroll for her mother. That’s all right, she decided. Mama was perfect exactly as she was.

  Suddenly Claudia shrilled, “Is this supposed to be funny?”

  Great-Aunt Lucinda laughed. “Mine certainly is. ‘One: Bake more cookies. Two: Not just at Christmas. Three: Let Sylvia have as many turns to take the breakfast tray up to Mama as Claudia gets.’ She ran out of space or I suppose I’d have more suggestions.”

  “I only have one,” said Great-Aunt Lydia. “I must not need as much improvement as you, sister.”

  “Mine will be a little difficult to fulfill,” said Grandma wistfully. “ ‘Go to Scotland to watch the swinging fireballs.’ ”

  “The swinging what?” asked Great-Aunt Lucinda.

  “That’s between me and my granddaughter.” Grandma rolled up her scroll, slipped the ribbon around it, and gave Sylvia a little wink.

  Sylvia’s father was shaking his head, his mouth twisted wryly. “ ‘Let Mama do whatever she wants.’ Sylvia, if you think I could do otherwise, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  “Why are you laughing?” Claudia cried. “This isn’t funny!”

  All the adults turned to her in surprise. “Why, Claudia, what does your scroll say?” asked Grandma.

  “This ought to be good,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda.

  “I’m not going to read it,” said Claudia. “It’s mean.”

  “No, it isn’t,” protested Sylvia. “It’s a resolution.”

  “It could still be mean,” said Father, a mild note of warning in his voice. “Go ahead, Claudia. Tell us what it says.”

  Her eyes red, her jaw set, Claudia took a deep breath and reluctantly read her scroll aloud. “ ‘One: Stop being so bossy. Two: Stop hogging Mama. Three: Stop hogging everything. Four: Be nice to Sylvia.’ I am nice to you, you little brat. A lot nicer than you deserve.” She flung down the scroll and folded her arms. “I’m not going to read any more of these insults.”

  “They’re not insults; they’re New Year’s resolutions,” Sylvia explained. “They’re promises you make so you can improve yourself.”

  “I know what a resolution is,” snapped Claudia. “You’re not supposed to make them for other people. You’re supposed to make them for yourself.”

  “I did make one for myself,” said Sylvia, taking the last scroll from her pocket.

  Great-Aunt Lucinda’s eyebrows shot up. “And what does that say?”

  “ ‘Don’t fight with your sister.’ ”

  The adults burst into laughter. Sylvia looked around the table in puzzlement. Grandma wiped tears from her eyes; Father snorted into his handkerchief; Claudia seethed and glared. Sylvia felt like she was choking. No one had ever explicitly told her that she was supposed to make resolutions for herself alone, but now it seemed so obvious she did not know how she could have misunderstood. Of course it was rude to tell other people what they were doing wrong and how to change; it was especially rude for a child to say so to an adult. What would be worse: allowing the family to believe she was a thoughtless little girl, or to reveal the truth, that she was too stupid to know how New Year’s resolutions were supposed to be made?

  She decided she would rather be thought rude than ignorant, so she shrugged, stared fiercely
at her plate, and willed the tears away. “I was only trying to help.”

  “Some help you are,” snapped Claudia, shoving back her chair. “You’ve already broken your own New Year’s resolution, and it isn’t even nine o’clock!”

  Miserable, Sylvia sank down in her chair as Claudia marched from the room, probably on her way up to Mama’s bedroom to tell her what Sylvia had done. Sylvia wished she could run after her sister and beg her to stop, but Claudia would assume Sylvia’s only concern was to avoid their mother’s disapproval. Claudia didn’t know about that letter from Grandmother Lockwood, and how sad their mother certainly was, no matter how well she hid it. Now Sylvia had made everything worse. The doctor said unpleasant news was not good for Mama and the baby, and because of Sylvia’s thoughtlessness, Mama would wake to learn that her daughters had already spoiled the bright, fresh new start of the New Year.

  From the corner of her eye, Sylvia saw her father shaking his head in exasperation, while Great-Aunt Lucinda rested her chin on her hand, ruefully watching the doorway through which Claudia had departed. Great-Aunt Lydia sighed and stirred sugar into her coffee, as if that would rid the morning of its bitter taste. Only Grandma did not seem concerned. Her eyes had a faraway look, as if she were imagining blazing fireballs swinging in brilliant arcs against a starry night sky.

  Nine days later, Sylvia’s mother gave birth to a robust, cheerful little boy. In the excitement and joy that surrounded his arrival, everyone forgot about Sylvia’s ribbon-tied scrolls—everyone except Claudia, who never forgot a slight. Whenever the girls disagreed about whose turn it was to rock their darling baby brother to sleep or sing him a lullaby, Claudia reminded Sylvia of her resolution not to fight with her. What choice did Sylvia have then but to give in? Claudia kept a running tally of how many times Sylvia broke her resolution until spring, when she lost count as well as interest and found new ways to annoy Sylvia instead.

  Although Sylvia had to share baby Richard with Claudia the way she had to share everything, she doted on him. From the start she resolved that she would make up for her mistakes as a little sister by being the loving and protective big sister he deserved. Her resolution would be no less binding for all that it came on January 10 instead of the first day of the year.

  Sylvia never mentioned New Year’s resolutions in her sister’s presence again. In years to come, whenever Sylvia made a resolution for herself, she wrote it on a scroll of paper and tied it with a ribbon as a reminder of that unhappy morning and how she should look to her own faults and failings before trying to correct others’. Every New Year’s Eve, she would untie the scroll of the year before and read over the vows she had made. Sometimes she noted with pride how she had kept her resolution and had reaped the rewards of her diligence and self-discipline; more often she looked back ruefully upon her optimism of a year ago, when the hope and promise of the New Year had made high goals seem within reach, and difficult resolutions easier to keep than they would prove to be.

  With the excitement of the wedding and their sorrow over Andrew’s children’s disapproval, Sylvia had been too distracted to give much thought to New Year’s resolutions that season. She had a few she wished Andrew’s children would make, but as she had learned all too well that New Year’s morning so long ago, she could not make those decisions for anyone but herself. If she ever forgot, the New Year’s Reflections quilt would remind her, for she had sewn the lessons learned into the quilt. A Wandering Foot block called to mind the dangers of blindly fearing superstition, for what one person shunned as misfortune could be welcomed as a blessing by someone else. A Year’s Favorite pattern honored her brother’s birth, reminding her of her mother’s patience and endurance, and the great happiness that was her reward. And the Resolution Square block reminded her that she could wish for positive change in another person, she could even lovingly nurture it, but ultimately, she could control no one’s behavior but her own, and often that was where the real problem resided.

  As the taxi pulled up in front of the theater, Sylvia imagined her mother as a little girl boldly stepping out into a festive night, welcoming the turn of the century with curiosity and excitement. She thought of her Grandma, entranced by her own mother’s stories of the New Year in a faraway land, longing to see those wonders for herself but never venturing forth, so she had only her mother’s stories and no memories of her own to pass down to her granddaughter. What would those two beloved women think of the turns Sylvia’s life had taken, of the resolutions made and broken, of the adventures she had gladly embarked upon and those she had been drawn into unwillingly?

  Andrew paid the driver and helped Sylvia from the taxi. “You were lost in thought the whole drive over,” he said, escorting her into the warmth of the theater lobby. “Adele’s story was amazing, wasn’t it? It’s funny to think what can come of a simple New Year’s resolution.”

  Sylvia was too ashamed of her childhood foolishness to explain the real reason for her reverie. “Adele made the right resolution at the right time for the right person,” she replied instead, “and that made all the difference.”

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, Sylvia and Andrew woke beneath Adele’s antique quilt in the elegant four-poster bed in the Garden Room, well rested and refreshed despite their late night at the theater. After the show, they had wandered along Broadway arm in arm, stopping for dessert and coffee at My Most Favorite Dessert Company. “We can’t go wrong at a place with a name like that,” Andrew said, opening the door for Sylvia with a flourish.

  He turned out to be right. The three-layer chocolate ganache cake Sylvia enjoyed was so rich and heavenly that she swore she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite for breakfast, but in the morning, delicious aromas from Adele’s kitchen beckoned her from Andrew’s arms. She kissed him good morning, then folded back the beautiful quilt, gave it an affectionate pat, and hurried off to the shower. They had a full day planned, and Sylvia could not wait to begin.

  The other guests were just sitting down at the table when Sylvia and Andrew arrived. As Adele and Julius served the meal, everyone introduced themselves and chatted about their excursions in New York. Most were holiday vacationers, some from overseas; Sylvia was pleased to learn that one of the couples, Karl and Erika, resided in a small village not far from Baden-Baden, Germany, the ancestral home of the Bergstrom family. “You must tell me all about it,” Sylvia exclaimed, delighted.

  “Have you never visited?” asked Karl.

  Sylvia was embarrassed to admit that she never had. She had always meant to, but as the years passed, it had seemed increasingly unlikely that she ever would. Erika promised to act as Sylvia’s own personal tour guide if she ever did make the journey, and in the meantime, she would be happy to show Sylvia the pictures of her hometown stored on her digital camera.

  One couple from upstate was in town visiting relatives who did not have room in their cramped apartment for extended family. “I’d rather stay here anyway,” the woman confided. “My daughter-in-law couldn’t make a breakfast this tasty with four cookbooks and two days to prepare, and I know, because she’s tried.”

  Sylvia smiled politely as the other guests chuckled, resisting the urge to point out that the woman was fortunate her daughter-in-law was willing to go to so much trouble for someone who clearly would not appreciate her efforts. One cookbook and a couple of hours was all Sylvia had ever been willing to put into a meal. But Sylvia held her tongue, unwilling to ruin the friendly mood around the table. She knew, too, that the woman had only meant to compliment their hostess—and that she herself was too easily provoked of late by any show of disapproval between in-laws.

  The conversation turned to the holiday season and the upcoming New Year. Sylvia told Karl and Erika about the German traditions her family had celebrated in America—eating pork and sauerkraut to bring good luck, enjoying delicious sweets like Pfannkuchen, indulging in the rum punch made over the fire, and trying to glimpse the future by interpreting lead shapes in a bowl of wate
r.

  “Not so many people make Feuerzangenbowle anymore,” said Karl with regret. “It is so much easier to open a beer.”

  “My uncles still make it every New Year’s Eve,” said Erika. “But lead pouring is out of favor. No one wants their children playing with lead near the fire, breathing in those toxic fumes! Nowadays, one uses melted candle wax, and I suppose the predictions are no more or no less accurate than they used to be.”

  Sylvia smiled, but her heart sank a little. She knew it was foolish, but she had always imagined the place of Great-Grandfather Hans’s birth to be frozen in time, exactly as it had been when he departed for America, exactly as the family stories had preserved it. Of course it had grown and changed with the times, just as Elm Creek Manor had.

  “We still enjoy the Sylvester Balls,” Erika assured her, perhaps sensing her disappointment. “And dinner for one.”

  “That doesn’t sound very festive,” said Andrew. “In America, no one wants to spend New Year’s Eve alone.”

  “Nor do we, necessarily,” said Karl. “We gather together with family and friends and watch together.”

  The motherin-law from upstate looked confused. “Watch what?”

  “The television,” said Erika. “Or video, if you have other plans and don’t want to schedule everything around a broadcast.”

  Sylvia was utterly lost. “So…you eat supper alone, and later you meet to watch television?” She did not want to insult their new German friends, but she thought they would have done better to stick to Pfannkuchen, Feuerzangenbowle, and Bleigiessen.

  Karl’s deep laugh boomed. “No, Dinner for One, the television play, of course.”

  “Of course,” echoed Andrew, but his expression of utter bewilderment told Sylvia he was no better enlightened than she.

  “It wouldn’t be New Year’s Eve without it,” said Erika. She glanced around the table at the other guests. “Surely you’ve seen it. It’s in English, after all.”