Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “I do not.”

  “I bet Sylvia will know about this bridal quilt before the first day of camp.”

  “And I know for a fact she won’t.” Sarah propped herself up on her elbows and regarded him. “Okay, if you’re so sure, let’s do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make a bet. I say that Sylvia won’t know about the quilt until we give her the pieced top. You can say whatever dumb thing you like, because you’re going to lose.”

  “I’m not going to lose,” said Matt firmly. “Okay. You have a bet. What am I going to win?”

  “Nothing, but I’m going to win breakfast in bed for a week. Prepared by your own hands, so don’t pass the work off on the cook.”

  “It won’t be a problem, because I’m going to win five new apple trees for my orchard.”

  “Five? Then I get two weeks of breakfast, with the newspaper and a foot massage.”

  “Done.” Matt held out his hand. “Shake on it?”

  Sarah smiled, took his hand, and pulled him close. “I’d much rather kiss.”

  For the next two weeks, Sarah resisted the temptation to invite Bonnie to bring the most recently arrived blocks to Elm Creek Manor, resigning herself to hasty descriptions over the phone and Bonnie’s assurances that if this pace continued, they would have all the blocks they needed well in advance of the deadline. Nearly three weeks passed before Sarah finally managed to sneak away to Grandma’s Attic after dropping off Sylvia at her hairdresser.

  Sarah drove the white Elm Creek Quilts minivan onto Main Street, which marked the border between downtown Waterford and the Waterford College campus. She tried to park in the alley behind Grandma’s Attic, but an unfamiliar car already occupied the space reserved for Bonnie’s employees. Because Bonnie’s only remaining employees were Diane and Summer, she invited the Elm Creek Quilters to use the extra space, since downtown parking was scarce. But none of the Elm Creek Quilters owned the gleaming luxury sedan parked beside Bonnie’s twenty-year-old compact. In fact, only a few of them could have afforded the payments.

  Apparently a customer had discovered the secret parking space. Sarah hoped the driver liked to spend as much on fabric as she did on transportation. Bonnie never complained, but Sarah suspected the competition from the large chain fabric store on the outskirts of town had been siphoning off her revenues more than usual. Grandma’s Attic had sometimes dipped dangerously into the red, but even then, Bonnie had managed to keep any hint of trouble far from her customers’ view. Lately, however, Sarah noticed she had begun rearranging her shelves to conceal gaps in her inventory rather than restocking them.

  Sarah found another spot not far away on Second Street and hurried down the hill to Main, turning up her collar and thrusting her hands in her pockets since she had forgotten her scarf and gloves. In the front shop window, beneath the familiar red sign with the words GRANDMA’S ATTIC printed in gold, hung several sample quilts Bonnie and Diane had made as demonstration projects for their classes at quilt camp. The front bell jingled when Sarah entered, but a glance at the cutting table in the center of the room and a quick survey of the aisles told her Bonnie was not in the main store area. “Bonnie?” Sarah called over the folk music playing in the background, just as she glimpsed her friend through the window of the back office. Bonnie was speaking earnestly—or heatedly—with a man in a well-tailored coat of rich black wool, who at that moment turned his back on her and strode briskly from the office. Something about his smug, self-satisfied grin plucked at Sarah’s memory and, as he passed her and nodded on his way to the door, recognition struck her with the shock of cold water. She spun around and watched the door swing shut behind him, then turned back to Bonnie, who had followed him from the office.

  “Wasn’t that Gregory Krolich?” asked Sarah. Bonnie nodded and sat down on a stool behind the cutting table. “I knew it. The real estate business must be treating him well. He’s driving an even more expensive car than the last time I saw him.”

  “You know him?”

  “Barely. I haven’t seen him in years, not since I first moved to Waterford. He wanted to buy Elm Creek Manor and raze it so he could build a few hundred student apartments on the property.”

  “Obviously he didn’t,” said Bonnie. “So he’s just a lot of threats and bluster in a nice suit?”

  Sarah shook her head. “On the contrary, I’m sure he would have gone through with it if Sylvia hadn’t found out about his plan. She refused to sell to him once she learned the truth.”

  “Oh.” Bonnie studied the cutting table for a moment. “So. Do you want to see the blocks?”

  “Of course,” said Sarah, removing her coat. “I have about twenty minutes before I need to pick up Sylvia.”

  Bonnie disappeared into the storage room and returned with a large cardboard box, which she said contained thirty-four blocks. She seemed so pleased that Sarah hid her dismay. A month into the project, and they had received only a small fraction of the blocks they needed. As Bonnie separated the newest packages from the ones Sarah had already seen, Sarah reminded herself that they were averaging one new block a day, and that contributors typically provided their blocks either right away or at the very last minute. Surely in the last week before the deadline, Grandma’s Attic would be inundated with blocks. If not, Sarah would work overtime at her sewing machine to make up the difference.

  “Look at this,” Sarah marveled as she opened the first envelope and found an exquisite Bridal Wreath block. “I will never be able to appliqué this well.”

  “Only because you won’t practice.”

  Sarah returned the block to its envelope and opened a second. “Queen Charlotte’s Crown? It’s lovely, but what does it have to do with Sylvia?”

  Bonnie watched as Sarah put the block away and reached for another. “Why don’t you read the letter and find out?”

  “Can’t. Sylvia expects me back at twenty past, and if I’m late, she’s sure to ask questions.” Sarah admired a Steps to the Altar block. “She’ll know if I’m lying, too.”

  “Well, you can’t leave without reading this one.” Bonnie handed her a package somewhat thicker than the others. “You know the quilters who sent it.”

  Intrigued, Sarah took the thick padded envelope and withdrew two blocks, a Grandmother’s Pride and a Mother’s Delight. “I’m guessing these two are related,” she said, unfolding the letter.

  February 6, 2002

  Dear Elm Creek Quilters,

  Thank you so much for inviting us to participate in this gift for Sylvia. We know it will be a spectacular quilt and look forward to seeing it when we return to camp for our annual reunion of the Cross-Country Quilters.

  Deciding to participate was easy, but choosing appropriate blocks proved far more difficult. Fortunately, we see each other frequently, so we have been able to share our thoughts. Sylvia has inspired us with her courageous attitude toward life, her insistence upon excellence, her steadfast dedication to her craft, and in so many other ways that we’re sure it’s evident why no single block could express what we feel for her. So instead we decided to focus on how Sylvia most directly influenced our lives simply by creating Elm Creek Quilt Camp.

  Vinnie, as you recall, was one of the first campers of Elm Creek Quilt Camp’s inaugural season. Recently widowed, she wanted to attend camp during the week of her birthday rather than try to celebrate in the home she had so recently shared with her husband. At quilt camp she found friendship and fun, and discovered in Sylvia a fellow widow, but one with a far more tragic past. Sylvia’s story of how she had lost her husband in World War II reminded Vinnie that she should not dwell upon what she had lost, but cherish and be thankful for the many decades she and her husband had spent together.

  A few years later, Megan first attended quilt camp and, although she did not then realize it, meeting Vinnie would prove to be one of the most important moments of her life—and not only because Vinnie is as remarkable and inspirational as Sylvia herself. Vinnie was eager to fi
nd a sweetheart for her favorite grandson, Adam, and with a little meddling that Megan failed to appreciate at the time, she finally succeeded in arranging for the two to meet. The couple had the usual ups and downs (and a few that were not at all usual) on the path to love, but six months ago, Adam and Megan were married in St. James of the Valley Church in Cincinnati, with Megan’s son, Rob, as best man. Adam, Megan, and Rob are all thrilled that in July a new baby will join their family. Rob says we should name the baby Sylvia if she is a girl and Elmer if he is a boy, because this child never would have come into the world if not for Elm Creek Quilt Camp.

  How can one or even two quilt blocks adequately represent what Sylvia has done for our family? We admit no single pattern could, but we think Grandmother’s Pride and Mother’s Delight come close.

  Please let us know if we can do anything more to help complete Sylvia’s bridal quilt. If you need additional blocks, Vinnie has six all ready to put in the mail to you!

  Love to you all,

  Vinnie Burkholder and

  Megan (Donohue) Wagner

  At the bottom of the typed page was a postscript added in spidery handwriting: “I’m sure you can tell Megan wrote this letter and kindly allowed me to add my name to it. It doesn’t sound like me at all! I never would have bragged I was as remarkable and inspirational as Sylvia, not that anyone would have believed it anyway! I hope the baby is a girl, not just because I don’t care for the name Elmer but because I’ve already made her a pink-and-white Ohio Star quilt. Hugs and Kisses from Vinnie.”

  “Megan and Vinnie’s grandson got married!” exclaimed Sarah. “Sylvia will be thrilled.”

  “Don’t tell her yet,” said Bonnie, taking the blocks and the letter. “You’ll have to explain how you know, and you’re a terrible liar.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me I can’t keep secrets, either.”

  Bonnie winced. “No offense. I trust you with my secrets—most of them—but when it comes to your own—”

  “You can stop there. I’ve heard it before, from Matt.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Frankly, it’s not the worst thing in the world to be a terrible liar. At least everyone knows when I’m telling the truth.”

  “Even so, you’d better think of a convincing story pretty fast,” advised Bonnie, nodding to the clock.

  It was already a quarter past eleven. Sarah glanced about in dismay and put her hand on the nearest bolt of fabric. “Cut me a yard of this, would you?”

  Bonnie rang up the charges quickly, and within two minutes Sarah was hurrying back to the minivan. As she rehearsed her cover story on the way to the salon, she realized Sylvia would never believe she had spent the entire time in the quilt shop only to emerge with a single yard of fabric. She took a sharp left at the town square and parked in front of the Daily Grind. Sylvia might more readily accept that Sarah had lost track of time in a coffee shop.

  The early lunch crowd was just beginning to gather as Sarah joined the line. She bought herself a large latte and ordered a hot cocoa with whipped cream to appease Sylvia. As she stirred sugar and vanilla into her steaming cup, she glanced up and saw a familiar figure at a corner table. She didn’t have time to chat, but just as she turned to go, Judy caught her eye and froze.

  Sarah smiled and waved, but Judy appeared so discomfited that Sarah realized her friend must have noticed her attempt to avoid her and wondered at the cause. A cup in each hand, she made her way to the table Judy was sharing with a shaggy-haired man in a business suit.

  “Judy, hi,” she said, smiling at Judy and her companion in turn. “I thought I’d get my caffeine fix while Sylvia’s getting her hair done.”

  “You must have had a late night,” said Judy, noting the two cups.

  “Oh, no, this one’s a peace offering for Sylvia. I’m late.”

  “Sorry you can’t join us,” said the man with a smile.

  With a start, Judy quickly introduced him as a colleague visiting from the University of Pennsylvania. Sarah set down her coffee long enough to shake his hand, then made a hasty exit. She would be even later now, but at least she had a truthful and, better yet, believable excuse.

  To Sarah’s surprise, when she arrived, Sylvia wasn’t waiting by the front door in her coat and hat. Sarah found her in the back of the salon with her hands beneath a nail dryer. “Sarah, dear,” Sylvia greeted her. “You were so late they talked me into a manicure.”

  Sarah apologized and offered her the hot cocoa, which Sylvia couldn’t pick up at the moment anyway. Sarah rambled through an account of Grandma’s Attic and the Daily Grind, which was mercifully cut short by the timer on the nail dryer. “Do you know I never get my nails done?” said Sylvia, admiring her hands. “Quilting is so hard on them that I usually don’t bother, but the young lady was so persuasive. You showed up just in time or they would have convinced me to let them do my toes, too.”

  Sylvia paid the manicurist and gave her a healthy tip, then happily took her cocoa. She lifted the lid and inhaled the fragrance of the still-steaming chocolate. “If this is real whipped cream, don’t you dare tell Andrew.”

  “It’s the real thing and I wouldn’t breathe a word.”

  Sylvia laughed and tucked her arm through Sarah’s and, to Sarah’s deep satisfaction, nothing in her manner suggested she doubted Sarah’s ability to keep their little secret. It wasn’t until they were halfway home that Sarah realized she had forgotten to ask Bonnie what Greg Krolich had been doing in Grandma’s Attic. She resolved to phone Bonnie that evening and inquire, but at supper, Matt quickly made her forget all about the unexpected encounter.

  “You look great, Sylvia,” he began as he passed the bread basket to Andrew. “Did you do something different with your hair?”

  Sylvia touched her hair, pleased. “Why, thank you for noticing, Matthew. My stylist talked me into some highlights.”

  “Take a look at those nails,” said Andrew. Sylvia obliged by regally extending a hand. “My bride’s gotten herself all dolled up, and I keep scratching my head wondering what special occasion I forgot.”

  Sylvia laughed. “The only special occasion is that Sarah was late picking me up.”

  Matt turned to Sarah, his eyes wide with false innocence. “Sarah, late? Usually she’s the one keeping us all on schedule. What kept you?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart.” Sarah gave him a look of warning. “I stopped for some coffee—”

  “And fabric,” added Sylvia. “You can’t forget that, although why you left with such a small purchase I honestly don’t know. Bonnie could use the business.”

  “That is strange,” exclaimed Matt. “What were you doing at Grandma’s Attic all that time if you weren’t shopping?”

  “You know how it is. I got started talking with Bonnie, and then, well, I looked up at the clock and I barely had enough time to get coffee before Sylvia expected me.” Sarah set down her fork and glared at Matt. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll go back tomorrow and spend all the money for your Valentine’s Day present on fabric for myself.”

  Matt could barely hide his grin. “You don’t have to go that far.”

  “Sarah, dear, relax,” said Sylvia, astounded. “Goodness. Everyone’s allowed to be late once in a while. He’s only teasing you. There was no harm done.”

  “You’re right.” She smiled sweetly at Matt so that he would be sure to know the real harm was yet to come. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  Sylvia seemed satisfied, but Matt could only manage a weak grin.

  She cornered him by the kitchen sink after Sylvia and Andrew retired to the parlor to watch the news. “All right,” she said, snapping a dish towel at him. “We’re adding a codicil to our wager. If Sylvia finds out about the quilt because of you, it doesn’t count.”

  “I’m not going to tell her,” he protested.

  “That’s not good enough. If you force the truth out of me in front of her, or trick any of our friends into revealing the secret, or accidentally on purpose leave
one of the quilt blocks on her chair, I win the bet.” She extended her hand. “Shake on it.”

  He took her hand gingerly. “No kiss?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Does this mean you’re not getting me a Valentine’s present?”

  “Oh, no. You’ll get exactly the present you deserve.”

  Two days later, a still-contrite Matt brought Sarah breakfast in bed, and he gave her a thorough foot massage while she read the paper. Only afterward did he mention that he was trying to make up for all the breakfasts in bed she would not receive once he won the bet. Sarah didn’t take offense. Instead she made him a Dutch apple pie to compensate for the apple trees she had no intention of buying him.

  The first day of the new season of quilt camp was rapidly approaching, and Sarah’s days were filled with the minutiae of the business: processing registration forms, scheduling classes, ordering supplies, mailing out welcome packets, assigning rooms and sometimes roommates. Amid the chaos, Sarah wondered how the campers could not fail to notice how she scrambled to make everything run smoothly. Summer assisted her by planning evening entertainment programs and inviting guest speakers, and together they wrestled with the problems of last-minute course adjustments. Already it seemed apparent that Gwen’s Hand-Dyeing and Agnes’s Baltimore Album courses would not be filled throughout March, while Diane’s class for beginners and Judy’s seminar in computer design were in heavy demand. It was no small feat to adjust the schedule in a way that would please everyone.

  When Sarah and Summer decided they had done the best they could, Summer phoned the instructors involved to see if they would agree to the changes. In the meantime, Sarah went through invoices and contacted the distributors who—for reasons they could not explain—had still not delivered supplies Sarah had ordered months before. Summer hung up the phone in defeat long before Sarah had sorted out her own problems. “What is wrong with everyone this year?” asked Summer, dropping into a chair in front of the library fireplace, which still held a few logs in cynical mistrust of the calendar. “Agnes was home, of course; you can always count on Agnes. But Diane, Judy, and my mom are incommunicado. My mom won’t even pick up her cell phone.”