Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  When the evening arrived, she set aside her notes, which were accumulating with reassuring speed, to make a batch of almond cookies to follow Summer’s favorite vegetable stir-fry. Summer showed up right on time with pot stickers and spring rolls from their favorite carry-out, and they spent an enjoyable hour eating and talking about Elm Creek Quilt Camp. Summer had some great ideas about new seminars she wanted to try, but she confessed to having no idea which block to make for Sylvia’s quilt. “I hope Elm Creek Quilters get an automatic extension,” she added. “I’m planning to run my block over to Agnes’s house at midnight on the very last day.”

  Gwen laughed and admitted to her own difficulties. “On the surface it seems like an easy project,” she said. “Make one six-inch block. What could be simpler?”

  “Adding the condition that it represents all that Sylvia means to us, that’s what,” said Summer. “The blocks accumulating at Grandma’s Attic typically express that in their names. But what if you can’t find a block with an appropriate name? What if you’d rather express yourself visually?”

  “Exactly,” said Gwen. She and Summer never failed to find the same bandwidth. “I’ve decided the only way to resolve the problem is to design an original block. I know it’s taking the easy way out—”

  “I doubt it, Mom,” said Summer, laughing. “It won’t be easy to invent a completely original pattern.”

  “At least I can name it whatever I like.”

  Summer agreed that Gwen’s method had its merits, but she planned to keep looking. Then, suddenly, she hesitated. “Mom, remember last Thursday, when I said I needed to talk to you?”

  Gwen recalled that Summer had said she wanted to talk, not that she needed to talk, a significant difference in mother-daughter parlance. Suddenly she thought of Jeremy, then Jeremy in his doctoral hood clutching a diploma under his arm as he helped Summer load a moving van.

  “Sure, kiddo.” She steeled herself. “What’s up?”

  “You know that Jeremy and I are very close.” She paused so long that Gwen realized she was supposed to nod, so she did. “Well, his roommate moved out at the end of fall semester, and he needed to find someone to share the rent. Remember how great his place is?”

  It was nice enough, for a student apartment. “He’s having trouble finding someone?”

  “No, actually. He found someone. Me.” Summer took a quick breath and plunged ahead. “It’s so much more convenient than my old place, and much less expensive, too. I don’t even have to pay for parking anymore, and I so don’t miss all the partying every weekend.”

  She continued, but what registered in Gwen’s mind was, first, that Summer was not planning to leave Waterford with Jeremy in the immediate future, and second, that she was speaking in the present tense. She had already moved. Without seeking Gwen’s advice, without giving Gwen a chance to talk some sense into her.

  “Mom?” Summer prompted, worriedly.

  All Gwen could say was, “Why?”

  Summer repeated the list of reasons almost verbatim, as if she had rehearsed many times. Gwen forced herself to remain calm, then pointed out—quite reasonably, given the circumstances—that Summer and Jeremy had not been together very long, surely not long enough to know whether he was worth the sacrifice of her independence. Summer rolled her eyes, a gesture Gwen loathed; it signified that she was an old-fashioned, closed-minded throwback to the olden days rather than the hip mom of the twenty-first century she liked to imagine herself.

  Summer was twenty-seven, old enough to make her own decisions. Gwen knew that. She wasn’t sure, however, if Summer understood the entirety of the decision she had made.

  Give her your blessing, Gwen told herself. But she held back. Summer had made decisions Gwen had disagreed with before, and her announcements had always come with a hint of concern that Gwen would not approve. This time Gwen sensed something more, that Summer sought her approval in order to convince herself she had not made a mistake.

  What bothered Gwen most of all was that despite her obvious uncertainty, Summer had not talked it over with her before making her choice.

  A few days later, Gwen took a break from her research to shop for fabric. Grandma’s Attic was cheaper than therapy.

  Although she had chosen one of Summer’s afternoons off, Gwen still glanced around from the doorway before entering the quilt shop to make sure her daughter was not there. Bonnie was in the back office, looking morose as she paged through a folder. She happened to glance up as Gwen entered the shop, then mouthed something inaudible through the glass as she put away the file and rose to meet her.

  “Keep working if you want,” said Gwen as Bonnie exited the office, wondering what in that file had the power to make her optimistic friend look so glum. “I’ll just browse for a while.”

  Bonnie sighed and seated herself on a stool by the cutting table. “No, I could use a break.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re looking rather grim today.”

  “Thanks. I can always count on my friends to cheer me up with praise.” But Bonnie managed a wan smile and indicated the office with a nod. “This should be a profitable business. Even with high rents and a competitor undercutting me at every turn, I should be in the black every month. What am I doing wrong?”

  “You’re too nice,” said Gwen, recalling many conversations with Summer on that subject. “People take advantage.”

  “Customers, friends, husbands, children—I know, but what can I do?” She peered at Gwen. “You know, you’re looking rather grim yourself.”

  “Funny you should mention children,” said Gwen dryly. “I just found out Summer moved in with Jeremy.”

  Bonnie said nothing.

  Gwen stared at her. “You knew?”

  “Only since yesterday.”

  “Oh.” At least Gwen wasn’t the last to know; that was something. “At first I thought she was crazy. Then I decided it was a delayed form of rebellion. My current theory is ignorance.”

  “Ignorance?”

  “Ignorance of what she’s getting herself into.”

  Bonnie looked dubious. “Maybe that’s what she wants to explore, I mean, before she gets in any deeper.”

  “Don’t tell me you approve.”

  “Actually, I’m surprised you don’t. Isn’t this better than rushing into marriage?” She rubbed her chin absently. “If I had lived with Craig before marrying him, I might have decided against it.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you didn’t, right? Anyway, that doesn’t always work. I lived with Summer’s father before we got married, and we split up soon after.”

  “You lived in a van with a bunch of other flower children,” Bonnie reminded her. “And you were probably high most of the time.”

  “I was not,” Gwen retorted. “That’s slander. Pot gave me migraines.”

  “So you say.” Bonnie sighed. “Listen. If I had found out before you, would you have wanted me to tell you?”

  “Absolutely. I would have counted on it.” Gwen studied her, then, with some effort, hopped up to sit on the cutting table. “Why? What else do you know?”

  “This isn’t about Summer.”

  “But clearly it’s about someone we know, so spill it.”

  Bonnie hesitated. “I was in the liquor store the other night—”

  “Rough day?”

  “You have no idea. Anyway, you’ll never guess who I saw buying beer.”

  “Who?”

  “Michael.”

  “Michael? Diane’s son Michael?”

  Bonnie nodded. “He showed the clerk an ID, but it must have been fake. Michael saw me, too, and froze right there at the counter. I gave him a look, you know, like he’d better watch out, but I didn’t say anything. Should I have? He just bought the beer and left as fast as he could. Should I have stopped him, told the clerk, something? What would you have done?”

  “I don’t know.” Gwen pondered the question. “I think I would have been too startled to react. I probably
would have done the same as you.”

  “You mean, done nothing.” Still, Bonnie looked somewhat relieved. “So what should I do now? Should I tell Diane?”

  “How old is Michael, anyway? Nineteen?”

  “Twenty.”

  Gwen shook her head. “I don’t know. He can drive, he can join the military, he can vote—who are we to say he can’t drink?”

  “We aren’t saying it. Pennsylvania state law says it.” Bonnie let her hands fall into her lap, helpless. “He could get into a lot of trouble, if not with the drinking, then with using a fake ID. Aren’t friends supposed to keep an eye out for each other’s kids?”

  “Maybe just thinking you’ll tell Diane will keep him honest.”

  Bonnie shrugged, unconvinced. “I don’t want to turn a blind eye. If he should get hurt, I’d never forgive myself. Diane would never forgive me, and I wouldn’t blame her.”

  “Then why haven’t you told Diane already?”

  “Well, like you said, he is twenty years old.”

  “You don’t have to tattle to Diane,” said Gwen. “You could talk to Michael himself.”

  “What would I say?”

  “You’re a mom. You know what to do. Tell him what you’re worried about. Remind him he’s breaking the law.” Gwen grinned. “And then threaten to tell Diane if he doesn’t clean up his act.”

  Bonnie said she would think about it.

  With Bonnie’s help, Gwen searched the shelves until she found several bold geometric prints in the appropriate hues for Sylvia’s bridal quilt. She bought twice as much fabric as she needed with the excuse she might attempt several different designs in her search for an original pattern. Bonnie gave her a sidelong look, but she said nothing to indicate she knew Gwen was trying to alleviate her financial worries one yard of fabric at a time.

  Gwen decided she would set aside fifteen minutes each day to work on the block, but her resolve quickly eroded under the mounting pressures of her new research project and the upcoming camp season. With only a week to go, she scrambled to revise her lesson plans, assemble samples, and gather materials, glad for the activity to consume time she otherwise would have spent worrying over Summer.

  It took an all-nighter, but somehow she managed to finish by the first day of camp, which only involved registration and welcoming ceremonies, not the more challenging and enjoyable work of teaching. The second day of camp had a less promising start, with an early-morning phone call from Sarah asking her to take over an afternoon class for Judy later that week. Gwen agreed, wondering what was going on and why Judy had not told her about the trip to Philadelphia. Guiltily, she reflected that she had not stopped by to chat with her friend since the day she had found out about the department chair. They usually got together for coffee or lunch at least once a week. The last few times they had spoken at business meetings, Gwen had not even remembered to ask how Judy’s mother was recovering from a serious bout of pneumonia that had afflicted her throughout January. She would have to apologize when Judy returned.

  Gwen’s quilt camp seminars went well, as she expected, and she didn’t regret the one that had been canceled. Mindful of how she had neglected friendships and camp responsibilities of late, she gave herself a few days’ vacation from her research. It was spring break, after all, and her grad students needed the time off even if she didn’t. Besides, the first week of camp usually brought with it a few unexpected surprises. She needed to be flexible in case of another curveball like Judy’s absence.

  The wild pitch came out of nowhere on Wednesday. At lunchtime, she found Sylvia, Sarah, Diane, and Agnes sequestered at a table at the back of the banquet hall rather than scattered among the campers as usual. She joined them, only to find her friends huddled over the daily schedule.

  Sarah looked up at her approach, harried. “Could you emcee the quilted clothing fashion show for the evening program tonight?”

  “Sure,” Gwen said with a shrug. “I thought Bonnie was doing it.”

  “Maybe she will, but she didn’t show up for her workshop this morning, so I thought I should have a backup plan.”

  “Didn’t show up?” Gwen sat down. “Why not?”

  “No one knows,” said Agnes, fingering her beaded necklace worriedly. “She didn’t call in, and no one’s answering the phone at the store.”

  “You tried her at home, right?”

  “Well, yes, but—well, she’s not there, either,” said Agnes.

  “Summer drove to Grandma’s Attic a few minutes ago,” said Sylvia. “She’ll call us when she learns anything.”

  Gwen nodded. Summer worked an afternoon shift at the quilt shop on Wednesdays. If Bonnie had not shown up for work there, either, Summer would be unable to look for her elsewhere and too busy to call.

  As soon as her afternoon workshop concluded, Gwen found Agnes in the hallway and told her she was on her way to Grandma’s Attic. She parked behind the store next to Summer’s car, then hurried around to the front entrance. The door was locked, the sign in the window turned to CLOSED several hours ahead of time. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered inside.

  Summer and Bonnie worked amid overturned shelves and piles of scattered cloth and notions, deliberately, wearily, battling the mess.

  Gwen gasped and pounded on the door. Bonnie started, but quickly recognized Gwen and carefully made her way across the room. “What happened?” Gwen exclaimed after Bonnie let her in.

  “We had a break-in.” Without pausing to elaborate, Bonnie returned to work.

  Gwen stood rooted in place, stunned, until Summer came over and hugged her. “Come on, Mom,” she murmured. “We could use the help.”

  Gwen nodded and joined her. Quietly, Summer explained the little she knew as they tried to restore unwound yards of fabric to their bolts. Surprisingly little had been taken. Money and tools. A sewing machine. Several packs of Pigma pens. Blocks for Sylvia’s bridal quilt. The police had spent all morning and most of the afternoon combing the store for clues, dusting for fingerprints, questioning Bonnie and Summer, taking photographs. They had found no evidence of a forced entry, so they suspected an inside job.

  “What?” said Gwen, astounded. An inside job meant someone with a key: Bonnie, Summer, Diane, possibly Craig. “That makes no sense.”

  None of it made any sense. Why take Sylvia’s blocks instead of an extra sewing machine? Why trash the place instead of fleeing with the most expensive merchandise? The bizarre scene suggested vengeance—or a horrible prank.

  “Someone must have left the door unlocked,” she told Bonnie later as together they struggled to right an overturned bookcase. “Some college students must have passed by on their way home from the bars and found it open. Drunken kids have a sick idea of fun.”

  “I locked the door myself.” Bonnie’s mouth set in a hard, worried line. “No college students did this. There are three keys. I didn’t do it, and I know Diane and Summer didn’t, so it must have been someone with access to one of our keys. At first I thought—”

  “Thought what? Who?”

  “Nothing. Someone who as it turns out wasn’t anywhere near a key.” Bonnie glanced at Summer on the other side of the room and lowered her voice. “Then I remembered.”

  “What?” Gwen glanced worriedly at Summer. Surely Bonnie didn’t suspect Jeremy—or herself.

  “Last Friday I ran into Michael. I warned him about the dangers of alcohol abuse, of breaking the law—you know, the standard mom lecture.”

  Gwen nodded, heart sinking.

  “I also told him to give me his fake ID or I’d tell his parents what I had seen him do with it.” Bonnie took a deep, shaky breath. “He gave it to me, but he was furious. He stalked off without another word, but he gave me a look over his shoulder I’ll never forget. Gwen, now that ID is gone.”

  “How can you be sure, with this mess?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “We’ve known Michael since he was a baby,” said Gwen in a whisper, glancing at her daughter.
Summer used to baby-sit Michael and his brother. She defended him against all criticism, especially when he most deserved it. “He’s made mistakes, but he would never do anything like this.”

  “Wouldn’t he? Remember when he was in the ninth grade, and he vandalized the school?”

  Gwen could not reply. Until that moment, she had forgotten the incident.

  Bonnie scrubbed a hand through her short hair and glanced about as if desperately seeking another answer amid the debris.

  Quietly, Gwen asked, “Did you tell the police?”

  “No,” said Bonnie, shaking her head. “Not yet.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bonnie

  Craig was gone when Bonnie woke, but she knew he had come home because the bed in the guest room had been slept in. Still in her flannel nightgown, Bonnie made the bed and plumped up the pillow. When Craig had first stopped sharing the master bedroom, Bonnie had been troubled, even hurt, but she had grown accustomed to his absence. It was easier than lying beside him wondering what she could do to inspire some affection in him, wondering if it was worth the bother.

  There was a time when Craig would have called to let her know he was working late. There was a time, Bonnie thought ruefully as she showered and drew on her bathrobe, when he would have turned down overtime in his eagerness to come home to his family. That time was so long ago it preceded the children, Grandma’s Attic, her first gray hairs.

  At least with Craig gone she could eat breakfast in her bathrobe without snide comments about her appearance. At least she could read the newspaper without worrying about irritating him by getting the sections out of order. In many ways his absence was preferable to his silent presence. Even that was far better than their one-sided arguments, in which Craig complained and criticized and Bonnie simply let his words wash over her. He didn’t really mean it, she would tell herself, until a particularly harsh jab provoked her into reminding him that someone who had been forgiven for a cyber affair had little room for error. He would explode then and accuse her of not really forgiving him, of enjoying her grudge, of finding a perverse pleasure in taunting him forever for his one mistake.