“There’s no need to apologize. Isn’t imitation the sincerest form of flattery?” Mary Beth gestured to the placard. “You did give me designer credit. That’s all I would have requested.”
“Really?” Diane heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks for understanding.”
“It’s no problem, but the next time you want to copy one of my quilts, let me know and I’ll help you. Your borders are a bit out of whack.”
“It was only my fourth quilt,” Diane protested, but when Mary Beth grinned, she knew she was being teased.
Just then Sylvia called out that she was about to open the doors, so they hurried off to take their places. Soon the ballroom was full of customers browsing the aisles, admiring the array of handcrafted goods, and, Diane was pleased to see, filling shopping bags with purchases.
Shortly before noon, Diane was walking around the perimeter of the market booths, keeping an eye out for volunteers in need of assistance, when she noticed a woman lingering before her red-and-white quilt, her gaze intent and admiring. She looked familiar, and as Diane approached she recognized Katherine Quigley, the county judge who had officiated at Sylvia and Andrew’s Christmas Eve wedding the year before.
“Good morning, Your Honor,” Diane greeted her, gesturing to the bulging tote hanging from the crook of her elbow. “Thanks for coming out to support the food bank.”
“Oh, I have only just begun to shop.” Judge Quigley smiled and indicated the placard with a tilt of her head. “You’re the artist who made this lovely piece?”
“I am, thanks.”
“And this one—” The judge indicated the Snow Crystals quilt top, a short distance away, and then gestured across the room to Christmas in Waterford. “And that one, in the corner?”
“Yes, they’re all mine.”
“You have quite an eye for color.” Judge Quigley stepped back and gave the red-and-white star quilt a long, appraising look before turning again to Diane. “How much do you want for them?”
“How much—” Diane caught herself. “I’m sorry, but the quilts on the walls are for display only. They aren’t for sale.”
“Aren’t they? This is the Christmas Boutique, after all. I’m willing to pay extra to support a worthy cause.”
Bemused, Diane asked, “Of all the quilts for sale in the market booths, and all the masterpiece-quality quilts hanging here, you’re interested in my work?”
“Are you telling me I shouldn’t be?”
“That’s not at all what I’m saying, but . . .” Diane hesitated. “You do see that they aren’t quilted, right?”
“That’s part of their appeal. I’d like to frame them and display them in my office.” Judge Quigley glanced over her shoulder at Christmas in Waterford. “Except, perhaps, for that one. I might ask my sister-in-law to finish it for me so I can use it in my hearth room during the holidays.”
Diane thought quickly. She would almost certainly never finish those quilt tops herself, and she liked to think of them going to good homes where they would be appreciated. As the judge pointed out, the money would support a very worthy cause. But only a few days before, when the idea of a quilt show had first been proposed, Diane herself had warned her friends that people would assume the quilts displayed on the ballroom walls were for sale too. At the time, she had considered that a serious problem, but with a potential buyer standing before her, she wondered if she had been too hasty in her opinion. If she decided to sell her quilt tops, that didn’t mean the other Elm Creek Quilters would be obliged to sell theirs as well.
“What exactly would you consider a fair price?” Diane asked, and when the judge offered a substantial amount for each one, her misgivings vanished. She accepted the offer gladly, and as the judge wrote out a check, they agreed that they would not spoil the display by taking down the quilt tops immediately. Instead Judge Quigley would collect them Sunday afternoon as the Christmas Boutique drew to a close.
“Be sure not to sell them to anyone else in the meantime,” the judge advised, handing Diane the check.
“Don’t worry,” Diane replied. She still found it hard to believe that anyone wanted her unquilted tops.
But just in case, in the unlikely event that another prospective buyer with unusual tastes came along, after turning the check over to Nancy, she hurried upstairs to the library to make a few more signs so that everyone knew the judge’s quilts were off-limits.
At the peak of the lunch rush at half past noon, the banquet hall was so full of hungry customers that Agnes barely had time to direct her crew to clear and wipe down a recently vacated table before another group hurried over with their trays to claim it. On the buffet, the platters and deep stainless-steel warming dishes emptied almost as quickly as Anna could replenish them. Of all the mishaps that could have befallen the Christmas Boutique, Agnes would not have put running out of food near the top of the list, but perhaps she should have.
“Excuse me,” said a woman pushing a stroller, craning her neck to read Agnes’s name badge, “are you Agnes Emberly?”
“Yes, dear,” said Agnes, quickly taking in the two shopping bags dangling from the stroller’s handles and the restless toddler in the seat, yawning and tugging fiercely at his left shoe. “I see you have your hands full. Would you like some help going through the buffet line?”
“Oh—thank you, maybe later. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your quilt, the Christmas Cactus?” She gestured over her shoulder toward the ballroom doors. “It would be the perfect Christmas gift for my mother. How much are you asking for it?”
“I’m afraid it’s not for sale,” said Agnes, smiling apologetically. “We Elm Creek Quilters hung up some of our favorite holiday quilts in the ballroom in order to create a festive atmosphere. There are many lovely quilts for sale in several of the market booths, however. Would you like me to show you?”
The young mother’s brow furrowed. “None of the quilts hanging on the walls are for sale?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“Then why do some of them have ‘Sold’ signs pinned to them?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The toddler succeeded in pulling off his shoe, and with a crow of delight, he flung it as hard as he could in front of the stroller. “Fro away!” he shouted gleefully.
Agnes went to fetch the shoe, and when she returned it, the young mother thanked her and asked, “Do you want me to show you?”
“Lead the way, please,” Agnes replied, bemused. Perhaps the woman had been distracted by her son and had misread the placards.
But when the stroller halted in front of Diane’s Snow Crystals quilt top, Agnes saw for herself that a small sign about the size of an index card had been pinned to the bottom right corner. A single word, in all caps and boldface, announced SOLD.
“I don’t understand,” Agnes murmured, studying the sign.
“So, does this mean that the quilts on the walls are for sale after all?” the young mother asked hopefully, pushing her stroller back and forth to amuse her little boy.
“Not the Christmas Cactus,” said Agnes firmly, shaking her head. She looked around the room for Sarah or Sylvia, but just when she spotted Sarah engaged in fervent conversation with several shoppers who had gathered around Anna’s sampler, she felt a touch on her arm.
“If this quilt is for sale, I’d like to place a bid, please,” said a fifty-something woman she vaguely recognized from the Waterford Quilting Guild.
“It’s not for sale,” Agnes repeated. Sylvia had joined Sarah and the group of shoppers, which seemed to be growing exponentially as the minutes passed. “My apologies. Would you excuse me, ladies?” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried off to join her friends.
She arrived just as Sylvia was calmly explaining that only the quilts in the market booths were for sale; all others were decorations. In the clamor of voices that followed, Agnes picked out a few rumors—some of the quilts on the walls had already sold, there was going to be a silent auction of the quilts on Sun
day morning, the Elm Creek Quilters were selling raffle tickets for the wall quilts but no one knew where to buy them.
“Everyone, please,” Agnes called out above the din, raising her hands. “Clearly there’s been a misunderstanding. There is no auction, silent or otherwise, and no raffle.” A moan of disappointment went up from the crowd. “As Sylvia said, the only quilts on sale are those in the market booths.”
“Judge Quigley told me that she bought three quilt tops from one of the show organizers, and she’s picking them up after the Christmas Boutique closes,” said one particularly grumpy woman at the front of the pack, scowling, fists planted on her hips. “She said she paid the blonde— Her, there!”
The woman pointed, and in unison Agnes, Sylvia, and Sarah followed her line of sight until it led them to Diane, who was smiling and chatting with a pair of shoppers as she directed them to the banquet hall.
Agnes sighed. She should have known Diane would be involved. “I’ll talk to her,” she told Sylvia and Sarah, and slipped off through the crowd.
She managed to corner Diane near her red-and-white Dolley Madison’s Star quilt, where another “Sold” sign was pinned to the bottom corner. “Are you selling your quilt tops?” Agnes asked, incredulous. “After the fuss you made about confusing the customers?”
“Apparently so,” Diane replied, beaming. “Judge Quigley wouldn’t take no for an answer. Wait until you hear how much I earned for the food pantry, and they aren’t even quilted—”
“Diane, you’ve really stirred the pot. Since word got out that you sold your quilts, people have been making offers left and right for the others on display.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“No, it isn’t, not when we don’t want to sell.”
Diane frowned, then shrugged. “Just tell everyone they aren’t for sale.”
“No one believes us. Judge Quigley set a precedent for not taking no for an answer.”
“Oh.” Diane winced. “I’m sorry, I guess?”
Exasperated, Agnes sighed and took Diane’s arm. “Come along, publicist. We need you to make a statement before we have an angry mob on our hands.”
Diane’s eyes went wide, but she dutifully followed Agnes back to Sylvia and Sarah. Gwen and Summer had joined them too, and were fielding questions, pleading for calm, and trying their best to quash spontaneous bidding wars. Agnes maneuvered Diane to the front, gave her a little nudge, and murmured, “You’re on.”
Diane drew in a breath, put on a smile, and explained that while she had sold her quilts from the display—to benefit the food pantry, of course—the other quilts belonged to private collections and were not available for purchase. A chorus of lamentations and protests met her remarks, and she held up her hands to silence the crowd, to no avail.
“A riot at the Christmas Boutique,” remarked Nancy, who had appeared at Agnes’s side while Diane was speaking. “That’s a first.”
“That’s our Diane,” Agnes said wryly. “Never a dull moment.”
“But my mother would really love that Christmas Cactus quilt,” a voice rang out, one that could only belong to the young mother with the stroller.
“Well, my grandmother would too,” someone replied sharply.
As other voices rose in argument, Agnes drew herself up to her full five feet two inches, raised her hands for peace, and called out, “Everyone, please! My Christmas Cactus quilt is not for sale. Please understand, it’s very special to me and I simply can’t part with it.”
A murmur of disappointment went up from the group, and in that moment, Agnes remembered Edna Hachmeyer.
“However,” she continued, smiling, “if you would like to learn how to make one of your own, I would be very happy to teach you.”
Someone squealed in delight, and someone else cried out, “Sign me up, please!”
Catching Sylvia’s eye, raising her eyebrows in a question, and waiting for Sylvia’s answering nod, Agnes added, “I’ll hold a class here at Elm Creek Manor, and your tuition will benefit the food pantry.”
“I want to make that lovely quilt hanging in the foyer,” another woman called out.
“I’ll teach you,” said Sylvia and Sarah in unison, then turned to each other and laughed.
The next twenty minutes were barely controlled chaos as the other Elm Creek Quilters were enlisted to teach, a week in January for a special day camp was selected, sign-up sheets were passed along, and aspiring students went away satisfied that they would receive official registration information soon.
When the crowd at last had mostly dispersed, Gwen folded her arms and regarded Diane with amused exasperation. “Look what you did, when everything was going so smoothly.”
“Yes, look what I did,” said Diane proudly. “I just arranged to earn a small fortune for the food pantry.”
“Excuse me,” a voice broke in.
The Elm Creek Quilters turned to find nearly a dozen members of the crowd regarding them expectantly.
“Yes?” Sylvia asked. “Can we help you?”
“We’d like to make Christmas in Waterford,” a second woman said, gesturing to Diane’s quilt top. “We couldn’t find the sign-up sheet.”
Agnes turned to Diane, perplexed. “You don’t want to teach your quilt? Why the other two, but not this one?”
“It’s complicated,” said Diane, a faint flush rising in her cheeks.
“Uncomplicate it,” said Sylvia, peering at her knowingly over the rims of her glasses. “We’ll wait.”
After Diane explained the provenance of her quilt design, Sylvia realized there was only one thing to do. She conferred briefly with her friends and colleagues, and when they promptly reached a unanimous decision, Sylvia asked Diane to accompany her to deliver the proposal.
Somewhat abashed—and with good reason, considering the commotion she had caused—Diane led Sylvia through the aisles to the market booth where Mary Beth was selling beautiful hand-knit sweaters of every style and color and type of yarn, made by many pairs of hands. “Can I interest you in a Fair Isle pullover for your husband or a cable-knit cardigan for yourself?” she asked tentatively as they lingered in front of her booth, regarding her expectantly.
“Perhaps later, dear,” Sylvia replied. “I do need to purchase Christmas and first anniversary gifts for Andrew. But first, I wonder if you’re aware of the brief controversy about our quilt display?”
“I haven’t left my booth in a while, but I did overhear some odd conversations.” Mary Beth looked from Sylvia to Diane and back, her expression guarded. “Someone wasn’t supposed to sell a quilt, but she did anyway, and chaos broke out until you stepped in?”
“I wouldn’t call it chaos,” said Diane.
“You have the basic facts correct,” said Sylvia. “As it happens, in order to satisfy the many would-be owners of the quilts in our holiday quilt show, we decided to offer classes so they could learn to make their own instead.”
“If they’re sufficiently motivated,” said Diane, “and if they have some basic skills. Those quilts are more difficult to make than they look. Speaking from personal experience—”
“Thank you, Diane,” Sylvia broke in. To Mary Beth, she added, “We were hoping that as the designer of Christmas in Waterford, or rather, the quilt upon which it was based, you would be willing to teach the classes for that quilt. It appears to be one of the most popular.”
Mary Beth’s eyes widened. “You want me . . .” She paused to draw in a breath. “. . . to teach here, at Elm Creek Manor?”
“If you’re available during the last week of January. We’re all working pro bono to benefit the food pantry, so you won’t be paid, but I can promise you an excellent lunch every day.”
“I’ll do it,” said Mary Beth, bolting to her feet, grasping Sylvia’s hand and shaking it firmly. “If anything is on my calendar, I’ll clear it. You can count on me.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Sylvia, smiling and patting her hand, which trembled slightly in her own. She preten
ded not to notice the tears welling up in Mary Beth’s eyes. “I’ll be in touch after the boutique with all the details for our winter quilt day camp.” She smiled and released Mary Beth’s hand. “Back to work, everyone. Nancy tells me that even without our anticipated quilt lesson revenue, this Christmas Boutique is on track to be the most successful ever. Let’s not spoil our chance to break some fund-raising records.”
Lighthearted and satisfied, Sylvia parted company with Diane and Mary Beth—neighbors, former rivals, and perhaps future friends. Why not? It could happen. Unlikely friendships were forged almost every day at Elm Creek Manor. She and Agnes were one example, she and Sarah another. Diane and Gwen. Drawn together by their love for the art of quilting, they had discovered that they had much more in common than superficial differences implied.
By any measure, the Christmas Boutique was already an overwhelming success. With all her heart, Sylvia believed that the true mission of Elm Creek Quilts was not only to pass on the heritage of quilting, but to nurture friendships, encourage service to the community, and inspire students, faculty, and visitors alike to undertake new challenges with courage and hope. What better time than the holiday season to renew her commitment to that mission? As long as Elm Creek Manor stood, compassion and generosity would infuse every class taught, every meal shared, and every story told within its gray stone walls, not only at Christmas, but every day, year after year.
Acknowledgments
I am very grateful to the friends, family, and colleagues who contributed their time and talents to The Christmas Boutique, especially Maria Massie, Rachel Kahan, Alivia Lopez, Lauren Truskowski, and Molly Waxman. Geraldine Neidenbach, Heather Neidenbach, and Marty Chiaverini were my first readers, and their comments and questions about early drafts of this novel proved invaluable, as ever. Nic Neidenbach generously shared his computer expertise to help me in crucial moments; I honestly don’t know what I would have done without him.
I was inspired to write The Christmas Boutique by the many Elm Creek Quilts fans who have told me through the years how much they adore and miss the Elm Creek Quilters, and how they longed to return to Elm Creek Manor through the pages of a new novel. I hope this story, which I wrote especially for you, brings you joy.
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