Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter Read online

  As suppertime approached, Summer prepared her mother’s favorite three-bean salad and kissed Jeremy for luck. A light snow fell as she drove to her mother’s neighborhood, the streets shrouded in midwinter dark despite the early hour. She parked in the driveway and steeled herself as she approached the front door. Her mother admired her independence and trusted her ability to make her own decisions—or so she said. Now was her chance to prove it.

  “Mom?” she called, opening the front door. There was no reply. Summer set down the bowl on the hall table and removed her coat and boots when something else struck her: She detected no aroma of her mother’s lentil and brown rice soup.

  Hurrying into the darkened kitchen, Summer called out again and was rewarded with a muffled reply. She found her mother in her office, eyes fixed on the computer screen, papers strewn across the desk, academic journals scattered all over the floor.

  “Hi, kiddo,” said Gwen, frowning at the computer. “What’s up?” She gasped and spun around in her chair. “Oh, no. Supper.”

  Summer grinned and tapped her watch. “Sunday at five o’clock.”

  “I completely forgot.” Gwen absently smoothed her long auburn hair, the same shade as Summer’s but streaked with gray. “We could send out for pizza.”

  “I brought a salad. If you have sandwich makings, we’ll be fine.”

  As Summer set the table, Gwen layered Gorgonzola and crushed walnuts on sourdough bread spread liberally with pesto. “That’s the best I can do on the spur of the moment,” she said as she set one on her daughter’s plate.

  Summer assured her it was delicious, then couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. “What are you working on in there? Something for the conference?”

  Gwen shook her head and loaded her fork with three-bean salad. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s too depressing. This is fabulous, by the way.”

  “It’s your recipe. What’s too depressing?”

  “As it happens, I’m not going to be in charge of the conference after all.”

  “Why not? I thought the new department chair always ran things.” Her mother winced, and Summer guessed the rest. “You weren’t made department chair?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you seemed so sure you would be.”

  “I was.” Gwen took a bite of her sandwich, her expression hardening. “The outgoing chair informed me, on behalf of the committee, that they needed someone with solid academic credentials in, and this is a quote, ‘substantial, hard research.’”

  “What’s wrong with your research? You publish at least three articles a year. The book you edited with Laurel Thatcher Ulrich is coming out this fall. Your last conference paper was quoted in The Washington Post. What could that committee possibly object to?”

  “My topics.”

  Summer shook her head, uncomprehending.

  “I write about quilts.”

  “Well, yeah. Quilts as cultural and historical artifacts. You’ve written about what certain quilts tell us about American society in particular eras. What else would they expect a professor of American Studies to do?”

  “Write about a less frivolous art form, apparently.”

  “They said that? They used the word frivolous ?”

  “Merely implied, but the outgoing chair did encourage me to turn my attention to sculpture or painting or architecture if I’m that fixated on art.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Summer. “It is not okay to study quilts, which happen to be made primarily by women, but other arts are perfectly acceptable, especially those dominated by men?”

  “You have an extraordinarily clear grasp of our conversation.”

  “That’s outrageous!”

  “You put it more eloquently than I did.” Gwen tore the crusts off her sandwich, frowning. “I told him that for a card-carrying liberal and someone who claims to be devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, he had an obvious and detestable bias for ‘ manly’ topics. I also asked him when he turned into a Republican.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Unfortunately, I did.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “I know.”

  Summer sat back in her chair. “How can they say your work isn’t substantial? What about how your analysis of the dyeing processes used in those New England quilts indicated how the settlers interacted with the Native Americans? What about your paper on those Confederate quilts and how their fabrics reveal the disruption of trade routes?”

  Gwen shrugged and continued eating.

  Summer had lost her appetite. “I can’t believe a college, of all places, would discourage an intellectual investigation because the subject is ‘women’s work.’”

  “Believe it, kiddo. I’m afraid it’s all too true.”

  Summer reached across the table and took her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, Mom. You deserved that chair. You were robbed.”

  “Everyone knows being the department chair is a thankless job, anyway.”

  Maybe so, but Summer also knew it would have given Gwen the prestige she deserved, professional clout she had earned, and a not insubstantial increase in salary for the duration of her term. “Can you protest their decision?”

  “I could.” Gwen’s reluctance told Summer that she had considered that idea and dismissed it. Summer didn’t need to ask why. Through the years, she had learned enough about the politics of academia to know her mother had to choose those battles wisely.

  “So what were you working on?” asked Summer. “A new paper on a new topic?”

  “I’ll let you read it when it’s done.”

  Summer nodded, concealing her disappointment. She had hoped that Gwen would tell her she would study whatever topic she thought relevant, regardless of her colleagues’ disapproval. Her secrecy obviously meant she would no longer study quilts.

  “When your book comes out this fall,” Summer said, “and when it becomes a bestseller, and when you and your coeditor are nominated for the Pulitzer, those idiots in your department will eat their words.”

  Gwen managed a laugh. “I’m counting on it, kiddo.”

  Gwen’s rejection astonished Jeremy, who said that the committee’s reasoning would never pass scrutiny in the history department. To Summer’s relief, he readily agreed when she suggested waiting until Gwen had adjusted to her disappointment before telling her about the move.

  Unfortunately, that excuse would not work with Bonnie. Two days later, Summer arrived for her morning shift at Grandma’s Attic with a lump in the pit of her stomach. Bonnie was sitting at the cutting table sorting the morning mail. She wore her purple-and-green Pineapple quilted vest, which she seemed to choose whenever she needed extra courage to get through the day.

  “Four more packages arrived today,” she said. “Sylvia’s bridal quilt is going to be gorgeous.”

  “Can I see the new blocks?” asked Summer, slipping out of her coat. She resolved to phone Sarah and assure her the project was on schedule. Sarah seemed unnecessarily worried about the bridal quilt, certain they would not receive enough blocks. Summer thought it more likely they would receive too many and would have to wrestle with the more difficult problem of deciding which blocks to include and whose to reject.

  Bonnie had already inspected the newest blocks, so she handed the padded envelopes to Summer and turned her attention to the rest of the mail. “Bills,” she muttered as she edged her stool closer to the table.

  Since there were no customers, Summer lingered over the accompanying letters explaining the quilters’ inspiration for their pattern choices. A woman who had sent a Rocky Road to Dublin block explained that Sylvia’s investigation into the lives of her ancestors had compelled her to learn more about her own forebears, a search that eventually led her to Ireland and some long-lost relations. A Blazing Star block was pinned to a three-page letter extolling Sylvia’s accomplishments and praising her with phrases like, “the brightest star in the firmament of the quilting world,” and “truly the most gifted and giv
ing quilter of her generation.”

  Summer smiled as she returned the letter and block to their envelope. Sylvia wouldn’t be able to read through half a page before setting it aside in embarrassment.

  The next envelope contained a simple Variable Star and a note apologizing for its simplicity. “I hope this is good enough to be included,” the maker wrote. “I’m just a beginner. I took my first lesson at Elm Creek Manor last summer. As you can see, Sylvia has inspired me not to give up! It might not look like it, but I’ve made a lot of progress since the Nine-Patch I made at camp.”

  Summer recognized the name of a frequent camper on the last envelope.

  February 1, 2002

  Dear Elm Creek Quilters,

  I was thrilled to hear about Sylvia and Andrew’s wedding. I wish I could have been there, but I suppose they couldn’t have invited every former camper without giving away their secret. And not even Elm Creek Manor is large enough to host a reception that big! I guess I’ll just have to congratulate them when I see them again in August.

  Thanks for inviting me to participate in Sylvia’s bridal quilt. I sat down and made my block right away rather than add this project to my growing list of UFOs. My reason for choosing the Quilter’s Dream pattern is probably obvious: Sylvia herself is the friend and teacher every quilter dreams of, and she has turned her home into a wonderful haven where quilters’ dreams can come true.

  I don’t think I ever told Sylvia this, but I started quilting because I saw a picture of one of her quilts in the newspaper when she came to Minnesota to speak at a quilt show twenty-three years ago. I was expecting my first child, and I knew right then and there that I had to make my baby a quilt. I took the article to the nearest fabric shop and begged them for lessons. Apparently, that happens a lot, because half the women in their beginner’s class were pregnant!

  Twenty years later, I attended Elm Creek Quilt Camp for the first time. I went for two reasons: to finally meet my longtime internet friend in person, and to avoid meeting my daughter’s future in-laws. The friends I met at camp that week convinced me to trust my instincts that the marriage was a mistake. With their support, I was eventually able to convince my daughter to leave what I did not yet realize was an abusive relationship.

  Sylvia is a wonderful role model for women of all ages. She is self-reliant and makes those of us who know her want to be that way, too. When we come to a situation where we will either sink or swim, we think of Sylvia and start paddling.

  I’m pleased to say that my daughter has been doing wonderfully ever since I taught her what Sylvia taught me. She loves film school at USC and, thanks to another one of my quilt camp friends, has been able to work on several well-known feature films. My younger daughter is a freshman at the University of Wisconsin in Madison where she is studying pre-law. It’s hard to have both of my girls so far away, but I’m so proud of both of them and I don’t want to hold them back from following their dreams.

  As for me, for the past year I have been volunteering at a local shelter for abused women. We were able to take in our daughter when she left her fiancé’s apartment, but many women have nowhere to go, and often they bring children with them. The shelter provides women with a safe place to stay until they can make their own way, and it also directs them to whatever counseling or work placement assistance they need. I admit the work is stressful sometimes, but when I think of what might have happened to my daughter, I stick to it and do what needs to be done. I think that’s what Sylvia would do.

  This is probably more information than you wanted about why I chose that block! Thanks again for letting me be a part of this quilt. I can’t wait to see it.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Donna Jorgenson

  “How totally cool,” said Summer as she put away the block and the letter. “I wonder what movies her daughter worked on. Maybe we’ve seen some of them.”

  Summer looked up when Bonnie did not reply. In one fist, she held a crumpled envelope, in the other hand, a crisp sheet of paper.

  “What is it?” asked Summer. A list of their angriest creditors flashed through her mind.

  “The building’s been sold. All tenants have to sign new leases if we want to stay.”

  “Of course you’ll stay,” said Summer, aghast. “Where do they expect you to go? They won’t raise the rent, will they?”

  “The letter doesn’t say.”

  “But you have a lease. They can’t change anything until that lease is up, can they?”

  “A new owner takes precedence over existing leases. That’s city law.” Bonnie had once belonged to the Waterford Zoning Commission; she would know. “I wonder what this means for the condo.”

  Bonnie and her husband lived in the flat directly above the shop. “You guys own that, right?”

  “We do, but our landlord owned the building as a whole. It’s complicated.” Bonnie looked up from the letter. “Do you know anything about University Realty?”

  “A little. They manage my old apartment building.”

  Bonnie’s eyebrows rose. “Old apartment?”

  “Yeah. I mean, you know, my apartment. It’s old. Not that old. Just older than this.”

  “The new owner says he’ll be around to meet all the current tenants and discuss the transition.” Bonnie smoothed the crumpled envelope and returned the letter to it. “I’ll just have to wait to hear what he says.”

  “I guess so,” said Summer, and decided one transition was enough for Bonnie to worry about at the moment.

  Bonnie took the letter into the back office. Through the window, Summer watched her file it and sit down in front of the computer. She did not emerge until the end of Summer’s shift, and Summer could tell from her expression that she didn’t want to discuss the sale.

  After work, Summer stopped by her old apartment to collect her answering machine. Her former roommates apologized for forgetting to tell her about the eight messages on the tape, but they assured her they had not revealed anything to Gwen the time she stopped by on her way to work. Summer thanked them and wondered why her mother had not mentioned the visit.

  Jeremy came home later than usual that evening bearing Thai takeout since it was his night to cook. Over Phat Thai, Summer told him about Bonnie’s situation, the exasperation of her roommates’ forgetfulness, and Gwen’s visit to the old apartment.

  “She probably thought you spent the night at my place,” said Jeremy.

  “I know. I didn’t want her to.”

  “Why not? It’s the truth, sort of.”

  Summer sighed and toyed with her chopsticks. “Jeremy, your parents must be incredibly accepting for you to be so clueless about why this bothers me.”

  “Are you kidding? My mother would faint if she ever finds out the truth.” He quickly added, “I’m kidding. They already know.”

  “They don’t mind?”

  “That’s the benefit of being the youngest of four. They’ve already been through everything with my sisters and brother.”

  “Great,” said Summer dryly. It was far too late to hope for any siblings to help share her burden of maternal attention.

  Throughout February, Summer managed to rationalize away several more opportunities to mention the move to her mother or give notice at Grandma’s Attic. She had even begun to forget her anxieties enough to feel at home in Jeremy’s apartment until one evening during supper when three hang-up calls on the answering machine convinced her that Gwen had figured out the truth. Summer waited a reasonable interval before calling her mother on some camp-related pretext only to find her engrossed in her new research project.

  Relieved, she hung up and wondered aloud who had called, but Jeremy was annoyed that Summer had not gone ahead and unburdened her obviously troubled conscience. That led to their first fight as roommates. They made up that same night, but not before Jeremy told her that if she was so ashamed to live with him she ought to move out, and Summer retorted that she had considered it.

  The next morning they li
ngered in bed and shared a leisurely breakfast, still apologetic and careful, wanting reassurances that everything was fine between them before they parted for the day. Despite her late start, Summer managed to get to work on time since Jeremy’s apartment was only a five-minute walk from Grandma’s Attic. She arrived to find the quilt shop dark, the sign in the front door still turned to CLOSED. Bonnie should have unlocked the door an hour earlier. Summer fumbled in her backpack for her key and let herself in.

  “Bonnie?” she called, flipping the sign. She turned on the lights and the music system, taking advantage of the opportunity to slip in one of her favorite CDs instead of Bonnie’s usual hammered dulcimer and flute. She restocked the empty shelves with what little was left in the storage room, but when another half hour passed with no sign of Bonnie, she phoned upstairs. The answering machine picked up; Bonnie’s husband’s voice announced that she had reached the home of Craig Markham and that he would return her call later. Summer hung up without leaving a message.

  At that moment, the door burst open and Diane came in. “Oh, hi,” she said, taking off her coat. “I thought no one else was working today.”

  “I work every Friday when camp isn’t in session,” said Summer, puzzled. Diane knew that. “Bonnie should be here, too, but she didn’t show up this morning. I’m worried. No one answered the phone upstairs, either.”

  “She’s not coming in today.” Diane hung up her coat on a peg on the back wall and stored her purse under the cutting table. “Agnes called and asked me to open the store. I guess she didn’t know you would be here.”

  “Agnes? Why would Agnes have called?”

  Diane shrugged. “I have no idea. I imagine Bonnie asked her to.”

  “But Bonnie knew I was working and she would have called you directly.”

  “Well …” Diane paused. “I don’t know. But I’m here, so I’m going to work. I need the hours. Todd is still holding out for Princeton. Do you have any idea how expensive that is? Thank goodness Michael decided to go to Waterford College so we could take advantage of the family tuition waiver.”