The Wedding Quilt Page 5

  “Promise?”

  “I swear I won’t be gone long. I’ll be right beside you the entire time.”

  She released his hand and heard him go. The operating room was unnaturally bright and cold. Dazed and exhausted, she sat up, supported by two nurses, and held her breath as they inserted the spinal block. By the time she was fully anesthetized and prepped for surgery, Matt had returned, barely recognizable in blue scrubs, cap, and mask, but she knew his eyes, full of love, concern, and reassurance. He stood by her side, just out of her range of vision, as Dr. Granger began the surgery, blocked from Sarah’s view by a blue drape. She felt pressure but no pain, and then there was a wrenching, and then a sudden flurry of activity and a baby’s cry and Dr. Granger declaring that she had a daughter, a beautiful baby girl.

  “Can I see her?” Sarah called out feebly. “Can I see my daughter?”

  Matt bent close to her ear. “They took her away, honey. They rushed her off to the neonatal unit.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I’m sure she’s just fine.” Matt rested his hand on her shoulder, and she could tell he was shaking.

  He had barely finished speaking before Dr. Granger announced that she had a son—a strong, healthy son, by the sound of his wail, which was so outraged and indignant that the attendees laughed. “Can I see him?” Sarah called out, only to be assured that he was being examined and would be cleaned up, and she would be able to hold him soon. Matt could accompany the babies, if he wished.

  He seemed torn between concern for the children and his determination to keep his promise not to leave her. “Go with them,” she begged him. “Make sure they’re okay.”

  Matt nodded and hurried away. Blinking away her tears, Sarah started at an unexpected touch on her shoulder. “They looked perfectly healthy—strong and beautiful,” a woman hidden in blue surgical garb said. Sarah would have known the eyes even if she had not recognized the muffled voice—her mother’s eyes, shining with unshed tears. Sarah had not realized Carol had been allowed into the operating room, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude that she was there. She placed her hand on her mother’s and held on while the doctor closed her incisions. Her mother walked beside her as she was taken to the recovery room, and there, when she shivered from the cold, her mother made sure she was draped with heated blankets. When Sarah felt warmer and less disoriented, Carol stepped away for a moment and quickly returned to report that Sarah’s son had an Apgar score of nine and her daughter’s initial score of six had risen to eight five minutes after her birth. Matt had been allowed to hold both of the children, and Sarah would be able to soon. It was the same answer as before, and yet Sarah seemed no closer to holding them. After months of waiting and hours of labor, to be unable to cuddle or even see her children now that they had finally arrived frustrated and worried her.

  “This is routine,” Carol soothed when the nurse stepped away. “I know it’s annoying, I know it’s hard, but it won’t be much longer.”

  The wait seemed interminably long, but at last she was taken back to the birthing suite where she had labored so long. Gretchen was waiting, and as a nurse attended to Sarah, two aides entered, pushing two contraptions that Sarah could best describe as tall, wheeled bassinets. Above the edge of one, Sarah glimpsed a tiny pink fist waving in the air, and she gasped out a happy sob. Her babies, at last. Her children.

  Then Sarah was allowed to hold them, one at a time, while a nurse stood at her side watching attentively, since Sarah was still recovering from the anesthesia. “We’re filling out the birth certificates,” another nurse asked. “Do you have names for the children?”

  “Yes, please do divulge the secret at long last,” said Sylvia, seated on the sofa with the baby boy in her arms. Beside her, Gretchen held out a fingertip for the child to grasp with a tiny fist. “You’ve been keeping us in suspense for ages.”

  “Not ages,” said Sarah. “Only nine months.”

  “Please tell me you haven’t selected any of those silly names you were teasing us with before,” said Carol, leaning over to tuck a corner of the soft striped blanket out of the way so she could better see her granddaughter’s sweet face. Sarah smiled, knowing her mother longed to wrap the babies in the pink-and-white and blue-and-white Sawtooth Star quilts she had painstakingly made for them, the first and second—and only—quilts she had made in her brief career as a quilter. Sarah was saving them for the babies’ trip home to Elm Creek Manor.

  “You mean Barnum and Bailey?” said Matt, who had just returned from the waiting room where he had shared the good news with Andrew and Joe. They had accompanied him into the birthing suite, looking as pleased and proud as if they truly were the baby’s great-grandparents. “Peas and Carrots? Skipper and Gilligan?”

  “That last one’s not so bad,” Andrew mused, mostly to see the look of alarm on Carol’s face.

  “Bagel and Schmear was always my favorite,” Sarah remarked, but considering how attentive and helpful her mother had been throughout that long, difficult day, she couldn’t bear to torture her a moment longer. “Yes, we’ve chosen names. Sylvia’s holding James Matthew, and this little sweetheart is Caroline Sylvia.”

  A gasp of delight and recognition went up from the gathered friends, and Sarah thought she spotted tears of pride behind the loving smiles of the two women who had lent their names to the newborn girl. And their son, called James after Sylvia’s first husband and Matthew for his father—he, too, had a proud, honorable name that paid tribute to the McClure family as well as the Bergstroms. In the years since Sarah had moved to the Elm Creek Valley, the Bergstroms had come to seem like a second family to her, although she knew them only through Sylvia’s stories and the quilts and words they had left behind.

  The parents, grandmother, and honorary great-grandparents took turns cuddling the babies and phoning absent friends to share the happy news. Two healthy, beautiful babies and a healthy, relieved mother—in all their lives Sarah and Matt had never had better news to share.

  A lactation consultant arrived to help Sarah nurse her children. That first feeding went less well than she had hoped—not at all like the blissfully easy, natural process described in the books stacked on her nightstand back home—but the consultant assured her that the babies were probably not very hungry so soon after their birth, and by the time her milk came in and her babies were ready, she would have it all figured out.

  Sarah had never felt less certain that she had anything all figured out, but surrounded by some of the people she loved best in the world and knowing that the rest would celebrate the joyful occasion when they returned home to Elm Creek Manor, Sarah had faith that she, Matt, Caroline, and James would be all right. Everything would be all right.

  Sarah saw a shadow through the summer curtain an instant before a horn honked. Heart soaring, she waved the curtain out of the way and saw, at last, Caroline’s car rounding the bend by the old red barn, crossing the bridge over Elm Creek, circling the two towering elm trees that even then, in the warmth of late summer, sent yellow leaves dancing on the breeze, falling lightly to the pavement below.

  As the car pulled to a stop, Sarah saw Matt striding across the bridge, coming in from the orchard to welcome his eldest child and her husband-to-be. She heard the back door squeak open and crash shut, and she heard James shout out a cheerful greeting. Friends and loved ones were there to bless Caroline’s homecoming just as they—and others, never far from Sarah’s thoughts—had been present on that winter day in early February twenty-five years before when Sarah and Matt had brought the twins home from the hospital. Hopeful, excited, apprehensive, overwhelmed—the new parents had brought their son and daughter home and devoted themselves to their care and nurturing. Sarah had wanted her children to be surrounded by love every day of their lives. For all too brief a time she was their world and she could grant them that great gift, but as soon as they began walking, they began moving away from her. Although James always circled back, smiling happily, arms open wi
de for her embrace, Caroline seemed ever set upon venturing beyond the gray stone walls of Elm Creek Manor, beyond the towering elms, over the creek and away, with just a glance over her shoulder to be sure Sarah was watching. And Sarah, who marveled at her confident, fearless daughter, had smiled and waved and fought the urge to beg her to stay—and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide her broken heart when she did not.

  Sarah let the curtain fall and hurried to join her husband and son in welcoming their bright and happy girl to the childhood home she loved but found far too easy to leave.

  For now, Caroline was home again, and Sarah could forget the pain of her absence, the many partings, the times when school, friends, college, work, or love had beckoned her away and she had gladly gone. For a few days more they could be a foursome again, the McClure family of Elm Creek Manor—father, mother, twins. Soon everything would change: Caroline would marry, and she would begin a new family with the man she loved.

  Sarah knew her daughter’s wedding day would be bittersweet, an occasion of joy and love that marked the end of Caroline’s childhood even as it ushered in a future rich with hope and promise. But for now, Sarah would put away thoughts of the parting to come. She would enjoy the time they had together and not mourn its brevity even as it passed.

  Her darling Caroline had come home.

  Chapter Two

  “Caroline,” Sarah called out as she hurried out the back door and down the stairs. She glimpsed her daughter’s golden curls at the center of a laughing, welcoming crowd of family, friends, and a few of the teenagers who worked in the orchard after school. Sarah had to smile; the young people had never met the bride and groom, but they didn’t want to miss the excitement and were glad for an excuse to take a break from the work of the harvest. Leo stood a bit apart as he unloaded suitcases from the trunk, watching the scene with proud amusement, no doubt accustomed to seeing his charming bride-to-be at the center of a circle of admirers. Sarah decided to welcome him first and wait her turn to greet her daughter. “Leo,” she said, embracing him and rising up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “It’s good to see you. How was the drive?”

  “Not bad,” he said, returning her hug cheerfully. His hair was thick and wavy, so dark brown it was nearly black, and a deep dimple appeared in his right cheek whenever he smiled. “Our fuel cell died about an hour after we crossed the Pennsylvania border, so we had to wait while it was replaced.”

  That explained the delay. “Replaced, not recharged?”

  “No, we set out with a full charge. It was only a month old too. The technician said the cell was faulty and we should demand a refund.”

  “Well, I hope you get one.” Sarah glanced over at Caroline and saw her hugging her grandmother. As soon as Carol released her, Sarah hurried forward to hug Caroline before anyone else did. “My baby girl,” she cried, embracing her.

  Caroline laughed and hugged her in return. “Hi, Mom. You look great, so well rested.”

  “Don’t be fooled,” said Carol, brushing wisps of steel-gray hair from her face with a thin, wrinkled hand. She had retired from nursing fifteen years earlier and had moved into Elm Creek Manor at Sarah’s urging five years after that, not because she couldn’t live alone any longer, but because most of her friends had passed on or moved into retirement communities, and she had become lonely. “Your mother doesn’t get nearly enough rest. She’s always on the go.”

  “With the campers gone for the season, I’ve been catching up on my sleep,” Sarah assured them both. “Caroline, sweetheart, you look wonderful. Have you let your hair grow out?”

  “A little,” said Caroline, playfully elbowing her brother when he reached over to tousle her long blond curls. “I still haven’t decided whether I want to wear it up or down at the wedding.”

  “She spends hours in front of the mirror,” said Leo, grinning as he joined the group and put his arm around Caroline’s shoulders. “She tries on the veil with her hair up, then down, then up, then down—”

  As Caroline’s mouth fell open in a wordless protest, Carol said, “I’m sure she doesn’t spend hours in front of the mirror.”

  “Thanks, Grandma. I’m not that vain.” Feigning outrage, Caroline placed her hands on Leo’s burly chest and gave him a little shove. Playfully, he staggered backward a few steps until he bumped into the vehicle and rocked onto his heels, leaning against the hood. Caroline laughed, reached for his hand, and pulled him to his feet.

  “You’ll be the most beautiful bride in the world, however you wear your hair,” said Matt, clearing his throat, misty-eyed. Caroline flung her arms around him and kissed his cheek. They were almost the same height, their hair the same golden blond, although Matt’s curls had thinned considerably since his own wedding day.

  Together the friends and family helped the bride and groom finish unloading their vehicle and carry their things inside—suitcases packed full of clothes for the wedding week and their Hawaiian honeymoon to follow, cartons full of goodies to assemble into gift bags for the out-of-town guests, gifts for the bridal party, and other parcels and luggage, including a long garment bag that surely contained Caroline’s wedding gown. Sarah had not yet seen it, and she was tempted to unzip the bag and take a peek. She and Gina had traveled to Connecticut to help Caroline search for the perfect gown and bridesmaids’ dresses, so Sarah knew which style her daughter had chosen, but she had seen Caroline in the bridal shop’s floor sample, four sizes too large and pinned in back to contour to her slender curves. Caroline had ordered hers in ivory, for she thought the floor sample seemed too bright, and she had found a vintage embellished silver belt in an antique shop, which she intended to substitute for the floor sample’s tulle sash. From time to time, Sarah had tried to imagine the altered gown, but she had seen the floor sample too briefly and couldn’t quite understand how Caroline’s changes would improve it. Still, Caroline had always had a flair for fashion, something she had certainly not inherited from her mother, and so Sarah kept her doubts to herself. To paraphrase Matt, Caroline would be the most beautiful bride in the world, whatever she wore.

  Carefully holding the garment bag draped across her arms so it wouldn’t drag on the floor, Sarah followed Caroline through the back door, past the fragrant kitchen where Anna and Gina were busily preparing a welcome-home supper, and through the older west wing of the manor to the grand front foyer. Carrying her suitcase with one hand and her sling bag over her shoulder, Caroline led the way two flights up the curving oak staircase, glancing back at Sarah from time to time as she chatted about letters she’d recently received from extended family and longtime friends, some of whom were looking forward to seeing the McClures soon at the wedding, others who had sent their regrets and good wishes. Behind Sarah came Leo and James hauling the rest of the couple’s luggage. Caroline would be staying in her childhood bedroom, of course, but Sarah had made up a suite down the hall for Leo. Back in Connecticut, Caroline had already moved into Leo’s house, but out of respect for their parents and for tradition, they had accepted the wedding-week sleeping arrangements without complaint. Sarah imagined that privately the young couple joked good-naturedly about their parents’ old-fashioned notions of appearances and proprieties, just as she and Matt might have in their place, more than three decades earlier, before they’d had children.

  “Leo’s mom and stepfather said they hope to get here tomorrow morning around ten,” Caroline said when they reached her room, flinging her sling bag on her desk and dropping the suitcase in front of the closet door. “His dad and stepmom probably won’t arrive until closer to lunchtime. His brother is coming Thursday morning with his wife and the kids, and his sister and her family hope to get in that evening. She wanted to come sooner, but their eldest son has a soccer game.”

  “I’ll make sure everyone’s rooms are ready.” Sarah carefully laid the garment bag upon the bed. “Should I put Leo’s parents on different floors? On different floors in separate wings?”

  “We don’t have to keep them apart,” Carolin
e assured her, laughing. “The divorce is ancient history, and they get along really well now. You saw them when we all met to celebrate the engagement. Everyone was friendly, didn’t you think so?”

  “We met so briefly, it was hard to get a clear impression.” Not to mention that they had met virtually, not in person. Although most people the twins’ age and younger insisted that meeting friends in virtual reality was just as good as being there—or “only a pixel’s difference” as the ubiquitous advertisement claimed—for Sarah there was no replacing a gathering of friends in the real world. Thousands of quilters from around the world apparently agreed, for every year from spring through autumn they filled the halls and classrooms of Elm Creek Manor for classes, lectures, and camaraderie. Quilt camp offered them some intangible benefit, a spiritual and creative nourishment they couldn’t get from a view screen or virtual reality room.

  “You’ll like them when you get to know them better,” said Caroline confidently.

  “I’m sure I will,” said Sarah. “As long as they’re good to you.”

  “They are.” Caroline smiled wistfully as she looked around her childhood room, her old favorite books, the Waterford High School state champion swim team photo on the desk, the beloved and threadbare panda on her pillow. She picked it up and stroked its head absently, and Sarah was suddenly, painfully reminded of Caroline cuddling the toy when she received it from Elm Creek Quilter Maggie Flynn for her third birthday. It didn’t seem so very long ago.

  “I’m going to miss this room,” Caroline said, with unexpected yearning.

  “You haven’t spent much time in it since leaving for college.”

  “I know, but I always knew it was here, waiting for me. After Saturday”—Caroline shrugged, pulled a face, and flopped down on the bed, the panda on her lap—“it won’t be the same.”