An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (122 page)

Then, suddenly, headlights shone through the kitchen window as a car pulled into the driveway. As Megan watched, a figure exited the driver’s side and came around to open the front passenger door to let out a much smaller figure.

“Robby,” she breathed, and bolted to the door. In a heartbeat she was outside embracing him, tears running down her face. “Robby. Thank God.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

She loosened her desperate grip to get a better look at him. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Behind her Hasselbach asked, “Was he with you?”

“No,” came the answer, and only then did Megan look up to see who had brought Robby home. Adam gave her a reassuring look before returning his attention to the officer. “I found him at the middle school, practicing his kicking.”

“And you are?”

“Adam Wagner. A friend of the family.”

Megan rose, clutching one of Robby’s hands. She placed her other hand on his shoulder and steered him inside. Robby was home, home and safe, and nothing else mattered.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. The officers remained while she fixed Robby some supper and phoned in their report to the station as she took him upstairs to get him ready for bed. She lingered in Robby’s room for a while, stroking his hair as he drifted off to sleep. When she returned to the kitchen, she thanked the officers for everything they had done, and saw them, along with her parents, to the door.

In the sudden quiet, Megan realized that she had not said a word to Adam the entire evening. “Thank you for finding him,” she said, and felt her emotions welling up until it was almost impossible to say any more. “I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t come home tonight.”

“He’s safe. That’s all that matters,” Adam said, his voice an echo of her own thoughts.

“How did you know where to look?”

“When I was driving here, I remembered that you said he was last seen playing football. We had a lot of fun that day we practiced kicking at the middle school. He talked a little about his dad while we were there, and about you. Somehow it seemed right to check.”

“I’m very grateful,” Megan said, and she meant it with all her heart.

Adam shrugged and gave her a smile that was encouraging and yet sad. They stood for a moment in awkward silence. Megan didn’t know what to do or say, but Adam told her good-bye and left.

Julia was sorry when shooting ended and Donna and Lindsay went home. Except for her maid, Julia had lived alone since her second divorce, and she had forgotten how pleasant it was to have company around the house. She consoled herself by thinking of Elm Creek Quilt Camp, where she would be reunited with her friends. By then
Prairie Vengeance
would be out of post-production, and Ares might even have a new project lined up for her.

To reward herself for surviving Deneford, she spent a week at Aurora Borealis. When she returned home, pampered and refreshed, she found two new scripts Ares had sent for her review—and a note from Deneford summoning her to a meeting.

She met Ares outside the studio, and together they entered Deneford’s conference room just as they had so many months ago for the first script meeting. Deneford wasted no time in small talk. “I have bad news,” he said when the principal actors, their agents, and the assorted assistants were seated. “We played some scenes for a test audience, and it didn’t go well.”

A collective mutter of frustration went up from the table. “You have a first cut already?” Julia asked, surprised.

“Not a complete cut. Like I said, just a few scenes.”

Julia sensed the people around her relaxing. “What’s a few scenes?” Rowen’s agent asked. “That doesn’t sound like any cause for concern.”

Deneford fixed him with a piercing look. “You of all people should be concerned, for your client’s sake. Our test audience was our target demographic.”

“Men eighteen to thirty-five?”

“Exactly. They hated it.”

Rowen paled. “Even the cattle-rustling scene?”

Deneford hesitated. “No. Actually, they liked that.”

Rowen smiled and sank back into his chair, relieved.

“Hold on,” Ellen said. “Since when is our intended audience eighteen to thirty-five-year-old men?”

Deneford ignored her. “The numbers are low, but I have hopes that the project is still salvageable. Sorry, people, but that means we reshoot.”

Above the groans, Samantha’s agent said, “What’s your timetable? Samantha is the guest VJ on MTV all next month.”

“We’ll work around her. We might need that much time for the rewrites anyway.” Deneford looked at Ellen, slouching unhappily in her chair at the far end of the table. “Is your calendar clear?”

“Clear enough,” she said. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what sort of changes did you have in mind?”

“I’ve decided to ax all the quilting stuff.”

Julia started. “I beg your pardon?”

“We’re going to lose the quilting.” Deneford regarded her, puzzled. “Surely you don’t have a problem with that. Now you won’t have to admit to the world you hired a stunt quilter for your scenes.”

“I could live with that,” Julia retorted. “Whatever would compel you to get rid of the quilting? It’s the heart of the story.”

“Rick Rowen is the heart of the story,” his agent said.

“Give me a break,” Samantha’s agent muttered.

Julia was in no mood for their bickering. “Stephen, do you really think such a drastic change is necessary?” she asked in her most reasonable tone. “Quilting is the metaphor that binds the entire story together.”

“Not to mention that it’s how Sadie supports her family and saves her farm,” Ellen added.

“I had some thoughts about that, too,” Deneford said. “Our test audience thought earning money from quilting was, well, a little tame. I decided she’ll run a bordello instead.”

Deneford’s assistant held up his hands as if framing a sign. “Think
Little House on the Prairie
meets
Die Hard
meets
Pretty Woman.”

Julia gaped at them. “Sadie is going to be a hooker?”

“At least at first,” Deneford said. “Later, when the money starts rolling in, she’ll become the madam.”

“I don’t believe this,” Julia said, disgusted.

“It might not be so bad,” Ares said in her ear. “You’re still sexy. With the right lighting and costumes, you could still carry it off.”

Julia wanted to slug him, but she kept her attention on Deneford. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Maybe you’re not choosing the right test audience for this picture. Why don’t you show those scenes to women? I’m sure you’ll get much better numbers in all age groups.”

Deneford shrugged. “We might, but that’s not the audience we’re going for.”

“That’s not the Rick Rowen audience,” Rick’s agent chimed in, and Rick nodded.

Julia felt her anger rising. “Women do attend movies, you know.”

“Come on, Julia,” Deneford said. “Don’t go all feminist on me. We both know women will go see a man’s picture, but men won’t go see a chick flick unless they’re dragged there kicking and screaming.”

“As long as they buy their tickets, does it matter how they go?” Ares countered.

Julia glared at him. “Thanks for that brilliant contribution.”

Deneford raised his hands. “All right, all right. Everyone take a deep breath. We all want to do what’s best for the movie, right? We all want to salvage the hard work we’ve already put into it. This is the way to go. I’m staking my career on it.”

Not only his career, Julia thought, but hers as well. She knew she could balk and complain all she wanted, but ultimately Deneford would have his way. Her only choices were to cooperate or to quit, and she couldn’t afford to quit.

“I quit.”

Julia spun to face the back of the room.

Ellen, her expression weary, had risen from her chair. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Ellen,” Deneford said quietly, “sit down.”

But Ellen remained standing. “I can’t do this. Sadie Henderson was my great-grandmother. I can’t let you make my great-grandmother into a prostitute. That’s not the way it happened. I won’t do that to her memory. I won’t do that to my family.”

All eyes were upon her as she walked around the table toward the door.

“Think carefully before you do this,” Deneford warned.

Ellen removed from her bag a battered, dog-eared script marked with dozens of bright sticky notes and threw it into the wastebasket beside the door. “Think
This Script
meets
The Trash Can.”

“Think
Another Dime-a-Dozen Nobody Writer
meets
Unemployment,”
Deneford shot back icily. “Don’t forget, Miss Henderson, I was giving you a break based upon a student film and the minuscule talent you displayed in that abominable first script despite the fact that you’ve never done anything and no one’s ever heard of you. If you think you’ll ever get another chance like this again, you’re gravely mistaken.”

Ellen blanched and swallowed, but reached for the doorknob.

“You’re not that important,” Deneford said, his voice rising. “I bought your script. I own it. This movie will be made with you or without you. There are four people essential to this project—me, Rick, Samantha, and Julia. I need them, but you need us much more than we need you.”

Ellen’s hand trembled—and she released the doorknob. Her gaze went from Deneford, around the table, and came to rest on Julia. She said nothing, but her gaze pleaded with Julia as loudly and as clearly as if she had shouted.

Julia remembered how she had loved that young woman’s original story, how she had longed to know Sadie, to be her, and she thought of how drastically her history had been altered since then. She thought of Donna, and how thrilled she had been to work as a stunt quilter; she thought of the extras around the quilt frame in Kansas and the quilters at Elm Creek Manor, and how much they would have loved a movie about their passion and their art. Most of all, she thought about the Cross-Country Quilters, and how they stood by each other and supported each other in their times of greatest need.

“I’m out, too,” she said softly.

Deneford stared at her. “What did you say?”

“I’m out.” Julia pushed back her chair and rose.

Ares seized her arm. “Are you out of your mind?”

She freed herself and gathered her things. “Sorry, Ares.” She looked around the table. “My apologies to all of you. But I’m ashamed of what we’ve done to Ellen’s story, and I can’t be a part of it anymore.”

She thought she heard Ellen let out a glad sob, but Ares held her attention. “If you do this, it will mean the end of your career.”

“I know that.”

His eyes narrowed with fury. “It also means that you and I are through.”

Julia smiled. “Why, Ares, you just made my decision that much easier.”

She turned, went to the door, linked her arm through Ellen’s, and led the dumbfounded young woman from the room.

Deneford pursued them as far as the doorway. “Your leaving will only improve the project,” he snapped at Ellen. “But you, Julia, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

Julia felt a tremor of queasiness, but she disguised it by waving her hand and saying airily, “Oh, very well, Stephen, if you must litigate, litigate. As if you don’t have more important things to do with your time. As if you don’t have Samantha ready and waiting to take over my role, as she has already done to some extent. You took a few liberties with our contract, too, did you not?”

She glimpsed the speechless consternation on Deneford’s face as she spun around and strode away, half propelling Ellen along, half leaning upon her for support.

She kept smiling as they walked down the hallway to the exit, and nodded as Ellen thanked her over and over, but her thoughts were of the career she had thrown away, the resurgence in fame she would never see, the Academy Award she would never hold, gleaming in all its golden beauty.

Then she thought of the Cross-Country Quilters. She imagined them cheering her on, proud of her, assuring her she had done the right thing.

She and Ellen left the building together, and as Julia stepped into the bright California sunshine, a flicker of joy rose in her heart, growing until it burned away her remorse and misgivings, until her smile transformed the mask of an actress into the face of a true friend.

Twelve

D
onna’s flight arrived in time for her to catch the first shuttle from the airport to Elm Creek Manor. She settled into her seat with a happy sigh as the van full of excited quilters left for Waterford. When Donna’s status as a veteran camper came up in the course of conversation, the first-timers peppered her with questions, which she tried her best to answer. But when they asked her what Elm Creek Quilt Camp was really like, she could only tell them, “You’ll have to discover that for yourself.”

She indulged in a contemplative mood and spent much of the trip gazing out the window at the rolling, forested hills of central Pennsylvania, daydreaming about the week to come. For more than an hour they drove, past farms and small towns, past historical markers and a sign for Waterford College, until at last the van turned onto a gravel road that wound its way through a forest. This Donna remembered; she looked for the bridge over the crystal waters of Elm Creek, and when they reached it, she knew they were almost there.