An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (124 page)

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Vinnie said. “Honestly, dear, to go through something like this alone … ” She shook her head.

“I didn’t want anyone’s pity.”

“We wouldn’t have given you pity,” Megan said. “We would have given you friendship. A shoulder to cry on, if you wanted it.”

“I know that now,” Grace said. “But I’m not used to needing people. Whatever problems life has sent my way, I’ve always handled them alone. My ex-husband tells me I’m the most stubborn and fiercely independent woman he’s ever met. If I am, he’s partly responsible, but I can’t ignore the fact that sometimes even fiercely independent people need to share their burdens.”

Vinnie reached out and patted her knee. “That’s not an easy lesson to learn.”

“No, but it’s easier than lying.” She looked around the circle of friends and felt herself warmed by their compassion. “And I’ve lied to you from the beginning. I knew what caused my quilter’s block, and it wasn’t my daughter’s supposed romance. It was my MS and my refusal to admit that it had become a part of my life.” She quickly bent over her bag until she could blink back tears. “All this time I’ve been trying to live in spite of MS, to quilt in spite of MS. It wasn’t working, because living a lie never works for long. It took a good friend to show me I need to live and quilt
with
my MS, not in spite of it.”

She reached into her bag and brought out the quilt she had begun the day she returned home from AQS, Sylvia’s words still resonant in her heart. Her friends reached forward to grasp the edges, unfolding the quilt so all could see.

It was a wild, chaotic work, a whirlwind of angry reds and oranges and yellows, blazing on a black background. Sharp, jagged lines conflicted with uncontrolled spirals over the barely recognizable outline of a woman crouched beneath a burden of grief. Into every uneven, undisciplined piece and crooked stitch Grace had poured all her rage, her anguish, her loss. She felt the emotions nearly overpowering in their intensity, but as she gazed upon her handiwork, she reminded herself that creating this quilt had freed her from pain, and that if she permitted it, she could sustain the peace that had come from completing the final stitch, filling up the empty spaces in her heart, until the grief subsided beneath a blanket of calm.

Her friends held the quilt tenderly, as if they were cradling a piece of Grace’s soul in their arms.

“This is the quilt that helped me get through my quilter’s block,” Grace said. She meant that this monument to her pain was the only quilt powerful enough to smash through the barriers she had erected around herself. Looking into her friends’ eyes, she knew they understood.

She set the quilt aside lovingly, as if it had been a joy to make, although she had often succumbed to tears of rage and anguish as she worked upon it. “Since I faced my challenge, even though I wasn’t completely honest with you about the true nature of that challenge, I decided I was allowed to complete my Challenge Quilt block.” She smiled, reached into the bag, and brought out a Carpenter’s Wheel block made in burgundy and green and the autumn leaf fabric Vinnie had given her.

“Not you, too,” Vinnie said. “Why Carpenter’s Wheel?”

“Because she discovered she’s the architect of her own fate,” Megan said.

Grace laughed, delighted at the hidden meaning she herself had not considered. “I like that answer, but I admit I didn’t think of that at the time. I chose this pattern because a carpenter taught me it’s possible to transform your life even when all manner of obstacles are placed before you.”

Vinnie nodded in approval, and as Grace’s friends admired her block and showed her their own, she knew the quilt they would make together would be as strong as its creators and as enduring as their friendship, which had been tested by time, distance, and misunderstanding, yet on that day shone brightly, untarnished, as if newly minted.

All that week the Cross-Country Quilters worked on their quilt, attending only a few seminars and spending most of their time in a vacant classroom Sylvia had set aside for them. First they arranged the blocks in a three-by-three grid, separating their pieced blocks with solid setting squares of background fabric. Donna’s Bear’s Paw block was in the upper left corner, and a solid setting square separated it from Megan’s Snow Crystals block in the upper right. Julia’s Friendship Star occupied the center position, with setting squares on either side. The Carpenter’s Wheel block Grace had made took the lower left corner; Vinnie’s Wedding Ring, the lower right.

They united the sampler blocks and setting squares, then encircled the finished unit with a narrow border of background fabric. Together they scrutinized the quilt and decided that it needed something more. They considered prairie points, or solid fabric borders, and several other ideas before Donna had a brainstorm. One of her infamous unfinished projects was a quilt made of Autumn Leaf blocks in autumn colors. She had brought those blocks with her for a seminar entitled “Finishing Your UFOs,” a class she suspected Sylvia Compson had added to the program with her in mind. Since Donna had completed eight blocks already, they would only need to make sixteen more to create a pieced Autumn Leaf border to surround their sampler blocks.

“
Only
sixteen?” Julia said, alarmed.

“With all of us working together, we’ll finish in no time,” Megan reassured her. “We can use some quick-piecing techniques, too.”

Julia shuddered. “Please, no quick piecing.” They all laughed, remembering Julia’s disastrous first class the previous year.

Grace shook her head, smiling. “It’s a wonder you stuck with quilting after that introduction.”

“It is a wonder,” Julia agreed, “but I’m glad I did.”

Their laughter rang through the halls of Elm Creek Manor, as it had so often that week. Other campers, made curious by the noise and their feverish excitement, stopped by to see what they were doing. The Cross-Country Quilters took turns telling onlookers the story of how their project had come to be, how each had faced a challenge in her life and had commemorated her success with a quilt block. Some campers asked what those challenges were, but by unspoken agreement, the Cross-Country Quilters refused to divulge the confidences of their friends. Grace had the final word that put an end to the persistent inquiries: “Think of the challenges you face as a woman, as a wife, as a mother. The problems we faced were no different than those any woman faces.”

They completed the pieced top on Wednesday just before lunch, and interrupted the meal with a special unveiling. When the other campers burst into cheers and applause, the Cross-Country Quilters exchanged smiles and knowing looks. The other campers celebrated them for their hard work that week, little realizing that the real work had taken place over the course of an entire year.

After lunch, Sylvia invited the Cross-Country Quilters to a far corner of the ballroom, a place that had not been converted to classroom space. There she showed them a wooden quilt frame that had been polished both with a craftsman’s care and with usage over time. The rectangular frame was the height of an ordinary table, with slender rods running along the longer sides, and knobs and gears at the corners. As the others placed chairs around it, Megan returned to her room for the batting and backing fabric she had brought from home. They placed the layers in the frame: backing fabric on the bottom, batting in the middle, and the colorful pieced quilt top last of all.

They took their places around the frame, but not long after they had begun to quilt, Sylvia returned to tell Julia she had a phone call. Julia followed her to the formal parlor and discovered that Ellen was on the line.

“Ellen,” she exclaimed, astonished. They had spoken only once since walking out of Deneford’s meeting in April. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“It’s good to hear your voice again, too. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting your vacation. Your assistant gave me the number.”

“That’s fine,” Julia assured her, and she meant it, surprised by how pleased she was that Ellen had tracked her down. “How are you? Are you working on anything new?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. How about you? Is your schedule full?”

“Hardly,” Julia said. “I guess you could say I’m semiretired. I’ve looked at a few scripts—all of them awful—but without an agent soliciting work for me, I don’t expect to be working again anytime soon.” She smiled, thinking how a year ago she would have trembled in fear at the very thought.

“If a good project came your way, would you consider it?”

“Oh, certainly. But I’m not as hungry as I used to be. I won’t settle for another
Prairie Vengeance
to make a quick buck, that’s for sure. There’s been some talk about doing a Home Sweet Home anniversary reunion, and if it comes together, I’d do that for a lark. Otherwise I only want serious, high-quality work, something worth the time and effort I’ll put into it.”

“Would you consider playing Sadie Henderson in
A Patchwork Life?
”

Julia laughed. “In a heartbeat, but that’s not an option, is it?”

“Actually, it is.”

Julia almost dropped the phone. “What do you mean?”

“PBS wants to produce it. I’m going to direct, and I’d like you to star.”

“But how is this possible?” Julia stammered. “Deneford bought the rights to Sadie’s story.”

“Ah. But he didn’t. He bought the rights to my original script. I own the rights to Sadie’s diaries, and therefore, her story. I’ll have to rewrite the script to make it all nice and legal, but it will be legal. My father’s an attorney, and I had heard enough nightmare stories about Hollywood to be very careful when I signed over my script.”

Julia was impressed. “Ellen, my dear, I underestimated you.”

“So did Deneford.”

His name reminded Julia of a new worry. “Deneford might object to your releasing a film so similar to his. He might even sue.”

Ellen laughed. “First of all,
Prairie Vengeance
barely resembles
A Patchwork Life.
Second, I don’t think Deneford will want to remind anyone of
Prairie Vengeance.
It’s caused him enough damage without him airing his failures in the media again.”

“I don’t understand. Wouldn’t the publicity help the release of
Prairie Vengeance?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what? I’ve been somewhat out of the loop.”

“
Prairie Vengeance
went so far over budget in the reshooting that Deneford had to promise the studio he’d take no salary and cover the extra expenses himself. He thought he’d end up making a profit, but the test audience response was so negative that the studio sent the movie straight to video.”

“No,” Julia said, with only the smallest wicked surge of glee.

“Yes. There are even rumors that he’s going to be, shall we say, encouraged to void his contract with the studio.” Ellen paused. “So what do you think? It won’t be the feature film you wanted, and it certainly won’t pay what you were getting from Deneford, but are you interested? Do you want to think it over and call me back in a few weeks?”

Julia didn’t need a few weeks. “I’m interested. Send a contract to my home.”

“You mean it?”

“Of course.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

Julia laughed. “That’s what you said last time.”

“This time will be different,” Ellen promised, and Julia knew in her heart it would be.

Julia returned to the quilt frame with a heart so light she wanted to skip across the marble floor of the grand foyer singing the Hallelujah Chorus. A new project, something she could be proud of. Whatever Ellen’s terms were, she would accept them, although she might ask Maury to come out of retirement to read over the contract first, for old times’ sake.

She couldn’t wait to tell her friends.