An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (14 page)

“You should have seen it when I was a girl,” she finally said as Sarah packed up their leftovers and trash. “The planters were full of roses and ivy, the fountain would sparkle, the terraces held bulbs that bloomed with every variety of lovely blossom. What a shame. What a shame.”

Sarah touched her arm. “Matt can restore it. You’ll see.”

“It never should have been allowed to fall into such disrepair in the first place. Claudia could have easily afforded a gardener—a whole staff of gardeners. She should have had better sense.”

“Mrs. Compson, why do you want to sell the manor? I know it needs some fixing up, but it could be such a wonderful place again, and Matt and I will help.”

“I could never be happy here. Even if it were as beautiful as it once was, it could never be what it was supposed to be. You couldn’t possibly under-stand, a child your age.”

She frowned so gloomily that Sarah looked away. Certainly the garden needed a lot of work, but Matt had restored places in even worse disrepair. If Mrs. Compson just gave him a chance—

“Besides, I already have a buyer.”

Sarah whirled on her. “You what?”

Mrs. Compson studied the stone bench beside her. “A local real estate company has already expressed a great deal of enthusiasm. A gentleman from University Realty visited me Tuesday afternoon, while you were at your interview. Of course, we haven’t agreed to any terms yet, but I’m sure we’ll strike a fair bargain.” Mrs. Compson surveyed the garden with a critical eye. “That’s why I’m investing so much in the restoration, to increase the estate’s value.”

“I see.”

“Now, don’t sound so dejected, Sarah. I’ll be here all summer. That’s plenty of time to teach you how to quilt.”

“But what will you do after that?”

“Sell the manor, auction off the contents, and return to my house in Sewickley. Don’t look so surprised. You do recall why you were hired, don’t you?” Abruptly, she rose. “If you’re finished eating, I have something else to show you.”

Sarah followed her to the gazebo. The steps creaked tiredly, as if they would have collapsed except it required too much effort. Wood benches resembling rectangular wooden crates lined the walls of the octagon-shaped structure.

Mrs. Compson pointed to the top of each bench in turn, and cocked her head to one side. “What do you think?”

Sarah peered closer. Inlaid in the middle of each seat was a pattern of interlocking multicolored wood rectangles fitted around a small center square. Some benches had a yellow center square—yellow pine, perhaps—while the rest had a red center square. The colors might have been vivid once but were now weathered and faded. Sarah traced one of the blocks with a fin-ger. “This pattern looks familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“It’s a quilt pattern called Log Cabin. Supposedly it was invented to honor Abraham Lincoln, but that might just be a myth. According to tradition, the quilter should always put a red square in the middle, to symbolize the hearth, or a yellow square, to represent a light in the cabin window.”

“It’s pretty.”

“That’s true, but there’s more. Look carefully.”

Sarah carefully examined each bench in turn, not sure what she should be looking for. Then she saw it. “This one,” she said, pointing. “Its center square is different. It’s black.”

“Good girl.” Mrs. Compson nodded. “Lift up the bench.”

“It lifts up?” Sarah grasped the edge of the bench. She saw no hinges, nothing to distinguish it from the other benches.

“Carefully, now. Lift up the edge and slide it back.”

The wooden seat creaked in protest and stuck, but Sarah jimmied it lose. As she eased it away from her, the wooden slats folded into a hidden recess beneath the bench, almost like a rolltop desk. “What in the world—” The seat had covered some kind of opening. Sarah saw narrow boards nailed in a column, like a ladder leading down from a child’s treehouse.

“In the Civil War era, Elm Creek Manor was a stop on the Underground Railroad,” Mrs. Compson explained in a conspiratorial tone. “A Log Cabin quilt with a black center square was a signal. If an escaped slave saw a log cabin quilt with black center squares hanging on the washline, he knew it was safe to knock on the door.”

“But wouldn’t bounty hunters or whatever see the quilt, too?”

Mrs. Compson regarded her with mock astonishment. “Why, who pays attention to women’s work? Laundry, hanging on the line? Sorry, we can’t be bothered. We’re out doing important man things.”

Sarah bent forward, trying to make out the ground below in the darkness. “So people would see this design on the bench and know it was a hiding place. This is amazing. Does it go underground?”

“Just deep enough so that one can stand comfortably beneath the gazebo. My grandmother told me that every evening someone would come out to check if anyone was in the hiding place and see to their needs. Then when it was safe, they could be brought inside the manor.”

“I’m going to check it out.” Sarah sat on the adjacent bench and swung her legs through the opening.

Mrs. Compson placed a hand on her elbow. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Who knows what could be down there now—snakes, rabid squirrels—better let Matthew take care of it.”

Quickly, Sarah withdrew her legs, then pulled the seat back to cover the opening. If a rabid squirrel had made the hiding place its home, she didn’t want Matt to go down there, either. She rose and dusted off her hands, “You can’t tell me there’s anything this interesting in some house in Sewickley.”

“How would you know? You’ve never been there,” Mrs. Compson replied, but then she sighed. “Very well, I won’t pretend to think Elm Creek Manor is any less wonderful than I know it truly is. But Sarah, my dear, don’t wish for excitement. Interesting doesn’t always mean good. Sometimes the most ordinary things are the ones we learn to miss the most.” Mrs. Compson sighed again more deeply, placed her hands on the gazebo rail, and looked out over the garden. “Why don’t you fetch our things, and we’ll quilt for a while until it’s time for you to go.”

Twelve

T
hat evening Sarah went to her first Tangled Web Quilters’ meeting. As she drove downtown, she realized that this was the first time she had gone out in the evening without Matt since they moved to Waterford. Driving without him made her feel strange, as if she had forgotten something at home but couldn’t remember what.

She found a parking spot across the street from Grandma’s Attic, picked up the white cardboard box of chocolate chip cookies she had baked after work, and left the truck. She was halfway across the street before she remembered her quilting supplies. Exasperated, she went back for them. She’d been less nervous going to PennCellular the other day. The Tangled Web Quilters had already invited her to join their group, and since they hadn’t said anything about a trial membership, she had no reason to be so anxious. Just because they were the only people in Waterford who wanted to be her friends …

Her thoughts went to Mrs. Compson as she walked down the alley between the building that held Grandma’s Attic and a similar three-story building next door. Didn’t Mrs. Compson have any friends? She never spoke of any, and no one ever came to visit her while Sarah was there. The last time Sarah had been at Grandma’s Attic, Diane had hinted at some kind of conflict. Maybe tonight Sarah could get her to explain more. Diane would probably enjoy talking about it—if Gwen let her.

She found the back door; it was unlocked, as Bonnie had promised. Just inside the door there was a steep, narrow staircase, which Sarah climbed to the second-story landing while balancing her bag of quilting supplies on top of the box. She knocked on the only door.

It swung open on the second knock, and Bonnie stuck her head into the hallway. “Welcome, new member,” she cried, and her eyes widened when she spotted the box in Sarah’s arms. “Ooh, what did you bring?”

“Chocolate chip cookies. I can’t supply much in the way of quilting advice, but at least I can bring snacks.”

“And we love you for it. You can never have too many snacks, not with this crowd.” Bonnie took the box out of Sarah’s arms and led her into the house. “Hey, everybody, Sarah’s here.”

Mrs. Emberly, Gwen, Judy, and Diane greeted her from their places around a kitchen counter covered with goodies. Judy was holding her baby.

“I guess that means we’re just waiting for the kid,” Gwen said, helping herself to a brownie.

Judy put on a puzzled frown and looked from her baby to Gwen. “You mean Emily?”

“No, you nut. I mean my kid.”

“I bet she loves it when you call her that,” Diane said.

“She doesn’t mind.”

Mrs. Emberly smiled. “I hope when I’m not around you don’t call me ‘the old lady.’”

“No, we call you Lady Emberly of the Perfect Stitches.”

“What do you call me?” Diane asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

The door slammed, and Summer rushed in, breathless. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had to finish typing a paper.”

“It’s nice of you to join us at all, instead of going to the bars like all the other students,” Diane said.

Summer rolled her eyes. “Not all students live and die for beer.” She put an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “I’m glad you’re here. If we bring down the average age of the group, they won’t be able to treat me like the baby anymore.”

“You’ll always be my baby,” Gwen said.

“That’s different. That, I expect.”

Everyone laughed.

“You’re not the youngest, anyway,” Judy reminded her, giving Emily a little pat on her diapered bottom and carrying her into the other room to her playpen.

Sarah picked up a red plastic plate from the counter and joined the others in selecting treats. Carrying her plate and the bag of quilting supplies in one hand and a cup of diet soda in the other, she followed Summer into the living room.

A breeze came in through the two large windows along the north wall, carrying with it the sounds of cars passing and people laughing on the street below. The Markham home seemed like an extension of Grandma’s Attic; a rose-and-hunter-green quilt hung above the sofa on the wall opposite the windows, and there was an old treadle sewing machine near the doorway. Sarah wished she could see the other rooms. She had expected a home above a store to be—well, she wasn’t exactly sure what she had expected, but she hadn’t expected a regular middle-class home.

She found a seat in an armchair next to an upright piano at the far end of the room. Gwen and Summer sat side by side on a loveseat to her left, between the windows. Bonnie carried a rocking chair in from another room and placed it in the corner between Gwen and Sarah.

When Mrs. Emberly entered, Judy jumped up from her place on the sofa beside Diane. “Here, take my seat.”

“No, no, that’s all right,” Mrs. Emberly said, settling beside her in an armchair identical to Sarah’s. “This is comfortable. And I like being next to Emily.”

Emily looked up and smiled when her name was spoken. She shook a plastic ring of keys at the older woman and squealed.

“I guess Emily wants you there, too,” Judy said, laughing.

“Just think, Judy,” Diane said. “Fifteen more years and she’ll want real keys, and a car to go with them.”

Judy pretended to shudder. “Don’t remind me. I have enough to think about between now and then.” She reached into a tote bag and brought out a small quilt in primary colors.

From across the room, Bonnie looked on in interest. “How’s that coming?”

“Not bad, though I wish I had more time to work on it. At this rate it won’t be done until Emily’s in first grade.”

“So I guess you won’t be entering it in the Waterford Summer Quilt Festival after all,” Summer said.

“No, but I don’t mind. My Log Cabin will be there.”

Mrs. Emberly reached over to stroke the quilt. “Didn’t I tell you the Jacob’s Ladder would be prettier than a Wandering Foot?”

Sarah almost dropped her block. “You shouldn’t make a Wandering Foot quilt for Emily.”

The others looked at her and smiled.

“I’m only teasing her, honey,” Mrs. Emberly said. “How did you learn about that old superstition? I thought only senior ladies like me believed them anymore.”

Sarah felt her cheeks growing warm. “I don’t believe it, exactly. Mrs. Compson told me about it.”

Everyone’s hands froze over their work. The room went quiet.

After a moment Mrs. Emberly resumed sewing. “Oh. Of course.”

The others exchanged glances and continued quilting.

Summer met Sarah’s gaze for the briefest instant before turning to Mrs. Emberly. “What’s that you’re working on? Is it something new?”

“No, just another Whig Rose block, same as last time.”

“Can I see it?”

Mrs. Emberly smiled as Summer came over and sat down on the floor by her feet. She took the block from the older woman and held it up for the others to see.

Gwen shook her head in admiration. “Beautiful. How are you going to set them?”

“Oh, I haven’t decided yet. I have to make six more blocks first. Maybe I’ll use a Garden Maze setting.”

“What’s that?” Sarah asked.

“You sew dark strips around each block, and then you sew the blocks to each other, separated by light strips.”

Sarah tried to picture it and couldn’t.

Mrs. Emberly smiled. “I’ll bring a photo next time.”

“That’s at my place,” Diane told Sarah. “I’ll draw you a map if you want.”

“Sure, thanks.”

“Won’t you guys be too tired from quilt camp to have a bee that night?” Summer asked.

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Right, kid. We’d better just sit around in our rocking chairs recuperating.”

“What’s quilt camp?” Sarah asked.

“Next week a few quilt instructors are running a three-day session of workshops and seminars in the Poconos,” Bonnie said. “It’s a fun way to get together with lots of other quilters, learn some new techniques, stuff like that.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Everyone’s going but you, me, and Bonnie,” Summer said. “And Emily. I have classes.”

“I wish I could go,” Bonnie said. “But someone has to run the store. Besides, Craig and I are trying to watch the money, what with all three of the kids in college.”