An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (4 page)

Her Job Hunt disk sat next to the computer, where she had left it the last time she worked on her résumé. She made a few revisions, printed out a couple of copies, then showered and dressed. Within an hour she was waiting at the bus stop for a ride downtown.

Waterford, Pennsylvania, was a town of about 35,000 people, except when Waterford College was in session and the population rose by 15,000 young adults. The downtown bordered the campus, and, aside from a few city government offices, consisted mainly of bars, faddish restaurants, and shops catering to the students. The local residents knew they owed their livelihoods to the transient student population, and although they were grateful for the income, many resented the dependence. Sometimes the town’s collective resentment erupted in a flurry of housing and noise ordinances, and the students would strike back with boycotts and sarcastic editorials in the school newspaper. Sarah wasn’t sure which group she sided with. The students treated her like a suspicious member of the establishment, and the locals assumed she was a despicable student. She tried to compensate by being polite to everyone, even their rowdy neighbors and the occasional shopkeeper who eyed her as if she might make off with half of the inventory, but it didn’t seem to help.

She got off at the stop closest to the post office, carrying her job application materials in her backpack. The day was humid and overcast. She scanned the gray clouds and quickened her pace. In the past few weeks she had learned the hard way that summer rainstorms in her new hometown were as brief and drenching as they were sudden. She would have to hurry if she wanted to stop at the market and catch the bus home without getting soaked.

The errand at the post office took only a few minutes, and after picking up some groceries, Sarah still had ten minutes until the next bus would arrive. She strolled down the street to the bus stop, window-shopping and listening for thunder.

When a patch of bright colors caught her eye, she stopped for a closer look. Her eyes widened in admiration as she studied the red-and-green quilt hanging in the shop window. Eight identical diamonds, each composed of sixteen smaller diamonds, formed a large, eight-pointed star. The arrangement of colors created the illusion that the star radiated outward from its center. Between the points of the star, tiny stitches created intricate wreaths in the background fabric. Something about the quilt seemed familiar, and then she remembered why; its pattern was similar to the quilt she had seen the day before in Mrs. Compson’s sitting room.

Studying it, Sarah wished she knew how to make something so beautiful. She had always loved quilts, loved the feel of the fabric and the way a quilt could make color blossom over a bed or on a wall. She couldn’t see a quilt without thinking of her grandmother and without feeling a painful blend of love and loss. When Sarah was a child, her family made the long drive to Grandma’s small house in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula only twice a year, once in summer and once at Christmas. The winter visits were best. They would bundle up on the sofa under two or three of Grandma’s old quilts, munch cookies, sip hot chocolate, and watch through the window as snow blanketed the earth. Some of Grandma’s creations still decorated Sarah’s childhood home, but Sarah couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother so much as touch a needle. If quiltmaking was a skill handed down from mother to daughter, her mother must have been the weak link in the chain. Grandma surely would have taught her if she had wanted to learn.

Sarah looked overhead for the sign bearing the shop’s name, and laughed in surprise when she saw the words G
RANDMA’S
A
TTIC
printed in gold letters on a red background. She checked her watch, gave the bus stop one last quick glance, and entered the shop.

Shelves stacked high with bolts of fabric, thread, notions, and other gadgets lined the walls and covered most of the floor. Celtic folk music played in the background. In the middle of the room, several women stood chatting and laughing around a large cutting table. One looked up from the conversation to smile at her, and Sarah smiled back. She made her way around the checkout counter to the front window and discovered that the quilt was even more beautiful up close. She tried to estimate how the quilt would fit their bed.

“I see our Lone Star charmed another new visitor inside,” a pleasant voice broke in on her thoughts. Sarah turned and found the woman who had smiled at her standing at her elbow. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, with dark, close-cropped hair, ruddy skin, and a friendly expression.

“Is that what it’s called, a Lone Star? It’s beautiful.”

The woman casually brushed pieces of thread from her sleeve as she joined Sarah in admiring the quilt. “Oh, yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? Wish I could take the credit, but one of our local quilt artists made it. It’s queen-sized, entirely hand-quilted.”

“How much do you want for it?”

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Thanks anyway,” Sarah said, not entirely able to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

The woman smiled in sympathy. “I know—it’s a lot, isn’t it? Actually, though, if you took that price and calculated an hourly wage from it, you’d see that it’s a bargain.”

“I can believe that. It must’ve taken years to make.”

“Most people stop by, hear the price, then head straight to some discount store for a cheap knockoff.” The woman sighed and shook her head. “People who don’t know quilts can’t detect the obvious differences in quality of materials and workmanship. Mrs. Compson’s lucky to get what she can for those she displays here.”

“Mrs. Compson?”

“Yes, Sylvia Compson. She’s been staying up at Elm Creek Manor since her sister died two months ago. Temperamental as hell—I had to install an awning outside before she’d agree to display her quilts in the window. She’s right, of course. I’d hate to have one of her pieces fade from the sunlight. She has two quilts in the American Quilter’s Society’s permanent collection in Paducah.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Good? I’d be glad just to have something accepted in the AQS annual show.” The woman chuckled. “I thought every quilter around here knew about Sylvia Compson.”

“I’ve met Mrs. Compson, but I’m not a quilter. I do love quilts, though.”

“Is that so? You should learn how to quilt, then.”

“Watch out, everyone, Bonnie’s about to make another convert,” one of the women called out from the cutting table.

“Run for it, honey,” another warned, and they all burst out laughing.

Bonnie joined in. “Okay, I admit I have a vested interest. Satisfied?” She pretended to glower at the others before turning back to Sarah. “We do offer lessons, um … ?”

“Sarah. Are you the Grandma from the sign?”

“Oh, no,” Bonnie said, laughing. “Not yet at least, thank God, although I do get asked that a lot. There’s no Grandma. There’s no attic, either. I just liked the name. Kind of homey, don’t you think? As you already heard, my name’s Bonnie, and these are some of my friends, the Tangled Web Quilters. We’re sort of a renegade group separate from the local Waterford Quilting Guild. We take our quilting—and ourselves—very seriously.” Her tone suggested that the remark was only half true. She handed Sarah a photocopied calendar. “Here’s a schedule if you’re interested in the lessons. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Sarah shook her head.

“Well, thanks for stopping by. Come back anytime. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to that crowd before Diane hides my rotary cutter again.” She smiled and returned to the cutting table.

“Thanks,” Sarah answered, folding up the paper and tucking it into her backpack. She left the store, ran half a block to the bus stop, and climbed on the bus just as heavy drops of rain began to pelt the sidewalk.

Three

S
arah’s heart leaped when she returned home to find the answering machine’s light blinking. A message. Maybe Waterford College had called about that admissions counselor job. She let her packages fall to the floor and scrambled for the button. Or maybe it was from Penn-Cellular Corporation. That would be even better.

“Hi, Sarah. It’s me.”

Matt.

“I’m calling from the office, but I was up at Elm Creek Manor this morning, and—well, I guess it can wait until I get home. Hope you don’t have any plans for tomorrow. See you tonight. Love you.”

As the tape rewound, Sarah left her backpack on the hallway floor and brought the groceries into the kitchen. What was it that could wait until he got home? She considered phoning Matt to see what was going on, but decided not to interrupt his work. Instead she put away the groceries and went into the living room. She opened the sliding door just enough to allow a breeze to circulate through the duplex, then stretched out on the sofa and listened to the rain.

What should she do now? She’d done the laundry the day before and wouldn’t have to start dinner for a while. Maybe she could call one of her friends from school. No, at this time of day they would all be working or busy with their graduate school classes and research.

Funny how things had turned out. In college she had been the one with clear goals and direction, taking all the right classes and participating in all the right extracurricular activities and summer internships. Her friends had often remarked that their own career plans seemed vague or nonexistent in comparison. And now they were going places while she sat around the house with nothing to do.

She rolled over on her side and stared at the blank television screen. Nothing would be on now—nothing good, anyway. She almost wished she had some homework to do. If only she had picked a different major—marketing, or management, maybe. Something in the sciences would have been even better. But in high school Sarah’s guidance counselor had told her that there would always be jobs for accountants, and she had taken those words to heart. She had been the only freshman in her dorm who knew from the first day of classes what major she was going to declare at the end of the year. It had seemed so self-indulgent to ask herself if she enjoyed accounting, if she thought she would find it a fulfilling career. If only she had listened to her heart instead of her guidance counselor. Ultimately, though, she knew she had no one but herself to blame now that she had no marketable job skills beyond bean counting.

Suddenly exasperated with herself, she shoved the whining voices from her mind. True, she didn’t have a job, but she didn’t have to mope and complain like the voice of doom. That was what her mother would do. What Sarah needed was something to keep herself occupied until a job came along. Moving into the duplex had kept her too busy to worry for a couple of weeks; maybe she could join a book club or take a course up at Waterford College.

Then her thoughts returned to the quilt she had seen in the shop window earlier that day. She jumped up from the sofa and retrieved her backpack from the hallway. The quilt shop’s class schedule was still there, a bit damp from her rainy walk home from the bus stop. Sarah unfolded it and smoothed out the creases, studying the course names, dates, times, and prices.

Her heart sank. The costs seemed reasonable, but even reasonable expenses were too much when she hadn’t seen a paycheck in more than two months. Like so many other things, quilting lessons would to have to wait until the McClures were a dual-income family. But the more Sarah thought about it, the more she liked the idea. A quilt class would give her a chance to meet people, and a handmade quilt might make the duplex seem more like a home. She would talk to Matt about it. Maybe they could come up with the money somehow.

She decided to bring it up over supper that evening. “Matt,” she began. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about all day.”

Matt took a second helping of corn and grinned. “You mean my phone message? I’m surprised you didn’t ask about it sooner. Usually you hate it when I keep you in suspense.”

Sarah paused. She had forgotten all about it. “That’s right. You said you had to talk to me about something.”

“First, though, do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

Something in his tone made her wary. “Why?”

“Yes or no?”

“I’m afraid to answer until I know why you’re asking.”

“Sheesh. So suspicious.” But he put down his fork and hesitated a moment. “I spent the day up at Elm Creek Manor inspecting the trees. Not a trace of Dutch elm disease anywhere. I don’t know how they managed it.”

“I hope you didn’t get caught in the rain.”

“Actually, as soon as the thunder started, Mrs. Compson made me come inside. She even fixed me lunch.”

“You’re kidding. She didn’t make you cook it yourself?”

“No.” He chuckled. “She’s a pretty good cook, too. While I was eating, we kind of got to talking. She wants you to come see her tomorrow.”

“What? What for? Why would she want to see me?”

“She didn’t say exactly. She said she wanted to tell you in person.”

“I’m not going. Tell her I can’t come. Tell her I’m busy.”

Matt’s face assumed the expression it always did when he knew he was about to get in trouble. “I can’t. I already told her you’d come in with me tomorrow morning.”

“Why’d you do that? Call her and tell her—tell her something. Say I have a dentist appointment.”

“I can’t. She doesn’t have a phone, remember?”

“Matt—”

“Think of it this way. It’s a lot cooler out there than in town, right? You could get out of this heat for a while.”

“I’d rather stay home and turn on the air-conditioning.”

“Oh, come on, honey, what would it hurt?” He put on his most effective beseeching expression. “She’s an important client. Please?”

Sarah frowned at him, exasperated.

“Please?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. Just, please, next time, ask me before you commit me to something.”

“Okay. Promise.”

Sarah shook her head and sighed. She knew better.

The next morning was sunny and clear, not nearly as humid as it had been before yesterday’s rainstorm. “Why would she want to see me?” Sarah asked again as Matt drove them to Mrs. Compson’s home.