An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (80 page)

Grace didn’t need to see him. She mistrusted him already. What was Justine thinking? She was supposed to find a father figure for Joshua, not for herself. “Maybe he was a professor. Maybe they were discussing a school project.”

“At a restaurant on a Saturday night? And why would she bring Joshua along instead of leaving him with his grandma?”

“I don’t know.” Distressed, Grace searched her memory for any hint Justine might have let fall about this strange new man. “I can’t remember what she told me she was doing that night. I know she didn’t say she had a date.” Grace definitely would have remembered that. “How was he with Joshua?”

Sondra’s eyes widened in injured innocence. “Do you think I spent my evening spying on your daughter?”

“Yes, I do. And I would have done the same for you.”

“Joshua seemed to love him.” Sondra brushed a few bits of hair from the back of Grace’s neck. “Think of it this way: He’s old, but at least he likes kids.”

“And that makes it fine that he has one foot in the grave.”

Sondra laughed. “I said old enough to be her father, not great-grandpa.”

“That’s old enough.”

“A good man is a good man,” Sondra protested. “What does age matter?”

“You know it matters, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Well, maybe it does matter, but it shouldn’t.” Sondra removed the plastic drape and gave Grace a hand mirror so she could examine the back of her head. “All that counts is that Justine is happy, right?”

Grace frowned, knowing Sondra was right but not feeling any better about it. Her daughter was an intelligent young woman, but even intelligent people didn’t always make sensible decisions where matters of the heart were concerned. Grace knew that as well as anyone.

What was worse was that Justine hadn’t told her about her new friend. If their relationship had advanced so far that Justine would bring Joshua along on their dates, why hadn’t she mentioned him to her own mother?

“Good luck,” Sondra told her as Grace left the salon, but Grace wasn’t sure if she was referring to the interview or to Justine’s mysterious dinner companion.

She met her daughter and grandson in the park across the street from the salon. Justine was pushing Joshua in a swing, her dozens of long, glossy braids gathered in a silk scarf at the nape of her neck. She had the strong cheekbones and rich brown skin her mother and grandmother had also been blessed with, but her stubborn, independent streak had come from her mother alone, and her passion from the father she barely remembered. Joshua resembled Justine physically, but his studious, thoughtful temperament reminded Grace of his own father. Marc and Justine had been good together. She wished with all her heart that he had been the man Sondra had seen with Justine.

When Justine spotted her, she smiled and lifted Joshua out of the swing. Grace laughed with delight as he ran to meet her, and, forgetting herself, she bent over to swoop him up in her arms. “Oooph,” she grunted, shifting him so his weight rested on her hip. “You’re getting bigger every day, aren’t you, honey?”

“Bigger and smarter and more mischievous,” Justine said with a smile as she joined them, but Grace saw the concern in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” Grace told her.

“I know.” Still, Justine took Joshua from her arms, and Grace was more than willing to let her.

As Justine drove them downtown to the television station, Grace decided not to mention the little she knew of Justine’s secret. Her daughter would have a fit if she knew her mother’s friends were keeping an eye on her. Grace contented herself with asking, “If you were seeing someone new, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure.” Justine paused, keeping her eyes on the road. “Probably. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether I thought you’d hate him on sight, on how serious I was about him. I wouldn’t want to get your hopes up by introducing you to someone who wouldn’t be around long.” She glanced in the rearview mirror and lowered her voice. “That’s why I don’t introduce anyone to Joshua right away, either. I wouldn’t want to hurt him by letting him get too attached to just anyone.”

“That seems wise.”

“It also gives me time to make sure the boyfriend understands that Joshua will always come first in my life—before myself, before my work, and definitely before him.” She sighed. “That’s probably why I don’t date much. Not that I mind. My life is full already, and I’m not one of these sisters who thinks she has to have a man to be complete. I learned that from you.”

“I think I taught you too well,” Grace said glumly, thinking of Marc, but Justine merely laughed.

When they reached the studio, Justine left Grace in front of the building and went to park the car. Grace went inside, up the elevator to the second floor. She waited there for the producer, a thin, dark-haired white woman with a harried expression, who bustled in ten minutes late, full of apologies.

“I wasn’t waiting very long,” Grace said, but the woman continued on as if she hadn’t heard, leading her through a maze of corridors so rapidly that Grace stumbled and nearly fell.

“You’ll be on in five, right after local news and right before the weather. Your assistant sent over the photos, so we’re all set.” The producer paused for breath as she stopped outside a large, solid door. “You’ll need to keep quiet until your segment. Try not to knock anything over.”

“I’ll do my best,” Grace said dryly as the producer opened the door and led her inside.

The studio was cool and dark except for the end of the room where the set was located. The two news anchors sat behind the desk taking turns reading from the TelePrompTer. Grace had hoped to see the same woman who had interviewed her last time, but her usual chair was occupied by the blond woman from the morning show. Soon after, when the news went to commercial and the producer led Grace to a chair on the set, she realized with some dismay that the blond woman was her interviewer.

“Good afternoon. I’m Andrea Jarthur,” the blond woman said, smiling and extending a perfectly manicured hand.

Grace shook it. “Grace Daniels.” From behind, someone clipped a microphone to her jacket. “Thanks for having me on.”

“It’s my pleasure. I love your work.”

“Thank you,” Grace said, nervousness stirring. “You do know I’m not here to talk about my work, right?”

“Of course,” Andrea said, smiling. “But if we have time, I might get to that, okay?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

Andrea’s eyebrows rose. “I’ve never met an artist who didn’t like to promote her work. Surely you don’t mean it?”

Before Grace had a chance to reply, the stage manager called out, “In five, four …” He held up three fingers, then two, and then one.

Andrea turned to one of the cameras. “Welcome back. With us now is Grace Daniels, the celebrated quilt artist from right here in the Bay area. Welcome, Grace.”

“Thank you.”

“I understand that you’re the curator of a new exhibit of antique quilts at the deYoung Museum in Golden Gate Park.”

“That’s right. The exhibit is titled ‘Stitched into the Soul: A Celebration of African-American Quiltmakers in—’”

“Is any of your own work included?”

“No,” Grace said, somewhat sharply. “These are antique quilts.”

“Of course. Tell us, what makes these quilts so special?”

“They’re important not only as works of art, but as historical artifacts. These quilts were pieced by slaves for their own use, and therefore they help document what life was like for them.” Mindful of the limited time, Grace briefly explained what could be learned from the materials used, the patterns chosen, and the condition of the quilts.

“That’s fascinating,” Andrea interrupted just as Grace was warming to her subject. “Especially since the domestic arts are undergoing a renaissance of sorts these days, aren’t they? Hobbies like quilting are becoming so popular lately, but you were really out there on the cutting edge—pardon the pun—years ago, weren’t you?”

“Actually …” Hobbies? Grace thought. Domestic arts? “What this exhibit shows us is that—”

“I think what your fans really want to know is, when will you next treat us to an exhibit of your own work?” Andrea smiled innocently. “I understand it’s been over three years since you’ve had a show.”

“Two years.”

“Can you give us a little hint as to your current projects? And maybe tell us how soon we can expect to see your latest work?”

Grace forced herself to smile through clenched teeth. “I don’t like to discuss my projects before they’re finished.”

Andrea’s bright smile never faltered. “The San Francisco art community will just have to wait in suspense, is that what you’re saying?”

“I … I suppose so. But in the meantime, the deYoung Museum exhibit is a fascinating look at an important part of American art and cultural history.” Quickly Grace ran through the particulars. Her voice sounded clear and serene in her ears, but inside she was fuming—at Andrea, of course, for her questions, but also at herself, for allowing herself to be so easily shaken.

After the interview ended, Grace abruptly rose and left the set without returning Andrea’s farewell. Justine met her in the lobby, Joshua by her side. “How did it go?” she asked as Grace approached.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Grace continued past her daughter and out the front door so quickly that Justine had to scoop up her son and hurry after her. Grace’s heart was racing. Current projects—what current projects? How could she talk about her latest quilt when her latest quilt had been completed more than a year before? How could she admit that her well of creative inspiration—which she had once thought too deep to ever run dry—was as barren as her own future?

“I have to get away from here,” she said, thinking aloud.

“The car’s only a block away,” Justine replied, baffled. But Grace hardly heard her. She had to get away from her loft, from her studio, from the museum where she faced questions like Andrea Jarthur’s nearly every day, from everything familiar.

Suddenly a memory tickled the back of her mind, and she thought of her friend Sylvia Compson. Sylvia was running a quilt retreat somewhere in Pennsylvania. Perhaps Sylvia could provide the sanctuary Grace needed so that her art might return to her while she could still hold a needle.

Two

J
ulia marveled that the agency’s chartered jet managed to locate the tiny airport at all, much less come to a halt before speeding off the end of the runway. She studied the view from the window with misgivings. Except for the control tower and a small one-story building she assumed was the terminal, all she could see were trees. Had Maury taken leave of his senses, sending her out into the wilderness like this?

“The limo should be waiting,” the man across the aisle said. “I’ve kept your arrival a secret, but don’t be surprised if there’s a crowd gathered around. They probably get a limo in this backwater only once every twenty years.”

Julia felt a flash of annoyance, not the first since meeting her new agent a week after Maury’s retirement party. “I’m Ares,” he had introduced himself when she joined him at the restaurant. After she seated herself, he had reached across the table and offered her his hand and a flash of white teeth. Maury would have stood as she approached, and he would have pulled out her chair for her and not returned to his own until he was sure she was comfortable.

“Aries, the ram?” she had said, shaking the younger man’s hand.

“No.” His grin had suddenly become fierce. “Ares, the Greek god of war.”

“How interesting,” Julia had replied, gingerly releasing his hand and thinking,
Oh, dear.
She had allowed her contract to revert to him because of his reputation for being ruthless, for doing anything it took to get his clients the roles they sought. She couldn’t have picked an agent less like Maury if she had tried, but Maury’s approach, as a gentleman bargaining honorably with other gentlemen on the strength of his word, had become as ineffectual as it was archaic and naive. It also didn’t hurt that Ares was the nephew of one of Hollywood’s most powerful directors. She didn’t have to like him, she reminded herself, to work with him.

Still, she worried that his focus on getting the deal might blind him to the importance of good PR. She gave him a disapproving look and said, “People in towns like these watch movies. They also kept
Family Tree
at the top of the Nielsens for many years.”

“Near the top, anyway,” Ares acquiesced. “The top of the middle, at least.”

Stung, Julia pursed her lips and unfastened her seat belt.

No crowd had gathered by the limo parked on the tarmac, but the sight did attract a few curious glances from other travelers. A group of four women—some in cheerful patchwork clothing, all younger than she—talked and laughed as they greeted each other on the sidewalk. As the limo drove through the parking lot, Julia lowered her sunglasses to get a better look, but suddenly the tinted window began to rise.

She turned to Ares, who had his finger on the button in his armrest. “We can’t have the locals gawking at you.”

Julia thought the women seemed too preoccupied to spare the limo a second glance, but she removed her sunglasses and settled back into her seat, resigned.

For more than an hour they drove in silence past picturesque farms and rolling, forested hills. Julia lowered her window to take in the scenery, figuring they were surely isolated enough to satisfy Ares. Just when she thought she’d be stuck in that car with him until nightfall, the driver turned onto a gravel road that wound its way through a leafy wood.

“The least they could have done was pave the road,” Ares grumbled. Julia hid a smile.

They crossed a narrow bridge over a creek so clear she could see stones at the bottom, and suddenly the trees gave way to a vast expanse of lawn. The road smoothed, and at the end of it Julia spotted a gray stone building with tall white columns and two semicircular staircases climbing gracefully to a broad veranda. She could see at least a dozen people—mostly women—unloading luggage or helping others carry their bags up the stairs, through the tall double doors, and into the house. With a pang, Julia suddenly remembered how much she had always hated the first day of school. Where would she sit in the classroom? Would she eat lunch alone every day? As lovely as this Elm Creek Manor appeared to be, Julia’s stomach twisted at the thought of spending an entire week there, alone in a crowd. By instinct she slipped on her sunglasses again.