An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (81 page)

Sure enough, the clusters of women broke off their conversations and watched as the limousine came to a stop in front of the manor. When the driver opened the passenger door, Ares stepped out first and offered his hand to assist her. Julia took it ungratefully, suspecting it was a show for the crowd, who gaped as he escorted her up one of the semicircular staircases.

A woman older than she met them at the door. “Miss Merchaud?” she said pleasantly, without a trace of the awe or admiration Julia usually evoked from people outside the industry. “I’m Sylvia Compson. Welcome to Elm Creek Manor.”

“Thank you.” Julia followed her inside to a large foyer with gleaming marble floors and a ceiling three stories high. The furnishings spoke of wealth but of good taste and comfort rather than excess. Perhaps Maury hadn’t been so misguided after all.

“You must be tired after such a long trip.” Sylvia led her to the center of the room, where three women wearing name tags sat behind a long table. “Let’s take care of your registration and show you to your room.” She eyed Ares with some skepticism and nodded to the driver. “Matthew will help you with your bags.”

She signaled to a young man with curly blond hair, who smiled as he approached and reached to take the bags from the driver.

Ares put out an arm to stop him. “It’s under control, thanks.” In an undertone, he added to Sylvia, “We don’t need the entire staff knowing where Miss Merchaud will be staying. Security. You understand.” He shrugged at Matthew. “No hard feelings, buddy.”

“Sure,” the other man replied, and Julia had the distinct impression he was trying hard not to laugh.

“Matthew is our caretaker. I assure you, he’s quite harmless,” Sylvia said.

Julia removed her sunglasses and pretended not to notice the hush that had fallen over the other guests, who were no doubt stunned to see “Grandma Wilson” playing the prima donna. “Give him the bags,” she murmured to the driver. He looked from her to Ares, uncertain. “I said, give him the bags.” At last the driver complied, and she smiled an apology to Matthew. To her relief, the registration process went quickly, and soon she, Ares, and Matthew with her bags were following Sylvia upstairs.

“Your suite is in the west wing,” Sylvia told them as they reached the second floor landing. “You’ll have your own bath. I trust you’ll be quite comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Julia said, watching as other women went from room to room introducing themselves and welcoming each other, as excited and happy as children at summer camp. A few greeted Julia as she passed; she smiled guardedly in response, wondering if they recognized her without her limousine and stage makeup.

Sylvia ushered them into the room and pointed out the closet, the bath, and her private phone. It was a large suite with a four-poster bed covered with a blue-and-red quilt pieced of homespun plaids. “It’s lovely,” Julia said. “Thank you, Sylvia.”

“You’re quite welcome. Now, if there’s nothing else you need, I’ll return to our other guests.”

Ares held up a hand. “Before you go, let’s establish some ground rules.”

The older woman’s eyebrows rose.

“Miss Merchaud’s status may cause some excitement,” Ares went on. “Ordinarily Miss Merchaud goes out of her way to please her fans, but this week is different. We can’t allow her to be disturbed. For that reason, she’ll take her meals in her room rather than the common dining area, and she will not participate in any of the camp activities other than classroom instruction.”

Sylvia folded her hands. “All of our activities are voluntary, Mr. Ares.”

“Just Ares. Also, is there any way Miss Merchaud could have private instruction rather than attending classes?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Then at the very least, she’ll need a table to herself at the front of the classroom.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

“Ares,” Julia interrupted, “I don’t think—”

“You’ll also inform your staff and other guests that they are not to address Miss Merchaud or trouble her in any way.”

Sylvia’s mouth twitched. “Do I understand you correctly? You wish me to announce that no one may speak with her?”

“Unless she speaks to them first, yes.”

“That’s absurd, and I won’t do it,” Sylvia declared. Behind her, the young blond man coughed as if he were strangling back a laugh. “Miss Merchaud is a camper like everyone else here.” She turned her piercing gaze on Julia. “And I’m tired of talking about you as if you weren’t in the room. If you wish to ignore people who speak to you, that’s your decision, but I won’t offend my other guests by clamping muzzles on them.”

“I never wanted that,” Julia said, distressed. “This wasn’t my idea.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, because otherwise you’ll have a dreadful time this week. What an idea—to come to quilt camp and refuse to make any new friends.” She shook her head in disapproval and frowned at Ares. “You see, I have a few ground rules of my own. If they don’t suit you, I’d be happy to return your agency’s check.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ares said stiffly. “I’m sure Miss Merchaud will be able to adapt to the circumstances.”

“Good.” Sylvia returned her attention to Julia, her voice noticeably warmer. “If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable”—her eyes flicked to Ares as if getting rid of him would be a step in the right direction—“please inform someone on the staff.” With that, she and Matthew left the room, closing the door behind them.

“What a crazy old bat,” Ares muttered.

“I found her quite pleasant,” Julia said. “And I do wish you had consulted me before deciding I should isolate myself in my room all week. Maybe I would have enjoyed—”

“You’re not here to enjoy yourself. You’re here to work.”

“Observing quilters would help me prepare for my role.”

“You can observe them during your classes. The less you interact with these quilters, the less likely you’ll reveal the truth. The press releases for the film will promote you as an expert quilter. Do you want these old biddies running to the media with the real story?”

Julia laughed. “I doubt even the tabloids would be interested. As secrets go, it’s not very sexy.”

“You can’t afford the risk. Maury didn’t want to tell you, but Bernier agreed to give you this part only because he thinks you already know how to quilt. If he discovers you lied, you’re out of a job, and I don’t think I need to tell you how difficult it will be to find you another role this good.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” she said crisply. How could he be so hurtful, so undiplomatic? “I suppose you’re right. When I’m not practicing my quilting, I ought to be learning my lines.”

“Don’t bother. Bernier wants a major rewrite. Wait until you have a final script.”

“Ellen will be involved in the revisions, of course?”

“Who?”

“Ellen Henderson, the writer and director.”

Ares looked confused. “Stephen Deneford is directing. I heard it from Bernier himself two days ago.”

“I see.” Julia wondered how Ellen had been informed of the decision. “But she’s still the writer.”

“I guess she might be consulted. You know how Deneford and Bernier are.”

Julia shrugged as if she did, although she had met Bernier only once and knew Deneford merely by reputation—and surely no more than half of those stories could be true.

None too soon, Ares left her to settle into her room. The room felt oddly still when she was alone, the silence broken only by the little noises she made unfastening her suitcases and opening and closing bureau drawers. From the hallway came the sounds of the other women talking and laughing, and the sound of quick footsteps going from room to room. Julia wondered why all the other guests seemed to know each other already, when quilt camp had only just begun.

She sat on the bed and listened.

Donna had been at quilt camp for less than an hour but had already unpacked her suitcase and had met one of her next-door neighbors and the woman across the hall from her suite on the second floor of the south wing. She had just returned to her room for a patchwork jacket she had promised to show a quilter from West Virginia when she heard a voice through her open doorway. “I’m here,” an elderly woman called. “The fun can begin!”

“Vinnie!” several other women cried out, and a clamor of voices echoed down the hallway.

Donna peered outside to see what all the commotion was about. A thin woman in her early eighties was trying to make her way down the hallway, but was stopped every few feet by one welcoming camper after another. She wore a bright red skirt, white tennis shoes and top, and had a red baseball cap perched on a fluffy cloud of white hair. Donna liked her on sight, and was pleased when the young man carrying her suitcase eventually led her into the unoccupied room next door. Several other campers followed them inside.

Donna’s other next-door neighbor joined her in the hall. “Vinnie’s here,” she said, delighted. “That means we’ll have a party.”

“Do you two know each other?”

“I met her here last summer. She was one of the first twelve guests of Elm Creek Quilt Camp, and she’s come back each year since, always during the week of her birthday. The staff throws a big surprise party for her—only it’s not such a surprise anymore, though Vinnie always pretends it is. She’s a riot. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

She took Donna’s arm and pulled her down the hallway. Donna was enjoying herself so much that she could almost forget that at that very moment her husband was in Minneapolis with Lindsay, Brandon, and Brandon’s parents. And where on earth was Megan? It was almost time for supper, and she hadn’t checked in yet.

Megan pulled off the highway and followed the signs for food and lodging. She had been driving for hours, the past two with a growing suspicion that she had missed the correct exit.
Contemporary Quilting
magazine had awarded her a generous travel allowance, but instead of using it for an airline ticket and cab fare, she had put the money aside for Robby’s back-to-school clothes. Now she regretted her frugality. She had anticipated having several more hours of daylight to drive by, but she hadn’t considered the rolling Appalachian terrain. The sun had descended nearly to the tops of the mountains behind her; if she had missed the proper turnoff with the sun shining, how could she expect to find it in twilight? Twice she had stopped to ask directions—but while one person had heard of Waterford but didn’t know how to get there, the other had insisted there was no such town in Pennsylvania.

Frustrated, her stomach growling, she pulled into the parking lot of a diner, ruefully remembering the camp brochure’s photos of the elegant banquet hall at Elm Creek Manor. She would grab a bite to eat, study the map and get her bearings, and be back on the road in a half hour—and with any luck, she would choose the right direction.

She seated herself in a booth so she would have plenty of room to spread out her map. After the waitress took her order, she traced her route with a pencil, referring to the printed directions Elm Creek Quilts had provided. When the waitress delivered her turkey melt with fries, Megan moved the papers out of the way and thanked her. On impulse, she asked, “Do you know how to get to Waterford?”

The waitress shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

Megan’s heart sank. “Thanks anyway.” Her gaze fell on a plate in the waitress’s other hand. She inhaled the fragrance of baked apples and cinnamon and decided she’d order a slice of apple pie when she finished her supper. She deserved some dessert, as consolation for the loss of her first day of quilt camp. Besides, with her luck, she might be wandering Pennsylvania’s back roads until dawn. She would need the energy.

As she watched the waitress walk away, her gaze fell on the man sitting in the booth across the aisle—or rather, on his shirt. It was the exact shade of blue she needed for her latest project, a charm quilt composed of hundreds of equilateral triangles. Instead of using pieced or appliquéd blocks, Megan preferred to make one-patch quilts, in which all the pieces were the same shape. Varying the color, pattern, and value of the pieces could create dramatic visual effects, but indifference to fabric placement could easily result in a drab, uninspired quilt. And since a charm quilt by definition required that no fabric be used more than once, she often spent weeks searching for the right material to finish a project. The gray-blue she now looked upon had eluded her for a month, even though her internet friends had sent her swatches of the various hues in their collections.