An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (82 page)

“Did I spill something on myself?”

Megan looked up, startled, into the puzzled but smiling face of the man wearing the shirt. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I was just admiring your shirt.”

“Thanks.”

Megan wished she had stared more discreetly, but he had spoken to her first, and she just had to have that blue. “Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift from … a friend.”

Something in his voice told Megan his friend was a woman. “It’s very nice,” she said lamely. She hoped he didn’t think she was trying to pick him up. “I … see, I’m a quilter, and I’m always looking for the right fabric.”

“Say no more,” he said, with a knowing grin. “My grandmother is a quilter.”

Great
, Megan thought. As if she hadn’t met enough people who considered quilting the exclusive domain of little old ladies and people with too much time on their hands. She was tired of explaining her passion to those who didn’t know any better and decided not to bother trying to explain it to some stranger in a diner whom she’d never see again.

Megan returned her attention to the map as she ate, trying to figure out where she had gone wrong. According to her father’s estimate, she should have reached the turnoff two hours ago. Should she backtrack or keep going east? She had seen a gas station across the street from the diner; maybe someone there would be able to direct her, although the responses she had received so far made that seem unlikely.

By the time she finished her sandwich, she had decided to give the gas station a chance—after dessert. She signaled the waitress, who approached with a slice of apple pie on a plate. “You read my mind,” Megan said.

“What’s that?” the waitress said, delivering the plate to the man in the booth across the aisle.

“Oh, I thought that was for me. I was just about to order a slice. Could I have it à la mode, please?”

“I’m afraid you’re too late, honey. That was the last piece.”

“Are you sure?”

The waitress looked tired. “You can check for yourself if you don’t believe me.” She jerked her head in the direction of the front counter, where an empty pie tin sat in the bakery case. “Would you like something else? Chocolate cake? Peach cobbler?”

“No, thanks. I was really looking forward to that apple pie.”

“Here,” the man said. “You can have it. I haven’t touched it yet.”

“Oh, no,” Megan said. “Thanks anyway.”

“No, really.” The man got up and brought the plate to her table. “Take it.”

“I’m not going to take your dessert.”

“You’re not taking it; I’m giving it to you.” He set the plate on her table, smiling. “Go ahead. Enjoy.”

“I don’t want it.” Annoyed, Megan pushed the plate toward him. “What planet are you from, that you offer perfect strangers in restaurants your dessert?”

“Cincinnati.”

“No kidding,” she said, without thinking. “Me, too.”

“Really.” He sat down across from her. “I live near Winton Woods. How about you?”

“Actually …” Involuntarily, she shrank back against the seat as his knees bumped hers. “I moved away when I was very young.”

“To Pennsylvania?”

“Well …” She wasn’t about to tell some strange man where she lived. She looked to the waitress for help, but the woman merely folded her arms and listened. “Look,” she said to the man, in a voice she hoped was firm but not unkind, in case he was a nutcase or something. “I appreciate your generosity, but you ordered the pie first, so it’s yours. I can’t accept it.”

He shrugged. “So we’ll split it.” He turned to the waitress. “Could you bring us another plate and fork, please, and a dish of ice cream on the side?” He looked questioningly at Megan. “Vanilla?” When Megan managed a nod, he turned back to the waitress. “Vanilla.”

The waitress returned quickly with his order, and he deftly sliced the piece of pie and placed half on the new plate. “Here you go,” he said with a friendly grin.

“Thanks,” she said, resigned. “Do you want some of my ice cream?”

“No, thanks,” he said. “When it comes to apple pie, I’m a purist. No ice cream, no cheese, no caramel—nothing to mar the pure simplicity of the apple and the pastry.” With that, he took a large bite of pie, savoring the mouthful.

Megan watched him, her misgivings changing to amusement. “I had no idea it was possible to have such strong opinions about apple pie.”

“You should hear my discourse on tiramisu.”

Megan smiled and took a bite of the dessert—and found it just as delicious as its fragrance had promised. “It’s wonderful. Thanks for sharing it. I’ll pay half, of course—”

“Don’t be silly. It’s my treat.”

“At least let me pay for the ice cream, since you’re not having any.” She gave him a practiced no-nonsense look that had proven most effective with Robby. “I insist.”

“Fair enough.” He glanced down at her map. “Are you planning a trip, or did you lose your way?”

“Lost my way. I don’t suppose you know how to get to Waterford?”

“Sure. I just came from there.”

She was so astonished she almost dropped her fork. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that. I thought I missed the turnoff, and I’d have to turn around and go home.”

“You didn’t miss it. Head east for another hour and you’ll see the sign. Here.” He turned her map around and picked up her pencil. “The sign doesn’t say Waterford, but it’s the same exit as Two Rivers.” He circled a spot on her map. “Go south for a few miles and you’ll start to see signs for Waterford College. You should be there by seven.”

“Thanks,” she said, greatly relieved.

“Anytime.” He signaled to the waitress, then shrugged apologetically. “Sorry to eat and run, but it’s a long drive back to Cincinnati, and tomorrow’s a school day.”

“Oh. Of course.” She felt oddly disappointed as he rose and took the check from the waitress. “Well, thanks again for the dessert and the directions.”

“My pleasure.” He left his check and a few bills on his table across the aisle. “Drive safely.”

“You too.”

Megan watched him leave the diner, then peered out the front window and watched him climb into a well-kept but older model compact car. Only as he drove off did she realize that she didn’t even know his name. Not that it mattered. “Tomorrow’s a school day,” he had said, which meant he was probably a dad with children—a married dad with children. Then a thought struck her. It was the middle of August. Unless his children’s school had a very strange schedule, they should still be on summer vacation, as Robby was—which meant that this nice-seeming guy was either lying to her or had a very bizarre sense of humor.

The evidence pointed to a friendly but rather odd man. Too bad, she thought and put him out of her mind.

After the welcome banquet, Sylvia invited Grace to a cozy sitting room off the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat. “I’m so delighted you accepted my invitation at last,” Sylvia said after giving her a warm hug. “How many years has it been?”

“Five, I think,” Grace said, easing herself down onto a sofa and taking the cup Sylvia offered her.

“That’s right. Lancaster, wasn’t it? The Quilter’s Heritage Celebration?” Sylvia took a seat beside her, and her eyes had a faraway look. “And to think Elm Creek Quilts didn’t even exist then.”

“It’s amazing what you’ve accomplished in such a short time.”

Sylvia sipped her tea and nodded as if she agreed, as if, like Grace, she was amazed at the long journey that had taken her away from her beloved home and back again. When she and Grace first met, Sylvia had been estranged from her family for decades and had never expected to return to Elm Creek Manor.

Fifteen years before, Grace had been giving a lecture at the University of Pittsburgh on Civil War–era textiles and how they had inspired her own work. She created what she called story quilts, appliqué quilts that illustrated historical and sometimes autobiographical tales. Unlike the intricate, painstaking appliqué of the Baltimore Album style, her work more closely followed the folk-art appliqué tradition, with abstract figures representing people, places, moods, or ideas. That evening she displayed several antique quilts from her collection, including one pieced by a runaway slave who had settled in Canada. After describing the symbolism of the motifs the unknown quilter had used, Grace showed a quilt of her own, one she had sewn in tribute to the long-ago quiltmaker as Grace imagined her hazardous journey north to freedom.

At a reception following the lecture, Sylvia introduced herself and told her about the Civil War–era quilts she remembered from her childhood home, which had been a station on the Underground Railroad. Intrigued, Grace asked her if it would be possible for her to inspect the collection and possibly include photos of them in the book she was writing.

“That’s unlikely,” Sylvia said crisply. “For all I know, the quilts might not be there anymore.”

Taken aback by her sudden change in temper, Grace apologized, wondering what she said to offend. Sylvia shook her head and said, “No, I should apologize to you. You had no way of knowing what a sensitive subject this is for me.” She went on to explain that she and her sister had had a falling out years ago, and that Sylvia had not returned to her family estate since shortly after the war.

“Vietnam or the Gulf?” Grace asked, wondering how long this estrangement had gone on, and if the sisters might reconcile soon.

“The Second World War.”

With that, Grace’s hopes that she might be able to view those tantalizing quilts in the near future evaporated. In the years that followed, whenever she ran into Sylvia at a quilting function, she inquired about her relationship with her sister as delicately as she could, and eventually her concern for the quilts transformed into sympathy for her aging friend, who seemed to be growing more brittle-tempered with each year the old resentments simmered. Grace and her sisters were so close that hardly a week passed when they didn’t communicate at least by phone, and she found it hard to imagine anything they could do that would compel Grace to sever all ties with them. No wonder Sylvia seemed so alone, despite her friends and accomplishments; she had cast off all her ties to her own history, and in doing so, she had lost herself. When Grace learned that Sylvia’s sister had passed away, she feared that Sylvia would never recover from the loss and from the knowledge that now reconciliation would never come, but Sylvia had surprised her. From the debris of her grief, Sylvia had built a new future for herself and had come home at last to reclaim her family’s history.

“I didn’t build Elm Creek Quilts alone, of course,” Sylvia was saying. “I have some very dedicated helpers. The truth is, I’m all but retired from the business now. Two young women, Sarah McClure and Summer Sullivan, direct our operations these days.”

“You haven’t retired from quilting, I hope.”

“No, no, I could never do that. Even with the business, I still offer my opinion when asked—and often when I’m not asked—and I sign off on all our major financial and development decisions. Lately I’ve been seeing a bit of the country, traveling with a friend. I’ve spent more weeks away from Elm Creek Manor than here this summer.”

“I’m glad you happened to be in town the week I came.”

“Now, Grace,” Sylvia admonished. “Do you really think I’d make myself scarce when you’ve come all this way? I couldn’t leave without finding out what’s troubling you.”

Grace almost spilled her tea. “What do you mean?” Carefully she placed her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “I’m fine. I just thought I would enjoy a week of quilt camp.”

“Grace, dear.” Sylvia fixed her with that knowing gaze Grace remembered well. “We both know there’s nothing our teachers could show you that you haven’t seen already. You should be a teacher here, not a camper.”

“I just needed a change of scene.”

“Perhaps you do. I must say I’ve never seen you so tense. You haven’t smiled once since you walked through those doors.” Sylvia placed a hand on her friend’s, and in a gentle voice, added, “But I know there’s more. What’s wrong, Grace?”

Grace took a deep breath and tried to smile. “My muse has fled.”

Sylvia’s eyebrows rose. “I see. And you thought you might find her here?”

“I thought in new surroundings, with other quilters around to motivate me, I might be able to reawaken my creativity.” Grace shook her head, hopeless, and cradled her teacup in her hands. “I don’t know. I’m probably grasping at straws, but I haven’t started a new project in eighteen months. Eighteen months! You know how prolific I used to be.”

A frown of worry creased Sylvia’s forehead. “Can you think of any reason you might be blocked? Did something happen eighteen months ago? Have you been under an unusual amount of stress?”

Grace’s heart pounded. Was she that transparent? “No, of course not. Just the usual stress.” Sylvia looked dubious, so Grace blurted out the first plausible worry that came to mind. “Except for my daughter. She’s seeing a much older man fairly seriously, and she didn’t even tell me about him.”

“But you’ve worried about Justine before, and your art hasn’t suffered.”

“I suppose that can’t be it, then,” Grace said, as if she didn’t know precisely what the source of her anxiety was. But she couldn’t tell Sylvia, not yet, not until she had no choice. “Maybe there isn’t a cause. Maybe I’ve just run out of ideas and inspiration. But there must be some way to replenish myself even if I don’t understand why I ran dry.”