An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (86 page)

“Vinnie!” Donna protested.

“Relax, honey, I’m just teasing.” Vinnie added a generous helping of baked beans to her plate. “But I’d better not let the staff hear me or I might get expelled.” She raised her voice and looked around as if she feared unseen staff members were eavesdropping. “My, this food is so tasty.”

“It’s too tasty,” Megan said. “I’ll probably gain fifty pounds this week.”

“I don’t think you could gain fifty pounds if you tried.” Donna’s voice had a hint of envy in it. Megan watched as Donna returned the macaroni salad spoon to the bowl without taking any and reached for the tongs in a bowl of tossed salad instead. Donna noticed her scrutiny. “Before you ask, yes, I am trying to slim down.”

“For the wedding?” Vinnie asked.

Megan winced. “Don’t remind her.” Then she shot Donna a sharp look. “Is that really why?”

“I’d happily gain two hundred pounds if I thought it would stop the wedding.” Donna’s voice was grim. She had reached the end of the line, and she quickly walked off with her plate to an Adirondack chair at the far end of the veranda.

Megan and Vinnie exchanged a look and hurried after her. “Don’t you like the young man?” Vinnie asked as they took the empty chairs on either side of Donna.

“I hardly know him. I’ve seen him and Lindsay together for—I don’t know, maybe a total of seven hours over the past two years.”

“Maybe once you get to know him better, you’ll grow more fond of him,” Megan said.

“Maybe.” Donna didn’t look as if she believed it.

“There’s always hope,” Vinnie said. “Maybe she’ll leave him at the altar.”

“That only happens in movies.”

“It happened to my grandson.”

Megan and Donna stared. “You’re kidding,” Megan said.

“Well, maybe a little.” Vinnie shrugged and nibbled on a piece of fried chicken. “It wasn’t exactly at the altar. At least he was spared that indignity. But she did break off their engagement three months before the wedding.”

“How awful for him,” Donna said.

“Not really. She wasn’t good enough for him—as I’ve told him plenty of times, not that he listens. He deserves better. And he definitely deserved better than to be strung along, only to be jilted after the invitations had been sent out.”

Megan murmured her sympathies and refrained from pointing out that they were only getting her grandson’s side of the story. In her experience, a woman who left a man usually had a very good reason for doing so. Then, with a pang, she thought of Keith, and his reason for leaving her—a blond Comparative Literature graduate student with no stretch marks and an uncanny ability to ignore Keith’s irritating quirks.

Megan said, “If she was going to change her mind anyway, at least she did it before the wedding rather than after.”

“He’ll find someone else,” Donna said.

“Of course he will, with a little help from Nana.” Vinnie wiped her lips delicately with her napkin and set her plate aside. “How old is your daughter?” she asked Donna, reaching for the tote bag beside her chair.

“Twenty.”

Vinnie took a red plastic photo album from her bag and flipped through the pages, shaking her head with regret. “I was afraid of that. She’s too young for my Adam.”

“She’s too young to get married, period.”

“I married at seventeen.” Vinnie passed the open album to Donna. “But that was a different era. This is my grandson. Isn’t he a good-looking young man?”

“Very.” Donna gave Megan a sidelong look. “He looks close to your age.”

Vinnie brightened. “You’re single?”

“I am now.” Donna held out the album to her, so Megan took it.

“Oh, dear. Divorced?”

“I’m afraid so,” Megan said. “Actually, I’m annulled and divorced.”

Donna looked bewildered. “How does that work?”

Megan hesitated, surprised by how much admitting his betrayal still hurt her. “When Keith first left me for another woman, a divorce was good enough for them. It was the quickest, easiest way to put me in the past. Later, though, she decided she wanted to get married in the Catholic Church, so he put in for an annulment. According to the Church, our marriage never existed.”

“But you have a child,” Donna said, aghast.

Vinnie shook her head and clicked her tongue. “It’s far too easy to get an annulment these days, if you want my opinion. Not like when I was young. Then, you had to stick around and work on it whether you wanted to or not.”

“And too many people spent their lives miserable in unhappy marriages,” Megan said. “No, I’m better off single again than married to someone who cheated.”
Someone who didn’t love me as much as I thought he did
, she added silently.
Who didn’t love me as much as I loved him.

“If only Adam had that attitude,” Vinnie said with a sigh.

Then Megan remembered the album, and she glanced down at the photo. What she saw made her gasp.

Vinnie’s eyebrows rose. “Goodness, dear, he’s handsome, but not that handsome.”

“I don’t believe this. This is the guy from the diner.”

Donna’s eyes widened. “The apple pie guy?”

As Megan nodded, Vinnie looked from her to Donna and back, perplexed. Quickly Megan told her the story of their meeting on the road to Elm Creek Manor.

“Did you like him?” Vinnie asked anxiously.

“Well, yes. I mean, I didn’t talk to him very long, but he seemed nice.”

Vinnie clasped her hands together, delighted. “Your meeting must have been fate! No, something stronger than fate—divine intervention. You live in Ohio, isn’t that right? So does Adam.”

Megan shot Donna a look of alarm, a look that meant Save me. “It might not have been fate.”

Donna quickly added, “There are only so many routes to Waterford from Ohio, and not many places to stop to eat along the way. It was just a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe that,” Vinnie said, a stubborn set to her chin. “There are no coincidences. I believe that in life, you meet the people you need to meet, the people who will help you become the person you ought to be.”

“Maybe so, but maybe Megan needed to meet your grandson so he could help her find Elm Creek Manor, so she could meet us,” Donna said. “Maybe we’re the ones she needs to meet.”

“I think that’s true,” Megan said quickly.

“Maybe you need to meet all of us,” Vinnie declared, but then she smiled and reached over to pat Megan on the knee. “I think we’re going to become quite good friends this week, my dear.”

Donna was enjoying her conversation with Megan and Vinnie so much that she was almost late for her appliqué workshop. She rushed in, breathless, and took the first open seat she found, at a table in the back. Donna hated to be late, not because it suggested that she was scatterbrained—which she sometimes feared she was—but because she hated to be rude.

She greeted the few campers she recognized, then took out her supply list and checked her bag to make sure she had remembered everything. She was glad Megan wasn’t there to see her; Donna had checked the bag twice before leaving her room and once at lunch, which Megan found hilarious. “Do you think something jumped out of your bag and wandered off while your back was turned?” she had teased.

“It could happen,” Donna had retorted. Something had to account for those dozens of rotary cutters and thimbles she had lost over the years.

She put the list away and listened attentively as the teacher introduced herself as Agnes Emberly. A woman slipped into the seat beside her, but Donna pretended not to notice. She had been the recipient of too many annoyed frowns for her own tardiness to feel anything but sympathy for this latecomer.

It wasn’t until Agnes passed out pattern sheets and Donna turned to hand them to her table partner that she realized she was sitting next to Julia Merchaud.

She was so surprised that she forgot to let go of the pages when Julia took them. Julia tugged at the pages in vain, and then her famous hazel eyes met Donna’s. “I have them, thanks,” she said.

Donna released the pages as if they were on fire. “Sorry.”

Julia Merchaud nodded in response and turned to the front of the classroom as if she had already forgotten Donna was there. Donna felt like a fool, but she couldn’t help staring. It was Julia Merchaud, wasn’t it? It had to be. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a French twist, just the way she had worn it the day the oldest Wilson child got married. Donna had seen every episode of
Family Tree
since the premiere. Becca thought it was one of the corniest shows ever created, but Becca had a low opinion of television in general, and Donna had never let her youngest daughter’s teasing discourage her from watching.

After a moment, Julia Merchaud gave her a nervous sidelong glance, and Donna quickly snatched her gaze away and pretended she had been studying the pattern sheets. Julia Merchaud was not only at Donna’s quilt camp but at her very table. How could Donna hope to concentrate on Agnes’s instructions with a celebrity of Julia Merchaud’s stature sitting not three feet away?

Using all her willpower, she forced herself to focus on the front of the classroom, where Agnes was listing the items they would need for the first activity. As Donna withdrew her supplies from her bag, she stole a peek at the other woman, eager to see what fabric a television star used. Expecting to see Hoffman prints with gold-stamped ink or exotic Indonesian batiks packed in a Gucci tote, she was astonished when Julia Merchaud removed a mismatched stack of ordinary calicoes from a paper grocery bag. She placed them on the table, then carefully arranged a pack of needles, a pencil, a small pair of blue-handled scissors, and a spool of thread beside them. Then, in a gesture that seemed both protective and formal, she folded her hands in her lap and turned her attention to the teacher.

Donna couldn’t help studying Julia’s hands. A ring on her left hand, a large diamond set with pearls, caught the light. A ruby-and-gold tennis bracelet encircled her thin right wrist. The hands themselves seemed strangely out of place, with protruding veins and knobby knuckles. They seemed much older than the rest of her, especially compared to the smooth, faintly lined skin of her face.

At the front of the room, Agnes announced that someone from each table needed to come to the front of the room for a roll of freezer paper. Since she was on the aisle, Donna jumped up. “I’ll get it,” she said, smiling. Julia gave the barest of nods without looking her way.

The brief errand gave Donna enough time to collect her scattered thoughts. She remembered what she and Megan had promised the previous evening: If they saw Julia Merchaud, they would treat her like any other quilter.
She’s just a quilter like any other
, Donna told herself as she returned to her seat, but she couldn’t quite believe it. “Here we go,” she said brightly, placing the box on the table between them. Julia murmured something that might have been thanks.

Donna had used the freezer paper method for appliqué before; she had tried almost every quilting technique at least once, although she rarely stuck with any one style long enough to truly master it. She had signed up for this course hoping it would help her improve her weakest skill. Following Agnes’s instructions, she tore off a sheet of freezer paper, placed it on top of the pattern, and began tracing the first design. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Julia imitated her, step by step. Deliberately, Donna slowed her movements and made sure not to block Julia’s view of her work. Sure enough, Julia’s scrutiny continued as the class went on.

When it came time to sew the appliqué to the background fabric, Donna sensed her neighbor’s growing frustration. Summoning up her courage, she whispered, “Do you need some help?” When Julia nodded, Donna went over the steps again, demonstrating each one. When Julia tried again, she managed to complete a shaky but perfectly respectable appliqué stitch. For the first time, Donna saw her smile.

Donna picked up her own needle again, surreptitiously watching Julia’s progress. Assured that Julia was doing fine, Donna soon became engrossed in her own work. She had never made an appliqué block as elaborate as a Whig Rose before, but Agnes’s instructions were so clear that the pieces seemed to fall into place almost effortlessly.

Class was nearing the end when Julia spoke again. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but you seem to know more about this than I.”

“Just a little, maybe,” Donna said diplomatically.

“I wondered …” Julia hesitated. “Is this the same method as needle-turned appliqué, just using different name?”

“No, they’re two different styles. Agnes probably picked freezer paper because many people think it’s easier.”

“I see.” She seemed troubled. “But this technique has been around just as long, I suppose?”

“I don’t think so. As far as I know, freezer paper appliqué is fairly modern.”

“Oh, dear.” Julia set down her needle and sank back into her chair.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to learn needle-turned appliqué.”

“Your Whig Rose block will look exactly the same,” Donna assured her. “It doesn’t matter what technique you use.”

“It does matter. I can’t believe this. I’m wasting my time. I never should have come.”