Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (11 page)

She returned the souvenirs to the box and placed it carefully on a bookcase away from the fireplace and windows. As she drove home, her mind raced with possibilities. Tracking down her primary source materials would be a challenge, most likely involving travel—which meant finding grants to pay for it.

The next morning, she arrived at her office so jubilant that when Jules came to see her—once more either the bravest of her graduate students or the one who had drawn the short straw—he looked at her as if unsure whether she had indulged in some mind-altering substances more potent than caffeine. She immediately sent him off to the library to search the online newspaper archives for articles on the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair. “What about my other assignments?” he asked, halfway out the door.

“Forget about those for now. This is our new project.”

He didn’t ask why. Gwen supposed the previous day’s announcement provided reason enough.

Jules must have spread the word to her two other graduate students that it was safe to approach, because they stopped by before noon for their new assignments. As for herself, she alternated between searching the internet for leads on funding sources and scanning her reference books of Depression-era quilts for possible Sears National Quilt Contest entries, even if they were not expressly identified as such. In a ten-year-old auction catalogue she found a floral appliquéd medallion quilt with “A Century of Progress” embroidered in a scroll across the top, but nothing in the item’s description alluded to the World’s Fair contest. It had to be connected, and a bit of research would uncover the particulars. Exultant, she concluded that this lucky find was a positive omen and thanked whatever divine spirit had inspired Sylvia to tell her about the contest.

The rapidly approaching camp season, the deadline for Sylvia’s bridal quilt, and even the committee’s misguided decision slipped to the back of her thoughts as her new research consumed her time and her imagination. Even her graduate students caught her enthusiasm after she explained the scope of the project and made them swear on the fate of their doctoral dissertations that they would discuss it with no one. Before their weekly business meeting on the last day of January, she and Sylvia arranged to meet at the manor in the afternoon to search for the Bergstrom sisters’ entry.

“I know where it ought to be,” said Sylvia, huffing slightly as she led Gwen up the narrow staircase to the attic. “My concern is that it was moved during a search for something else.”

Gwen switched on the light and sneezed, waving away dust motes. “Is it possible Claudia sold it?” She had sold many other family heirlooms during Sylvia’s fifty-year absence from Elm Creek Manor, including their mother’s own bridal quilt.

“It’s possible, but I doubt it. Claudia rarely won ribbons for her handiwork. I doubt she would have parted with any quilt of hers that earned such recognition. Of course, she never would have made it to the semifinals working on her own.”

“Of course not,” said Gwen, hiding a smile.

Sylvia directed Gwen to a section of the attic not far from the walnut bureau and gestured to a collection of trunks and boxes. “If it’s here, this is where we’ll find it.”

There they found papers, books, china, clothing, and assorted items Gwen would have tossed out with the trash if they were in her house, but no quilts. When Gwen decided to broaden their search area, she discovered a bundle of Storm at Sea blocks pieced from the pastel cottons common to the late 1920s and early 1930s. Sylvia examined them and announced that Claudia had made them, judging from the poorly matched seams that she never would have permitted in her own work. “You’re on the right track, dear,” said Sylvia approvingly, and took up the search nearby.

Before long they found the quilt, nestled into a paper box all its own. Gwen held it up so Sylvia could examine it. The quilt was in fine condition for its age, a testament, Sylvia noted, to the excellent care it had received, except during shipping and at the judging venues. Even so, few stains marred the green, lavender, rose, and ivory quilt, which was accented with appliquéd features in bold red, blue, and black.

The design itself was a compromise, Sylvia explained. Sylvia had wanted to create an original pictorial quilt inspired by the “Century of Progress” theme, but Claudia thought they would stand a better chance of pleasing the judges if they used a traditional pattern and devoted their time to flawless, intricate needlework rather than novelty. After an argument spanning several weeks—which would have been better spent sewing—they agreed that Sylvia could design a central appliqué medallion depicting various scenes from colonial times until the present day, to which Claudia would add a border of pieced blocks. “Odd Fellow’s Chain,” said Sylvia, fingering the border. “Obviously, she chose it for its appearance, not its name.”

“Unless she meant to make a statement about contemporary notions of progress.”

“Hmph.” Sylvia showed a hint of a smile. “Claudia was not that clever. The block did give us the quilt’s title, however. We called it Chain of Progress.”

Gwen draped the quilt over an upholstered armchair to better examine it. She could see in this early example of Sylvia’s work how her tastes and skills had developed through the decades. The uneven quality of the needlework she attributed to the widely differing abilities of the two sisters, but even the worst pieced Odd Fellow’s Chain block proved that Claudia could not have been as poor a quilter as Sylvia suggested. The green Ribbon of Merit still attached to the quilt attested to that.

Gwen was imagining how Chain of Progress would look on the cover of her book when Sylvia began folding it. “It’s almost time for the meeting. Shall we take this downstairs and surprise our friends?”

“No,” Gwen exclaimed. “I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Why on earth not? If you want to track down other contest entries, the more people who know about your project, the better. You never know who might provide a useful lead.”

“I will tell them eventually. Soon,” she amended, when Sylvia raised her eyebrows. “First I want to be sure there is a book in this. Then I’ll be grateful for help.”

“You’ll be lucky if you get any, keeping secrets from your friends as if you’re afraid they’ll steal your ideas,” admonished Sylvia. “Whenever the Elm Creek Quilters keep secrets from one another, it always means trouble.”

“Not always,” said Gwen, remembering Sylvia’s bridal quilt and the block she had yet to begin.

The next day, Gwen received a response to an email she had sent to the Chicago Historical Society. They agreed her idea was worth pursuing and would consider funding a portion of her research if she submitted a full proposal by their annual deadline, February 5.

That left Gwen with only a few days to pull together all the information they needed, but fortunately, she had no plans for the weekend. On Friday afternoon after her last class, she hurried home, turned off the ringer on the phone, and hid her cell phone in a kitchen drawer. She resolved not only to complete her proposal in time, but to write the best, most persuasive proposal the Chicago Historical Society had ever seen. One late night blurred into an early morning, and another, as she feverishly raced to meet her deadline. If she succeeded, it wouldn’t be one of Annette’s six-figure triumphs, but it would be a start.

“Mom?”

Gwen jumped at the sound of Summer’s voice from elsewhere in the house. “In here,” she called, typing frantically even when she heard her daughter enter the room. “Hi, kiddo. What’s up?” Then she remembered, and she spun her chair around, dismayed. “Oh, no. Supper.”

“Sunday at five o’clock,” Summer said, grinning and tapping her watch.

“I completely forgot.” How could she forget inviting her only child for a meal? “We could send out for pizza.”

Summer assured her she would be satisfied with a sandwich to accompany the salad she had brought, and Gwen suddenly realized she had taken nothing but coffee since breakfast. Her refrigerator was shamefully empty, as she had skipped her customary Saturday morning trip to the grocery store, but Summer, as always, was a good sport. She was also always very curious, and she soon asked her mother what she was working on.

Gwen couldn’t tell her. She knew her idea would make a fascinating, informative book—but maybe she was not the person to write it. She could not bear to tell Summer later that she had abandoned a brilliant research project because, ultimately, Bill and his committee were correct: She was good enough for what she did, but she need not aspire to anything greater.

Gwen tried to put Summer off, but Summer persisted, so Gwen told her about the committee’s decision not to appoint her department chair. Summer’s indignation warmed her and reminded her that she had made some important discoveries in her tenure at Waterford College. Too bad Bill lacked Summer’s insight—or bias.

Then Summer asked, “So what were you working on? A new paper on a new topic?”

“I’ll let you read it when it’s done.”

Summer nodded, but Gwen knew she was disappointed, despite her lighthearted reassurances about Gwen’s forthcoming book. She thought her mother was giving up the study of quilt history to appease the committee.

Gwen wanted to assure her she wasn’t, she wouldn’t. She wanted to see pride shining in her daughter’s eyes again. But she could not commit that hope to words until she knew she would not have to relinquish her new project to a more able scholar.

She tried to change the subject by asking how Jeremy was doing. Summer said he was fine and she saw him often, but offered no more than that. They talked about the upcoming camp season and Sylvia’s bridal quilt, but Gwen was too conscious of disappointing Summer to enjoy the rest of the meal.

The next morning, she decided to stop by Summer’s place on her way to work. It wasn’t really on the way, but Gwen was eager to apologize for her forgetfulness and her evasive behavior the previous night. Karen opened to her knock and told her Summer had left not long before, but Aaron hovered in the background, his expression so alarmed and wary that Gwen knew at once Summer had not spent the night there.

So. Summer must have slept at Jeremy’s. Gwen thanked the roommates, who were visibly relieved not to be interrogated further, and departed without leaving a message. She could hardly criticize Summer for doing something many other young women her age did, something she herself had done. She just hoped Summer wouldn’t make a habit of it, and build up Jeremy’s expectations when she surely had no intentions of leaving with him upon his graduation.

Surely Summer had no such intentions?

With a knot in the pit of her stomach, Gwen continued on to campus, pausing only to drop her grant proposal in the overnight express pickup box.

February passed in a frenzy of classes, research, writing, and the submission of grant proposals, with worries about Summer and Jeremy lingering in the back of Gwen’s mind. She would have forgotten Sylvia’s bridal quilt entirely if not for the invitation letter pinned to the bulletin board behind her computer, and she had so neglected her preparations for the upcoming quilt camp season that at the first business meeting of March, when Sarah told her they needed to cancel some of her classes, Gwen felt too guilty to argue. That feeling was compounded when Summer, who had asked to speak to her afterward, changed her mind, obviously sensing Gwen’s eagerness to get back to work. They made plans to have supper the following Sunday, and this time, Gwen vowed not to forget.

When the evening arrived, she set aside her notes, which were accumulating with reassuring speed, to make a batch of almond cookies to follow Summer’s favorite vegetable stir-fry. Summer showed up right on time with pot stickers and spring rolls from their favorite carry-out, and they spent an enjoyable hour eating and talking about Elm Creek Quilt Camp. Summer had some great ideas about new seminars she wanted to try, but she confessed to having no idea which block to make for Sylvia’s quilt. “I hope Elm Creek Quilters get an automatic extension,” she added. “I’m planning to run my block over to Agnes’s house at midnight on the very last day.”

Gwen laughed and admitted to her own difficulties. “On the surface it seems like an easy project,” she said. “Make one six-inch block. What could be simpler?”

“Adding the condition that it represents all that Sylvia means to us, that’s what,” said Summer. “The blocks accumulating at Grandma’s Attic typically express that in their names. But what if you can’t find a block with an appropriate name? What if you’d rather express yourself visually?”

“Exactly,” said Gwen. She and Summer never failed to find the same bandwidth. “I’ve decided the only way to resolve the problem is to design an original block. I know it’s taking the easy way out—”

“I doubt it, Mom,” said Summer, laughing. “It won’t be easy to invent a completely original pattern.”

“At least I can name it whatever I like.”

Summer agreed that Gwen’s method had its merits, but she planned to keep looking. Then, suddenly, she hesitated. “Mom, remember last Thursday, when I said I needed to talk to you?”

Gwen recalled that Summer had said she
wanted
to talk, not that she
needed
to talk, a significant difference in mother-daughter parlance. Suddenly she thought of Jeremy, then Jeremy in his doctoral hood clutching a diploma under his arm as he helped Summer load a moving van.

“Sure, kiddo.” She steeled herself. “What’s up?”