Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt (2 page)

“I think I’ve found something,” called Sarah from the other side of the trap door. Sylvia watched as she dragged a long rectangular box into the open, her wavy brown hair falling onto her face. The box, embellished with a forest of green pines, announced in red ink, “Festive Christmas Tree.” Smaller black print identified the product as, “Evergleam. Made in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, U.S.A.”

“I’ve never seen that before,” said Sylvia, dusting off her hands and coming closer for a better look. Sarah opened one end of the box, reached inside, and with some effort pulled out a handful of what appeared to be wood shavings as shiny as tinfoil.

“It’s one of those aluminum Christmas trees,” said Sarah, delighted. “My grandmother used to have one.”

“Mine didn’t,” said Sylvia dryly, imagining her father’s mother recoiling in horror at the very thought. “This must be one of Claudia’s more recent contributions to the estate. It reflects her taste.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on her. These were the height of fashion once.” Sylvia tugged until more of the atrocious foil tree emerged from the box.

“Hmph. If you say so.”

“Would you mind if I set it up in my room?”

“If your husband can bear it, you may do whatever you like.” Sylvia quickly amended, “As long as you promise to keep it out of my sight.”

“I wonder if it came with one of those rotating colored floodlights like my grandmother had.” Sarah disappeared behind an old wardrobe, her voice momentarily replaced by the sound of boxes scuffing across the floor. “Wait a minute. Sylvia? What color did you say those trunks were?”

“One was blue and one green.” Sylvia picked her way through the clutter to join Sarah, who was removing a paint-spattered drop cloth from the top of a dusty forest green trunk with brass fastenings. “My word. You found it.”

“Here’s the other one,” said Sarah, beaming up at Sylvia in triumph, resting her hand on a blue trunk. “The carton must be nearby.”

“One would think so. There,” said Sylvia. She could not help but be pleased to see them. Claudia had sold off so many things in Sylvia’s absence that she had prepared herself for the possibility that they would not have found the trunks in the attic. The Bergstroms’ old ornaments and trims probably had no more than sentimental value, but Sylvia would not have put it past Claudia to part with them for pocket change.

She tried to talk Sarah into waiting until her husband came home to carry the trunks and carton downstairs, but Sarah insisted upon doing it herself. It took four trips, but Sarah managed with Sylvia doing little more to help than barking anxious directions when her young friend seemed likely to tumble down the stairwell. After the last was settled three floors down in the foyer, Sarah barely paused to catch her breath before throwing back the lid of the blue trunk. Sylvia looked on warily, wondering if her sister had replaced their family heirlooms with thin aluminum varieties, but she relaxed at the sight of the green-and-red tartan tablecloth and a garland of gold beads. One familiar treasure after another—a wooden nativity set her grandfather had carved, eight personalized Christmas stockings, a china angel blowing a brass horn, the family Christmas tree ornaments—emerged from the trunk looking exactly as they had when she last packed them away, as if they had not been disturbed in more than fifty years.

Was it possible that her sister had never opened the boxes in all that time?

As Sarah turned to the second trunk, Sylvia sat down on the floor beside her, marveling over each item as Sarah passed them to her. Her brother’s nutcracker, dressed in the bright red coat of a soldier, a sword in his fist. The wooden music box shaped like a sleigh full of toys that played “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” when the key was wound. The paper angels she and Claudia had made in Sunday school. A wreath made of pinecones she and her mother had gathered in the forest along Elm Creek. The memory of a snowy afternoon flooded her—the sound of her mother’s laughter, the crisp winter air nipping her cheeks—and she clutched the wreath so tightly that brittle pieces broke off in her fingers.

She gasped and set the wreath on the floor. Sarah glanced over her shoulder, her expression darkening with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Sylvia shifted on the floor so that Sarah would think discomfort rather than grief had provoked her. She forced a smile. “Well. You should have plenty of decorations to work with, don’t you agree?”

“Enough for the entire manor, but before I get started, I want to see what’s in those other two boxes.”

“Two?” Sylvia checked, and sure enough, two cartons sat on the marble floor just beyond the trunks. “Goodness. If I had paid more attention I could have saved you that last trip upstairs. I said two trunks and one carton, remember?”

Sarah shrugged, returning her attention to the contents of the green trunk. “I know, but I peeked inside and saw some Christmasy colors, so I brought them both down. Maybe Claudia added to the collection while you were away.”

Judging by the metal tree her sister had acquired, Sylvia certainly hoped not. She went to the nearest carton and pulled open the flaps. There she discovered more familiar decorations—candlesticks, china teacups and saucers encircled with pictures of holly leaves and berries, the jolly Santa Claus cookie jar Great-Aunt Lucinda kept filled with lebkuchen, anis-plätzchen, and zimtsterne from St. Nicholas Day through the Feast of the Three Kings. She sorted through the carton, each discovery rekindling a long-neglected memory until it was almost too much for her to continue. When she finished, she scanned the items Sarah had laid out on the floor as she emptied the trunks. Nothing seemed to be missing except for the ruby star for the top of the tree, which had been lost long ago—but what, then, filled the last box?

“Perhaps you should open that one,” said Sylvia, less than enthusiastic at the prospect of discovering more of her sister’s garish purchases.

Sarah dusted off her hands and opened the last carton. “Good news. I told you I didn’t waste a trip to the attic. It’s more Christmas stuff.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“There is no bad news. Come and see for yourself.” Sarah grinned over her shoulder at Sylvia, amused by her wariness. “I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s fabric, not foil.”

A memory tickled the back of Sylvia’s mind, but as soon as she peered inside the box, the memory struck with the full force of a blow. “Oh, my goodness.”

“What is it?”

Sylvia sank to her knees beside the box, overwhelmed by the sensation of discovery and loss. She had never forgotten the Christmas Quilt, nor had she ever expected to see it again. Begun by her Great-Aunt Lucinda when Sylvia was very young, the unfinished quilt had been taken up and worked upon by a succession of Bergstrom womenamong them, Sylvia herself. From what she could see of the folded bundle of patchwork and appliqué, not a single stitch had been added since she last worked upon it. And yet every intricate Feathered Star block, every graceful appliquéd cluster of holly leaves and berries had been tucked away as neatly as if a conscientious quiltmaker had had every intention of completing her masterpiece. Even the scraps of fabric had been sorted according to color-greens here, reds there, golds and creams in their own separate piles. The Christmas Quilt had been abandoned, but it had not been discarded.

Had Claudia intended to finish it herself one day, only to find that it evoked too many painful memories? She had borne no children, so she could not have meant to leave it for a member of the next generation to finish, as their great-aunt and mother had, each in her turn. She certainly could not have been saving the quilt for Sylvia’s homecoming.

How many Christmases had her sister spent in Elm Creek Manor, alone and longing, haunted by memories of more joyful times long past?

“Sylvia?” Sarah placed a hand upon Sylvia’s, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, you know how it is with me every time you insist upon poking around in this old place.” Sylvia patted Sarah’s hand and sighed. For Sarah it was great fun, a trip back in time into the history of Elm Creek Manor. For Sylvia it was something else entirely. “Whenever we stumble upon some old artifact from Bergstrom family history, I’m reminded of how I failed my ancestors by walking out, by allowing everything they spent their lives building to fall apart.”

“You left, but you also returned,” Sarah reminded her, as she always did. “Elm Creek Manor still stands, and you brought life back to it. Your family would be proud.”

“Astonished, yes. Proud?” Sylvia shook her head. “I’m not so certain.”

Sarah smiled, understanding her perfectly. “Granted, they probably never imagined the manor as a quilters’ retreat, but everything you’ve told me about them suggests they valued art and education and community. Isn’t that what Elm Creek Quilts stands for?”

Sylvia considered. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.” Sarah reached into the box and took out a folded bundle of patchwork. “You never mentioned a long-lost Christmas quilt.” She unfolded the fabric and discovered that instead of a finished quilt top, she held only a strip of Log Cabin blocks sewn together and wrapped around a small stack of additional blocks. “Oh. It’s a UFO.”

“It is indeed an Unfinished Fabric Object, and destined to remain so.” Sylvia removed the next carefully folded bundle, and felt a twist of painful longing in her heart upon recognizing her mother’s handiwork, the perfect appliqué stitches that were her trademark. “My great-aunt Lucinda began this quilt before I was born. It became something of a family joke.

Every November she would take it from her sewing basket and declare that this year she would finish it in time for Christmas morning. Of course she never did, and once the holidays passed, she would lose interest in it and pack it away. I understand her point; who thinks about Christmas projects in April? But without fail, when Thanksgiving rolled around, she’d get in a Christmas mood again and pick up where she left off.” Sylvia nodded to a thin stack of green-and-red Feathered Star blocks as Sarah removed them from the box. “She made those. Her original design called for twenty, if I remember correctly, but I don’t believe she ever made more than six.”

“And then she switched to Variable Stars?” guessed Sarah, glancing inside the box at what remained.

“Good heavens, no. Lucinda wouldn’t have resorted to something so simple after devoting years to these Feathered Stars.” With a sniff, Sylvia dismissed the blocks remaining within the carton. “Claudia pieced the Variable Stars when she took it upon herself to finish the quilt. Before my sister got her hands on it, my mother appliquéd these holly wreaths.” Sylvia remembered all too well the day her mother had set the quilt aside, and why. Years later, Sylvia tried to finish what the other women of her family had begun, thinking, wrongly, that her Log Cabin blocks would pull the disparate pieces together. “I’m afraid what you see here amounts to nothing more than good intentions gone awry. Or rather, gone nowhere.”

Sarah’s glance took in the different sections of the quilt.

“We could finish it.”

Sylvia snapped out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not? We’ve finished other quilts together. My sampler, the memorial quilt Claudia and Agnes made from your husband’s clothes—”

“That’s different. Those quilts were begun in special circumstances.”

“And this quilt wasn’t?”

“Well—” Sylvia fumbled for an excuse. “We won’t have time to quilt, dear. Have you forgotten? We have Christmas decorations to put up.”

Sarah regarded her skeptically. “Not twenty minutes ago you insisted that there was no reason to decorate for Christmas, and now it’s more important than working on this quilt?”

“I suppose I’ve come around to your way of thinking. I believe you underestimate how long it takes to decorate such a large house. Then there’s Christmas dinner to make, and church services in the morning, and I have gifts for you and Matthew. By the time we get to the quilt, you’ll find that Christmas is over and you won’t feel like working on it anymore, just like my great-aunt Lucinda.”

“All the more reason to work on it now, while I’m full of Christmas cheer.”

Sylvia indicated the trunks and cartons and decorations Sarah had spread out on the floor. “So you intend to leave the foyer in this state, after dragging those heavy trunks down from the attic?”

Sarah surveyed the mess guiltily. “I suppose I should tidy up first.”

“I can take care of it myself if you need the time to pack—” “Sylvia, for the last time, I’m not going to my mother’s for Christmas.”

“Well, don’t expect me to help you with that quilt when we both know you ought to be in a car on your way to Union-town,” said Sylvia, finally out of patience. She knew that the moment Sarah decided to finish that quilt, she had dealt Sylvia’s plan a staggering blow. And time was running out.

Sarah returned the pieces of the Christmas Quilt to the box, but the affectionate pat she gave Great-Aunt Lucinda’s Feathered Stars told Sylvia they wouldn’t remain set aside for long. As Sylvia suspected she would, the young woman also declared that since the decorations were already down from the attic and out of the boxes and trunks, it made more sense to put them up than to put them away. Sylvia decided to leave her to it, so she returned to the west sitting room and her book, and the cup of tea that had long since grown cold.

Exasperated, she went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, shaking her head at Sarah’s irrepressibility. Now Sarah had a decorating plan and a quilt to keep her in the manor. Once that young lady caught hold of a fanciful idea, she would not let go until it sent her soaring off into the clouds as if it were the tail of some enormous kite. She always managed to latch on to some grand scheme. Creating a quilt camp, for example. Or convincing a bitter old woman to take a second chance on life.

Then again, compared to what Sarah had already accomplished, finishing a quilt that had daunted several more experienced quilters might prove to be a simple matter.

The kettle whistled and sent up a thin jet of white steam. Sylvia poured and waited for the tea to steep, lost in thought. From down the hall, faint music drifted to her ear. Curious, she quickly stirred honey into her cup and carried it back to the foyer. Sarah had accomplished little in the way of tidying up, but she had hung wreaths on the two tall double doors of the manor’s front entrance and had strung garlands along the grand oak staircase. In the corner she had plugged in her CD player, which was responsible for the strains of “White Christmas” that had beckoned Sylvia from the kitchen.