Elm Creek Quilts [09] Circle of Quilters (28 page)

Nearly a half hour passed before they returned inside for his formal interview. Sylvia escorted him to the room where they had first met, a fancy sitting room with too many doilies, throw pillows, tassels, and breakable knickknacks for him to feel entirely comfortable. When Sylvia said that the Elm Creek Quilters conducted camp business in the library, he had assumed his interview would take place there.

The other Elm Creek Quilters soon arrived and took seats across from him. The break between interviews had clearly not improved the mood of the blonde, Diane, who frowned as she took her place in an armchair. She opened up a folder, took out several pages of notes, and fixed him with a look of challenge.

He resigned himself to failure as far as winning her over was concerned. She had already made up her mind, and nothing he said would impress her. He would concentrate on the others.

Sarah McClure began the questioning by asking him how he became a quilter. He was glad to tell them how Elaine had inspired him, and not until he finished his response several minutes later did it occur to him that maybe he had gone on too long.

“Sorry,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “I tend to ramble when talking about my late wife.”

They smiled sympathetically—except for Diane. “Our students
generally don’t like instructors who ramble,” she said, checking off an item in her notes with a flick of her pencil.

“Russell, you’re clearly an experienced teacher and you’re apparently willing to go anywhere in the country to lead workshops,” said Sylvia, without a glance at Diane. “Staying in one place from spring through autumn would be quite a change for you. Won’t you miss the travel?”

He recognized a softball question when one was lofted his way; Sylvia had already gleaned an answer from their conversation during the tour. “Quite the opposite,” he said. “Working for Elm Creek Quilts would allow me to teach more students more efficiently. Instead of traveling, I’ll be able to develop new courses and make my own quilts. In the winter, when camp is out of session, I can resume my usual schedule of quilt guilds and conferences.”

“So you aren’t willing to make a year-round commitment to Elm Creek Quilts,” said Diane.

“We don’t need him for the full-year,” said Summer, an edge to her voice. “That’s why the ad said seasonal work available.”

“If you need me year-round, I could do that,” said Russ. “I didn’t think it was an option.”

“It isn’t, yet,” interjected Sarah as Diane prepared to speak. “Someday we may go to a full-year schedule, but not soon.”

“We could do it soon if we weren’t losing two founding members of our teaching staff,” Diane shot back.

“Which brings us to the purpose of Mr. McIntyre’s visit,” said Sylvia. “Russ, would you please show us the Elm Creek Quilts block we asked you to design?”

He took it from his briefcase and explained his creative process as they passed it around the circle. “I know it’s kind of abstract,” he said.

“Kind of?” murmured Diane, her pretty features screwed up in bafflement as she examined his block, holding it right side up, upside down, at an angle. She finally gave up, shook her head, and passed the block on to Summer.

“I like it,” said Summer. “It’s different. And I, for one, can grasp the symbolism.”

“Symbolism? Is that what it is?” said Diane. “I’m not so sure. I doubt anyone would look at this block and think ‘Elm Creek Quilts.’”

Russ said nothing. If he were to be honest, he would have to agree.

“You would certainly bring a very different perspective to our faculty,” remarked Sylvia, studying his résumé.

“I believe so,” said Russ. “I think part of the reason my quilts have been received so well is that as a man, an outsider to the traditional quilting world, I don’t feel as constrained by the accepted norms of what is and what isn’t permitted in a quilt.”

Sylvia allowed a brief flicker of a smile. “I was referring to your status as an acclaimed contemporary art quilter, but you’re quite correct to say that your perspective as a man who quilts is also rare. And potentially valuable.”

“Wait. Let’s go back to something he just said,” Diane broke in.

“Do you mean to say that women quilters are constrained by accepted norms? We all just make the same quilts every other woman makes, like a mindless herd of cows?”

“That’s not what he meant at all,” protested Gwen. “Cows don’t quilt.”

“And they’re not mindless,” said Summer, with a pointed look for Sarah. “Which is why we should not eat them.”

Bewildered, Russ tried to sort out the sudden shift in conversation until Diane caught his attention with a sigh of disappointment, as if she had hoped for so much more from him. “That’s what I find so frustrating about men quilters. You come in at the last minute, jump on the quilting bandwagon, and assume that you can do it better than generations of traditional women quilters who have come before you simply because you have a penis.”

“Diane,” exclaimed Sylvia.

“I can’t believe she said that,” said Gwen in an aside to Summer. “She must be off her medication.”

“I don’t take medication,” snapped Diane.

“Maybe you should start.”

Sylvia shook her head. “Diane, I have no idea what has gotten into you today, but if you cannot control yourself, you will be banned from the remaining interviews.”

Interesting
, Russ thought. Apparently Diane hated everyone—or at least every applicant for the job she had seen that day.

With a stern look of warning for Diane, Sarah said, “Obviously, Russ, you don’t have to respond to Diane’s wholly inappropriate remark.”

He thought for a moment. “I’ll respond to a variation of it. First off, I don’t think men are intrinsically better quilters than women, and I don’t think I personally am better than traditional quilters simply because I’m a man. I said my perspective was different. Not better, not worse, just … different. Just like men and women are different.”

“But equal,” said Gwen.

“Of course, equal. Look, I’m not trying to make a big political statement here, but artists are shaped by their life experiences, and men and women have very different experiences in the world. I can be as empathetic as humanly possible, but there are some things about being a woman that I will never understand. Being a husband and father taught me that. And there are some things about being a man that women will never understand.”

“What’s to understand?” muttered Diane. “Beer. Football. Nascar. Duct tape. Fart jokes.”

“Honestly, Diane,” said Sylvia, exasperated. “Russ, I’m truly sorry.”

But Russ had heard enough. “If that’s the Elm Creek Quilts perception of male quilters, that could explain why none of the campers I’ve seen here today are men. That’s an untapped and potentially lucrative market for you, but why should men come where they aren’t welcome? From what I’ve seen today, men quilters
could benefit a lot from a place like Elm Creek Quilt Camp, but you could learn a lot from them, too.” He picked up his briefcase and stood. “But apparently only women can break into your circle of quilters. Thanks for inviting me. I know the way out.”

“Nice going,” said Gwen to Diane as he strode to the door.

Nice going
, Russ told himself, disgusted, as he left the parlor and headed for the back door.
Brilliant strategy. Righteous indignation always wins over potential employers
.

Sarah followed him into the hallway. “Russ, please don’t go. Diane—”

“It’s not just her.” Russ stopped and allowed Sarah to catch up. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I stormed out of there.”

“You can come back. We can start over.”

Russ shook his head. He knew nothing else he did or said would erase their negative impression of his outburst. “I don’t think it will work out. If the faculty doesn’t support a male colleague, why should your campers?”

“We would support you. You have an excellent reputation and we’d be fortunate to have you join our staff. I know men and women alike would sign up for camp just to meet you.”

“Well …” Russ took one last long look around the manor. During Sylvia’s tour, he had imagined himself living there, teaching there, creating, finding peace in surroundings that did not underscore Elaine’s absence every time he passed from one room to the next. But thanks to Diane, he had blown his chance.

“Next time you’re hiring,” he said, “give me a call. Maybe the climate will be different.”

Sarah nodded.

He made his way down the hall toward the back door. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard quick footsteps behind him. “Wait,” a woman called. “Just a moment!”

Russ turned around to find a white-haired woman in pink-tinted glasses pursuing him, breathless. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m just …” She placed a hand on her hip and held up a finger as she caught her breath. Russ waited. “I’m having a little trouble with this quilt block.”

“Uh huh.” Baffled, he gestured down the hall toward the frilly parlor. “Back that way, there’s a roomful of Elm Creek Quilters who would be glad to help you.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re too busy.” The elderly woman came closer and thrust a quilt block at him, panting. “You, on the other hand, seem to be free.”

Studying her with increasing concern, he automatically took the block. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. But the quilt block. What do you think?”

He turned it over. It was a traditional, hand-appliquéd block, probably a Rose of Sharon variation. It looked fine to him. “Sorry. I don’t do hand appliqué.”

“But you’re an experienced quilter. Surely you can recommend something.”

“To be perfectly honest, I can’t even spot the problem.”

He held out the block, but she wouldn’t take it back. “Oh, come now,” she said. “You’re just flattering me.”

“No, really. It looks good to me.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m on my way out. I have to catch a plane. Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a chair, a glass of water, something?”

“No, thank you.” Disappointed, she took her quilt block.

“Thanks just the same.”

Shaking his head in amazement, Russ left quickly before anyone else could stop him. He could not remember a stranger day spent in the company of quilters, and contrary to all stereotypes, they were not generally a sedate bunch.

He drove back to the Pittsburgh airport, dropped off the rental car, and added himself to the standby list for an earlier flight to Seattle. He spent an hour wandering idly through the stores on
the concourse mall, passing most of that time testing gadgets at Sharper Image and wishing he had handled Diane’s confrontational questioning better. When the announcement came that the earlier flight to Seattle was boarding, he went to the gate and received a seat assignment. “You’re in luck,” the ticket agent said as she issued him a new boarding pass. “It’s wide open.”

He took his seat on the aisle in the middle of coach, found a paperback in his carry-on, and settled in for the cross-country flight. Weary from the long, round-trip drive earlier that day, he dozed off and woke an hour later to find the plane at cruising altitude. He stretched, picked up his fallen book from the floor, and wished he had brought something more engrossing to read or that domestic flights still showed movies. Then, a few rows ahead, he glimpsed a woman working on a quilt block.

He watched as the fabric patches came together beneath her fingers. She had long, elegant hands and held the needle as if she were accustomed to it. The contrast between the contemporary batik fabric and the traditional appliqué pattern intrigued him. At least he assumed it was a traditional pattern, since she was sewing by hand; for all he knew, it was her own original design, but it did look familiar.

After a while, curious and with plenty of time on his hands, he put his book away and moved to the empty seat across the aisle from the woman. “Hi,” he greeted her. “What are you working on?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “Oh. Nothing. It’s just a block for a quilt.”

“I can’t place that pattern. Is it traditional?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Do you quilt?”

“Now and then,” he said. “But I don’t know much about appliqué. I do everything by machine.”

She considered that, then gave a little shrug. She had long waves of light brown hair held back by a tortoiseshell barrette, and hazel eyes set into a soft oval face that suddenly reminded
him of a sepia-toned photograph. “You could easily adapt this pattern to machine appliqué, but I prefer handwork. The process is more soothing, more contemplative.”

“More portable,” added Russ, indicating the cramped space of their coach-class seats.

“That, too.” She smiled, and although he was certain she couldn’t be more than four or five years younger than he, she suddenly seemed half her age, coltish, a girl. Maybe it was the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, or the shy way she lowered her eyes back to her sewing after she spoke. Then she looked up at him again, her gaze open and friendly. “What kind of quilts do you like to make?”

If he had not left his carry-on back at his original seat, he would have shown her a copy of his book, impressed her, feigned nonchalance. If he ran back for it now, he would just look too eager to please. “They’re more contemporary,” he said instead. “I use a lot of color and contrast effects, rotary cutting, intersecting lines and so on. Mostly wall hangings.”

She considered. “That sounds like the work of an art quilter I met at a conference once. He’s very well known.” She bit her lower lip, brow furrowed. “I have his book at home. What was his name again?”

Reluctantly, Russ said, “Michael James?” Everyone had heard of Michael James. Sometimes Russ thought he was the only male quilter anyone knew by name.

“No, but he’s good, too. It’s Rossno, Russ. Russell McIntyre.”

“We’ve met before?”

“You’re Russ?”

He nodded.

“Really?” She studied him. “Your beard was longer then.”

He rubbed his jaw absently. “I’ve been keeping it shorter for the past year or two. When did we meet?”

“We sat at the head table at the awards banquet at the AQS
show in Paducah. It was years ago, and there was this huge flower arrangement and a podium between us. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you.”