Elm Creek Quilts [09] Circle of Quilters (39 page)

“I—” Maggie sat down. “Really? You’re really offering me the job? But I did so badly in the interview. Are you sure?”

Sarah laughed. “Are you trying to talk me out of it? Of course we’re sure. You won’t need to begin teaching until the new camp season in March, but we’d like to have you out here no later than January. Does that sound all right?”

“That sounds fine. Better than fine. It sounds wonderful.” Then Maggie thought of Russell, and suddenly relocating to Pennsylvania lost its appeal. “I don’t suppose you could tell me who the other new teacher is?”

“I really shouldn’t, not until I’ve notified the other applicants.”

Maggie felt a thrill of delight. She was the first new teacher Elm Creek Quilts had called.

She hesitated only a moment, a moment in which she considered Russell’s qualifications for the job and decided that if the Elm Creek Quilters had chosen her, they surely also intended to make an offer to someone like Russell. Even if they did not, she could not afford to throw away the job offer of a lifetime all because of one marvelous weekend and a dozen phone calls with a man she had only just met. No matter how wonderful he seemed. No matter how much she already liked him. No matter how readily he laughed.

She thanked Sarah and told her she would begin planning her move to Pennsylvania. Sarah promised to be in touch.

As soon as Maggie hung up, she dialed Russell’s number. The line was busy.

Maggie smiled as she replaced the receiver. Very likely, he was on the line with Sarah McClure at that very moment.

Russell heard the phone ringing as he unlocked the front door. Dropping his bags on the porch, he bounded inside and snatched up the phone just as the answering machine clicked on.

“Hold on a moment,” he called over the outgoing message, fumbling for the off switch. “Okay, sorry about that. Hello?”

“Hello, Russell McIntyre?”

A woman, but not Maggie. “Yes?” he said, disappointed. He should have let the machine get it.

“This is Sarah McClure from Elm Creek Quilts.”

“Oh, hi.” He had never expected to hear from them after storming out of the interview. The memory of it still embarrassed him.

“I’m calling with good news. After considering all the candidates, we’ve decided to offer you one of the teaching positions. You won’t be expected to teach until the new camp season begins in March, but we’ll need you here by January so we can prepare. How does that sound?”

“Uh—” Russell’s thoughts flew to Maggie, to her warming
smile, the feel of her hand in his, and knew he could not move so far away from her. “I’m curious. Who else did you hire?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say. Not all of the applicants have been notified.”

“Oh. Right.” Russell considered. Maggie was convinced that she had failed miserably in the interview. She had told him she was certain that she would not be offered the job. He decided to believe her. “I’m afraid my plans have changed. I’m no longer able to accept the job.”

“You don’t want the job?”

She sounded incredulous, and with good reason. “I’m truly very sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Is this because of a certain overzealous interviewer?” asked Sarah. “I assure you, our decision to choose you was unanimous, and she’s eager to make amends.”

“It’s not that,” said Russell, although he was satisfied to hear it. “I’ve decided that I want to stay on the West Coast, that’s all.”

“All right, then,” said Sarah, still sounding as if she did not believe he was turning her down. “Would you consider joining us as a visiting instructor on occasion? I still believe we have a lot to offer each other.”

“Thanks. I’ll consider it,” said Russell. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

But he was impatient to get off the line. He would rather work out travel arrangements for Maggie’s visit to Seattle than for some future, hypothetical visit to Elm Creek Quilt Camp.

“I can’t believe it,” said Sarah, hanging up. “After all that, he doesn’t want the job.”

Sylvia shrugged. “After what Diane put him through, I suppose we can’t be too surprised.”

“I’m surprised,” said Sarah. “We aren’t the least bit turn-downable. Now what are we supposed to do? Call an emergency
meeting and have another vote? Deliberate another two weeks? That’s just enough time for all of our applicants to find other work or to become so irritated at us for taking so long that they’ll brush off our offer just like Russell did.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Sylvia. “There’s really only one other choice, don’t you agree?”

After two weeks with no word from Elm Creek Quilts, Gretchen was tempted to call and ask how the selection process was going and if she was still in the running. She refrained, in part because she did not want to nag, in part because she was too busy working out the final details of her separation from Quilts ’n Things. Heidi’s daughter, submitting to pressure from her mother to decline Gretchen’s offer to sell her share of the store, had come around only after other potential buyers surfaced. Rather than allow control of the store to leave the family, Heidi relented, and her daughter eagerly made Gretchen a fair market bid. Now all that was left was the paperwork.

Naturally, all the local quilters were astonished when the news broke that Gretchen was leaving Quilts ’n Things on unpleasant terms. A frenzy of gossip circulated through the quilting bees, spurred on, no doubt, by Heidi’s embellished version of recent events. Gretchen refused to demean herself by carrying on her disagreement with Heidi through the rumor mill. When mutual acquaintances asked her what had happened, she told them, simply and without acrimony. Then she left them to make up their own minds. It was too soon to tell which friends would stand by her, which would abandon her out of loyalty to Heidi, and which would try to balance precariously between them, in hopes that one day they might make amends and everything might go back to the way it was before.

Gretchen knew that would never happen. She also knew—and
this was a nagging worry—that she would have to find some work to occupy her time and pay the bills. The sale of her share of Quilts ’n Things would carry her and Joe a little ways, but it would not last forever.

When Sarah McClure finally called, Gretchen’s heart leaped and she eased herself into a chair, holding her voice carefully neutral. She could not tell from the young woman’s greeting if she intended to deliver good news or bad.

Thankfully, Sarah got right to the point. When she asked Gretchen if she could be available by January, Gretchen said, “I could be available next week if you like. If you need a substitute teacher, I’d be delighted to fill in anytime. Just say the word.”

How fortuitous that she had already cleared her calendar by resigning from the quilt shop.

Joe waited nearby until Gretchen hung up. “Well?” he asked.

She flung her arms around him. “How soon can you pack up your workshop? We’re moving to Elm Creek Manor!”

Karen was in the kitchen fixing the boys a snack of soynut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches when the phone rang. Sylvia Compson was kind and regretful as she delivered the bad news Karen had expected since leaving Elm Creek Manor.

“I’m very sorry,” Sylvia said.

“That’s all right.” Or it would be, if Karen thrived on disappointment and rejection. “I expected as much when I couldn’t find a baby-sitter and the interview turned into a debate on the merits of extended breastfeeding.”

“That wasn’t the reason at all,” said Sylvia. “We appreciate a rousing discussion as much as anyone. We simply found that some of our other candidates had more teaching experience. Perhaps if you teach at your local quilt shop, the next time we hire, you’ll be among the most qualified.”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” said Karen, although she doubted there would be a next time.

When she hung up, she found Nate listening in from the doorway. “Who was that?”

“Sylvia Compson from Elm Creek Quilts.”

“And?”

Karen shook her head.

“I’m sorry, honey.” Nate wrapped her in a hug, and she rested her head on his chest. “I know you really wanted that job.”

“It’s all right,” said Karen, and she meant it. In a way, it was even a relief. She had no idea how she would have managed working outside the home and raising the boys without driving herself to the brink of exhaustion.

“But I know how much it meant to you.” Nate hesitated. “I know you want a paying job so that you can feel like you’re doing something important.”

“That’s not it.” Karen pulled away and picked up the knife, slicing Lucas’s sandwich into squares and Ethan’s into triangles, the way they preferred. “I think that what I do now is important. Not making sandwiches, but all of it. What could be more important than raising my two children to be self-confident, compassionate, moral adults? I just wish other people respected what I do. I know I shouldn’t care what other people think, but I wish other people thought that what I do is important.”

“And by ‘other people,’” said Nate, “you mean me.”

She set the knife in the sink and tightened the lid on the strawberry jam jar. “Yes, Nate. I mean you.”

“I get it,” he said. “I get it.”

She doubted he did. If he did get it, if he really understood how she felt—but how could she expect him to understand when she herself could barely sort out her conflicted feelings? She loved her children dearly. They were more precious to her than any job could ever be. But one moment she felt utterly fulfilled by motherhood,
and the next as if she were trapped, spent, finished. Old and ugly, tired and used up. She missed feeling special. She missed that sense of anticipation that everything lay ahead of her, anything was possible, that she could do anything, be anything, be admired and cherished and beloved. She missed feeling wanted for herself, for the woman she was and not merely the housekeeping chores she performed. At the same time, she knew that taking care of her children was her duty and her calling and whatever she did or failed to do in the boys’ early years would affect them so profoundly that nothing else she ever did would leave such a mark on the world. She was angry that no one appreciated the importance of the task appointed to her and ashamed that she wished she could escape its drudgery. She felt both taken for granted and selfish. She was ashamed that she could not simply enjoy her beautiful sons, children any parent would be grateful to have, and that what seemed to come so naturally to other women was a continuous uphill struggle for her. She felt like a failure, hopelessly inadequate to a task that was far too important to entrust to anyone else.

If she could have joined the circle of quilters at Elm Creek Manor—that would have made her special again. She knew how foolish it was to feel that way, but she could not help it. If Nate only knew how fortunate they both were that she had sought fulfillment from a new job rather than another man. But it didn’t matter now.

“I’m sure you honestly believe you do understand,” she told Nate, and called the boys for lunch.

Nate said nothing. He left the kitchen frowning, but not in anger. He frowned as he did when wrestling with an especially difficult piece of computer code.

Later, while the boys napped, Nate found her in the basement where she worked on the last block for her Pickle Dish quilt. “I made a spreadsheet,” he announced.

“That’s great, honey,” she said, not really listening. It was hardly a revelation. He made spreadsheets all day long.

“No, I mean I made one for us.” He turned her chair and placed a thin stack of papers in her hands. She glanced at them, curious. “It’s a schedule. A new, revised family schedule.”

“Can something be both new and revised?” she asked dubiously, paging through the sheets. She paused at the sight of a block of time labeled in blue. “What’s this?”

“That’s ‘Mom Time.’”

She could read; she just didn’t know what it meant. “That’s when I do my mom work? Because there’s no way I can fit everything into two and a half hours after supper.”

“No, that’s when you’re
not
allowed to do any mom work. See? I’ll come home at five-thirty every night. No exceptions. We’ll have supper, and then from six until eight-thirty, you do whatever you like. Read a book, talk on the phone with your mom, take a long bath—” “Speaking of baths, if I’m reading or talking, who—”

“
I’ll
give the boys their baths. I’ll get them their snacks, play with them, brush their teeth, read stories, all the things you usually do so you can have time for yourself.” He shrugged. “Maybe you could even use that time to teach a class at the quilt shop so you can get the experience the Elm Creek Quilters are looking for.”

“But you’ve always needed the evenings to work. Won’t you go through laptop withdrawal?”

“If I can’t get my work done during the day, I can finish after the boys go to bed.”

She shook her head, skeptical. “Taking care of the boys doesn’t mean parking them in front of the TV, you know.”

“I know that. Karen, I want to help, but you have to let me.”

He had a point; she knew it. Now that he had finally offered to share more of the parenting load, she couldn’t refuse because he would not do everything as well as she did. She’d had years of practice. He would need time to catch up, to learn how to care for the boys his own way, because her way was not the only right way.

Perhaps she would look into teaching a class at her favorite quilt shop.

Perhaps someday she would have a second chance to join the circle of quilters at Elm Creek Quilts.

Maggie called Russell twice more before reaching a ring instead of a busy signal. When he answered, she breathlessly said, “Was that Elm Creek Quilts on the line?”

“Maggie?”

“Yes, it’s me. Hi! How was your trip? You had a busy signal.

Were you speaking with Sarah McClure?”

“How did you know?”

“Because they called me, too, right before you. I knew they’d offer you the job. I knew it! You couldn’t possibly have done as badly in the interview as you said.”

“You mean they offered you the other teaching position?”

“Yes! Won’t it be fun to work together?”