Elm Creek Quilts [09] Circle of Quilters (6 page)

“They aren’t exactly the same,” said Maggie. “I’ve used different fabrics, color palettes, and techniques with each variation. Each version was made for a specific purpose.” She reached into her messenger bag and pulled out copies of the same photos she had included in her portfolio. “This one, my third Harriet’s Journey, was an exercise in contrast and value. The blue and white version I made entirely by machine just to prove to some of my reluctant students that it could be done. I personally prefer hand piecing.”

“You do seem capable of adequate handwork,” said Diane, “which makes it all the more disappointing that you sold out to the machine mafia.”

“I don’t understand.”

Diane gestured to the photo. “You said it yourself. You prefer one technique, but you pandered to lazy advocates of an easier method to reel in more students, to sell more books.”

Taken aback, Maggie replied, “I don’t consider it selling out to encourage a quilter to try a project that is more challenging than what she’s previously attempted.”

“Of course not,” said Sylvia briskly. “Does anyone else have a question for our guest?”

Summer glanced at her notes and looked up with a smile for Maggie. “How do you account for your continuing interest in this one quilt? It’s not just about the patterns, is it?”

“No,” said Maggie. “Although I’m awed by Harriet’s sense of geometry, balance, and proportion as well as her technical skills, my fascination has always been with the quilter more than with her creation. Who was she? Why did she make this quilt? Did anyone help her? What did she think about as she sewed? Did she have a good marriage? Was she happy? Was she lonely? Did she regret leaving Massachusetts for the West? There’s so much I’ll never know about her, but working on this quilt makes me feel closer to her.”

Some of the Elm Creek Quilters nodded, encouraging her to continue. “Over the years, I’ve made several visits to Lowell to try to retrace Harriet’s steps. I’ve found tantalizing clues to her past—a baptismal record, a bill of sale for a plot of land that her father owned, a few other facts relating to her ordinary daily life. But a collection of facts isn’t the truth. I think Harriet’s truth lies in the story her quilt tells, and that’s the story of a woman who was creative, resourceful, and steadfast. I’ll never know for certain, and that mystery compels me to make sure she is remembered, not only for her sake, but for all those other women whose sacrifices built this country but whose names never made it into the history books.”

Sylvia smiled. “If only we had more time, I have some quilts in my attic I would love to show you. I think you would appreciate them.”

Sarah took that as her cue to wrap up the interview, and Maggie was surprised that she was no longer eager for it to end. For all that she had promised Lois she could never leave California, she had seen enough of Elm Creek Quilt Camp to know that she
would feel at home there. Aside from Diane, the Elm Creek Quilters had been kind and welcoming. She knew she would enjoy working with them and becoming their friend.

Now she could only hope that the impression she had made over the previous twenty-four hours would be enough to dispel any concerns Diane might raise after she left.

Sarah rose to show her to the door. Maggie shook their hands, even Diane’s, and told them she hoped to hear from them soon. She collected her bags and left the parlor to find that someone had arranged a row of folding chairs along the wall just outside the door.

The white-haired woman she had tried to help earlier was in the hallway leading to the west wing. She brightened and seemed about to speak, but Maggie was spent from the interview and did not want to talk. She turned quickly and hurried to the tall double doors that marked the front entrance, though her car was parked around back.

As she stepped out onto the veranda, she saw a younger woman dressed in an interview suit struggling up the stairs with an oversized stroller and two little boys in tow. Maggie could only imagine how Diane would react at the sight of the children, and although this woman was the competition, she was moved to sympathy, knowing what was in store for her.

“Watch out for the blonde,” Maggie warned as they passed on the stairs. The young mother paused, but Maggie had a long drive to Pittsburgh ahead of her and a flight to catch, so she hurried on her way.

I
f Nate had not been too busy to go to the grocery store as he had promised, Karen would not have been forced to load the boys into the car and drive to the store in the rain. If she had not had to endure the boys’ nonstop begging for sugar-frosted junk marketed by cartoon characters, she would not have felt entitled to a reward. If she had not been so annoyed at Nate, she would not have tossed the
Modern Quilter
magazine into the shopping cart on her way to the checkout line, and if she had not bought the magazine, she never would have seen the ad. So, in a way, everything that resulted, all the embarrassment and stress and frustration, was Nate’s fault.

If she had not felt guilty about the purchase, she would have learned about the job that same day, but as she unpacked the groceries she imagined her husband’s lament at the sight of the magazine. “Think of all the trees that died for those pages,” Nate would say. “Don’t they have an online version you could read instead?” Nate had cancelled his last newspaper subscription while still in graduate school, and Karen had allowed hers to lapse after they had dated for six months and she realized his anti-newsprint stance was not a passing phase. They had not had a magazine in the house since the subscription to
Parents
they had received as a baby shower gift ran out four months after Ethan was born. If Nate came home and found a magazine in her hands, he might keel over in shock. She could not do that to him, so she hid the magazine in her fabric stash, taking it out only when Nate was at work and the boys were asleep. Those two events coincided only rarely, so it was not until two weeks after purchasing the magazine that she discovered Elm Creek Quilt Camp was hiring.

She postponed telling Nate about the job not only because she would have to admit how she had heard about it, but also because she was not sure she ought to apply. It was not as if she had an abundance of free time. Even with Ethan in nursery school three mornings a week, she still had plenty to do tending to his increasingly active little brother. Her house looked like the before photo in a redecorating makeover, and come to think of it, so did she. She didn’t need more work; she needed a month alone at a tropical spa with daily massages and handsome cabana boys to bring her fruity drinks with little paper umbrellas in them while she relaxed on the beach.

But to work at Elm Creek Manor … She wistfully remembered the week she had spent at quilt camp a few months before Ethan was born, a time when she had naively considered herself accomplished and capable because her children had not yet taught her otherwise. The week’s stay had been a gift from Nate, who had secretly made all the arrangements after she had mentioned that she had been seized by an irresistible urge to make a quilt for her firstborn. Maybe she had been under the influence of the breathtakingly adorable pictures in the clandestine stash of baby magazines she had secreted in her underwear drawer, because none of her friends or family quilted, and she had not grown up with quilts around the house. She had no one to teach her, and she was afraid what would result if she tried on her own. Then she happened across an arts program on cable featuring an
interview with a male quilter from the Pacific Northwest whose work was exhibited in galleries across the country. The baby quilt Karen envisioned was nothing like his wild, abstract creations, but she figured that if a man could quilt, so could she.

As she and Nate shopped for the nursery, Karen told him she wished she knew how to quilt without expecting anything more than sympathy. But Nate’s understanding of quilting was that it involved reusing scraps of worn fabric that would otherwise end up in a landfill, so he was all for it. He found Elm Creek Quilt Camp on the Internet and surprised her with a week’s stay, no doubt pleased to foster her budding environmentalist frugality. Soon after she returned home, however, he learned that quilters need new fabric just as painters need paint and sculptors need clay, and he regarded her steadily increasing stash with concern and resignation as it threatened to outgrow the linen closet and spill into the hallway.

If Karen were more experienced, she might have put her application in the mail immediately, but she had quilted for only five years. She had tried to teach quilting only once, to her best friend, who had eagerly chosen a pattern and purchased fabric but had never actually cut out any pieces. It was a less than exemplary record, one she was certain the other applicants would far surpass. She pictured the Elm Creek Quilters passing her application around a long table, marveling at her hubris before tossing her file into a paper shredder.

That image made her wish she had never seen the ad. If she ever returned to the manor, it would be as a camper, not as an Elm Creek Quilter.

Monday night blurred into Tuesday morning. Lucas woke twice to nurse, and Karen dozed uncomfortably in the rocking chair until he drifted off to sleep. She returned him to his crib and
stumbled back to bed, but on the second return trip, she stepped on a Tickle Me Elmo doll, which promptly burst into giggles, waking Ethan. She told him to go back to sleep, but not long after she lay down and pulled the quilt up to her chin, she felt the mattress shake as Ethan crawled into bed between her and Nate. Twice before sunrise Karen was jolted awake by her son’s feet in her ribcage, a sensation oddly reminiscent of her pregnancy, though far less entrancing than when he had been on the inside.

In the morning, Nate shut off the alarm clock and muttered something about sleeping in—a lovely idea in theory, but impracticable for the parents of young children. Lucas rose at his regular hour, calling out for milk. Half asleep, Karen brought him into the master bed to nurse as she lay curled protectively around him. She drifted back to sleep stroking his downy blond hair, his sweet baby softness warming her heart, the fragrance of baby shampoo soothing her into slumber. Later she woke to the sound of the shower running. The sliver of the bed Nate had occupied was empty, Ethan was snoring, and Lucas was sitting up in bed, smiling at her. “Poo poo,” he announced, and held up his hands. While she slept, he had removed his diaper and fingerpainted the sheets with the contents.

In the summer, the boys’ playgroup met at the park every Tuesday and Thursday morning, but on Tuesdays Ethan had a swimming lesson first. “Did you feed the boys?” Karen asked Nate as she raced into the kitchen after a quick shower and a scramble through the unfolded clothes in the laundry basket for something to wear.

“Lucas had cereal and toast.”

“What about Ethan?”

“He said he wasn’t hungry.”

“If he doesn’t eat now, he’ll want something five minutes before his swimming lesson starts.”

Nate shrugged. “I can’t force him to eat.”

“Did you pack the swim bag?”

“I thought you did it.”

Silently, Karen counted to five. Every Monday night she asked him to pack the bag, and every Monday night he agreed. Every Tuesday morning, he assumed she had already taken care of it. Did he think she had squeezed it in between Lucas’s midnight and predawn feedings? “Could you please pack the bag so I can grab some breakfast?”

“Sure, honey.” He rose and kissed her, coffee mug in hand, and went upstairs. She tracked his footsteps from Ethan’s room to the main bath to their room, hastily spooning down a bowl of muesli while standing at the sink. She had just finished when Nate returned with the blue nylon bag and put it on the kitchen table between his plate of toast crusts and Ethan’s cereal bowl.

“Did you remember everything?” asked Karen, clearing away the dishes.

“Yep.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I have to go. I have student conferences.”

“Did you remember the swim cap?”

“Uh huh.” Nate took his lunch from the refrigerator and stuffed it into his backpack.

“Towel?”

“Yes.”

“Coffee cup?”

He paused. “What?”

“Coffee cup. When you went upstairs, you were carrying a coffee cup.”

“Oh. I think I left it on the dresser.” He glanced at his watch. “Do you want me to go get it?”

“That’s all right. I’ll get it.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later.” He went into the living room to say good-bye to the boys, then hurried off with a cheerful wave.

After the door to the garage closed behind him, she tried not to
open the bag to make sure he had remembered everything. She hated feeling like she always needed to check his work, but the urge was insistent. Towel, swim cap, and goggles were tucked inside the bag just as Nate had promised, but the swim trunks were old, faded from chlorine, and size 3T. Karen had no idea where Nate had found them, since they should have been packed away in the basement with the other clothes Ethan had outgrown and Lucas could not yet wear. If Ethan managed to squeeze into them at all, the waistband could quite possibly cut off his circulation.

Can’t he read a tag?
Karen wondered as she hurried upstairs to Ethan’s room.
Does he not know his son’s size? Didn’t he recognize the right pair from last week?

She took a deep breath and tried to let it go. Nate was in a hurry, students were waiting for him, and how many dads knew anything about their kids’ sizes? He had tried to help, and that was what mattered.

She retrieved the coffee cup from the bathroom counter on her way back downstairs, finished packing the swim bag and the diaper bag and the lunch bag for the park later, and called for the boys to come and get ready to leave. Ethan came at once, but Lucas ran away, laughing, and hid by climbing behind the armchair and covering his eyes with his hands.

“We can still see you,” his older brother said.

“No see,” Lucas insisted.

“And we can hear you. Mom, tell him he’s not hiding right.”

“Time to go.” Karen reached behind the chair and lifted Lucas to his feet. He promptly went limp, forcing her to haul him out into the open. She wrestled the boys from their pajamas into their clothes and cajoled them into holding still while she slathered them in PABA-free sunblock. She had barely finished one of Lucas’s arms when he grabbed the pink bottle and flung it behind the piano.