Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (10 page)

“And we’ll sleep beneath our wedding quilt,” Elizabeth promised in return. “It’s too beautiful to save for only special occasions.”

Henry laughed. “Any other woman would say that it is too beautiful to use every day.”

“Things don’t become more beautiful locked away in a trunk,” protested Elizabeth. “I say if one can surround oneself with lovely things, one should.”

Henry smiled and kissed her. “That’s why you belong here in California. You are too beautiful yourself not to be surrounded by beauty every day of your life.”

At five o’clock, they met Mrs. Diegel in the dining room just off the parlor Elizabeth had seen from the lobby. Beyond it lay the kitchen, from which delicious smells wafted. Elizabeth had not eaten since breakfast back in Los Angeles, so she eagerly sat down when Henry pulled out her chair. Six other guests had already seated themselves, four men traveling on business and another married couple about ten years older than the Nelsons. The guests introduced themselves and chatted while Mrs. Diegel served chicken and dumplings with a salad of sliced tomatoes and cucumbers. As they had in the Los Angeles boardinghouse just that morning, the Nelsons found themselves forced to be evasive when confronted by their fellow guests’ friendly curiosity. This time, however, their usual reply that they were farmers who had come to the Arboles Valley to settle down met with puzzlement.

“You’re planning to buy a farm?” asked one man, who, to Elizabeth’s consternation, happened to be in the real estate business. “I wasn’t aware that there were any farms for sale in the valley. Or should I say, farms for sale that are going to remain farms.”

“Don’t tell him what land you have your eye on,” advised another man jovially. “Milton here will buy it out from under you and subdivide it into a dozen lots before you have time to grab your coat and hat.”

“It’s an honest living,” replied Mr. Milton, apparently unoffended.

“We aren’t looking to buy a farm,” said Henry. It wasn’t a lie; he had already purchased a ranch.

Mr. Milton regarded them with new interest. “Then perhaps you’ve come to look at Meadowbrook Hills? I apologize, but I don’t remember a Mr. and Mrs. Nelson on my list of appointments. No matter. I have a few hours free tomorrow afternoon after I take the Crewes out.” He nodded to the other married couple. “I’d be happy to show you the remaining lots after they have their turn.”

“Maybe the Nelsons came to see Oakwood Glen,” suggested Mrs. Diegel as she passed through the dining room with a pitcher to refresh their water glasses.

Mr. Milton frowned. “I never thought I’d say this about any plot of land, but that development would be better off plowed and seeded with alfalfa.”

“You only say that because Mr. Donovan is your biggest competitor,” said Mrs. Diegel airily. “I happen to know you tried to buy the Lindstrom farm, but Mr. Donovan made a higher offer.”

“We’re not interested in Oakwood Glen,” said Elizabeth hastily as Mr. Milton’s scowl deepened. She wished Henry had agreed to tell everyone that they were merely newlyweds on their honeymoon.

“What sort of development are you talking about?” asked Henry. “New businesses coming to town?”

“No, although I’m sure that will follow.” Mrs. Diegel regarded the Nelsons with surprise. “All this time, I had you two pegged as another young couple looking to buy homes in these developments Mr. Donovan and Mr. Milton are building.”

“Perhaps I can still persuade you,” said Mr. Milton, passing Henry a business card. “I still have several half-acre lots with scenic views available.”

“The views are scenic
now,
” said Mrs. Diegel. “They won’t be forever if you and Mr. Donovan have your way. Leave these young people alone and let them finish their dinner. They clearly aren’t in the market for one of your homes.”

To Elizabeth’s surprise, Mr. Milton chuckled. “Say what you will, I know you’re happy we’re improving those empty acres of farmland. You’ll thank me when you prosper from all the new residents. These developments will make up for everything the stagecoach and the train never delivered.”

Elizabeth had no idea what he meant. She exchanged a look with Henry and knew that his thoughts mirrored her own: They were very fortunate to have purchased the Rancho Triunfo before Mr. Milton or Mr. Donovan heard the land was up for sale.

That night, hours after Henry had fallen asleep beside her, Elizabeth climbed carefully from the narrow bed and slipped a robe over her nightgown. Her thoughts were too full of their plans for the next day to allow her to rest. Lighting the lamp, she took paper and pen from her bag, wrapped a blue-and-
white Nine-Patch quilt around herself, and settled into the ladder-back chair to write letters home. She wrote to her parents first, assuring them she was safe in California and describing their journey west in the best possible terms. Of Peter and Mae she said only that she and Henry had met an interesting couple traveling from New York on business, but she did not expect to see them again since they disembarked in St. Louis and she did not think to get their address.

She wrote to little Sylvia about the train ride west, wading in the Pacific Ocean at Venice Beach, and the glamorous Egyptian Theater. To Aunt Eleanor she wrote of all these things, but also described her encounter with Grover Higgins, movie producer, and how quickly her excitement had turned to disappointment when Henry chased him off. “Please don’t tell my mother about the movie producer,” she added in a postscript. “Henry disliked him at first sight (I think he was jealous) and I doubt my parents would approve. Still, wouldn’t it be marvelous to have even a small role in a movie—perhaps with Rudolph Valentino as my leading man? I confess that as we sat in the dark of that sumptuous theater, I imagined myself up there, in a glamorous costume, enthralling the audience. Perhaps it’s nothing more than a silly fantasy, but let’s not forget that I never dreamed I would one day live on a ranch in California, or see any place lovelier than Elm Creek Manor, or visit a town any more exotic than Pittsburgh. Now I am a rancher’s wife and I’ve seen the Pacific Ocean. Who knows what else the future might hold?”

She wrote a last quick letter to her brother Lawrence, telling him—almost defiantly—that she and Henry had arrived safely and were having a marvelous time. She finished up with envelopes and stamps—and glanced over at her husband, slumbering peacefully, while she felt not the least bit tired. Tomorrow morning, she would regret not following his example.

Her mother always recommended warm milk as a cure for sleeplessness, but Elizabeth had never heeded her advice. Privately, she knew that she would have tried it long ago if her aunt Eleanor, and not her mother, had offered the suggestion, so she decided to stop spiting herself and do as her mother instructed for a change. Her mother would never know. Elizabeth doubted any of the kitchen staff would be awake at that hour, but she didn’t see anything wrong with helping herself as long as she tidied up afterward and remembered to tell Mrs. Diegel to add it to their account.

She descended the oak staircase in darkness. Her hand slid along the banister, polished to a glossy smoothness with age except where it was riddled with bullet holes and buckshot. A dim glow came from the parlor, and to her surprise she found Mrs. Diegel seated in a chintz armchair piecing a simple nine-patch quilt block by the light of a single lamp.

The proprietress looked up at the sound of Elizabeth’s footfalls. “Good evening,” she said, resting her sewing in her lap. She did not seem to think it unusual for a hotel guest to be wandering about at that hour. “Or rather, good morning. Did you need something? An extra blanket, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.” Elizabeth had not been warm enough until she threw an extra quilt on the bed, but the room was comfortable despite the close quarters. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Did the ghost wake you?”

Elizabeth felt a chill on the nape of her neck that had nothing to do with the unseasonably cool night—if it
was
unseasonable. She was beginning to suspect it was not. “Ghost?” she said. “You’re joking.”

Mrs. Diegel shrugged and resumed sewing. “His name is Pierre—Duval or Duvon, the stories aren’t consistent. He was shot and killed in the barroom back in the eighteen eighties. I’ve never seen him myself, but some guests claim to have woken in the middle of the night to discover a man with a handlebar mustache staring at them from the foot of the bed and suddenly vanishing. He slams doors and rearranges the furniture from time to time, hides keys and hairbrushes when you most need them. He’s more of a nuisance than a fright, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Elizabeth firmly.

“Most people don’t until they see one. Our postmaster didn’t believe, either, until he saw the ghost of his dead mother-in-law wandering the mesa near the Salto Canyon. Or so he says. It nearly unhinged him.” Mrs. Diegel looked up and smiled. “I don’t suppose this sort of talk will cure what ails you. Would you like a glass of warm milk or a cup of tea?”

“A glass of warm milk, please. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Diegel set aside her sewing and left the parlor. Unsure whether she was meant to wait or to follow, Elizabeth hesitated a moment before trailing after her hostess to the kitchen. She sat down at a broad oak table while Mrs. Diegel poured milk from a glass bottle into a saucepan and heated it over a burner of the gas stove.

Mrs. Diegel stirred the saucepan with a wooden spoon, her expression thoughtful. “So you and your husband aren’t in the market for one of Mr. Milton’s houses,” she remarked after a time. “You say you’re farmers and that you’ve come to the Arboles Valley to live, when as far as I know—and I would know—there aren’t any farms for sale in the valley at present.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Elizabeth, who responded with an uncertain nod.

“I suppose it wouldn’t do any good to ask you what your business here is.”

“I can’t tell you today,” said Elizabeth. “Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be able to say more.”

“I can wait that long.” Mrs. Diegel filled a coffee cup with steaming milk, stirred in a dash of vanilla, and set it before Elizabeth. She pulled up a chair across the table and regarded her speculatively.

Elizabeth thanked her, picked up the cup, and took a sip. The warmth of the milk and the fragrance of vanilla were soothing. “I hope you won’t think I’m prying,” she said. “But I’ve been wondering what Mr. Milton meant earlier today when he said that the neighborhoods he is building will make up for what the stagecoach and the train didn’t deliver.”

“So that’s what’s keeping you awake tonight?” said Mrs. Diegel, amused. “He was referring to the history of this old place. James Hammell built the Grand Union Hotel in 1876 and welcomed his first guests on July Fourth. It was a grand place, comfortable and beautifully decorated, an oasis for weary travelers taking the Coast Line Stage from Los Angeles to points farther north. He stood to make a fortune, but then the stagecoach line switched its route from the Arboles Valley to the Santa Clara and took his customers with it. He might have endured that blow if not for the terrible drought of seventy-six and seventy-seven. The valley saw only three inches of rain in all that time. James Hammell wasn’t the only one to lose everything in those years. He was forced to sell, and my grandfather bought the hotel and about a thousand acres of farmland at a sheriff’s auction.” Mrs. Diegel sighed and shook her head, remembering. “There were rumors that a train connecting Los Angeles and Oxnard would run right through the Arboles Valley. My grandfather had a friend in the transportation department who assured him this was so. He was certain he would become rich from the travelers who had eluded Mr. Hammell. But as you know, the railroad companies chose the Simi Valley instead.”

“So the stagecoaches and trains brought only disappointment,” said Elizabeth.

“No, not only that. Enough travelers ventured this way for my grandfather to stay afloat, and our farmers benefited from the train as much as anyone. Still, when another drought struck years later, my grandfather was forced to choose between selling the hotel or selling the farm. He received a better price for the farm, so he sold it and kept the hotel. My family has run it ever since.”

“What happened to the farm?”

“It’s changed hands several times since, so I suppose my grandfather made the right choice.” For a long moment, Mrs. Diegel cupped her chin in her hand and stared off into space. Then, suddenly, she fixed Elizabeth with a steady, appraising gaze. “For more than fifty years, my family has welcomed fortune-seekers to the Arboles Valley. Within a few years most newcomers pack up and leave—as soon as times get tougher than they expected. It takes a strong will and a good dose of luck to make it here. Many folks go broke, give up, and move away, while others stay, endure, and wait for better times. I wonder which kind you and your husband are.”

Elizabeth, secure in the knowledge that Triumph Ranch awaited them, replied, “We’re the kind to hang on.”

“Everyone thinks that or they wouldn’t come in the first place.” With a sigh, Mrs. Diegel rose and carried Elizabeth’s empty cup to the sink. “Only time will tell.”

“Our families have always been farmers,” said Elizabeth. Mrs. Diegel did not need to know that Elizabeth’s experience was limited to a few summers of helping her aunt and uncle on their horse farm because her father had given up the land to marry her mother. “They’ve endured floods and accidents and every other imaginable hardship. I assure you, we’re the kind of people to hang on.”