Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (17 page)

Mrs. Jorgensen put Elizabeth to work in the garden almost as soon as the wagon pulled up to the barn. Mary Katherine and her daughters were already there, and their cheerful company softened the ache in Elizabeth’s heart. Before long they returned to the kitchen to help prepare supper. This time when the men came in, Henry took her aside, kissed her softly, and asked how her errand to the Grand Union Hotel had gone. She was torn between relief that he had not brushed her aside again and regret that he had chosen that particular question. “Mrs. Diegel was helpful,” she began, but Oscar had sat down and was waiting to say grace, so she said in a quick whisper that she had much more to tell him when they had time.

She would rather show him, anyway. She hoped to leave as soon as she finished tidying the kitchen as she had the previous evening, but as if to make up for the time off she had been granted earlier that day, Mrs. Jorgensen kept her busy until dusk. When she was finally dismissed, she ran most of the way back to the cabin and raced to unpack the trunks before Henry arrived. She put their own fresh sheets on the almost-new mattress and tossed the larger of the two worn quilts over it, pausing for a moment to take in the unusual star design. She had never seen the pattern before, nor that of the second quilt, which she folded and draped over the foot of the bed. In the front room, she lit one of the hurricane lamps, stacked the pewter dishes in the cupboard, and put the teakettle on the stove. Twenty minutes later, her bustle of cleaning came to an abrupt halt as Henry came home. From the doorway, he took in the sight of their own trunks, open in the center of the front room and spilling forth unfamiliar contents. “More castoffs from the Jorgensens?” he asked tiredly as he shut the cabin door behind him.

“No, these belong to us,” said Elizabeth, and explained how she and Mrs. Diegel had traded goods.

Henry stood in the center of the room, fixed in place by shock and anger. “You gave away your family’s wedding gifts?”

“I traded them for other things we needed more.” Elizabeth searched his face for some clue to explain his reaction. She had expected him to be proud of her pragmatic sacrifice. “I didn’t think you cared about china or silver plate. I thought we’d be better off able to cook for ourselves and bathe. Was I wrong?”

“No.” He dropped wearily into a chair and tugged off his boots. “Of course not. You were right.”

“Then why are you so angry?”

“I’m not angry with you.” He rose, went to the kitchen, and pumped water into the sink. He scrubbed his face and hands, drying himself on one of their last clean rags. “I’m just sorry. Sorry that it has come to this. Remember what I said to you on the train? You should always be surrounded by beauty. Look what I’ve done to you. I’ve taken you from your family to live in a hovel and work at someone else’s beck and call.”

“It’s not that bad,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not waiting hand and foot on a spoiled lady of leisure. Mrs. Jorgensen doesn’t ask me to work any harder than she does herself.”

She did not expect that to satisfy Henry but it was the truth. He left her standing in the kitchen and disappeared into the bedroom, but he almost immediately emerged, his expression twisted and pained. “That old quilt is still on the bed.”

“I know. It’s fairly clean, and the pattern is nice. Once I can give it a proper washing, it will be lovely.”

“The other one’s even worse. It’s full of holes and the stuffing’s falling out.”

“I can mend the holes. It will still keep us warm if the star quilt isn’t enough.”

“Where’s our wedding quilt? That one your mother and all your aunts made, the one with the rings and the flowers?”

Elizabeth did not reply.

“All you’ve talked about for months was how much you wanted to see that wedding quilt on our bed.” A muscle in Henry’s jaw tightened and relaxed. “Tomorrow you’ll go back to the Grand Union Hotel and give back whatever you traded for it.”

“I can’t,” said Elizabeth sharply. “As much as I want my quilts back, we need the bathtub more. And she gave me ten dollars cash. We’re going to need that, Henry. Until we get back on our feet and find our way clear of this, we’re going to need it.”

Henry sighed and rubbed hard at his jaw as if working the pain and disappointment out of it. “There’s only one way out of this, Elizabeth, and that’s for you to go home to your parents.”

“I won’t accept that. We’ll find a way, Henry. This is not the way things are always going to be. In less than a year, we’ll have enough money saved for the train fare home. What’s one year? We’ll go back to Pennsylvania and work Two Bears Farm with your family the way we always thought we would. They’ll be so happy to have us back. And—and I’ll be glad, too. California is lovely, but really, we will be much better off back home, with our families.”

The bleakness in his eyes told her he did not believe it. Without another word, he disappeared into the bedroom again. She heard clothing drop to the floor and bedsprings creak. For a moment she hoped he would call out to her to come join him, playfully asking her to help him test out the almost new mattress and the clean linen sheets she had wisely held back from Mrs. Diegel. But he said nothing, and all the wistful hope and expectation drained from her like fragrance from a pressed flower.

She stood there listening until the steady rhythm of his breathing told her he slept. She ought to join him. She needed her rest, too; she ought to save the kerosene. But instead she picked up the letters from home and sank into the rocking chair to read. Her mother’s letter, written two days after their departure, was full of wistful encouragement, fond recollections of the wedding celebration, and reminders to send out thank-you notes for the lovely gifts she and Henry had received. Tears sprang into Elizabeth’s eyes, but she laughed softly, imagining how she would phrase those notes: “Dear Great-Aunt Lydia, thank you so much for the soup tureen. I’m sure the prospective buyers of Oakwood Glen will appreciate the beauty it adds to the table of the Grand Union Hotel.”

The second letter was from little cousin Sylvia, whose accusatory tone had survived the filter of Aunt Eleanor’s transcription: “Dear Elizabeth, I hope you had a good trip. I hope you like California. I don’t think you will like it as much as home, but I hope it is nice. I love you. I miss you. I hope you can come home soon to visit. Please bring me an orange from your tree when you come. Henry does not have to come. Love, Sylvia.”

Aunt Eleanor had added a postscript: “Sylvia is happy for you in her own way. I’m sure you understand. We all miss you and hope it won’t be long before you and Henry can visit. When you have a spare moment, Sylvia would love to hear from you. I hope ranch life isn’t too busy to allow you time to write home, because we eagerly await news of your California adventure. I hope Triumph Ranch is everything you dreamed it would be. Love always, Aunt Eleanor.”

Elizabeth returned the letters to their envelopes and closed her eyes. Aunt Eleanor had struck closer to the heart of the truth than she would ever know. Triumph Ranch was everything Elizabeth had dreamed, but it was no more than a dream, vanished now that she had awakened.

She did not have the heart to put that into a letter.

Soon Sylvia and the others would receive the letters Elizabeth had mailed the previous day, the last letters she had written in happy anticipation of reaching Triumph Ranch at last. Sylvia would expect more. Elizabeth’s mother would expect more. Elizabeth could not put off responding forever. The family would worry and—she was struck by the sudden horror of realization—they might send someone to California to be sure she and Henry were safe. She could not lie to them—but how could she tell them the truth?

Her next letter home would have to wait until she knew how to write it.

When Elizabeth climbed into bed beside Henry, she tentatively snuggled into the crook of his arm. Instead of holding her close, he drew his arm free and rolled over onto his side, his back to her, never waking, or so she told herself. She lay on her back and looked up at the shadowed ceiling until she fell asleep.

1904

As her children grew, Isabel resolved that they would have everything she had been denied as a young girl—an education, friends, a loving and happy home. Thanks to Miguel, they never lacked for the latter. He showered them with love and praise, and they returned his affection in equal measure. Their eyes shone when they knew they had pleased him; his pride in their achievements spurred them on to work hard at school and help their mother around the house, for which Isabel was grateful. Her children had what mattered most, she knew, but she also wanted them to have the same material things their friends had, and that cost money.

When the children were old enough, Isabel took a job as a house-cleaner, starting with the few families who could afford one in the Arboles Valley and adding new clients as far away as Oxnard as one satisfied customer after another recommended her to friends. She arranged her schedule so she could see the children off to school before leaving for work and return home in time to greet them at the door after classes. In the summer, she worked mornings and traded babysitting with a friend from church who worked afternoons. The long, exhausting hours were worth it when she saw Carlos running across a grassy field in new, sturdy shoes, or Rosa laughing and playing in a new cotton dress and bright hair ribbons.

Isabel had no words to describe how she adored her children. Every night she prayed for God to watch over them; every week she lit a candle before a picture of the Blessed Mother, the Lady of Guadalupe, and prayed for her guidance and wisdom. She could not seek advice from her own mother, so she would turn to the Lord. It was all she could do. She had only a child’s memory of how her mother had raised her, and her father’s example was not one she wished to follow. Some days she did not know what to do or what to say so that her bright and lively children would grow into good and faithful adults. Some days she thought she ought to just stay out of the way rather than risk interfering with their intrinsic goodness. Some days she wanted to do nothing more than stand back and watch, basking in happiness as her children learned and grew.

But on other days, she longed to grasp hold of them and keep them close by her side, where she could keep a watchful eye over them. Rosa worried her more than Carlos—sweet, happy Carlos, so much like his father, forgiving and patient. Rosa was willful and intelligent, quick to anger, quick to laugh. She was also very beautiful, and becoming more so with each passing year. Her father joked that she would be a heartbreaker one day. Isabel did not doubt it. The question that troubled her most was whose heart would she shatter.

When Rosa was fourteen and Carlos twelve, they came home from school on a mid-February afternoon munching candy hearts and carrying paper sacks stuffed full of valentines. Rosa ran off straight to her room and shut her door. “Is she upset?” Isabel asked Carlos as he plunked his book bag on the kitchen table and reached for the plate of cookies.

“No,” he said, disgusted. “She’s just crazy.”

“Carlos.”

“It’s true. She’s acting like a dumb girl all because some boy gave her a flower.”

“Don’t call your sister dumb,” Isabel said automatically, but her heart clenched. She left Carlos to his snack and rapped softly on her daughter’s door. “Rosa?”

“What is it, Mami?” Rosa called from within.

Isabel opened the door. Rosa sat up in her bed and scrambled to hide something beneath her pillow. “Carlos said you were given a flower at school today.”

Rosa shrugged dismissively. “Lots of girls got them. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

Though she kept her eyes downcast, she could not hide her smile, or her glow.

“Let me see it,” said Isabel sternly.

Frowning, Rosa reached beneath her pillow and handed her mother a long-stemmed pink carnation, identical to those she had seen for sale in the Arboles Grocery. Although slender pink-and-white ribbons were tied around the stem, no card or note was attached to reveal the identity of Rosa’s admirer.

“Who gave this to you?”

“Someone left it in my valentine bag when I was away from my desk. There’s no name.”

“I can see there’s no name. Who gave it to you?”

“I guess…it could have been any of the boys.”

Isabel leveled a hard gaze at her daughter, recognizing the evasive words of a girl who did not want to confess the truth but was as yet unwilling to lie to her mother. Thank God she still had enough sense for that, enough respect. Isabel and Miguel could still nip this nonsense in the bud.