Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (37 page)

Elizabeth smiled. “I have an idea how you could make some extra cash.”

They haggled over the price for a time, but eventually Mrs. Diegel admitted that she needed new paint more than an old quilt, and she accepted Elizabeth’s fair offer. Elizabeth waited in the lobby while the innkeeper went to fetch the quilt, climbing the stairs slowly and grasping the smooth oak banister for support. Until that moment, Elizabeth had not realized how much Mrs. Diegel had aged in the past few years, her shoulders stooped as if weighed down by worry. It saddened Elizabeth to know that not even the crafty and indomitable Mrs. Diegel could evade the hard times that had struck them all.

Before long, Mrs. Diegel returned downstairs with the quilt, which was in better condition than Elizabeth had hoped. The colors had faded somewhat, the binding was worn, but Elizabeth found no stains, no holes or tears. Not that it would have mattered. She was so glad to hold her quilt again after so many years that half the batting could have been hanging out of popped seams and she would not have regretted her purchase.

She bade Mrs. Diegel good-bye and was nearly at the door when the older woman called her back. “I recall you once had a hankering to be in the pictures,” Mrs. Diegel said. “When the producers contacted me about shooting at the Grand Union, they mentioned that they would be looking for local folks to fill in the scene. I don’t expect you would have any lines, but it might be good for a laugh, and a small paycheck, and who knows what else? You might impress the director and be on your way to bigger and better things.”

Once, that news would have thrilled her. Once, Elizabeth would have seized any chance for even the smallest, nonspeaking role in any film. But Mrs. Diegel was not the only one who had aged beyond her years since the Depression had begun. Elizabeth knew she was no longer the lovely, bright-eyed girl who had come to the Arboles Valley with her new husband and the boundless hopes and expectations of youth. If she were to enter that dance hall at Venice Beach today, a farmhand’s wife in a homemade calico dress, she knew no movie director would think to give her his card—even if she weren’t seven months pregnant with her third child. By the time Hoot Gibson came to the valley, directors and producers in tow, Elizabeth would have a new baby in her arms and too much to do to consider reviving her old dreams of stardom.

“Thanks for letting me know,” she told Mrs. Diegel, knowing she would not audition for a part. She was content with the role she had already won. Her children were joyful and healthy. She loved and was beloved. She had a home and friends. She needed nothing else.

Elizabeth drove back to the Jorgensen farm to return Oscar’s car—a 1926 Model T Ford he had bought to replace the one that had vanished along with Lars—and to collect Eleanor and Thomas from Annalise. As she pulled up to the garage, she spotted an unfamiliar car parked near the house. Curious, she glanced in through the kitchen window as she went around back to search for the children, but she saw no one. Either the guest was with Oscar in the barley fields or Mrs. Jorgensen was entertaining in the front parlor.

She found the children in the garden with Annalise, helping her pull weeds. The young woman was infinitely patient with them, willingly pointing out over and over again the difference between carrot tops and weeds. Thomas looked up first and toddled over to Elizabeth with a fistful of grass, dirt still clinging to the roots. “Look,” he crowed. “Weeds!”

Elizabeth awkwardly stooped to pick him up, keeping his fat little legs clear of her belly. “What a good little farmer you’re turning out to be,” she praised him. To Annalise, she said, “How were they?”

“Perfect little angels, as always.”

Eleanor beamed at her. She admired the older girl and drank up her praise. The same words from any other source never seemed to satisfy her in quite the same way.

Elizabeth indicated the yellow farmhouse with a nod. “Who’s visiting?”

“I don’t know.” Annalise rose and brushed dirt from her shins. She wore dungarees instead of skirts, in keeping with the recent fashion among young women her age in the valley, much to her grandmother’s chagrin. “He can’t be from around here or I’d know him.”

Elizabeth wasn’t convinced. So many housing developments had sprung up around them that no one knew everyone who lived in the Arboles Valley anymore.

“The man came to see Daddy,” Eleanor piped up.

Elizabeth smiled at her sweet, golden-haired girl. “Why would you say that, darling?”

“It’s true,” said Annalise. “Nana sent Margaret running to fetch him from the orchard a few minutes after the man arrived.”

A tremor of uneasiness stirred within Elizabeth. “What sort of business would anyone have with Henry?”

Annalise shrugged. “I could watch the kids while you go find out.”

Elizabeth nodded, handed Thomas to her, and strode back to the house as quickly as her ample belly would allow. Although she no longer worked for the Jorgensens, she had been nearly part of the family so long that she entered through the kitchen door without knocking, as they would have expected her to do. She found Mrs. Jorgensen, Oscar, Henry, and another man seated in the formal parlor with teacups and cookies close at hand. They all looked up when she appeared in the doorway. The men rose and Mrs. Jorgensen beckoned her inside. “Come, Elizabeth,” she said. “Sit down. This gentlemen has some interesting news for you.”

Her heart leaped into her throat even as she noted that Mrs. Jorgensen had said
interesting,
not
unfortunate,
and that Henry’s expression was a mix of surprise and doubt, but not alarm. She took a deep breath and sat down as Mrs. Jorgensen introduced the visitor as Horace Tomilson from the law firm of Tomilson, Hanks, and Dunbar of San Francisco.

“You’re a long way from home,” said Elizabeth nervously. Mrs. Jorgensen pressed a cup of tea into her hands.

“Only a commission of a sensitive nature would have induced me to travel so far,” he admitted. “My clients, Mr. and Mrs. Nils Ottesen of Sonoma County, own a parcel of land not far from here. I believe they bought the land intending to farm it, but the vineyard on their property up north has thrived, so they have decided to remain there. They would like to put the land up for sale, and they thought you and your husband might be prospective buyers.”

Elizabeth regarded him in disbelief. How would a vintner from hundreds of miles away know anything about her and Henry? They must have her confused with some other Nelsons, a much wealthier Nelson family with ties to the real estate business. “What land?” she asked, stalling for time. “How much?”

“He’s talking about the Barclay farm,” said Henry.

“Five dollars an acre,” added Mr. Tomilson.

Elizabeth looked around the circle of faces. “This must be some kind of a joke.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Henry, who had good reason to be suspicious. “Five dollars an acre is practically giving it away. Developers have been salivating over that land for years. These Ottesens could make a small fortune off that land.”

“If it’s theirs to sell,” said Elizabeth.

“I assure you, it’s all very legal.” Mr. Tomilson opened his briefcase and showed them a host of documents with official seals and stamps indicating that the parcel of land formerly known as the Barclay farm belonged free and clear to the Ottesens. He presented a notarized copy of the title as well as several receipts indicating that the Ottesens had paid the property taxes on the farm for the past four years.

But Elizabeth had been taken in by such documents before. She set her cup of tea aside and began to rise. “Thank you for coming,” she said tightly. “But my husband and I never heard of Nils Ottesen and we know better than to buy land that isn’t really for sale.”

“Mrs. Ottesen thought you might say that,” he replied. “She asked me to make sure you saw this.”

He took a page from the sheaf of documents and placed it in her hands. Elizabeth read it over and found it to be a bill of sale transferring the Barclay farm from Mr. and Mrs. John Barclay to Mr. and Mrs. Nils Ottesen for a modest sum of one hundred dollars.

“You’ll see this land has a history of selling for less than what it is worth,” remarked Mr. Tomilson.

What interested Elizabeth more was the date stamped on the document. She wondered if Mr. Tomilson realized that John Barclay had signed and dated the bill of sale in Sonoma County at the same time he was also imprisoned in the Ventura County jail.

She looked to Henry. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, which told her he realized it, even if the lawyer did not.

Mr. Tomilson peered at her over the rims of his glasses. “I’m surprised that you don’t remember the Ottesens. She told me that you had once done her a great kindness, helped her in her most desperate hour, when all others had turned their backs upon her. She wants this land to belong to you, even if it means suffering a financial loss herself. I advised her against this, of course, but she insisted. She’s quite a remarkable woman.”

“I think I remember her,” said Elizabeth. “Tell me, what does she look like?”

“Oh, she’s quite lovely. Slender, tall, long dark hair—some Spanish blood, perhaps.”

“And her husband?” Mrs. Jorgensen broke in. “What about him?”

Mr. Tomilson shrugged, smiling. “Well, he’s rather tall and thin and sunburned. Losing his hair. I’m sure he’s a fine man, but not the sort that I would have thought capable of plucking such a lovely Spanish rose. Forgive me—I’m not being forward, I’m merely quoting him. I’ve overheard him call his wife his Spanish rose. Perhaps that’s his secret. Romantic words?”

“Yes, he’s quite a poet,” said Oscar dryly, adding, “or so it seems.”

Elizabeth calculated quickly. One hundred acres at five dollars an acre was five hundred dollars, or 480 more than she and Henry had left after ransoming the quilt. “Please give Mrs. Ottesen our thanks,” said Elizabeth. “As much as we appreciate their generous offer, I’m afraid we can’t afford it.”

“In that case, I’m authorized to hire you and your husband to run the Ottesens’ farm in their absence.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “What?” said Henry.

“They’re willing to offer very generous terms. In exchange for farming the land, maintaining the property, and paying the property taxes, the Ottesens will give you a modest salary and let you keep any profits you earn from whatever crops you decide to raise.”

“This can’t be real,” murmured Elizabeth.

“There are a couple of conditions,” said Mr. Tomilson, taking a page from his briefcase. “The first is that you send the Ottesens a quarterly payment of twenty-five dollars, which will be put toward the five-hundred-dollar purchase price. All payments will be made through my office. In five years, the title will be transferred over to you.”

“What’s the second condition?” asked Henry.

Mr. Tomilson frowned at the page as if he considered the request rather odd and was almost too embarrassed to mention it. “They want you to rename the farm ‘Triumph Ranch.’ ”

Elizabeth laughed aloud.

“Legally, once the title is in your name, you can call the farm anything you like,” Mr. Tomilson hastened to add. “Surely you can live with an unusual name for a few short years.”

“No, no. The name is perfect.” Elizabeth reached out her hand to Henry. “What do you think, sweetheart? How does ‘Triumph Ranch’ sound to you?”

“It sounds perfect.” Elizabeth knew he meant too perfect. “What’s the catch?”

Mr. Tomilson began gathering up his papers. “There is no catch, simply an offer and your decision, which I await. Eagerly.”

“What happens to the farm if we decline?” asked Elizabeth. “I imagine the same offer would be made to her brother.”

Mr. Tomilson regarded her curiously. “Whose brother?”

“Mrs. Ottesen’s, of course.”

“Mrs. Ottesen has no brothers or sisters.” He glanced at his notes. “She does have six children, however. Six healthy children who are seen once a year by a skilled physician whether they need to or not. She wanted me to make sure you knew that.”

“Six?” said Mrs. Jorgensen in wonder. “My heavens.”

Henry had not forgotten Elizabeth’s question. “What happens to the land if we don’t take their offer?”

“In that case, I have been authorized to put it up for auction between three respected land developers.”

“You’ll find no such creature,” said Mrs. Jorgensen sharply. “I can’t believe that—what was his name now? That this Nils Ottesen intends for that beautiful, arable land to become a housing development.” She looked from Elizabeth to Henry, rapping a finger upon the table for emphasis so hard she made the teapot rattle. “He’s obviously trying to force your hand, and I say—let him!”