The Wedding Quilt (9 page)

“That someone was my roommate,” said Leo with satisfaction.

“Roommate, some might say collaborator,” teased Caroline. “So all at once, instead of hip-hop, the speakers are blasting an orchestral waltz, and the next thing I know, this guy takes me in his arms and starts whirling me around the dance floor.”

“And then the guy stepped on her toes,” said James, “so she slugged him, and she bumped into Leo as she stormed off the dance floor.”

“Don't listen to him,” said Caroline, shooting James a look of sisterly exasperation. “The amazing dancer was Leo.”

“Hip-hop isn't my strength,” Leo explained. “I'm better with ballroom, so I changed the music.”

“Wait until you see what he's choreographed for our first dance,” said Caroline. “We've been practicing the Viennese waltz and the quickstep.”

“And a little salsa for later,” said Leo modestly. “Just for fun.”

James looked suitably impressed. “No kidding.”

“Girls love guys who can dance,” said Gina admiringly, and James's eyebrows rose in mild concern.

“Girls always have,” said Sarah, offering Matt a sidelong look. His lack of rhythm was notorious in the McClure family. For their first dance as husband and wife, they had resorted to the traditional stand-and-sway to “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers—still one of Sarah's favorite songs. And Matt, for all of his inability to bust a move, remained her favorite dance partner.

“Maybe you could show me a few steps before the reception,” said James to Leo in an undertone that wasn't quite low enough to pass undetected. Gina raised her coffee cup to her lips, but not quickly enough to conceal her smile.

Despite Caroline's earlier declaration that she wanted no wedding talk at supper, the story of how the couple met inevitably steered the conversation in that direction. To Sarah's surprise, Caroline needed no prompting to dash upstairs for her computer pad, which she had been using as a wedding planner. Over coffee and dessert, Caroline covered the schedule for the week, with Sarah and Leo filling in details here and there, and Anna and Gina speaking up whenever they had questions or comments about the many meals they had offered to prepare. Matt was taking care of all the flowers for the ceremony, which would be held in the gazebo in the north gardens, as well as for the reception in the ballroom immediately afterward. In case of rain, the ceremony would be moved to the grand front foyer, but Caroline was confident that wouldn't be necessary.

Sarah had numerous lists of her own—when extra chairs were to be delivered, when the men of the bridal party were to meet at the formal-wear shop on High Street for their final tuxedo fitting, when they would set up the ballroom, who would receive gift bags and when Sarah and Caroline might find time to assemble them—but the subject that concerned her most was the travel itineraries for their most important guests. From the very beginning, Caroline and Sarah had intended for Leo's immediate family and the bridal party to stay at Elm Creek Manor, but after the invitations were sent out, other friends and more distant relatives inquired about staying at the manor too. Sarah couldn't blame them, for who wouldn't prefer the beauty, comfort, and convenience of the historic manor to a hotel in downtown Waterford? She found it impossible to turn down any requests, and before long every guest suite was assigned. Unwittingly, Sarah had arranged it so that during the wedding weekend, Elm Creek Manor would be as fully booked as it was during the busiest week of quilt camp season. It was a daunting prospect, but Matt and Anna assured her that it would be no more difficult than any other summer week, and perhaps less so, since they had no classes or evening programs for quilt campers to organize. Sarah put her faith in her friends and in her many years of experience running Elm Creek Quilt Camp, praying Matt and Anna were right. She would rather have her dearest friends and family nearby than across town, not only for their enjoyment, but also for her own. The weekend would be so filled with activity, and the wedding guests in town so briefly, that Sarah could not hope to spend as much time as she wished with each and every one. Offering them rooms in Elm Creek Manor would give them that much more opportunity to see one another.

Sarah was grateful that, as busy as it would be, the wedding weekend would bring about many reunions with loved ones she had not seen in far too long. Letters, e-mails, phone calls, and virtual reality helped them to keep in touch over time and distance, but as she grew older, she appreciated time spent in the company of others more and more. She had cultivated this respect and esteem over the years with the help of a wise mentor and friend, Sylvia Bergstrom Compson Cooper. Sylvia had taught Sarah the value of family and community, and the peril of isolation, as their unlikely friendship took root and flourished as they worked side by side in Elm Creek Manor.

Sarah and Matt had been newlyweds not much older than Caroline and Leo when they moved to Waterford so Matt could take a job with a landscape architecture company. After a fruitless search for an accounting position in her new town, Sarah reluctantly agreed to work for one of the company's clients, an elderly recluse who had recently returned to town to prepare her family estate for sale after her sister's death. As part of Sarah's compensation, the curmudgeonly woman agreed to teach her to quilt, and as the summer months passed and her grand family estate was gradually restored to its historic splendor, Sylvia shared stories of the manor's golden age, stories from her childhood through her years as a young wife on the World War II home front. As Sylvia's apprentice, Sarah learned that after the master quilter's husband and younger brother had been killed in the South Pacific, her sister had broken her heart and betrayed her trust by marrying the man Sylvia blamed for their deaths. Estranged from her sister for fifty years, Sylvia had lost touch not only with Claudia, but also with all of their extended family.

Once there had been many Bergstroms, Sylvia reminisced, aunts and uncles and cousins scattered around Pennsylvania and as far away as California. Upon hearing of her sister's death, Sylvia had, at first, wanted no part of the family estate that held so many painful memories. She hired a private detective to find someone else to inherit the estate and relieve her of the weighty burden. Quickly—curiously quickly, or so Sylvia realized years later—the detective concluded that Sylvia had no living blood relations, that she was the last descendant of Hans and Anneke Bergstrom, the first members of the family to come to America. Even at the time Sylvia had wondered how the detective had reached his conclusion so soon, and how out of all the cousins and second cousins she had played with in childhood, not one had left a son or daughter behind. But she accepted his report, and on one frigid, lonely New Year's Eve, she resolved that despite her past mistakes, she would not fail to complete the last, crucial task that had fallen to her. She would find a buyer who would restore the manor to its former glory, who would fill the halls with love and laughter once more.

Then along came Sarah, with her idealism and her fanciful scheme to transform Elm Creek Manor into a quilters' retreat, and Sylvia realized that she had found the perfect steward for the Bergstrom legacy. With the help of their friends, the manor became again as wonderful as it had been in Sylvia's childhood—and in many ways, even more so, because its welcome extended beyond the Bergstrom family to a greater community of women and men who longed for such a place, if only for one week each summer. At Elm Creek Manor they could explore their untapped artistry and take creative risks within a nurturing, supportive community of others who understood their longing. Over the years, Sylvia forged cherished friendships, created a thriving business, rediscovered the artist within herself, fell in love, married—but for all her success and happiness, she yearned for family ties of her own, for a niece or nephew who shared the same roots and branches of the family tree, for a cousin with whom to reminisce about the same shared memories of holidays in the years gone by. Sharing stories of her ancestors with her new friends and reviving her favorite traditions were worthwhile and gratifying in their way, and yet left her feeling incomplete. She longed to celebrate with people who knew those traditions as their own, people with whom she shared a common heritage, but she knew this was not to be.

Even as Sylvia mourned the end of her proud family line, she vowed not to take for granted the new family she had created for herself through cherished friendships and marriage to Andrew. And yet she still wondered what had become of all those dear aunts and uncles and cousins, how it could be that they had left behind not a single descendant. Most of all she wondered about her favorite cousin, Elizabeth Bergstrom Nelson, who lived on so vividly in Sylvia's memory that it seemed impossible she had departed the world without leaving her mark upon it.

Sylvia admired her beautiful, vivacious cousin, loved her fiercely, and considered it the unhappiest day in all her five years when Elizabeth married Henry Nelson and moved away with him to Southern California, where he had purchased a thriving cattle ranch, sight unseen, with every dime of his life savings. Sylvia found some comfort in Elizabeth's letters, filled with enchanting tales of splashing in the Pacific Ocean, strolling down the streets of Hollywood, and plucking apricots and oranges from her own groves on the rolling, sun-drenched hills of Triumph Ranch in the Arboles Valley. But over the years, perhaps as Elizabeth's responsibilities as ranch wife and mother grew, her letters became fewer and farther between, until they stopped coming.

Sylvia never saw Elizabeth again, and forever after she puzzled over what had become of her and why she had broken off ties with the family who loved and missed her so dearly. Inspired by the success of other searches into Bergstrom family history, Sylvia decided to launch an investigation. She enlisted the help of Elm Creek Quilter Summer Sullivan, whose historical research skills had unearthed a wealth of information about Sylvia's ancestors before, and she also consulted longtime friend Grace Daniels, a quilter, former museum curator, and antique quilts expert. Elizabeth had left Elm Creek Manor with two precious wedding quilts made by the Bergstrom women, a Chimneys and Cornerstones scrap quilt and a more elegant Double Wedding Ring variation embellished with exquisite floral appliqués. Elizabeth never would have parted with such cherished gifts, and if they had not worn out or suffered another sad fate, she surely would have passed them down to her children. If the quilts could be found, their provenance could trace a path back to Triumph Ranch and Elizabeth.

While Grace addressed that daunting task, Summer searched online databases and archives for any mention of Henry and Elizabeth Nelson or Triumph Ranch. On the quilter's holiday before the twins were born, Summer called with news of an astonishing discovery. While poring over indexes to California vital records and voter registration lists, Summer had found the names and birth dates of Elizabeth and Henry Nelson's three children. Not only that, but by exploring these new leads further, she had uncovered evidence of at least two grandchildren, one of whom, Scott Nelson, was born in 1961 and currently resided in Newbury Park, California.

And Summer had his address and phone number.

Sylvia could scarcely believe that after so much longing and searching, she had possibly found not only an answer to the question of Elizabeth's fate but also one of her descendants, a blood relative—a second cousin once removed, to be precise. Sylvia decided it would be best to contact him by letter, since a phone call out of the blue might be too disruptive, especially since Nelson was not an uncommon name, nor was Scott. He might be no relation whatsoever.

With hope and a prayer, Sylvia wrote to Scott Nelson to introduce herself and asked him to be in touch if he were indeed her cousin Elizabeth's grandson. On December 6, the Feast of St. Nicholas, he called. Not only was he the grandchild of Elizabeth and Henry Nelson, but he and his sister, Melissa, were also planning a Nelson family reunion over Labor Day weekend at a cousin's farmhouse on what remained of the old Triumph Ranch land. If Sylvia cared to attend, she would be able to meet Scott, Melissa, their cousins, and many other relations, including Elizabeth's great-grandchildren. Far from being the last living descendant of Hans and Anneke Bergstrom, Sylvia was one of many.

Overwhelmed with joy, Sylvia declared that she wouldn't miss the reunion for the world. “My sister can't wait to meet you,” Scott replied. “I didn't know there was any such thing as a quilting celebrity, but apparently there is, and you must be one of them. Melissa's heard of your work, and something she calls . . . a quilt camp? Is that right?”

Laughing, Sylvia assured him it was so. “Is Melissa a quilter?”

Scott confirmed that she was, having learned from Grandma Elizabeth as a child. Melissa had inherited several of their grandmother's heirloom quilts—and among them, Sylvia soon learned, was the Chimneys and Cornerstones quilt Elizabeth had received as a wedding gift.

Tears of joy filling her eyes, Sylvia told Scott the history of the quilt, how Sylvia's great-aunt Lucinda had sewn it for Elizabeth in the months leading up to her wedding. Sylvia clearly recalled standing at Lucinda's knee as she had stitched the blocks and explained the symbolism of the pattern. The dark fabrics represented the sorrows in a life, the light colors the joys, and each of the red squares was a fire burning in the fireplace to warm Elizabeth after a long journey home. Sylvia hoped the Chimneys and Cornerstones quilt and memories of home had comforted Elizabeth during the long years she had been inexplicably estranged from her family.

“Maybe Melissa knows why Grandma Elizabeth lost touch,” Scott said, after admitting that he had no idea why Elizabeth had severed ties. “They spent hours sewing together and talking. Grandma Elizabeth might have confided something to her that she never told me.”