A Quilter's Holiday: An Elm Creek Quilts Novel (6 page)

As Anna sat down, Agnes remarked, “It’s a shame he’s not here to hear himself praised so highly.”

“You should tell him how you feel, Anna,” said Carol.

Anna, who had just sipped from her water glass, coughed, pressed a hand to her lips, and shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, after clearing her throat. “I’m sure he knows.”

“Make him a quilt, then,” said Gwen. “That’s the standard quilter’s response to any situation meriting praise, comfort, or commemoration. Wrap ‘em in a quilt.”

“I’m sure Summer’s made Jeremy lots of quilts. He wouldn’t have room for one of mine.”

Gwen frowned thoughtfully and shook her head. “I don’t think she’s made him any. She’s been very busy with work, and grad school applications, and then the move to Chicago, ever since they met.”

“Well—” Anna seemed to search for something to say. “I’d be surprised if she hasn’t, and if she hasn’t she probably will eventually.”

“You can’t have too many quilts,” said Gretchen.

“Not if you live in a place with as much space as Elm Creek Manor, but if you have a small apartment—” Anna shrugged and pulled a face to suggest that it was hopeless. “Who’s next, Sylvia?”

Sylvia reached into the cornucopia and held up another block, a pastel green-and-rose four-pointed star with split squares in the corners that Agnes identified as her rendition of the Signs of Spring pattern. “Even with winter upon us, there are signs of the coming spring,” she said, glancing out the window at the falling snow. “What I’m most thankful for is hope in difficult times.”

Another solid piece of fabric followed, a landscape print of green trees on rolling hills that everyone easily guessed Matt had contributed. “I’m most thankful for my wonderful, beautiful wife, Sarah,” he began emphatically and not unexpectedly, to a chorus of laughter and friendly jeers. “Since I didn’t want it to look like I was copying the other guys, I thought I would expand my answer to include my whole family. I’m thankful for their support, their loyalty, their understanding, and most of all, their love. I owe my family everything, and it’s a debt I doubt I’ll ever be able to repay in full, but that doesn’t mean I won’t stop trying.”

“I don’t get it,” said Diane.

“What don’t you get?” said Matt, lacing his fingers through Sarah’s and kissing the back of her hand.

“That fabric. What’s it supposed to symbolize, the landscape of your loyalty?”

“Trees,” said Matt. “You know, family trees. Family.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch,” remarked Gwen. “Oh, wait, did I just accidentally agree with Diane? On second thought, that’s an excellent choice, Matt, especially on such short notice. Very creative.”

Matt accepted her praise with a grin as Sylvia took another block from the cornucopia. The vivid colors and dramatic prints told Sarah at once that this was Gwen’s handiwork. “A Guiding Star block?” said Sylvia, holding up the unequal nine-patch block for all to see. Triangles of different sizes combined to form kites that together created a four-pointed star on the horizontal and vertical axes. In each corner square, two dark triangles flanked a lighter kite, giving the illusion that the star threw off radiant beams.

“That’s right,” said Gwen. “Recently I’ve been reflecting upon the teachers and mentors I’ve had throughout my life, and how indebted I am to them. They pushed me when I thought I couldn’t take another step, led me by the hand when I didn’t know the way, and sent me on alone when they knew I was ready, even when I didn’t.”

“What a lovely tribute,” said Gretchen, who had once
been a middle school teacher. “I’m sure your former teachers would be pleased to know that you’ve become the mentor to so many young people at Waterford College.”

“Not to mention all the quilters you’ve taught,” Anna added. “The roles have been reversed.”

“I don’t know if they’ve been entirely reversed,” said Gwen. “In many ways I’m still a student.”

“And there she goes, dancing off into the land of metaphor,” said Diane.

“The last block is mine,” said Sylvia, reaching into the cornucopia. She inspected her work with a critical eye and removed a stray thread. To Sarah the green-and-red patchwork pattern resembled a Sawtooth Star overlaying a cross. “This is a traditional block, Providence, and I thought it summed up my feelings best. This year I’m particularly thankful for the Lord’s protective care, even though I confess I don’t always recognize it for what it is.”

“We’ve all been very blessed,” Gretchen said.

“Yes, but sometimes I’m so preoccupied with what I don’t have that I neglect to properly appreciate what I do have.” Sylvia looked around the table, her gaze warm and affectionate. “You’re my family and my dearest friends, and I’m ever thankful that you’ve enriched my life by allowing me to be a part of yours.”

“You’ve enriched our lives, too,” said Sarah, wondering why Sylvia thought she ever neglected them even for a moment.
No one was more generous or staunchly supportive than Sylvia, although Matt ran a close second.

“As the best of friends do.” Sylvia glanced into the cornucopia, but they all knew it was empty. “Unless anyone wants more dessert, should we ladies return to our quilting, and you men to your puttering in the barn or whatever it is you were doing?”

All agreed, and after the blocks and fabric squares had made their way around the table and back to Sylvia, everyone pitched in to clear away the dishes and tidy the kitchen. As Sarah was leaving the banquet hall with an armload of carefully stacked plates, Matt caught up to her. “Let me help you with that,” he said, taking the plates. “You shouldn’t be carrying so much weight.”

“You’re sounding like my mother again,” Sarah teased, but she stopped short as she took in Matt’s worried frown and furrowed brow. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Can we talk for a minute? In private?”

She nodded and waited in the hallway as he hurried to the kitchen with the plates, then returned and guided her to the laundry room, where they could speak without being overheard. “What’s going on?” she asked him as he shut the door. “You’re starting to scare me.”

“It’s nothing that serious.” He ran a hand over his jaw, stubble scratching his callused palm. “You know I had a long talk with my dad yesterday.”

“Yes, you called to wish him a happy Thanksgiving.”

“That’s not all we talked about.” Matt took her hands. “His old back injury has been acting up, but with the housing market down, he can’t afford to turn down any work.”

“Can’t he find workers to hire?”

“Yes, that’s not the problem. He needs someone on-site to supervise them, someone he can trust.” Matt took a deep breath. “He needs me.”

“Well, he can’t have you,” said Sarah without thinking. “Right?”

Matt hesitated. “With the orchard and gardens dormant for the winter and the campers away, this is a slow season for me at the manor.”

“You’ve already told him you’d do it.” Sarah pulled her hands free from Matt’s, pressed a hand to her brow and another to her lower back. “Without even talking to me.”

“I thought you’d understand.”

“Matt, I need you here. The babies—”

“Won’t be here for another few months, and I’ll be back by then.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “You know I wouldn’t miss that.”

“What about our childbirth classes?” What about the back rubs, the foot massages, the encouragement, the decorating the nursery, the childproofing the manor, the choosing of names, the holding her while she slept at night and kissing away her worries? “What if something goes wrong and I need you?”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” he told her firmly, wrapping her in a hug. Despite her anger, she was too sick at heart to push him away even though he was the cause. “But if something does, call me and I’ll jump in the truck and be here in three hours. It’s not like we won’t see each other. I’ll come back from time to time, whenever my dad feels well enough to handle things on his own.”

And if Hank didn’t feel well enough, or if he claimed not to? Matt might stay away all winter. A few occasional visits would not be enough. Slow season or not, Matt was needed at Elm Creek Manor. Sarah needed him even if the orchards and gardens didn’t.

“Sarah, listen.” Matt put his hands on her shoulders and tried to look into her eyes. When she dropped her gaze, he put a hand under her chin and gently lifted it until their eyes met again. “I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important. My dad’s close to retirement but lately his savings have taken a huge hit. If he doesn’t keep the business running steadily, he might not be able to restart it later. He’s put his whole life into that company, and I can’t stand by and do nothing when he needs me.”

She nodded, tears filling her eyes. She understood. Matt was a good and loyal son, and he had to do what he thought was right. But what would she do without him, and where would it lead? What if Hank and Matt together decided that Elm Creek Quilts needed him less than Hank did?

She thought of what Matt said about the fabric he had
placed into the cornucopia and his words earlier that morning in bed, and she knew that he had weighed his decision carefully. If she asked him not to go, he would probably stay, but he would blame her if his father’s business failed, and she would, too.

“Don’t stay away too long,” she told him, blinking away her tears and forcing a smile. “You’re not getting out of diaper duty that easily.”

Matt smiled, and the strain in his expression turned to relief. He held her close—as close as he could with her ample midsection between them—but she felt as if he were already far away, far beyond her reach.

Diane

U
PON RETURNING TO
the ballroom, Diane peered out the windows warily. It was not her imagination; the snow was falling far more thickly than before.

“How much snow did you say we might get?” she asked Gwen, who had removed her quilt from the lap hoop and spread it upon the floor, the better to adjust the layers as she moved the slender rings to a new, unquilted portion.

“Ten to twelve inches,” replied Gwen cheerfully, as well she might. She probably didn’t care if they were snowed in at Elm Creek Manor, unable to return home. On an ordinary day Diane wouldn’t mind either, but Michael and Todd had come
home for the long holiday weekend and were probably at that moment watching football on television with their dad and looking forward to the home-cooked supper she had promised them. She had almost canceled on the Patchwork Potluck rather than miss so much of their visit, but she had kicked off the start of the quilting season with the Elm Creek Quilters for years and she hated to break tradition.

Matt’s truck had four-wheel drive, she reminded herself as she unfolded a kelly green fat quarter on the cutting table. If the storm worsened, perhaps he would drive her and Agnes home. She could return to dig her car out from beneath the snowdrifts another day.

“So much snow, and it’s still November,” she mused aloud. “What do you think it means?”

“Climate change,” said Gwen promptly. “It seems counterintuitive, but global warming can bring on harsher winters.”

“Perhaps it means that we’ll get all our nasty weather out of the way now and enjoy an early spring,” suggested Agnes, who could always find the bright side of things even when blizzard clouds obscured the sun.

“It’s just something we have to get through,” said Sarah, her voice strangely distant. She hadn’t sewn a single seam since the quilters returned to the ballroom, but had sat at the sewing machine staring out the windows at the falling snow, one hand resting on her abdomen. “It probably seems worse than it is.”

“Easy for you to say,” retorted Diane. “You live here. You won’t have to drive in this.”

“Yes, but Matt will, all winter long, and anything could happen to him.”

At that, Diane raised her eyebrows at her friend, but Sarah didn’t notice, for she had roused herself and had begun feeding pinned quilt blocks beneath the needle of her sewing machine. “Oookay. Understood,” Diane murmured under her breath. Apparently asking Matt for a ride home if the storm worsened was not an option.

Glancing from her work to the window so frequently that she risked a serious scissors accident, Diane cut a piece of freezer paper from the large roll left over from the summer camp season and traced templates from the magazine. An heirloom project such as her sons’ Advent calendars called for hand appliqué, and despite her rapidly approaching deadline, she couldn’t resort to machine appliqué. In her haste her hand stiches might turn out larger than usual, but from a few paces away no one would notice the difference. Her sons certainly wouldn’t subject them to such scrutiny.

A worry tickled at the back of her mind, but she dismissed it and gathered up her fabric and freezer paper templates.

“Are you done with the cutting table?” Anna asked, rearranging the order of the folded bundles of blue and gold fabrics in her arms, studying the contrast between one and another.

“It’s all yours,” said Diane, clearing the rest of her supplies out of the way and heading for the ironing board. “What are you making, anyway? You never said.”

“You never asked.” Laying out her fabrics on the cutting mat, Anna shifted ever so slightly, her back to Diane, almost as if she were hiding her work.