Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (13 page)

“Last Friday I ran into Michael. I warned him about the dangers of alcohol abuse, of breaking the law—you know, the standard mom lecture.”

Gwen nodded, heart sinking.

“I also told him to give me his fake ID or I’d tell his parents what I had seen him do with it.” Bonnie took a deep, shaky breath. “He gave it to me, but he was furious. He stalked off without another word, but he gave me a look over his shoulder I’ll never forget. Gwen, now that ID is gone.”

“How can you be sure, with this mess?”

“I’m sure.”

“We’ve known Michael since he was a baby,” said Gwen in a whisper, glancing at her daughter. Summer used to baby-sit Michael and his brother. She defended him against all criticism, especially when he most deserved it. “He’s made mistakes, but he would never do anything like this.”

“Wouldn’t he? Remember when he was in the ninth grade, and he vandalized the school?”

Gwen could not reply. Until that moment, she had forgotten the incident.

Bonnie scrubbed a hand through her short hair and glanced about as if desperately seeking another answer amid the debris.

Quietly, Gwen asked, “Did you tell the police?”

“No,” said Bonnie, shaking her head. “Not yet.”

C
raig was gone when Bonnie woke, but she knew he had come home because the bed in the guest room had been slept in. Still in her flannel nightgown, Bonnie made the bed and plumped up the pillow. When Craig had first stopped sharing the master bedroom, Bonnie had been troubled, even hurt, but she had grown accustomed to his absence. It was easier than lying beside him wondering what she could do to inspire some affection in him, wondering if it was worth the bother.

There was a time when Craig would have called to let her know he was working late. There was a time, Bonnie thought ruefully as she showered and drew on her bathrobe, when he would have turned down overtime in his eagerness to come home to his family. That time was so long ago it preceded the children, Grandma’s Attic, her first gray hairs.

At least with Craig gone she could eat breakfast in her bathrobe without snide comments about her appearance. At least she could read the newspaper without worrying about irritating him by getting the sections out of order. In many ways his absence was preferable to his silent presence. Even that was far better than their one-sided arguments, in which Craig complained and criticized and Bonnie simply let his words wash over her. He didn’t really mean it, she would tell herself, until a particularly harsh jab provoked her into reminding him that someone who had been forgiven for a cyber affair had little room for error. He would explode then and accuse her of not really forgiving him, of enjoying her grudge, of finding a perverse pleasure in taunting him forever for his one mistake.

But it was not his one mistake; it was simply his biggest mistake. As far as she knew. And wasn’t that part of the problem, that she would never know and always wonder?

He probably had worked late. The Office of the Physical Plant was understaffed, and winter meant sidewalks to clear of snow and frozen pipes to thaw. But Craig could very well have decided that anyplace was preferable to home. Bonnie often felt that way.

Grandma’s Attic was her haven. She could not imagine how she would have endured the past few years without it. The quilt shop was one sign that she had not wasted her life, that she was not a failure. Her children were the other. But they were so far away and visited so rarely that they probably had no idea that an equally vast distance separated their parents.

Bonnie put on a warm pair of slacks and her oldest but most favorite quilted vest, made from miniature purple-and-green Pineapple blocks. She’d had to rip out many a seam during the months it had taken her to complete it, and she wore it whenever she needed a reminder that even the most difficult times would eventually pass.

She opened the shop and worked in the office until customers arrived. She dreaded looking at the accounts. Holiday sales had boosted their gross income, allowing her to pay off their worst debts, but January sales were down from the previous year, and February seemed to be matching that disappointing pace. She was not surprised. She could hardly open the
Waterford Register
without seeing an advertisement for the huge chain fabric store on the out-skirts of town. If not for Summer’s help, Bonnie would have been forced to close the shop years before. Whenever Grandma’s Attic teetered on the brink of bankruptcy, Summer would somehow come up with an inspired idea for bringing quilters into the shop. Sales would surge for a time, then dwindle as the novelty of their innovation faded. The one exception was their virtual quilt shop on the internet, which had garnered consistently strong sales since its inception. One day, Bonnie surmised, email orders might account for the majority of their profits.

A few customers came in, some merely to browse, drawn inside by the colorful display in the front window. Then morning mail arrived, and with it, more bills. Bonnie set those aside and opened the larger packages, which contained more contributions for Sylvia’s bridal quilt. They were lovely, but Bonnie would have been grateful for them even if they were only half as well made. At their current pace, they would have only enough blocks for a modest lap quilt, although she wouldn’t admit that to Sarah until absolutely necessary.

Summer arrived moments later and, as always, her confidence and good cheer made Bonnie glad she would be leaving the quilt shop in such good hands after her retirement. Summer greeted her as she slipped off her coat, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the packages on the cutting table. “Can I see the new blocks?” she asked. Bonnie handed them over and forced herself to sort through the rest of the mail. Good news rarely came to Grandma’s Attic in a business-size envelope.

The phone bill was lower than usual; Bonnie congratulated herself for keeping to her resolution to use email whenever it would save her a long-distance call. The power bill was higher, as expected, due to the recent cold snap. She sighed and opened the last envelope, something from University Realty, most likely an advertisement. Anything but another bill.

February 1, 2002

Dear Ms. Bonnie Markham:

I am pleased to announce that Waterford Commercial Properties has sold your building to University Realty, Inc. Welcome to the University Realty family. A fixture in the Waterford community since 1957, University Realty is the area’s finest resource for commercial and residential properties.

Within the next week, a representative from University Realty will visit your business in order to discuss the terms of our rental agreement for any tenants who wish to remain in their current location. The visit for Grandma’s Attic is scheduled for Tuesday, February 12, at 10:45
A.M.
If this is not convenient, please contact our office. However, please note that new leases must be signed within ninety days of the sale to University Realty, after which expired tenants risk eviction.

Again, thank you for joining the community of properties owned and operated by University Realty. We look forward to a long and rewarding relationship with you.

Sincerely,
Gregory H. Krolich
Vice-President

Bonnie read the letter a second time, disbelieving. How could something like this happen without any word to the tenants? What would this mean for the condo upstairs? She could not recall all the clauses of their purchase agreement. Surely University Realty could not touch their home, and even if they raised the rent on the shop, they couldn’t afford more than a modest increase. Far too many storefronts in downtown Waterford stood empty already. The new owners had to offer competitive rents or risk losing all their tenants.

“What is it?” asked Summer, watching her with concern.

“The building’s been sold. All tenants have to sign new leases if we want to stay.”

“Of course you’ll stay,” said Summer. “Where do they expect you to go? They won’t raise the rent, will they?”

“The letter doesn’t say.” But Bonnie was sure the rent would go up. Why else would Gregory Krolich have included that vague, threatening line about the dangers of missing her scheduled meeting and becoming an “expired tenant”?

She tried to answer Summer’s questions about the stipulations of her lease, but she was too upset, her thoughts a swirl of confusion. The last thing she needed, what with Craig so distant and the shop already in financial trouble, was to have to worry about the expense and hassle of moving.

She spent the rest of Summer’s shift in the office, going over books, paying the utility bills, and ordering products from the few suppliers who had not yet suspended her credit. At the end of the day she closed the shop, walked to the corner grocery for milk and coffee, and went home. On her way upstairs she checked the mail, only to find a second envelope from University Realty. She set it on top of the pile of bills and advertisements on the counter and started supper, taking a chance on making enough for two. So far Craig had never stayed away for more than a day without calling.

When the chicken was in the oven, Bonnie steeled herself and opened the envelope. Inside she found a letter announcing the sale in slightly more cordial tones than before. This time Gregory Krolich expressed his hopes that the Markhams would consider selling the condo to his company so that they might make it available for “other residential purposes.” He promised to phone within the next few days to arrange a meeting.

“You have a different attitude when you want to buy, don’t you?” muttered Bonnie as she tossed the letter on the counter. Did this Gregory Krolich even notice he had written to her twice? Perhaps not; the condo was in Craig’s name, too, while the shop was in Bonnie’s alone. Still, if Krolich wanted them to sell their home, he ought to be more civil regarding her shop—and more flexible about the new lease.

With the first stirring of hope she had felt since morning, Bonnie finished preparing supper. She did have some leverage after all. Though the thought of lying to Krolich made her uncomfortable, she could not allow him to believe she might sell the condo until they had settled on the terms of their new rental agreement for the shop. She would do anything to save Grandma’s Attic. If she could consider firing one of her closest friends, she could mislead Krolich for a few weeks. Businesspeople did that sort of thing all the time. Just because she was new at it—

The outside door opened and shut. Craig did not call out, but she knew it was her husband from the familiar sounds of snow boots thumping on the linoleum and the closet door squeaking as he put away his coat. “Supper will be ready soon,” she said without turning around when she heard him enter the kitchen.

“What are we having?”

“Baked chicken, the kind with parmesan cheese in the crust. Mashed potatoes and peas.”

He grunted his acceptance and took a beer from the refrigerator. She waited, but he said nothing about his absence. She vowed not to ask, but she did a slow burn as she set the table and served the meal.

They ate in silence, Craig’s face hidden behind the newspaper.

“We received some interesting mail today,” she said eventually. “Our building has been sold. The new owners want to buy our condo.”

“What?” said Craig. She repeated herself, and he set down the paper. “What was their offer?”

“They weren’t that specific.” Bonnie wished she wasn’t so pleased that she finally had his attention. “I’ll also have to sign a new lease for the shop.”

“They’ll probably raise your rent.”

“Yes, I rather expect them to.”

He shrugged and picked up the paper again. “Maybe now’s a good time to get out, then.”

Bonnie stared at him, hard. “Why would I want to get out?”

He glanced at her, his expression full of disbelief and exasperation, as if he could not believe he had to argue the same points again when he had made himself perfectly clear many times before. “When’s the last time you made a profit? It’s a hobby, not a business. Everything you earn from Elm Creek Quilts goes into keeping that store afloat. We have better uses for the money.” He wiped his mouth and dropped his napkin onto his plate. “If you’d let go of that place, we could finally move into a real house.”

“You want to leave our home?”

He glanced around, taking in with impatient distaste the rooms she had decorated so lovingly. “Did you ever think we’d stay here this long? Maybe you don’t care, but I’ve always wanted my own house with my own yard. Do you realize I never got to play ball with my own sons on my own lawn? If I’d wanted this kind of lifestyle I would have moved to the city, but that store of yours has always come first.”

“How dare you,” said Bonnie, incredulous, furious. “I never put the store before my children.”

“Well, you put it ahead of other things. Other people.”

She almost laughed. “You blame Grandma’s Attic for our problems?”

“Maybe. Yes. I don’t know.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “I don’t know. Give me the letter and I’ll find out what they’re willing to offer us for the condo.”

“I don’t want to move.”

“Where’s the letter?” He rifled through the stack of mail on the counter. “Never mind. I’ll find it and call them tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to move,” Bonnie said again, but Craig found and pocketed the envelope. He indicated the conversation was over by leaving the room. A moment later, she heard the door to the guest room close.

In the week that passed between the arrival of the letter and her appointment with Gregory Krolich, Bonnie saw little of Craig and spoke to him even less. He offered scant explanation for his erratic comings and goings. “By the time I know I won’t be coming home,” he said, “it’s too late to call.”

“You won’t wake me,” she said. “I’m usually awake wondering where you are. Where do you go, anyway? You must be sleeping somewhere.”

“I catch a few hours on the sofa in my office.”

Bonnie found that hard to believe. She had seen the furniture he picked out when he redecorated after his last promotion, and it looked as uncomfortable as it was worn. She assumed he had bought used rather than new to save money, but she never understood why he did not at least have it reupholstered and refinished. He said he would get around to it when he had time, but Bonnie doubted it since the furniture resembled some antique pieces they had seen in the President’s House on the Penn State campus. Craig was a fervently loyal alumnus, and Bonnie had expected him to be pleased when she had remarked upon the similarities, but instead he had grumbled something about never wasting hard-earned money on designer stuff and ushered her from his office. Still, even if he had intended the resemblance, Bonnie was not convinced he could actually sleep comfortably there.