Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (27 page)

She found Sarah in the second-floor library, which Sarah often referred to casually as her office, as if she were the only person who worked there. She was seated behind the large oak desk that had once belonged to Sylvia’s father, looking every bit the overworked manager despite her jeans and faded purple turtleneck. Although she did not complain, she could not hide her exasperation when Diane handed her the overdue paperwork. “This would have been useful two weeks ago,” she said as she leafed through the pages.

Diane knew she was only ten days late, not fourteen, but she said, “I’m sorry it’s late. It’s pretty much the same as last year, but if it creates any problems with your master schedule, don’t change anything for my sake.”

“Thanks,” said Sarah dryly. “We won’t.” She set the papers aside and rubbed her eyes. “Diane, I’m sure you’re very busy, but I’d really appreciate it if you could pay more attention to our deadlines.”

“Sure,” said Diane, giving her a tight smile. “You know, if it was that urgent, you could have called.”

“It
was
urgent, which is why we gave it a mandatory deadline.”

“Right. Got it.” Irritated, Diane left the library before Sarah’s reprimand could turn into an argument. “We,” she muttered under her breath as she descended the grand oak staircase to the front foyer. Just what she needed, another employer who didn’t respect her. Employer! What an unpleasant thought. A few years ago, she never would have thought of Sarah as her employer.

Fuming, she turned down the west wing hallway toward the back door. As she passed the kitchen, she heard Sylvia call out, “Diane, is that you?”

“Yes,” Diane called back, reluctantly. She was not in the mood for another lecture.

“Would you mind joining me?”

Diane sighed and passed through the kitchen into the west sitting room. Sylvia’s private sewing room was upstairs, but she often brought her work downstairs when she hoped for company. From her favorite armchair near the window, she had a fine view of the rear parking lot and, unless the cook and his assistants were raising a clatter in the kitchen, she could hear anyone passing in the hall.

Diane paused in the doorway as Sylvia looked up from the quilt hoop resting on her lap. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long. I have to put supper on.”

“I won’t keep you but a moment.” Sylvia smiled and indicated the opposite chair with a nod. “I hoped you might be able to clear up a mystery. You’re very perceptive.”

Flattered, Diane promptly seated herself. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.” Sylvia removed her thimble and set her unfinished quilt aside. “Tell me, is it my imagination or have people been acting rather strangely around here lately?”

“It’s not your imagination,” said Diane, thinking of Bonnie’s unexplained absences from Grandma’s Attic and Sarah’s increasingly bossy tendencies.

“Ah! I knew it.” Sylvia removed her glasses and let them dangle from the fine silver chain around her neck. “Now, if we can only figure out why. I admit I might not have noticed myself except for Matthew. He’s the one who alerted me to everyone’s odd behavior, although, come to think of it, he’s behaved rather oddly himself. Would you believe I overheard him and Sarah arguing about foot massages and apple trees, of all things? I couldn’t make any sense of it.”

“Did you ask them what they were talking about?”

“Heavens, no. I would have been forced to confess my eaves-dropping.” Sylvia frowned. “But that’s not all. Ever since that strange meeting where everyone showed up early and congregated in the kitchen, Sarah has been making the most ridiculous excuses why I can’t accompany her on her trips downtown. And have you noticed no one talks about their current quilting projects anymore? We haven’t had a show-and-tell after our business meetings in weeks. A few days ago, Matt asked Agnes to show him the quilt block in her sewing basket and you would have thought he had asked to see her unmentionables! This, from a group of quilters who usually can’t wait to brag.” She shook her head, then fixed a piercing gaze on Diane. “Have you noticed it, too?”

“Actually, no,” said Diane weakly. “That’s not the odd behavior I was talking about.”

“Well, now that I’ve pointed it out, I’m sure you know what I mean. Do you have any idea what’s wrong? I wouldn’t be so concerned except the first day of camp is only three weeks away. If we have a serious problem, we must root it out before then.”

Diane hesitated. It seemed unfair to allow Sylvia to worry when there was a simple explanation. Maybe she could reveal something—not the entire secret, but just enough to assuage Sylvia’s fears.

While Diane struggled to decide what and how much she could say, Sylvia leaned forward slightly, her expression suddenly sharp and expectant. All at once, Diane understood. Sylvia had not invited her to chat because she was unusually perceptive, but because she was—undeservedly—considered a bit of a gossip.

Indignant, Diane almost accused Sylvia of deceiving her, but remembered just in time that this would only confirm Sylvia’s suspicions. “I’m afraid I can’t explain,” she said. That was the truth; she couldn’t explain or the other Elm Creek Quilters would have her head. “But maybe you can help me with another mystery.”

“What’s that, dear?”

“Do you have any idea why someone might consider me an incompetent employee?”

“Incompetent? That seems rather harsh. I do recall Sarah grumbling about some missing paperwork recently, but she never called you incompetent.”

“I wasn’t talking about that.” Silently Diane berated herself for ignoring the deadline. From now on she would submit everything early if it killed her. “I mean Bonnie. I’ve been working at Grandma’s Attic for years and I don’t think she appreciates a thing I do.”

Sylvia smiled. “I suspect all employees feel that way from time to time. It must be especially difficult since Bonnie is also your friend.”

“It’s more than that,” said Diane, and confided her entire list of hurts and grievances: her full-time schedule that invariably went ignored; her willingness to work extra hours on a moment’s notice that no one appreciated; her good ideas for store displays and promotions for which she received little praise and no thanks; her exclusion from “management meetings” about the shop’s future. “Maybe management meetings made sense when Bonnie had five employees,” Diane said, “but not when Bonnie and Summer are management and I’m the only managee!”

“That does seem particularly unfair,” said Sylvia. “I can’t believe Bonnie is deliberately excluding you or ignoring your contributions. Have you told her how you feel?”

“Of course.” Diane paused. “Well, actually, no. Not directly.”

Sylvia laughed. “I’m not unsympathetic, dear, but how do you expect her to understand your concerns if you don’t tell her?”

“I’ve dropped a lot of hints.”

“I’m afraid that’s not good enough.” Sylvia reached over and patted her hand. “You’ve been working yourself into a fine state of hurt and resentment when what you needed to do was sit down with Bonnie and tell her what’s troubling you, exactly as you’ve told me. On second thought, not exactly. You might consider shouting a little less.”

“How am I supposed to get Bonnie to sit down and listen? Schedule an appointment?”

“That’s a fine idea. Bonnie is a very busy woman, and it’s clear she’s had a great deal on her mind lately. Summer mentioned that the shop’s rent is going up, and I can’t open the newspaper without seeing an ad for another sale at Fabric Warehouse. I daresay Bonnie might have other worries, too, which have nothing to do with Grandma’s Attic.” Sylvia mused in silence for a moment, then smiled ruefully. “I suppose I’ve solved my own mystery. I must have forgotten that my friends have concerns apart from me, from Elm Creek Quilts. What I have perceived as odd behavior is probably nothing more than the actions of people dealing with problems of their own.”

“That’s possible,” agreed Diane, reluctantly. She wanted Sylvia to find another explanation for her friends’ recent secretiveness, but not if it excused Bonnie’s behavior at work.

“Possible? I think highly probable.” Sylvia put on her glasses, frowning. “It remains a mystery, however, why none of our friends have shared those concerns with the rest of us. Once it seemed we knew the most intimate details of one another’s lives.”

“That’s because we used to have weekly quilting bees,” Diane reminded her. “Then those turned into quilting bees tacked on to the end of our business meetings. Now the entire block of time is a business meeting. Each season we have more business to discuss and less time to talk about ourselves. Only Agnes bothers to bring handwork anymore.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Sylvia smiled, regretful. “I suppose that’s the price of success.”

“It won’t always be this way,” said Diane. “This time of year is especially busy. Things will settle down once camp is under way.”

Sylvia shrugged as she took up her quilt hoop and slipped her thimble on the first finger of her right hand. “You may be right. But nothing endures forever, Diane, perhaps not even the closest of friendships.”

A week later, Michael came home with a laundry bag full of dirty clothes and a phone number scrawled on a piece of notebook paper. “That’s it,” he said as he handed it to her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” Michael hoisted the bag on his shoulder and descended the basement stairs. “I tested it.”

“From a pay phone, I hope,” said Diane, pocketing the number with delight. “She might have Caller ID.”

“I used my roommate’s cell,” he called from below. “Jeez, Mom, you watch too much
Law & Order
. ”

Maybe so, but Diane was not willing to overlook any precaution where Mary Beth was concerned.

When Michael returned upstairs and began unloading his backpack on the kitchen table, Diane set a plate of fudge brownies within reach. “A little token of my thanks,” she said. “Would you like a glass of milk?”

“Sure,” he said, helping himself to a brownie. “I hope giving you that number doesn’t make me an accessory to a crime. I feel like I’ve corrupted my own mother.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you found it on the internet, it must be public information, right?”

“Well …” Michael hesitated. “Remember what you said about not asking too many questions?”

“Right. Understood.” Diane handed him a glass of milk and hoped she had not tempted him into ruining his record for good behavior. She decided not to dwell on it. It was just a phone number; what harm could it do? “I won’t ask how you got it, but if you did anything illegal, don’t do it again. And thank you.”

“I didn’t, and you’re welcome.” He took a bite of brownie, opened a textbook, and uncapped his highlighter. “Um, if you really want to thank me, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Here it comes,
Diane thought, noting his casual voice, the way he avoided her gaze. The annual Cancún petition. “You mean your mother’s gratitude and fudge brownies aren’t thanks enough?”

“They’re great, but the thing is, I could really use some cash.”

She folded her arms. “Michael, we’ve had this discussion before. Your father and I do not want you to go flying off to some postadolescent paradise for a week of free-flowing alcohol and drunken coeds in wet T-shirts. Cancún is out.”

“Cancún?” he asked, bewildered. “Who said anything about Cancún? I need a new computer.”

“Oh.” She absorbed this. “No you don’t. We bought you a computer for your graduation present. What happened? Did you break it?”

“No, but it’s two years old. It’s obsolete.”

“For what we paid, it’s not allowed to be.” Diane tore a paper towel from the roll and swept brownie crumbs into the sink. “When you picked out the model, you assured us it would last you through college.”

“Back then, I thought it would. I didn’t know the kind of software my professors would make us use. Some of it is so new it barely runs on my computer.”

“If it’s a problem with memory—”

“It’s not a problem with the amount of RAM; it’s a problem with processor speed, peripheral compatibility—” He broke off and let out an exasperated, beseeching sigh. “Mom, I’m a Computer Science major. I need access to a better computer.”

“Then use the college’s computer labs.”

“Do you know how long you have to wait in line for one of those?”

“No, but I imagine if you add up those hours and compare them to how many your father would have to work to pay for a new computer, waiting in line would still seem like a bargain.”

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, he was clearly trying his best to sound reasonable. “In my major I need frequent access to a top-of-the-line computer, preferably a laptop. Ask Dr. DiNardo. I’m taking her class next fall. She’ll tell you she always recommends students bring their own laptops to class.”

Diane didn’t doubt it. Judy was so fond of computer gadgets she would wait at the end of the assembly line to catch some new gizmo if the manufacturer would permit it. “If Dr. DiNardo requires a laptop, your father and I will discuss it. However, we spent a lot on the computer you have, and since it’s practically new, you’ll have to pay for a laptop yourself.”

“Where am I going to get that kind of money?”

“Save your allowance. Get a job. Get two. If you start looking now, you’ll definitely have something lined up for summer.”