Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (28 page)

“‘Definitely’? Have you ever tried to find a job in Waterford? What am I supposed to do, work at the quilt camp?”

“That’s a fine idea. Matt might want an assistant caretaker for the summer, and I’m sure the cook will need help in the kitchen. In fact, you probably wouldn’t need to wait until summer, since camp starts in March.”

“Great,” said Michael, disparagingly. “Just what I want. Mowing lawns and feeding quilters.” He hunched over his book as if that would slam a wall in place between them.

Diane held on to her temper. “Michael, you know the value of money by now, and you know we can’t throw it around just because your perfectly adequate computer doesn’t have all the latest bells and whistles.”

“Adequate. That’s all it is,” he muttered, not looking up from his book. “I guess if you don’t care about my grades—”

“This has nothing to do with your grades, and you know it.” Diane heard her voice rising and forced herself to maintain the appearance of calm. “I’ll talk to Judy DiNardo. If she says you must have a laptop, you can buy one. You can earn the money to pay for it yourself. If you haven’t saved enough by fall, your father and I will loan you the rest.”

Michael said nothing. Diane watched him pretend to study, her irritation rising, until she wanted to snap at him that twenty going on twenty-one was too old to be acting like a spoiled brat. Instead she forced herself to leave the room. He was a bright boy, but he was too angry to see that her offer was entirely reasonable. She would talk to him when time, reflection, and frustration with his two-year-old obsolete computer brought him to his senses.

Michael was still angry a week later when a full laundry sack compelled him to return home but, to his credit, he made an effort to be civil. Typically his grudges lasted a good two weeks, so Diane left him alone while he washed clothes and studied. Neither mentioned their disagreement, but Diane took it as an encouraging sign when Michael asked for a plastic bag so he could share some of her fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies with his roommates.

All she could do was wait until his anger blew over. She couldn’t dwell on a ridiculous argument when she had other more immediate concerns: The following day was the third Monday of the month, the regularly scheduled meeting time for the Waterford Quilting Guild.

As Diane drove downtown to the public library, her cell phone, Sarah’s letter, and Mary Beth’s number in her purse, she reflected that she ought to be nervous. She had no idea whether she could pull off this stunt or how the guild members would react if she did. But she could not afford second thoughts. Mary Beth never expected to see Diane or any of the Elm Creek Quilters at another guild meeting after they left in protest years before, when Mary Beth’s dirty campaign tactics cost Diane the presidency. Tonight, Mary Beth’s insufferably smug complacency would work to Diane’s advantage.

In order to avoid detection, Diane parked on a side street and entered the library through the children’s department. Her anticipation rose as she crossed the main lobby, adjusted her watch to the large clock over the circulation desk, and slipped into a stall in the women’s rest room closest to Meeting Room C. She had to time her entrance perfectly. If she went in too early, she would risk recognition as later arrivals scanned the room for their friends, too late and the interruption would ruin the element of surprise. Mary Beth, anal beyond redemption, would begin the meeting at precisely seven o’clock and deliberately ignore the scurrying few who seated themselves at a few seconds past.

At seven o’clock and ten seconds, Diane left the rest room and hurried into the meeting room on the heels of five latecomers. Fortunately they, too, kept their heads down and eyes averted rather than draw Mary Beth’s withering glare, so Diane’s bowed head and slumped shoulders did not attract attention. She chose a seat on the aisle near the back behind two taller women and sat low in her chair. She surveyed the room quickly, enough to spot a few people who would know her on sight and to estimate the attendance at approximately seventy-five, down from the hundred or more who used to attend back when the Elm Creek Quilters were members. The room was arranged as for a formal business conference rather than a cozy quilting bee, with straight rows of padded folding chairs placed on either side of a broad aisle. At the front of the room, chairs for the guild officers and a second door leading to the hallway flanked a podium, where Mary Beth stood speaking into a tinny microphone. Folding tables lined the wall between the two doors and were stacked with books from the guild library, advertisements for local quilt shows, and back issues of the guild newsletter. Too late, Diane realized that she should have duplicated the letter—after making a certain editorial deletion—and distributed the copies. Reading it aloud would have to suffice.

The format for the meetings had not changed from the old days. Mary Beth introduced herself and the subordinate officers seated behind her, then asked for new members and guests to raise their hands. Those unwise enough to reply were promptly subjected to unexpected public speaking when Mary Beth urged them to rise and say a few words about themselves. The five unfortunates gave their names, mentioned their favorite quilting techniques, and sat down again as quickly as Mary Beth allowed. When no one nudged Diane to her feet or glanced at her as if to ask why she had not introduced herself, she congratulated herself on blending in.

Mary Beth moved on to guild business. The vice president took the podium and read over some proposed changes to the bylaws; the guild members voted and the measure passed. The treasurer came forward and read over the previous month’s record of income and expenses. The social chair reminded everyone about the end-of-the-year picnic and urged them to pay their deposits soon or they wouldn’t be able to rent a picnic shelter at the Waterford College Arboretum and would have to sit on blankets, which, as everyone probably remembered from last year, resulted in aches and pains for their older members and far too many insects in the potluck buffet.

Diane opened her purse and withdrew her phone, the invitation, and the slip of paper Michael had given her.

The program coordinator took the microphone next and listed the guild events remaining until the summer break and mentioned a few speakers who had already agreed to appear next year. Diane couldn’t help rolling her eyes at the excited murmurs and scattered applause that greeted each name. More prestigious quilters than those gladly waited in line for the opportunity to appear at Elm Creek Quilt Camp. Some were so delighted they would offer to trade their speaker’s fees for a few extra days at the manor. As a courtesy to the local quilting community, Sylvia always invited members of the Waterford Quilting Guild to attend such special events free of charge. Since few local quilters except those already on the Elm Creek Quilt Camp mailing list ever came, Diane figured Mary Beth had dispensed with those announcements, too.

She allowed the barest of sighs and keyed Mary Beth’s cell phone number into her own, resting her thumb lightly on the Send button.

Mary Beth thanked the program coordinator and took her place at the podium. “Before we introduce tonight’s speaker,” she said, “does anyone else have any announcements?”

Before she completed the sentence, Diane pressed the button.

In the moment between when the call went through and when the faint, synthesized tones of Pachelbel’s Canon sounded at the front of the room, it occurred to her that Mary Beth might have turned off her phone out of respect for the gravity of the occasion. But apparently she had not, and from the startled look she shot her musical purse, she had warned her family never to interrupt, and anyone else who might call her was present. Mary Beth raised her voice and carried on, growing flustered as the phone continued to ring, louder and louder with each stanza.

Finally the ringing stopped; simultaneously, a voice sounded over Diane’s phone. She quickly covered the speaker with one hand and hung up.

Mary Beth smiled, relieved. “Voicemail,” she said, and the guild members laughed in sympathy.

Smiling and nodding with the rest, Diane waited long enough for Mary Beth to repeat her request for other announcements, then dialed again.

This time, at the ringing of the phone, Mary Beth went bright red. “I’m sorry,” she said, hurrying back to her chair and snatching up her purse. “It must be an emergency. Sandra, will you take over?”

With that, she raced from the room and the vice president rose.

Diane didn’t wait to be called upon; she met Sandra at the podium and seized the microphone. “I have an announcement,” she said, smiling brightly. Sandra eyed her curiously but stepped back and gestured for her to continue.

“It’s no secret that quilters love to contribute blocks to group quilts,” Diane began, unfolding the letter. A few in the audience nodded; a few others, friends of Mary Beth, gaped in recognition. “There’s a wonderful project going on right now, right here in Waterford, for a very special quilter who put our town on the map of the quilting world. On behalf of the Elm Creek Quilters, I’d like to invite each and every one of you to participate.”

She launched into the letter. By the second paragraph, the vice president shook her head and murmured a complaint, but Diane ignored her. She read with conviction and feeling, omitting only that slanderous phrase about her thinking Sylvia deserved to go quiltless. Mary Beth returned as Diane read the block requirements; she steeled herself and clutched the podium as if she might be forcibly removed from it, but Mary Beth stood fixed in the doorway, mouth open in horror, until Diane finished the letter.

Prepared for a quick exit, Diane nevertheless relished the moment by smiling out at the audience. “Are there any questions?”

A few hands went up, but Mary Beth stormed to the front of the room, hands balled into fists, red-faced and spluttering. “This—this is an outrage!”

“Yes, it is,” called out a woman seated in the front. “Why didn’t you contact us sooner?”

“You aren’t giving us much time,” said another, dismayed. “I already have two baby quilts to finish by the end of the month.”

A chorus of agreement rose, but Mary Beth wrestled the microphone from Diane and raised one hand for quiet. “May I remind you that this woman is not a member of our guild? She isn’t authorized to make announcements.”

Someone snickered; Diane looked in the direction of Mary Beth’s glare and spotted Lee Kessenich, a frequent customer of Grandma’s Attic. She had recently moved to Waterford from Wisconsin, too recently to have fallen under Mary Beth’s influence. As Mary Beth shoved Diane toward the door, Diane leaned to the microphone and said, “I’m terribly sorry if I’ve broken any rules.”

“Wait, don’t go,” another woman cried. “What colors should we use again?”

As others chimed in with questions, Mary Beth shouted, “Ladies, ladies, please! Obviously Diane’s only reason for coming here tonight was to create a disturbance. Please just ignore her. If she really wanted you to participate in this quilt, she would have told you about it sooner.”

“We tried,” said Diane, incredulous. She held the envelope high. “We sent an invitation to the guild, care of Mary Beth. She returned it to us and said you couldn’t be bothered. I have the envelope right here if anyone wants to check the postmark and the address.”

A murmur of surprise and indignation rose, but Diane looked around uneasily at the guild members and realized that at least some of them were more upset with her than with their president. “Thanks for your time,” she called out as she dashed back to her chair for her coat and purse. “If you have any questions, please call me or Bonnie at Grandma’s Attic. Thanks!”

She hurried from the room as the chorus of voices swelled behind her.

Diane went home and waited for her neighbor to storm over in a fury. Mary Beth’s car pulled into the Callahans’ garage twenty minutes later, but there was no furious pounding on the door, no shrill phone call. Diane regretted leaving the meeting so hastily, although it had seemed prudent at the time. She wished she knew what had happened after she left.

Whatever Mary Beth might have done to discourage her fellow guild members from contributing to Sylvia’s bridal quilt, it soon became evident that she had failed. All that week, quilters phoned Grandma’s Attic to inquire about the guidelines for block size and pattern choices. Every day several shoppers came in specifically to purchase fabrics for “Sylvia’s quilt,” and a few remarkably industrious quilters dropped off finished blocks. By Saturday they had added twenty new blocks to the collection and had received promises for many more. Bonnie and Summer were mystified by the sudden outpouring of interest. “I suppose Mary Beth had a change of heart,” said Bonnie, dubious. “She must have announced the project after all.”

“I know for a fact she didn’t,” said Diane sharply, and was about to explain when Summer pointed out that Mary Beth couldn’t have, since she had left her invitation at Grandma’s Attic. As if neither had heard Diane speak, Bonnie and Summer agreed that one of the other guild members must have spread the word. Diane was so irritated with them that she went off to alphabetize pattern books without confiding her role in the sudden windfall.

As the last week before the start of quilt camp passed, Diane waited for Mary Beth to exact her revenge, but she saw nothing of her neighbor except what she glimpsed through the windshield of Mary Beth’s car as she pulled in and out of her garage. Even Brent, who came over nearly every afternoon to study for midterms with Todd, gave no sign that he knew anything was amiss.